Delicate Ape

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  He wasn’t beaten. He wouldn’t despair. His voice would be the voice of Anstruther and he would be heard. He had only fear to fear. It was fear which had placed him in this far corner of the park alone. Fear or wisdom. Fear that even now, Morgen, in scorn of his warning, would be baiting the trap. Fear that if he didn’t attend the proposed meeting, he would be carried there by force.

  That was his only fear. Not of death, for he would not die until his time for death was given. But to be made captive, forced to divulge the whereabouts of the papers. He had no fine ideas of his bravery; there had been tortures divined of evil in the Last War which would compel a braver man than he to talk. He must remain free.

  Strength was returning in the comparative peace of afternoon in Central Park. If he could but sleep here this night, under the stars. He couldn’t. He would have to return to the room which hung above Broadway, return and wait there with his last faint hope of Fabian.

  When the sun was low he began to walk, southward, toward the interlocking tower of buildings. He didn’t know the miles but it was good to be on his feet, moving. He walked the length of the park and he wasn’t tired but he was hungry, a good needful hunger. If he were to be hunted this night, in hiding tomorrow, he would at least have the strength in him of dining well. The vermilion borders of a Longchamps bannered and he went in, but he couldn’t taste the food he ordered. He kept watching for someone watching him. He saw no one. It would be ironic if, now that he was prepared for flight, the shadows should be withdrawn. His importance nullified by the solidifying of Gordon’s position. No use in fathering that wish.

  He wouldn’t return to the Astor until an hour when he could slip in unnoticed, unseen. He walked to Fifth, caught a downtown bus. He could ride under the distant stars in the cool of the evening, forget need of plans for a little. He wasn’t the only New Yorker with the idea of riding the stars in spring. The top deck was filled. He selected a seat downstairs near the rear door to watch for a descending passenger. He picked up an evening tabloid discarded there, began going over the columns for a possible item on Fabian. His head bent closer to the gossip column.

  He read the lines twice and anger was red in him. A pairing of names. Bianca Anstruther and Hugo von Eynar. The sly insinuation that Gordon was definitely relieved over a broken betrothal. The devilish hint that wedding bells might open the Conclave. He read the notice again and he didn’t believe it more than gossip but the signature was that of a man presumed by himself and his public to be omniscient. Wedding bells couldn’t mean Gordon and Morgen. She was Caesar’s wife. It could mean only that Gordon had given the Anstruther child into the unclean hands of Hugo.

  He crushed the paper tight in his hand as he pushed the button, flung himself from the bus. He was in the 30’s. He strode uptown, not wasting time standing for a cab. He’d attend that meeting tonight. He didn’t care if it did mean walking into their trap; he’d been in other of their traps and escaped. This violation was not to be allowed. He’d talked a lot of words about fighting for peace; no longer must they be empty. The disposal of Bianca might have nothing to do with peace but she was all that remained of Anstruther.

  This first blow against Hugo would be the preliminary skirmish before the battle for destruction of Germany’s wicked plan. But it would count. Hugo should know tonight that all the cards were in Piers’ hand, that he intended, despite Gordon, despite Evanhurst, despite Fabian, to play them tomorrow.

  At 42nd there was an empty cab waiting and he ordered savagely, “Waldorf Astoria.” Only when he was standing at the hotel desk did he know that Hugo wouldn’t be lounging here waiting for him. It was too early. The clerk repeated, “Mr. von Eynar is not in.”

  He set out again, still clutching the paper, caught another cab. “The Plaza.” He’d track him through the accustomed haunts. He gave the bellboy a bill and pointed to the Persian Room. “Find out if Hugo von Eynar is in there.”

  “You want to see him?”

  “Yes, I want to see him.”

  “What name, sir?”

  Piers stared at the empty-faced boy. “John Smith.” He laughed.

  The boy returned without Hugo. Piers went to the desk, asked, “Will you see if Hugo von Eynar is with Lord Evanhurst?”

  The clerk stated, “Lord Evanhurst is in Washington.”

