Free The Discovery, A Novel by Dan Walsh Page B

turned off the sidewalk, ready to head up the steps to his apartment building, when he noticed his landlady, Mrs. Arthur, sitting on the top step, smoking a cigarette. Her hair was up in rollers and wrapped in a scarf. Her razor-thin legs stuck out the bottom of her coat, her feet resting two steps below inside thick woolen slippers.
    “Evening, Mrs. Arthur. Nice night.”
    “Surely is, son. Coming in early for a Friday night, ain’t ya?”
    “Actually, I just came back for a moment to get the car. Then I’ll be heading back out.”
    “Where you going?”
    Mrs. Arthur was so nosy. If she didn’t ask so many questions, he wouldn’t have to add to his stockpile of lies. “A friend needs a ride. I’ve been walking a lot lately, saving up gas coupons. He’s all out.”
    “That’s nice of you, sharing yours like that.”
    Ben had all the book one ration coupons he’d need for this year and another set of book two coupons for next year. For food, gas, you name it. All counterfeit, but perfectly forged beyond detection.
    “You boys going on some hot date?”
    He laughed. “Nothing like that. Just giving him a ride to work.” Where did he come up with this stuff? “Well, better get a move on, he’s expecting me to pick him up in fifteen minutes.”
    “Drive safe,” she said. “Everyone’s got those dimmers on their headlights now. Hard enough to see at night as it is, without them things.”
    “I’ll be careful.” He passed her on the steps, opened the door, and walked into the dark hallway. His apartment was on the first floor, three doors down. Once inside, he flicked on the light switch and locked the door behind him.
    He turned and looked at the door.
    That lock was a problem. With a little effort, almost anyone could break in here. The dark hallway was another problem. This apartment itself was a problem. It didn’t have nearly enough security. Not after tonight. He paid his rent weekly. He decided he’d pay it one more time but had no plans of staying here another week. He needed his own place, a place he could secure like a vault.
    The apartment was just two rooms, a small kitchen/dinette area and a slightly larger bedroom, furnished with a chest of drawers, a stiff upholstered chair, and a lumpy bed. He walked through the kitchen into the bedroom, bent down, and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a cigar box, set it on the bed, and sat beside it.
    Inside was a pistol, a stack of ration coupons, and a wad of cash, maybe two hundred dollars. Each of the German agents had been issued the gun as part of their training. It was an American Colt 45, standard issue for GIs. Ben was a crack shot with a pistol, first in his class. But that was using the Walther P38, a German pistol slightly bigger than the luger.
    He picked up the gun and set the cigar box back in the drawer. As he shoved the .45 in the waistband behind his back, he said a silent prayer to a God he felt sure had stopped listening long ago. Please, keep me from having to use this tonight . . . please .
    He reached into his pocket, made sure he still had his keys, turned off the lights, then headed out the door, locking it behind him.

    Ben slowed his speed down to thirty-five miles an hour, the new patriotic speed, keeping an eye out on the left for High Bridge Road. The only road out here on this lonely stretch of A1A. Almost nothing to see but sand dunes on either side for the last ten miles. Rolling by on his right, just beyond the dunes, was the Atlantic Ocean.
    He was glad to be closing the distance this time by car. That night, he’d walked the ten miles back to Ormond Beach, the nearest town, just north of Daytona. He’d picked High Bridge Road as his marker, so he’d be able to come back here later and find the suitcase he’d buried.
    “Fifty by fifty.” He repeated aloud the little phrase he’d memorized that night. Fifty paces south along the highway, then fifty paces west into the dunes.
    He’d purchased this car, a