Edge of Panic

by Henry, Kane,

  “Not you,” she said, fingers at her mouth pushing back lip, exposing teeth. “Not you.”

  “Me,” he said.

  He took the money out of the safe, put it into his jacket, closed the safe. “You’ll call the Polgars. Tell them it’s postponed for tomorrow.”

  She didn’t answer, standing over him, her mouth twisted around her hand.

  “I’m not stealing, hon. I’m taking this cash. We’ve got it to cover in the bank. Tomorrow, you’ll draw the same ten from our account, and turn it over to her. This money, now, I’m using.” He stood up, went to her.

  “Harry, you’re crazy.”

  “I honestly think I am.”

  “No. I don’t mean it that way. I mean, it’s wrong. You’re imagining. I know you, Harry. You didn’t kill anybody. Coffee, Harry. Sleep. Sleep it off. It’ll be different later. Please, Harry.”

  He held her. “I’m sorry, baby. Believe me, I’m sorry as hell.”

  “You didn’t kill anybody, Harry.”

  “No,” he said. “No, I didn’t. No, I didn’t. Don’t look like that.”

  “It’s tangled somewhere, Harry. You didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Sure, baby. It’s tangled. I’m drunk. I’ll sleep it off. It’ll get untangled. I’ll be in touch with you.”

  “Harry.”

  He broke away, buttoned his coat. “I’m so damned awfully sorry. Things were breaking good.”

  She reached for his hand. He pulled away. When he got to the door, he took out his car keys and gave them to her. “I’ll be in touch with you. I’ll tell you everything. Stay with me, baby.” He took her face in his hands, kissed her mouth. “Not now. Not now. I’ll be in touch with you through—Johnny—Johnny Applegate.” He kissed her again, opened the door.

  “Harry.”

  “Take care of the kid.”

  “Harry.”

  He heard it in his ears as he ran. Harry. He saw her standing in their doorway, her face white, her eyes uncomprehending, her nose strange, nostrils green-white-ridged. Harry… I’m a maniac, that’s what. I’m out of my mind, that’s what. I killed a woman because I hated what she was doing to me, because I love you and I love my kid. Fine, isn’t it? Wonderful, isn’t it? I killed a woman because I love my family. No, no, no, no. I didn’t. I didn’t.

  Wind rushed against his hair. No hat. He walked toward the lighted thoroughfare, sought a haberdashery, bought a hat, pulled it down over his eyes, smiled, paid, went out. He found a saloon and had a drink. He waved to a cab.

  “Downtown.”

  “Where?”

  “Downtown.”

  “How far?”

  “Just go, buddy, will you? Throw your flag down and go.”

  “Highway, mister?”

  “Yes.”

  No boats. Dark river. Boats. Boats. That’s it. The big travel agency down there by Grand Central, open till late, bright-lit, crowded, pictures on its walls. Down there by Grand Central. That’s it. Pictures on the walls. Boats, Blue sea and boats and sunshine and mountains with snow on top. People swimming in the ocean, people in ski caps, people on hotel verandas, sport clothes, sunburn, smiling faces.

  “Move it, buddy. Let’s move it, huh?”

  “You start pressing on that exhilarator, mister, you’re looking for trouble.”

  “You’re crawling.”

  “We ain’t doing bad.”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I’m a married man, mister. I drive my cab careful. You want I should pull over, get you another boy?”

  “You’ll do. It’s just that I’m in a hurry.”

  “I’ll get you there, mister. In one piece. Anyplace special?”

  “Forty-Second Street. East. By Lexington.”

  “Right.”

