Flight to the Lonesome Place

by Alexander Key

  Entering, he found a seat at the crowded counter. He started to order a hamburger, but decided upon a full dinner instead. The dinner would give him more time. While he waited for it, he glanced up and saw his pale, thin face staring back at him from the mirror flanking the coffee urn. His heavy glasses gave him a goggle-eyed look like a scared chipmunk. A telltale wisp of blue under one ear caught his attention. He was hastily tucking it out of sight when he heard his name mentioned.

  Ronnie almost jumped from his seat, then he realized that the man on his right was talking about him to the waitress.

  “Think he’s really as smart as they say?” the man was asking her.

  “Of course he is! Didn’t you ever see him on TV?”

  “Yeah, but there must be a trick somewhere. No kid that young—he can’t be more than twelve—”

  “I’ve heard he’s fourteen,” said a man farther down the counter. “But he’s small for his age. The only tricky thing about him is that blue hair. I understand it’s really white.”

  “I don’t care what color his hair is,” the waitress put in. “He’s got every right to wear it purple if he wants to. Any boy smart enough to do the things he can do, and earn a million dollars a year—”

  “He earned twice that in his last movie,” interrupted the second man. “A friend of mine knows a girl who used to room with one of the Blue Boy’s secretaries. Did you know that it takes fifteen secretaries just to answer his fan mail?”

  “No!”

  “It’s a fact.”

  Ronnie was grateful when the waitress left to take an order, and the talk about him died. She returned presently, bringing his dinner, and said kindly, “You look kinda lost. Your folks away or something?”

  He nodded, unable to speak, and she said, “That’s all right. Just be glad you’ve got folks. Me, I didn’t have nobody but a good-for-nothing uncle.”

  At the moment he would have been willing to settle for any kind of relative, even if the kinship offered only temporary shelter. Still, he thought, the police could give him that.

  While he picked at his food he considered going to the police, then decided not to—except, of course, as a last resort. Going to them wouldn’t solve anything, and they couldn’t protect him indefinitely. As for friends …

  He didn’t know anyone in New Orleans, and of the hundreds of people he had met all over the world, there wasn’t a one he could really call a friend. The Corporation had seen to that. Of course, there were potential friends scattered about, and he would have been on his way to see one of them now had any lived close enough. But most of them lived abroad.

  Well, why not fly abroad, say, to London? His passport was in the zipper bag with his money, and there were at least three important acquaintances in the London area who certainly would help him.

  Then he realized it wouldn’t work. He was too young, too small. If he went to the airport and asked for a ticket to any distant place, he would attract instant attention. He would probably get the ticket, but not until he had shown his identification and proved he wasn’t some crazy kid trying to run away from home.

  No, he didn’t dare take such a chance. The people who wanted him dead—and he had a pretty good idea who they were—would be able to trace him without the least trouble.

  If only he were older, and bigger, he would have no real problem. He would be able to go anywhere in the country and just drop out of sight for a while. But tonight he couldn’t even get a room in a second-rate hotel without the risk of being discovered.

  What was he going to do?

  For the first time since he had become the Blue Boy, Ronnie wished he wasn’t so famous. It made hiding a thousand times more difficult.

  Suddenly he thought again of the tiny girl from Santo Domingo who had tried to warn him during the performance. What a strange time to warn anyone—unless she had known that trouble was already on the way. It seemed impossible. How could she, of all people, have known anything? As for that silly talk about spells and magic …

  All at once he stiffened, and slowly put down the fork he had been toying with. The solution to his problem was staring him squarely in the face. He swallowed as he saw the dangers in it, but it was the only chance he had, and he knew he’d better move fast. Another hour might be too late.

  But first he ought to make sure about what had happened.

  Ronnie left a generous tip for the waitress, paid his bill, and hurried out to find a telephone. First he called his hotel and asked the switchboard operator to ring Gus Woolman’s room.

  He waited, breathless, wondering if anyone would answer. He was a little shocked to hear Peter Pushkin’s voice in his ear.

  “Mr. Woolman is not here,” said Peter. “But I am one of his associates. May I take the message?”

  Ronnie swallowed. “Peter,” he began, “where’s Gus? Have you any idea?”

  “Ronnie!” the tutor exclaimed. “For heaven’s sake, where are you?”

  “Never mind where I am. What about Gus?”

  “Gus is dead! He was shot in a phone booth trying to make a call. The police are here checking on things.”

  Ronnie swallowed again. It was what he had expected, but it was still hard to take. “He—he was trying to warn me, Peter. I—I managed to get away, just in time.”

  “Good Lord!” Then, sharply, “Ronnie, where are you?”

  “Don’t ask me, because I’m not telling anyone.”

  “But you must! Don’t you understand? It’s obvious that you know something you shouldn’t. That’s dangerous information. No one as well known as you would have a ghost of a chance alone. You’ve got to have protection! Hurry—where are you?”

  Ronnie hesitated. Then, thinking of Peter’s cold eyes, he said slowly, “I needed protection when Gus called me. Where were you and the others then?”

  He hung up without waiting for an answer, and stood frowning at the telephone book, wondering where to place his next call. How do you locate one particular ship in a port as big as New Orleans? Finally he dialed the Coast Guard.

