Donald E. Westlake

The Fugitive Pigeon

To Hal and Nedra

But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,

If your Snark be a Boojum! For then

You will softly and suddenly vanish away,

And never be met with again!

Hunting of the Snark, Lewis Carroll

He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him.

Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare

Chapter 1

It was a slow night, like any Tuesday. The late late show was High Sierra and there’s always a couple of Bogart fans around, in fact I’m a Bogart fan myself, so I figured to stay open till the movie was over and then lock up and go upstairs and get some sleep. After one-thirty I only had two customers, both regulars, both sitting at the bar, both watching the TV, both beer drinkers. I stood down to the far end of the bar, with my arms folded and my white apron on, and I watched the TV myself. Commercials, one or both customers had refills. I don’t drink on duty, so it was none for me.

My name is Charles Robert Poole, everybody calls me Charlie. Charlie Poole. Just so you know.

High Sierra ended with the cop shooting Bogart in the back and Ida Lupino glad society couldn’t treat Bogart bad any more, and I said, “Okay, gents, time to drink up. I need my beauty sleep.” It’s a neighborhood bar, regular customers, I like to keep an informal atmosphere.

These two were both good about it, not like some which come in mostly on weekends and want the night to go on forever. But not these two, they drank up and said, “Night, Charlie,” and out they went, waving to me.

I waved back and told them good night and rinsed their glasses and set them on the drainboard, and the door opened again and two guys came in with suits and topcoats, the topcoats all unbuttoned so you could see they were wearing white shirts and ties. Not what you mostly get in a bar in Canarsie two-thirty on a Tuesday night.

I said, “Sorry, gents, just closing up.”

“Yeah, that’s okay, nephew,” said one of them, and they came over and sat down on stools at the bar.

I looked at them then, and they were both grinning at me. Tough-guy types. I recognized them both, associates of my Uncle Al, they’d both been in before to drop off a package or a message or to pick one up. I said, “Oh. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

The one that talked said, “You know us, though, don’t you, nephew? I mean you know us to see, am I right?”

Calling me nephew like that was a kind of a playful insult. I got it from Uncle Al’s associates all the time. What it meant was, I wasn’t really a part of the organization, I only had this job here because of Uncle Al, if it wasn’t for my Uncle Al I’d probably starve to death. I knew that’s what this one meant when he called me nephew, but I didn’t get sore or anything. In the first place, these two and all the others in the organization were very tough mean nasty types. In the second place, facts are facts, it was the truth; I was born a bum and I’ve been a bum twenty-four years, and if it wasn’t for my Uncle Al and this job running this bar I would starve to death in a minute. So what was the point of starting an argument, just because a guy calls me nephew?

So all I said was, “Sure, I know you. I recognize you now. You been in here before.”

The other one said, “He recognizes us.”

The first one said, “Well, sure. We been in here before.”

Life imitates art. And yet I’d bet neither one of them had ever read Hemingway.

I said, “Is there anything I can do for you?” I was hoping it was just a drop, just a package they wanted to leave and then they’d go away. I was tired; if it hadn’t been for High Sierra I’d have closed the place at one o’clock.

The first one said, “Yeah, nephew, there is. You can tell me if this looks okay.” He reached into his topcoat pocket and came out with a small white card, like a calling card, and put it down on the bar between us, kind of slapped it down under his palm and then took his hand away. “How’s it look?” he said.

It had my name on it, and a thing like an ink blot. It looked like:

I said, “What’s that supposed to be?”

They looked at each other. The second one said, “Is he kidding?”

The first one said, “I don’t know.” He looked at me with a lot of mistrust. “You don’t know what that is?”

I just shrugged, and shook my head. I kept looking back and forth, from the card to their faces to the card to their faces. I was kind of almost-grinning, because I figured it was some kind of a gag or something. Every once in a while one of Uncle Al’s associates thinks it’s funny to pull a gag on me, on the useless bum of a nephew. It’s what I have to put up with for the soft berth.

The first one shook his head after a minute and said, “He don’t know, he honest to Christ don’t know.”

“What a nephew,” said the second one. “Nephew, you are the biggest nephew that ever lived. You’re all the nephews in the world rolled into one, you know that?”

“What’s the joke?” I said. “I give up, what’s the joke?”

“Joke,” said the second one. He said it flat, like it was too incredible to believe.

The first one tapped the card. He had thick fingers and dirty fingernails. He said, “That’s the spot, nephew, get me? That’s the spot, the black spot, and you’re on it.”

The second one said, “He still don’t get it. Would you believe it, he still don’t get it.”

“He will,” said the first one. His right hand reached in fast inside his coat and came out with a gun, a huge black thick right-angled glittering gun with a hole full of poison in the end of it and the hole pointed straight at me.

I said, “Hey!” I threw my hands up in front of my chest, or something like that. And I still had in the back of my mind that this was a gag, they were trying to scare the nephew. “Hey!” I said, therefore. “You want to hurt somebody?”

“Open the cash register,” said the first one, still pointing the gun at me. “The bit is, this has to look like robbery, you know? Do you know what I mean, nephew?”

“He don’t,” said the second one. “He don’t know a thing.”

“That’s right,” I said, giving them a chance to tell me what it was all about. “I don’t know a thing.”

“The spot means you’re done,” said the first one. “You’re all through. Go on over there and open that cash register.”

“Hurry, hurry,” said the second one. “Nephews should do like they’re told.”

I still didn’t get it. But on the other hand maybe the best thing was play along with them, and sooner or later they’d get tired of kidding around and they’d tell me what this was all about. So I went over and hit the No Sale key and the register drawer popped open and I said, “There. It’s open.”

“Pull the bills out,” the first one said. He was still holding that gun. “Put them on the bar there.”

There weren’t very many bills. The Rockaway Grill barely makes enough a week to pay my salary, never mind upkeep and stock and six per cent profit and all that. But it’s all right, nobody wants the Rockaway Grill to make any money, don’t ask me why. I asked my Uncle Al three, four times, and the first couple times he tried to explain it, something about taxes, on the books the Rockaway Grill makes a profit that is actually money the organization made somewhere else, something like that, but everytime my Uncle Al explains something to me it winds up he’s hitting himself on the forehead with the heel of his right hand so I don’t ask him any more.

Anyway, there was just this little stack of bills, most of them ones, and I put them on the bar, and the second one came over and took them and stuffed them away in his topcoat pocket.

I said, “Hey, wait a second. That isn’t funny.”

“That’s right,” said the first one. He looked mean, and he was still aiming the gun at me.

For the first time I began to take it serious. I said, “You aren’t going to kill me.”

“You got it,” said the other one.

“And here it comes,” said the first one, and Patrolman Ziccatta, the cop on the beat, came in saying, “Hey, Charlie. You’re open late.”

So what should I of done? Should I of said, “Patrolman Ziccatta, these two men just come here to rob and murder me, and that one there has my night’s proceeds in his topcoat pocket and that other one there just stuck a big mean-looking gun quick back in his topcoat pocket when you came in,” is that what I should of said? You think so? These associates of my Uncle Al, I should finger them to the police, never mind what for? You think so?

That just shows you don’t know the situation.

My Uncle Al would kill me, I blew the whistle on two of his associates like that. I mean with no fooling around, bam!

I mean, it’s all well and good with Patrolman Ziccatta right there and everything for the moment, but what about tomorrow? What about next week? How do I live? Where do I live? What do I do with myself?

More important, what does Uncle Al do with me?

These two guys, now, they weren’t kidding, they’d come here to kill me, I finally got that through my head, but let’s sit down and think about this thing a minute. There’s no reason why the organization should want me killed, so it’s got to be somebody made a mistake somewhere, right? Now, when somebody makes a mistake what you do is you don’t throw the baby out with the bath water, what you do is you see can you rectify the mistake. Right?

So what I had to do was I had to stay alive some way or another until I could get to a telephone and call my Uncle Al — which he would really love, two-thirty in the morning and everything, but this time I would say I got a legitimate excuse, I mean after all — and then I could tell my Uncle Al what was up and he could maybe rectify the mistake.

So I didn’t say anything to Patrolman Ziccatta except, “Just closing up now, just this minute.” Then I looked at the two mean types and I said, “Sorry, gents, you got to go now.”

They looked from me to the patrolman, and then they looked at each other, and I could see everything they were thinking. They were supposed to kill me, but they couldn’t kill me right this minute unless they killed Patrolman Ziccatta too, and killing a uniformed policeman in the performance of his duty is a very dangerous thing to do and maybe going too far just as a sidelight in the rubbing out of a nephew, so maybe for the moment they should call it off. Maybe for the moment they should go outside, and wait for Patrolman Ziccatta to go away, and then they could come back and kill the nephew in the privacy of his own home.

I saw this going through their heads and running back and forth between their eyes, and then the first one said, “Okay, barkeep. See you later.”

“Yeah, barkeep,” said the second one. “See you later.”

They went on out, and Patrolman Ziccatta came over and leaned on the bar and said, “There’s quite a wind blowing up out there.”

Now, it was only the eleventh of September, and it might have been breezy outside but it wasn’t exactly the North Pole, but I knew what Patrolman Ziccatta really meant and what I was supposed to do about it, so I said, “Let me give you something to warm your bones.”

“Well, thanks, Charlie,” he said. He always acted surprised, and we ran through this same business almost every night.

I got a four-ounce glass from under the bar, and filled it about two-thirds with bar bourbon, and slid it over in front of the patrolman. He kind of slouched against the bar, and turned his back to the big plate-glass window that faced the street, and he held the glass in close against his chest so it couldn’t be seen from outside, and he took quick nips from it, one right after the other. Nip. Nip. Nip. Like that.

Past him, I could see those two guys across the street, standing in front of the men’s clothing store over there and talking together like they were any two guys you might see anywhere.

I said, “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll hold the fort, Charlie,” he said, and went nip, nip, nip.

I walked on down to the end of the bar, and raised the flap and went through, and past the jukebox and the shuffleboard bowling machine game and the restroom doors, and through the rear with NO ADMITTANCE printed on it, and into the back room, piled high with beer and whiskey cases. One thing I always had, I always had a good inventory.

I turned on the light back there and checked the back door that the two locks and the bar were all secure, and checked the double locks on the three windows, and everything was okay. I left the light on and went back up front and Patrolman Ziccatta was standing by the front door. “You left your cash register open, Charlie,” he said, and pointed his nightstick at it.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

“One of these days, you’ll get yourself robbed here,” he said. “Well, good night, Charlie.”

“Good night,” I said.

He went out and I locked the door right after him. Those two guys were still across the street. Patrolman Ziccatta strolled away down the sidewalk, practicing with his nightstick. He was getting so he could twirl it pretty good now, didn’t drop it very much at all any more.

I turned off the neon beer signs in the window, and walked down the long narrow room to the back again, and switched off the indirect lighting there, so now only the backbar displays were still lit and those were left on all night. I looked down the long dim length past the plate-glass window and across the street, and saw the two of them step down off the curb and start this way. There wasn’t any traffic out there, there wasn’t anybody but those two guys.

I went into the back room, where the light was already on, and up the creaking stairs to the second floor. I could actually hear my heart. In my ears, I could hear it.

Up on the second floor I had this really very nice little three-room apartment, with a living room in front and a kitchen in back and a bedroom in the middle. The only way up there was the staircase from the storeroom downstairs to the kitchen upstairs, and then you had to walk through the bedroom to get to the living room, all of which didn’t help any romantic mood any time I took a girl up there, but I didn’t get to take too many girls up there anyway so it didn’t make that much difference. The only thing, it was a pretty nice place, and convenient, but no playboy penthouse.

I went up there now and turned on the kitchen light before I clicked the switch at the head of the stairs that turned off the light down in the storeroom. I shut the door at the head of the stairs and turned the key in the lock and left the key in there to delay them if they figured to pick the lock. Except why should they pick the lock when they could just shoot it off?

Well. I hurried through to the living room, where the phone was. The whole place was its usual mess — the bed unmade, magazines all over the floor, the door standing open and ugly between the bedroom and the bathroom, underwear scattered around — the whole usual mess I was always telling myself I would clean up the next chance I got and never did. But this time, of course, I never even noticed the mess or thought about it or anything. I just hurried into the living room, turning on every light I came to, and quick called my Uncle Al at his apartment on East 65th Street in Manhattan.

Seven rings it took; I counted them. I knew my Uncle Al would be boiling, this hour of night, but even he would have to admit this call had a reason.

Finally he answered. I recognized his voice, sleepy and irritable. “Lo? What? Who the hell?”

“Uncle Al,” I said. “It’s me, Charlie.”

All at once he was wide awake, and very formal. “Albert Gatling is not in,” he said.

I said, “Uncle Al? Didn’t you hear me? It’s me, your nephew, Charlie Poole.”

“Albert Gatling is not in,” he said. “He’s out of town.”

What was going on? I said, “What are you talking about? I recognize your voice, you’re Uncle Al.”

“Albert Gatling,” he said, “is in Florida. He’ll be there at least a week. This is the butler talking.”

“Let me talk to Aunt Florence,” I said. I didn’t know what Uncle Al was up to, but Aunt Florence would snap him out of it. Aunt Florence is my Uncle Al’s wife, and my mother’s sister. Uncle Al is actually only my uncle by marriage.

“Albert and Florence Gatling,” he said, “are both in Florida.”

“Uncle Al,” I said, and he hung up.

That is, I thought he’d hung up. But then when I tried to call him back, there wasn’t any dial tone or anything, no sound at all in the telephone. I knew what that meant, it meant those guys had cut the wires outside so I couldn’t phone for help.

What was I going to do? I had these wild visions of getting the frying pan from the kitchen, and hiding behind the door at the head of the stairs, and when they came in I’d let them have it, bonk, bonk! But that was no good. Even if I wasn’t afraid to do something like that, and believe me I was far too afraid to hide behind the door at the head of the stairs even if I had a machine gun, but even if I wasn’t afraid, that was no good. Because all this was was a simple mistake, and once it was all straightened out everything would be okay again, same as before. Except if I were to do something to one of those guys, like kill him or hurt him bad so he went to the hospital or something like that. I mean, even though it would be self-defense and the result of a mix-up that wasn’t my fault at all, I would still be in trouble with the organization.

The way it worked out, they could shoot at me or whatever, but I didn’t dare do a thing to them. Not a thing. Not if I wanted to go on living the same old life like always.

On the other hand, I didn’t dare just sit here, not if I wanted to go on living period.

So what to do?

This question was given a sudden sense of urgency because of the crash from downstairs that meant they’d just come in the back door. Two, three minutes, moving along cautiously like they naturally would, and they’d be up here, right up here in front of me. And if Patrolman Ziccatta should all of a sudden walk into my living room after two-thirty in the morning, it would be the very first time.

What I had to do, it was clear as could be, what I had to do was get out of here. What I had to do was get to Manhattan, and to my Uncle Al’s apartment, and find out what was going on, and make him help me correct this no doubt honest mistake before I turned out mistakenly killed.

But there was only one way down from here, and that was the staircase, and the odds were very heavy that those two guys were already occupying the staircase, coming up.

I looked around the messy living room, feeling frantic, wishing there was a dumbwaiter so I could go down to the basement, or a chimney so I could go up to the roof, or anything at all so I could get the dickens out of here.

Well, of course there was something.

The window.

I looked at it. Was it possible? Was there any chance at all I could go out that window and survive?

Well, on the other hand, there was no chance at all I could stay inside and survive, so that pretty well decided the issue.

I jumped to my feet and ran over to the bedroom doorway and shut the door. There was no key in the keyhole, but the sofa was right next to the door, and I pushed it over in the way in hopes it would anyway slow them down a minute. Then I turned the lights out and went over to the front window.

Outside, there was nothing but the dark and windswept street. A page of the Daily News blew by. I opened the window and felt the cold breeze and realized I was just in my white shirt and apron, and my jackets were all hanging in the bedroom closet.

Well, it was too late to go back for them. I took my apron off and sat on the window sill, and as I lifted my legs over I heard the door at the head of the stairs crash open.

There was a kind of a ledge under the window a couple of feet, with metal letters along it that said ROCKAWAY GRILL. I stepped over the W and on the other side there were only a couple of inches to spare. I bent down and grabbed the letters and brought my other foot over, and AWAY gave away, and down I went.

It was only about a ten-foot drop. I landed on hands and knees, and AWAY went clattering away, and just a second or two later so did I.

Chapter 2

I suppose it would be fair to say that all my life I’ve been a bum. First, when I was a kid growing up, I was a bum on my mother. Now, these last few years I’ve been a bum on my Uncle Al.

It was just my mother and me while I was growing up. My mother worked for the telephone company, it used to be sometimes it was her voice on some of those recorded announcements all about how you just dialed a particularly stupid number, and she made pretty good money, the telephone company isn’t all that bad to work for. Later on she wanted me to go to work for the company too, but somehow or other I just never felt right about it. I had this feeling, I guess, I’d wind up being thrown out on my ear, and it would be a bad reflection on my mother and all, still working there.

Anyway, the jobs I did get, after I got out of high school and the Army wouldn’t take me because of this something or other in my inner ear which I didn’t know anything about before then and which to this day has never once bothered me, the jobs I did get I never lasted with, not one of them. I’d work a month or two, and then I’d loaf around the house a month or two. And my mother, she was in the habit of supporting me anyway, she’d done it all my life, so she never complained about me being home and not working or making any money. She’d been my sole support because my father disappeared the day after my mother found out she was pregnant with me, and my father has not been heard of from that day to this, and it is my mother’s theory that he’s in jail or worse.

In any case, it got so I was twenty years of age, twenty-one, twenty-two, and I was still a bum, loafing around the house all the time, reading science-fiction magazines, not settling down or accepting my responsibilities or doing any of those things my Uncle Al likes to talk about as being the attributes of maturity, and I’d had eleven different jobs in three years, and the longest I’d stayed at any of those jobs was nine weeks. My mother got me a couple of the jobs, and Uncle Al got me a few more, and the rest I got through the New York Times.

And then one day Uncle Al came around and he said he’d finally found the job that was perfect for me, it was the job I’d been born for, and it turned out to be running the Rockaway Grill out in Canarsie, which is a section way out at the end of Brooklyn that vaudeville comedians used to make fun of all the time. New Jersey and Canarsie, those were the two places vaudeville comedians used to make jokes about. Anyway, this job was I was to run the bar all by myself. I could open at any time before four o’clock in the afternoon, and close at any time after midnight, the actual hours were up to me. I would work a seven-day week, but I’d get paid a hundred and twenty dollars a week and I’d get this three-room apartment to myself upstairs.

At first I didn’t think it was a good idea, because I thought my mother wouldn’t want me to move out of our apartment, she’d get lonely or something. But she took to the idea right away, seemed almost too pleased by it, and that’s how I wound up running this bar in Canarsie.

It wasn’t much work to run. No one ever checked up on me to see did I open before four o’clock or did I dip into the cash register from time to time. Then, there were already a few longer-established bars in the immediate neighborhood that took most of the local clientele, so I never did have a crowd in there, not even on weekends. I had a few regulars, and now and then a transient or two, and that was it. The bar lost money and nobody cared. I ran it loose and sloppy and nobody cared. My Uncle Al was right; it was the job I was born for.

Of course, there was the other little part of it. Every once in a while some friend of Uncle Al’s from the organization would come around and give me a package or an envelope or some such thing, and I was supposed to put it in the safe under the bar until someone would come in and say such and such a code phrase, like in spy movies, and then I’d hand over the package or whatever it was. I got something like this to do once or twice a month, and always checked with Uncle Al on it to be sure there wasn’t any problem, and all in all it wasn’t exactly what you’d call hard work.

Then, too, sometimes I closed the bar on a Monday or a Tuesday night, and went to a movie or something like that. I still knew a couple girls I could ask out from time to time, girls I’d known since high school. Generally speaking it was a pretty comfortable life. All I had to do was just drift along.

Until those two guys came in and showed me the black spot. And all at once my drifting days were done.

Chapter 3

The way in and out of Canarsie, if you don’t have a car, is by subway, which is called the Canarsie Line, and which you get at the end of the line on Rockaway Parkway by Glenwood Road, about eight blocks from the Rock Grill. I ran that eight blocks till I got a stitch in my side, and then I kept running even with the stitch because I’d rather have a stitch in my side than a bullet in my head any day. I didn’t know how close those two guys were, or even if they were running after me; I was too busy to look.

I got to the station and it took forever to find change in my pockets and buy a token and run out on the platform. A lit sign said NEXT TRAIN and pointed an arrow at the only train there, on the right side of the platform. All the doors were open. I ran aboard, and then ran from car to car till I found one with four people already in it, and there I collapsed into a seat and panted and held my side where the stitch was now nine.

In one way I was lucky. Less than a minute after I ran aboard, the doors slid shut and the train started for Manhattan.

Making a getaway by subway is not good for the nerves. The train just barely gets rolling pretty good when it slows down again, and stops, and the doors slide open in a very ominous way with nobody near them. Two killers do not get aboard, and the doors close, and the train starts forward, only to go through the whole thing again two or three minutes later.

There are twenty-one stops between Rockaway Parkway and Union Square on the Canarsie Line, in case you want to know.

I couldn’t really believe, when I left the train at Union Square, that I’d escaped from them. Even though I hadn’t seen them yet, I was sure they were still on my tail. Scurrying, looking over my shoulder, I ran along the deserted passageways that led me to the Lexington Avenue Line, and stood on the platform there behind a soft-drink machine, waiting.

It was ten minutes before a local came in, and in the meantime every sound of footsteps on the concrete platform took another year or so off my life. But the local finally did show up, and I leaped from cover behind the soft-drink machine, ran low and zigzag across the platform the way they do in war movies, and barreled aboard the train like a one-man rush hour.

The Lexington Avenue local makes seven stops between Union Square and East 68th Street. I was seeing a lot of subway platforms.

I never know which way is which when I come up out of the subway in Manhattan. I was at 68th and Lex, and I wanted to be at 65th and Fifth, which meant south and west, but I had no idea which way was south. I finally took a chance on a direction that looked right, walked up to 69th Street, read the street sign there, and walked back again.

I told myself this was actually just as well; if anyone was tailing me, doubling back this way would confuse them and help me spot them. But of course I didn’t spot anyone tailing me, and didn’t really think I would.

The walk to Uncle Al’s apartment building was long and dark and scantily populated. A few solitary hunched walkers passed me, our separate fears mingling for just a second as we went by, but nothing happened, and I got to Uncle Al’s building at last, a tall and white and narrow building with a brightly lit little entranceway. I went in there, and pushed the button beside the name A. Gatling.

There was no answer. For a long while there was no answer, and then I pushed the button again, and then there was no answer some more.

I stood there shifting from foot to foot. Where was he, why didn’t he answer? Could it be he really was in Miami?

No. He suspected it was me at the door, that’s all. He didn’t want to answer because he figured it was probably me.

I pushed the button again, and just left my finger on it, and stood there that way. I leaned on the button, and glanced out at the street, and a long black car was pulling to a stop out front. They got out of it, those two guys. They looked up at me, and then they looked at each other, and they came walking toward me.

I stopped pushing Uncle Al’s button, and pushed all the other buttons instead. I stood there like the cashier at a supermarket cash register, pushing buttons. The two guys came across the sidewalk and up the steps. They were looking at me with no expression on their faces, and they were taking their time. I guess they figured they had me cornered. That’s the way I figured, too.

But I kept pushing buttons all the same. The round grille beside the row of buttons began shouting in a variety of sleepy angry voices, but I didn’t answer. I just kept pushing buttons.

One of the two guys looked at me through the glass, and reached for the knob of the outer door, and at last the buzzing sounded I’d been waiting for. I pushed open the inner door, slammed it behind me again, and for just a second I was safe.

But what I could do they could do. I ran across the little lobby and pulled open the elevator door and pushed yet another button; this one numbered 3, for the floor my Uncle Al’s apartment was on.

A very expensive building, this, seven stories high, with only two apartments on each floor. The elevator moved much faster than they do in buildings on the West Side. When it stopped, I pushed the 7 button and got out. The elevator went on up to the seventh floor, which would delay those two guys and might even fake them out.

Two white doors in the cream wall faced me across the white rug. The one on the right, with the brass B on it, belonged to my Uncle Al. I went over and knocked on it. Because I didn’t expect an answer right away, I just kept on knocking. I even kicked the door once or twice, making black marks on the white, which couldn’t be helped.

Behind me, with a whirring sound, the elevator went by on its way back to the first floor.

Why didn’t they take the stairs, why wait for the elevator? I tried to figure it out, while I kept knocking and kicking at Uncle Al’s door, and then I realized what had happened. The city fire laws, see, make apartment houses have staircases even when they have elevators, but most expensive East Side apartment houses are as embarrassed about staircases as if they had to have outhouses in addition to the indoor plumbing, so they put the staircases in and then put walls around them and blank doors leading to them and they hope nobody will ever notice them. Which nobody ever does.

In a minute they’d be coming up, via elevator. Would they stop at the third floor, or would they go on to seven? Did they know my Uncle Al lived here? They had to, there was no other reason for them to come here. They hadn’t followed me, I was sure of that. While I’d taken my route here by subway, they’d taken their route by car.

So they’d stop here, just to be sure, on the third floor.

Whirrr, they were coming up.

I’ve been coming to Uncle Al’s apartment since I was a kid, and kids always know geography better than adults. Kids know apartments better, buildings better, neighborhoods better. So I knew the door to the right of the elevator led to the staircase. I gave off kicking and knocking, and went through that door, and fixed a matchbook so the door didn’t close all the way. Through the narrow vertical slit, I could see Uncle Al’s door.

I’d been right; they got off the elevator at the third floor. Peeking one-eyed through the crack, I could see their backs, broad and black-coated. They didn’t just stand, they hulked.

They walked across the white carpet without any noise, and knocked on Uncle Al’s door. It was a special code-type knock, and anyone could tell that; one, and then three, and then one.

The door opened right away, and Uncle Al stuck his head out and said, “You got him?”

Uncle Al is a big hefty guy, about two-thirds bone and muscle, about one-third spaghetti. He has black hair so thick and shiny most people think he’s wearing a toupee, and his face is a normal collection of mouth, eyes, eyebrows, cheeks, chin and ears positioned around a nose the size and shape of the bald eagle’s beak on the tail of a twenty-five-cent piece. In the summer, when he pitches softball in his undershirt at clambakes, you can see he has black hair growing all over his chunky arms and chunky shoulders and chunky chest. I don’t know about his chunky stomach, but I suppose he has black hair growing all over that, too. When he sits in an overstuffed armchair and crosses his legs, another hairy region pops into view between the top of his black sock and the cuff of his black trousers.