  He turned on his heel. Once more and then he’d have to start guessing. He signaled the first cab. “The Astor.” The crawling delay in the side streets, surfeited with theater traffic, was beyond enduring. He paid off and he strode the remaining blocks, cut across Broadway heedless of the pinwheels of traffic. He saw none of the painted couples in the lobby, striding out for the bar. He heard nothing until he was stopped by words, by a big lump of a man in his path.

  Cassidy was curious. “Where’ve you been?”

  It was the first realization he had that he was walking back into the surveillance which he had carefully cleared. At the moment it didn’t matter. He said, “I’ll tell you all about it after I see—”

  Cassidy didn’t let him pass. “I got something to tell you first.”

  Piers’ eyes saw Cassidy then and he saw the determination in the loose face. His hand tightened over the newspapers. He said, “Please. I just want a few moments with Hugo von Eynar and then I’ll—”

  “Von Eynar isn’t in there.”

  He hadn’t expected this to fail. He let the bitter disappointment ride him.

  “None of them are. I got something to tell you. I’ll stand you a beer. But I know a better place we can go.”

  Piers half heard. “Do you know where von Eynar is?”

  “Mebbe.” The eyes were shrewd. “You going with me?”

  “Listen. Please listen. It’s important I see Hugo von Eynar—”

  “I know.” Cassidy’s hand was fatherly on his sleeve. “But you better talk to me first.”

  Piers heard the interlinear message in the words and he saw in the light blue eyes something that was not to be denied. But he couldn’t capitulate, the time waste would be unendurable; it was important he face Hugo now while the frenzy burned, before sanity ruled away the words he must fling, turning him craven again. “If you’ll tell me where von Eynar is—”

  “I’ll tell you,” Cassidy said. He urged him like a child towards the 44th street entrance. He kept on talking. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Over a beer it goes better.”

  Impatient and helpless Piers went along, towards Eighth Avenue, into a small bar that wasn’t gilded, one that only its intimates would know. Cassidy nodded to the bartender, “Couple of beers,” and he led the way back to the farthest corner.

  Piers slumped down. He noticed the paper in his hand and he laid it open on the table, smoothed that column. “Have you seen this?” He pushed it in front of Cassidy.

  The detective read slowly. “What about it?”

  Each word was venom. “I know Hugo von Eynar. I knew him in the Last War. There’s no decency in him. A woman would know that. She’s only a little girl. She hasn’t any standard of values to go on. I don’t intend it shall happen.”

  Cassidy put the heavy mug to his mouth. “What you planning to do?”

  “I don’t know.” He spoke with cold clarity. “I only know he isn’t going to marry Bianca Anstruther. He destroyed her father.”

  Cassidy said, “After what you said in Devlin’s office, I thought you didn’t like Germans. I didn’t care about seeing you with them last night.”

  “It turned my stomach,” Piers answered. “But I have a job to do.” He looked across at the detective. “Maybe in your job you have to be seen with some kind of men you wouldn’t spit on.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  Piers put down his mug. “You said you’d tell me where to find von Eynar.”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure. But Mr. Gordon’s having a little dinner party in his suite at the Waldorf. I wouldn’t be surprised but you’ll find von Eynar there. Mr. Gordon seems kind of friendly to the Germans.�
��

  Piers finished his beer. “Thanks. I’ll—”

  Cassidy’s big hand closed over his wrist. Piers looked down at it without comprehension.

  “Hold on. Remember I got something to tell you.”

  “I remember.” The impatience to meet with Hugo welled again.

  The hand didn’t move. “I’m supposed to arrest you tonight.”

  His wrist bones shrank under the hand. He knew then what Cassidy’s ushering of him from the Astor had been like. It wasn’t a father guiding a child. It was a detective escorting a prisoner.

  “Why?”

  Cassidy took away the hand. “That’s what I’m going to tell you. You want to buy a beer now?”

  “Yes.” He had to think; it had come too soon. He’d expected it tomorrow, not today. The waiter in the stained apron brought two more mugs. Piers watched the foam. “So I’m under arrest?”

