We plowed our way against the onslaught of pedestrians, toward Fifth Avenue. Perhaps by some remote chance we might secure a taxi heading downtown.
Just as we reached Fifth, a cab pulled up to the curb, discharging a rowdy bunch of kids. But, as luck would have it, a burly fellow in a pointed party hat pushed in front of us and grabbed the door handle.
The gods must have smiled down on us, for while I was wishing Woodrow Wilson was with us to do his little taxi cab shuffle, Mr. Benchley had taken action.
“Sorry, old sport,” he said, grasping the elastic strap on the man’s paper party hat and giving it a good snap, “police emergency! We’re commandeering this cab.”
“Why, I never—!” said the man, cupping his chin from the sting of the assault, as Mr. Benchley put me into the cab. He grabbed Mr. Benchley’s shoulder and spun him around. Fred must have seen the right hook coming, for he ducked and the fellow’s hand made contact with the steel of the automobile.
“Sorry, old sport, Harvard Boxing Club’s lesson number one—duck!” apologized Mr. Benchley, as he joined me in the cab and closed the door, leaving the fellow to nurse his injury as we drove away from the curb.
Below 34th Street the traffic was lighter and we were making good time. Good time for what? I asked myself. Could Darrow already be dead? If so, the attorney’s death was our fault for not reading the clues. Why had I dismissed the importance of the Cooper Union lecture schedule we’d found in the trash from Father John’s room at the rectory? Why hadn’t I thought about it after finding the assassin’s connection to the University Club—the stationery, a clue found along with the lecture schedule? I never bothered to look closely enough to see that Clarence Darrow was to speak tonight. At the time, though, any connection between the murder of the priest and an assassination conspiracy hadn’t presented itself. If it had, Mr. Darrow’s life would not be at stake now. But that was no consolation for our mistake. The only hope for Mr. Benchley and me to redeem ourselves for the oversight was to arrive in time to stop the assassin, and we were the only two people who had a chance of identifying him. In an audience of hundreds, only we could point out the inconspicuous man waiting for his opportunity to shoot Darrow.
Mr. Benchley handed the cabbie a buck as we pulled up before the lecture hall at Cooper Union College. The streets here were relatively quiet for such a festive night, other than the rumble of the el train on the tracks overhead screeching to a stop at Union Square. We entered the lobby of the hall to be met by a gentleman at the door.
As Mr. Benchley explained why we were there and asked if the police had arrived, I walked through into the hall.
Mr. Darrow, dressed in a dark suit and bowtie, stood on the stage giving his talk. There were occasional waves of muted laughter, so my presence did not distract. I circled the back aisle, scanning the heads, but it was a futile task, as the seating was a curved arena with a dozen columns obstructing my view of faces. The lights aimed upon Darrow on the small stage served only to back-light and make silhouettes of the heads in the audience.
I stood in place for a moment, trying to decide what best to do. Was it really logical for the assassin to place himself in the middle of the audience, where he would be immediately apprehended when he’d done the nasty deed? Assuming he didn’t want to die a martyr, wouldn’t he choose a spot that gave him an avenue of escape? Perhaps in the gallery, to take to the roof and down to the street, or backstage, where he would be shielded from the audience’s wrath completely.
I looked and saw that the hall didn’t have a balcony. He had to be in the audience—or backstage.
Mr. Benchley and I were the only people who knew what the assassin looked like, but what if the shooter were someone other than the man who had impersonated Father Timothy? That would make finding the killer in this crowd impossible.
The police had arrived, I could see, for when Mr. Benchley walked into the hall from the lobby he was accompanied by two uniformed officers.
“Where are the Pinkerton men?” I asked Mr. Benchley.
“One in the audience and one outside, according to the manager. The police have the building surrounded and several officers are on the roof,” he told me, while squinting his eyes in search of the killer in the audience.
“What time is it, Fred?”
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“I’ll bet he’s waiting for Darrow to finish so that he can take a shot during the applause, and make his break in the confusion at the exits.”