  When the man on duty answered, he made his voice as low as possible, and said, “I’m trying to find a ship called the Cristobal Colón.”

  “The Cris—what?”

  He spelled it slowly, and added, “I think she’s a freighter. She’s being loaded now, and will sail in a few hours. Where can I find her?”

  “The Captain of the Port could tell you, but that office is probably closed now. Hold it a minute, mister.” There was a murmured consultation, then,” My buddy here knows about her. She’s on a regular run down to the islands. She always loads at the Perry Street wharf.”

  “Where is that?”

  “On the Algiers side of the river, just above the bridge. If you cross the bridge instead of taking a ferry, look down on the right while you’re crossing, and you’ll see her.”

  Ronnie thanked him, hung up, and stood chewing his lip a moment while he planned his next move. The location of the ship made everything more difficult. It meant a long cab ride that would surely be remembered by the driver.

  Suddenly he closed his eyes and visualized a map of New Orleans he had studied with much interest when he first came to the city. He had not tried to memorize it, but now a section of it came vividly to his mind and he had no trouble picking out the intersection he wanted.

  A few minutes later, in a cab, he said, “Take me over the bridge to Algiers, and let me off at the corner of Burmaster and Monroe.”

  Presently, when they were racing over the great high bridge, he looked down and saw the ship outlined in a blaze of lights at the wharf. But all the approaches to the area, for some distance around it, were dark. The fact troubled him until the cab, after leaving the bridge, finally slowed, and the driver asked him for directions.

  “Don’t know this section too well,” the man admitted. “Seems like I missed your corner somehow.”

  “That’s all right,” Ronnie hastened to say. “The house is just a little way through
the alley yonder. I’ll get out here.”

  “Better let me drive you around, son. You shouldn’t go in them places at night.”

  “Oh, please don’t bother! I—I don’t want the folks to know I came home by cab. You understand—I’d have to explain so much.”

  He was already getting out as he spoke. Now he hurriedly paid the driver and trotted into the alley with a display of assurance he in no way felt. Reaching a shed, he slipped behind it and crouched in the darkness until the cab was out of sight, then came out and began running like a frightened shadow in the opposite direction.

  On his right the bridge made a huge, glittering arc across the sky. Directly ahead was the dark area he had noticed earlier. He thought the street would continue on through it, but it came to an abrupt end and he found himself stumbling along a path winding treacherously over broken ground between piles of rubble.

  This obviously was not the right way to the wharf. But to find the main approach in the dark might cost him time he couldn’t afford to lose. Besides, he could see the glow of lights from his destination some hundreds of yards straight in front of him.

  Ronnie paused just long enough to take a small flashlight from his bag. With its help he hastened onward, running whenever he could. Presently he crossed railroad tracks, and suddenly found his way barred by a string of freight cars. He scrambled under the first car, and saw he was close to the long loading platform at the rear of the wharf’s warehouse. It was the scene of loud and vast activity. On the other side of it the Cristobal Colón was still being loaded.

  He slipped his flashlight into his jacket pocket, watched his chance, and managed to climb upon the platform without anyone’s seeming to notice him. His first thought was to dart through the nearest huge doorway, and try to slip unseen around the piles of freight to the dock. Then he realized he would attract far less attention if he ignored everyone, and headed boldly for the ship as if he had a perfect right to go aboard.

  The warehouse appeared to be acres in extent. He had never been in one before, and every few paces he was forced to leap away from one of the numerous little darting machines trundling freight to the shouting gangs outside. The noise and confusion grew as he neared the dock, and there it became bedlam. With the ship looming before him he stopped, momentarily bewildered by the racket and the swirling activity around him.

  There was a yell, and a gloved hand jerked him away from a dipping cargo sling that could have brained him. A man who might have been a foreman said, “Watch it, boy! What are you doing here anyway? Are you one of the passengers?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Ronnie gulped.

  “Then get aboard before you get killed.” The man raised his arm and shouted above the din, “Hold it, Mike! Let this kid up the accommodation ladder.”

  Ronnie swallowed and darted across the dock. Hesitantly he started up the long, iron steps suspended from the vessel’s superstructure. He swallowed again when he saw the burly figure in a white jacket waiting at the head of the ladder watching him curiously. If only he had been a little more careful, and waited for the right moment, he could have gone up the ladder unnoticed. But once on deck …

  He fought down his sudden terror as he reached the top of the ladder, nodded to the jacketed man, and managed his best smile.

  The man surprised him by smiling back and saying pleasantly, “Welcome aboard, son! I’m the chief steward. Getting here a little late, aren’t you?”

  “I—I had an errand to run,” Ronnie found himself saying. “Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Maybe they told Josip. He’s the cabin steward. Have you met him yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, Josip’s new. Our regular man’s in the hospital. But Josip will take care of you. If you want anything, just ask him.”

  “Yes, sir. Are—are there many passengers this trip?”

  The burly man shook his head. “Too early in the season. You folks will probably have your side of the boat deck all to yourselves.”

  “Boat deck? Is that the one the staterooms are on?”

