The League of Grey-Eyed Women

by Julius Fast

  "I do not want to be my brother's keeper," he said firmly as he poured his coffee and slipped two slices of bread into the toaster.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rhoda received a call that same morning and replaced the phone slowly, standing motionless in front of the small table, staring with unseeing eyes out the wide living-room windows, down the sere hillside to the silvered snake of the river in the valley. Her face gave no indication of the turbulence inside her, the excitement that surged through her like a flood.

  He was back. Then it must begin now, and quickly, before Clifford could start any trouble. The carpenters had finished in the back wing and there was no sign of their work. Nothing must go wrong now.

  "Steve," she whispered softly. "Oh, Steve, you must be right. Dear God, I pray you're right!"

  Then she picked up the phone and dialed Steve's office, and waited patiently for her to pick up the ringing phone.

  Clifford worked as if possessed, doing more in one morning and part of the afternoon than he usually did in a week. His mind was totally immersed in the layouts, all his thoughts concentrated only on balance, shape, color and form, page after page.

  It was only when the fading outside light made him reach for the switch to the fluorescent that he realized what time it was. More than half the afternoon had gone and he hadn't once thought of Jack, of Jack's problems or Rhoda and Steve, of grey-eyed telepathic women.

  Smiling, he stacked the layouts, cleaning off the last traces of rubber cement with a pickup, then wrapped the package and called for a messenger. While he was waiting, he changed out of his work clothes, took a quick shower and had just finished dressing when the bell rang. He tipped the messenger, gave him the package and closed the door with a sigh of relief. His obligations were discharged. Instead of waiting for Jack's call he'd try him now. Surely he had slept long enough. He must be up and about.

  He was awake and he answered on the second ring, but he was still in bed. "I don't think I'll ever get out of it," he said. "I'm going to bury myself in this bed and make up for—Cliff, how long have I been gone?"

  "Three days. Jack, where have you been?"

  There was a long silence, and then Jack sighed. "If I told you, you'd think I was crazy or lying. Cliff, come over, can you?"

  "Try and keep me away. Get your story straight and put on some coffee. I'll be there in half an hour." He hung up and whistling cheerfully pulled on a turtleneck sweater and a jacket.

  He'd be at Jack's before that if he could catch a cab quickly.

  He started down the block and saw an empty taxi pull up at the corner. He flagged it and inside gave Jack's address, lifting his eyebrows at the back of the cabbie's head. Shoulder-length red hair tumbled over the neck of a blue sweater. He looked at the ID card through the bulletproof partition and saw a woman's name, Alice Marks.

  "You don't see many women drivers these days. Isn't it a hard racket?"

  She shrugged. "No harder than others." She had a pleasant, husky voice. "Keeps you out in the air."

  She ran a red light across Fifth Avenue and cut into Central Park at 72nd Street. Suddenly aware of where they were, Clifford sat up and leaned forward. "Hey, I told you the East Side! Where are you going?"

  She shook her head as she turned into the uptown drive in the park. "Sit down, buddy, and relax."

  "What the hell is this?" He tapped on the glass partition. "Where do you think you're going?"

  She turned and gave him a quick grin through the glass. "Where do you think we're going?"

  That one quick glimpse was enough to see her eyes, pale grey, with almost no differentiation between iris and pupil, pale grey under heavy lashes, a lovely face, a frightening face.

  He sat back and stared at the driver's mirror, meeting her calm, level gaze. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

  He could only see her eyes, but he could tell she was smiling by her voice. "You make it sound like a federal offense."

  "Isn't it? Kidnapping a man?"

  "Taking you for a cab ride, baby. That's all. No one's going to hurt you. No one's going to abduct you."

  She slowed down and came to a stop at a traffic light, and he wrenched at the door handle, trying to open it, but it held fast.

  "Safety measure. Thank Mayor Lindsay. They lock from the driver's seat." She turned round in the seat, an attractive, freckled, corn-fed face, a woman in her early thirties. She brushed her hair away from her eyes. "Why don't you relax?"

  "Where are we going?"

  "Over to the West Side for a little while. Maybe have a drink or two at a friend's place, and then you'll be free as a bird."

  "A little while?" He shook his head. "Until you can get Jack out of his apartment? Damn it, let me out of here!"

  She turned back and the car shot ahead as the light changed. "My word for today is relax."

  Cursing furiously he worked the handles of both doors, but neither would budge nor could he lower the windows. Finally, in a rage, he started hammering at the glass partition between him and the driver.

  "Don't worry about that," she called pleasantly over her shoulder. "These cabs are really holdup-proof—and a good thing, huh?"

  "I'd like to wring your neck," he muttered. "Where are we going?" He sat back with folded arms, glowering sullenly at the back of her head.

  "Now that's better," she said cheerfully. "When rape is inevitable, lean back and enjoy it. You know, I won't even charge you what's on the meter. Where do you get a ride like that these days?"

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "You're repeating yourself, pussycat. I told you, just across town. We want you to wait in a friend's apartment for just an hour or so. Now is that so hard—or awful? It's comfortable and there'll be good company."

  He stared at the back of her head. "You're afraid I'll warn Jack."

