Delicate Ape
Page 3
“Yeah,” Captain Devlin interrupted. “Your address, Mr. Henderson?”
They couldn’t be meaning to detain him while they checked on this. He was a casual. An innocent bystander. He said as if he were slightly ashamed of it, “It’s seventeen Sheridan Square.” He had been born at 17 Sheridan Square. He hoped the building still stood. “I’m staying with friends there—it’s just temporary. I expect to get a place of my own soon. I’m a playwright.” He gave the captain a smile both proud and happy, and then he frowned a little. “My newest manuscripts are in that briefcase and it’s very important I find it. Of course I have my rough drafts but I don’t want to have to type the whole thing again—” He prattled, at ease in his role.
The captain interrupted again. “You witnessed the accident in front of the Paramount last night?”
“But I didn’t. I was right there but I was walking the other way.” He said with slight regret, “I just missed it.”
The captain’s square face took on a shade of disappointment. “You don’t know if he fell or was pushed then?”
“No,” Piers said. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I heard the brakes of the taxi when it stopped. Everyone was terribly excited, all talking at once. Some said the man jumped and some said he was pushed. I couldn’t wait though. I was late for an appointment. It wasn’t until I was in the theater later that I missed my brief case. It’s been turned in?”
The sergeant said, “No. Nothing good ever is.”
Piers was emphatic. “It was a good briefcase. I’d hate to lose it. It means so much work—” This time he did the breaking off and his eyes were bright with curiosity. “Who was the man who was killed? Was he someone important? Is that why you think he was pushed?”
Captain Devlin shook his head. “We don’t think he was pushed. But some of the witnesses say he was. There’s always witnesses with big imaginations in any accident case—”
Piers waited, taut. He couldn’t repeat his question. He mustn’t be anything but a naïve young playwright in this room. He could play the role. His face was un-lined, boyish enough for his thirty-six years. He waited and the identity was forthcoming.
“He wasn’t anyone at all,” Devlin continued. “John Smith.”
“John Smith,” Piers repeated, and then he brightened to hide his disappointment. “That’s like a play, Captain. That anyone should actually be named John Smith and be in an accident.”
“It was his name.” Devlin tapped his pencil. “He was identified late last night. By his uncle. We could write it off as closed if it weren’t for those two damn witnesses insisting he was pushed.”
Piers said thoughtfully as if weaving a plot, “And of course that means the uncle will press you—”
“He doesn’t give a damn. He doesn’t think the guy was pushed.” Devlin was grim. “It’s the Commissioner. He don’t like loose ends.” He seemed to see Piers again. “Well, young man, if your briefcase turns up, we’ll notify you.” It was dismissal.
Piers said, “Thank you, sir. And I’m really sorry I didn’t witness your accident.” He followed the sergeant back into the outer room.
“John Smith,” he said. “It’s funny—a real John Smith.”
The sergeant gruffed, “He musta changed it from Schmidt. The old man could hardly talk English.”
Piers moved, reluctant, into the spring sunshine.
2.
Leaving the precinct station, he seemed to be leaving safety behind. He felt an impulse to turn back, to tell the dull and honest sergeant, the worried and rigid captain, “I am in danger. Will you give me protection before I lie beside John Smith?”
He could not. Where would he get accusing Brecklein, the accredited German envoy to the Peace Conclave? He would be dismissed as a crank, or worse, he would be detained for observation. He had no proof to offer. That the final comment of the old sergeant was for him proof sufficient that the Germans were after him did not mean that he was without understanding of the nebulous quality of this proof for others. But it was, for him, sufficient.
He would have liked to inquire further, to have elicited a description of the uncle. Possibly he could have done so out of idle curiosity but in retrospect it might have awakened suspicion. As much as he would welcome police protection, he could not afford to become the object of police suspicion. Nor was he credulous enough to believe that the police would have difficulty in finding him again if they set out with that purpose. Manhattan was a small island. His hope was that he would escape attention, that there would be no reason for them to seek one George Henderson.
