The Disappearance of Eloise

By Dan Lee

Cain and Able Mysteries, Volume 2 -- Danny Cain and Ruth Able pursue a double cop killer and a missing farming community librarian in this second volume of the crime fighting duo's adventures. Dodging rifle bullets and suffering a kidnapping is routine for these two detectives who work under contract with law enforcement to solve the most elusive criminals. Action takes place in the heart of north-central Illinois farming country in Ca. 1956, when there were no personal computers or magical cell phones to assist.

Hard-nosed detective work, often under the scrutiny of full-time cops who were not 'believers' in the proven ability of Cain and Able. In this adventure, Cain is obliged to establish an alliance with a Chicago mob boss to find the killer. Making matters worse, things are no always as they seem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Lee
• Release date: Dec 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370818037

Dan Lee

Devon C. “Dan” Lee is a native of Wabash, Indiana. He grew up during the 1940’s World War 2 era, and the 1950’s. He usually writes about young adults (18-30) drawing on his own experiences, and those of others around him. Although fictional, much of what he writes has real situations he has lived as the foundation. Mr. Lee is a retired former journalist and businessman. All “Danny Boy Stories” are available in E-Book formats and in Paperback. His novels are: "120 Letters", and "The Bamboo Murders" (part of the Cain and Able Mystery Series). "The Family Unrelated", and "Defining Heroes", are novella collections of five and four complete stories.. Search for “Danny Boy Stories”. Web site: http://www.dannyboystories.com

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The Disappearance of Eloise

A Cain and Able Mystery

Volume 2

Fiction

By

Dan Lee

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

The entire contents of this publication, including the cover and Danny Boy Stories logo, are

© Copyright 2017 DeVon C. Lee

Aka D. C. Dan Lee

Warsaw, Indiana, 46582

SMASHWORDS EDITION

This E-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This E-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

SMASHWORDS ISBN # 9781370818037

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of anything contained within this publication may be reproduced without the expressed, written consent, of the author. Names, people, places and events in this volume are entirely fictitious and any similarity to real persons, places or events, is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

Amanda, my bride of nearly 60 years, has been proofing and reading my work for nearly that long. She is much better than she takes credit, and I am grateful.

Chapter 1

There’s a strange thing about being a private detective: Do something unusual, and cops in three states know about it in a flash. Good or bad, one can’t escape that underground rumor mill that seems to exist among law enforcement people.

That’s how Amorville Town Marshall Pete Watkins learned about Cain and Able Investigations—me, Danny Cain, and my wife, Ruth Able. It sure helped that Kansas City, Kansas, Police Chief Robert W. Marshall sang our praises wherever he went.

Illinois State Police Sgt. Bill Larson also heard about Cain and Able Investigations at a Midwest law enforcement seminar shortly after Labor Day. He and Watkins needed help to investigate three disappearances, but Larson was not entirely on board hiring outsiders. The FBI was unable to assist, their resources already spread thin by major investigations in Chicago. Let’s be brutally honest, who gives a damn about little Amorville, Illinois, or small Pastor County where farm tractors and combines outnumber the population?

Private eyes are not usually big friends with the police, anyway, crossing paths too often. Ruth and I are different. We built our short reputation on helping law enforcement, investigating and bringing several cases to a close for the Kansas City, Kansas, police department, including the arrest of an active serial killer—one of their own. Our reputation was helped by the fact I spent six years in Korea, most of it as a United States Marine Corps military policeman. Folks in law enforcement respect those who have served.

So, that’s why we’re driving into Amorville, Illinois--population maybe 200--in the heart of the Illinois farm belt. The nearest town is another 10 to 20 miles. Nothing to see except farm fields for miles and miles.

Ruth sat close to me, her hands gripping my upper arm, her head leaned against my right shoulder. How I snagged this lovely woman as my wife will always be my unsolved mystery.

Ruth was tall and slender, about five-nine, a picture of neatness with every strand of her short brown hair in place. Trained as an accountant, Ruth’s meticulous and thoughtful style compliments my own hard-nosed, old-fashioned police work approach, and I’m sometimes impulsive.

Let me tell you about Ruth, if you don’t already know. I met her while she was keeping books for a Christian Mission in Kansas City. Ruth’s husband met his death when the first wave of Chinese Regulars swept over the Yalu River in North Korea during the Korean Police Action. An Army lieutenant, Abel was commanding an advance scouting mission at the time.

It took a while for Ruth to warm up to me, having been hurt by the untimely death of her husband a few years earlier, and all. Too, I have to blame myself, I never dated in high school. I was a complete novice around women. Three-day liberty passes in Seoul, South Korea, notwithstanding.

Ruth is one of those folks who stick to any task like a stubborn mule until it is finished. She reads people like Supergirl with x-ray vision, and she reads me like a book, almost knows what I’m going to say before I say it. Sharp as a tack, with eyes like a Bald Eagle, that’s my Ruth. It would be impossible for me to love her more than I do.