  He sat back and closed his eyes. Riding down in a taxicab. Riding down, bumping in a cab, down, out, away, finished. This is it. Out. Away. Where? Where? Where? And how soon? How soon? How soon would they be looking for him? He’d left his hat there, and his briefcase. They’d be after him, no question. But when? Depends. Lucky, it wouldn’t be until tomorrow. Get a boat tonight. Nobody’d know the difference. Nobody’d know where. Didn’t figure until tomorrow. Maids clean in the daytime. Who would come in there? Nobody. Even if she had a date. She wasn’t in, that’s all. She wasn’t in. Tomorrow, yes. Maids clean in the daytime. Tomorrow, the maid would let herself in—but he’d be out, away. Nobody’d know the difference. Tomorrow, on a boat, I’ll think about it. About right and wrong. About what I did, and why. Now—now I’m running. I hope there’s a boat tonight; I have enough money on me to bribe anybody. If not, well, we’ll see. Use a different name, of course. And if there’s no boat tonight, there’ll be one for the morning, that’s sure. Don’t think about it. No face. Don’t think about it. Why? Why? Need a drink, need a drink bad. Bad, bad, bad. Boom, boom, boom. Rhumba. Oh, my God. The cab turned off at Fifty-Seventh.

  “Would you roll your window up, Mac?” the cabbie said. “It’s beginning to drizzle. Coming in on my neck.”

  “Sure.”

  The cab turned on alternate blocks, working its way east. At Lexington and Forty-Seventh, it held for a light.

  “This’ll do,” Harry said. “This’ll do, fine.”

  He paid and got out. Lots of bars on Lexington. Lexington was merry with bars.

  “Scotch,” Harry said to a bartender. “With water.”

  “Scotch,” Harry said to another bartender. “Double. Water.”

  He walked down Lexington, in the drizzle, to Forty-Second, turned right on Forty-Second, the drizzle fine, like a veil wisping cool against his face. He saw the lights of the travel agency, hastening. It was bright with enormous ceiling bulbs, white, crowded: people out of the rain cutting through for the subway, people from the trains out of Grand Central, people going to the trains in Grand Central, people milling out of the rain, people in a hurry, New York people, the tail end of the rush hour merging with the early beginnings of show time. Everybody was busy. There were many windows. It was a big clean white room, posters blazing on the walls, brass bars at the windows, big like a depot, immense, confusing, and there, suddenly, at the far end, near one of the exits, he saw her.

  He saw her.

  For one screaming instant he remembered the blood-nauseous room, the red mass of her face, the sick-white bones of her forehead, the cold flesh of her body—his hand, the red ugly foreign hand. There! He ran, pushing through people. There, by that window. There, turning away, in the blue coat, her head wrapped in a blue silk kerchief knotted under her chin. When he got there, she was gone. He flashed a look at the window: Adjustments. He kept running. Blue coat. Outside, he saw her, caught up to her, pulled her arm.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  There, in the blue coat, there, there, there—

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  There, again, another blue coat. There, again, no kerchief. There, with the kerchief, the coat is green.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  He was crying, tears stinging bitter. He went back to the travel agency. He found the window: Adjustments. Three people were on the line. He waited behind them. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, pushed back his hat.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A lady—blue coat—she wore a blue kerchief over her head.”

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “About two minutes ago. There was a lady here. Do you remember? Please. A lady here at this window—there was a lady—?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Lady. I’m looking for that lady. Here, at this window. Please. She was right here.”

  “Don’t you feel well, sir?”

  “Please. Please. Do you remember a lady? She was just here. Two minutes, three minutes. Please try.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I’m very busy here. I hardly see the people. Is there something I can
do for you?”

  “A lady. No. No, thank you—”

  Somebody was pushing him from behind. He slid out, heard the banter about him, heard the polite “Yes, sir,” to the next customer, went slowly into the rain, tugging at his hat, fighting at terror, his legs heavy, knowing—that he wasn’t well—knowing and caring and trying to fix it in his mind, no longer running, no longer seeking refuge, frightened, tired, sodden, wanting help—help, help.

  He walked, collar up, hat down, pushing his feet out slowly in front of him, like a man without sight on stony ground, thankful for the damp coolness of the drizzle on his face, out of the crowds on Forty-Second Street, left on Madison, sleepwalking, the tears coming and ending and coming again, trying to arrange the facts in his mind, trying to accustom himself to knowing he was insane, walking now in the dimness out of the crowd, on the rain-wet quiet street, a tall stooped man alone, and suddenly he knew where he was going, and he hurried, queerly smiling. Johnny lived at Twenty-Eighth and Madison. He walked all the way.

