by Anna Porter
She was grateful for the pale light and the dark summer make-up. He wouldn’t notice she hadn’t slept in two nights.
“And why the weird outfit? Are you trying to blend into the dark? Are you hiding from someone?” He surveyed the park. Nothing stirred.
“I guess I’ve been worrying about the witnesses. I thought it would be safer to meet you here. In case someone’s watching the house. I didn’t want to take chances…”
Could David have known about the kidnapping? How much did he know?
“OK, but why now?”
“I was worried, couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to phone you from the house, I think there may be a bug on the phone. Then it seemed this would be a good place to meet.”
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “That’s not it. You wouldn’t call me like that…”
“I couldn’t sleep. That’s all. Really.”
He held her around the waist and walked her to the bench.
“You’re freezing,” he said. “You’re not wearing a coat. And why this dreadful scarf?” He tugged at it till it came away in his hand. Judith shook her hair free.
“That’s better,” he said, running his fingers through her hair. “I told you before you mustn’t worry about Harris any longer. Now the case has been reopened, we’ll take care of it. You’re a terrific detective, but you do have another profession. This one happens to be mine. In fact just this afternoon we got a lead on one of the two young punks who were fighting at the top of the station. And in New York they’ve started to investigate the missing manuscript at Axel. Any word from Marsha?” he asked suddenly.
“No,” Judith said too quickly. “She had a very busy schedule in London. Wouldn’t have time to follow up on this.”
“I thought she was going to Hamilton, Thornbush?”
“She had to cancel that.”
“She did? Why?”
“Some auction she was to attend…” Judith lied fluently, not wanting him to think Marsha was still trying to find the manuscript.
“I’ve been in touch with London, but there’s no news yet.” His eyes traveled up the street to where his friend’s car had disappeared.
“I haven’t thanked you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
He drew her closer. “You had me worried,” he said. “I thought there was some emergency…”
“There isn’t.” She looked at her watch, tilting her wrist so that it caught the light. “I must run back now. I have a story to finish by tomorrow. If I keep going all night…”
“The Harris story?”
“No. The Nuclear Madness story. I promised it by the end of the day.”
Again he peered closely at her face.
“Have you been working on that for long?”
“Couple of weeks.”
“Strange…”
“Why?”
He didn’t explain, but kissed her hard on the lips and held her until she was beginning to feel warm again.
“I’ll see you home.”
“No,” she protested. “I’d like to walk home alone.”
“Call me tomorrow.” He let go of her suddenly and set off in the direction of Dupont.
Judith waited until he was out of sight, then started for home over the fences, as she had come. She found a gap between the buildings and took a look at the car the light had flashed from. It was still there, two doors up from her house. A Ford station wagon, standard with a white line on the sides.
She put on the scarf to cover her head again and crept alongside the thorny hedge on her hands and knees. When she was close to the car, she straightened up, her back to the hedge, the tiny branches catching threads from her sweater. She covered her face with her black-gloved hands so that only her eyes showed.
There was a man in the front of the car, smoking a cigarette. He had a young face, she couldn’t tell his coloring, but the hair seemed dark. His coat had a fur collar. Scattered on the sidewalk next to the car there were several cigarette butts, all within sight of his window.
Behind her, up in the hedge, a raccoon started to chatter.
Twenty-Six
IF THERE WAS AN unobtrusive way of carrying the manuscript, Marsha couldn’t find it. All she had brought with her from the hotel was a tiny purse concealed in the back of her jogging suit. Both she and Jane MacIntyre had been too excited about finding “Untitled” to think of looking for a bag, and it didn’t fit into her sleeve or a pocket. In the end, she decided to roll it up and carry it in one hand, casually, as if it were a short stick.
She headed down Hill Street, then around Berkeley Square. As she began to jog down Berkeley Street she kept imagining cars screeching in pursuit, and started to run full out. A few minutes later she was inside the hotel entrance, one hand pressed into her stomach, the other clutching the manuscript tight to her chest.
“You all right, miss?” the doorman asked solicitously. He was examining her with barely disguised curiosity. He shuffled over slowly. “May I get you something, miss? Perhaps a glass of water?”
Marsha shook her head. She allowed the doorman to walk her to the padded bench near the front desk. She sat down hard.
“Can’t say as I hold with all that jogging, miss,” he said, standing over her. “People can get hurt.”
He’s right about that, Marsha thought, straightening up. She pulled a damp coin from her pocket and gave it to him.
“Thanks,” she said, glad she could speak again. “I’ll be all right now.” She wanted to be in the safety of her room.
“Anything I can do for you, miss?” The doorman was still there, hesitating.
“Perhaps you could ask them to send me some coffee,” Marsha asked.
“Right you are,” he said, brightly. “Continental breakfast?”
“Only coffee,” Marsha said. She took a deep breath and headed down the hall. The desk clerk stopped her.
“Miss, there’s a message for you.” It was from Judith.
She fidgeted with the key, her hand still shaking slightly. She felt better once she had locked the door behind her and slipped the chain into place.
The window was open, but this time the cooing pigeons were outside on the ledge. Marsha held the manuscript wedged under her arm and turned on the bedside lamp; she wouldn’t even take a shower until she had read it.
