What were you running for? What? No. Not that again. Not this self-questioning. This not knowing. No, you remembered. They were following you. But it was so confused. Were you going crazy?
Graham forced the thought out of his mind. He dragged himself up the little iron ladder at the end of the platform, and hurried over to the turnstiles. Clank, clink. He was out.
Now he remembered! He'd paid the subway a nickel for the privilege of running eight blocks. Bad investment.
He hurried up the steps. Dark. Nothing doing. Nobody in sight. Left now. Left. Crosstown to the park. O.K. But he had to cut down one block--so he was out of direct view of the subway exit. He walked, now, swiftly. 58th. He turned the corner, and kept on walking. Rapidly. Dragging at his nerves to keep going.
The clearer air of outdoors seemed almost breathable after the subterranean horror.
He looked back. The street behind him was empty. Still he kept on; but more slowly, now. There was no hurry. At Fifth Avenue he turned right, stopped, leaned against a glittering store-front.
He was free of them. Safe.
Still, he would feel safer among people.
Fifth Avenue was empty--a mid-week emptiness. Another subway? Maybe. But only as a last resort. You were afraid of subways. Afraid of the dark tunnels, the endless stretches of blackness underground, the steamy, dense air.
He thrust his head around the corner of the store building, looking down 58th toward the direction from which he had come. Still no one.
What about the park? You could sleep in the park, lying on the cool grass, concealing yourself in the bushes; and with freedom of escape if someone came across you. Not that there was any danger of that. You were free of them. Two men looking for one man in the whole of Manhattan Island ... Needle in the haystack business.
He walked up Fifth Avenue, feeling the faint beginning of a breeze. Nothing much. But still a breeze.
He dragged out the tails of his shirt, airing their dampness. Now, for the first time in all the long evening, he remembered his cigarettes--the pack he had bought while Clancy was making his phone call.
He pulled them out of his shirt pocket. The cellophane wrapping was puffed and misshapen with body-moisture. He split it expertly, and tore open one half of the top--carefully violating the law which says: "...nor to remove the contents of this package without destroying said stamp, under the penalties provided by law in such cases."
There was a certain delicate savor in this lack of haste. His whole, exhausted body clamored for the cigarette. His pounding skull demanded nicotine. His trembling fingers ached for the thin white roll between them. And his mouth felt a horrible emptiness. But each second of delay seemed to multiply the pleasure of the first puff.
Carefully he extracted a cylinder from the pack, tapping it on his nail to harden the mouth end. Deliberately, he did it, as he walked. He was almost at 59th, now. Better light the cigarette before he crossed the street.
He stepped out from the shelter of the buildings facing the park. Carefully he drew his matches from his breast pocket, placed the prepared end of the cigarette in his mouth. Still walking he struck the match and--the pack, matches and loose cigarette dropped from his hand as he collided with two pedestrians walking across 59th.
"Sorry," he began, automatically, turning to face them. Then: "No," he said. And, more sharply, "No!"
He turned desperately away, then back. It was no good.
They were the same.
The pursuers ... The tall man, and the one with the flattened nose.
Chapter VIII
THE OFFICER AND THE GENTLEMAN
"No!" Graham said, again, almost shouting. His mouth, his whole body seemed to have betrayed him. He had left them in the subway. He had lost them. And now, again. His own fault--he accused himself. Should have gone downtown. Naturally they'd come this way. What could you expect? That they'd turn around and go downtown without even a look around?
But there was nothing threatening about them. They were standing there, silent.
The tall one said: "Our fault. Shoulda been lookin' where we was goin'." The courtesy amazed Graham. A second--no, minutes, hours--ago the tall man had been running after him through a subway with a drawn gun. He didn't understand.
A heavy voice behind Graham said: "What's goin' on here?"
The tall one said. "This guy stumbled and fell." There was something apologetic in his voice. Graham turned. A huge policeman towered over him.
"What's the trouble, young fella? Had a little too much?" The first friendly voice since Clancy's. Graham thought fast.