Normally, Uncle Al has a voice to go with all this chunkiness and hair, a bass voice that makes him a natural for the barbershop quartets at the aforesaid clambakes, but right now, as he said, “You got him?” that voice had gone up maybe two octaves. It was the first time I’d ever seen or heard my Uncle Al scared.

One of the two guys said, “Not yet. Is he in there?”

Uncle Al said, “Are you kidding?”

The second one said, “You wouldn’t cover up for him, would you? Agricola wouldn’t like that.”

“I’m keepin’ out of it,” my Uncle Al said, “I want no part of it, no part of it.” All that showed of him in the hallway was his head, looking scared.

Standing there in the yellow stairwell, my feet on concrete and my forehead against the edge of the door and my eye blinking at the narrow vertical strip of corridor, I began at last to understand a couple of things. Way back in Canarsie, when those guys out there had first come after me, my immediate reaction had been to call Uncle Al, the only one I personally knew in the organization. I’d been too scared and excited myself to understand the meaning of his response on the phone; at the time, it had only meant to me that Uncle Al was being difficult to talk to. And the same again, when I’d been kicking futilely at the door. My relationship with Uncle Al has always involved a degree of difficulty in communication for both of us, so there was no reason this time should be any exception.

But now, seeing his face hanging disembodied in the hallway, hearing his voice, I understood I’d made this trip for nothing. Uncle Al wouldn’t help me because he couldn’t help me. He was too scared.

Out there in the corridor, while I was making my discouraging discoveries, they were still talking. The first one was saying, “He come up here.” Like it was an indictment of Uncle Al, an open-and-shut case.

“Would I cross Agricola?” my Uncle Al asked them. He pronounced it A-grić,-o-la. “Am I a dumbhead?” he asked them.

That was one of his favorite expressions. When he was young he used to drive a cab, and when he talks about it these days he says, “Drive a cab all my life? Am I a dumbhead?” The answer is supposed to be no.

The first one, meanwhile, was repeating, “He come up here. And he didn’t go back down.”

Uncle Al said, “What about the roof?”

They both shook their heads. “It don’t figure,” the first one said. “He come here looking for you.”

“Invite us in,” said the second one.

Uncle Al said, “Listen, I got trouble enough. The wife don’t know nothing about this, you follow me? The brat’s her sister’s kid, you know what I mean? How do I explain you two, this time of night?”

“We want the kid,” said the second one.

The first one, still working the same idea, said, “He come up here.”

Uncle Al said, “Maybe he went back down.”

“How?” said the second one. “We took the elevator ourselves. There it is.” He half-turned, and pointed at it.

Uncle Al said, “The stairs, maybe he took the stairs.”

“What stairs?” They both said it, while I was thinking to myself that I understood about how he couldn’t help me but it struck me he was going to far when he started helping them.

Uncle Al brought an arm out into the corridor to go with his head. He pointed the arm right at me, and said, “Those stairs there.”

They turned and looked in my direction, and looked at each other, and came forward.

That was all. Down the stairs I went, two and three at a time. I had to sacrifice either speed or silence, and I opted for speed. So I guess they could hear me going just as plain as I could hear them coming.

Doors, nothing but doors. I burst out the ground-floor door into the foyer, out the foyer door into the entranceway, out the entranceway door into the street. Their long black car was still double-parked out front, with nobody in it. I turned left, toward Central Park, and ran.

Chapter 4

When I was sure they’d given up and gone away, I crawled out from under the bush again and headed across the park toward the West Side.

Now that the heat of the chase was gone, at least for a while, I was beginning to freeze. It was now about quarter to four, Wednesday morning, the twelfth of September. I don’t know exactly what the temperature was, but it was too low to be out walking around Central Park in just shirt sleeves. Walking briskly westward, I flapped my arms around like a drunk arguing with himself, while I pondered a future that now appeared to be as short as it was uncertain.

Where could I go now, what could I do? I’d escaped the killers for the moment, but I knew enough about the organization from newspapers and television to know I wasn’t free of them for good. They wouldn’t give up, no matter how far or how fast I ran. I was a marked man; the tentacles of the organization would reach out to deal me swift vengeance wherever I might try to hide.

My only goal had been Uncle Al. From him I had expected sanctuary, in him an ally, through him an explanation of why I’d been put on the spot. It still had to be a mistake, some sort of error; all I had to do was find the error and rectify it.

But now what? I was safe for the moment, but that was all. I had no coat, not much money, and now that the excitement was temporarily over I could realize I was exhausted. I should have been asleep hours ago.

Walking across the park, flapping my arms and jumping up and down and running in little circles to keep warm, I tried to figure out what to do next. More than anything, I needed some place to sleep, some place to get warm in, some place where I’d be safe.

What about my mother’s apartment? There were even a couple of my old high school jackets there. I could sleep, get warm, eat something, and decide tomorrow what had to be done.

But that wasn’t any good. Hadn’t those two killers come direct to Uncle Al’s? Didn’t that mean they knew about me, knew who I’d go to, where I’d run next? They were probably on watch at my mother’s place this very minute, waiting for me to show up.

Somewhere else, then, somewhere else. Like where?

I hadn’t thought of anywhere yet by the time I reached Central Park West. I came out of the park between 62nd and 63rd streets, stood on the sidewalk there a minute, and then crossed CPW and walked down 62nd street. Not that I had any destination in mind, it was just too cold to stand still.

Somewhere, somewhere. Somebody, in fact. There had to be somebody I knew, somebody who would take me in for what was left of the night.

Then I remembered Artie Dexter. I hadn’t seen Artie for seven or eight months, since the last time he’d dropied around the Rock Grill. Artie and I went to high school together, which is when he started playing conga drum in rhythm groups weekends. Later on he spread out to guitar and folk songs, and also sold marijuana and different kinds of pills sometimes, or at least that’s the impression he’d give. I don’t know how much was true and how much was just showing off. I know sometimes he’d seem to have a lot of money, and other times he’d be completely broke. Like the last time he came out to see me in Canarsie he borrowed ten bucks from me. That’s thirty-five he owes me. I know he’s good for it.

My relationship with Artie is kind of an odd one. He was a colorful character back in high school, and colorful characters always have these hangers-on that cluster around them. I was one of the hangers-on, except for some reason Artie always liked me, so we were closer than your normal run of hero and hanger-on. After high school we still kept in touch, very occasionally, mostly with Artie showing up all of a sudden, inviting me to a party or stopping out at the bar or something like that. I suppose we could have been real good friends if I could have gotten over feeling like a hanger-on, but I never could.

Of all the people I knew, which wasn’t very many when you got right down to it, the one I figured I could most likely barge in on at four o’clock on a Wednesday morning was Artie Dexter. Nodding, flapping my arms, clicking my heels together, I moved westward across 62nd Street with a sudden new surge of purpose.

Artie lives in the Village, of course. I walked over to Broadway now, and turned left, and walked down to Columbus Circle, having taken the long way around to get there, and went down into the subway to take the first IND train that came along. The Sixth Avenue and Eighth Avenue trains separate just south of Columbus Circle, but they come back together again down at West Fourth Street and that was the stop I wanted.

It was an A train came in first, the one Billy Strayhorn wants everybody to take to Harlem. I took it the other way. The car already had about ten people in it, sour-faced guys in work clothes and two youngish bums sleeping with their mouths open.

I didn’t mind the stops (six of them) so much this time. I felt reasonably safe, for the time being.

Authors who come to New York from Majorca once every ten years to buy a new bathing suit always put down in their books that the big city never sleeps, but that’s what they know. New York sleeps, all right, from about four-thirty in the morning till about quarter after five. That’s maybe only forty-five minutes, not very long to be asleep, but it can seem like forever if you’re one of the few people awake during it. And it’s most noticeable in places like Times Square, that are so fully awake the rest of the day. Sixth Avenue is like that, right around 8th Street, at Village Square. The movies and bars are closed, the luncheonettes are closed, everything is closed. There’s no traffic, no pedestrians, and the streets westward radiating away like a fan are all narrow and dark and empty.

I hurried through this empty space, over the wide bumpy blacktop of Sixth Avenue and down a street to take me to Sheridan Square. Everything seemed so small, so narrow, it was like walking on an old movie set.

Artie Dexter lives on Perry Street, which I reached via Sheridan Square and Grove Street and a couple other streets. I don’t know half the street names in the Village and I don’t believe anybody else does either. I do know the two really great intersections in the Village, because Artie told me about them. One of them is where West Tenth Street crosses West Fourth Street, which is enough right away to make a tourist turn around and go back uptown where he belongs, and the other, which I passed on my way to Sheridan Square, is the intersection of Waverly Place and Waverly Place. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want, but it’s true.

Anyway, hurrying through these empty artificial streets, with cold breezes ruffling my shirt sleeves, I wondered what Artie would think of me waking him up in the middle of the night like this.

I needn’t have wondered. Half a block from his place I began to hear the noise, the singing and shouting and music. It was either a party or a presidential convention. I moved closer, jazz and hilarity wafting out onto the night air as though New York hadn’t gone to sleep after all but had called in all its forces into this one tiny corner of itself to keep the old pulse going till daylight. I looked up, and saw the brightly lighted windows, and it looked as though that was Artie’s apartment.

It was. When I rang the bell downstairs, the buzzer sounded almost immediately. I pushed the door open and went upstairs to the second floor.

Party noises filled the hallway, so loud it seemed as though the partygoers must be here, in the narrow hall, all around me, invisible. I walked to the end of it and knocked on the door, but that was ridiculous. No one could hear knocking, not in there. I pushed the door open and went in.

Artie has two and a half rooms. The half is a wide closet in the living room, full of kitchen appliances. The bathroom, which doesn’t count in the “two and a half” description, is bigger than the kitchen, very, very long, with a bathtub on a raised tile platform, and with doors leading both into the bedroom and the living room.

The living room is furnished mostly in shelving, rickety shelving sagging under the weight of LP records. There’s a fireplace, with shelving over it and on both sides of it. There are two windows overlooking Perry Street, with shelving between them and under them and beyond them, and with great big speaker cabinets on top of them. Shelving flanks the hall door, the bedroom door, the bathroom door, the kitchen-closet doors. Not all of this shelving bears LPs; there are a few books, and some knickknacks and whatnots, and hi-fi components, all mixed in here and there.

With shelving on all the wall space, the furniture — a spavined sofa and a few miserable mismatched chairs and tables — is all clustered in the middle of the room, on and around an old green and yellow fiber porch carpet. The speaker systems scattered around the room all bisect amid this furniture.

At the moment, fifteen or twenty people filled the doughnut-shaped area between the furniture and the shelves, all holding drinks and all holding forth. I didn’t see anybody listening. I didn’t see anybody sitting either.

Artie himself suddenly popped up in front of me. He’s half a foot shorter than me, about five four, and since he had his teeth capped he smiles all the time, brilliantly. He never looks at any one spot for more than a tenth of a second, glances always darting here and there, so that sometimes he looks as though he’s doing a trick or maybe exercising the eye muscles. He bounces a lot, being musical, and keeps jabbing around with his hands.

“Baby!” he said, looking quick at my right shoulder, my left ear, my widow’s peak, my right elbow, my left nostril, and the stain on my collar. He jabbed his hands around. “Glad you could make it!”

“I need a place to sleep,” I shouted.

“Anything, baby!” he shouted back. He looked at nine parts of me, said, “Make yourself at home!” and disappeared.

Fine. It was almost four-thirty in the morning by now, I was too tired to stand up straight. I moved through the people, most of whom gave me half a sentence or so on the way by, and opened the bedroom door. It was dark in there, which seemed like a good idea. I closed the door, but didn’t turn the light on, and groped my way to the bed.

But there were people in it, I’m not sure how many. A voice growled, “Watch it, you.”

“Sorry,” I said. There was a rug on the floor. I lay down on it and closed my eyes. The party noises went away.

Chapter 5

The funny thing is, I knew I was dreaming, but I didn’t know what I was dreaming. That was the damnedest dream ever; to be dreaming, and know you’re dreaming, and know it’s a bad dream, a terrifying dream, and not to know what the hell the dream’s all about.

I guess that was the most frightening part of it. Terror of the unknown and all. I wanted so hard to know what I was dreaming about that I popped myself out of sleep like a cork out of a champagne bottle.

I was lying on a floor, in a swatch of sunlight.

This was wrong. My bedroom windows face north; I get an acute angle of sunlight, a narrow beam, only at the very peak of summer. Besides, in my bedroom I sleep in bed, not on the floor. This was very wrong.

The body wakes up first, and then the mind. I opened my eyes, and moved my arms, and remembered everything.

I sat bolt upright. My back twinged as though someone had just yanked my spine out. I said, “Ngahh,” and lay down again. Sleeping on the floor isn’t a good idea at the best of times.

I got up more slowly on the second try, and this time made it all the way to my feet. I stood there, bent forward a little bit, and surveyed the room.

There was still someone in the bed, but now it was Artie and he was alone. On every flat surface in the room — dresser, night tables, straight chairs — there were half-empty glasses. The closet door was open, and clothing was lying in a heap on the floor in front of it.

There was the smell of coffee in the air. I followed it from the bedroom, and at the kitchen-closet I found a sloe-eyed raven-tressed beauty in dungarees and black turtleneck sweater, scrambling eggs. She was barefoot, and very short, and she had that Chinese-French-Negro look that Jewish girls get when they go to the High School of Music and Art.

She was the first to speak. “You were asleep on the floor,” she said. Matter-of-fact, the way you’d comment on the weather.

“I guess I was,” I said. My back hurt, my hands were greasy-feeling, my mouth was furry, and I remembered perfectly why I wasn’t in my own safe apartment above the Rock Grill. I said, “Could I have some coffee?”

She pointed at the pot with a fork that dripped scrambled egg. “Help yourself. You’re hung over, huh?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t drink last night. What time is it?”

“Little after two.”

“In the afternoon?”

She looked at me. “Sure in the afternoon,” she said. She went back to stirring the eggs. “Must have been some party,” she said.

“You weren’t here?” I was opening cupboard doors, looking for a cup.

“They’re all in the sink,” she said. “No, I’m the morning-after girl.”

“Oh,” I said.

It was close quarters there, her at the stove and me at the sink. I picked a cup out of the pile of dishes in the sink, washed it as best I could, and poured coffee in it.

She said, “I never saw you around before.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I don’t get up here very much.”

“Up here from where?”

“Canarsie,” I said.

She made a face like I’d just told a very corny joke. “Come on,” she said.

“No, it’s true.”

She already had a plate for herself. She scraped the eggs into it and put the pan back on the stove. “You want eggs, you got to make them yourself,” she said. Not being nasty about it, just letting me know.

“No, that’s all right,” I said. “Coffee’s enough for me.”

She carried her eggs and coffee over to the cluster of furniture in the middle of the room and sat down. Artie had no kitchen table. I followed her and sat down facing her and sipped at my coffee, which was still too hot to drink. She didn’t pay any attention to me, but just shoveled scrambled egg in the way you might shovel coal into a furnace, just scoop, scoop, scoop. Like Patrolman Ziccatta and his nip, nip, nip. Steady, machinelike.

I said, “When do you figure Artie’ll get up?”

“When I’m done breakfast,” she said. “You don’t have to stick around.”

“Oh, but I do,” I said. “I have to talk to Artie.”

Now she did look at me. “What about?”

“A problem,” I told her. “A jam I’m in.”

“What’s Artie supposed to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” I said, which was the truth. There just wasn’t anyone else I could think of to talk to.

“If it’s money,” she said, ‘he’s broke. Believe me.”

“It isn’t money,” I told her. “I need his advice is all.”

She looked at me over the vanishing eggs and went scoop, scoop, scoop. Then she paused a second and said, “What is it, you need an abortionist?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Nothing like that.”

She said, “If it isn’t money and it isn’t sex, then I don’t know. You aren’t a junky, are you?”

“Me? No, not me.” The idea was surprising as the idea that two professional killers might have been sent out to practice their profession on me. Me a junky? Me a threat to the organization?

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “You look too healthy.” It was a comment that could almost have been an insult, delivered matter-of-fact between mouthfuls of scrambled egg.

‘It’s just some trouble I’ve got,” I said. I drank some of the coffee, and walked around the room a little. I’d slept in all my clothes, and I had that swollen puffy moist feeling you get when you’ve slept in all your clothes. I felt as though I’d just slept my way through a cross-country bus ride. “I’m sorry if I’m being mysterious,” I said. “But I don’t think I ought to talk about it too much.”

She shrugged, finished the eggs, and got to her feet. “I don’t care,” she said.

As she went over to dump the plate in the sink, I remembered something I could tell her. “My name’s Charlie,” I told her. “Charlie Poole.”

“Hi,” she said, standing at the sink, her back to me. She didn’t offer me her name. “You want to wake Artie now?” she asked me.

“Is it okay?”

“If you don’t,” she said, “I do.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Don’t take too long,” she said.

“Okay.”

I went back into the bedroom, carrying the coffee cup, still half full. Artie was lying on his stomach, arms and legs spread out in a pale twisted swastika. He looked like he was sleeping five miles down.

I said, “Artie? Hey, Artie.”

Surprise. He opened his eyes right away, flipped over on his back, sat up, looked at me, and said, “Chloe?”

“No,” I said. “Charlie. Charlie Poole.”

He blinked, and then flashed a great big smile and said, “Charlie baby! Nice to see you, long time no see, baby!”

“I came in last night,” I reminded him. I wasn’t entirely convinced he was awake.

He kept smiling the big smile, looking at me with bright eyes. “Great party!” he said. “What a great party!” Then he blinked again, and the smile slipped, and he looked at the floor. “You slept on the floor,” he said, the way he might have said, “You walked on the water.” Incredulity, but muted by awe. He said it twice, the same way both times. “You slept on the floor. You slept on the floor.”

“Artie,” I said, because I figured now he really was awake, “I’m in a kind of a jam. I need help, Artie.”

He looked up from the floor, and his smile this time was puzzled, his eyes sort of glassy. “Charlie Poole,” he mused. “Little Charlie Poole. Slept on the floor. Got himself in a jam. Little Charlie Poole.”

“I need help,” I repeated.

He spread his hands. “Tell me, baby,” he said, more quietly and sincerely than I’d ever heard him say anything. “Tell me all. Begin.”

Begin. Begin where? Two people were trying to kill me, that was part of it. The whole explanation about Uncle Al and the organization and the bar in Canarsie, that was part of it. Being out with little money and no coat, that was part of it. But where was the beginning of it?

Then I remembered the name I’d heard in the conversation between Uncle Al and the killers last night: Agricola. Agricola was the beginning of it, I supposed, the man who’d ordered the killers to kill me. So I said, “Artie, do you know of anybody named Agricola? In some kind of criminal organization or something.”

“Agricola? The Farmer? Hell, yes.”

“You do know him.”

“Farmer Agricola,” he said. “Everybody knows him. Knows of him, anyway. I never met him myself, of course, he’s too big. Besides, he stays out on his farm on Staten Island most of the time.”

“Staten Island,” I said.

“Sure. I knew about him back when I used to sell the pills, you know? He’s way up in the higher echelons there, maybe he runs the whole thing for all I know. Did you know I quit selling them things? I saw this documentary on television, the evils of narcotic addiction, and let me tell you, baby, it was like a revelation. You’re looking at a new Artie Dexter, a new man, believe it or don’t. I am now so loaded with social conscience you—”

“Agricola,” I said.

“If you’re thinking,” he said, “of making an extra kopek, peddle the pills like at that bar you run out there, take my advice and don’t do it. Some morning you’ll look at yourself in the mirror, you’ll say—”

“No,” I said, “that isn’t it. This guy Agricola sent—”

But then the door opened and the sloe-eyed raven-tressed beauty came in and said, “Time, gentlemen, please.”

Artie shouted, “Chloe!” He threw back the covers and spread out his arms. “Come to Papa!”

“I hope to Christ not,” she said.

Artie didn’t have any pajamas on at all. Feeling that old adolescent blush staining my cheeks like the Sherwin-Williams paint can had just been dumped on my head instead of the globe, I said, “Well, uh, Artie, uh, I’ll, uh, talk to you, uh, later on, uh...” Meanwhile backing up. I left the room by the other door, the one leading to the bathroom, because that way I didn’t have to get closer to Chloe, who was taking off her dungarees and ignoring the dickens out of me.

I felt much better when I had the closed bathroom door between us. I heard Artie shout, “Ah hah!” and then there was silence from in there.

As long as I was in the bathroom anyway, and nothing to do, I washed. I didn’t take any clothing off, because I would have had to put the same dirty clothing on again and I didn’t want to have to do that. I knew, for instance, that my shirt collar must be black by now, but it didn’t bother me as much as it would if I were actually to see it. So I simply washed my face and hands, brushed my teeth with toothpaste and my finger, gargled a little bit on general principles, and left the bathroom by the other door feeling somewhat better.

As I was going out to the living room, I heard the telephone ring. I looked around, but the phone was in the bedroom, and I heard Artie bellow, “Every time! Every goddam time!” The phone didn’t ring any more, so I guess he answered it.

I searched the living-room shelves, found in amid the record albums an old paperback of Charles Addams’ cartoons, and sat down with it to distract myself from thoughts of violence and mayhem.

Somehow, I think I picked the wrong book.

After a while Artie and Chloe came out, both dressed now, both looking bouncy and healthy. Artie rubbed his hands together briskly and said, “Now! Charlie boy, you wanted to talk.”

Chloe said, “Coffee?”

“Right,” said Artie. “A round of coffee. Coffee for me and my troops. Charlie?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Great,” said Artie. He clapped his hands together and came over and sat down in a chair facing me. “We begin,” he said.

“And,” said Chloe from the kitchen-closet, “you can tell your Uncle Al he’s got a rotten sense of timing.”

I said, “My Uncle Al?”

Artie frowned and said to Chloe, “That was supposed to be a surprise, schmo. He didn’t want us to tell him.”

“I forgot,” said Chloe. “Sorry.”

I said, “What is this?”

Artie said, “Let’s talk. You had a problem, you wanted to talk. Something about Farmer Agricola, right?”

“No, wait,” I said. “This is important. What about my Uncle Al?”

Chloe said, “Forget it, will you? I’m sorry I spoke up, I didn’t mean to ruin anything.”

“The bit’s blown,” Artie told her. “It don’t matter any more, idiot, you already opened your big mouth.” But the manner wasn’t as harsh as the words. It was as though he couldn’t really be mad at her right now.

She said, “So sue me,” and went back to making the coffee.

I said, “So tell me.”

“That was your Uncle Al on the phone,” Artie told me. “He wanted to know were you here, and I said yes did he want to talk to you, and he said no he’d come on down and pick you up but don’t tell you because he wanted it to be a surprise. So when he comes in, will you act surprised?”

Chapter 6

You read about it in the papers all the time. A city bus driver, bored and bedeviled by years of driving back and forth over the same restricted route, all at once makes a left turn and drives to Columbus, Ohio, instead. Not that he wants to go to Columbus, Ohio, or even knows anyone there. It is only that Columbus, Ohio, is off that damn bus route. You remember reading about things like that, right?

Well, some day it’s going to happen on a Staten Island ferry. Some day the guy at the wheel of the Staten Island ferry is going to get sick of going back and forth between Staten Island and the Battery, and he’s going to turn left and steam to Nantucket instead. It hasn’t happened yet, but you mark my words; some day.

Riding the ferry to Staten Island now, and thinking about it, I was wishing today would be the some day, and this ferry the ferry that would do it. Nantucket, Bermuda, even the Azores. Or, Fidelistas hijack airplanes and take them to Cuba, why not ferryboats?

I don’t know why not, but they don’t. Or didn’t, not the one I rode. The one I rode went to Staten Island, of all places, and I got off and went looking for Farmer Agricola.

I had left Artie’s place, of course, in a hurry. But first there’d been a few more things to say; I’d borrowed a jacket from him, and swore him to secrecy about where I was going and that I knew the name Agricola. “Don’t tell my Uncle Al,” I said. “Don’t tell anybody.”

“Baby, tell me what’s going on,” he said.

“No time, no time. I’ll come back when I can, I promise.”

“Right,” he said. “My lips are sealed. Hers, too.” He looked at her. “Right, big mouth?”

“Sure,” she said. She shook her head at me. “Don’t worry, Charlie,” she said. I’m not sure, but I thought she seemed more interested in me now than before.

Anyway, “I’m off,” I said, and got into the black basketball jacket Artie was loaning me. The arms were too short, so the sleeves of my white shirt stuck out halfway from wrist to elbow, and I couldn’t close it across to zip it up, but it was better than nothing.

I ran back down to the street, and two blocks away I saw them, the killers, rolling slowly along in their black automobile with my Uncle Al between them on the front seat. They didn’t notice me; they were too busy looking at street signs, trying not to get lost in the Village.

I picked up the Seventh Avenue subway at Sheridan Square, took it to South Ferry, the end of the line, and got aboard a Staten Island ferry, which set sail for Europe but only got as far as Staten Island.

It was a beautiful day for a sea voyage; a cloudless sky, a bright warm sun, a brisk but not cold breeze. I stood out on the upper deck, at the front, where if for one reason or another I should go over the rail I would land on a car roof and not in the Atlantic Ocean, and I tried to build up some spirit of adventure from the voyage and the weather and the mission, but all I was was scared.

And hungry. When the ferry docked at St. George I walked up to the main street, built diagonally across one of the steep hills that Staten Island has so many of, and found a luncheonette, and had myself a hamburger and a cup of coffee. When I paid, I had seventeen dollars and thirty-eight cents left.

The luncheonette boasted a phone booth. I went over to it and looked in the narrow Staten Island directory, not expecting to find anything, but Agricola, A. F. was practically the first entry. It didn’t give a street address, just a town, Annadale.

This wasn’t necessarily the right Agricola, but on the other hand, how many people named Agricola would be operating farms on Staten Island? If it turned out to be the wrong one, maybe he’d know where I could find the right one.

I asked the man behind the luncheonette counter how I would get to Annadale, and he told me what bus to take and where I’d find it.