“That’s probably right, but I don’t see our Father Timothy anywhere yet. You stay put; don’t do anything,” he whispered. “I’m going around to backstage from the outside entrance.”
I knew the assassin’s weapon of choice would be a gun. It would be a terrible sort of poetic justice in a demented mind to kill the modern-day champion of Negro equality in the very room where more than sixty years ago Abraham Lincoln, emancipator, addressed the audience in his bid for the presidency. Would the hatred and violence never stop?
There was more laughter from the audience, and I looked toward the stage and Darrow’s grim face, as he ambled slowly to a position downstage, allowing the laughter to grow. There was the power of a pregnant pause and the control of a great speaker in his deliberate delivery.
I froze when I glimpsed a slight movement at the edge of one of the three dark curtain panels filling the arches that backed the high platform on which Darrow was standing. Then something appeared at the break in the curtain, and within a split second I knew it was the muzzle of a gun.
I hurried down along one side of the shadowy wall of the circular hall. Ahead and next to the stage was a door at audience level leading backstage. Quickly, I disappeared into the wings, pretty certain that from where the assassin stood he hadn’t seen me approach.
I expected a great expanse of space, but this was a lecture hall, not a legitimate theatre. A narrow hallway with arches echoing those on the proscenium gave little distance or protection from the gunman. I also expected a great number of policemen backstage, but there was no one, and I wondered why there was not even a stage manager. That’s when I saw the man tied up and gagged, sitting in the corner.
I had no way to make contact with the men in the lobby, and little time to spend untying the poor fellow in the corner. Darrow was about to finish up his talk in a few minutes, I could sense it, as the chuckles from the audience were growing stronger now, and I was certain he intended to end on a high note.
How was I to stop the shooter?
I looked around me. A length of wood was lying on the floor, and I knew I could use it as a flat club if I had to strike out to defend myself. Perhaps I could get around and club the assassin from behind—that is, if he didn’t hear or see me approach and shoot me first!
Was I insane? What was I doing here? Why couldn’t I have left this to the police? Why didn’t I listen to Fred and just stay put? I picked up the wood and was contemplating my next move, when suddenly Darrow ran down the stage steps and into the audience. There was pandemonium in the crowd as Pinkerton men pulled him to the floor and the policemen filed in, pointing weapons toward the stage.
Holy crap! I thought, I’m going to get shot by either friend or foe, but definitely by somebody toting a gun!
I made for the street stage door, aware that there would be policemen ready to greet the assassin on his way out. But, oddly, I came out onto a lobby, not outdoors. The hall was a fan-shaped structure within a square-shaped building.
Five guns were pointed at my face.
Mr. Benchley glared at me.
When they determined that I was just a simple idiot who got caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, they put their guns down on the ground, which I thought odd at first, but I sighed with relief, eager to clear the door so that the squad could enter and take the assassin.
But they didn’t move, and I didn’t understand why they didn’t just push me aside and storm in. But, as I looked over my shoulder, understanding dawned. �
�Father Tim” stood pointing a gun at my head, and I decided that was a good enough reason for the cops to lay down their firearms.
I was to be his ticket out of the place, the hostage, and I began to see how foolish I had been to choose this way out. I’d walked right into his hands, and now, after using me as his shield, he’d kill me for sure. He led me to a door leading out into the night. “I’ll have no trouble shooting you in the head if you try anything.”
I was so scared I couldn’t swallow, let alone answer his threat. He had to keep me alive for a while, anyway, and maybe I’d get rescued before he finished me off.
Chaos ruled outside the entrance to the hall, and he brought us directly into the fray, one hand at my back, the other holding the gun at my waist, as we blended into the mix of men and women scattering away along the sidewalk. We walked north across the square at Astor Place, and then down through the subway kiosk stairs with scores of others who went on through the turnstiles toward the northbound platform of the subway el. We had no sooner arrived than an oncoming train prompted people to quicken their paces through the turnstiles to board it before it left the station. The cars came to a prolonged and screeching halt, loud enough to tear one’s heart out. But before we could get through the turnstiles, I was pushed to my knees.