"No, Officer," he said. "I'm not feeling very well. The heat... Would you help me get a cab?" The ninety-five cents in his pocket would take him to some crowded section--Times Square, or somewhere--and he could rest in the cab. That was it. At least he could sit down for a few minutes. And there was always a crowd at Times Square. Always. Night and day. He glanced at his watch: quarter of three. Oh, God!
You had six and a quarter hours to go. Then you could go to the office. Yeah. That was the last haven. And you couldn't get in until nine.
The cop was signaling a cab, now. It swooped in a U-turn on Fifth Avenue and pulled up at the curb. He noticed, then, that there was a peculiarity about the pursuers. Some common denominator between themselves and the policeman. Funny. But he couldn't figure it out. It didn't mean anything, anyway. He thrust it out of his mind.
"This guy ain't feelin' so good," the policeman told the hack driver. "Fell down just now."
Graham got into the cab. "Forty-second and Broadway," he said.
The policeman leaned against the open door. "I'd go along with you myself," he explained. Friendly. Graham's heart leaped. "... but I can't leave my post."
Then: "Look, Officer," the tall pursuer said, suddenly, "We feel sort of responsible after the way we bumped into him. We'll ride down with him."
"Yeah, sure," Flat-nose said. "Our fault. We'll even pay for the taxi."
Graham started to protest, but the policeman silenced him. "Let 'em," he said. "Make 'em pay. Waddya care?"
The two of them followed Graham into the cab. Graham forced himself tightly into the right corner of the seat, unwilling, even accidentally, to brush against them. In the same cab. Oh. God!
The taxi jerked, sharply, into motion, turned right on 59th, heading toward Broadway.
"Hot, ain't it Mike," flat-nose said, Mike admitted it was.
Graham looked at the driver. He was paying no attention. Graham twisted in the seat to face them. To Mike he said, in a near whisper: "What's this all about, following me around like this?"
"Hey, Hadley," Mike said, heavy sarcasm in his voice, "this guy thinks we're follyin' him."
Hadley stared, hard, at Graham: 'Now, sonny-boy. We ain't follyin' ya. We're just makin' sure you don't get hurt or lost or nothin'. Understand?" Graham understood.
His brain raced feverishly: Had to figure it all out now, while you were sitting here. Now that you could sit and think for a few minutes. No sense trying to get rid of them. They couldn't touch you while you were around other people. Didn't dare. Knew you'd let out one helluva yell that would ...
He broke off suddenly. Hadley. He's been trying to cover something up. Something on his belt. A spot at which Graham had been staring, unseeing. What was it? He had to call the image up again in his mind. Something about the buckle. White. Shiny. Silver. Yes. That, and what else? It was embossed. Embossed! That was it! The common denominator between the two and the cop ... Yeah. A policeman's belt! Uniform belt! Mike and Hadley were cops.
But how did that change things? How? Only that they had to be more careful. That was it. Had to watch their step, too. Sure. They were all cops. The lieutenant from 42 Barker. Hadley and Mike here. Who else?
Nobody. Wasn't anybody else. But there must be. What about Lois? What did Lois--no. Let's not get off on that track again.
What were you going to do? That was the question. [To be or not to be--no time for si
lly romantics. Plan! Plan!]
First: You had to get money. You couldn't get along for the rest of your life on ninety-five cents. You could get some money tomorrow from your boss. But that wasn't enough. You had to get help--somebody like a lawyer--or a private detective. Yeah. That was right. Private detectives were the people to handle this kind of stuff. They'd know how to go about looking for Lois. They'd even know how to handle these imitation cops. But: How much money did it take for a private detective? Say, one hundred dollars. All right. You could raise that. You hoped ... Anyway--you could get some dough tomorrow morning ... Tomorrow? This morning ... It was [he glanced at his watch] almost three.
O.K. Just to be on the safe side, you'd wire your dad. Old boy generally came through when you needed it. Wire collect. "Please send one hundred dollars by Western Union." [The Western Union part went for free.]
That took care of that. Half the load lifted from your mind. Lightly. You were able to shove all the work and worry, mentally, at least, off on somebody else. A private detective.