  “Right. It’s just above this one.”

  Ronnie thanked him, turned, and saw the companionway leading upward. He climbed thoughtfully to the next deck. He had no plan except to hide until the vessel was well out to sea. After that it didn’t matter too much, so long as he could keep his identity a secret. The possibility that the ship might have a few empty staterooms hadn’t occurred to him, but if he could find one without being discovered …

  There were several people standing at the rail of the boat deck, watching the loading. He slipped past them and darted through a doorway on his left. A short passageway opened upon a longer one lined with doors. He paused, uncertain. Suddenly, hearing voices coming from the curve on his left, he darted to the right and prayerfully tried the first door. It miraculously opened, and he slipped quickly into the stuffy darkness beyond.

  When his pounding heart had begun to beat normally again, he drew a deep breath, pulled off his jacket, and wiped his hot face with a handkerchief. Finally he reached for his flashlight.

  The beam showed a small stateroom with a narrow bunk on either side. The place had several lockers, a shower and toilet compartment at one end, and a washbowl in a corner.

  Then shock went through him as the beam fell upon a small traveling bag at the foot of one bunk.

  Ronnie whirled to the door. Before he could reach it and leave, it was thrust open in his face. There was the click of a switch, and the place was flooded with light.

  He found himself staring into the startled eyes of the tiny girl who had spoken to him at the Regency.

  “Oh!” she gasped. “Oh! This is my stateroom. The captain said I could have it all to myself. What are you doing in it?”

  “I—I’m sorry,” he faltered. “I didn’t know it was taken.”

  “But what are you doing here? Are you hiding from something?”

  The question rattled him. As he struggled for words, her face suddenly changed expression. Her little mouth tightened, and her dark eyes rounded and became immense, hard marbles that seemed to have a force all their own. He was so surprised that he stepped backward, away from her. But he did not move fast enough to avoid her darting hand. Her fingers closed over his heavy glasses and snatched them off.

  “Oh!” she whispered. “I thought so!”

  He glared at her.

  “And your blue hair,” she said. “It was only a wig?”

  He shook his head and slumped down on one of the bunks. “I’m wearing a wig now to keep it hidden. And since you’re so curious, I’m running away. I—I just ducked in here to stay out of sight.” Then he added bitterly, “Now that you know about me, I suppose you’ll tell everybody I’m aboard.”

  “Certainly not, you silly thing.” She turned swiftly to the door and locked it securely. Coming back, she gave him his glasses, then settled herself cross-legged on the opposite bunk. She studied him like a little owl for a moment, and said, “Something perfectly awful must have happened to make you run away.”

  “It sure did,” he muttered. “How did you recognize me just now?”

  “By your voice—and the trouble sign hanging over you.”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you know what the trouble sign is?”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “Oh, dear.” She gave a sad little shake of her head. “And I thought you were so smart. If you don’t know what the trouble sign is, it would be hard for anyone to explain it to you. It—it’s something you feel. When I first saw you tonight at the Regency, it was so strong that it made me scared all over. That’s why I had to warn you immediately.” She paused a moment, and asked, “When trouble came, why did you hide on the Cristobal Colón?”

  “Because I remembered what you said about it, and I knew I had to get out of the country immediately. It’s my only chance.”

  “But haven’t you any friends?”

  “No.”


  She stared at him in astonishment. “Not even one?”

  “No. I’ve never had a real friend.”

  She shook her head again. “How awfully lonely you must be! There was a time, a short time, when I didn’t have a friend either. Oh, it was terrible. Then I found two. ¡Gracias a Dios! Now I’m not quite so afraid.”

  “But why should you be afraid at all? Haven’t you got relatives?”

  “Relatives!” Her face twisted as if she had bitten into a lemon. “I’d rather—”

  They were interrupted by a sudden rattling of the doorknob, followed by an angry knocking on the door itself. A woman called indistinctly, “Ana María Rosalita? ¿Me oye usted?”

  The small girl slipped quickly to the door, but did not open it. “Yes, I hear you,” she replied in Spanish. “Please, Señora, why do you not leave me alone? I am not going back to the other stateroom. It is too warm, and the captain said I could have this one all to myself.”

  There was a sharp exchange between the two. “Little monster!” the woman cried finally. “I will settle with you later!”

  Ana María Rosalita stood a moment with her tiny hands clenched, but whether in fury or fright he could not tell. Finally she came back and again sat cross-legged on the bunk. Her pointed chin quivered.

  “You see?” she said plaintively. “That is how it is. I am told to call her tía—aunt—but the Señora Bretón is not really my aunt at all. She is Bernardo’s aunt, and she will do anything he says. If he told her to drown me like a kitten, I am sure she would do it, and love it.”

  “Who is Bernardo?”

  She sniffed. “My very old half brother. He runs everything. He sent the Señora up to this country to take me out of school. I think they plan to send me back to Santo Domingo. Nothing has been said, but I know. I have the trouble sign.”

  “Really? It hangs over you too?”

  “Yes,” she said gravely. “It hangs over me, just as it does over you. Can you not see it?”

  Ronnie shook his head, hardly knowing what to make of her. Then he became aware that the racket outside had stopped.