He walked back to Broadway. It would be wise to call Gordon before the man called him. The time was near noon. He stopped at a drugstore, looked up the number of the New York branch of the Peace Department. Normally the branch office wasn’t important but with the Conclave at hand Gordon would make his headquarters there. Anstruther and the first Peace delegates had been wise in their determination that conclaves should not be held in political capitals. The United States Halls of Peace stood on the banks of the Hudson, not on the Potomac.
He dropped the coin, dialed. Three times he gave his name, Piers alone, waiting permission to speak to the important Gordon. One voice actually spoke of Secretary Gordon. Piers’ mouth twisted. Gordon knew how to erect a structure.
He was eventually put through to the rich assurance of that voice. It was impossible to believe in the dark burrows of danger and death when Hind Gordon spoke. “Piers? The girl said Mr. Pierce and I couldn’t place it. I rang you but the hotel desk said you weren’t there.”
“I went out early,” Piers evaded. “Any word from the Secretary?”
The warm cadence was troubled. “No. I don’t know what to think.” He broke off. “Lunch with me, Piers. I’ll cancel my appointments. It’s important we decide what we’re to do.”
“To do?” Piers asked softly.
“Yes. If he—” He broke off. “Can you lunch with me, Piers?”
“Yes.”
“Make it the Chatham at one. It’s secluded, we can talk without disturbance.”
Piers rang off. The slant smile remained on his face as he left the booth. Gordon was disturbed. It was good that Gordon be disturbed. As long as he could be kept in that state he wouldn’t be able to move swiftly, without deviation, to the coveted goal.
Piers decided against returning to the hotel. Whoever had rung his room might be waiting his appearance. If possible he would delay until the cocktail or dinner hour, until the lobby was well filled. He wanted no trouble. He didn’t believe the call could be any more than a clerk’s inquiry; yet … Yet until last night he hadn’t believed it was known to anyone that he was in New York.
He walked out again into the crowded noon. He covered leisurely the path between the towering flanks of Rockefeller Center to Fifth. The shop windows on the way were summer bright; tulips bloomed in the gardens. He lingered in their color. As he moved, a shadow seemed to move with him.
It could be he was overly alert. He had thought some paces back, at the haberdasher’s down the street, that a shadow loitered. He moved on Fifth, still leisurely, with curiosity, no fear. There was nothing to fear at high noon in this not only crowded but highly civilized sector of the avenue. He could be curious. If he were followed, he would like to know if it stemmed from the hotel or the precinct house. The latter was more probable. John Smith hadn’t completed his assignment last night. But John Smith’s uncle, or the-friends-of-my-uncle, might well be watching who would call at the station. It was undeniable that members of Brecklein’s party would recognize Piers Hunt. Brecklein wouldn’t leave that to chance.
He walked slowly down Fifth, allowing the swift tempo of the street to stream past him. It would be next to impossible to surprise a follower in the crowd. It was momentarily unimportant. He could make certain he was not trailed before returning to the Astor. He reached the Chatham slightly before one o’clock, left his hat with the quiet elderly man at the hatstand, and waited in the red ve
lvet foyer. It was cool, empty. The hushed room beyond had but a few diners; the waiters wore the masks of old retainers.
Gordon came at one-ten. He said, “Glad you could make it, Piers,” and, “Good afternoon, Bronson,” as if the checkman were a private club employee. His handshake was that of an important man.
“I hadn’t anything else to do,” Piers said with amusement. “I haven’t any friends to look up. My grandmother—last of the family—died years ago. I’ve been away too long.”
Gordon led into the dining room. He nodded to none of the other diners. Each waiter they passed spoke, “Good day, Mr. Gordon.” To the maître d’hôtel he said, “If we could have the corner spot, Jules?”
“Certainement, Mr. Gordon.”