  He found the button in the neat vestibule of the small brownstone and pushed and waited. The click came and he walked up one flight and Johnny was there in the doorway and he was happy and safe seeing Johnny, seeing the warmth of the man’s room behind him.

  “Well,” Johnny said. “What a nice surprise, what a—Harry! You’re wet, man, you’re wet all through. Come on in, man, come in.”

  “Johnny. Johnny.”

  “Come in, for cripes’ sake, come on in.”

  “Johnny, there’s things—I want to talk to you—there’s things, Johnny, I want to talk to you—”

  Johnny helped him off with his coat, not knowing, at first, that the peeling crusts on his clothes were the stains of blood.

  Two

  THE HIDDEN AND THE HUNTER

  WHEN THE PHONE RANG, she was in a corner of the sofa with a magazine in her lap. For half an hour the magazine had been open to the same page; before that it had been a book; before that the same magazine. In between, there had been constant trips to the boy’s room, patting him, fixing the cover, touching his hair. There had been sips at a half glass of vermouth, empty now on an end table beside the sofa. The boy needed no looking after. He slept quietly, soundly, always covered. She drank vermouth, occasionally, as an aperitif before a meal. There had been no meal. When the phone rang, she rubbed her cold hands together. When it rang again, she lunged, the magazine falling to the floor, running. “Hello?”

  “Alice?”

  “Yes.”

  “John. John Applegate.”

  “Yes?”

  “Harry’s here.”

  “Oh. Thank God. Where—”

  “He’s sleeping. Hello. Alice, are you—there?” The stutter was more hesitancy, a space between words. Those who knew him waited. “Alice.”

  “Yes, John, yes.”

  “He’s asleep. He came here quite—”

  “I know, John. Did he say anything? Did he tell you—?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “John, what do you think—?”

  “He wanted me to call you. He wanted me to find out whether you had attended to—something. A woman. Polgar.”

  “I did, John, yes, that’s all right. John, about Harry, did he tell you—”

  “Yes”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “John, what do you think? Oh, John, John—”

  “Hold on there—take it easy.”

  “Yes, John.”

  “You all right?”

  “Yes, John.”

  “I think you’d better come here. Can you—manage it?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “The kid?”

  “I can get somebody. Dora—or my neighbor. I’m sure of it.”

  “Good.”

  “John.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did he tell you? Did he tell you, John?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “He told me an utterly fantastic story—”

  “Oh, I knew it, I knew it. He was so very drunk, mad drunk. Fantastic, unbelievable, something he made up out of his drunkenness—”

  “I’d have thought so too.”

  “What? What’s that? What are you saying?”

  “The way he looked at his right hand—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s wrong, Alice. There are spots on his clothes. I think they’re blood. He looked at his right hand, and he was sick. He kept it away from him. There may be—”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Please come here right away.”

  “But if—if he did—I mean—the police—”

  “Now don’t go sneaking around corners. If what he has told us is a fact—and they know about it—they’d have been at your place already. He left his hat there, and his briefcase. That is—if what he said—is factual. There’s more. He told me more—about what happened after he left you. I don’t think he’s well, Alice—I mean, even if he did—even if something did happen—there’s more—he isn’t well—may need treatment. I wish you’d get here as soon as possible—”

  “Yes, John. Yes, yes, yes.”

  Police. What about police? What do you do when police come? What do you say? What do you tell them? She kicked out of her shoes, running, dressing hurriedly. She looked in on the boy, smoothing his covers. She dressed in flat heels and a suit. She went out, leaving her door open, touched the bell of her next-door neighbor.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Martin.”

  “Is Ruth home?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Martin.”

  “May I talk to her?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Martin. Excuse me.”

  She waited outside until Ruth came. Ruth was seventeen with rosy cheeks and a tragic eye. “Mrs. Martin?”

