Night Walker

by Donald Hamilton

  Young said, “Well, it sounds reasonable; but the question still remains, just what the hell was he after? What’s the name of the boat down at the dock?”

  “Larry’s boat? That’s the Amberjack.”

  Young glanced at the list again. “She’s not there, either. Yet here are the names of seven boats that he considered important enough, for some reason, to keep with him, hidden in this fancy way. And he came here for his getaway, don’t forget that.”

  Elizabeth looked startled. “Why, what does that have to do with—”

  “Why did he take the risk of coming here, Elizabeth? Why did he want you to hide him here? Why did he show himself to you at all? He’d just committed a murder to make it look as if he were dead; why risk blowing the whole scheme apart by letting you know he was alive?”

  “He said he wanted to make sure I identified the body—”

  “If I’d burned up in the car as he’d planned, you’d have given the body one quick glance, lost your lunch, and then identified it as him on the strength of the wrist watch and belt buckle. Anyway, it was a better gamble for him than coming here to put pressure on you. No, I think he came here for another reason. I think he came here to catch a streetcar. A seagoing streetcar. All these boats mean something; and I think friend Wilson knew that one was coming here and was going to make you hide him out until it came to pick him up, after which he would either have taken you along or disposed of you in some plausible manner to keep you from talking. But he had to have a hiding place close by, because he didn’t know exactly when to expect his transportation. Small boats can’t keep an exact schedule; a storm will keep them in port for a week —” Young’s voice trailed off. The list in his hand stared up at him: Shooting Star, Aloha, Marbeth, Chanteyman... Boat names were never long on originality, he reflected sourly. Bosun Bird, Alice K., Estrella.

  As he looked at the list, and remembered the character and suspected connections of the man among whose belongings it had been found, he began to see frightening implications in the commonplace names. A bunch of small, innocent-looking pleasure yachts puttering up and down the coast under secret orders... You don’t know, he told himself, you’re only guessing.

  “Damn it!” he said aloud. “I wish I’d never —” He did not finish the thought. The girl beside him did not speak. After a while he said uncertainly, “Elizabeth, we really ought to—”

  “What?”

  He did not look at her. “Let the F.B.I. know about this.”

  “Honey,” she said softly, “honey, are you plumb crazy?”

  “But listen,” he said, “we don’t even know how many there are! I mean, this list of seven. Hell, it doesn’t have to be all of them. He might just have scribbled down the names of the ones he expected to be somewhere in this area at this time. Suppose there are hundreds of the damn little—”

  “Honey, stop it!” She was on her feet, facing him. “Stop it!” she snapped. “I declare, it’s a little late for you to get an attack of patriotism, isn’t it, Lieutenant Young?”

  “But we can’t—”

  “Oh, can’t we?” she cried, and before he could guess what she was about to do, she had snatched the picture out of his hand and torn it across. He came to his feet, reaching for the pieces, and she turned away from him and, as he grabbed at her, jabbed an elbow accurately and hard into his bruised chest. The pain took his breath away. He gagged and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, hugging himself, very close to being sick but distantly aware that she had run out of the room. He heard the toilet flush in the bathroom across the hall.

  “Honey,” she said, returning, “honey, I’m sorry. I declare I didn’t mean to hurt you, but heavens, that silly conscience of yours—”

  “It’s all right,” he said wearily. “It’s all right, Elizabeth.”

  “You’re not going to—”

  She was interrupted by a noise outside. Below the window, a car door opened and closed with a weighty, deliberate sound, although, preoccupied with their own affairs, they had heard no car drive up. Elizabeth wore a look of panic, and Young knew exactly what she was thinking: Dr. Henshaw was not due to look in again until late in the afternoon. She caught Young’s arm and moved fearfully to the window beside him. Looking down, they saw a long black Packard sedan of prewar orgin standing in the graveled circle in front of the house. An impressive elderly lady, who walked with the aid of a heavy cane, was just mounting the steps to the front door.