And suddenly, I was free! He had released me with a push as he leapt over a turnstile.
Of course it was insane to follow the man who’d just held a gun at my head, but I never said I was sane. If the doors had closed on the car he’d just entered, and I didn’t follow, he would get away and probably try to kill Darrow and others again.
As a fellow put his fare into the turnstile’s slot, I pushed him aside to go through. I could hear him cursing at my back as I slipped into the car, pushed in by the throng of passengers. Before the doors closed I glimpsed the bluecoats led by Mr. Benchley arriving at the gates.
Fred took the turnstile in a single, graceful bound, and hit the doors just as they began to close. As he was wedged between them, the engineer was forced to open the doors once again. Mr. Benchley was in.
Bluecoats, frustrated at failing to stop the train, blurred and disappeared as the subway train jolted forward and moved out of the station.
“How did you find me?” I asked as we wormed our way through a party of swells. I wound up in a dead-end wall that turned out to be a big-bosomed matron blocking my progress.
“Your white satin coat is distinct, in a sea of black, my dear, shines like a beacon in the night.”
“I think he’s in the car up ahead.”
“And why are you following him?”
“I don’t know. Death wish? Pills are easier, I’d say.”
“You mustn’t die, Mrs. Parker. Whatever would we do without you?”
“We’ll get out next stop: 14th Street.”
The train pulled into the station and we exited. When the doors opened there was a scurry of passengers and we were carried on the wave leaving the car.
I spotted him then, getting off the train, too, one car ahead of us, and just as I caught sight of him he caught sight of me and doubled back in. I hate to be challenged or double-crossed, and there was a score to settle with the man. I grabbed Mr. Benchley’s hand and pulled him back in as the doors closed on us.
It was the same thing at 23rd Street, the shuffle out and then back into the car, but at 28th, as we started our exit, we saw bluecoats swarming the platform and we knew he would not risk getting off. Mr. Benchley caught the eye of one officer, and he signaled the killer was on the train, but the doors closed before anything could be done to alert the engineer to stop. At 33rd, the subway train did not stop, and I figured it was by order of the police. We were coming into Grand Central Station at 42nd Street, and I expected a veritable wall of blue to greet us on arrival.
But, my fear was that he had a gun and might try to take another hostage, possibly shoot his way out, killing innocent people out for a night of celebration.
The train pulled into the station slowly and screeched to a prolonged, earsplitting stop. There were no officers on the platform that I could see, and I wondered why—how could this be?
We waited as people piled out of our car, and positioned ourselves just outside the door while others entered.
“He’s off!” I yelled at my friend. “He’s off the train. See him?”
In a wave of derby bowlers, apple caps, and fedoras, his blond head bobbed along distinctly.
“I don’t.”
“He’s right there, no hat, the only one without a hat. See now?”
We moved toward the hatless figure and stayed a good distance behind, following him up the iron stairway, wondering whether he was headed for the street or intended to blend into the crowd weaving about in the huge Grand Central Terminal. If he did that, he could run down any of a dozen track ramps and board and hide in almost any sleeper car of a train scheduled to leave at midnight, and be lost to us.
Up ahead was a line of policemen standing like a barrier. As soon as he saw them, he positioned himself next to a young couple, talking to them as if they were acquainted and sticking close to them as they turned toward the long, white-tiled corridor leading to the Shuttle, the short, one-stop train connection to Times Square.
Usually at this hour, only a few people might be walking along this corridor to the Shuttle, but it was New Year’s Eve and the crowd was rushing to get to Times Square in time to witness the countdown to midnight and the dropping of the ball from the Times building.
The subway train was already in the station and the platform was unusually crowded. Up ahead we could see the hatless head of our quarry getting into the first of the three subway cars.
