Beware the Pale Horse
Copyright © 1951 by Ben Benson,
renewed 1979 by Irene Benson Brinen.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
1
FIRST THERE WAS A HILL, AND WADE PARIS, COMING OVER the crest of it, stopped the State Police car and sniffed the salt tang of the air. Below him, the road fell away sharply and dipped to where the Atlantic shimmered blue in the July morning sun. To his left lay White Sands Beach, a half-mile stretch of crescent, cream-colored sand. Slightly to the right of him, Sunset Point jutted out into the sea, dotted sparsely with stunted scrub pines, the lone white two-and-a-half-story house on the very end, standing like a beacon.
Paris took a last drag from his cigarette, crushed it into the dashboard ashtray, and started the car. He drove down the hill, passing the small cove of Sunset Harbor and the half-dozen cabin cruisers anchored behind the tiny breakwater. He entered Sunset Point Road and drove along the barren bluff. A mile down the road he came upon an assortment of cars, with people gathered around them, their heads turned in the direction of the big white house, now turning again to watch his car. Directly ahead of him was the sign reading CHARLES ENDICOTT—PRIVATE ROAD. Behind it, two massive square stone posts flanked the macadam, and alongside stood a pale-blue State Police sedan. A heavy chain hung between the posts and standing there, straddle-legged, was a State Police trooper.
Paris stopped the car. The trooper came up, looked in and saluted. He went back, unfastened the chain, and let it slack to the ground. Paris drove over it. The road hairpinned around the bluff, rising slightly. He came to a five-foot hedge and behind it was the Endicott house.
The house was huge, with white shingles and black shutters. The roof was flat in the center and on it Paris could see the white railed enclosure of the widow’s walk. On either side of the house were concrete paths with small arbors, trellises with roses, clumps of carefully tended flowers, banks of poinsettias, camellias, jasmine. The air was heavy with their scent.
The concrete driveway ran up and under an old-fashioned carriage port. Along the side of it were three more State Police cars and two long, sleek, black official sedans. Paris parked behind them.
There was a cluster of uniformed and civilian-clothed men under the shade of the carriage port. Paris recognized the short, obese figure of Ramspak, the local district attorney. Talking with him were Detective-Lieutenant Paul Coyne and an assistant district attorney. Now a State Police corporal left the group, came up and saluted briskly. Paris returned the salute and stepped out into the strong, hard sunlight.
The corporal said, “The Commissioner is inside. He wants to see you right away, Inspector.” Then he hesitated and looked in the direction of the group. “Lieutenant Coyne’s been asking for you. Here he comes now.”
Coyne came over, a big, heavy-shouldered man of forty with a large, beefy, closely shaven face, large owl-like eyes, and a prematurely balding head. He was wearing expensive white and brown sport shoes, a fawn-colored gabardine suit, a white shirt and a blue silk tie. He shook a limp, hurried hand with Paris. He said, “The Commish is tearing, a gut inside, Inspector. He’s been waiting for you to show up.”
Paris waited for the corporal to go away. “I got here as soon as I could,” he said.
“That’s okay,” Coyne said. He ran his tongue over his full, sensual lips. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Wade. It’s just that the Commish is new on the job and it makes him kind of anxious. This is a big case. One of the biggest the state ever had. An Endicott has been murdered.”
“I know,” Paris said. “Charles Endicott’s been killed. The Endicotts are important people. But it wasn’t only Charles Endicott. Dan Hallmark was killed here last night too. He was a State Police lieutenant. Maybe you’ve forgotten that, Coyne.”
“Now don’t get me wrong,” Coyne said suavely. He put two fingers together. “Dan and I were like this. It hit me hard to hear he was knocked off last night. I was telling the newspaper boys how close Dan and I were.”
“Don’t kid me,” Paris said. “You were never close to him—in any respect. But you were always one guy who had time for press conferences. I’d like to see some work too.”
Paris turned away and walked toward the house. Coyne watched him, looked down at the concrete driveway and the soft bubbles of tar in the seams. He spat deliberately.
The door to the house opened and a man came out, mopping his face with a large white handkerchief. He looked up, saw Paris, and came over to him. Paris saluted. The Commissioner ignored the salute. He said, “So you finally got here, Paris. Where the hell have you been anyway? It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“I’ve been working upstate,” Paris said. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“I told you to drop everything and hop to it.”
“I came as fast as I could,” Paris said steadily. “It’s a long drive.”
“Come on,” the Commissioner said abruptly. “We’re going for a walk.”
They cut across the grass. There was a path leading along the bluff. The Commissioner moved along, large, bulky, an inner tube of fat around his middle, wearing a pencil-striped suit that flapped in the warm sea breeze. There was a big, light-colored hat set slanting on his head, the brim wide and the ribbon narrow. His legs waddled as he walked.
There were a pair of press photographers adjusting a camera tripod on the slight rise of a hill. The Commissioner stopped and watched them. “They’re all around us,” he said approvingly. “The joint’s crawling with them. They’ve got the AP and UP men here.”
Paris said nothing, looking away at the combers as they frothed white against the shore. Close in along the bluff, a star-class sailboat with a blue hull, its jib rippling in the wind, moved in toward the boat basin. At the tiller, a tow-haired boy in a short-sleeved white jersey shortened the sail.
“This case is important to me, Paris,” the Commissioner said. “You’ve got no idea what this thing can lead to if it’s handled right. I want to make a big showing. If I do, I’ll take care of everybody along the line. That’s the kind of guy I am.”
Paris didn’t answer. The Commissioner took out a cigar, stripped off the cellophane and lit it. He puffed impatiently. “I’ve got Paul Coyne here to work on it,” he said. “Now I know you outrank him, but I want you to sort of let him handle it. If you know what I mean.”
“No,” Paris said. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have anything against you personally, Paris. And Coyne can take his orders from you, in a round-about way, if he has to. But I’ve got you down in an advisory capacity. So Paul can run the show and that will take care of this rank business. The reason is that I’d like to see Coyne come up and get experience.”
“No,” Paris said. “What’s the real reason, Commissioner?”
The Commissioner studied the end of his cigar very carefully. “Well,” he said, “I don’t have to beat around the bush