O.K. You'd spend the rest of the night--how much was there left? Six hours?--prowling around Times Square. Let these guys follow you if they wanted to--much good it would do them. You'd go sit in an all-night cafeteria. Bickford's, or one of those places. Or, say, the Greek's over on Eighth Avenue. Some place with a telephone, where you could keep calling people's houses ... Sure. Fine.
Your mind was beginning to clear now. Turn everything over to a private detective in the morning.
Nothing they could do to you now. You still didn't know what it was all about, but you partly understood the position of the enemy: They were following you--mistakenly or otherwise--because there was something or other they thought you had, knew or could do that was important to them. But you knew they didn't dare kill you--not in public. They'd be too easy to identify for anybody that saw them. And if they didn't dare kill you, then they couldn't stick a gun in your ribs and make you go with them, because if you refused they'd have to shoot and they didn't dare.
Graham began to get a nice comfortable feeling. Fine. Let them follow him. He didn't care. As long as he stayed good and public they couldn't touch him. And he'd see to it that everything was public.
Graham felt fine. Tired. Sick. His head ached horribly. But an immense weight had fallen from him.
Come to think of it ... even the telegram could be taken care of by telephone.
Sing ho for Bickfords... .
"Hey! Wake up! You can't sleep in here!"
Graham exploded awake.
"Come on," the waiter said. "Wake up."
Graham lifted his head from the table. His body ached. His shirt and trousers were soggy with half-evaporated perspiration; his head itched on the outside and ached sullenly within ... and there was no meaning in it.
In front of him, on the marble tabletop, sat a row of coffee cups--each with its dregs of black coffee. He thought: Four little coffee cups sittin' in a row--three said yes and the other ... Where the hell was he?
He looked around him: to the left a mirror, from which he received a discouraging report. His eyes were heavy lidded and smarting, his beard black and prickly, his hair erect and himself, in summary, a mess.
He struggled to remember. Time stretched backward in hazy millenniums. He looked down, at his wrist: seven-fifteen. Morning or night? He faced about and stared at the hot sunlight dripping down on 42nd Street. Morning.
Then it came streaming back--a sullen flood. Subways, Mike and Hadley, Bickford's, the steady round of telephone calls that went nowhere and cost nothing, the telegram to his father: DAD, WIRE ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS TO ME CARE OF JOHNATHAN HERKIMER AND SON, WALL STREET, EMERGENCY. LARRY.
Yeah. It was all clear, now. But where were Mike and Hadley, the unlovely part-time policemen? He remembered they had been sitting two tables away. He looked for them. Two other men occupied the same seats. They were staring at him. But that didn't prove anything. Not the way he looked.
He got up and started toward the wash-room. The men followed him with their eyes. Graham thought: morning shift has come on. The other probably had to go to work.
He plodded into the men's room, flooded the washbowl with water from the cold tap and ducked his head, energetically, three times. He dried himself with double thicknesses of paper towel in open defiance of the "Please Use Less ..." sign over the dispenser.
Graham felt better. A little groggy. But more human. He combed his hair with his fingers--straight back, tucked his pulled out shirt in around the bottom, lit a cigarette and stepped out of the small room. The waiter was coming toward him, gesticulating excitedly.
"Your check," the waiter said, thrusting the lacerated cardboard into his hands.
Graham said thanks. The day-men were staring at him. He stared back, wondering if they worked union hours.
The one on the right was a sleek specimen. If he was a cop, he was probably the station Beau Brummel: neat blue shirt, dark tie, expertly tailored coat--AND vest, even in this weather; polished tan shoes, carefully parted hair, light felt hat on the table in front of him, handkerchief pointed up in the breast pocket ... very pretty. The other was large, bony and sloppy. Graham named him Sloppy Joe until something better turned up.
He ordered a cup of coffee at the counter and allowed the man to abuse the lacy ticket still further. Only twenty-five cents punched so far. O.K. He'd have cake, too. He checked in his pockets. Still ninety-five cents. A nickel to go cross-town and a nickel to go to work. That left eighty-five. Fine. Fine. He could even afford a shave.