What were we going to do, I asked Mr. Benchley as the train pulled out of the station and into the tunnel. Yes, we had had opportunity to yell out to the officers standing watch at the terminal entrance, but that might have started a gunfight, with lots of people killed or wounded. But, what were we doing now? Chasing him to where? Truth was, we didn’t know what we were doing; we had no plan. We were just chasing the Devil, and if we weren’t careful, we’d get to Hell before he did!
All of a sudden, I was knocked into a big, burly man who caught me in places he shouldn’t have laid his hands; Mr. Benchley was down on the floor in missionary position over a sprightly matron, through whose eyeglasses flashed a surprised, though not discontented, look. The train had come to a rude and violent stop. People had their hats knocked off at best, or sprained and bruised body parts at worst, and quickly I surmised that the emergency brake inside one of the cars had been pulled to stop the train. The interior lights went out and we were cloaked in darkness.
God knows what was going on in the dark; there were gasps of shock, cries of pain, a few obscenities, gurgles of laughter, and a good amount of shuffling among the tangle of bodies. I heard a scream, and then Mr. Benchley’s voice: “I beg your pardon, Madame. Dottie? Where—Oh, there you are!” Auxiliary lights came on, shedding a dim pall over the scene. He took my hand.
We were stopped in the tunnel between stations. Probably just under Bryant Park.
“He’s going to get out by forcing open the doors,” said Mr. Benchley.
He was going to use the dark cover of the tunnel to make his escape.
Then, the hum of the motor as all the doors opened; the lights flickered and became brighter. The conductor was walking through the cars looking for the culprit responsible for pulling the brake cord. Mr. Benchley tried to tell the man what was going on, but he didn’t seem to understand, accusing us of having pulled the cord, only stopping his accusations when several people vouched that we were telling the truth.
“He’s out in the tunnel,” I said.
Mr. Benchley was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, a frown revealing strong consideration. “You know, I don’t think so. There’s no place to go but back to Grand Central or on to Times Square. No; he’s on the train. I think it was a trick to make us think he jumped out.”
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“So, he’s heading for the Square where he can blend into the crowd.”
The train shook and coughed to a start, and within half a minute we pulled into Times Square Station at 42nd Street.
Mr. Benchley was right; he had remained on the train, and we were first out of the car. Now our man would have to get to the stairway and up to the first level toward the street before we did; the stairs were closer to us than to him. He would have to cross our path to get to the stairs, and Mr. Benchley bolted through to stop his progress. Oh, crap, Fred’s going to get shot, I thought, as I let loose a bloodcurdling scream.
People stopped in their tracks to turn and look at the screaming demon standing in the middle of the platform, but it was enough of a distraction to slow the assassin’s progress, allowing Mr. Benchley to pull at his coattails as the man hit the stairs running. The tug was enough to throw him off balance and bring him down hard, his back hitting the hard edge of a steel step. He toppled over to sprawl face down and flat out on the platform. The gun he’d been holding had flown from his hand to spin like a top an arm’s-reach away.
Mr. Benchley threw himself over him, a knee placed strategically in the small of his back. As he leaned over to secure the weapon, the lessening of his weight on the assassin’s back gave the killer opportunity to throw Mr. Benchley off and over to the ground, where he lay supine for a long moment, winded. As the men rose to their feet, the gun once again was pitched aside in their scuffle. It landed at my feet. I picked it up. It weighed so much more than I thought it would, this deadly, molded piece of metal cradled in my shaking fingers. “Father Tim” saw that I had his only hope of defense and lunged toward me. So frightened was I that he’d use it on me once he had wrestled it from my hand, that I pitched the gun over the heads of onlookers in the direction of the subway tracks. I heard it hit the tile wall and fall down into the recessed well. For a second time, Mr. Benchley grabbed at the culprit from behind and swung him around. It was not the best move to repeat; the men stood face to face, and this time the wily rat administered a swift and accurate kick to the groin. With Mr. Benchley doubled over in pain, the assassin took full advantage of the opportunity to escape. He sprinted up the stairs, his path cleared as no one in their right mind wanted to grapple with a madman.
[Dorothy Parker 02] - Chasing the Devil Page 21