The long drive into the Illinois farm country midsection, with one overnight stop, was tedious. U.S. 24, rough all the way, bounced us around, even though our nearly new Kaiser two-door sedan was large and sturdy. The distance from Kansas to Illinois –discounting the vertical bouncing--prompted me to wish the car came equipped with a larger more powerful engine.

Since our K-Car (that’s what we called our conveyance) has fewer than 5,000 miles on it, a trade for more power is out of the question. Making matters worse, our car had no air conditioning, a new optional luxury being added to many ’56 models now on the market. I hate the sweat running off my forehead into my eyes, dripping off my nose. The dusty farm scenery made me feel gritty in the fall heat.

Once we turned off U.S. 24 and onto a narrow Illinois state secondary route, about the only thing you could see for miles, other than farm houses and barns, were tall granary silos grouped together. The farms were large, as evidenced by the distance between farm residences. Most places we passed as we neared our destination were well cared for, some even a bit opulent.

Funded by the Illinois State Police, and Pastor County, our contract assignment was to work the missing persons case 24-hours-a-day until our sponsors gave up or we found out what happened. Sgt. Larson, although not a fan of private investigators, expedited our licenses for Illinois so there would be no legal problems. Nonetheless, we were still civilians. We’ll face the usual stumbling blocks for those without the power of official law enforcement. On the other hand, we can go places and do things regulations prohibit law enforcement. Admittedly, my military background helps pave the way with most officials.

Glancing at Ruth as I drove, I marveled this intelligent, lovely woman became my wife. Although I have six years under my belt as a Marine military police officer, Ruth was becoming a real asset in the business. She was a quick study, and had those eagle eyes, real benefits for an investigator. With plenty of sex appeal, my problem was keeping my hands-off Ruth during business hours. I frequently wished Mom and Dad were here to know what a wonderful woman I have married.

Perspiration ran down the back of my neck, so I leaned closer to the open window to get more air. Ruth, bless her, wet her handkerchief with water from a Thermos® and spread the cloth over my neck. Cool water ran down my back causing a chill. It was exactly what I did not want. I pulled the car over into a driveway entrance and stopped, killing the engine.

Oh, God, Honey, I’m so sorry, Ruth said, stroking my cheek. I just forgot what a chill does to you. Let’s get out and stretch our legs. The memory will pass soon.

Every time I got a chill, it triggered my mind to that last day as a high school Freshman when I arrived home to find police and emergency personnel crowding my house. My father had reached the end of his rope with my evil brother. He shot my brother, my mother, and took his own life with the same shotgun. I can’t forget the smell of blood and gun powder that permeated my house.

It is impossible for me to forget that day. I don’t think I’m supposed to erase it from my mind, either.

Ruth and I strolled along the blacktop highway, our hands clasped together, fingers entwined. The love of this gentle woman helped clear my mind of a time long ago. I began to relax as we turned around and headed back toward the K-Car. We stopped in front of the car and embraced. I held Ruth tightly for several long minutes, while a handful of cars passed, one or two of them honking their horns at us.

We were going to be early to our destination, so our twenty-minute stop was restful and did not cause a problem reaching Amorville at the 10:00 A.M. hour.

* * *

Eloise Madison, a 33-year-old librarian, went missing from the Pastor County branch library in tiny Amorville, Illinois, leaving no trace behind. Deputy Town Marshal Jerry Russell, 26, and Deputy Sheriff Charlie Simmons, 36, vanished as well. All three missing without a trace, just as if they were a whirling summer dust devil on a dry field.

Oh, you might figure a romance if it were a woman and man who disappeared overnight, but two men and a woman? That’s not very likely. More importantly, would two cops simply disappear? With the town librarian?

Both patrol cars sat, engines running, and driver doors standing open at the curbing in front of the library branch, when found by another officer sent to look for them. Neither missing deputy reported anything unusual to central dispatch as of 1:13 A.M., the last contact on record.

"Pastor County…I’m going to be out of the car at the Amorville library branch for a few. Looks like three-one-six, Russell, is already on scene."

That was the last radio transmission from Deputy Charlie Simmons at 1:13 A.M.

Eloise’s sweater and purse hung untouched on the hall tree near her desk. A copy of O. Henry’s short stories was the only thing on her desk besides the usual kinds of paperwork about overdue books. There was no sign of a struggle found, no scattered papers or overturned furniture, not even scuffle marks on the carpeting.

Oh, my, Ruth said, as we approached the little town. It looks as if Amorville was just forgotten. No stores, no school. You can see the opposite edge of the town from where we are. It’s so small."

Yeah, it is, I said. I’ll bet school consolidation had a lot to do with it. Just like they are starting to do in Indiana. Loss of a high school nearly destroys what was left of the vibrancy of every little place. Unless there is a major employer, the school is the center of activity. Take away the schools and there’s no reason to live there.

There are a lot of things in our world changed by money considerations. Artificially constraining your consideration by how much, with no regard for the consequences of your actions, may severely change much more than you bargained. At least that’s how this Marine looks at it.