He felt sick in his stomach, but a brazen giddiness asserted itself in his head, the exhilaration of exhaustion. He ate his cake and drank his coffee, staring straight at the two men. They looked uncomfortable.
He got up, walked over to the table at which they sat, and said: "And now, gentlemen, if you are ready ...? Shall we be going?"
They hated him with their eyes as he walked away, flinging thirty-five cents on the cashier's counter. But they were following as he stepped out onto the street.
He walked rapidly to the corner, caught an "X" cross-town car for the East Side, and watched their struggles to obtain a taxi in the morning rush with a certain bitter amusement.
The trolley rumbled forward morosely.
His whole body ached, and it was still hot.
At Third Avenue he got off. He wanted to get to the house with or before the postman. There might be mail, and he wouldn't put it past Jensen to swipe it.
The street was bright--white-hot, already--in the morning sun. But it was alive. There were people. On their way to work. An improvement. And by day the El-structure bore no hidden menace; no dark threat.
He waited for the mailman. A taxi pulled up across the street and Beau Brummel and Sloppy Joe got out. They leaned against the front of the Greek restaurant and watched him owlishly.
Graham thought: Morning Scene in Mid-Manhattan. After a while Jensen emerged from the house carrying a broom. He swept the steps with careful strokes and then moved down and began raising a dust on the pavement.
Graham thought: That's new. Never did that before. Not this early, anyway. He looked at his watch. Eight, on the nose. Postman due any second, now.
His route was down Third Avenue, then left into 39th. Graham faced around and looked up the avenue. Yeah. Fine. It was the regular man. He had been afraid, for one brief instant, that a relief man might be on the route today.
Graham walked toward the mailman slowly, keeping it casual and natural.
He said: "Hi yah. Got anything for me today?"
The postman looked up at him under the weight of his bag. "Dunno," he said. "Wait a second." He fingered through the bundle in his hand. "Graham?"
Larry nodded.
"Nothing much. Just a postcard." He handed it over. "Looks like an ad to me--kinda filthy, ain't it?"
Graham concealed his disappointment nobly. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks." He left the postman and walked slowly up the avenue. Funny ad, he thou
ght.
On one side it was addressed in a neat, feminine hand. "Mr. Larry Graham... ." He turned it over. On the rear was: "Dear Larry:" then, in a huge scrawl: "The Lantern." Funny ad. He didn't understand it at all.
The handwriting didn't mean anything. Wouldn't anyway. Never could tell one person's handwriting from another's. Not even Lois'. As a matter of fact, you'd never seen Lois's handwriting. Never had anything written from her.
Awful dirty, though. There was a heel mark right across the face of it, and, in the upper corner of the address was written: "Please mail this." Beside that was something sticky--looked like chewing gum.
Funny. Anyway, it wasn't what he'd expected. There was no word from Lois.
He looked back. The men were following him, closer, as though, suddenly, it had become more important that they get him.
More important? More important? Supposing that card were from Lois. Supposing that scrawled "The Lantern" was intended to tell him something. Maybe they had wanted to prevent his getting the card ... But that was ridiculous. He folded it in half and shoved it in his pocket. Still ... no sense in throwing it away.
He looked back. They were coming closer. There was dark purpose written on their faces, now. He walked faster. Still they came on. Almost running. The two of them.
Almost, but not quite, the old fright caught him in its grip. But--no. It was daylight now. They wouldn't dare do anything to him on the open street. They wouldn't dare.
He broke into a trot--forgetting he had intended getting a shave at Rick's barbershop. He looked back. They were frankly running for him now.
He ran. Headlong. Had to get in somewhere--somewhere there was a crowd. Safe in a crowd. Really safe. Maybe they didn't know what the card said. Maybe that was why they were after him...
He narrowly avoided a truck at 41st as he dashed, diagonally, across Third Avenue. Had to get into a crowd--dense crowd. At 42nd he raced across the street, disregarding the clanging trolleys and the excited honking of cars.
He plunged into the subway entrance of the Chrysler Building, pounding through the arcade, and smashing at the revolving door.
Madman on a Drum Page 6