Staten Island is a very odd place. It’s one of the five boroughs of New York City, just as much a part of the city as Manhattan or Brooklyn or the Bronx, but on the other hand, it’s this crazy island tucked in next to New Jersey, and until the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge you couldn’t even drive to Staten Island from any of the other boroughs. It’s still the only borough with no subway, and it has no skyscrapers, and there are great expanses of it that are just scrubby weedy fields. It has slums, because every place has slums, but the slums don’t look like New York City slums, they look like Poughkeepsie slums or the back part of Bellville, Illinois. And even though the whole island is only one-fifth of a city, it itself is a collection of little towns, separated by countryside and woods. There’s St. George, where the ferry lands, and Port Richmond and Howland Hook, and New Dorp and Eltingville, and Pleasant Plains and Richmond Valley, and Bulls Head and New Springville, and Annadale, where a man named Agricola lived.

Annadale is a pleasant underpopulated town between Arthur Kill Road and Drumgoole Boulevard, in case you’d like to hear two street names that didn’t make me feel any better.

The old-time comedians that made so much fun of Canarsie and New Jersey mostly just left Staten Island alone. Maybe it was out of sympathy for the Islanders, or maybe it was because Staten Island is so improbable, in concept and appearance, that even a comedian couldn’t think of anything to say about it.

My bus let me off where Arthur Kill Road and Drumgoole Boulevard meet at Richmond Avenue. There was a Gulf station there, and I stopped in and asked the man if he knew where I’d find the Agricola farm. He didn’t, but he suggested I walk down Drumgoole Boulevard a ways and inquire again.

Drumgoole Boulevard was built during the Second World War by the United States Army in order to move troops quickly from New Jersey, via Outerbridge Crossing, across Staten Island to the embarkation points along the northeastern coast. From the looks of it, it hasn’t been repaired since, not once. It gets very little traffic, and for the most part there are just woods and fields on both sides of the road. Now and again I’d pass a cluster of houses built all in a row, four or five of them, usually of brick, very nice-looking but lonely. Now and again a car would pass me, headed west toward Outerbridge Crossing, or coming the other way. The cars all drove in the left lane, because the right lane was in such bad shape, the concrete all crumbling and pitted. There were no sidewalks, so I walked down the grass island in the center of the road, weaving in and out of the tree trunks and streetlight poles.

I’d walked quite a ways, not having seen a gas station or store of any kind, and beginning to wonder who I was going to ask about Farmer Agricola next, when a black car raced by me, headed west.

It was the car, I knew it the second I saw it. Yes, and the two of them in it, both in the front seat. I stood where I was, on the island, and watched the car shoot up to the top of a long gradual hill ahead of me, and there turn right.

Had they questioned Artie, threatened him, perhaps threatened his girl? Had one or the other, Artie or Chloe, told them what I knew, that I knew the name of Agricola and that I was coming to Staten Island in search of him?

Or had they merely come back for further instructions? They wouldn’t dare use the telephone for a matter like this, not with all the wiretapping going on these days. They maybe went to Artie’s place, found me gone, and knew they’d lost my trail again. So back they came to Staten Island to confer with Agricola, to decide what to do next.

They must know by now they couldn’t use Uncle Al any more to betray me, that I would be defending myself against Uncle Al’s phone calls from now on.

This was twice they’d gone by me today without noticing me. Having gone past me this second time seemed to prove that neither Artie nor Chloe had talked; if the killers had known I was on the Island they would surely have checked everyone they saw who could possibly be me.

So they must be returning to Agricola. Which meant Agricola’s farm must be off to the right, at that intersection up ahead.

I didn’t know how long they would be with Agricola, or how soon they would come rushing back, so I left the central island and went over to the right edge of the road and walked along the grass and weeds there by the curb, where the sidewalk would have been if the Army engineers had expected us to win the Second World War.

The intersection was at a street called Huguenot Avenue. Naturally. I turned right and kept walking.

For some reason all of Staten Island, even the most expensive parts like Princess Bay, has a faintly grubby look, as though everyone had given up years ago in the attempt to keep the place looking bright and cheerful. The most fiery red, exposed a brief while to the aura of Staten Island, fades into a pedestrian tone, modest and a little grimy. The Island from end to end, has the same feeling as the ferries that service it.

Huguenot Avenue had this aura, in buckets. I walked along past just slightly seedy homes, and past just slightly scuffy fields and copses, and now and then a stretch of farmland, sometimes with dead cornstalks in faded cream rows. A couple of time I passed dirt roads, with rural delivery mailboxes on poles at the edge of the road.

Rural delivery mailboxes, in New York City!

The names were on the mailboxes: Guyon, Hylan, Barrett, Agricola...

The dirt road went off to the right, fenced in barbed wire on both sides. On its left was a cornfield, on its right a grazing pasture. Ahead, the road ran into a copse of trees.

I didn’t want to go in that road, on which I would be open and exposed and trapped, while there was any chance I’d meet those two killers coming the other way. So I went past the entrance, and down the road a ways farther, and where a tree had fallen over to make a natural bench beside the road I sat down to wait.

It was getting to be late afternoon now, the sun losing some of its warmth, the breeze adding to its chill. I lit a cigarette, and scuffed my feet around a little in the dirt beside the road, and sat on the fallen tree, and wondered what I was doing here.

Trying to save my life, I supposed.

Though it did take some of the heart out of the expedition to have Uncle Al turn traitor that way. And having those two guys in their black car show up everywhere I went was beginning to give me the willies.

What if I couldn’t convince Agricola? What if he wouldn’t listen to me? What if he took one look at me, realized who I was, and started shooting?

If only I had a gun of my own, I could hold it on him and force him to listen to me while I talked. If I had a gun. And if I wouldn’t be too scared to use it, which I would be.

Sitting there on the tree, thinking about things, I began to get myself more and more frightened and more and more depressed. Surely the best thing for me to do was go away to Mexico or Tierra del Fuego. Regardless I had only seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents. I could stow away on a ship, on a plane. I could hitchhike to Mexico. In Brasilia perhaps I could find a job, learn the language — could Portuguese be learned? — and build a new life for myself.

But I knew it was a false dream. Wherever I might try to hide, from Aabenraa, Denmark, to Zywiec, Poland, they would find me. From Zululand to Afghanistan, from Etah to Little America, the wrath of the organization would seek me out. There was no use trying to run away from the organization. All I could hope to do was convince the right people that I wasn’t someone they wanted to kill after all.

Down the road, the black car nosed out into view. I tensed; they were returning to action, armed with fresh orders from their boss, off again in their search for me.

The car turned right. Toward where I was sitting.

My first instinct was to throw myself on the ground behind the fallen tree, put my face in the grass and my arms up over my head, and await my end in as cowardly a manner as possible. But I resisted; all was not lost, not all, not entirely. They couldn’t be expecting to see me here, and that was to my advantage.

So all I did was fold my arms in front of myself, to hide the shortness of the jacket sleeves, and lean forward with my head slumped as though I were asleep. I was well aware what an inviting target I made for a hit-and-run accident, my bent head sticking out there just at headlight height, but I locked every nerve and every muscle and every joint, and I waited.

The black car rolled by me, with a purr of engine and a hiss of tires. I sagged a bit, in relief, but otherwise held my pose until I was sure they were out of sight. Then I sat up, and looked to left and right, and I was alone on the road.

Now there was no longer any excuse to stall. The black car was gone, I was all alone and unobserved. I had come here to see Agricola; now was the time.

I got to my feet, heavy-footed with reluctance, and started walking.

Chapter 7

It was a long way in. The first part, between the pasture and the cornfield, I felt as obvious and exposed as the last house standing in the Dust Bowl, and when I got to the cover of trees without incident I had to stop a minute to calm my nerves and wipe my brow and wind my courage up again.

Also to get off the dirt road. This copse of trees was thick with underbrush, but I preferred to fight my way through a thicket or two than be caught on that road by Agricola or any of his henchmen. So I labored along, not as quiet as a Cooper Indian nor as fast, but progressing.

What I was blundering through was a slender arm of forest reaching down between two cleared sections. The farmhouse, when I finally saw it through the trees, stood in lonely grandeur in the middle of a huge clearing all its own. I looked at it, and depression got a fresh new grip on me.

The building itself didn’t register with me at all, to begin with; only that blank open grassy expanse stretching between me and it. Agricola, I knew, must have had this in mind when he moved into yon house; the business he was in, it must be reassuring to know no one can sneak up on you.

So what to do? Wait till darkness? But it was now barely three-thirty in the afternoon, and besides, if this was Agricola’s defense against a brutal world in the daytime, what would his defense be like at night? Floodlights at the very least, and maybe armed guards. Visions of slavering dogs leaped in my head.

Better in than at. I struck out across the open ground toward the house.

Every nerve-ending in my body developed radar, and they all detected the same thing: machine guns in every window of the house, all aimed at me, all waiting for me to get just a step closer, two steps closer, just a little, little closer...

I kept walking. Nothing happened, and I kept on walking, following again now the dirt road, and ahead of me the house loomed larger and larger.

It was a farmhouse, that’s all, of the afterthought variety. Someone had built an ordinary rectangular farmhouse, two stories high, with a bit of a porch in front, and with an A-shaped roof sloping front to back, the roof bulging with two dormers, and then rooms and rooms and rooms had been added as afterthoughts. A chunk had been stuck on at the left side, as full of windows as the bridge of a Staten Island ferry; possibly a solarium or a hothouse or who knew what. Another chunk on the right, windowless. A chunk on the top of the solarium, with modern crank windows instead of the old-fashioned kind on the rest of the house. More chunks, here and here and here, most of them in approximately the same clapboard as the original house, but with a final concrete-block addition on the left and something that looked like aluminum siding used on one second-story chunk on the right. The result, sort of Grant Wood flaccid, had been painted maroon and left for dead.

The dirt road, in its last stages toward this stack of building parts, stopped being a dirt road and started being a blacktop road. The pasture, too, having been pruned and watered, had graduated to a lawn. The blacktop road cut across this lawn, turned right at the house in order to go past the front door, and turned left again to go around the side of the house to the back. A gray Lincoln Continental was parked in the sunlight at the side of the house, facing me with Chinese eyes and a grille that laughed in evil anticipation.

I attained the blacktop. No gunshots, no guards, no slavering dogs. Nothing but silence and sunshine and the maroon house and me walking forward and the Oriental Continental. I kept walking, breathing from time to time through an extremely narrow opening in my throat.

I got all the way to the front door, and still nothing had happened. I stopped there at last, close enough to the door to touch it, and wondered what I should do next.

Just knock, and wait? But a servant, I assumed, would answer, or maybe a bodyguard. Anyway, not Farmer Agricola himself, that was for sure. And whoever it was, I could visualize the conversation:

“Mr. Agricola, please.” “Who’s calling?” Charles Poole.” “Bam! Bam!”

Some other way then. The thing to do was sneak into the house somehow and see if I could find Agricola alone. Then, if only I could talk fast enough and convincingly enough, maybe he’d listen.

I moved away from the front door, off to the right, where the drive went around to the back of the house. I went past the gleaming gray Lincoln and around boxy maroon house additions, and going around the final corner at last I came to the rear of the house, where the blacktop spread out into a solid black pool, a parking lot. A bulky sagging dirty red barn and a low shiny white aluminum four-car garage stood next to one another, both uncomfortable at the association. Beyond the blacktop, varicolored slabs of slate formed a large patio full of tubular lawn furniture in green and yellow. There was no one in sight.

A door just at the corner of the house attracted my attention. I went over to it and opened it and it led into a narrow sort of entranceway with coats and hats and jackets and sweaters hanging from nails stuck into the walls along both sides. Overshoes and rubbers were lined along the floor, and a snow shovel leaned in the corner.

I stood thinking of science fiction. Until I started running the bar, I used to spend a lot of my unemployed days flat on my back, reading science fiction. There’s a particular science-fiction story that was written over and over again and that I always enjoyed, about a young man in some future society who goes through a lot of dangerous adventuring, with mysterious people after him and various threats on his life and some sort of secret organization in the background, and at the end of the story you find out nobody ever really meant to hurt the young man at all, the whole thing was a kind of test to see if he was good enough to join the secret organization, and of course he always is.

As I had opened the door of the house, I remembered those stories, and in a sudden rush of fantasy I had told myself that on the other side of this door would be Uncle Al and Mr. Agricola and Patrolman Ziccatta and Artie Dexter and Chloe and the two men from the black car, and they’d congratulate me, I’d passed the test with flying colors and I was now a member of the organization. But what did I actually find, within that door? Overshoes and sweaters.

Secret organizations may menace people for the fun of it in future societies, but in the society we live in now they only do it if they mean it.

Well. There was another door, directly in front of me. I opened it, and it led me to a huge old farm kitchen full of huge new city-kitchen appliances. Like everything else around here, the kitchen was empty. I crossed it, to a swing door that stood open, and moved on tiptoe down a hall.

Now at last I did see someone. In a room to the right of the hall, three people sat around a table talking. The colored woman the size of a barrage balloon would be the cook, the white-haired red-nosed man in the gray uniform would be the chauffeur, and the husky broken-nosed man in the white shirt and a gun in a shoulder holster would be someone I didn’t want to meet right now. Or ever.

They were talking about graduated income tax, and they all seemed to be opposed to it, though what they thought it was doing to them I didn’t stick around to find out. None of them was looking in my direction, so I flitted past the doorway like the lover in a French bedroom farce, and continued on down the hall.

Ahead of me, someone was playing an awful lot of lush piano very badly. I moved closer, down the hallway. Rooms to left and right were all empty.

The piano-playing was coming from within a room shut off by double sliding doors. But the doors didn’t quite meet; leaning close and peeking between them, I could see a girl in billowing pink sitting at a piano in a band of sunlight, playing with fingers that twinkled and spun. Her hair was yellow bright, and long, and in thick delicate waves like yellow mist reflecting the sunlight. Her face was pretty as a greeting card, and it seemed to me, though I couldn’t see all that clearly, that her eyes were blue. She was slender, with slender arms and a narrow waist, and long slender legs tapering to tiny thoroughbred ankles down where her toes in pink pumps touched the piano pedal. She was, I suppose, eighteen or nineteen, and as lovely a vision as could be imagined.

She was playing the sort of thing Liberace plays, only far worse. And from the dreamy expression on her face as she played, I could only assume she dreamt of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

I turned away. Although I’d only been able to see a narrow pie-slice of that room, the expression on her face had been enough to tell me she was alone there.

Stairs on my left led upward. There were still rooms I hadn’t seen on the first floor, I was sure of that, but I didn’t know exactly how to get to them. Simply because it was easiest, I chose to continue my search upstairs.

And hit the jackpot on the first try. At the head of the stairs — carpeted, happily — was a hall, and on the right a door slightly ajar. I looked in there, and it was a den or office, with bookcases on the walls and a desk and leather sofa and bar and filing cabinet. The man sitting at the desk, glowering in irked thought at the door, must be Farmer Agricola. Husky, fiftyish, jowly, with the arrogant look of the wealthy and powerful, this could be no one but the head of the house.

I ducked back before he saw me, and took the time to gather what few wits and what tiny shreds of courage I could find, erecting them into a shaky substitute for a backbone. I stood there three or four minutes in the hall, at the head of the stairs, taking deep silent breaths and letting them out just as silently, with the faint sound of that lovely girl’s rotten piano-playing in my ears, and finally I forced myself to move, striding forward and pushing the door open the rest of the way and marching directly into the path of that glower.

“Mr. Agricola,” I said, talking fast, “I’m Charlie Poole, and I’ve got to talk to you because you’re making a terrible mistake.”

He didn’t move. No surprise showed in his features at all. He glowered at me as though I’d been standing in front of him like this for hours and he was beginning to get bored with me.

Had he known all along? Was there someone behind me, waiting only for the nod from that heavy head?

“Mr. Agricola,” I said, and turned my own head quickly, but there was no one behind me at all. I looked back. “I’ve got to talk to you, Mr. Agricola,” I said.

Nothing.

Suspicion struck me, horrible suspicion. I said, “Mr. Agricola?”

I moved forward, across the room. His eyes did not follow me. He kept glowering at the doorway.

Ripples were running up my back, shivering that had nothing to do with cold. My teeth even began to chatter a little bit. “Mister,” I said. “Mister.”

The room wasn’t very brightly lit, not very brightly lit at all. Heavy draperies across the windows cut down the sunlight to a mere bronze memory of itself, and the massive dark furniture with which this study was furnished seemed to absorb what light was left. In the semi-dark, only his eyes were oases of light, glowering in fury at the doorway.

I moved around the desk, beside him, and I could see that the hilt of the knife in his back had caught in the back of his chair, holding him upright. As though he’d been standing behind the desk when he’d been stabbed, and had dropped into the chair, hooking the hilt and hanging himself there in final impotent rage.

This was the first corpse I’d ever seen without a camera between me and it, so I don’t know how long I stood there, fascinated by the knife and the balance of the body the way a bird is fascinated by the snake, but I hadn’t moved when the voice from the doorway said, “Hey!”

I was startled out of reverie. I turned my head, and saw the broken-nosed man just unlimbering the gun from its shoulder holster. I put my hands up in the air and said, “Don’t shoot.”

He pointed the gun at me, but he didn’t shoot. “I got him, Mr. Agricola,” he said.

“Uhhhh,” I said, wondering how to break the news gently.

But I didn’t have to. This broken-nosed man surely had more experience than me with corpses; at any rate, it took him less time to understand he was in the same room with one. He said, “Oh ho?” And then, “All right, you.”

“I didn’t do it,” I said. Talk about whistling in the dark.

Chapter 8

“Don’t move,” said the broken-nosed man. His gun said the same thing.

I didn’t move. I stood there with my arms up over my head and wondered what was going to happen now. My arms almost immediately had gotten tired, and the broken-nosed man hadn’t told me to put them up in so many words in the first place, but I didn’t want to take a chance on lowering them. I stood there and sweated and smiled like a Dale Carnegie dropout.

The broken-nosed man took two steps backward, through the doorway and into the hall. Still watching me, he shouted “Tim! Hoy, Tim!”

From far away downstairs came an answering shout, with a question in it.

“Come up here a minute!” shouted the broken-nosed man.

I heard sliding doors slide, somewhere downstairs, and a clear and beautiful voice called, “Clarence? What’s the matter up there?”

The broken-nosed man — whose parents had apparently been such poor prophets they’d named him Clarence — called back, “It’s all right, Miss Althea, there’s nothing the matter.”

Heavy footsteps thudded up the carpeted stairs. I hoped they belonged to Tim rather than Miss Althea; lovely young girls shouldn’t clump like that.

Tim it was, the white-haired red-nosed chauffeur. He was red-cheeked now, too, from the climb, but the red drained from his cheeks and faded on his nose when he saw his employer. He said, “For God’s sake, what’s happened?”

“This bird killed Mr. Agricola,” Clarence told him.

I shook my head, between my upraised arms. “He was dead when I came in here,” I said.

“For God’s sake,” said Tim.

Clarence said to me, “That won’t do, you. Nobody did Mr. Agricola in but you.”

“No. Really.”

Clarence shook his head and looked as though he pitied my feeble brain. “There’s nobody in the house,” he said, “but me and Tim and Ruby the cook and Miss Althea, and we all been downstairs.”

“Those two guys in the black car,” I said. “That just drove away, maybe they did it.”

Clarence shook his head some more. “Let me just show you it’s no good,” he said. “You made your try and it didn’t work. Mr. Agricola came downstairs with those two boys, and then went back up again after they left. We all saw him.”

Tim, who was still recovering from his first shock, started abruptly and nodded, saying, “That’s right. He came to the doorway where we were all sitting, the three of us.”

“So it’s you,” said Clarence.

I knew it wasn’t me, but Clarence was sure convincing. I said, “How do you know there’s nobody else in the house? I got in, why couldn’t other people?”

“Sure,” said Clarence.

Miss Althea was suddenly in the doorway, saying, “What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Clarence? Daddy?” I was right, her eyes were blue. They were also very wide right now.

Of all the people in the world, Miss Althea was the one I most wanted to know I was innocent. I said to her, with as much sincerity as I could put into my voice, “I didn’t do it.”

Clarence and Tim, meanwhile, were both trying to get her to go back out of the room, but she wouldn’t go. She said, “Daddy? Daddy?” Her eyes just kept getting wider and wider.

Clarence bellowed, “Ruby! Come up here and get Miss Althea!”

Miss Althea, at that point, screamed and fainted.

I still knew I hadn’t done it, but I couldn’t help feeling as though I was somehow the cause of all this trouble and commotion, and I was feeling embarrassed and foolish about the whole thing. I stood there with strained arms and pained expression and wished desperately I was somewhere else. Even in the back seat of the black car, even that much, if it meant I wasn’t here.

There were now two or three minutes of confusion. Tim carried Miss Althea away, and Ruby arrived and immediately trundled off to see to Miss Althea, and Tim came back, and throughout it all the black eye of the gun in Clarence’s hand kept watching me.

When Tim came back, Clarence said, “Frisk him.”

I said, “I swear I didn’t do it.”

“Sure,” said Clarence. “We went through that already, remember?”

Tim came around behind me and went through my pockets, taking everything out and piling it up on the desk beside us. There wasn’t much: my wallet, my keys, a pack of Pall Malls and a folder of matches, twenty-three cents in change, and a pocket pack of tissues.

Clarence said, “What’s the wallet say?”

I said, “Can I put my arms down, please?”

“Go ahead.”

I did, and said, “Thank you.”

Tim had opened my wallet in the meantime. “His name’s Charles Robert Poole,” he said. “He lives in Brooklyn.”

“Poole?” Clarence looked at me with new interest. “You’re the nephew runs the bar?”

“Yes. I came—”

“Who would have thought,” he said. “You showed guts, kid. Not much brains, but lots of guts.”

“Listen,” I said desperately, “I really didn’t—”

Tim interrupted me, saying to Clarence, “Should I call the law?”

“No,” said Clarence. “If this is the nephew, he knows too much. We can’t have him talking to the law.”

Tim waved his hands, saying, “I don’t want to know nothing about that. I’m a chauffeur, that’s all I am. I don’t want to know nothing about nothing.”

“Sure,” said Clarence. To me he said, “Put your stuff back in your pockets.”

I put my stuff back in my pockets. I wanted to ask him what he was planning, what he was going to do, but I was afraid if I asked him he’d tell me, so I kept my mouth shut.

Clarence backed out of the room again and motioned with the gun. “Let’s go,” he said.

Tim said, “What do I do about Mr. Agricola?”

“Leave him be. Call Mr. Gross, tell him the farmer bought the farm. You got that? The farmer bought the farm.”

“The farmer bought the farm,” said Tim.

Clarence said, “His number’s in the pad there, on the desk.”

“Right,” said Tim.

Meanwhile I had come out to the hall. Clarence turned his attention to me again and said, “Downstairs, you.”

We went downstairs, me in the lead. I said, “If you’d just let me explain,” and paused because I expected to be interrupted. But Clarence didn’t say a word, so I went on, saying, “I didn’t kill Mr. Agricola, I really didn’t. I’m the wrong type to do something like that, you can see that just looking at me. All I wanted to do was talk to—”

“Turn right.”

We were at the foot of the stairs. I turned right, and walked toward the kitchen.

“—Mr. Agricola about what was going on, why anybody would want to kill me, because I didn’t do anything. Somebody was making a mistake somewhere, and all I wanted to do was talk to Mr. Agricola.”

“Through that door there,” he said.

I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. That blacktop, that sunlight, the silence and emptiness made me think of firing squads.

“Over to the barn.”

I walked toward the barn.

“I wouldn’t kill him,” I said. “Honest to God, I wouldn’t kill him. I wouldn’t kill anybody. Why would I do something to Mr. Agricola? I wanted him to tell those two guys not to kill me, what good would it do me—”

“He couldn’t do that,” Clarence said. “He had his orders, like anybody else. Open the door and go on in.”

I pulled open the barn door, which creaked and groaned, and went on in to darkness and a musty smell.

“Orders from who?” I said.

“Never mind,” said Clarence. “Walk straight ahead.”

The barn wasn’t being used for anything. Empty stalls, empty bins, empty nails stuck in the walls, empty loft up above. Sunlight gleamed in cracks in the outer walls, filling the interior with soft vague indirect lighting as though we were underwater in a lagoon.

The left rear corner had been closed off into a tiny windowless room lined with rough-plank shelves. This was empty now, but not for long; Clarence pushed me in and shut the door behind me. I heard a hasp lock click shut. I was alone.

Now what? I supposed Clarence had decided he couldn’t do anything about me on his own account, and so he’d just locked me away here for safekeeping until he found out what was what from Mr. Gross. I also supposed Mr. Gross was the man higher up, the one Mr. Agricola had taken his orders from.

So it was Mr. Gross I should be trying to see, not Mr. Agricola.

Well, it didn’t look as though I’d get to see him. If anybody wanted to set up a Charlie Poole pool, I would put my money on the two guys in the black car for the next people I’d be seeing. And the last.

A rotting old barn like that, there wasn’t any reason I couldn’t escape from it. I kicked at one of the exterior walls, experimentally, and managed only to hurt my big toe. I hit my shoulder against the door, and hurt my shoulder. I hit my palm against one of the interior walls, and hurt my palm.

While there were still a few parts of me that didn’t hurt, I decided to quit.

How long would it take? Clarence and Mr. Gross would have to talk together, guardedly, on the telephone. Then Mr. Gross would have to get in touch with the two men in the black car, and they’d have to drive on out to Staten Island again. An hour at the least, maybe two hours.

I sat down on the dirt floor, and gave myself up to depression.

It was only fifteen minutes before I heard someone unlocking the door out there. I scrambled to my feet, and my mouth got dry while my palms got wet. I kept clearing my throat and clearing my throat; when that door opened, I was going to have to talk faster than I had ever talked before in my life. And I wasn’t even sure what I was going to say.

The door swung open at last, and it was Miss Althea standing there, as beautiful and improbable as a Disney heroine, but distorting her beauty was a terrible frown of grief and rage that stroked her face with heavy angry lines. In the right hand she raised toward me was, incredibly, a gun, a great big automatic. Her hand was barely large enough to hold it, and she had to bring her left hand up to help keep it steady.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“You killed my father,” she said. Her voice was hoarse with strain.

“No no,” I said. “No, I didn’t, no.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she said, and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 9

The noise alone, in that confined space, was practically enough to kill me. The gunshot went POWwwrrrangingggg, reverberating around inside the tiny room and my tiny head like J. Arthur Rank falling over his gong.

