“Did Kaufman call?”
“No. Not any time I was here, anyway.”
“Could anyone else have taken the message?”
“Harry might have — if it was over a week ago. There would have been times he was here and I was out. Nobody else could have. Ed, this man Harry wanted to meet if he came in Kaufman’s — would it have been your father?”
I nodded. It checked; it fitted Kaufman’s story like a glove, and proved that both he and Claire were telling the truth about it.
I asked her, “Know anything about Harry’s brother, Steve?”
“Only that he’s in jail. I think in Indiana. But that was before I met Harry. Ed, I do want a drink now. How about you? Can I mix you a Martini? Or would you rather have something else?”
I said, “A Martini would be swell.”
When she stood up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantel. She gasped a little. She said, “I’ll — I’ll be back in a minute, Ed.”
She went through the door behind which I’d hidden not so long ago, and I heard another door open and close and water running. She was feeling better, I knew. When a girl starts worrying about how she looks, she’s feeling better.
She came back looking like a million bucks in crisp new currency.
She had a glass of ice cubes and a bottle of vermouth in her hands when the doorbell rang.
I said, “It’s Uncle Am. I’ll get it.”
But I had my hand on the revolver in my coat pocket when I opened the door, on the chain.
It was Uncle Am. He was wearing a taxi-driver’s cap, grinning.
He said, “You phone for a cab?”
I unhooked the chain. “Yeah,” I said, “Come on in. We got a little packing to do yet.”
I closed the door behind him and locked it. He said, “Yeah, you’ve been doing all right. Wipe that lipstick off your mush and you’ll look better, though. Where is it?”
We went into the living room. His eyebrows went up a little when he saw Claire. I saw his lips make the slight involuntary motion toward a whistle that men’s lips often make when they look at something like Claire.
Then he turned his head a little and saw Dutch. He winced a little.
He said, “Kid, you should have told me to bring a derrick.” He walked over and stood looking down. He said, “No blood, no marks. That’s something, anyway. What’d you do, scare him to death?”
I said, “It was almost the other way around. Uncle Am, this is Claire.”
She put out her hand and he took it. He said, “Even under the circumstances, it’s a pleasure.”
She said, “Thanks, Am. A Martini?”
She was already getting out a third glass. Uncle Am turned and looked at me and I knew what he was thinking. I said, “I’m all right. I had-two thimblefuls of green ink, but that was several weeks ago. And one rye in the bar downstairs, but that was last year.”
She finished the cocktails and handed one to each of us. I sipped mine. It tasted good; I liked it.
Uncle Am said, “How much have you told, Ed?”
“Enough,” I told him. “Claire knows what the score is. She’s on our team.”
He said, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Ed.”
“I hope so, too,” I told him.
“Well, you can tell me all about it tomorrow. There’s always another day.”
I said, “There’s the rest of tonight.”
He grinned. He said, “I doubt it. Well, let’s get going. Think you can manage half of our drunken friend?”
“I can try.”
He turned to Claire. “The cab is in the alley, outside the service door. But it’s locked; I came in the front way. You got a key?”
“It opens from the inside. And we can put a piece of cardboard so the catch of the lock will stay back and we can get in again. The elevator will be at the first floor. I think I can run it; I’ll go down now and bring it up to the fourth —”
“No,” Uncle Am said. “Elevators are noisy — especially ones that aren’t supposed to be in use in the middle of the night. We’ll get him down those back stairs. You just stay ahead of us so we don’t run into anybody. If you see anybody, speak to ’em; we’ll hear your voice and stop to wait.”
She nodded.
Uncle Am took Dutch’s shoulders and I took his feet. He was just too heavy for us to try walking him between us like an ambulating drunk. We’d have to carry him and take our chances.
We got him through the hall and down the stairs. It wasn’t a job I’d want to do regularly.
We got all the breaks. The door was like Claire had said it would be. There wasn’t anyone around the alley. We got him into the cab, jackknifed on the floor of the back seat, and put over him a blanket Claire had brought down for the purpose.
I sat down and wiped the sweat off my forehead. Uncle Am did, too.
Then he got in behind the wheel and Claire and I got in back.
He said, “Any choice of a final resting place?”
I said, “There’s an alley off Franklin — No, skip it; that’s the last place we’d want to put him.”
Claire said, “I know where he used to live, up to a few weeks ago. An apartment building on Division. If we left him in the alley back of there —”
“Smart girl,” Uncle Am said. “If there’s a tie-in between who he is and where he’s found, it’ll look less like he’s been dropped off there. It’ll focus the investigation away from the Milan.”
He slid the car into gear.
We came out of the alley on Fairbanks, went north to Erie and cut over Erie to the boulevard. We stayed in the heavy traffic of the boulevard north to Division Street.
Claire gave him the address and ten minutes later we were rid of Dutch. We didn’t waste any time getting out of there.
We hadn’t talked any at all. We still didn’t talk until we were lost in the boulevard traffic again, heading south. Somewhere a big clock struck two.