  "That's right. Now you stay put."

  The cab left the park at 103rd Street and cut crosstown towards the drive. At one of the sidestreets it pulled up in front of a brownstone and the redhead turned to face him. She wasn't smiling now and she gestured towards the house. "We have a little reception committee and I wouldn't try anything silly if I were you. The girls are both ex-Wacs and very good shots, no matter how reluctant they are to prove it."

  Two women were walking down the steps of the house, two ordinary women who could melt into any crowd with no trouble. Both were young and dressed in casual suits, one with a small pillbox of a hat and white gloves, the other with sleek black hair tumbling below her shoulders. They both carried sweaters, sweaters which quite casually covered their right hands. He had no doubt that the driver was right, that the sweaters covered two competent guns.

  The redhead said, "The door is open now, the one at the curb side. Go into the house with them."

  He tried to salvage a shred of dignity as he climbed out. "Well, thanks for the ride."

  "It was a pleasure. I'll look for you while I'm cruising."

  "Yeah, you do that." He straightened out, standing on the sidewalk, and now, very naturally it seemed, both of the women were flanking him, both smiling eagerly, a pleasant little street tableau.

  "We're so glad you could come," the one with the hat said, the one on his right. The black-haired one on his left shoved her gun forward until it touched his body. He winced away from it, and automatically started towards the steps. The one with the hat took his arm, for all the world like an old friend, and began to chatter brightly as they moved up the steps. "It was such a trip too, all the way from across town, and it isn't as if it were the nicest day, did you see how the sun just clouded over? Margaret, it was a day just like this in Cleveland when Jenny came down with the flu..."

  He never liked anyone touching him. Physical contact always made him tense and uneasy, and the touch of this woman's arm set his teeth on edge. But the gun on his left overcame his objections effectively, and he climbed the steps quietly between the two. At the top he glanced down over his shoulder and saw the redhead leaning casually
against the cab, tall and slim in tight jeans and a blue sweater. She raised one hand in a mocking salute, then bent to her taxi.

  The woman on his left, Margaret? was bent over opening the door with a key, and he had a wild impulse to shove her aside, tear loose from the other's arm and run.

  Softly, as if reading his thoughts, no longer the eager gossiper, the woman with the hat said, "I wouldn't. We'd nail you before you could reach the street." The door was open now and Margaret was waiting silently, a half smile on her face. He looked at her eyes, grey from iris to pupil, then at the other with the same eyes in a totally different face, and with a little shiver he nodded and moved forward.

  But whatever they think they're getting away with, they're wrong, he told himself fiercely. I'll get out of this somehow, damn them both!

  The hall was dimly lit, and a narrow wooden staircase and bannister ran up the right side. The woman holding his arm let go and pushed him forward gently. "Upstairs."

  "Now just a minute." He turned towards them. "What the hell is going on? What right have you to push me around like this?"

  There were no smiles now, but both of them, almost casually, removed the sweaters and he stood there looking into two small but deadly guns. It was a horrifying moment. The sight of the two guns melted his aggression and he moved back, stumbling against the stairs. He was no hero! How he knew that in this moment.

  The one called Margaret said, "You will go upstairs with us and we'll wait for an hour. That's all. Then you'll be free to go, Mr. McNally, and please, no heroics."

  "Why do you want me here for an hour? Because of what I might tell Jack?"

  She shrugged. "We wont answer your questions. Please. Upstairs."

  He stood there for a moment longer, staring at the two guns, then he turned and started to climb the stairs, the two of them right behind him, single file.

  No, he was no hero. He hadn't the nerve to question the guns, to throw himself at the girls as they did in the movies and assert his virility and manhood with a few well-placed karate chops. He felt a fine beading of sweat on his forehead and he knew that whatever they wanted he would do, quite obediently.

  And that might have been the end of it, except that the building was old and the staircase very narrow, the carpeting threadbare and worn. Halfway up, with both the women lined up behind him, he caught his heel on the carpet and stumbled. He churned the air wildly with one hand, the other clutching for the bannister and heard one of the women cry out, "Careful, watch out!"

  The other one yelled, "Damn it, don't be so clumsy!"

  He could have recovered his balance, but that "clumsy" did it, igniting a flicker of defiance. The hell with it. Let the accident take its course!

  He deliberately missed the bannister, gave a wild shout and flung himself backwards down the staircase. He smashed into the woman directly behind him. She let out her breath in a startled gasp, struggled for balance, and then the two of them crashed down on the second woman. There was one horrifyingly loud shot as her gun went off, and then the three were tumbling down the staircase, one on top of the other.

  Clifford, by some miracle of balance, landed upright on top of the heap, and without even thinking, let the impetus of his fall carry him forward, half staggering, half running down the hall. He tore open the door and took the steps of the stoop two at a time, then pelted furiously towards the corner.

  Almost at the corner he heard shouting behind him, and he looked back to see the two of them racing down the steps, but their guns were out of sight. Then he was around the corner on a broad avenue. It was a short block to the next downtown cross street, and he loped towards it, the people in the street stopping to stare at him. If he could reach it before they saw him, he would duck down it and head west towards Riverside Drive. He could catch a cab there.