I thought for sure I was shot, killed, done with. What confused me was that I wasn’t falling, down. I stood there, stunned, baffled, and all my mind was capable of doing was wondering why I wasn’t falling down.

Could it be I wasn’t shot?

POWwwrranginggg! She did it again, frowning now as much in concentration as in either rage or grief. Her tongue stuck out a corner of her mouth, her slender shoulders were hunched up with the effort, and she just kept squeezing that trigger.

Twice. Was it even remotely possible I was still alive? With no more than six feet separating us, with that huge piece of machinery spitting authoritative pieces of metal at me, was there any reason at all to suppose I was still alive?

Of course, the gun barrel was weaving back and forth like the head of a cobra. And it was certainly true that I still wasn’t falling. So maybe, just maybe now, maybe she was missing.

But could she keep missing forever? I was in front of her, six feet away. No matter how bad a shot she was, sooner or later one of those bullets she was sending out into the world was going to find a home in a portion of me.

I jumped her.

She was slender, but strong, and she had an amazing number of sharp edges. Her elbows, for instance, were very sharp, very sharp. So were her teeth, which were imbedded briefly in my wrist. So was her knee, which kept trying to prove she wasn’t a lady.

I was hampered not only by the sharp parts of her, but also by the soft parts, which I tried to avoid touching. But if you think you can take a gun away from a sharp-toothed sharp-elbowed girl without touching any soft parts, you’re crazy. I wouldn’t behave with an old girl friend in a movie balcony the way I behaved with Miss Althea. And believe me, I got no pleasure out of it. I found the whole incident embarrassing and painful and not a little dangerous.

Anyway, I finally got the gun. My left wrist was bleeding, where she’d bit me, and I was limping because she’d kicked me on the right shin, and my left eye was watering because she’d stuck her finger in it, and my kidneys would require a long quiet time to forget her elbows, but at least I had the gun.

She stood there in front of me, gasping for breath, glaring at me defiantly. High spots of color shone in her cheeks, and she was cupping her right hand with her left as though I’d hurt her.

“You’ll pay for this,” she said. Do I have to mention she said it through gritted teeth? I thought not.

“Now, listen,” I said. “I did not kill your father, I swear it. I never killed anybody in my life. Your father was trying to have me killed, if you want to come right down to it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said.

“What about those two guys in the black car? They’re the ones that tried to do it.”

“Those are my father’s business associates,” she said.

“You’re darn right they are. And they—”

But that was as far as I got. The gunfire had apparently been heard in the house, because at that point the barn door burst open and Clarence came barreling in.

There’s a time for chivalry, and there’s a time for practicality. This was a time for practicality. I immediately ran around behind Miss Althea, grabbed her around the throat, stuck the gun in the delicately magnificent small of her back, and shouted, “One step closer and I plug her!” If my voice hadn’t gone falsetto about midway through that sentence, the whole performance would have been very impressive.

Nevertheless, it was impressive enough to stop Clarence in his tracks. “Let her go,” he said, but he knew I had the whip hand.

“Back on out of the barn,” I told him. “Go on, move.”

He backed on out of the barn, looking like Lon Chaney, Jr., making up his mind to turn into the Wolf Man. I followed, pushing Miss Althea ahead of me. I switched my grip from her neck to her arm, and out to the sunlight we went. I could feel her trembling, but whether from rage or fear I couldn’t tell.

Outside, there was another surprise. A tableau: Tim, still in his chauffeur’s uniform and now with the addition of his cap, holding a small pistol aimed at Artie Dexter, who stood sheepish and worried in the middle of the expanse of blacktop.

Artie Dexter!

First things first. I shouted, “Drop that gun! Drop it!”

Tim just gaped at me. So did Artie.

Clarence said, “Do like he says. He’s got a gun on Miss Althea.”

Artie said, “Charlie! What’s come over you, baby?”

Tim dropped the pistol.

“Pick it up, Artie,” I said.

“Right.”

To Clarence I said, “Is Mr. Gross coming out here?”

He said, “What? Are you kidding?”

“They were going to kill you, Charlie,” Artie told me. “They got their orders on the phone, I heard them talking. They were going to kill you and bury you out back. And when they got me, they figured to kill me too.”

“That’s a lie!” cried Miss Althea. “Clarence?”

“I can’t do nothing, miss.”

“We’ve got to get out of here, Artie,” I said.

“Take her along,” he suggested. “For a hostage.”

“Good idea. You two get into the barn. If I see either one of you coming after me, I’ll plug Miss Althea.”

Of course I knew I wouldn’t shoot Miss Althea, but they didn’t. Red-faced with anger and embarrassment, Tim and Clarence went reluctant and pouting on into the barn.

“Come on,” said Artie.

We went around the house, me still keeping a tight grip on Miss Althea, who from time to time wasted breath by telling me things I wouldn’t get away with. To Artie I said, “Where’d you come from?”

“After you left my place,” he said, “two tough-looking guys showed up, asking for you. They acted kind of odd when I told them you were gone. I got to thinking about it, you saying you were in a jam, and asking about Agricola, and then those two guys coming along, so after a while I figured maybe I better come look for you. You said you were coming to Staten Island to talk to Agricola, so here I am. I tried to sneak up on the house, see if you were around, but those two plug-uglies caught up with me.”

“I don’t know what you two are trying to do,” Miss Althea said, “but you’re wasting your breath. You can’t fool me.”

Artie said, “What’s she talking about?”

I told him about Agricola being dead and this being his daughter who thought I had killed him.

“And you did!” she cried.

“Quiet,” I told her.

Artie looked back at the house. “We’d better hurry,” he said.

“Maybe we should have taken the Continental,” I said.

“Car thieves too!” Miss Althea cried.

“I’ve got wheels,” Artie assured me. “Don’t worry.”

“Killers!” cried Miss Althea. “Murderers!”

Artie leaned close to me, so we walked a moment shoulder to shoulder. In a confidential tone he said, “Did you, Charlie? You know, did you do the old guy?”

“For Pete’s sake!”

“He did, he did! You’re an accomplice!”

“Oh, shut up,” I told her. She was a real pain sometimes. I said to Artie, “You know me better than that, for Pete’s sake.”

“I thought I did, baby,” he said, “but all of a sudden you’re like wow, you know what I mean? Like sleeping on the rug all night, like you’re in a jam with the rackets bosses, like here we are with a chick for a hostage, this isn’t exactly the same old Charlie Poole from New Utrecht, you know?”

“You do what you got to do,” I said.

“Killer!” she yelled.

I pinched her arm to make her shut up. I told Artie, “She don’t know about her father, I guess. About him being in the rackets.”

She shouted, “Are you insane? My father was a farmer! You two are crazy, you’re both crazy! Help! Help!”

I had to really twist her arm a good one before she’d quit hollering. I didn’t want to do it, but there wasn’t any choice. “Walk faster,” I told her, “and keep your mouth shut.” And I kept her arm twisted up behind her a little, so she’d do both and not give me any more trouble.

We hurried on out to Huguenot Avenue and Artie went off to the right, saying, “Down this way. Hurry!”

Parked down the road, next to the fallen tree on which I had been sitting not too long ago, was the most nefarious automobile I had ever seen. It made the killers’ black car look like a churchgoer. This one, purring a bit with the engine on and a trickle of white smoke at the exhaust, was a black 1938 Packard limousine, with the bulky truck and the divided rear window and the long coffin-like hood and the headlights sitting up on top of the arrogant broad fenders. It was as gleamingly polished all over as a toy from Japan, with sparkling white sidewalls and glittering chrome hubcaps and door handles that semaphored the sun. And there was Chloe inside, sitting at the wheel, like advance scout for a foray from St. Trinian’s.

“Where?” I said. “Wha.”

“My aunt’s,” Artie explained. “She lets me borrow it sometimes.”

Miss Althea said, “You can get the electric chair for kidnaping, you know.”

“Anything to keep from being shot,” I said.

We reached the car and Artie pulled open the rear door. “Put her in there,” he said.

I did, and followed her in, and Artie shut the door and got into the front seat. “Get out of here fast,” he said.

Chloe said, “Hi, Charlie,” and asked no questions. We roared off.

“Our best bet is Jersey,” Artie said. “Take your next left.”

“Right.”

“The Mann Act,” said Miss Althea.

“What do I care?” I said. “I’m going to the electric chair anyway.”

I have been in apartments smaller than the interior of that Packard. There was enough floor space between the front and back seats for a crap game, all softly carpeted and softly clean. Everything in the car was clean, spotless. The upholstery, which had to be the original stuff, was scratchy gray plush, as new-looking as the enraged girl sitting grim-faced beside me. There were leather thongs at the sides, for elderly ladies and gangsters to hold on to, and small green vases containing artificial flowers hung in little wire racks between the doors.

The steering wheel of this monster was itself nearly as big as Chloe, who drove with the nonchalance of one who knows she cannot die. I, lacking that assurance, sat and cowered like the coward I was. If death didn’t come from behind me, in the shape of Clarence and Mr. Gross and all the other minions of the organization, it would surely come from ahead of me, in the shape of something hard and immovable for Chloe to drive headlong into.

“You’ll never get away with this,” Miss Althea told me.

As if I needed reminding.

Chapter 10

At the tollbooths to the George Washington Bridge, Miss Althea stuck her head out the window and screamed, “Help! They’re kidnaping me!”

The toll taker in his uniform looked blankly at her.

“They’re kidnaping me!” she insisted.

The toll taker made a disgusted face, to show what he thought of modern kids, out running around with no sense of values, making noisy senseless jokes. He took the half-dollar from Chloe, and we rolled on past there.

“He’s in the plot, too,” I said.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. She flounced back in the seat, folded her arms, and glared furiously at the back of Chloe’s head.

We had taken an extremely roundabout way of returning to New York, leaving Staten Island by the Outerbridge Crossing and driving up past the Holland and Lincoln tunnels and all the way up to the George Washington Bridge, just in case the car had been seen by anyone who could describe it to the organization’s underlings, who were surely by now all in hot pursuit of us and our hostage.

As to the hostage, we were keeping her because we felt safer with her to hide behind. It seemed unlikely any organization tough would gun down the daughter of Farmer Agricola in order to get at an unimportant nephew like me.

On the trip up the Jersey coast, after filling Artie and Chloe in on the details of what had happened to me since last night — and that it had all occurred in less than sixteen hours, including time out for sleep on Artie’s bedroom floor, was itself as astonishing as anything else — I made a long and unsuccessful attempt to explain to Miss Althea Agricola just who and what her father had been and why I had gone out to the farm to see him. But she refused to believe any of it, and nothing I said would shake her firmly seated ignorance.

At first it had seemed incredible that she could have remained unaware of her father’s true self, but in the course of her denials, facts about her life came out which helped to explain it. In the first place, her mother had died when Miss Althea was still an infant, so Farmer Agricola was her only parent. In the second place, she had spent practically all of her life in boarding schools, and was only rarely at home on the Staten Island farm. Summers had been spent with other relatives in various parts of the world. She was only at home now because there was a two-week hiatus between the end of her summer visit to an uncle and aunt in Southern California and the beginning of the fall semester at the girls’ college in Connecticut at which she would be a junior this year.

So if her father told her he was a farmer, why shouldn’t she believe him? And if he told her he had his money invested in stocks and real estate that gave him a good high return, what was wrong with that? And if he told her Clarence wasn’t a bodyguard but was hired to run the farm, he was hardly any more improbable a foreman than some she’d seen on television or in the movies. And if men like the two in the black car, who stopped by occasionally to confer in private with her father, were announced as either old friends or business associates, why should she disbelieve?

I know it isn’t exactly the same thing, but I myself didn’t really know what Uncle Al did for a living till I was twenty-two years old, and then I only found out because he got me a job at the bar, which by all rights I should have been in Canarsie opening instead of riding across the George Washington Bridge with a gun in my hand, a hostage in my hair, and — for all I knew — a price on my head.

Approaching the New York side of the bridge now, Chloe spoke up for nearly the first time, saying, “Where to?”

Where to? I didn’t really know. “Mr. Gross,” I said. “I guess I have to find Mr. Gross.”

“But which way do I go?” Chloe wanted to know.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know how to find Mr. Gross.”

“Let’s put it this way,” Chloe said. “The end of the bridge is coming up. Do I take the Henry Hudson Parkway or do I take the local streets? See the signs?”

I saw the signs, but I didn’t really know what to tell her. Artie took the decision out of my hands, saying, “We’ll want to go downtown anyway. Take the Parkway.”

“Fine,” said Chloe. She changed lanes, terrifying an orange Volkswagen, and we left the bridge.

Artie turned in the seat to say to me, “About Mr. Gross I can’t help you. From what you say, from what I heard those guys say, he’s got to be higher up in the rackets than Agricola was, and Agricola was the highest up I ever even heard of.”

Miss Althea said, “Why don’t you just give up? It isn’t going to do you any good. I don’t believe you and I won’t believe you, so why don’t you stop?”

“Shut up,” I asked, “I’ve got to think.”

“How about your Uncle Al?” Artie suggested.

“What about him? I tried to get him to help me before, and he betrayed me instead.”

“You didn’t have a gun last time,” Artie pointed out.

“Hmmm,” I said.

“You’re all insane,” Miss Althea said. “Insane.”

“All right,” I said. “Back to Uncle Al.”

Chapter 11

There was a fire hydrant just down the block from Uncle Al’s building. Chloe carefully parked the Packard next to it and Artie said, “We’ll keep hold of the hostage, don’t worry.”

“I appreciate this, Artie,” I said. “I really do.”

“Don’t be silly, baby,” he said. “Since I quit peddling the pills, life has been dullsville.”

“If a cop makes us move,” Chloe said, “I’ll circle the block.”

“You’re all insane,” Miss Althea said. She’d tried to jump out of the car when we were stopped for a light at 72nd Street and West End Avenue, and I’d had to slap her face to calm her down, and since then she’d maintained an insulted and dignified regality, like a member of the French court on the way to the guillotine. Had I been Madame Defarge, I might well have blanched a bit in her presence.

However, “I’ll hurry,” I said, and got out of the car, and returned to Uncle Al’s building.

I didn’t want him to know I was coming until I was right at his door, so I didn’t push the button next to his name this time but pushed the button for apartment 7-A instead. When a male voice came out of the grille, wanting to know who it was, I said, “Johnny.”

“Johnny who?”

“Johnny Brown,” I said.

“You got the wrong apartment,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, and rang the bell for apartment 7-B.

There was no answer at all from 7-B, so I tried 6-A. This time it was a female voice that answered, one of those voices that sounds as though its owner has been drinking rum and writhing nude on a bearskin rug just to get warmed up for your arrival. “Who’s there?” she asked, making those two nondescript and pedestrian words reek with suggestiveness.

“Johnny,” I said.

“Well, come on in,” she said, and the buzzer sounded.

Isn’t that always the way it is? The really great opportunities to connect with sex bombs always come along when you’re already tied up with something else. That, I suppose, is the difference between fiction and reality. In fiction the sexy voice says, “Come on in,” and the guy goes on in, whereas in reality the guy has seven minutes to get to work and the boss told him if he’s late one more time he’s fired and he can’t afford to lose this job because he’s still paying off his Playboy subscription. In fiction, if you want to know something, it’s a good thing the sexy voice does speak up, because the guy doesn’t have a thing to do, and if it wasn’t for that unexpected sexy voice he would undoubtedly have dropped dead from boredom in another two, three days.

So much for philosophy. I did not go to apartment 6-A, once I’d gained entrance to the building, but went to apartment 3-B instead. I remembered the way those two guys had knocked last night, the code knock, one and then three and then one, so that’s the way I knocked now. Then I put my hand inside the pocket of Artie’s jacket, where I had the pistol we’d taken from Tim. It was smaller than the automatic I’d gotten from Miss Althea, so Artie and I had switched guns before I left the car.

I waited so long after knocking that I was beginning to think this time Uncle Al and Aunt Florence really were in Florida when at last the door pulled open and Uncle Al’s astonished face appeared before me. He saw who it was, and saw the gun in my hand, and promptly started to close the door again.

But I said, “No, Uncle Al,” and pushed forward, across the threshold.

If he had taken a firm stand, if he had told me to get the hell out of here or had demanded to know just what I thought I was doing, I’m not sure what would have happened next. Having grown up without a father, I’d had no one but Uncle Al to look to for a symbol of male strength and confidence. I was used to Uncle Al ordering me around, used to Uncle Al weighing me in the balance and very loudly finding me wanting, used to Uncle Al shouting at me to get out of his sight. I was so used to it that if he’d done the same thing now, I might even have obeyed him. Only for a second, maybe, but anyway long enough for him to shut the door again in my face, and certainly long enough for him to get control of the situation.

But I was learning something about Uncle Al. He respected power above all things, with a respect born of fear and a fear born of utter cowardice. Just as he had been terrified of the two men who had come here last night, too terrified of them and Agricola and the organization to even talk to me much less help me, so now he was terrified of the little pistol in my amateur hand, and as I moved forward across his threshold he moved backward into the apartment, and in that instant the old relationship between my Uncle Al and me was gone forever.

I shut the door behind me. “We’ve got some talking to do,” I said.

Belatedly he tried to get a grip on the authority he’d just forfeited. Shaking a quaking finger at me, he said, “You little punk, you realize the spot you put me in? You know what you’ve done to me?”

“Don’t be a moron, Uncle Al,” I told him. “Nobody’s trying to kill you, with the possible exception of me. Let’s go into the living room and sit down.”

He looked startled, and held his hands out as though for quiet while he half-turned his head and seemed to listen. “Your Aunt Florence,” he whispered. “She doesn’t know.”

“Maybe it’s time she found out,” I said.

“Charlie boy, don’t. Maybe you got it in for me, maybe you got every right, but I ask you on bended knee to don’t.”

He didn’t ask me on bended knee, actually, but I knew what he meant. I said, “We’ll talk it over.”

“Sure, Charlie. We’ll talk it over.”

“In your den,” I told him. “We won’t be disturbed there.”

“Right, in my den. We won’t be disturbed there.”

I wasn’t sure which threat worried him most, the pistol or Aunt Florence. In any case, the combination of the two was enough to pull Uncle Al’s sting and make him as quiet and agreeable as a new minister with the church elders.

Uncle Al’s apartment is a triumph of money over background. Aunt Florence knew just enough about taste to know her own was too uncertain to carry her safely through the furnishing of an entire apartment, so she handed a great big wad of Uncle Al’s money to a pretty young man with an extremely limp wrist, told him she wanted “quiet elegance,” and turned him loose. The only thing wrong with the result was that when you saw Uncle Al standing in the middle of it you figured he had to be a burglar; he couldn’t possibly be somebody who lived in this place. The pretty young man, unfortunately, had been given free rein to choose everything about the apartment but its occupants.

The den had been done in mahogany, ebony and burlap, all brought together by a rich green carpet on the floor. A black leather sofa was the most ostentatious item of furniture, but it blended so well with the rest of the room that even a Communist couldn’t have any real objection to it. The bookcase, which had been filled according to the strange but not at all uncommon literary criterion of the color of the book spines, gave a comfortably spurious air of age and solidity to the room, making it difficult to believe that this entire place had not stood here, exactly like this, for at least a hundred years. The den, in fact, had been done seven years ago.

Once we were in this room with the door shut, Uncle Al began to talk. I let him go on awhile because I wanted to see if he’d say anything of use to me.

“You got to understand, Charlie,” he said to begin with. “You got to understand the position you put me in. I get this phone call from this person, which you can see why I don’t want to mention any names, that tells me my nephew’s on the spot and what do I got to say about that, and what do I say? Charlie, you know me, I’m your Uncle Al, I done the best I could for you all your life. Your old man run out on you before you was born, to the best of my ability I tried to help take his place, you know that.”

I didn’t know any such thing, but I was letting him talk, so I said nothing.

“Your Aunt Florence and me,” he went on, patting himself on the chest with all his fingertips, “we wasn’t blessed with children, in a lot of ways you’re like my own kid, my own flesh and blood.”

I didn’t say anything to that one, either, though my mother had told me one time about a confidence she’d been given by Aunt Florence, to the effect that Aunt Florence had wanted children but Uncle Al hadn’t, Uncle Al even going so far as to tell Aunt Florence to be warned by what had happened when her sister — meaning my mother — got herself knocked up, referring of course to my father having deserted. But to this bit of twaddle, too, I remained silent.

“You know I always done my best for you,” Uncle Al went on, “even getting you the job out to Canarsie there. I went out on a limb for you that time, Charlie, you know that? You realize the kind of limb I went out on for you that time, you not even in the organization or anything? But there’s a limit, you got to see that, there’s a point where I got to say, ‘No, Charlie, no more. I know I’m your uncle, Charlie, I know you’re my nephew, but eventually comes the time I got to think of myself, I got to think of your Aunt Florence, I got to be practical. I help you out whenever I can, Charlie, but if you ever get in a serious jam with the organization there’s nothing I can do, not a single thing I can do.’ And it’s happened, right? You’re in trouble. You done something, I don’t know what, I don’t even want to know what, and you got the organization down on you. So what can I do? I get this phone call, ‘Your nephew’s on the spot,’ what can I say? I got to say, ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ that’s all. There’s nothing else I can do.”

The time had come to break in. “You couldn’t even ask why? You couldn’t even find out what I was supposed to have done?”

“If they want me to know, Charlie,” he said, “they’ll tell me. If they don’t tell me, I don’t ask. That’s one thing I had to learn about the organization, if they want you to know some—”

“Wait, wait,” I said. “Wait, now. Stop for a minute.”

“Charlie, I’m only—”

“Shut up, Uncle Al.”

He did, too, for just a second. The surprise did it, I guess. But then he pointed a finger at me and said, “I’m still your uncle, boy, and you—”

I pointed the pistol at him and said, “Shut up, Uncle Al.”

A pistol is more forceful than a finger any day. He shut up.

I said, “You are my Uncle Al because you’re married to my Aunt Florence. Other than that, the relationship between us is kaput.”

“That’s perfectly all right with me,” he said. “If you think I—”

“Shut up, Uncle Al.”

He shut up again.

“Now, let me tell you something,” I said. “I didn’t do anything to the organization. They’re making a mistake. I didn’t talk out of turn to anybody, I didn’t lose a package or steal anything, I didn’t do a thing. It’s a mistake, and all I want to do is correct it.”

“The organization don’t make mistakes,” he said. “An organization as big as—”

“Shut.”

He shut.

I told him, “This time the organization did make a mistake. Now, what I want to do is find out what they think I did wrong, and then maybe I can convince them it wasn’t me that did it.”

He was shaking his head back and forth and back and forth. “Never in a million years,” he said. “You’ll never — in the first place, you can’t even get to the men in charge, I couldn’t do it myself.”

“I almost got to talk to Farmer Agricola,” I said, “but he was—”

“Who?” Astonishment made him look for a moment even dumber than he is. “What did you say?”

“Farmer Agricola.”

“How did you find out about him? Charlie, what you been up to?”

“Never mind,” I said. “The point is, I couldn’t talk to him because he was killed. But I did—”

“What what what?”

“Killed,” I said. “Listen faster, Uncle Al, I don’t have much time. I went to see Farmer Agricola, but somebody killed him before I got to him. Stuck a knife in his back. But I did find out—”

“The Farmer’s dead? Is this on the level?”

“Uncle Al, I don’t have much time. Yes, the Farmer’s dead. His bodyguard and chauffeur think I did it, but I didn’t. I’ve got his daughter for a hostage, and now I’ve got to—”

“Charlie!” He just stared at me, about the way Artie stared at me when I came out of the barn back at Agricola’s farm. “What’s come over you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s self-preservation. Now, be quiet a minute and listen to me. I found out the name of the man above Mr. Agricola is Mr. Gross. Now, Mr. Gross is the man I got to talk to, and you’re the one has to tell me where I find him.”

“Me! Charlie, you don’t know, you can’t—” He sputtered, and gestured, and carried on, and finally got a complete sentence out: “I’d get gunned down in a minute if I told you that.”

“If you won’t tell me,” I said, “you’ll tell Aunt Florence. I know she’ll help me.” I backed toward the door, still aiming the pistol at him.

He said, “Charlie, you wouldn’t. Charlie, for the love of God don’t tell your Aunt Florence!”

“Either you tell me right now where I find Mr. Gross, or I call for Aunt Florence. And if I call for Aunt Florence, I tell her everything.”

Times have changed since my Uncle Al told my Aunt Florence he’d leave her if she got pregnant. That was twenty years ago or more, and my Aunt Florence has learned since then how to control her lunk of a husband. Until last night I’d been under the impression my Uncle Al was afraid of nothing in this world with the exception of Aunt Florence. Of course, now I knew better, and Aunt Florence’s accomplishment in housebreaking Uncle Al no longer seemed quite so incredible, but the accomplishment still remained in effect.

I could see Uncle Al thinking madly. He gnawed on his lower lip, stared in torment at the floor, rubbed his hands nervously together. Which he was more afraid of — the organization or Aunt Florence?

To help him decide, I said, “Nobody knows I came here, and nobody has to know. Nobody has to know I got the address from you. I got to Agricola’s farm out on Staten Island, and you didn’t tell me that.”

“If they ever found out,” he said, “I’d be done for.”

“They won’t find out from me.”

“Charlie, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“So I’ll ask Aunt Florence,” I said, and reached for the doorknob.

“Nonono, wait!”

I hesitated.

“All right,” he said. “All right. But don’t get me in a jam, whatever you do. You know I’d help you if I could, if you say you didn’t do nothing to earn the spot I believe you, I know you wouldn’t lie to me, boy, but my hands are tied. You can see that. They know you’re my nephew, they figure I’m prejudiced in your favor, so what could I do?”

“The address,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. Wait, I’ll write it down.”

He hurried over to the desk and I said, “Don’t open any drawers, Uncle Al.”

He looked at me. His feelings were hurt. “My own nephew?”

“Just don’t open any drawers.”

Wounded, he said nothing. But he didn’t open any drawers. There was a memo pad on the desk, with “From the desk of Albert P. Gatling” at the top of each sheet, and an ornate penholder set with a marble base and two fountain pens. Using these, he wrote the address and handed me the paper.

I said, “If this is a false address, Uncle Al, I’ll come back here, you can count on it. And I’ll go straight to Aunt Florence.”