Claire was very quiet in a corner of the back seat, with my arm around her.
Uncle Am said, “You still got the gun, kid?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
He pulled into the alley, stopped the cab right where it had been before. He said, “Stay in here, you two. Ed, give me the gun and I’ll case the joint. If you had company before, there could be someone waiting there. Claire, give me the key.”
I wanted to go up with him, but he wouldn’t let me.
It was very, very quiet.
Claire said, “Kiss me, Ed.”
A little later she said, “I’m taking an early train tomorrow, Ed. I’d — I’d be afraid there, alone. Will you stay, and take me to the train?”
I said, “Chicago is big. Can’t you go somewhere else in Chicago, for a while, anyway? Until this is all over?”
“No, Ed. And you’ve got to promise that you’ll never come to Indianapolis looking for me. I won’t give you my address. Tomorrow morning’s got to be good-bye. For good.”
I wanted to argue, but down inside I knew she was right. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did.
Uncle Am was opening the door of the taxi. He said, “Break it up, you two. Here’s the gun and the key, Ed. Listen, you don’t know what that gun’s been used for. Keep it tonight, but get rid of it before you come back to the Wacker. And without your prints on it.”
I said, “I’m not that dumb, Uncle Am.”
“Sometimes I wonder, kid. But you’ll grow out of it. When’ll I see you again? Around noon?”
“I guess so.”
Claire said, “Won’t you come up for a drink, Am?”
We were getting out of the cab. Uncle Am opened the front door and slid into the driver’s seat. He said, “I guess not, kids. This tax
i and cap are costing me twenty-five bucks and hour and I’ve had ’em two hours now. That’s a little rich for my blood.”
Claire said, “Good-buy, Am.”
He stepped on the starter of the taxi and then leaned out of the window. He said, “God bless you, my children. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
He drove off.
We stood there a little while, hand in hand, in the warm summer night, in the darkness of the alley.
Claire said, “It’s nice tonight.”
I said, “It’s going to be nicer.”
“Yes, it’s going to be nicer, Ed.”
She leaned against me a little. I let go her hand and put my arms around her. I kissed her.
After a minute she said, “Shall we go in out of the snow?” We went in out of the snow.
When I woke up, Claire was dressed already, and was packing a suitcase. I looked at the little electric clock on the bedstand and saw it was only ten o’clock.
She smiled at me and said, “ ‘Morning, Eddie.”
I asked, “Is it still snowing out?”
“No, it’s all through snowing. I was just going to wake you. There’s a train at eleven-fifteen. We’ll have to hurry, if we’re going to eat any breakfast.”
She went to a closet for another suitcase.
I got up, took a quick shower, and dressed. She’d finished packing by then. She said, “We’ll have to settle for coffee and doughnuts at the station. There’s only an hour now.”
“Had I better phone for a cab?”
“There’s a stand out in front. At this time of morning, we can get one.”
I took the two suitcases and she took the overnight bag and a small package that I saw was stamped for mailing. She saw me glance at it and said, “Birthday present for a friend of mine; I should have mailed it two days ago. Remind me, on the way.”
I did’t give a damn about birthday presents. I walked to the door and then turned around, with my back toward it and put down the suitcases.
I held out my arms, but she didn’t come. She shook her head slowly. “No, Ed. No good-byes, please. Last night was good-bye for us. And you mustn’t ever look for me; you mustn’t ever try to follow me.”
“Why not, Claire?”
“You’ll know why, Ed, when you’ve had time to think things out. You’ll know I’m right. Your uncle will know; maybe he can tell you. I can’t.”
“But —”
“How old are you, Ed? Really? Twenty?”
“Almost nineteen.”
“I said, “Yeah, you’re practically dying of old age. Your arteries are hardening. Your —”
“Ed, you don’t see what I mean. Twenty-nine isn’t old, no, but it’s not young any more, either, for a woman. And — Ed, I was lying to you last night about the job and the hall bedroom and all that. When a woman’s used to good things, and money, she can’t go back, Ed. Not unless she’s stronger than I am. I’m not going back to that, Ed.”
“You mean you’re going to find yourself another mug like Harry?”
“Not like Harry, no. I have learned that much. A guy with money, but not earned that way. I’ve learned that much in Chicago. Especially last night when Dutch — I’m glad you were here, Eddie.”
I said, “Maybe I understand a little. But why can’t we — ”
“How much do you make, Eddie, as a printer? Do you see?”
“Okay,” I said.
I picked up the suitcases and she went out. We got a taxi at the stand in front of the hotel, and started for the Dearborn Station.
In the taxi, Claire sat very straight, but I happened to notice that there were tears in her eyes.
I don’t know whether it made me feel better or worse. Better, I guess, about last night, and worse about her. I was all mixed up, inside, something like the time Mom had fooled me by being so nice to me, when I came home from going to the carney to get Uncle Am.
I thought, why can’t women be consistent? Why can’t they be good or bad, and make up their minds which? I thought, I guess most of us are that way, good and bad mixed up, but women are worse and they change back and forth faster. They go to almost absurd lengths of being nice to you, or being nasty.
