The Stray. Alessio Chiadini Beuri

could hardly move, even the thin Mrs. Darden.

      "A few more things, if you'll indulge me."

      "Until now, I have given you everything you wanted." Mrs. Darden sat down on the edge of the desk. She slid the small reading glasses down to the tip of her nose.

      "Then let's see how far I can go: the records are missing the last four days."

      « I'm afraid I don't have them either, and neither do the police. You see, Detective, here at the Sunshine Cab we ask our drivers for trip reports every week. That's the best we can ask for. Some of them are out there so much that if we asked for it daily, the furthest areas would go uncovered for too long. As you will understand, I can't afford to give up even one street corner to other companies."

      "Where are the service records kept?"

      "Each employee is free to keep them wherever he wishes. It goes without saying, however, that they should always be at hand, so most keep them on the dashboard."

      "Suppose, Mrs. Darden, that someone wanted to keep these records safe. Where would he hide them?"

      "If there was anything in them that had the potential to get me into trouble, I would burn them."

      Mason instinctively thought back to the ashes in the Perkins' stove.

      "What if I didn't want to destroy it because, for some reason, it might come in handy?"

      "In every man's castle, then: the house."

      "But they should always be at hand, don't forget that."

      "The taxi."

      "Entrust it to one of the family?"

      "For as long as Samuel Perkins worked for me he never mentioned anything that reminded him of her. The only leave he ever requested was for his wife."

      "I see. But a man with a taxi can go anywhere without having to explain himself."

      "Not quite, Detective. A company that gave its employees that much freedom would go bankrupt in less than a week. We periodically check the mileage against the mileage on the books."

      "How do you know that a driver has not stopped somewhere to take a break?"

      "We calculate the distance of the last run with that of the area where drivers stop. Generally their home."

      "But there's still a margin of error. A mile today, another half tomorrow, and in no time you create a fairly large grey area."

      "Every week the kilometres, approximated by excess, which do not turn out and which cannot exceed a certain limit, are marked. "'Frozen', if you will."

      "You've thought of everything."

      "I am pleased with your admiration. Is there anything else?"

      "I bet he wants to get his car back."

      "Samuel was a freelancer. The car was his. We just provided him with the equipment and signs. In such cases Sunshine Cab 'leases' the vehicle to the owner, who becomes our employee. Obviously, the cars have to be above certain standards to work with us. It's a question of image."

      "A free hitter, then."

      "Within certain limits."

      "Did he have an area of expertise?"

      "All our drivers must have it or areas would form with an overabundance of service and others totally abandoned. You understand it would be chaos. Samuel was assigned Grand Central."

      "What kind of vehicle are we talking about?"

      "A Checker T."

      "What kind of man is Samuel Perkins?"

      "Tim didn't tell you enough?"

      "I like to have a choice."

      "If you want to hear that Sam was capable of doing everything that is being attributed to him I am forced to disappoint you. He was no saint, that must be clear: he had his good temper tantrums too, and frequent ones, but that's part of the job, especially in a city like this. He was a hard worker with all the strengths and weaknesses of all of us. No more, no less. no more, no less."

      "Did he know his wife?"

      "Not well. She came over a few times, maybe at Christmas, to bring Sam lunch. Something special. Yeah, Sam always worked at Christmas. It's the time of year when the real money is made."

      "Why do you think he worked so hard? They both had good jobs and no children."

      "I never get involved in private matters. I see what you're getting at but, I'm sorry, I didn't know anything about their married life, so I ignore whether they were on the rocks, whether Sam preferred to spend more time in his taxi than with his wife. I don't think so, Detective, but if I can give you a professional opinion, street kids who manage to grow up and, miraculously, stay out of trouble, become tireless workers. I know a thing or two about that."

      "I don't want to take up any more of your time, Mrs. Darden."

      "Duty."

      "One last thing: is there a Mr. Darden, by any chance?"

      The woman, who had already returned to the papers in front of her, looked up at him.

      "I imagine it's relevant to your investigation."

      Bump in the road

      Mason Stone crossed the Washington Bridge in the direction of New Jersey. The sun shone raw, lacking in cheerful tones, the sky emotionless. That morning the traffic was hiccupping, stuck in the tired rhythms of those who don't want to but have to.

      The address found in the Sunshine Cab's phone records was in Leonia, a neighbourhood for those who were not blatantly rich but could afford to have a front garden. And in that time of financial crisis, there weren't many of them. Moving slowly forward amidst the honking horns and rumbling bonnets, Mason left Manhattan behind. He was following a truck that he could have easily overtaken, but because of the narrow roadway and oncoming traffic, he decided not to rush.

      Within a couple of blocks there was a queue three blocks long.

      At an intersection, a dark green Chevrolet Six pulled up behind Mason, and as the driver realised the poor timing he had encountered, he started punching the horn. Mason signalled for him to pass, but he continued to follow without stopping barking. Stone then slowed down to make it easier for him to overtake. Nothing.

      Maybe there was a rookie behind the wheel of the truck that wouldn't give way, stiffened by the fear of making a mistake on the first day and earning an earful. At the umpteenth angry blast of the horn, Mason tried to make out the Chevy owner's face in the rereview mirror. The shadow of the fedora he wore made it difficult, but he could still make out a clean-shaven chin and a pair of hollowed-out cheeks. A screech of tyres in front of him forced him to let go and brake. The lorry had hit the kerb. The impact caused the body to swing so far that one side of the truck jerked up off the ground.

      As Stone slowed down, the driver of the truck accelerated to keep the pachyderm on its feet. If he failed, Mason would be crushed by the load. As the truck towered over him, he shifted into reverse. Immediately a double set of high lights flashed in the rear-view mirror: the man in the green Chevrolet was gesturing angrily and urging Mason Stone on. Meanwhile, the trucker's attempt had brought the right-hand tyre train crashing back onto the pavement. The structure embarked determinedly.

      The Ford's engine screamed violently. The Chevrolet occupied almost the entire carriageway and advanced without giving Stone a chance to move. The truck, now out of control, ended up blocking the opposite lane. The clamped brakes locked the wheels, which left a long, dark trail on the asphalt and white smoke rose from the tyres. The trailer whined furiously. Mason knew from the noise that he would not last long.

      Pushed into the arms of a terrible fate, Stone considered crashing his car into the truck and settling his fall, now certain. His car would crumple like a tin of sardines. On the left, a row of lampposts would have provided him with no better service: the old Ford was not agile enough to avoid