“Charlie, I’m giving you the goods, I swear I am. I can’t help you, I told you that, but you’re like my own son, my own flesh and blood, and the least I can—”

“Sure,” I said. “But don’t call Mr. Gross after I’m gone.”

“Call him? Are you nuts? Call him and tell him I gave his private address to a kid with a grudge and a gun? Charlie, the minute you leave here your Aunt Florence and I go straight to Florida.”

“No, you don’t. You stay here in town. If I have to phone you in Florida, it’s Aunt Florence I talk to.”

“Charlie, let me build up an alibi!”

“No. I may need to know something else before this is done.”

He looked very gloomy when I left, and he didn’t walk me to the front door.

Chapter 12

The Packard was still parked next to the fire hydrant, but now Artie was in the back seat with Miss Althea. I slid into the front seat next to Chloe, and Artie explained, “She tried to duck out again.”

She was being silent and grim at the moment, sitting hunched into the corner, staring straight ahead and ignoring everybody.

I said, “She’s more trouble than she’s worth. Maybe we ought to get rid of her.”

“She’s insurance, Charlie,” Artie said. “She’s our hostage.”

I wasn’t all that sure a hostage would stop Mr. Gross and his organization, particularly when the hostage’s father was already dead and couldn’t complain, but if it made Artie feel safer it was worth it. I’d already come to depend on Artie’s presence, not to do anything in particular to help me but just to be there to talk to, and I wouldn’t want to see him scared away. So I said, “All right, we’ll keep her.”

Chloe said, “Did you get the address?”

“Right.” I took the paper from my pocket and read the address aloud: “One twenty-two Colonial Road, Hewlett Bay Park, Long Island.”

Chloe said, “Hewlett Bay Park. Where’s that?”

“On Long Island, I guess,” I said. “Have you got a map?”

“I don’t know. Look in the glove compartment.”

There was nothing in the glove compartment but a pair of ladies’ black gloves and the automatic I’d taken from Miss Althea.

From the back seat, Artie said, “We need gas anyway. Get a road map at the gas station.”

“Fine,” said Chloe. The motor was already running, purring away as though it were brand-new and born to be in a getaway car. Chloe turned the wheel, ignored the traffic coming down 65th Street from behind us, and pulled away from the curb. She was a very individualistic driver, Chloe, and I wasn’t at all surprised when I learned, some time later, that the State of New York refused to give her a driver’s license.

We were already on the East Side, so we decided to drive on over to the 59th Street Bridge, go over to Queens, and find a gas station there, which we did. Miss Althea told the attendant we were kidnapping her, but we were used to that sort of thing from her by then, so we all laughed it off and the attendant got a chuckle out of it, too. He wasn’t a sourpuss like the toll taker at the George Washington Bridge. Artie bent Miss Althea’s thumb back, to make her stop yelling, and then everything was fine. I got a road map of Long Island, paid for the gas, and we drove away from there.

Hewlett Bay Park turned out to be on the south shore of Long Island, in the midst of a little flurry of places named Hewlett. There was Hewlett Harbor and Hewlett Neck, Hewlett Bay and Hewlett Point, and even a town just called Hewlett.

From where we were there didn’t seem to be any sensible way at all to get to Hewlett Bay Park, or any other Hewlett. With all of us but Miss Althea studying the map and making suggestions, we finally decided on what looked to be the simplest route of all. By a complex series of local streets, we got from Queens Boulevard, on which we were now situated, to the Long Island Expressway, which we took to Grand Central Parkway, which we took to the Van Wyck Expressway, which we took to the Belt Parkway (at this point for some reason called Southern Parkway), which we took to Sunrise Highway, which we took to Central Avenue in Valley Stream, which we took to the general vicinity of the Hewletts, at which point we would ask directions.

Of course, it didn’t work that way. It was now a little after six, and we were caught up in the tail end of the rush hour, and evening was beginning to edge toward us from the east, and Chloe kept getting confused by the signs, and so we managed to be lost more often than not. Still, by fits and starts we approached our target.

We’d been approaching it for an hour and a half, and had attained Sunrise Highway, when, at about seven-thirty, while we stopped for a traffic light, Miss Althea caught us all by surprise — she’d been quiet as a mouse for nearly an hour — and got the car door opened and leaped to the street.

Artie shouted, “Hey!” and leaped out after her.

She was off like a deer across the highway and down the side street. Artie pelted after her, shouting, “Hey! Hoy! Hey!” And there were Chloe and I, just the two of us, with the light turned green in front of us and several drivers turned dangerous behind us. With horns honking away, I said, “You better pull forward. Get over to the side of the road as quick as you can.”

Of course, we were in the farthest left lane of three, so it took us nearly half a mile to get over to where we could pull off the road — in a discount carpet center’s parking area — and try to figure out what to do next.

Chloe gazed worriedly out the rear window. “He won’t know where we are,” she said.

I said, “What if he doesn’t catch her? In fact, what if he does? He can’t drag her screaming and kicking along beside a big highway full of cars.”

Chloe squinted and squinted. “I don’t see him coming,” she said.

“He’ll be along,” I told her.

But he wasn’t. We waited fifteen minutes, and he never showed up. I was feeling pretty impatient anyway, this whole trip taking so blasted long, and sitting there fifteen minutes, in an unmoving automobile and waiting for somebody who continued not to show up, was getting to me.

Finally I said, “He’s not coming back, you know.”

“He’ll be here any minute,” she said, squinting away out the rear window.

I said, “If he was going to get back here, he’d have done it by now. Either he’s chased her so far away he figures there’s no point looking for us here anymore, or she’s managed to get him arrested.”

“Arrested?” She looked worried. “Are we out of the city limits?”

“I don’t know, I think so. Why?”

“Artie has to avoid the city police,” she said, and let it go at that.

I said, “Well, in any case, he wouldn’t expect to find us here any more. He knows I’m in a hurry, I’m trying to protect my life, so he’ll naturally expect us to go on. He knows the address where we’re headed, maybe he’ll meet us there.”

“How will he get there?” she wanted to know.

“How do I know? Maybe he’ll take a cab. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he got there before we do.”

“And what if he isn’t there?” she said.

“Then he’ll meet us back at his place, after I see Mr. Gross.”

“Do you want to try to see Mr. Gross alone?”

“I didn’t count on Artie coming in with me anyway,” I told her. “I wouldn’t want him to risk getting himself killed on my account.”

She stopped squinting out the rear window at last, and looked rather searchingly at me. “Do you mean that, Charlie?” she asked me.

“Well, sure,” I said. It was true; I hadn’t expected Artie would come in with me. I’d assumed he’d wait out in the car, the same as at Uncle Al’s.

“You’re really something, Charlie, you know that?” she said.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “If I had my way, I’d be right back in Canarsie this minute, behind the bar, watching television. This isn’t the life for me, believe me.”

“I know that,” she said. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“We’d better get going,” I said.

She turned her head and looked out the rear window again. “Do you really think so?”

“He’d have been here by now,” I said.

She sighed. “I suppose so.” She faced front. “I hope nothing’s happened to him. He’s an awful sweet guy, you know.”

“I know that,” I said.

“He looks up to you,” she said.

I stared at her. “Artie? Looks up to me?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I thought it was the other way around,” I said.

She laughed. “You don’t know yourself at all, Charlie,” she said. Looking neither to left nor right, she started the Packard rolling forward and angled it out into the traffic.

Chapter 13

Nine o’clock.

There didn’t seem to be any way into Hewlett Bay Park. We’d found the general area an hour ago, and we’d been circling around and around it ever since, always coming back to the same street, a dark street with a barrier halfway across it and a stop sign on it and another sign saying ONE WAY DO NOT ENTER. So far as I could tell, the other side of that barrier was Hewlett Bay Park, but I just couldn’t find the way in.

The fourth or fifth time we came back to that same place, a Cadillac ahead of us drove nonchalantly around the barrier and on down the street. I looked at Chloe and Chloe looked at me and it hit us both at the same time. The barrier and signs were phony; it was just an exclusive town’s cute way to keep tourists and other rabble out.

“Anything a Cadillac can do,” I said, “a Packard can do. Onward.”

“Right,” she said, and around the barrier we went.

This was another world. Head-high hedges surrounded the homes, each of which sprawled in moneyed elegance on an insultingly large plot of land. There were few streetlights, but many of the driveways we passed were lit with blue or amber lights. There were no sidewalks, of course, because who in this area walked? The street names were lettered vertically on green posts set discreetly at each corner, and the intersections were free of vulgar traffic lights. In the ten minutes it took us to find Colonial Road we saw no other moving automobile.

One twenty-two was a house to fit the road; Colonial, with a bit of plantation thrown in. White pillars marched across the front of the house, which was of white clapboard with black shutters. Lit carriage lamps flanked the wide front door, and more lamps of the same style, on poles, were spaced along the curving driveway. There was the normal tall hedge all round, and more lawn than any one house could possibly need. The ground-floor windows were lit, the upstairs windows dark.

I said to Chloe, “Drive on by. Park beyond the next corner.”

There was a streetlight at the intersection, as dim as a cocktail lounge at midnight. We went past it, and Chloe stopped the Packard up close to the hedge in the next pool of darkness.

“If I’m not back in half an hour,” I said, “you better not wait for me. I’ll try to get back to Artie’s place as best I can.”

“Be careful,” she said.

“Well, sure. I’m no daredevil.”

The hedge being so close, I had to get out on her side. We stood together a second beside the car, while an odd feeling came over us, or at least over me, and then I said, “I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Please be careful, Charlie,” she said, with a funny kind of emphasis on “please.”

It made me uncomfortable. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

She got back into the car and I walked down to the intersection and through the halo of yellow light there and beyond. It was almost like walking along a country road; the darkness and the high hedges obscured the signs of civilization. There was no sound anywhere but the scuff of my own shoes on the pebbles at the edge of the road. The back of my neck was cold, where the hairs were standing up.

My right hand was in the pocket of Artie’s jacket, holding tight to the little pistol I’d gotten from Tim. The pistol should have made me feel better — safer, more secure, more in control — but it did just the reverse, serving as a cold metal tangible reminder that I was kidding no one but myself. In fact, not even myself.

I looked back, and at first I couldn’t see the Packard, but then I caught an evil glint of chrome in the darkness back there. That car was the mechanical Sydney Greenstreet.

The driveway entrance to Mr. Gross’s house was at the far end of the frontage. I crunched along, seeing his house lights vaguely through the hedge on my left, and after the road’s darkness his driveway, when I stood in front of it, seemed as bright as Times Square. It was wide, and four or five cars were parked along it, all new and expensive.

Would he have dogs? It seemed to me a place like this required dogs, huge loping animals who’d galumph over and bit your leg off without the least malice in the world. I stood a minute peering into the property in search of them, but all I could see were driveway and lights.

What I was worrying all the time about dogs for anyway I’ll never know, since it was mostly human beings who’d been trying to do me in the last twenty hours.

Finally, reluctantly, I stepped onto Mr. Gross’s property. I skirted the driveway and all its lights, and came around at the house from the other side. Light spilled from the windows to guide my way across turf as soft as a Persian rug. These windows were too high for me to look in them and see anything but ceilings, which was just as well; it made it less likely anyone on the inside would glance out and see me.

I moved around to the rear of the house, where I tiptoed across a slate patio alive with metal furniture. There were no rooms alight at the rear of the house, so I moved in utter darkness here, and my progression across the patio, ricocheting from metal chair to metal table to metal chair like a complex billiard shot, was a series of tiny magnificently distinct noises. When I came at last to a door, a possible entry, I simply leaned against it for a minute to listen to the blessed silence.

But the job was to get in. After I’d caught my breath and my wits, I tried the knob and the door proved to be unlocked. I could hardly believe my luck.

Well, it wasn’t luck. I pushed open the door, stepped through in unbroken silence, shut the door as silently behind me, and forty lights went on.

I was in a smallish dining room, with secretarys and highboys against the walls and a sturdy English-looking table in the center. Leaded windows overlooked the patio and, I suppose, a garden. Quiet elegance bespoke itself softly in this room, just as in my Uncle Al’s apartment, and similarly, too, the human element provided the only discordant note.

In this case it was the Three Stooges, one of whom had turned on the lights, principally a crystal chandelier suspended above the table. I say the Three Stooges, but of course I mean only an imitation of the Three Stooges. But for all that, a pretty good imitation.

Moe, in a black chauffeur’s suit, held an automatic, pointed more or less at me. Larry, in a butler’s tux, had armed himself with a basketball bat. And Curly, in white apron and tall white chef’s cap and blackface, hefted a meat cleaver. All three glared at me with the belligerence of fear.

This was the last thing I’d expected to find in the house of Mr. Gross — amateurs like myself. They were, in their own way, more frightening than professionals. Like dogs, there was no reason to suppose they could be talked to.

I raised my hands over my head. “Don’t shoot,” I said. “Don’t hit. Don’t cut.”

They advanced.

Chapter 14

From the window I could see the driveway and lawn and hedge, and down to the right, beyond the hedge, I could make out the streetlight at the intersection. Just beyond there, I knew, Chloe sat waiting in the Packard. I stared off that way, but of course I couldn’t see the car.

The Three Stooges had grabbed me up like blockers on the kickoff forming around the man with the football. They’d run me up a narrow flight of stairs — back stairs, service stairs, whatever they call them — up here to the second floor, and locked me away in this bedroom facing the front of the house. Larry, the butler with the bat, had frisked me and relieved me of Tim’s little pistol — which he handled with complete terror — and then they’d backed out of the room, bumping into one another and watching me with round eyes. I heard them talking through the door, deciding Larry and Curly, the cook, should stand guard at the door while Moe, the chauffeur, went downstairs to tell Mr. Gross what they’d caught.

Well. I was in the Gross house, under the Gross roof. There was even a chance I was going to get to see Mr. Gross himself in a minute or two. And wasn’t that what I wanted?

Of course it was.

Then why did I keep looking around for some place to hide, some way to escape? I didn’t want to escape, did I?

As a matter of fact, I did. Hopelessly, miserably, but certainly.

The room I was in seemed to be a spare bedroom, reserved for guests. The bed was a high wide ornate old thing with a canopy, dominating the room. Flowers and vines and so on were carved into the wooden head-board, and the same motif was followed through on the dresser, the vanity table, the writing desk, and the night tables. Paintings of fox hunts graced the walls. Heavy drapes framed the windows.

Yes, a guest room. The dresser drawers I opened were all empty. I don’t know why I expected to find a Gideon Bible in one of them, but its absence surprised me.

A key turning in the lock made me start and slide shut a dresser drawer with embarrassed haste. As though that counted! Poking into empty dresser drawers was hardly something to agitate Mr. Gross; aside from having already broken into his house, there was whatever else he thought I’d done that had made him put me on the spot in the first place.

I turned and the Three Stooges popped through the opening doorway all at once and spread out, and after them came Mr. Gross.

Up till then I’d assumed that “Gross” was the man’s name, but it was his description. He looked like something that had finally come up out of its cave because it had eaten the last of the phosphorescent little fish in the cold pool at the bottom of the cavern. He looked like something that better keep moving because if it stood still someone would drag it out back and bury it. He looked like a big white sponge with various diseases at work on the inside. He looked like something that couldn’t get you if you held a crucifix up in front of you. He looked like the big fat soft white something you might find under a tomato plant leaf on a rainy day with a chill in the air.

He was beautifully dressed, but in his case it was a mistake. Had he worn overalls, a dirty flannel shirt, it would have been better. But the tailored black suit, the crisp white shirt, the narrow dark tie, the gleaming black shoes, the golden cuff links and the broad plain wedding band and the large flat wristwatch with its gold expansion bracelet, all they did was emphasize the grossness and pallor and sickliness of the white parts that bulged out at collar and cuff.

Stuck on that face like raisins on a cake were two expressionless eyes. They looked at me, the fat lips twitched, and out of them came a cracked soprano, a voice so high and foolish I inadvertently looked at the Three Stooges to see which was the ventriloquist. But it was Mr. Gross speaking, in his own voice:

“What did you want in here? Are you a burglar?”

“No, sir, Mr. Gross,” I said. I tried to keep looking him straight in the eye, to show him I was honest, but it was just impossible. He was so vile-looking it was embarrassing, I had to keep looking away.

Falsetto, cracking, there-are-sharks-in-these-waters voice: “One thing I cannot stand is incompetence. Incompetence. How could you expect to break in with the house full of people?”

“I wanted to see you, Mr. Gross,” I said. Looking everywhere at once, like Artie when he first sees you again, the way he did last night when I showed up at his party. And now doing the same thing myself, because Mr. Gross was as painful to the eye as a wrong piano chord is to the ear. Did I say he was bald? With a head that looked as though if you squeezed it, it would stay squeezed.

He held up Tim’s gun in a tubby white hand. “With this?” What an idiotic voice. “You wanted to see me with this?”

“For protection,” I explained.

“I have little time,” he said. “I am dummy this hand. We have three tables tonight, all close personal friends. You are an embarrassment to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“If you want to see me—”

“Her-bert!” A shout from downstairs.

His face twitched. Indecision, and then the mind made up. “Keep watch,” he told the Three Stooges. To me he said, “I will return. When next I am dummy.”

He went away, and the Three Stooges settled down to watch me. I told them, “I’m not going to try and get away. I want to talk to Mr. Gross.”

But I don’t think they believed me.

While they stood grouped near the shut door, I went back over to the window. Nothing had changed down below. I stood gazing, and all at once a shadow flitted, out at the end of the driveway, by the edge. I blinked, but it was gone.

Behind me, the Three Stooges were talking together, deciding to send one of their number for a deck of cards. Larry, the butler, was the one to go.

I watched and watched. Was that motion along the hedge, in the darkness? I couldn’t be sure.

Moe, the chauffeur, said, “You.”

He had to mean me. I turned and pointed at myself.

He said, “You play bridge?”

“A little,” I said. “I’m not very good.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “We need a fourth.”

“All right.”

But Larry hadn’t yet returned with the cards. I turned and looked out the window again, and now I did see her, following my route exactly — Chloe, pussyfooting across the lawn toward the house.

“You,” Moe said. “Come on, we got the cards.”

Chapter 15

It just so happened we were both dummy at the same time. When Mr. Gross came in I was sitting at the table with my arms folded, watching my partner, the cook — whose name was not Curly but Luke — take a perfectly sensible contract of five hearts and grind it beneath his heel. I had always thought I was one of the world’s worst bridge players, but now I knew three worse.

Mr. Gross came in then, and I got to my feet. He said, “If you want to see me, why not merely ring the front doorbell?

It struck me he’d picked up our conversation exactly where it had been interrupted last time. And this time, would it be interrupted the same way, or would the interruption be screams and crashings as Chloe was discovered? It had been ten minutes since I’d seen her out the window, and so far not a sound.

Just as I had been forcing myself to concentrate on the cards, now I forced myself to concentrate on what I had to say to Mr. Gross. “I was afraid you wouldn’t talk to me. It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Life or death?” His mouth twitched; a fastidious distaste for melodrama. But how on earth could such a face convey fastidiousness about anything? And that wedding band on his left hand — what sort of female horror did it imply downstairs?

He said, in that voice again, “Whose life or death? Mine?”

“No. Mine.”

“Yours? But you came here with a gun.”

“To defend myself.”

“Rather than that,” he said, with twitching lips, “explain yourself.” The lips made a smile, in appreciation of the joke. His teeth looked soft, like bread.

“My name is Poole,” I told him. “Charles Robert Poole. Two men came—”

But he already knew the name. He took a step backward, his eyes widened, and if his face hadn’t already been as white as the belly of a fish, I think he would have blanched. “You killed the Farmer!”

“No! No! I didn’t, Mr. Gross. I want to explain—”

“And you came here to kill me!”

“Mr. Gross—”

“Damn!” said Luke. Our contract had just sunk without a trace, only a bit of oil skim on the water.

Mr. Gross said, “What possible point can there be in these murders? Do you think you can kill the whole organization?”

“Mr. Gross, I didn’t kill anybody. I swear I didn’t.”

“Her-bert!” Again from downstairs.

But this time he ignored it. “Of course it was you,” he said. “Who else would kill the Farmer? Who else would dare? Who else would want to?”

“I didn’t want to. Why would I kill him? I didn’t even know him.”

At the table, Luke was shuffling with unnecessary noise. The three of them sitting there were watching me with ill-concealed impatience. In any game, the worst players are always the ones most in a hurry to get at the next hand.

Mr. Gross was saying, “You found out he was the one who had sent Trask and Slade to kill you. Foolishly, you thought you could save your own life by ending his.”

“No, no. I just wanted to talk to him. I know better than that, Mr. Gross. I know it wouldn’t do any good to kill Mr. Agricola. Or those two men, either.”

“Trask and Slade.”

“Yes, sir, Trask and Slade. There would just be somebody else come after me, somebody else to send them, I know that.”

Gross frowned, making creases in his cheeks that looked as though they’d never pop out again. He agreed with what I was saying, but if that was what I already believed, then something had to be wrong somewhere. He said, “And if you were to kill me? Do you think then you would be safe?”

“No, sir. Even less safe. The whole organization would be out looking for the man who killed you.”

This was heady flattery indeed. He preened before me. “That is very—”

“Herbert!” Shouted this time from the doorway.

We both turned to look, and the woman there was undoubtedly six foot three in her bare feet, but at the moment she was wearing four-inch heels. She looked to be in her late twenties, a statuesque blonde, leggy and magnificent, with the body of a somewhat slimmer Anita Ekberg: a Copacabana chorine if there ever strutted one. Facially she had a cold Scandinavian beauty; ice-blue eyes and hollow cheeks and wide mouth and smooth complexion. Just as Gross’s ugliness was embarrassing, making you turn away in spite of yourself, this woman’s beauty had the same effect. It was too much beauty, larger than life, overpowering. It would take a man with absolute confidence in himself to climb into bed with her.

Or a fistful of money? Because this was surely the woman heralded by that wedding band.

Gross himself seemed impressed by her. He waved flaccid hands helplessly, saying, “Something’s come up, my dear.”

“I doubt that,” she said, with utter scorn.

Had Gross had blood in his veins, I’m sure he would have blushed. As it was, his face turned just slightly green. Formaldehyde? He said, “You must carry on without me, this cannot wait.”

“Bridge,” she told him, “is played with four players.”

He looked around helplessly, and saw Luke and the other two sitting at the table in silent agreement of the lady’s observation. “Joseph,” he said. “Go down and take my place for the moment. I will return as soon as possible.”

Joseph was the butler, whom I had initially thought of as Larry. And the chauffeur was not Moe but Harvey.

The quick look I now caught between Joseph and the lady of the house led me to believe this was not the first time, nor the first circumstance, in which Joseph had taken Mr. Gross’s place for the moment. In fact, it seemed to me I saw a similar exchange of glances between the lady and Harvey. Luke, I noticed, resolutely watched his hands shuffle the cards.

I had almost come to think of myself as invisible, the hidden observer, the one who sees everything but is himself unnoticed. I was, therefore, looking straight at the lady’s ice-blue eyes when they turned and looked straight back at me.

It was like being hit in the forehead with a piece of cold pipe. The eyes saw me, catalogued me, weighed me, considered me, and set me aside as being, at least for the moment, not worth the trouble. She turned — did I say her gown was low-cut, floor-length and shimmering gold? — and strode out of the doorway, followed immediately by Joseph.

Mr. Gross now sat down at the table at which we’d been playing cards. “You two,” he told Luke and Harvey, “stand over there by the door. If this young man tries anything, stop him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t try anything,” I said.

“Come over here and sit down,” he ordered.

I went over and sat down, opposite him.

He raised a finger like a white sausage. “Nothing,” he said, “is senseless. That I learned long ago. If a fact is presented which appears to be devoid of sense, it means only that we must look again.” He paused, as though wanting comment.

I nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

He pointed the white sausage at me. “You,” he said, “are discovered in perfidy. Trask and Slade are sent to dispatch you. You escape. You appear at the Farmer’s place, and the Farmer is murdered. You appear here, with a pistol in your pocket. The conclusion seems inescapable — you killed the Farmer and you intended to kill me.”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, I didn’t,” I said. “I didn’t—”

“Wait.” Five white sausages raised up to halt me, with a gesture like a traffic cop. “I told you, nothing is senseless. And yet, from appearances, your behavior is utterly devoid of sense. You know that killing Farmer Agricola will not save you, that killing me will not save you. The obvious course of events, therefore, is not necessarily the true course of events. Some other, or some further, explanation will be required.”

“That’s what I’m trying to—”

“No, no.” The sausages waggled; I had the uneasy feeling his fingers would fall off, but they didn’t. He said, “Let me do this in my own way. Order out of chaos. Now, if you did not kill Farmer Agricola, then someone else must have. And you must have had some purpose for going to see him other than his murder. And you must have had some purpose for coming here other than my murder. Now, the question is, what other purpose? And who else would want to kill Farmer Agricola?”

I’d always understood that big wheels in the organization were awash in enemies prepared to do them in, that violent ends were common among them and the practice of keeping bodyguards no mere affectation, but Mr. Gross seemed to think otherwise, and he was after all a big wheel in the organization himself and should know. So I let that question go, and tried the other one: “What I wanted to see—”

But it wasn’t my turn yet. “Ah ah ah,” he said. “One moment. Allow me please to see if this problem can be worked out with no more information than that which I already possess.”

I sat back and allowed him.

He thought it over, pursing his lips, which was a disgusting sight. After a minute he said, “There is, of course, also the daughter, who aided your escape. Her name?”

“Aided my—”

He snapped his fingers. It sounded like hitting two pork chops together. “Her name,” he said.

“Miss Althea,” I said. “But she—”

“Yes. Althea. Is this the explanation?”

I said, “She didn’t aid my escape, Mr. Gross. In fact, she tried to kill me. She thought I killed her father, and she came—”

“Please,” he said. “If you must lie, do so intelligently. The Farmer’s bodyguard, who himself has questions to answer, locked you away for safekeeping. This Althea person, the daughter, released you and gave you a gun. Further, she went away with you. The only term for this is my lexicon is ‘aided your escape.’ Yes?”

“No,” I said. “That’s all wrong. She—”

“Is undoubtedly somewhere nearby,” he said, “waiting for you to dispatch me and return to her arms.”

“But why?” I said. “Why would I do anything like that?”

“That,” he told me, “is the question with which I am currently engaging myself. What has been done is clear and obvious. Why is more complex.”

“Mr. Gross, I swear—”

“Don’t. Be still.”

I was still.