  “Not yet.”

  Piers’ eyes jumped to the steady face.

  “I got my orders to bring you in.”

  “Captain Devlin?”

  “The boss.”

  “What charge?”

  “Material witness in the disappearance of Secretary Anstruther.”

  Piers’ eyebrows pulled together. “They can’t do that. Secretary Anstruther—” He couldn’t tell Cassidy that Secretary Anstruther had met death in Africa and that the jurisdiction of the New York commissioner couldn’t extend that far. “Secretary Anstruther—” He took his time. “Do you mean they’re saying that Secretary Anstruther isn’t going to return?”

  “They’re saying he’s missing. The radio and newspapers. Winchell went on the air special tonight saying Anstruther’s missing and that every mother’s son in New York better turn up at the Conclave tomorrow to stand up for peace. He named you as the guy that knows too much. The government isn’t talking but they had to do something. My boss thinks if you’re locked up, you can be made to give up those papers you have.”

  Piers said then, “How does the New York police figure in this?”

  “Samuel Anstruther was a New York citizen.”

  “I see.” He drank thoughtfully. “Who directed the Commissioner?” He eyed the man. “You see I happen to know that all news of the Secretary was to be suppressed until after the Conclave opens. I heard that from the President himself.”

  Cassidy said, “It’s a request from the President himself.”

  Behind that a request from Gordon. It could have come from no one else. The President wouldn’t ask that Piers Hunt be locked up for investigation concerning Anstruther. The President didn’t know that Piers Hunt counted, scarcely knew he existed. The order would come, possibly signed but unread, at Gordon’s prod.

  That was Gordon’s answer to his defiance. Not to fire him from the Commission. That would cause too much speculation at this time; it would hurtle the fact of a missing Secretary into the faces of the representatives. Furthermore Gordon possibly held a residue of fear that Anstruther might return, that he would have to answer to Anstruther. He shook his head. The clever Gordon, the superb Gordon, the damnable Gordon. Ridding himself of the threat of Piers so simply, with legal astuteness, the safety of it. He damned Gordon from silent white lips. Then he saw Cassidy. “Why have you told me this?”

  The detective scrubbed his cheek as if he needed thought for an answer. “I’ll tell you. Maybe it’s like this. Devlin and me were in secret service in the Last War. We saw a lot of funny things. Folks that were on our side being made to look like they weren’t. And folks against us purring up to the right parties and fooling those parties. We kind of talked it over, Devlin and me, and we believe you meant what you said yesterday. We think you’re for peace. Maybe someone’s trying to make it look like you aren’t but we kind of believe you meant what you said.” His eyes hardened now. “If we’re wrong, well, I’ll pick you up easy. I’ve never lost a man I’ve been after.”

  Piers didn’t smile. “Then I’m not under arrest.”

  “You broke away from me when we got to Broadway. Better keep out of my sight though. When I see you again I’ll have to run you in. It’ll go worse for you then. But you can have the chance if you want it.”

  “I want it.” He added, “You’ll get hell for this, Cassidy.”

  Cassidy looked at him as if he were very young. “I’ve been in the game a long time, boy. I’ve watched them come and go. I’m not worried about this boss. All I’m worried about is war. I’ve been through two already.”

  Piers said, “Gordon isn’t going to like it.”

  Cassidy wiped the heel of his hand across his mouth. “Neither is that German woman who was with him down to the Commissioner’s office.”

  Piers’ eyes shuttered.

  “She says you were trying to sell her the Anstruther papers.”

  “That was how they got the Presidential request.” He spoke to himself. He, the idiot child, believing Morgen’s betrayal would be predictable. It had never been.

  “I don’t like Germans,” Cassidy said. “Three of my boys came back from the Last War; three didn’t. I don’t like Germans mixing in our business.”

  Piers pushed back his chair, holding the newspaper. “Thanks.” He put out his hand to clasp Cassidy’s. “You haven’t bet the wrong horse. Maybe it’ll look like it before tomorrow, but you haven’t.”

  “I’m a poor loser,” Cassidy said. “I don’t bet only on sure things.”

