Murder at Union Station by David S. Pederson

Author:David S. Pederson [Pederson, David S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2022-09-01T17:39:55+00:00

Chapter Nine

Early afternoon, Wednesday, May 8, 1946

Alfred Brody’s house

Mason was angry with Leland Burrows, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t entirely dismiss Alfred Brody as a suspect without even having met or questioned him. So he decided John Patterson could wait a while longer. When he got back to his car, he headed north on Harrison to Jackson, where he made a right, continuing on to Central Avenue, where he made another right and headed south, taking a right yet again on Broadway Road once he’d crossed the Salt River.

This part of Phoenix was different than the one Mason lived in on Central and Encanto. It had row after row of dilapidated, poorly built shotgun houses, nearly identical in design and built so close together one could almost lean out a side window and borrow a cup of sugar from the neighbor. That is, if the neighbor had any sugar. The streets and alleys were dirty and narrow, and the minuscule plots were nothing more than dust bowls. Litter and garbage were strewn about, having blown free of burn barrels in some of the front yards. Black and Mexican American children played in the streets. They stopped their games long enough to stare at Mason’s blue 1939 Studebaker Champion as he drove slowly west, searching the poorly marked shanties for addresses.

Finally he pulled over and parked in the general vicinity, realizing he’d probably have better luck on foot. He put his boater on and got out, stretching his legs and massaging his lower back and his neck as he looked around and up and down the street. The still, hot air smelled putrid, and he tried not to take in deep breaths as he began walking down the narrow dirt path that ran alongside Broadway Road. He paused periodically to check house numbers when there were any, finally coming across 3842.

The black metal mailbox out front, sitting precariously atop a wooden post, had the name A. Brody written on its side in neat white paint. The house was a narrow single-story wooden railroad flat with peeling paint, a rusted tin roof, and a stoop made from two cinder blocks. A tired-looking 1930 Ford Model A sat out front, baking in the sun along with everything else. Mason walked up the dirt path, differentiated from the dirt plot of land on either side by stones and rocks, and knocked upon the open door, which was flanked by two small open windows. From within, a dog barked several times, and presently a tall, handsome young man appeared in the doorway, dressed in a clean white short-sleeve shirt and loose-fitting brown trousers. His large feet were bare. A rail-thin dog stood at his side, sniffing and panting in Mason’s direction, wagging his tail.

“Yes?” the young man said cautiously, his voice a deep baritone.

“Mr. Brody?” Mason said.

He stared out suspiciously at the well-dressed detective standing on his cinder block stoop. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mason Adler, sir. I’m a private detective, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about the murder of Miss Gertrude Claggett.

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