  As they stood there, frozen, the visitor gave three imperative raps on the knocker and stepped back, leaning her weight upon the cane, to look up at the house. They pulled back from the window quickly, before she could see them.

  “Oh, Lordy!” The despair in Elizabeth’s voice took any humor from her whispered exclamation. “It’s old Mrs. Parr! What’s she doing here?” Then she turned on Young, grasping at him fiercely with both hands. “What are we going to do, honey? What are we going to do?”

  The expression on her face startled him with its sudden naked terror; and he knew again the strong feeling of kinship that he had experienced before with this girl. It had become an emotion now, very close to tenderness; the affection and sympathy he could not help but feel for someone whose weakness he understood and shared, with the difference that his particular allergy — if you could call it that — did not react very strongly to an old woman with a cane.

  He could not free himself from her without using force, so he put his hands on her hips instead and pushed her gently back a little and held her steady in front of him.

  “Easy now,” he said. “Snap out of it, Liz.” She stared at him blankly. “Who is she?” Young demanded. “What do I call her?”

  Below, the knocker sounded again; and the girl’s body jerked at the sound. “But you can’t—”

  “What the hell did you hire me for?” he whispered. “Now wipe your nose and get that stupid look off your face, sweetheart! What do I call this ancient character? Brief me; fill me in! Is she an old friend of the family, or what?”

  “She —” Elizabeth shivered, and released him, and drew her sleeve across her mouth. “She’s your — Larry’s—”

  “Mine,” he said. “I’m Larry. Don’t forget it. Carry on.”

  “She’s your aunt. I mean, she isn’t really your aunt; she’s some left-handed kin to the Wilsons that I never did get straight, but you call her Aunt Molly. I call her Mrs. Parr.” Elizabeth had recovered enough to be bitter about this. “That is, that’s what I call her when she can’t avoid letting me speak to her; it hurts any of the family to admit that I exist. I declare, I think they even blame me for what Larry — I can’t imagine what would make her visit — Oh, shut up, you old biddy!” she gasped, as the knocker rapped again.

  Young asked, “Where’s the maid? Why doesn’t she answer it?”

  “Who? Oh, Beverly. She only comes once a week; I can’t stand having them around the house. I don’t know how to — They always make me feel like poor white trash, the way they look at—”

  “Let’s save your inferiority complexes till we have time to analyze them properly. Mrs. Parr, sweetheart, Mrs. Parr!”

  Elizabeth licked her lips. “Well, she lives at a place called Laurel Hill, way up the river. Larry — you took me there in the Amberjack once. It’s a museum place with antiques and everybody says it’s simply marvelous, although I declare, it looked like a junk shop to me. Don’t let her get started on it or she’ll be here all morning... Oh, God, I look a wreck!” She had turned to the mirror now. “She’s going to think I always trail around the house like this!”

  She smoothed her hair. Young was climbing into bed.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “Get the hell down there before she starts hammering with that cane; and for God’s sake be nice to the old battle-ax.... Elizabeth?”

  She turned at the door. “Yes?”

  “Chin up, as the British say. Don’t give up the ship, and stuff.”

  She managed a smile. “Honey, you’re sweet
! I’m all right now.”

  Young watched her dubiously as she moved away. Then he grimaced beneath the bandages and settled himself against the pillows and smoothed the covers over him. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he should have let down the Venetian blind, not only to give the proper sick-room atmosphere, but also to lower the visibility somewhat; but it was too late now. He could already hear the murmur of voices at the front door. When they disliked each other thoroughly, women had a way of being nice to each other that you could recognize even when you were so far away that you could not distinguish the individual words.

  Presently the cane thumped deliberately on the carpeted stairs, and a deep, almost masculine, voice said, “... intrude at this hour, but I didn’t realize how early it was. Why, you’ve just barely got up, haven’t you, dear?”

  Elizabeth’s voice said, “Oh, Larry’ll be delighted to see you, Mrs. Parr. The poor boy’s getting so bored with staying in bed that just talking to anybody is a real treat.”