She felt rather than heard the sound behind her. Soft scraping of cloth against cloth. A hand snaked around her mouth and clamped shut, pressing her lips into her teeth, another forced her arms tight against her sides. The manuscript dug into her armpit.
No fear. No panic. Only anger. She tightened all her arm and shoulder muscles and breathed in deeply, expanding her chest as far as she could, under the encircling arm.
“Keep still,” the male voice behind her commanded. “You won’t get hurt.”
The voice was American. Young. His lips were almost touching her ear.
Suddenly she collapsed her shoulders forward, pulled her arms together, grabbed his hand away from her mouth using both her hands and pulled hard as she dropped down, wedged her shoulder into his solar plexus and heaved his body up over her shoulder and onto the floor. Hard. She twisted his arm around his back, forcing him face down on the floor, his left arm useless underneath him. She wrenched his right arm up almost to the point of breaking. He grunted in pain. Her fingers pressed into his palm, thumbs on the back of his hand, twisting still, forcing the arm up even higher till she heard him whimper. She knelt heavily into the small of his back, keeping him pinned under her, immobile.
“Do you have a gun?” she asked him.
“Uh huh…” he grunted.
“Where?” Marsha was elated, surprised at her own prowess. Sure, she had practiced all the moves before, but never on a real target.
“If…you’d move…a little…” he exhaled painfully, then sucked in his breath sharply, through his teeth.
“Where?” Marsha repeated. She tugged on his arm.
“Under my arm…the one you’r
e trying to break…” he said, gulping air.
She shifted slightly, kept his arm up with her right hand, and reached with the left under his soft, worsted suit-jacket for the gun. His jacket had the fashionable splits up the back. Had he not been lying on his stomach with her knee wedged into his back, she could easily have mistaken him for a college student. Even from this angle, he couldn’t have been much over twenty. Blond, short-cropped hair, no creases in his neck or the side of his face. Blond eyelashes, barely visible.
The gun was a heavy thing, almost too big to fit into her palm. It felt rather like her father’s Beretta, but newer, shiny, like a toy. She lifted it by the handle, gently; it slid into her palm. Could she fire it if she had to? Would she? Her forefinger closed on the trigger. Her thumb cocked the gun.
“Don’t move,” she said evenly
She looked around for the manuscript. It had fallen near the bed, the pages fanned out. Then she yelled: “Help!” her voice amazingly deep and steady. “Help! Help! Help!”
Only the pigeons stirred. Too much clatter from the kitchen. She tried again: “Help!” at her loudest.
“They can’t hear you,” he whimpered.
“I know,” she said. She would have to get to the phone.
“What we are going to do,” she said firmly, “is this. First, I’m going to get off your back, and let your arm go. Then, you’re going to stand up slowly. No sudden moves.” (1950s western.) “I have a gun in my hand. It’s loaded, and I won’t hesitate to shoot.” (Starring John Wayne. Lone guitar in background. Fade to:)
“OK,” the young man said and lay still. “You’re the boss.” Chatty little bastard, considering the trouble he was in.
Marsha eased off his back and carefully retreated to the chair near the window, keeping an eye on him all the way. Once she had sat down, she said: “Get up now. Slowly.”
Nursing the arm Marsha had been holding, he pulled himself to his hands and knees, then straightened so slowly Marsha wondered if he would ever make it. Standing up, he looked even younger than he had lying down.
“Put your hands over your head. Yes. That’s fine.” Marsha was aiming the gun directly at his stomach. He had a pained expression on his face, smooth as a bun. His eyes under the almost hairless lids searched all around the room, as if he was expecting someone to come to his rescue. When no one did, he focused on Marsha, his eyebrows knitted in apparent consternation.
“Guess you caught me in the act,” he said. “You surely did.” His pained expression deepened.
“In the act of what? Exactly?” Marsha asked.
“It was purely in the line of business, you understand. Nothing personal,” he said. “I was foraging around for something to find, your window was open, so I came in here. Over the roof, that is.” He motioned with his hand toward the window.
“Keep still!” Marsha barked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Foraging for what?”
“I’m not particular. Money, jewelry, traveler’s checks, anything I can carry.”
“You mean you’re a regular, middle-of-the-road, average thief, who just happened to come into this room by coincidence? That’s what you’re telling me?”
He nodded but was careful not to move his hands.
“Your window was open,” he repeated.
“Bullshit,” Marsha said.
He looked up, his eyes going wide in surprise.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t,” Marsha said.
“Well, it’s the truth,” he said defiantly. “I staked the hotel out yesterday. Yours is the only open window I could reach.”
Marsha stood holding the gun at the same level, very steady.
“I want you to turn around and face the wall. I will shoot if I have to. I really will.
“Pull your jacket up over your shoulders. Keep your hands in sight. That’s right. All the way up. Steady… Now, pull it over your head and drop it behind you. Good. Turn around. Slowly. Right.”
“I don’t have another weapon,” he said.
Maybe not. But she had to make sure.
“Lower one hand…one only…to your belt buckle. Very slowly. Right. Undo it.”
