Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

to himself as he knocked again with more force.
    “They open?” a voice called up to him. Malloy turned. He hadn’t heard the car pull up. A man was standing at the bottom of the porch steps looking up. When Malloy didn’t respond, he repeated, “Are they open?”
    “No.” Malloy walked toward the top of the steps.
    “My wife and I,” the man continued, nodding toward the car, “had stopped by here a couple of weeks ago and saw some things that we were interested in. Thought we’d pick them up today, before we head home. Will the shop be open later?”
    “I’m sorry, I really have no idea.
    “Well, we go back to Michigan tomorrow. We’ve been visiting our son and his wife. We stopped by earlier today and he was closed, but we thought he might be back by now.”
    Malloy shrugged and was about to walk down the steps when the man asked, “You the police?”
    Malloy stopped and looked down at the man. “Why do you ask?”
    “I used to be a cop. I can tell. What did he do?”
    Malloy was already more than a little annoyed with this tourist from Michigan. The sooner he could get him to leave, the sooner he could get back to finding Alfred Whitson. He walked down the steps and introduced himself. “My name is Mark Malloy, and, yes, I’m a cop. Lieutenant Mark Malloy from the Ipswich Police Department. And you are?”
    The man had a look of triumph on his face. He looked back at the woman waiting patiently in his car. “I knew it. I’m rarely wrong. Names Clive Wilson, detective, retired.” He stuck out his hand and they shook.
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “Like I said, I … uh, we’re from Michigan … visiting our kids. We wanted to pick up some things we saw here a couple of weeks ago.
    Malloy didn’t really want to get pulled into a long conversation with a retired policeman from Michigan. He needed to find Alfred Whitson. Clive must have noticed that he was about to be dismissed, because he said quickly, “You know, when we were here last, a driver nearly hit us as he flew out the lot. When we got inside, the place was a mess. Not in a cluttered, antiques shop way, but more like there had been a fight or something. The guy in the shop was limping around and seemed quite out of sorts.”
    Malloy stopped and looked at him.
    Clive went on, “I asked what had happened, but he really didn’t want to talk. He kept muttering to himself as he picked up the umbrellas and stuffed them into an elephant leg.”
    Clive had won. Malloy was interested.
    Malloy looked at him kind of funny. “An elephant leg?”
    “Yeah. It was an old umbrella stand, made from an elephant leg. Kind of an old Victorian thing. Anyway, he was picking up all these umbrellas and putting them in the leg.”
    “Who was he?”
    “Oh, I’m sure he was the shop owner.”
    “Why are you so sure?”
    “I could just tell. I guess from the way he acted. He was real upset and was limping around and he really didn’t want to talk much.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “Kind of odd, slight build, narrow face, thick glasses, bad hair. Odd.”
    “Then what?”
    “We just walked around the shop and found some things we wanted to buy. But then when we were ready to leave, we couldn’t find him anywhere. He was just gone. We called out and waited, but finally we had to leave. We left him a note saying we would be back. And here we are. But he’s gone again. What do you want him for?”
    Ignoring Clive’s last question, Malloy said, “Exactly when were you here last?”
    “Let me think. It was midweek, a Wednesday. That’s right, it was a Wednesday. Right after that big rainstorm.”
    Malloy thought back. The only rainstorm that there had been occurred about three weeks ago. He did the math. That was two weeks before the race. A coincidence? “About three weeks ago?” he asked, looking for confirmation.
    “That’s right.” Then, as if he knew the next question, Clive said, “I really don’t remember anything about the car, but he was in an awful hurry. I’d ask my wife, but she never notices stuff like that.”
    “Well …” Malloy glanced down at his notes, “Mr. Wilson. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
    “You never said why you are looking for him. So what’s going on? Is he running drugs? Smuggling?” Then in a hushed tone, “He isn’t dead is he?”
    “No, I’m sorry. None of the above, I just want to talk to him.”
    Clive looked at him. Then, in a hushed conspiratorial tone, he said, “Sure, I