  Young grinned to himself, and stopped grinning; there was a little moment of extreme tension before they showed in the doorway. Okay, junior, he thought, you’re Larry Wilson now. I’m Larry Wilson now....Then the old lady was standing there, not allowing herself to lean on the cane, but getting as much unobtrusive support from it as she could while she caught her breath from the climb. She seemed like quite a formidable person, a large woman fully turned out for visiting in hat, gloves, and a light summer coat open to show one of those elaborate print dresses that all wealthy elderly females seemed to wear. She looked at Young and chuckled.

  “Well, Lawrence, they’ve sure enough got you wrapped up like a country ham,” she said. “Bonita told me—”

  “Oh,” Young said. “She did, did she?”

  “Hell, I wasn’t supposed to let that out.” Mrs. Parr showed no particular evidence of consternation or remorse. She gestured at Elizabeth. “Bring me that chair, dear. I recall telling this boy’s mother a month before he was born that if she planned having any more than the one, she should do something about those damn stairs. But I never thought then I’d see the day when they’d give me trouble. Well, nobody stays young forever. Maybe it’s just as well. Young people seem to be forever inventing new ways of getting themselves into difficulties.” She seated herself gratefully in the chair that Elizabeth brought forward, and looked up at the girl. “And now I wonder if I could impose on you for a cup of coffee, my dear. Of course, if you haven’t started breakfast yet—”

  Elizabeth flushed angrily. “Oh, we’ve eaten, Mrs. Parr, but I think there’s still some coffee on the stove.” Then she glanced quickly at Young. “It — won’t take a minute,” she said uncertainly.

  “I hate to be so much trouble.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” There was an edge of desperation in Elizabeth’s voice, as if she were being pushed bodily from the room.

  “Bring me one too, darling, while you’re at it,” Young said. Reluctantly she turned away. When she had gone, Young glanced at Mrs. Parr, who was patting her wrinkled, carefully made-up face delicately with a large handkerchief. In spite of the sheltering bandages, Young felt suddenly naked and helpless, facing her alone. There was so much he did not know, so many ways in which she could trap him, if she wished.

  “I recall this room,” she said absently, looking around. “You had it as a boy, didn’t you?” He did not have to answer, because she turned her gaze on him immediately. “Now, what the hell is all this foolishness, Lawrence?” she demanded. “If you and that redheaded brat of Maude Decker’s think you’re going to involve me in any romantic shenanigans at my age — As far as your marriage is concerned, boy, I’ve got no sympathy for you at all. You’ve got a pretty wife. I suppose she doesn’t spend all day in a wrapper and nightgown. Maybe you could have done better, but you didn’t; and I’ve got no patience with the modern attitude toward marriage. In my day, a man was supposed to live with his mistakes. Don’t come to me expecting me to set up assignations for you behind your wife’s back!”

  Young said, “I didn’t come to you, Aunt Molly.”

  “Well, your girl did, damn it. She wanted me to help her arrange some kind of meeting... Me carrying love notes at my age! Somebody should turn that child over and warm her bottom, and yours too, young man... I don’t know why I keep calling her a child. At her age I was married and keeping house for three children, a husband, and a pack of dogs. The dogs had the best manners of the lot. If anybody had suggested that I show myself in public in a pair of little pants and a bit of a handkerchief —! Anyway I told Bonita and now I’m telling you that I’ll have nothing to do with it. Not that it will stop you, I suppose; I understand the two of you were carrying on something scandalous all last summer. Well, you get no sympathy from me, remember that. In my day, these things were conducted with at least a little bit of discretion... I told the girl, ‘Girl,’ I said, ‘don’t come weeping to me because you got left out in the cold. What do you expect, playing around with a married man? If you want any messages carried, carry them yourself. Do I,’ I asked her, ‘look like Cupid to you, girl? So the boy got himself smashed up and his wife’s looking after him and that’s the way it should be. I’m certainly not going to tell him to give you the usual signal when he’s well enough to walk out and can meet you at the usual place,’ I told the chit, ‘and I strongly advise you not to make a spectacle of yourself by sailing past the house twice a day, morning and evening, waiting to hear from him; and if you do go sailing,’ I told her, ‘for Heaven’s sake put a few clothes on for a change.’ Humph. Well, I’ve never had a very high opinion of human intelligence, and I suppose you’ll find some damn fool or other to carry your messages for you... Lawrence.”