The wait this time was a longer one. Mr. Gross sat there with hooded eyes, like a white frog waiting for some beauty’s kiss to turn him into a green prince, and thought and thought, while I sat all atremble with corrections and emendations I wanted to make to his misinformation and incorrect conclusions.

Finally he spoke again: “Perhaps I begin to understand. The Farmer had tried always to keep the truth of his occupation from his daughter’s ear, which never ceased to strike me as snobbery. If a man’s own family cannot be taken into his confidence and be expected to spur him on in his professional endeavors, then God help us all. Be that as it may, to each his own, the Farmer wished his daughter to believe he was a farmer. An idiosyncrasy.”

He looked at me expectantly, but so far he hadn’t said much of anything, so there was nothing for me to reply to. I kept my silence, waiting for him to get to the parts that counted.

After a few seconds he nodded as though we’d come to agreement on something, and went on: “Somehow, the daughter learned the truth. Hearing it from outsiders, undoubtedly in a distorted and prejudiced manner, and at a highly impressionable age, the truth affected her badly. Particularly since the Farmer had given credence to the idea of his guilt and ill feelings by hiding this truth from his child so many years. A vigilante feeling came over the child. She must atone for her father’s sins by destroying the organization herself, with her own two hands.”

Again he stopped, and this time I did have something to say. “That’s wrong, Mr. Gross. She still doesn’t believe the truth. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

He smiled, pityingly, which was horrible to see. “You are very young,” he said, “and inexperienced at lying. However, let us go on. This daughter, this child, this young girl, feeling herself helpless to destroy such a large and powerful organization, sought assistance in her scheme, and that’s where you came in.”

“Mr. Gross! For—”

“Be still! When I have done, you may speak, you may rebut, you will be given your chance.”

All right then. I shrugged, and folded my arms, and sat back in the chair, all in an attempt to give the impression I was listening to utter nonsense and would be able to prove my case in a twinkling once my turn to speak had come. I wondered if I could.

Mr. Gross said, “Somewhere you two had met, the beautiful daughter of the gangland leader and the drifter, the ne’er-do-well, the useless nephew in his useless job. You understand, I mean nothing personal.”

I shrugged. It wasn’t yet my turn to speak.

“I am only,” he explained, “being vivid. In any case, you two met. She, purposeful, strong, beautiful. You, purposeless, weak, willing to be led. The two of you formed an alliance, and began your efforts to undermine the organization, and ultimately to destroy it.”

I shook my head, but didn’t say anything.

“At first,” he said, ignoring my shaking head, “you were content to be a informer, passing information on to the police, but after a—”

“No! I didn’t, Mr. Gross, I did not! What infor—”

“Be still! When I am done you may speak!”

I subsided. “I’m sorry,” I said, more calmly. “That was just... I’m sorry.”

“Very well.” He had himself become a bit ruffled. He smoothed his lapels — how astonishing that his hands didn’t leave a trail of white slime on the black cloth! — and took a deep breath. “After a while,” he said, “it became evident this was not enough. I cannot guess what your plans were before last night, but once you realized we were on to you, you suddenly intensified your program of attack. You attempted first to murder your own uncle, but were foiled. You then” — he gazed at me sternly till I stopped sputtering — “proceeded to Staten Island, murdered the Farmer, joined forces with your beautiful partner, and came here to kill me. That, as I see it, is the sum and essence of your activities.”

I said, “May I speak now?”

He waved two clusters of sausages airily. “The floor is yours.”

“All right. Number one, I did not come here to kill you. I came— No. That isn’t number one.”

“Take your time,” he said. “Organize your thoughts.”

“May I stand up?”

“Certainly. Pace the floor if you wish. Except near the door, of course.”

“Thank you.”

Moe and Curly — I mean Harvey and Luke — had been fading away into somnolence over by the door, but now that I was on my feet they suddenly became very alert again, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the doorway, gripping their guns tightly, glaring at me as though daring me to get funny. It was my own personal feeling that if I said, “Boo,” to those two, they’d turn tail and run to Montauk Point, but that didn’t matter. My job wasn’t to escape, but to plead my case.

How to do it, though, how to do it? I prowled around the room, trying to think. After a minute I stopped and said, “Can I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Is that why you sent your two men to—”

“Trask and Slade.”

“Yes. Trask and Slade. Is that why you sent them to kill me? Because you believed I was giving information to the police?”

“Naturally,” he said. “An adequate enough reason, I believe.”

“Sure. Can I ask another?”

“Ask as many as you wish.”

“What made you think it was me? That was giving information to the police.”

He shook his head, with that pitying smile on it again. “We checked,” he said. “Naturally. The police were obviously in receipt of information concerning shipments of various commodities. There were at least, two instances, and perhaps more, when particular shipments which went through your hands, and which were perfectly safe before reaching you, had developed a police tail after leaving your hands.”

“You mean packages I kept in my safe.”

“Certainly.”

“What makes you think it was me?”

“As I say, we checked. I spoke to Mahoney myself, asked him to find out, and the word came back it was the bartender. You.”

“Who’s this Mahoney?” I said. “I don’t know any Mahoney.”

“Our liaison on the police force.”

Mahoney. It was a name I wanted to remember, for future reference. But I would also want it narrowed down more than that, so I said, “Would that be Michael Mahoney?”

“No,” he said. “Patrick.” Then he frowned, as though wondering why he’d told me that.

Before he could think long enough to realize he’d been psyched, I said, “How can you be sure you can trust this guy Mahoney?”

“Of course we can trust him. We bought him, years ago.”

I said, “Well, this time he’s lying. Mr. Gross, before I got that job out at that bar, I was just a drifter, just a bum, living off my mother all the time. My Uncle Al got me that job, and it just suited me right. All I wanted out of life was to go on running that bar. I never looked inside any of the packages or envelopes I was asked to hold for a while, and I never asked anybody any questions about what was inside them or about anything else, because I didn’t want to know. I never wanted a lot of money, I never wanted revenge, I never wanted anything but to go on running that bar.”

“Until,” he said, “Miss Althea Agricola came into your life.”

“No, sir. No, sir, that isn’t right.”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Tell your story,” he said.

“Just let me get it straight. I want to tell you everything in chronological order.”

“Take your time.”

I went over by the window and glanced out, and here came the black car, the same old black car. I stared, and saw it pull to a stop with the other cars parked out front, and they got out of the car, the two of them, and hitched their trousers and shifted their shoulders inside their coats and pushed their hatbrims around a little and looked at each other and up at this window and moved toward the front door.

Trask and Slade.

So I couldn’t take my time after all. Before he’d come back up, Mr. Gross had contacted Trask and Slade, told them to come out here.

I turned and said, “Trask and Slade. They just drove up.”

But he waved a fat hand to indicate it didn’t matter. “They’ll wait downstairs until called for,” he said. “Go on with your story. In chronological order, I believe you said.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went back to the table and sat down, and started: “Like I said, I never gave information to the police because I never had any information to give them and never wanted to give them any information anyway. So last night when those two guys — Trask and Slade — when they came in and put that card with the black spot down on the bar, I thought they were kidding. It was just dumb luck I got away. I went to see my Uncle Al to ask him to help me, because the organization wanted to kill me and I didn’t know why, because I didn’t do anything wrong, but he was too scared to even talk to me. So I went to see Mr. Agricola to find out from him—”

“Excuse me,” he said, holding up a wad of bread dough shaped somewhat like a hand. “If you were so devoid of information, how did you know to find the Farmer’s farm? From the Farmer’s daughter, perhaps?”

“No, sir. Trask and Slade mentioned the name to my Uncle Al, I heard them when I was hiding in the stairwell. Then I went to a friend of mine, he used to sell pills for Mr. Agricola and he knew he lived out on Staten Island, and so I went out to Staten Island and found him in the phone book.”

“The phone book?” He seemed startled.

“Yes, sir.”

He shook his head. “One never knows. Very well, go on.”

“Yes, sir. When I got there, he was dead. That was the first time I’d ever seen him or his daughter or that farm. A man named Clarence locked—”

“The bodyguard,” he said, in a tone that indicated trouble for the bodyguard in the near future.

“Yes, sir. He locked me in the barn, and then Miss Althea came with a gun and unlocked the door and tried to shoot me, because she thought I’d killed her father. She took two shots at me.”

“And missed you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How very fortunate for you.”

“It happened,” I said.

He smiled — pityingly, again — and said, “Go on, go on.”

“I got the gun away from her, and outside I found my friend that had told me where Mr. Agricola lived, he’d come after me to see if I was okay, and we got away together. We took Miss Althea with us for a hostage, but she wouldn’t believe me when I told her the truth about her father, and she got away back on Sunrise Highway and my friend went after her and I haven’t seen him since. Either of them.”

“How sad. I never, never had the privilege of meeting the Farmer’s child, and I had been looking forward to your introducing us. Is this the end of your story?”

“I came here,” I said, “to talk to you, to find out why you wanted me killed, and to try to convince you I didn’t do whatever it was you thought I did. I didn’t give anybody any information, I’m not in cahoots with Althea Agricola, I didn’t kill Mr. Agricola or anybody else, and I didn’t come here to kill you. I don’t know about this Mr. Mahoney, if he’s lying on purpose or he just made a mistake, but whatever it was what he said is wrong.”

“I see. Is that all?”

I could tell by his face, by his voice, that he didn’t believe me. “And to ask you,” I said, “to give me a chance to clear myself.”

“Very touching,” he said. “In other words, you would like me to let you go.”

“Yes, sir. So I can prove I’m telling the truth.”

“Surely you can see—”

“All right, everybody!” shouted a female voice from the doorway. “On your feet and get your hands up!”

Mr. Gross and I both scrambled to our feet and stuck our hands in the air. Behind me, over by the door, I could hear two thumps as Luke and Harvey dropped their guns, one of which was Tim’s little pistol.

The female voice said, “Not you, you dummy, you’re on my side, remember? Put your hands down.”

I turned around and it was Chloe there in the doorway, as wild and beautiful as a cheetah, holding the automatic in both hands. I smiled at her, put my hands down, and picked up both guns.

“Ah,” said Mr. Gross. “The beauteous Miss Althea. How do you do?”

Chapter 16

Chloe said, “I been listening in the hall, Charlie. You told him your story, and he wouldn’t believe you. Now let’s go.”

I said, “We’ve got to be careful. Trask and Slade are downstairs.”

“Who?”

So she hadn’t been listening that long. “The two guys,” I explained, “that’ve been looking for me.”

Mr. Gross said, “Young lady, I was aware the younger generation had gone astray, but to be a willing accomplice in the cold-blooded murder of your own father is, it seems to me, carrying bohemianism too far.”

Chloe gave him a look of scorn. “Don’t be any more of a moron than you have to be,” she told him.

I said, “Wait a minute. She didn’t mean that, Mr. Gross.”

She frowned at me. “I didn’t?”

“When this all over,” I told her, “I’m going to want my job back in the bar. I’m not out to fight the organization.” I turned to Mr. Gross. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Gross,” I said. “And I’m going to prove it to you. All I want is the job I had, and to be left alone.”

“If the facts weren’t so clear, the conclusions so inescapable,” he said, “I could almost believe you. You should have been an actor.”

I said, “Mr. Gross, if I came here to kill you, why don’t I do it right now? If that’s Miss Althea there, why doesn’t she kill you right now?”

“Because of Trask and Slade downstairs,” he said reasonably. “As you just told the Farmer’s daughter, their presence means you’ll have to be careful. You can’t risk the noise of a shot.”

Chloe was looking gimlet-eyed at Mr. Gross. “What did he mean by that crack?” she wanted to know.

We both looked at her. “What crack?” I said.

“That crack about the farmer’s daughter.” She stared daggers. “Just what did you mean by that, Fatso?”

Mr. Gross looked insulted, which on him meant his face got a greenish tinge again. I said, “It wasn’t a crack. He didn’t mean anything by it. I’ll explain it later.”

“He better watch his lip,” she said.

I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Gross, but I’m going to have to tie you and gag you. So we can get away.”

Mr. Gross said, “Harvey, call for help. Luke, you too.”

Harvey opened his mouth and said, “HELP!”

Luke did, too.

Now, that wasn’t fair. Chloe and I were the ones with the guns, we were the desperate characters. According to the rules, Mr. Gross and Luke and Harvey should all have been very quiet and very obedient and very meek. Instead, Harvey and Luke were both saying, “HELP!” not quite in unison, and under the racket Mr. Gross was looking at us with the patient smile of an inevitably victorious Lucy about to play another game of checkers with Charlie Brown.

We had our choice. We could shoot everybody and run, or we could just run.

We just ran.

“This way!” I shouted, over the shouting of Harvey and Luke, who had leaned closer together in the style of barbershop quartets and who were practically making a theme song out of HELP. I shouted my own shout, and waved my arms, and ran from the room at full tilt. Chloe came along in my wake.

I figured Trask and Slade would be coming up the front way, along with everybody else, so I headed for the back stairs, the ones I’d been brought up earlier. We leaped down the steps three and four at a time, and behind us we could hear Luke and Harvey yelling at the top of their lungs, now having worked into a kind of tempo, a sort of Sonja Henie skating-music beat. Mr. Gross was yelling, too, by now, shouting directions to somebody to do something. I could guess what.

Still, there was a chance; we did have a lead on them. At the foot of the stairs, I made a false start toward the rear door I’d come in, but then I changed my mind and my direction and headed for the front of the house instead, Chloe willy-nilly in my wake. They would all, I was hoping, figure us to go out the back way, so they’d go out the front and circle the house on both sides to get us. If we followed them out the front way, we might have the slight advantage of surprise.

I slowed down a bit, going through the ground-floor rooms, and Chloe at last caught up with me, panting and tugging at my arm. She whispered, “What are we going this way for?”

But there wasn’t time for explanations. I shook my head, and motioned for her to stick with me and ask no questions.

Ahead of us there was a closed door. I opened it, cautiously, and entered an unpopulated room full of card tables, with playing cards scattered all over their surfaces. Folding chairs stood back from the tables, as though they’d been vacated by people abruptly getting to their feet and hurrying away. Across the way, past a wide doorway, there was a hall leading to left and right, and a hubbub of conversation but no one to be seen.

I led the way, tiptoeing now, across this empty room to the doorway. I stuck my head around the corner, and down to the right I saw a cluster of people grouped around the foot of the stairs, some looking up the staircase and others looking toward the front door, which was just beyond the cluster and which was standing open. There was no more shouting now, from anywhere. Mr. Gross’s bigger-than-life wife was prominent in the middle of the cluster, a head taller than anyone else. She looked somewhat offended.

I brought my head back into the card room and whispered to Chloe, “We’re going through those people out there. Through them and out the front door and straight down the driveway and back to the car. It’s still in the same place?”

“Yes.”

“Holler and wave your gun around while we’re leaving the house,” I told her. “It’ll help clear us a path.”

She nodded. She looked intent, and excited, and very High School of Music and Art. I could have been giving her directions to find a Communist cell meeting, or a Black Mass, or a pot party, or the Egyptology room in the Fifth Avenue Library.

“Get set,” I whispered. I felt, myself, very Robert Mitchum. I had to stifle an urge to synchronize watches.

We stood poised at the threshold, like ski jumpers at the top of the slide. I hefted the guns in my two hands — my old pistol in my right, and Harvey’s automatic in my left — and then I hollered, “Let’s go!” and went racing around the corner, yelling, “Yah! Yah! Yah!” I also waved my firearm-full hands around quite a bit. Behind me I could hear Chloe shrieking like a banshee.

The card-party guests exhibited for our bemusement a catalogue of startled white faces, and then whisked those faces away to left and right like the skeletons in a black-light ride at Disneyland. A path opened between us and the door, and we tore through it.

Trask and Slade appeared in the doorway, side by side, filling it. Black suits, black topcoats. Black guns in their hands, black scowls on their faces. Menace, menace.

I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to. Whooping, I lowered my head and kept on going.

My shoulders caught them amidships, my left shoulder thudding into the breadbasket of Trask or Slade and my right shoulder chunking into the midsection of Slade or Trask. I heard, “Oooff!” in stereo, and then I was through the doorway and there was nothing pressed against my shoulders any more, and I was flailing forward in a wild attempt to get my feet back under my torso where they belonged.

I ran for the next little space of eternity completely off balance. My feet pumped and pumped, trying to catch up with the rest of me, and it seemed certain I was about to dig my nose into the gravel driveway and maybe ream out a furrow twenty feet long. At the same time that I was trying to catch up with myself, I was also trying to run around all the cars parked in front of Mr. Gross’s house, having no desire to run into any of them, not at my current speed, which I later estimated to have been about Mach point nine. I don’t think it was much higher than that because I didn’t hear any sonic boom.

What I did hear was a lot of shouting and hirruping, all from behind me. Ahead, once the last parked car had been cleared there was only the lit driveway and the lovely blank hole in the hedge that led to the street. Flailing, flying, I hurtled toward it, and on through.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t make the necessary right turn. I kept on going, turning in a slight arc that would have had me complete a right turn somewhere out around Montauk Point, and if it hadn’t been for the hedge on the other side of the road I don’t know where I might have gone.

Where I did go was into the hedge. Thunk! I got my arms up in front of my face just in time, and the hedge stopped me the way all that cotton batting stops bullets in ballistics test boxes in the movies.

I hung there, exhaling, for a second or two, until somebody pulled me by the back of Artie’s jacket, and Chloe’s voice said, with shrill insistence, “Come on! Come on!”

I came on, out of the hedge and off again. There had been no shots at all, and so far no one had come out as far as the road after us, but I thought I heard a car being started in there and that had to mean Trask and Slade were after us again. Now, I guessed, more than ever.

We pelted down the road, through the dim light at the intersection and into the lovely darkness beyond. I’d gotten into the lead again by then, having long legs and no sense of chivalry, and so I was first into the car, through the door on the driver’s side and across past the steering wheel, which caught me a good one in the ribs.

Chloe leaped in after me, slammed the door, and jammed the key into the ignition. Looking back I could see four headlights coming out of Mr. Gross’s driveway. You might know those guys would drive with their highs on.

“Hurry!” I said.

But as I said it the car leaped forward, and I cracked my head on the back of the seat, biting my tongue severely.

“They’ll never get us now!” Chloe cried, and crouched over the wheel with the smile of competition on her lips and the glint of motor madness in her eyes.

I closed my own eyes, and awaited the worst.

Chapter 17

Chloe said, not without pride, “I’ve lost them.”

It was the first word either of us had said in ten minutes or more. Not that the intervening time had been soundless, oh no; the shriek of tires and squeal of brakes had filled in nicely for the lack of dialogue.

I had spent the time — I never have claimed to be anything but a coward, I hope you’ve noticed that — with my eyes shut. Even so, I could visualize our screaming progress through the tiny towns of Long Island, the long bulky black 1938 Packard roaring down the night-dark streets, the natives peering fearful and open-mouthed from their cottage windows, the whole thing straight out of Carol Reed. I was so caught up in my imagery that now, when I did at last open my eyes again, I was surprised to see the world not in black and white.

Chloe said, “Where to?”

“Back to the city,” I said. That much thinking I’d been able to do down in there behind my shut eyelids, while the world had squealed and teetered around me. “I’ve got to find a policeman named Patrick Mahoney.”

“That should be easy,” she said. “I doubt there’s more than fifty Patrick Mahoneys on the force.”

“Well, I’ve got to find mine,” I said.

“Why?”

There was no quick answer to that. I had to fill her in on everything I had said to Mr. Gross, and everything he had said to me, and when I was finished with all that I said, “The way it looks to me, I’ve got to prove I didn’t inform to the police, and I’ve got to prove I didn’t kill Mr. Agricola. If I can prove I didn’t inform, that ought to help prove I didn’t do the killing.”

“Maybe,” she said. She sounded doubtful.

I said. “What’s wrong?”

“It all sounds too complicated,” she said. “You don’t know any of these people or what the real situation is or anything else. If you didn’t give information to the police, then somebody else did. And if you didn’t kill Mr. Agricola, then somebody else did that, too. Maybe the same somebody, maybe a different one. The point is, you don’t know who these people are or what they’re doing or what they’re after. You’re probably just a sidelight to them, one little corner of some great big thing that’s going on.”

“I’m learning,” I told her. “What else can I do? I keep moving, from name to name, from fact to fact, and I hope after a while I find out what’s going on and I get everything straightened out, and then I can go back to the bar and forget all this mess.”

“Do you think so?” She glanced at me, and then back out at the road again.

I didn’t get what she meant. “Do I think what?”

“After this is over,” she said. “Even if you get everything straightened out the way you want, do you think you’ll be content to go back to your old life again?”

“Ho ho,” I said. “You bet your sweet — you’re darn right I will. Content is hardly the word. Those cows on that evaporated milk can are nervous wrecks in comparison.”

She shrugged. “If you think so,” she said.

“I know so.” I looked around, out the windshield and the side window. “Where are we?”

“I’m not sure. On Long Island somewhere.”

“That much I knew already.”

“I think we’re going north,” she said. “If we are, we’ll cross one of the expressways sooner or later, and we can take it back into the city.”

“Fine.”

She said, “Charlie, something else.”

“Something else?”

“I don’t know if you’ve thought about this or not,” she said, and stopped.

“Neither do I,” I told her. “Maybe I will after you say it.”

She said, “If Gross thinks I’m Althea, and he thinks you are I are in cahoots, and he thinks we’re out to wreck the organization, where do you suppose he thinks we’re going now?”

“I don’t know.”

She shook her head. “He told you, Charlie, about a crooked cop, what he called the liaison between the organization and the police force. Charlie, he’s sure to think we’re on our way to kill Mahoney.”

“Oh,” I said.

“If we do find him,” she told me, “we’ll probably find Trask and Slade right along with him.”

“They can’t be everywhere at once,” I said, though by now I wasn’t so sure.

“All they have to be,” she pointed out, “is where you are.”

I shook my head. “Well, I’ve got nothing else to do. Mahoney’s the man I’ve got to see next, that’s all.”

“All right, fine. You’re in charge. Yeah, there’s Grand Central.”

Grand Central is a parkway. Chloe tooled the mighty Packard around the long curve down from the street we’d been on, and joined the rest of the night traffic streaming toward the city.

One question Chloe hadn’t brought up, but I’d been thinking about anyway, was how we were going to find Patrick Mahoney. All I knew about him was that he was a policeman. He could be a uniformed cop, or a detective in plainclothes. He could be stationed in a precinct in any one of the boroughs, or he could work out of the main Headquarters on Centre Street in Manhattan.

Although, come to think of it, the odds were pretty good he was well up there in the police hierarchy. A uniformed cop on a beat somewhere was hardly in a position to be what Gross had called the “liaison” between the organization and the police force. It seemed to me likeliest that Mahoney was some sort of wheel and would most likely be found at Centre Street.

But how to find out for sure, that was the problem.

A patrol car passed us, exceeding the posted speed limit, and I gazed after it wistfully, wishing we could catch up with it and flag it down and just ask the cop driving it if he could tell us who Patrick Mahoney was and how to—

Ah hah!

I said it aloud: “Ah hah!”

Chloe jerked, and the Packard lunged into another lane. “Don’t do that!” she said.

“Canarsie,” I told her. “Never mind Manhattan, drive to Canarsie.”

“Canarsie? Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding. Drive to Canarsie.”

“I couldn’t find Canarsie,” she told me, “with a troop of Boy Scouts to help.”

“I could. Stop the car and let me drive.”

“You sure you know how to drive this kind of car?”

Coming from her, that was an insult. But I let it pass. “Yes,” I said simply. “Pull over to the side.”

She did, and we switched places, she sliding over and me running around the front of the car. It was a very large car, with a very long front and a very high hood. I got behind the wheel and immediately felt like a member of Patton’s Third Army Tanks, you know.

What a dream that car was to drive! It was like driving a big old mohair sofa, equipped with a lot of tiny highly oiled ball bearings. It was the first time in my life I ever wished I smoked cigars. I can see why gangsters and little old ladies are assumed to drive cars like this; such a car gives a gangster a feeling of power and importance he can’t possibly get in, say, a Cadillac you can barely tell apart from some minor hood’s Chevrolet, and a lot of time at the wheel of this sort of car would surely keep the bloom of youth in the cheeks of any reasonably hip little old lady.

“No wonder we got away from those guys,” I said, as we rolled merrily along. “This car has too much self-respect to be caught by some four-eyed piece of tin with plastic seat covers.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Chloe.

“The driver helped, too,” I assured her, but I only said it to be polite.

Chapter 18

I found Patrolman Ziccatta walking along East 101st Street, practicing with his nightstick. He wasn’t doing too well tonight, so I heard him before I saw him: Clatter, and, “Damn!”

We’d been driving around the neighborhood for fifteen minutes, moving very slowly with all the windows open. It was heading toward midnight and all Canarsie was, as usual, comatose. My competition, the other two neighborhood bars, were both open, of course, their windows full of red neon, but if they were not comatose they were at least somnolent. My own bar, the ROCK GRILL, was comatose; it was strange to drive by and see it closed and empty. How I wished I could get out of the car and go in there and open the place up, light it up, turn on the TV, put my apron on, maybe have a little small-talk with a customer or two, assuming a customer or two might come by.

The late show tonight, I remembered all at once, was Kiss of Death, where Victor Mature wants to go straight and Richard Widmark won’t let him and pushes the old lady down the stairs in the wheelchair. And the late late show was going to be It’s a Gift, the old W.C. Fields comedy, where Fields buys the orange grove in California.

That was an awful lot of good television to be missing, all on account of somebody making a stupid mistake some place.

So anyway, we drove around the neighborhood about fifteen minutes before the clatter and damn told me I’d found Patrolman Ziccatta. I stuck my head out the window and, keeping my voice down as much as possible, said, “Hoy!”

“Eh?” I could see him on the sidewalk, in the darkness midway between two streetlights, bending over to pick up his nightstick. Staying bent over, he swayed this way and that, like somebody involved in a religious ritual of some kind, looking around to see who’d called him.

“Over here,” I said. “It’s me, Charlie Poole.”

I’d meanwhile brought the Packard up to the left-hand curb, near him. Patrolman Ziccatta looked over at me, finally found me and recognized me, said, “Oh! It’s you, Charlie,” picked up his nightstick, straightened, and came over to the car. “You buy this?” he asked.

“What? Oh, the car. No, I just borrowed it.”

“I noticed the place closed before,” he said. “I was wondering were you maybe sick or something.”