Winds out of the west swirls tan dust from the surrounding agricultural farmland into the town. The dust layered every building along the highway into town. I expect, only an occasional rain cleaned the streets and buildings. The community looked much like it was the set for a John Wayne western movie out in Arizona. A single east-west railroad track knifed through the south edge of town, the rusting switch track next to the closed granary signaling lack of use. The main line, though, glistened in the morning sun.

The oldest commercial building in town— built in the late 1800s—was easy to spot. Its board sidewalk elevated three feet above the other sidewalks. I could envision the reason was deep mud after a rainstorm back when the road was nothing but packed earth. Along the state highway into town there were only six other buildings that looked as if they were in commercial use at some time in the past.

The residential area—if you can call it that—spread eastward only a block or three. Everything, businesses and residences, were on the north side of the railroad. To the south and west we could see only farmland for miles around.

The Pastor County library branch was the newest building in the community. Its modern design humiliated the rest of the community’s 1800 and early 1900’s business architecture. Everything, other than the library, was wood frame construction, except for the three-story brick general store with the elevated wooden sidewalk. The old store appeared to be one of the first buildings in the town. I wondered where they got all the bricks.

Still very much in use, the old two-story store brandished an embossed Jones – 1869 on the front façade. In fact, it appeared the general store was one of the only buildings still in regular commercial use, the rest long since converted to residential, or boarded up altogether. Although a quaint little place, vacant buildings made the town a bit depressing.

I drove the K-car through town, and turned around south of the railroad tracks. I wanted to be on the east side of the highway, and parked headed north in front of Town Hall, a white wood frame building. You could see heat waves reflected from the metal roof of the long narrow town headquarters. Located three doors north of the railroad, the town’s center of government holds offices for the township trustee, the town Marshall—also shared by the county sheriff’s branch station--a town clerk, and a small meeting room for the three-person town board of trustees to meet with citizenry.

Parked in front of town hall were half dozen cars: A sheriff’s patrol car, two town marshal patrol cars, a state police car, an un-marked patrol car and a couple unidentified vehicles. I pulled in between the state police and sheriff’s vehicle. We were due for a meeting at 10:00 A.M., and were still 20-minutes early.

I see two immediate problems for us, Sweetheart, Ruth said. Where will we set up shop, and there doesn’t seem to be a motel anywhere?

I hope these boys have thought of those two issues, I said. Otherwise, it’s a long drive back to Kansas City, Babe, and nothing to show for the trip.

* * *

Five men sat around the meeting table when Ruth and I walked into the town board’s room. One of those new window mounted air conditioners roared on one wall, competing with any conversation.

Around the table sat:

-Town Marshall Pete Watkins, 45, a widower and World War 2 veteran. At 5-10, he was stocky with a rugged, muscular build. His chiseled face reminded me of a western rough-and-tumble movie actor.

-Sheriff Conrad Mullins, 59, a World War 2 vet in his second term as sheriff. Married with three grown children, he was a short, muscular body builder, with a thick neck, and soft-spoken style. His searching blue eyes unnerved me. I figured he could more than hold his own in a fist-fight with anyone.

-Sgt. Bill Larson, a 44-year-old 20-year state police veteran, looked out of place with his red hair and freckled pale skin. The tall redhead’s by-the-book spit-shined appearance indicated he was no one to trifle with in law enforcement. When he stood, he automatically braced at attention, his barrel chest enhancing his intimidating presence. A booming voice announced his every intention.

Two officers who regularly patrol the Amorville region, sat toward the end of the long table. They were: Trooper Ray Shore, 29, a married fellow with a child on the way, and, Trooper Don Turley, 30, a Korean War vet with a wife and two children. Turley was tall and very good looking, as if he were placed here by a motion picture casting department. Shore, on the other hand, was average looking and one of those people easily lost in a crowd.

Larson’s curt, almost rude style immediately put me off. I figured I’d have to keep my mouth zipped when he was present. Watkins, on the other hand, was ready to accept any help we could give, and the sheriff’s quiet, pleasant nature was infectious. I was happy we’d be working primarily with the sheriff and Watkins.

Although Larson was hesitant, he and Watkins are the reason we are here. The state had no extra officers to assign, and a massive mob investigation has the FBI pinching the number of agents it could lend. You would think two missing cops and a county employee would cause more concern for Illinois politicians. Anyway, here we are, Cain and Able Investigations, a private investigating team with a reputation—Private Eyes, Gumshoes, that’s us.

Our concern for office space eased when Watkins told us we’d be using an unoccupied private office at the back of the Amorville Town Hall. Watkins ordered a private telephone installed, too.

Lodging was another matter. The nearest motel was 22 miles distant. None of the lawmen present had any ideas for local housing for us, and I had no intention of living out of the K-car.

Gentlemen, we’ll try to help you by working two days, and if the lodging situation cannot be resolved satisfactorily within that time, we will leave. Of course, we’ll provide you with our notes up to the time we leave, I insisted. Although I knew my position was presumptuous and unbending of us, I had to apply some pressure to solve our housing situation quickly.

Watkins handed us