  “Yes, Aunt Molly,” he said.

  “I don’t hear much up the river there, but somebody was telling me you had got yourself mixed up in this Communist nonsense. That isn’t true, is it?”

  “No, Aunt Molly,” he said.

  “Well, that’s fine,” she said. “I’m glad to hear it... Oh, there you are, my dear. You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble for me.” Mrs. Parr looked at Elizabeth critically as she brought a tray into the room. “That’s a lovely robe, you’re wearing, dear; it’s a pity you seem to have got some lipstick on the sleeve. And I do love your hair like that; I think this modern style of whacking it all off short is most unattractive. In my day, her hair was considered to be a woman’s crowning glory....”

  Chapter Seven

  The long Packard had to back up once to get around the circular drive, which had been laid out for vehicles of shorter wheelbase — no doubt originally for horse-drawn carriages. Then the big car made its deliberate way around the corner of the house and out of sight. Young turned from the window.

  “Does she always drive that hearse herself?” “

  “She had a chauffeur before the war, Larry told me. When he got drafted, she got somebody to teach her to drive, and liked it so much she never hired another.” Elizabeth swung about to face him. “Honey, what did she want? What did she say?”

  He was tired now, and he got back into bed and leaned back against the pillows before answering. “Why,” he said, “somehow she’d got herself talked into giving me a message from Bonita Decker, and she wasn’t too enthusiastic about the idea, although I doubt it’s going to keep her awake nights. The kid apparently hasn’t given up hope. She wants to see me. She’s going to sail past this place twice a day waiting for me to give her the usual signal, after which I’m supposed to sneak out and meet her at the usual place.”

  “A signal?” Elizabeth demanded. “What signal? What place?”

  Young said, “How the hell would I know? I don’t know the place, either; or the time. I suppose they had a standard time for meeting, since the old lady didn’t bother to mention it. You had no idea they had some system like that rigged up?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t pay much attention to his comings and goings last summer, but I decla
re, I didn’t dream they—”

  “Well, it looks as if they had really been taking this affair seriously. Signals and secret meeting places! I wish I knew... Well, it doesn’t matter. I obviously can’t afford to meet her; that would be running this bluff into the ground. I may be able to fool an old lady who never saw Larry Wilson more than once a year; I’m sure as hell not going to get anywhere with a bright little girl who was in love with him, bandages or no bandages. And with the color hair she’s got, if she doesn’t get her signal pretty soon she’s going to get impatient and send somebody else or come barging in again herself... I think we’d better have Henshaw over here and hold a council of war, Elizabeth. This act is dying on us; we’d better wind it up before it folds completely. It’s time for Larry Wilson to go to Nassau for his convalescence, or visit the Mayo Clinic for an operation, or something. We’ve established that the bastard’s still alive; now let’s get him the hell out of here.”

  She had turned to study her reflection in the mirror, in a preoccupied way. “All right, honey,” she said. “But can’t it wait until this afternoon? Bob said he’d be over.”

  “Oh, I suppose so.” He could not explain his sudden feeling of urgency; instinct was warning him that the game was up, the gag was wearing thin, the ship was sinking beneath him... He tried to put the last metaphor out of his mind, but it was like that; it was the well-remembered sensation of knowing that there were only so many seconds — in this case minutes, or maybe days — before the whole thing would go up with a bang and a hiss and a roar, taking him to hell with it if he had not vacated the premises by the time it happened. His mind was working swiftly and well. “Elizabeth,” he said, knowing what he had to do now. It was time to demonstrate that he was keeping all possibilities clearly in mind.