“Ma’am?” he asked plaintively.
“Undo it and let your pants drop.” It took him a while to fiddle with the belt, but he succeeded in the end and his pants sagged around his ankles. He wore navy-blue knee-highs, white jockey shorts and a thin-blade knife strapped around his calf in a shiny leather holster. Neat.
“Step out of them. Very very slowly,” Marsha said. “Right. Now back up. Enough. Keep your hands steady. Don’t move a muscle.” (Efrem Zimbalist Jr. A scene from The Untouchables.)
Marsha edged forward until she could reach his clothes with her feet. Without taking her eyes off him, she drew the clothes back toward her. When they were out of his way, she told him to walk sideways, one step at a time, into the bathroom and shut the door. She pushed a chair up against the handle.
Marsha felt so calm, it was alarming. Still aiming the gun at the bathroom door, she dialed the front desk.
“Send someone fast—there’s a man in my room.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s a man in my room!” she shouted. She picked up the manuscript and slipped it under her pillow. Then, with one hand, she started to go through his pockets, methodically.
There was a plastic cardholder with Blue Cross, American Express, BankAmericard and driver’s license. All in the name of Arnold Bukowski. The driver’s license gave his date of birth as July 10, 1960, it was issued at Fountain Valley, Colorado. He had come by the slight Western drawl honestly.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. Faint and polite.
“Hey,” the voice said familiarly. “That stuff in my pockets. It’s not mine, you know. Lifted it from the guy upstairs.”
Oh yeah. Sure. There was a set of car keys. Volkswagen. A key to room 205. A billfold with some ten-pound notes, and a set of American Express traveler’s checks in $100 denominations. In his inside top pocket there was a piece of folded paper, hotel stationery. It was addressed to Ms. Marsha Hillier. The message was typed:
Please meet me at the National Gallery, 10:00. Let’s discuss terms of publication and delivery of the final manuscript.
The Dealer
“Bukowski,” she yelled at the bathroom door. “Who the hell are you? What kind of game are you playing? Why won’t you, or whoever you answer to, just tell me what’s going on?” She hadn’t been expecting a reply, and in any case there wasn’t time for one because the front door fell in.
Two men rushed past her, one in London bobby uniform, stick at the ready, the other in hotel uniform with a handgun. They stopped running when they were a couple of feet away from Marsha. Both looked puzzled.
“He’s in there.” Marsha pointed with the gun in her hand. They opened the bathroom door.
Arnold Bukowski was sitting on the toilet seat looking quite dejected.
“Are you all right, miss?” the security guard asked, glancing back and forth between Marsha and Bukowski.
“That’s him?” the policeman asked with overt disbelief.
Marsha explained. When she got to the end and handed over Bukowski’s belongings the policeman still seemed a little puzzled, but he made Bukowski put his pants back on and handcuffed him.
“How did you remove his clothing?” he asked Marsha.
“I didn’t. He did. It’s tough to reach for a hidden weapon with your clothes off. Not too many hiding places left. Besides, it makes them feel defenseless.”
“I see,” said the policeman. He was looking away. The security guard grinned. They were obviously both classifying her as a pervert.
“You have to come down to the station to sign the forms,” said the policeman. “You are laying charges?”
“Of course I’m laying charges.” Marsha was losing patience with him.
“Quite sure this isn’t just a lovers’ spat?”
“I want to see the hotel manager.” She had lost patience.
The security guard sprang to attention.
“I’ll get him.”
“I’m sorry, madam.” The policeman attempted a more formal approach. “I hope you understand: when I saw him… it seemed…” Suddenly gruff, he turned to Bukowski. “Name?”
Bukowski said nothing.
“He’s American,” the policeman said, riffling through the papers and credit cards. He said it as though being American would somehow explain why Bukowski was in Marsha’s room. After all, she, too, was American.
Marsha slipped the typewritten message into her purse.
“I have an important appointment right now and don’t wish to be late,” she said, watching Bukowski for some reaction. There was none. “I’ll come to the police station afterward.”
The hotel manager arrived, on the run, full of outrage and profuse apologies. Nothing like this had ever happened before—not in his twenty years with the hotel. They would move Marsha to another room on one of the upper floors right away. He would pack all her clothes, personally, unless of course there were some private things she would prefer… No? That was fine then, he would take care of the move right away.
Marsha was glad to endure his unctuous chatter. She didn’t want to be alone. While he rid her of the curious policeman and his charge, delivered the coffee, poured her a small brandy and packed her suitcases, Marsha called Judith.
It was 4:40 a.m. in Toronto, but Judith was awake, she answered on the first ring. She had been waiting by the phone since her expedition to the park.
“Thank God, it’s you,” Judith said. “I thought maybe something had happened. I’ve been calling all night. Where were you?”
Marsha explained she had spent the night with Peter, but before she could tell Judith any more, Judith poured out the story of the kidnapping, the threats, David with the creased-faced man, the Ford wagon that had been set up to spy on her movements. She would have to follow their instructions and take a holiday. She couldn’t risk the children.
“And, Marsha, please leave the damned manuscript alone. These people don’t play games…”