It was secluded enough, a rounded couch that commanded the room, behind it walls alone. There could be no eavesdropping.
“You’ll have a Martini? Very dry for me, Jules.” He was a good host, as if born to the purple. He suggested the whitefish with a superb sauce, pale wine, a mixed salad. Piers deferred to his taste.
“Not hearty,” Gordon apologized. “Too hot today.”
He was filled with anxiety. The cool gray of his suit, his healthy face, his manners, couldn’t hide it. He spoke over the cocktail, “I don’t know what’s happened. What can have happened, Piers?”
Piers watched him over the rim of his glass. “Perhaps he stopped off in South America.”
“No. That’s what I’ve told the President and the Secretary of State, but no. Not unless he told you—” He waited.
“He didn’t plan any stopover,” Piers said with finality. “None he mentioned.”
Gordon worried it. “There’s been no plane accident reported. What can have happened?”
Piers said, “Perhaps it’s a disappearance.”
Gordon looked quickly.
“There have been cases. Planes disappearing. Never heard of thereafter. No one knows.”
“That’s weird.” Gordon smiled, but his smile wasn’t sure.
“Weird but possible,” Piers said. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of … ”
“No.” Gordon rejected. “I don’t believe that.”
“What do you believe?” Piers asked softly.
“I don’t know. I tell you I don’t know.” He broke off while the lunch was served, continued again, “He’s long overdue. A week and no word. You saw him off?”
“On Monday. A week ago Monday.”
“When did you arrive here?”
“Friday last.”
Gordon laid down his fork. “Friday? You’ve been here that long? What have you been doing? Why didn’t you let me know?”
Piers took his time in answering. “I needed a rest.” He smiled. “I knew you’d put me to work if I showed up, Gordon.”
Gordon shook his head.
“I had a vacation due. You don’t know how fatiguing field work can be. Particularly just before a conclave.”
“You didn’t know the old man wasn’t here?”
Piers shrugged. “Not until I went to Washington yesterday did I even suspect.” His brows went up. “Then I did suspect. Those clerks in the Peace Department don’t hide things well, Gordon. I daresay Washington’s seething with rumors.”
“Rumors can’t hurt us,” Gordon replied with certainty. “The worst they can say is that he’s sick—a collapse. Rumors won’t go beyond that.” He scowled. “What I’m afraid of is fact. When the fact that he’s missing becomes known—as it must by Sunday—what then?”
“You’re afraid the Conclave will fall to pieces?”
“Yes—no, that can’t happen, Piers. Biennial meetings. Members convening from all over the globe—do you know we’re to have almost full representation this time? It can’t collapse. But without him to hold it steady—already there’s so much of little bickering—cartels—cliques—It’s an important meeting, Piers.”
“Yes,” Piers said.
Gordon leaned across the table. “I believe it is paramount we let no one know in advance that the old man may not be present.”
“Yes,” Piers said.
“If that were known, I don’t know what feuds might flare up. He’s always kept them down. He’s believed in International Peace.”
“Yes,” Piers said again. He touched his napkin to his mouth. “Yes. You’ve hit it, Gordon.” He looked at him for a moment almost with envy. “That belief of Anstruther’s and a few others has kept the peace this far. That belief must go on. If the believers can keep it flaming, the way he did, if they can hold it long enough we’ll breed out war. But you must have men who have as passionate a belief in peace as once certain men had in war.”
Gordon said slowly, “It isn’t war I’m afraid of. If you keep the nations prospering they’re content. No need for war. And when there isn’t a need for an element, it disappears.”
“If you aren’t afraid of war, then what?” He asked it quietly.
Gordon touched his well-groomed mustache. He said, “I want our country to maintain its place as the leader in International Peace.”
“A nationalist,” Piers smiled. Gordon might well have said: I want to be as important as Anstruther has been. I want to hold that most important cabinet post, Secretary of Peace of the United States; I want the post to continue as it has for the decade of Anstruther’s secretaryship, to be hereditary president of the Conclave.