“I had things I had to do,” I said. “I can’t talk about it right now, if you don’t mind. No offense.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Why should I stick my nose in your private business?” And he bent forward again to smile past me at Chloe and raise his uniform hat. “Good evening,” he said.

She smiled back, and nodded her head, and said, “Good evening.”

“Patrolman Ziccatta,” I said, going through the amenities although my heart wasn’t in it, “this is Chloe — uh—”

“Shapiro,” she said.

“Shapiro,” I said. “Chloe Shapiro. Chloe, this is Patrolman Ziccatta.”

They both said, “How do you do?”

I was beginning to feel impatient. Any minute we’d be serving tea and chocolate-chip cookies. I said, “Patrolman Ziccatta, there’s a question I wanted to ask you.”

“Sure, Charlie. Name it.”

“In confidence,” I said. “And I can’t tell you why I have to ask this question.”

He put his left hand on his badge, though I guess he meant the gesture to be hand on heart, and said, “I don’t snoop, Charlie, I don’t pry. Why should I be a nosy parker?”

I said, “Fine. What I want to know is, there’s a man somewhere on the police force named Patrick Mahoney, and what I—”

“I’d be surprised if there wasn’t,” said Patrolman Ziccatta, and laughed. He bent forward again, and looked twinkle-eyed at Chloe, and said, “Wouldn’t you, miss? Be surprised if there wasn’t?”

The smile she gave him this time was perfunctory, I’m happy to report. I said, “This is serious, Patrolman Ziccatta, it really is.”

He sobered immediately, and straightened till he was practically standing at attention. “Sorry, Charlie,” he said. “It just struck me funny, that’s all. You can see that.”

“Sure,” I said. “The question is, I want to find this guy Mahoney. I think he’s probably stationed at Centre Street, but I’m not sure.”

“What is he, a wheel?”

“I think so. But maybe not.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Could you find out some way if there is a Patrick Mahoney stationed at Centre Street, or a Patrick Mahoney who’s a wheel stationed somewhere else? And find out on the quiet, so Mahoney doesn’t get wise?”

He frowned at me. “Charlie, are you up to something you shouldn’t? I don’t want to talk like a cop now, you know that, I want to talk like a friend. If you’re involved in something you shouldn’t, your best bet is get out of it, right now, before it’s too late.”

“I’m not involved in anything I shouldn’t,” I told him, which wasn’t exactly true but on the other hand was true for what he’d meant. I said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ask me about this.”

He spread his hands, and shrugged his shoulders, and said, “All right, Charlie, I don’t snoop, I don’t interfere. Your business is your business.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’ll do what I can,” he said. “You’ll stay here?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll walk by the station house,” he said, “see what I can find out.”

“Quietly,” I said.

“Naturally.”

“I could drive you over to the station house,” I said. “That might be quicker.”

“I got to walk,” he reminded me. “But I’ll meet you there. It’s over on Glenwood Road, you know?”

“I know. I’ll park down the block from it.”

“Fine.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

“I haven’t found out anything yet,” he told me.

We waved at each other and he walked on his way, practicing some more. I put the Packard back in gear and headed for the 69th Precinct station house on Glenwood Road.

Chloe said, “He’s sort of sweet, isn’t he? For a cop.”

“He’s a nice guy,” I said.

She said, “I bet you’ve got a better class of friends than somebody like Artie.”

“What do you mean? Artie’s my friend.”

“Sure. But you’re one of the best people he knows, and he’s one of the worst people you know.”

“Artie? What’s wrong with Artie?”

“Never mind,” she said. She patted my hand the way a teacher might pat the hand of a kid who’d just stayed back in kindergarten. “You just be yourself.”

If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s to be patronized. But I couldn’t think of a really good comeback line, so I just hunched over the steering wheel and fumed.

Neither of us said anything more until I’d parked the car down the block from the station house, a converted frame one-family house that didn’t look any more like a police station than like a moon rocket. Then Chloe said, “I wonder where Artie is now.”

“Home, I suppose,” I said. “But what about Miss Althea, that’s what I wonder.”

“We’re better off without her,” Chloe said. “She was all trouble, and no use to anybody.”

“Listen,” I said. “About that crack you made about Artie before.”

“Charlie, you know Artie as well as I do. Why talk about it?”

“Well, you’re his girl friend, for Pete’s sake. Why do you say things like that about him?”

She smiled crookedly. “That isn’t the question,” she said. “The question is, I say those things and they’re true, so why am I Artie’s girl friend? And I’m not really even his girl friend, Charlie. At the best I’m one of his girl friends, and at the best he’s one of my boy friends. I’m his morning-after-girl, I told you that.”

I said, “Why?”

She cocked her head to one side and seemed to consider the question. After a minute she said, “I’m twenty-three years old, Charlie. Puberty struck me when I was twelve. That’s eleven years. When I was seventeen I got married, to a boy eighteen, believe me he was a mistake. Two years later I got a divorce for reasons of desertion. Not here, over in Jersey where we lived in Elizabeth. Maury worked in the Esso refinery until he ran out. Is this beginning to sound like a true-confessions story just a little bit?”

I said, “If you don’t want to tell me about it, I don’t... I mean, it’s your personal business, I’ve got no right...”

“No, let me. I’m started now, so let me go. You’ve been taking a very simplistic attitude about me, Charlie, it’s time you got a more complicated picture. Like for instance I’ve got a five-year-old daughter, Linda, my parents have her up in the Bronx.”

I said, “Oh.”

“Oh,” she said. “You’re darn right oh. One thing I’m happy about, I didn’t let Maury talk me into quitting high school the middle of my senior year. I finished, I got my diploma. The last four years I’ve been working here and there, going to night school at NYU, sometimes I keep Linda and sometimes my parents keep her, and so it goes. You got a picture in your head now?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “Now, here’s another point. After Maury, after getting married too early, one thing I haven’t been in any hurry for is adult responsibility, you follow? That’s why I unload Linda on my parents every chance I get, that’s why I hang around with people like Artie and his crowd where there’s no responsibility at all, you know what I mean?”

“I never got married when I was seventeen,” I said, “but I guess my job at the bar is the same thing. Avoiding responsibility.”

“All right, so you understand that part. Now, one last point, and I hope I don’t make you blush. Remember, puberty at twelve. Married at seventeen. A mother at eighteen. I’m long since no virgin, Charlie, and I’ve got drives and needs just like anybody else. So I’ve got these drives and needs, and I don’t want responsibility, so I wind up Artie Dexter’s morning-after girl. You got the picture?”

“You didn’t have to, uh,” I said.

“Shut up, Charlie,” she said. “I just want you to know what Artie is to me and what I am to Artie. And that I know what Artie is and it’s just the weakness in Artie that made me connect with him.”

I said, “Well, uh, what about this social-conscience thing, this TV special and not selling the pills any more and all?”

“I know,” she said. “There’ve been a couple of other signs like that. Like him looking up to you like he does these days. Maybe he’s growing up, maybe pretty soon I’ll have to be somebody else’s morning-after girl.”

I said, “Couldn’t you—”

“Don’t say anything dumb, Charlie,” she said. “Look, there goes your cop friend.”

I looked, and there went my cop friend all right, into the station house.

Chloe said, “To get back to business, can I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.”

“After this, we call it quits for tonight. It’s getting late, Mr. Gross probably has men looking all over for us, we’d probably be smartest to hole up somewhere until morning. Besides, I’m getting tired and you should be, too.”

“I guess I am,” I said. “But—”

“You’re not going to find this Mahoney in the middle of the night,” she said.

“Where do I hole up?”

“Same place as last night. Artie’s. I’ve got a key. We should be safe there till morning.”

“We?”

She made a disgusted face. “Don’t start a foolish argument, Charlie,” she said. “I’m sticking with you. I’ll drive the getaway car, I’ll do whatever you need. I already came in handy once, remember?”

“I remember,” I said. And I thought to myself, there was no point arguing with her. She was right about my waiting till morning before going on, and right about my holing up at Artie’s place in the maantime. If Artie was there, or showed up by morning, we could all talk over who’d do what from there on. If Artie didn’t show, the morning would be time enough to tell Chloe I’d feel better going off on my own.

Not that I would feel better. It just seemed as though that’s what I ought to say.

A few minutes later Patrolman Ziccatta came back out of the station house and began walking back and forth, looking for us. We were across the street and down a way to his left, in plain sight, with a streetlight just down at the corner behind us. I rolled my side window down and waved my arms at him, but he just kept walking back and forth and he couldn’t find us.

All in all, Patrolman Ziccatta was not an ideal cop. He couldn’t twirl his nightstick worth a damn, he didn’t like poking his nose into other people’s business, and he couldn’t find a 1938 Packard parked directly across the street under a streetlight.

I finally had to holler, “Hey!”

He looked up, looked around, and saw us. In fact, he pointed at us, as though showing us to himself. He smiled, pleased to find us at last, and came across the street.

I said, sotto voce, “Did you find out anything?”

“Did I?” he said. “You bet I did.” He leaned a forearm on the Packard, above my side window, and leaned down so his face was framed in the window. He smiled past me at Chloe and said, “Hello, there.”

She smiled back, a little more sweetly than necessary I thought, and said, “Hello again.”

“Hello, hello,” I said, somewhat snappish. “What did you find out?”

“This might not be the right Patrick Mahoney,” he said. “There’s probably more Patrick Mahoneys on the force than you could shake a stick at.”

“I don’t want to shake a stick at anybody,” I said. “Tell me about the Patrick Mahoney you’ve got.”

“Well, he’s a wheel,” he said. “He’s a deputy chief inspector, and that’s right under an assistant chief inspector.”

“Wow,” I said snidely. “What does he deputy chief inspect?”

“He’s in the Mob & Rackets Squad,” he said. “He’d be second in command under Assistant Chief Inspector Fink.”

“What’s the Mob & Rackets Squad?”

“It’s something they started after all that stuff came out on television about the Cosa Nostra. It’s a special squad to be on the lookout for organized crime in New York City.”

“I wonder if they find any,” I said.

“I don’t know if he’s the Mahoney you want,” Patrolman Ziccatta said.

I told him, “I’ll be mightily surprised if he isn’t. Where’s he stationed, at Centre Street?”

“No. At Headquarters out in Queens.”

“Queens,” I said.

“It’s probably in the phone book,” he said. “Somewhere out in Queens.”

“Queens.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Queens.”

“The Mob & Rackets Squad is out in Queens.”

“Well, you know. It’s a bureaucracy, Charlie, you know that.”

“Sure. Thanks a lot, anyway. I really appreciate it.”

“Any time, Charlie. And if there’s anything I can do, whatever the problem is here, I don’t want to pry but you know I’ll do all I can to help.”

“I know that,” I said, and I did. Patrolman Ziccatta really was a first-rate guy. How he ever got on the force I do not know.

“Thanks again,” I said.

He lowered his head so he could smile past me at Chloe again. “Well,” he said to her, “good-bye again.”

“So long,” she said, and smiled upon him once more.

Ostentatiously I started the engine. “I don’t want to keep you from your appointed rounds,” I said.

“That’s mailmen,” he said, but he backed away from the car and the conversation was over.

As we drove away, Chloe said, “He’s sweet.”

I said nothing. I was feeling mixed emotions.

Chapter 19

All the streets in Greenwich Village are one way the other way. I pushed the Packard around most of the Village, like a landlocked Flying Dutchman, and finally came on Perry Street from the rear. “Almost there,” I said.

“It’s about time.”

“If you knew a quicker way,” I said, “all you had to do was speak up.”

“You’re driving,” she told me. For some reason, we’d been snapping at each other since Canarsie.

I was about to answer — about to say, in fact, “Thanks for the information” — when I saw the black car, the famous black car, parked by a fire hydrant directly across the street from Artie’s apartment. I almost missed it, almost passed it by, because there was only one of them in it, either Trask or Slade, and I had come to think of them as inseparable, like the Doublemint girls. But there was no reason they wouldn’t split up from time to time, for one to rest or go get fresh orders or some such thing. In this case my guess would be the other one was with Deputy Chief Inspector Mahoney.

Chloe, still blissfully unaware, said, “There’s a parking space. Isn’t that incredible?”

It was, but I went on by. The next intersection was West Fourth Street — this was two blocks north of where West Fourth crosses West Tenth and one block south of where West Fourth crosses West Eleventh, if you’re keeping a crime map — and West Fourth Street is one way west, or south, so I took it.

Chloe said, “Hey! That was a parking space!”

“Trask or Slade,” I said.

“What?”

“The killers. One of them is parked across the street from Artie’s place.”

She turned around in the seat and looked out the back window, although we’d now turned the corner and gone an additional block, so it was unlikely she could see in front of Artie’s place too clearly. She squinted and said, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I know those guys pretty good by now.”

“In front of Artie’s place? How come they’re in front of Artie’s place?”

“They’re ubiquitous,” I said.

“They’re what?”

“That means you told Uncle Al I was there once before.”

“Oh.” Then one beat late, she took offense: “What are you talking about? How was I supposed to know—”

“All right, never mind. The point is, what now?”

“I’m tired, Charlie,” she said. “I can’t tell you how tired I am.”

“Were there any lights in Artie’s windows, did you notice?”

“No. I was looking for parking spaces.”

I had come to Seventh Avenue and a red light. I was just as pleased to stop, since I had no idea where I was going. I said, “Is there any back way into his building, around from the next street?”

“I don’t know. How would I know?”

“I don’t know how you’d know. I’m tired too.”

She said, “Isn’t there any place else?”

I shook my head. “Artie was the only guy I could think of last night. What about your place?”

“Sorry. I’ve got two roommates, and they’re both schizo enough as it is. I’m not about to bring a man in, in the middle of the night.”

“Then I don’t know.”

The light turned green. Seventh Avenue is one way south. I turned that way, went about five feet, and was stopped by another red light.

Chloe said, “What about across the roofs?”

“What?”

“We’ll go in the building on the corner, and up on the roof, and along the roofs to Artie’s building, and down inside to the apartment.”

I said, “How do we get into the building on the corner?”

“Oh,” she said.

This light also turned green, and once again I turned right, this time onto Grove Street, which I took to Hudson Street, where the light was red.

She said, “We could drive around like this all night, you know.”

“Please. I’m trying to think.”

“Then we’re lost,” she said.

“Ha ha,” I said. “Very funny.”

The light, as they all do, turned green, and yet again I turned right. Hudson Street is one way north. I drove one block, to Christopher Street, and got stopped by a red light.

“This is ridiculous,” Chloe pointed out. “There’s got to be some way to get in there.”

I said, “Such as.”

We were both silent. We sat and watched the red light, and after a while it did guess what. I drove north up Hudson Street, past West Tenth Street — hello, West Tenth Street! — and past Charles Street, and past Perry Street — hello, Artie’s apartment, a block and a half to our right — and between Perry and West Eleventh I found a parking space. It was a little small, and I stuck the Packard in it like someone putting a marshmallow in a ring box. When it was at last within walking distance of the curb, I turned everything off and said, “All right. The apartment is two blocks from here. Let’s think of a way in.”

So neither of us said anything for a while. I sat with arms folded and stared gloomily out at the hood, glinting evilly in the night. I couldn’t think of a thing. In fact, I had trouble thinking about thinking about the problem. I kept going off into reveries in which none of this had happened, in which I was at this very moment standing behind the bar in the ROCK GRILL, watching Baby LeRoy, on television, throw the can of clams at W.C. Fields.

Chloe said, abruptly, “Maybe...”

Wrenched back from Baby LeRoy — now spilling the molasses on the floor — I turned my head and said, “Maybe what?”

With maddening slowness she said, “It might work.” She was gazing out at the street and frowning in concentration.

A trifle impatient, I said, “What might work?”

“Neither one of them,” she said thoughtfully, “got a good look at me. You’re the one they know by sight.”

“So?”

“In fact,” she said, “Mr. Gross thinks I’m Althea, and Trask and Slade know what Althea looks like, so I’m perfectly safe. Perfectly safe.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said. She seemed less irritated now, no longer waspish, but I was having trouble making the adjustment.

“No, listen,” she said, letting sarcasm pass for the first time in over an hour. “I’ll go first. I’ll walk along like I’m drunk, and when I get to his car I’ll make a racket. I’ll sing or something, or fall all over his car. I’ll make a great big fuss and distract him, and you duck inside: Then I’ll come in.”

“What if he gets suspicious?”

“Why should he get suspicious? A drunk girl in Greenwich Village at one o’clock in the morning? What could be more natural?”

“I don’t like it,” I said.

“You think you should disapprove,” she told me, “because I’m female and because Errol Flynn would disapprove.”

“Then go right ahead and do it,” I told her, cut to the point where I hoped she would get into a jam with Trask or Slade. “Have a big time,” I told her.

“Don’t be snippy. I know we’re both tired, but control yourself.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m controlling myself.”

“Good. Now, here’s the key. It unlocks both the downstairs door and the apartment door.”

“Last night,’ I said, “the downstairs door wasn’t locked.”

“Oh?” She didn’t seem very interested. She opened the door on her side. “Leave your jacket in the car,” she said. “I’ll wear it when I come back around, so he won’t know I’m the same girl.”

I said, “You really want to do this?”

“Yes. I’m tired, and it’s perfectly safe, and we haven’t been able to think of anything else.”

I shrugged and got out of the car. I took my jacket off and left it on the front seat, then locked the door on my side and walked around to the sidewalk, where Chloe was standing and waiting for me. I said, “Maybe we ought to get a hotel room some place instead.”

She looked at me. “There are so many things wrong with that idea,” she said, “I hardly know where to begin.”

“Like what?”

“Like number one, for instance, he couldn’t get a hotel room, we’d have to get two hotel rooms.”

“You could sleep at your own place.”

“If I leave you alone, God knows what you’ll do. Number two, neither of us have the money to waste on hotel rooms. Number three, we still want to get back in touch with Artie, and how do we do that if we don’t go to his apartment?”

I said, “All right. You convinced me.” I locked the door on this side of the car and gave her the keys. “Good luck,” I said.

“Watch me,” she said, and winked.

We walked down to the corner of Perry and Bleecker Streets together, and I stationed myself against the corner building, where I could peek around Perry Street and see what was doing. Chloe said, “Wait till I’ve got him good and distracted.”

“Right.”

“See you,” she said, and walked around the corner. She began at once to sing, very loud and not on key: “‘Hail to the bastard king of England...’” And so on.

I’d never heard that song all the way through before. That was really a very dirty song.

Singing, waving her arms in grandiose gestures to amplify the song, Chloe tottered down the block and angled across the street toward the black car. In her dungarees and black turtleneck sweater and long straight black hair she was every Greenwich Village free-love cliché ever spawned, and I didn’t see how Trask or Slade could be anything in this world but distracted out of his mind.

Chloe, however, was taking no chances. Still singing, she brought up against the front left fender of the black car, and stood swaying there a few seconds, studying the obstruction. I couldn’t see Trask or Slade from where I was, but it seemed a safe bet he was looking at Chloe and not across at Artie’s building. I took a deep breath and prepared to make my dash.

Then Chloe took her sweater off.

The clown; she distracted me. I just stood there and gaped.

“‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’” Chloe bellowed, top of her voice, and climbed up on the black car’s hood. She arranged her sweater as a pillow and curled up on the hood like a cat on the hearth.

She wore a black bra.

Lying there, she finished the prayer, allowed a second or two to go by for reverence’ sake, and then began to sing that song again.

Trask or Slade abruptly came boiling out of his car, shouting and hollering and waving his hands, like an orchard owner shooing kids out of his apple trees. “Get offa there! Come on, come on, get offa there!”

Chloe told him something I will not record, and rolled over on her other side.

At last I moved. I ran, like unto the wind. Chloe and Trask or Slade continued to shout at each other — I’m not sure but what I heard Chloe mention rape, as a matter of fact — and I did a Roger Bannister halfway down the block, turned left, up the steps, and into the building.

The downstairs door was unlocked tonight, too. I thundered up the stairs and unlocked my way into Artie’s apartment.

There was no light on in here, and I had to leave it that way. If Trask or Slade looked up and saw light from these windows, he’d surely come and investigate. Still, there was faint illumination from outside, and I made my way around the perimeter of the furniture lumped in the middle of the room, and when I got to one of the windows I looked down and saw a very rumpled-looking Chloe standing on the sidewalk next to the black car, pulling her sweater on. Trask or Slade stood on the street side of the car, still making shooing motions with his hands. The two of them were still hollering at one another.

No one came out of any buildings to see what was going on. No police showed up. Everything was nice and private.

I watched, and Chloe finally went shuffling away, still singing and doing her drunk act. Trask or Slade stood in the street and glared after her till she’d rounded the far corner, and then he turned and looked up at me — that is, at the window behind which I was cowering — and then he got back into his car. I watched, and a few seconds later a match flared in the car as he lit a cigarette to calm his nerves.

Six hundred seconds went by, one at a time. I stood at the window and watched the street.

A young guy in work clothes — dungarees and a black jacket and cap on his head — came walking down the street from the direction in which I had come. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and his hands were in his jacket pockets. A rolled-up newspaper jutted out of a hip pocket of his dungarees.

He came down the street and stopped in front of this building and flipped his cigarette in the street and I saw it was Chloe. I also saw the pale face of Trask or Slade across the way, looking at her and satisfying himself she wasn’t me. Then she trotted up the steps and out of my line of vision.

I waited at the hall door for her. She came to the second floor, grinning, taking the newspaper from her pocket and the cap off her head. All of her hair had been stuffed into the cap one way or the other, and it now fell all asnarl around her face. She brushed it away, came into the dark living room, and said, “Well? How’d I do?”

“Great,” I told her, “but the Hayes office made us cut the scene.”

“Come on in the bedroom,” she said. “We can turn the light on in there.”

“Right.”

I had grown somewhat used to the darkness by now, so I led the way, taking Chloe by the hand. We went through the doorway into the bedroom, I shut the door, and she switched on the light.

Artie didn’t believe in cleaning up. The bed was unmade, the whole room was still the disreputable mess it had been when last I’d seen it. But it was a relatively safe place, and it contained a bed, and its only window faced on an airshaft, so I didn’t object too much.

Chloe, taking off the jacket, said, “Well. He’ll remember me awhile.”

“Where’d you get the hat?” I asked her.

“Off a drunk sleeping on Charles Street,” she said. She looked at it in disgust and threw it in a corner. “I hope I don’t get bugs from it.” She ruffled her already-ruffled hair. “Well,” she said, “you slept on the floor last night, so you can have the bed tonight. I’ll sleep out on the sofa.”

“I thought you said I was Errol Flynn,” I reminded her. “This is more the Cary Grant bit, isn’t it? He was always the one spending the night in the same room with a woman and they’re not going to do it.”

“That’s right,” she said offhandedly, “we’re not going to do it.” She’d been looking around the room. “No note in here,” she said. “Maybe there’s one in the living room, we’ll look when it gets light.”

I didn’t say anything. Sex had just hit me in the stomach and I was having trouble inhaling.

I couldn’t tell you the last time that had happened to me, and after all this time with Chloe that it was happening now was as surprising as it was inconvenient.

It was the damnedest thing. This morning I’d seen her take her dungarees off, and nothing. Tonight I’d seen her take her sweater off, and nothing. In between, I’d ridden all over the Greater New York area in the Packard with her, and nothing. Just a minute ago I’d taken her hand to lead her through the dark living room, and still nothing.

I think it was ruffling the hair that did it. She stood there in that messy bedroom, a rumpled sexy elf looking warm and distracted and tired, and she raised her right arm and ruffled her hair, and there it was. What they call in books a heightened awareness came over me.

A heightened awareness. Yeah, I’ll say. I was suddenly so aware of Chloe as a female body, a collection of feminine parts, that I was paralyzed. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move, I could hardly breathe.

Flashback: The summer that I was fourteen, I worked as a messenger boy for a deli in midtown Manhattan, carrying coffees and sandwiches into the office buildings along Fifth and Madison avenues. One afternoon, having left an order in an office in the Longines-Wittnauer Building, I boarded a crowded down elevator, and the next floor down three very sexy busty hippy blondes got on board. I guess there was a talent agency on that floor or something. Anyway, we were all crammed together in that elevator, and I had one of those girls pressed against my front, and another one pressed against each side. By the time we reached street level I was so shaken I went over to a White Rose on Sixth Avenue and lied about my age and had my very first shot of bar whiskey. I hated it.

Until tonight, with Chloe, I had never had the old heightened awareness that much ever again. And now the intervening ten years, all the dates with girls, the rare — I’m ashamed to say how rare — scores, all were washed away as completely as though a dam had burst. I was fourteen again, crowded into the elevator again, afraid again to tremble.

Chloe raised her arms over her head and stretched. “Well,” she said, while I died. “Anything you want to talk about, or shall we just go to bed?”

“Bed,” I said.

“Good. I’m too tired to think, anyway. I’ll have to turn this light out before I open the door.”

I nodded.

One hand on the doorknob, the other on the light switch, she looked over at me and smiled and said, “You’re a real nut, Charlie.”

I roused myself, flashed her a nervous smile of my own, and managed to say, “You’re something of a goober yourself.”

“Huh.” She switched off the light, opened the door, and went out to the living room. “Good night,” she said, in the dark, and shut the door again.

“Good night,” I mumbled, though she couldn’t hear me.

I didn’t get as much sleep as I needed.

Chapter 20

I smelled eggs. Frying, scrambling, omeleting, perhaps even poaching. At any rate, eggs.

Naturally, I opened my eyes. Naturally, that woke me up.

I was lying on my back on Artie’s bed, dressed only in shorts. I’d gone to sleep covered by a sheet, but sometime in the night I must have kicked it off; I could remember having had several strenuous dreams, the details of all of which had happily been lost.

Ersatz daylight grayed the airshaft window, revealing but not enriching the bedroom. I sat up and looked around the gray lumpy mess everything was in, just like my own bedroom over the bar in Canarsie — so far and far away! — and I found myself feeling as maudlinly homesick as a Third Avenue Irishman. I was beginning my third day as a fugitive.

A clatter of crockery from the other room reminded me of the egg aroma that had awakened me, and all at once my stomach started growling in a determined and irritable manner, and what with one thing and another the day had begun.

I left Artie’s bed reluctantly, and shuffled over to the bathroom, where I abluted, after which I borrowed some too-small underwear from Artie’s dresser, put on my shoes and trousers, and went out in my undershirt to the living room.