  “How long a start are you giving me?”

  Cassidy shook his head. “I’ll be right here with Mike and my beer until bedtime. Tomorrow … ”

  VII

  TOMORROW HE’D BE SAFE or he’d be dead. There was a cab up the block near 44th street. Piers wasn’t reckless now; he avoided it, plunging around the corner to 45th, walking quickly towards the lights. The uncle might yet be following although presumedly he’d be called off with Piers’ fate taken in hand by the New York police. Safe behind bars.

  On Broadway he picked up a cruiser and rode back to the Waldorf. Despite the dangers he had to finish this. After, he’d hide out until tomorrow.

  He didn’t know the suite number; he asked at the desk. “De Witt Gordon.”

  The clerk knew the important Gordon of the Peace Commission. He looked quickly at Piers but tonight Piers wasn’t rag and bobtail. The man was courteous. “Your name, please?”

  Piers said without hesitation, “Watkins. From Washington.”

  He waited until the call was completed. “Go right up, Mr. Watkins. Suite C. The fourteenth floor.”

  The elevator was crowded. Gordon wouldn’t be suspicious, not with Evanhurst in Washington, not with secret business that must be completed before the opening tomorrow. Hugo might not be here. Gordon might call the police; Schern or Brecklein might attack. Piers had no weapon; he wished he had but he hadn’t owned one since the declaration of peace. What he did have was stronger than weapons; his knowledge against their desire for knowledge. They wanted it yet; orders to bring him in wouldn’t have been given otherwise. A bullet in the dark would have been a quicker solution.

  He knocked on the suite door. Gordon himself opened it. He frowned, “I didn’t expect you.”

  Piers pushed in. “I’m Watkins.”

  They were there, still at the betrothal table. And they were motionless while he looked them over one by one. Bianca, the happiness fading from her young face under his study; Hugo, accentuating his malicious arrogance with lifted eyeglass; Morgen, more beautiful than the red roses on her breast, more treacherous than the scent of bitter almonds. The older men must have gone with Evanhurst to Washington. They would not be needed here; the book on Piers was closed with Gordon’s orders given.

  “Close the door,” Piers told Gordon.

  Disturbed, he did as he was bid. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” He gestured Gordon back to the others. “I’m before time again, Morgen,” he said. He took the newspaper from his pocket. “But I thought I’d best have a private talk with Hugo
before business. Ever since I read this. I’ve escaped from Cassidy just now for one reason, to ask if this is true.”

  Hugo took Bianca’s hand. “Certainly it’s true. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Hugo’s smile curled around the young girl.

  “I have no intention of allowing you to get away with it.”

  Gordon’s shoulders broadened. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave, Piers.”

  “You sit down.” He didn’t raise his voice; he was careful not to raise his voice. The sound might stir physical violence. It was ugly enough without that. “You don’t know any more than Bianca does what this is all about. You poor insular fool.”

  Hugo was on his feet now and the glass dropped from his eye. “What are you attempting to say?”

  “I’m saying it. You aren’t going to sacrifice Secretary Anstruther’s daughter for the Fatherland. If she and Gordon weren’t a couple of children they’d see through it but they haven’t had enough experience to know what you are.”

  “And what is that?” The ice over his words was brittle.

  Piers said, “I don’t believe you wish me to answer that … here.” He looked from Hugo to Morgen and again at Hugo.

  Bianca rushed beside Hugo now, her hand under his arm. She said, “I don’t know what kind of madman you are bursting in here, evidently with the intention of interfering with Hugo’s and my plans. Your impudence is only exceeded by your stupidity.”

  He asked brutally, “Do you know what von Eynar wants with you?”

  Her lips spattered scorn.

  “Don’t get the idea it’s because you’re round and young and warm that he’ll marry you. I won’t say that doesn’t count with Hugo but that isn’t enough. He’s had better than you.” The words were thorns in his mouth.

  A gust of anger bruised her. “How dare you say such things?” She turned to Gordon frantically, “Witt, can’t you do something?”