Gordon reddened, defending himself, “Maybe, Piers. But I can’t help thinking our country’s pretty important. If you’d been in my place in Washington these years—We’ve made this Peace thing. We’ve forced it to work. I don’t want to see our place threatened if Anstruther is—if anything’s happened to the old man.”
Piers took his tea scalding, plain. “I don’t think it’s important who stands for what in the Conclave, what position any nation holds, as long as all stand for peace.”
“An internationalist.” Gordon smiled now.
“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s just that peace is important to me, more important than any man”—he finished the tea—“or any nation.”
Gordon bit his lip. “We haven’t decided what to do. It’s up to us to carry things along until Anstruther—at least until the Conclave is in session. You’ll help out?”
Piers didn’t commit himself. He asked rather, “How did you know I was here, Gordon? There’s no use saying that meeting at the Astor was opportune.”
Gordon flushed and then he laughed. “I’d been looking for you. Nickerson cabled you were coming.”
Not Nickerson. Wiles, perhaps, but not Nickerson. Piers had definitely stated that this was a Z-13 mission; that meant utter secrecy. Gordon didn’t know that.
“I sent a cable to you—Z code—about the whereabouts of Anstruther. Nickerson replied that you were in this country.”
Possibly. But not Nickerson. He wouldn’t make mistakes.
“And the Astor?” Piers’ eyes smiled.
“I’d tried all the hotels. You’re not under your name?”
“No,” Piers admitted.
“I remembered that evening in Berne—three years ago, wasn’t it? Your weltschmerz for New York, in particular Broadway and the Astor.”
Piers said, “Good deducing. I might use you on a mission some day.”
Gordon lettered the check. He looked up from it to Piers’ face. “Just why did you come to New York at this time?”
“To attend the Conclave.” He pushed back from the table. “I’ve been determined for a long time to attend this particular conclave, Gordon.”
3.
They recovered their hats, stood for a moment at the door. Gordon said, “I wish you’d bring your papers around to the office, Piers. Perhaps if we went over what you have we might find a hint.”
“I don’t have papers.”
Gordon didn’t believe him. “Your reports?”
“I take notes in my head. Dictate from memory. The girls in the Berne office make it readable.”
“Reports aren’t my job, Gordon. Thank God, I ought to say. It’s the human equation I contend with, the subterfuge, the unexpressed yearnings, the cross-currents. It comes out all right in the end.”
They stood on the corner of Park.
“I’ll look over your papers if you like,” he suggested.
“You needn’t,” Gordon said abruptly. “Don’t think I haven’t been over and over them, particularly the reports the old man sent on this trip. Although they were brief, inconclusive. I don’t know why you needed him in Africa. If he hadn’t gone there—Those little border troubles—”
Those little border troubles, incidents, had been too carefully brewed. Piers had needed Secretary Anstruther. If the Secretary saw for himself, he would, despite Evanhurst, refuse Germany’s request. He would sway the Conclave to his belief. Piers was silent now.
Gordon said, “I must get back to the office. By the way, I want you to come along with me tomorrow night. A small dinner Lord Evanhurst is giving.”
Piers shook his head. “I’ll help you out, Gordon, but not in the social swim. You’ll have to handle that yourself. I’ve been in the bush too long.”
“Nonsense,” Gordon jeered. His eyes turned somber. “Besides it isn’t merely social. It’s for some of the envoys. A gesture of good will, peace.”
“Will Fabian be there?” He forgot to be cautious.
“Fabian?”
“Equatorial Africa.”
“I know,” Gordon said impatiently. “But you know he doesn’t ever appear. Fancies himself sort of a black monk, for all I hear. Even so this will be only major powers. A small dinner.” He laid his hand on Piers’ arm. “I think you should be present, Piers. I’ll handle the social side but there’ll be plenty of observing for you. He’s having the German group. Purposely.”