  He thought of that other cab ride, but surely they couldn't arrange something like that again! How many women could they have driving cabs?

  A woman turned the corner ahead of him, coming towards him quickly, not looking at him, and that alone was peculiar. Everyone else on the street was staring. He slowed to a walk and stopped as she came on. If he could only see her eyes. Then he looked back and cursed softly. The first two had turned the corner.

  He stood there for a moment, confused, and then realized that in a moment the three converging women would reach him. He could see the woman ahead clearly now and with a cold chill noticed her eyes, pale grey.

  She was beginning to run towards him, and suddenly he turned and took off across the avenue, cutting directly in front of a car and missing it by inches. He heard brakes squeal, a horn blow, and then he was across. But the block was still a trap. They were all three crossing now. He couldn't possibly reach a side street in time.

  There was an apartment building in the center of the block and he ran towards it, pulling open the outer door, and then, to his horror, found that the inner door was locked. Frantically he turned to the row of bells and began to punch them, all of them, hoping at least one would answer before the women reached the building.

  Looking out of the glass-panelled front door he could see them approaching the building. He rattled the inner door frantically, and then, just as they started up the steps, the buzzer sounded.

  He pulled the door open and ducked inside, into a wide lobby with an elevator at one end and a stairway at the other. The elevator was closed and he didn't dare wait. He ran to the stairway. Upstairs would trap him, but behind the steps a flight led down to the basement, and halfway down a door opened into a rear yard.

  He raced down the half flight, tore open the door and stumbled out into an alley filled with ashcans. The alley ran behind two houses that were back to back, and like the sides of an H, two side alleys led from the avenue he had just come from to the next street over. If he could duck back to that avenue while they were still inside—

  But when he reached the side alley, a dim tunnelled stretch, he realized that they had anticipated him. He heard the quick tap of high heels coming from the avenue. Without hesitation he turned in the other direction and raced forward, towards the next street over.

  Halfway down the alley there was a door into the second house. He tugged at it, and as it opened twisted inside. There had to be another entrance and they couldn't possibly head him off here. But then he couldn't understand the trick at the alley. How had they signalled to one another?

  As he groped through the darkness of a trunk room, it suddenly hit him. The telepathy Steve had explained to him, the parlor trick, only it wasn't a trick. They were all like that, of course, all able to communicate instantly with each other, around corners, out of sight ... it didn't matter. In effect, however many there were, they might just as well be monitoring the place with highly efficient walkie-talkies.

  But how many could there be? They couldn't have been this prepared, couldn't have known he'd escape the first time. Had the third woman, coming around the corner at just that moment, been coincidence, or had she been put there as a safeguard, or even signalled out of hiding?

  He pulled open another door to find himself in a vast deserted boiler room. Huge tanks threw off waves of heat and a tumbled mass of pipes twisted overhead in the half gloom of the ceiling.

  Somewhere there had to be a door, but probably not on ground level. He moved forward slowly, and then froze as he heard a door open across the room and footsteps tap against metal. Someone had come into the boiler room from the building and was climbing down a flight of metal steps. But how could they have possibly followed him this quickly? Were they omnipotent?

  The steps came towards him, not stealthy but assured and familiar. He moved around the boiler, wincing as he touched the hot metal. If they knew he was here, they had him trapped.

  He was halfway around the boiler when he heard the storeroom door he had come in by open. This was it. There were two of them now. He tensed himself, and then to his amazement heard a man's voice, puzzled and annoyed. "Now what you doing down here, miss?
"

  A woman, it sounded like Margaret, answered brightly and not at all startled. You would swear she had just wandered in by chance. "I was looking for a way up from the storage room. Isn't there another exit?"

  He was all the way around the boiler now, facing the exit the man had come in by, a flight of metal steps with a door ajar at the top. It must be the superintendent who had come this way and caught Margaret.

  He heard the man's voice again, slightly exasperated, but not quite so annoyed. The charm was working. "Now tenants ain't allowed down here. It's against the safety rules. You can't cross this way."

  He raced silently up the metal stairs, ducked through the half-open door, hearing the woman protesting gently behind him. So natural, so normal. It scared the hell out of him. Damn them, they were so cool and casual, always ready with an easy explanation and probably even while she explained signalling to another one to get around to the front of the building.

  He was in another hallway with a door opening from it, still in the basement, and halfway down he saw a glass-panelled door with a red exit light. He ran towards it, hurried through, then up another half flight and out into the building's lobby.

  The lobby was filled with women and children, school children, obviously. The laughter, the chattering, all hit him like a solid wall, and he hesitated, ready to turn back. Were any of these women—they?

  But these were normal women, surely, housewives, mothers. School must have just let out. He forced himself forward, pushing through the crowd. They were waiting for the elevators, he realized. Then he was through the wide front doors and out in the street, Broadway by the look of it. He felt his whole body covered with sweat and he drew in a deep breath of air. The West Side. Christ, he didn't know it at all. He couldn't remember the last time he had come over here.

  But he stood there for only a moment, trying to calm his racing heart, and then, a block away, he saw the kiosk of a subway station. If he could only get there, they couldn't possibly follow him through a crowded subway.