Claire said, “Five years from now, you’ll hardly remember me, Ed.”
“I’ll remember you,” I said.
We crossed Van Buren, under the el, and we were through the Loop, only two blocks from the station.
She said, “Kiss me once more, Ed — if — if you still want to, after I told you the truth.”
I still wanted to, and I did. My arms were still around her when the cab stopped. The little package she’d been holding slid to the floor as she moved and I picked it up and handed it to her. I noticed the address, and the name.
I said, “If I hit a million-dollar jackpot, I’ll get in touch with you through your girl friend in Miami.”
“Don’t try, Ed, either for me or for any jackpots. Stick to your job and to being what you are. And don’t come in the station with me. Here comes a redcap for my bags.”
“But you said —”
“It’s almost train time, Ed. Please stay in the cab. Mama knows best. Good-bye.”
The redcap was picking up the bags and starting away with them.
“Good-bye,” I said.
The cabby asked, “Back to the Milan Towers?” and I said, “Yeah,” watching Claire walk away from me. She didn’t turn around to look back. She stopped at the mailbox outside the door and mailed the package, and didn’t turn around at all as she went into the door of the Dearborn Station.
My cab was pulling away from the curb, but I was still looking out. That’s how I happened to notice the dark little man get out of the cab that had been right behind mine at the curb, and walk rapidly into the station.
Something bothered me; he looked familiar but I couldn’t think where I’d seen him.
We were pulling across the street, turning north into Dear-born Street. I told the driver, “I didn’t mean to tell you back to the Milan. I want to go the Wacker on Clark Street.”
He nodded and kept going.
We slowed for a stop light on the next corner, and suddenly I remembered where I’d seen the guy who’d gotten out of the cab behind us. It had been yesterday evening in the bar of the Milan Towers. And he’d been Italian, and I’d thought he looked like a torpedo. I’d wondered if he’d been Benny Rosso —
“Stop,” I told the driver. “Let me out here, quick.”
He finished crossing the street and pulled to a stop along the line of cars at the curb. He said, “Anything you say, mister. Just make up your mind.”
I fumbled a couple of singles out of my wallet and gave them to him. I didn’t wait for change. I was out of the cab, running back toward the station. I could get back there quicker on foot than by having the cab go on around the block and wait for lights at every corner.
But it was an awfully long block from Harrison back to Polk. I almost got run down by a car crossing in front of the station, but I ketp on running until I was inside the doors.
I stopped running then, and walked fast through the station, looking around. I’d never realized what an enormous place it was. I didn’t see Claire and I didn’t see the man who might have been following her.
I made two fast circuits of the station and I hadn’t seen them, either of them. I hurried up to the information desk. I asked, “Which track is the Indianapolis train on, if it hasn’t left?”
“Isn’t loading yet. It doesn’t pull in until twelve-five.”
“The eleven-fifteen,” I said. “Has it pulled out already?”
“There’s no eleven-fifteen for Indianapolis, sir.”
I looked up at the clock; it was fourteen
after eleven already. I asked, “What eleven-fifteen train are there?”
“Two of them; the St. Louis Flyer on Track Six, and Number Nineteen on Track One — Ft. Wayne, Columbus, Charleston —”
I turned away.
It was hopeless; two long trains leaving in one minute. I probably wouldn’t be able to reach one of them, certainly not both. I didn’t have enough money left to buy a fare even to Ft. Wayne.
I looked up and saw the gateman closing the iron gate marked Track Five.
A last desperate chance, I thought. The recap; if I could find the redcap who took — I looked around and there were a dozen redcaps in sight, in different parts of the station. They didn’t all look alike, but I realized I hadn’t even looked at the one that had taken her bags. I’d been looking at Claire.
One was walking past me, and I grabbed his arm. I asked,”Did you take two suitcases and an overnight bag for a lady, alone, from a taxi just a little while ago?”
He pushed his cap back and scratched his head. He said, “Well, I mighta. What train?”
“That’s what I want to know. It was fifteen minutes ago.”
“I — I put a lady on the St. Louie ‘bout that long ago, I guess, I don’t rightly ‘member if she had jest two suitcases and a bag. I — I think there was a violin case, suh.”
I said, “Okay, skip it,” and gave him a dime. There wouldn’t be any use trying to talk to every redcap in the place. By the time I got the right one, he wouldn’t remember anyway.
I thought, she might not have been taking a train at all, for all I know. She wouldn’t let me come into the station with her. She lied about where she was going, maybe she was lying about the rest of it. Maybe she went out the other door of the station or something.
I sat down on a bench and talked myself into being mad instead of worried. I might have been ten miles off in thinking the guy who got out of the cab had been the same one I’d seen in the Milan. I didn’t know our cab had been followed. And if it was the guy, it wasn’t any more than a wild guess that he’d been following our cab and that he was Rosso. Every Italian in Chicago couldn’t be a gunsel named Rosso.
The Fabulous Clipjoint Page 17