  “Do you have a date tonight, Ruth?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Would you sit for me, please?”

  “Well—”

  “It’s important, Ruth. I’d call Dora, but there isn’t much time. Mr. Martin has had an—accident.”

  “Oh, sure. Sure. Of course.”

  “Could you come in now?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Martin. I hope it’s nothing serious. Mother. Mother, I’m going to sit for Mrs. Martin.”

  “Fine, all right,” her mother called.

  “Now?” Ruth asked.

  “If you please.”

  “Right now, Mother.”

  “Sure,” her mother called. “Fine.”

  “I may be late,” Alice said.

  “Fine, fine,” Ruth’s mother said, overhearing, coming to the door. “It’s all right if she sleeps over.”

  “Thank you.”

  In her apartment, Alice took her coat out of a closet and put it on quickly. “You don’t even have to look in on him, Ruth. You know how he is. If he wants anything, he’ll come out and tell you. You can sleep out here in the living-room, if I’m late. You know where the things are.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Martin.”

  “You know where the magazines are, the candy—anything in the ice-box, help yourself.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Martin.”

  “Take care, Ruth.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Martin. I hope everything will be all right.”

  She went out, testing the door to see that it was shut. She pushed for the self-service elevator, stamping her feet, waiting, flexing her arms. It came, and it took her down, and she ran into the rain. She found the car, away from the curb, not parked as precisely as it always was. She got in, set the key into the ignition lock, pushed the starter. She jumped off the brake and shifted the gear almost in one action. The car lurched, veering. She straightened it, swung for the Highway. Rain burst against the windshield. The wipers thumped.

  It was a long way to Twenty-Eighth Street. She looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty. She adjusted herself behind the wheel, using a handkerchief to wipe the mist off the inside of the windshield. Her handbag slipped
from her knees. She picked it up, touching the button on the door of the glove compartment to put it in. She saw the bottle lying on its side. She rolled down the window on her right, rain wetting the seat. She took the bottle and threw it out. She rolled up the window, flapped shut the glove compartment. She put her handbag beside her on the seat.

  It was a long way to Twenty-Eighth Street. There was time to think. About what? What? She knew nothing except what he had told her. He had said that he had killed a woman. That was what he had told her. It had shocked her, but she hadn’t accepted it. She had fell it was something out of his drunkenness, a wild something, untrue, boiling up out of drunkenness.

  He had taken the money, and he had gone, and she had let him go; she knew that she couldn’t have stopped him. She had called the Polgars, as he had wanted, and arranged the postponement. Then she had waited, hoping he would come back. She had felt that the drinking would continue, and then he would either come home or go somewhere to sleep it off. She had worried about the money on his person, she had worried about him, but she didn’t really believe that he had committed a crime. He would come home, drunk, and sleep it off, and tell her about it tomorrow, if he remembered, or he would sleep it off somewhere else, and come home. If he remembered, he would tell her. If not, it would be something that might be remembered, in little pieces, after a while: how he had worked up to that crazy story about killing a woman that day he had gone off and gotten drunk for the first time since they were married.

  When John had called there had been release, a somber-gay moment of relief. He had perched. He had gone somewhere to sleep it off. And then—it was impossible. He could not kill anybody. Not Harry. Never. Drunk or sober. No matter about spots on his clothing. No matter about his hand that he kept away from him, that made him sick. No matter what happened afterward, whatever John meant. Not Harry. Not even if something had gone wrong with him, “needed treatment,” as John, in his careful way, had said—he could not kill anybody. Nobody knew him like she knew him. It wasn’t in him. She examined that, thinking back.

  She remembered when she had met him, at a dance, a big shy boy, the football hero with a problem, the big fellow the girls were all crazy about. She remembered when John Applegate had introduced them, how they had danced together, how quickly they had liked each other. She remembered John taking her aside, John whom she had known all her life, big John Applegate, who had lived in the house across the road from hers. It was John who had invited her up to the dance, John who realized how much she liked the tall, strange boy, John who had taken her aside and talked to her so much about him.