History repeats. The same sloe-eyed raven-tressed dungaree-clad barefoot beauty stood at the same stove scrambling eggs. A cigarette dangled from her lips, to complete an impression of jaded wanton evil. In a silent movie, the first shot of Chloe would inevitably have been followed by a slide reading:

THE OTHER WOMAN

The Other Woman said, “How do you like your scrambled eggs, wet or dry?”

Until that moment I’d thought I was hungry, even starving. My stomach, in fact, was continuing unabated to growl. But being faced first thing in the morning with a decision between wet scrambled eggs (ugh) and dry scrambled eggs (gah) was too much for me. Therefore, “Coffee,” I said.

She looked at me in surprise. “You don’t want any eggs?”

The more I woke up, the worse I felt, like coming out of novocaine. “Maybe later,” I said, in re eggs, more to soothe Chloe and get her to stop talking about eggs than out of any conviction that I might at some future date begin to eat food again. “Just coffee now,” I explained further, to nail it all down, and went over to the complex of furniture in the middle of the room, where I sat down in the general direction of an armchair.

The Other Woman suggested, “How about toast?”

Toast. I squinted, to show I was trying to think. The mention of the word toast didn’t immediately repel me, so I said, “All right. That sounds all right.”

But she wasn’t done with me. She said, “How many slices?”

I frowned. I rubbed my nose. I blinked several times. I scratched my left ankle bone with the edge of my right shoe. I said, “I don’t know.”

“Two? Can you eat two?”

She insisted on an answer, that’s all there was to it. Little did she care that my mind wasn’t functioning. I said, “I guess so. No, maybe not. Or, wait a second...”

“I’ll make one,” she said.

I nodded. “That’s good.”

“If you want another one after, you can have it.”

“That’s fine.”

“With your eggs, if you want eggs after.”

“That’s wonderful.”

She went back, at last, to her chefery. But not for long; a minute later she wanted to know did I want jelly on my toast. When I said no to that, she wanted to know if I wanted honey on my toast. When she got another no, she announced she thought it might be a good idea if I had orange marmalade on my toast, what did I think of that?

“Shut up, Chloe,” I decided.

She turned around and looked at me. ‘What?”

“Stop talking,” I amplified. “Stop questioning. I don’t want anything on the goddam toast, not anything.”

“Not even butter?”

I got to my feet and threw sofa cushions at the walls.

Chloe stood watching me. When I was finished, she said, “I know what’s the matter with you. And it’s your own fault.”

“What?”

But now... now... now she was done talking. She turned an eloquent back on me and finished scrambling her eggs.

While waiting for my toast and coffee, I walked around the room picking up sofa cushions again and putting them back where I’d found them. I also found twenty-seven cents in the sofa, so it wasn’t a total loss.

The food and I were done at the same time. Chloe carried everything over to the furniture, put the plates and cups down on end tables, and sat in haughty silence directly in my line of vision while she went scoop, scoop, scoop with her eggs. I nibbled at my coffee and sipped my toast.

When I could stand the silence no longer, and even though I knew I was putting myself at a perhaps fatal disadvantage, I finally said, “What did you mean by that?”

“Mean by what?” she lied.

Oh. I could see the conversation stretching out ahead of us like one of those landscapes with the neat straight perspective lines meeting at infinity, the kind of thing done by schoolchildren in composition books and Salvador Dali in the Museum of Modern Art. I would say you know what I’m talking about, and then she would say no I don’t know what you’re talking about, and then I would say you know exactly what I’m talking about, and then she would...

But why go on? I avoided it, the whole thing, tons and tons of words in bales, by saying instead, “You said you knew what was the matter with me, and you said it was my fault. What did you mean by that?”

“You know what I meant,” she said.

So. She was determined to have that conversation no matter what.

Well, I was determined too. I nibbled some more coffee and said, “Well, I don’t. If you feel like telling me, fine. If you don’t, never mind.”

She frowned around her egg scooper and let the silence mount up in uneven blocks between us. I sipped at my toast — on which she had put butter, after all — and felt myself beginning, just beginning, to come back to life.

Chloe said, “Your grumpiness, that’s what I mean.”

I looked attentive, but I didn’t say anything.

“It’s because,” she said, “you didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

And then, for the first time since waking up, I remembered how last night had ended, the awareness that had washed over me and which had kept my little mind churning away until practically dawn, running pornographic movies on the white inner surface of my skull.

I could feel the blush starting. I held the toast and coffee cup up in front of my face for camouflage, and mumbled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” All at once I wanted that round-and-round conversation.

We could never want the same thing at the same time. She brushed my attempt at verbosity aside and said, “It’s because you’ve got a letch for me, that’s why.”

“Nonsense,” I swallowed. And then, in one last-ditch attempt: “I don’t know what you mean.”

“And,” she went inexorably on, “you kept thinking about me in that bed in there with Artie Dexter, in that same bed you were sleeping in all alone, and me just one room away out here.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said bravely, into my coffee cup. “I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.”

“I heard you tossing around in there. Until practically dawn.”

“I thrash around in my sleep.”

“Funny you didn’t thrash the last few hours.”

I would have answered that in short order, but I seemed to have a mouthful of toast.

She said, “You’re a snob, that’s what you are.”

I pushed the toast out of the way long enough to say, “What?” I was legitimately astonished.

“A snob,” she repeated. Bright circles of color were burning angrily on her cheekbones. I saw with some surprise that she’d been, all this time, holding back a real fury. She said, “You wanted to start something with me last night when you took my hand. And you wanted to come out here afterwards, after we’d both gone to bed. And you didn’t do it.”

“Uh,” I said.

“I thought at first,” she said, “it was because you were shy, bashful. I thought that was kind of cute. But that wasn’t the reason at all. The reason was, you’re a snob. Because I’ve been to bed with Artie Dexter, you think I’m not good enough for you, that’s the reason.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “No no, that isn’t—”

“Shut up, you.” She got to her feet. “Let me tell you something,” she said. “You may think because I’m not a virgin I’m not good enough for you, but if you are a virgin you damn well wouldn’t be good enough for me. So you can just go to hell, that’s what you can do.”

What was there to say to that? Nothing; exactly what I said.

When she was done glaring at me and listening to my silence, she picked up her plate and cup and stalked over to the sink and busied herself there.

As for me, I stuck the rest of the toast in my mouth and ruminated.

Chloe’s charge, it seemed to me, broke down into sections, which would have to be dealt with separately. Part one: that I had slept poorly out of an awakened lust for her body. Part two: that I had done nothing to ease this lust because of moral snobbery.

Very well. As to part one, I could admit that much to myself as being true, though whether or not I would be able to make the same admission to Chloe was another matter. But as to part two, that was as wrong as it could be. I had done nothing about my lust, that was true, but it was simply and entirely because it hadn’t occurred to me there was anything I could do.

Well, was there? Had there been? Could I have approached Chloe last night? I still wasn’t entiely sure that was what she meant. She could just as easily, women being what they are, have meant she’d expected an approach from me that she would have repulsed. Not that she had wanted it but that she had expected it, and was insulted when it hadn’t been forthcoming.

Now she was at the sink, banging Artie’s dishes around dangerously. And what was there for me to say to her? I tried, “I’m sorry.”

That got no response.

I stood up and moved closer, though not too close. “Chloe,” I said to her back. “I really am sorry.”

Still no response. She seemed to be washing all the dishes in the sink, not just the ones she’d used for breakfast.

“What I did,” I said, “or that is, what I didn’t do, or what I didn’t try to do, it wasn’t because I’m a snob, it really wasn’t. It was because I’m dumb. It was out of ignorance that I did it, or didn’t do it, or didn’t try to do it.”

She turned, soapy halfway to the elbow, and gave me an eye as cold as a caveman’s toenail. “Now,” she said, “you’re laughing at me.”

“Laughing at you? For Pete’s sake, Chloe, I’m trying—”

“You certainly are,” she said. She waggled a sudsy finger at me. “Let me tell you something, Charlie Poole. You’re in no position to take any high moral attitudes, an underworld underling like you.”

“Hey now! Whadaya mean, underworld underling? I’m no—”

“Yes, you are. You ran that bar for the underworld, and you held packages for the underworld, and you helped the underworld get out of paying its taxes.”

“I don’t even know the underworld! My Uncle Al—”

“Don’t talk to me about your Uncle Al.” She’d waggled practically all the suds off her finger by now. “It’s you I’m talking about. You, Charlie Poole. You can’t just say you don’t know, and your Uncle Al. You can’t say, ‘Not me, Chloe, I just work here, I don’t have to take a moral stand, Chloe,’ because that’s Adolf Eichmann talk, that’s what that is, and I don’t think I have to tell you what I think of Adolf Eichmann.”

I was getting mad. Adolf Eichmann! Talk about blowing things out of proportion! “Listen,” I said. “Talk about—”

“I’m done talking,” she said, and turned her back on me again. Splosh went her hands into the water. “Shouldn’t you get going?” she asked, busy with the dishes. “You’ve got to find your friend Mahoney, remember.”

I squinted at her back. “You’re not coming along?”

“I’ve got my own life to live,” she told the sink. “I’m supposed to go up and see my Linda today. Besides, I want to get back to my own place and see if there’s any mail.”

“So,” I said. “You’re not coming along.”

“No. I’m not coming along.”

“Well, then,” I said. “In that case, you’re not coming along.”

She said nothing. Taking her silence to mean she wasn’t coming along, I left the living room and went into the bedroom to get my shirt, which looked as though it had been washed in Brand X.

No. It was too dirty, that’s all. I rooted around and found a clean white shirt of Artie’s. It was too small, of course, but by leaving the collar open and rolling the sleeves up to my elbow I made it fairly presentable. I also found, in the bedroom closet, a black raincoat which must have been too big for Artie because it practically fit me to a T. I saw that it had been made with a removable inner lining, which had been subsequently removed, so maybe that was the explanation; with the lining in, it would fit its owner. Particularly if the owner — Artie — were wearing a suit coat or jacket under it. Sans coat and lining it was Charlie-size.

I stuffed the little pistol in the raincoat pocket, left the larger automatic behind, and went back out to the living room. Chloe was standing at the window now, working away at another cigarette and glowering down at the street. I said, “Well, I’m going.”

“Good-bye.”

So? What did she want from me? I’d already apologized once, that was enough. Besides, that Eichmann line still rankled. “Good-bye,” I said.

I was almost to the door when she said, “Dummy.”

I stopped. “What?”

“You don’t even know if they’re still watching the apartment. You didn’t even look out the window first.”

She was right, I’d forgotten about Trask or Slade, parked by the fire hydrant across the street. But I said, “If they’re still there, I’ll go the back way.”

She shook her head. “They’re not there,” she said, with affected weariness, as though to say she’d had all she could bear of me.

Well, the feeling was mutual. “Thanks a million,” I said. “Good-bye.” I went out and closed the door.

It was true Trask or Slade was gone. Standing at the front door, I could see the fire hydrant across the way, shining in the noon sun. I went down the steps and turned left, toward West Fourth Street. I didn’t look up to see if Chloe was still standing at the living-room window.

I was on my own.

Chapter 21

You’d think the restaurant at Grand Central Terminal would have to be good; look at all the trains parked out front. Well, they’re wrong.

Or maybe it was my fault and not the fault of the restaurant that everything I put in my mouth tasted like sand. I know I was emotionally awash, and there’s nothing like an upset mind to cause an upset stomach.

The upset in my mind involved two very different people: Chloe Shapiro and Patrick Mahoney. I was still mad at Chloe, and yet at the same time last night’s hankering hadn’t left me, and besides that I was uneasy at continuing my odyssey without her, and over all, there was a layer of perplexity because I didn’t really understand what the girl was all about. As to Mahoney, I wanted to find him and I wanted to avoid him, in more or less equal parts. If you remember Volto, the old-time Grape Nuts Martian, whose left arm repelled and whose right arm attracted, you’ll have some idea what Deputy Chief Inspector Patrick Mahoney meant to me.

Well, like a visit to the dentist, the best thing to do about Patrick Mahoney was get him over with. So I paid for my sand, left the restaurant, and went out to the main part of the terminal, where, under a Kodak electronic poster as complicated as a Sally Rand strip-tease, I found a beehive of telephone booths. At the rear of the beehive were the directories I’d come to Grand Central to consult. Eating sand had been secondary, the result of my having redeveloped hunger on the subway trip uptown.

I’d come to Grand Central because it was the first place I thought of that would have telephone books for all the New York City boroughs, and I wanted those telephone books because I had a plan for tracking down my man Mahoney.

Watch:

First I went through the phone books for Mahoney, Patricks, and Mahoney, P’s, and found four in Queens, seven in Brooklyn, three in Manhattan, five in the Bronx. Then, armed with a handful of dimes from the restaurant cashier, I went into one of the booths and began dialing. Each time a man answered I said, “Chief Inspector Mahoney?” and each time a woman answered I said, “Is Inspector Mahoney at Headquarters now?” I got a variety of answers, all of them negative for my purposes and a couple of them pretty comical in their own way, until at last one woman said, “Yes, he is. He’ll be there all day.”

Ah hah. But was this actually my Patrick Mahoney’s household, or merely the household of a relative who would be aware of my Mahoney’s whereabouts? So I said, “Will he be home before six?”

“I doubt it,” she said. “Why not call him at Headquarters?”

“All right,” I said. “I will.”

“Who shall I say—” she said, and I hung up.

See? Simple. Now I knew where to find him, the particular Patrick Mahoney out of the general class of Patrick Mahoneys. His home address, according to the telephone company, was 169-88 83rd Avenue, in Queens.

The success of this stratagem filled me with confidence, partially restoring a faith that had been slipping badly. I hurried onward, while the momentum lasted.

A bookstore tucked away in an echoing corner of the terminal sold me a street map of Queens, on which I found that the corner of 169th Street and 83rd Avenue was in the section called Jamaica, and only a few blocks from a station on the Independent subway line. So it was back into the subway for me, quite a letdown after riding around in that soft if felonious Packard all yesterday.

The IRT Flushing line clattered me into Queens and a junction with the IND, which took me the rest of the way to Hillside Avenue and 169th Street in Jamaica. I came out to pleasant sunlight, walked up the hill along 169th Street, and turned right on 83rd Avenue.

The neighborhood was pleasantly residential, middle-class, quiet. Most of the houses had been built before the Second World War, most were one-family, most were on fairly good-sized lots. Number 169-88 was similar to its neighbors, a two-story broad gray clapboard house with attached garage. Slightly unkempt shrubbery lined the front of the house, the lawn was somewhat dried out but had been recently mowed, and a sign with reflector letters on the lawn read: MAHONEY.

Was this the right man? Accepting bribes from the syndicate and living in a place like this?

Well, where would he live? I suppose up till then I hadn’t really thought about it much, where a crooked bribe-taking policeman would live. I guess I’d supposed he’d live in a night club somewhere, with Merry Anders on one knee and Barbara Nichols on the other. Balloons in the background. Everybody laughing coarsely as the champagne is poured.

But he lived here, in a moderately neat one-family clapboard house on a quiet residential side street in the Jamaica section of Queens. That was a little scary.

I slowed as I passed his house, but I didn’t stop. It was barely three o’clock now, and Inspector Mahoney wasn’t expected home until sometime after six. So I walked on to the next corner, and turned right, and went back down to Hillside Avenue and went for a stroll.

Hillside Avenue went from bad to worse. The first couple of blocks was banks and delicatessens, but then there came several blocks of store-front real-estate offices, one right after the other, small and gaudy and chiseler-looking. Some of them, to give you the idea, had signs up reading, “We specialize in repossessed houses.” I mention this in case you ever wondered what those old-time Scottish body snatchers Burke and Hare have been doing since Dr. Knox laid them off.

After the real-estate offices came the used-car lots. I stopped and turned around, because I didn’t want to know what came next.

Back by the subway entrance I went into a luncheonette and sat at the counter and had coffee and cheese danish. Munching danish, I tried to work up a plan.

I might as well admit right now I didn’t yet have one. I’d had the plan for finding out where Mahoney lived, but after that everything was still a blank. I knew I wanted to talk to Mahoney, I knew I wanted to find some way to force him to tell me what I wanted to know, and I knew I wanted to accomplish all this without falling into the hands of Trask and Slade, either or both of whom were probably keeping close to Mahoney night and day.

So. I could wait some place where I could see Mahoney’s house, and after he got home go straight to the front door and start talking. I assumed he was married, and there was a good chance his wife didn’t know the full story of his perfidy, so maybe I could work the same threat that had helped with Uncle Al.

On the other hand, maybe I ought to go to the Mahoney house right now, tie up anybody I found there, and be already inside when Mahoney got home. That way Trask and Slade wouldn’t know I was around. Unless they came in with Mahoney, that is.

Or, maybe I should wait till he was home, then phone him and give him some reason for leaving the house again, and then hide in his car and not brace him till we’d left the neighborhood.

I didn’t really like any of those plans, but I still had three hours or more to think, and I kept telling myself I’d be sure to come up with something good pretty soon.

The luncheonette had a phone booth. Just for something to do, I went over and looked in the directory for Queens Police Headquarters. The address was 168-02 91st Avenue.

Hey! That was right nearby. Five blocks away, that’s all.

So I decided to go take a look at it, just to kill some time. I left the luncheonette, walked down 169th Street to 91st Avenue and turned right. A big municipal parking lot was on one side of me and a department store on the other.

Police Headquarters was small than I’d expected, a squarish five-story building down at the far corner. The first two floors were done in gray stone and the top three in brick. The ground-level windows were tall and wide, with arched tops; inside, green shades were pulled all the way down.

The double-doored entrance — wooden doors with little windows clustered in the upper part — was flanked by the traditional green lights, and white lettering over the doorway read: 103rd Precinct.

Police Headquarters in Queens wasn’t such a much, in other words.

I strolled on by, looking at the building, up at the windows on the upper floors. Deputy Chief Inspector Patrick Mahoney was behind one of those windows, I supposed, at this very moment.

I went on around the corner, and down to the next street, which was Jamaica Avenue. I turned left and walked all the way around the block and pretty soon I was coming to Police Headquarters again. Or the precinct house, which is what it really was.

This time, though, I didn’t keep on by. With no plan at all in my head, with nothing there in fact but impatience and nervousness and a hearty desire to have it all over with, I made a sharp left turn and pushed open the double doors to Precinct One Hundred and Three and stepped inside.

A uniformed patrolman was standing just inside the door, in a little airlock sort of arrangement between outer and inner sets of doors. He looked at me with a startled face and said, “What do you want?” He really acted astonished that anyone would come in here.

Hand-lettered notices on the inner doors told police officers they must without fail show identification to the patrolman at the door, and civilians — that’s what the sign said: civilians — civilians had to tell this man their business before going any farther.

I was taking too long to read the signs and think of something to say. The patrolman glared with increasing suspicion and said, “Well? What do you want here?”

I had to say something. The space between outer and inner doors was small, keeping us close together. I opened my mouth and stammered a little and finally blurted, “Mahoney.”

He lowered suspicious eyebrows. “What?”

Well, this was wrong, all wrong. It was at his home that I intended to meet Mahoney, in silence and privacy, not here in the crowded danger of this police station.

But it was done, and no going back now, so, “Mahoney,” I fatalistically repeated. “Deputy Chief Inspector Patrick J. Mahoney.” The middle initial I’d picked up from the telephone book.

Comprehension was seeping into the gatekeeper. He said, “You want to see him?”

No, I didn’t, not at all, but what I said was, “Yes. I want to see him.”

“What name?”

What name. Ah, yes, there’s something to think about. What name indeed.

Well, if I was going to rush in where I feared to tread, I might just as well go the whole way. With practically no hesitation at all, I announced, “Charlie Poole.”

“Charlie Poole.” He nodded, implying that the name had spoken volumes to him. “Wait here,” he said, and went abruptly away, pushing through the inner doors and leaving me alone in the airlock — that’s all my old science-fiction reading coming out again, excuse it please — with my thoughts and the notices.

It promptly occurred to me to run away. I could do it, no trouble at all; just out this door and down to my right and into the department store. It’s in department stores that people running away always manage to elude their pursuers in the movies on the late show, and I’d seen enough late shows in the last few years to have the method just about letter-perfect.

Still, I didn’t go anywhere. I reminded myself I’d felt this way just before going in to see Mr. Agricola, and also prior to invading Mr. Gross’s house, and in both cases I’d overcome my feelings and somehow survived, so why not this time.

“Three times and out,” I muttered to myself, voicing an old superstition that should never have been invented. Three on a match. Three strikes and you’re out. Bad things happen in threes.

The inner doors swung open again, happily breaking my trihedral reverie, and the policeman returned, saying, “Someone will be. right down.”

“Thank you.”

For the next few minutes he proceeded to ignore me, glowering fixedly out at the street instead. It’s a very odd feeling to be ignored by someone standing with you in a space four feet wide and three feet long, and I wasn’t at all sorry when another uniformed policeman stuck his head into our airlock and said, “Mr. Poole? Would you come with me, please?”

Very pleasant man, this one, very reassuring. Thinning hair, shiny forehead, pale spectacles, mild manner. I went with him unhesitatingly, through rooms and upstairs to the third floor.

What could happen to me in a police station?

Chapter 22

“Boo, chum,” said Trask or Slade.

“Nephew, you sure give us a merry chase,” said Slade or Trask.

The uniformed policeman had shut the door behind me. Trask and Slade were in front of me, standing on the gray carpet, smiling at me. Behind them was a desk, and behind the desk a man who had to be Mahoney. The office, medium-sized and somewhat dark, was what you’d expect to contain a deputy chief inspector of something or other.

I said, “I want to talk to Mahoney.”

“You never give up, nephew, do you,” said Trask or Slade.

“That’s one of the qualities about him I like best,” said Slade or Trask.

The man at the desk said, “You keep him quiet, you two. This is dangerous.” He sounded nervous; as though he had anything to be nervous about!

Trask or Slade said, “Don’t worry, there. We know our business.”

“Take him out the back way,” said the man at the desk. “I’ll let you know when it’s clear.”

I said, “Inspector Mahoney, I want to talk to you.”

Slade or Trask said, “Last time we heard from you, nephew, you were heeled. You heeled now?”

“No,” I said, while the pistol began to gain weight in my raincoat pocket.

“Let’s just see. Put your hands up on top of your head.”

Neither of them had a gun in sight. All I had to do was reach into my pocket, pull the pistol out, and start blasting away. So what I did was put my hands up on top of my head.

Slade or Trask came over and patted me here and there and took the pistol away. He looked at me and grinned and shook his head, hefting the little pistol on his palm. “You could hurt yourself with this, nephew,” he said.

The man at the desk said, “Why don’t he call?”

Trask or Slade told him, “Relax. Everything’ll be hunky-dory.”

I took a deep breath. “No, it won’t,” I said.

They all looked at me. Trask or Slade said, “You ain’t thinking of doing nothing stupid, are you, nephew?”

“Inspector Mahoney,” I said, “you better listen to me. You’re in worse trouble than you know.”

Well, he wasn’t. I was the one in trouble, and I was well aware how much. But Mahoney was acting nervous, and I leaped on it, ready to try anything that might help me get what I wanted.

Trask or Slade said to me, “Shut your face, nephew.”

But it was too late. Mahoney had reacted big to what I’d said; he was sitting at the desk looking like a man thirty seconds this side of a heart attack. He was a man of about fifty, with sandy graying hair and soft pale Irish flesh well distributed with freckles. Freckles on his cheeks, freckles on the backs of his hands. It was a foregone conclusion he’d have freckles on his meaty shoulders. His face was somewhat jowly from overweight and bore the expression of anxious friendly mendacity of a wardheeler at a clambake, the expression Ed Begley does so well.

He stood up now, behind his desk, and said, “What do you mean by that? What sort of trouble?”

Trask or Slade told him, “It’s bushwah. He’s got a whole song and dance if you’ll let him.”

Slade or Trask tossed my little pistol into the air and caught it again. “This is the whole story,” he said. “This toy cannon here. He come to kill you, like he killed the Farmer and tried to kill Mr. Gross.”

Mahoney was weakening. He didn’t know what to think. I said, “What if they’re wrong, Inspector? I know where you live, One sixty-nine dash eighty-eight Eighty-third Avenue. If I wanted to kill you I wouldn’t come here to the police station to do it, I’d go wait near your house.”

Trask or Slade came over close to me and poked a stiff finger into my chest. “I thought I told you shut your face.”

Mahoney said, “Wait. Hold it, Trask. Let him talk.”

Trask. The relief of finally knowing which one was Trask and which one Slade was almost too much for me. I practically forgot what I was here for and what I was trying to do.

But Trask reminded me. He rapped me on the shoulder, a good one, and said, “Okay, nephew, you got your wish. The floor’s yours.”

Slade — definitely Slade — added, “Give us your song and dance, nephew. You want we should hum along?”

Mahoney said, “Be quiet. Let him talk.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Mahoney pointed a freckled finger at me. “It better be good.”

I said, “Somebody’s been passing information to the authorities, and these people think it’s me. Somebody killed Mr. Agricola, and they think that was me, too. But what if it wasn’t? If it wasn’t me, getting rid of me won’t do any good. Whoever’s squealing will go right on squealing, and sooner or later he’ll squeal on you, Inspector Mahoney.”

Mahoney scrunched his face up. He was watching me like a hawk, and thinking hard.

I said, “If I didn’t kill Mr. Agricola, then whoever did kill him is still wandering around loose, nobody looking for him or even thinking about him, and maybe he does want to kill you, too.”

Slade tossed the pistol in the air. “How about this, nephew? What’s the rod for, ballast?”

“Self-defense. All you people keep trying to kill me.”

Mahoney said, “Only one thing so far makes sense. Why come here to bump me off if you know where I live?”

So I’d made an opening. I nodded enthusiastically, saying, “Sure. You can see the whole idea falls apart right there.”

“Does it? In that case, what I—”

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He glanced at Trask and Slade, and then picked up the phone and spoke into it. “Hello?... Hold on.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Trask and Slade, “It’s all clear now.”

Trask said, “Fine. So we take the nephew.”

“I’m not done listening to him,” Mahoney said. But he looked doubtful.

I said, to keep him convinced, “You’ve got more at stake than these two. You can give me five minutes.”

He nodded. “Five minutes.” He said the same thing into the telephone: “Give us five minutes, then let us know the next time it’s clear.” He hung up and looked at me, long and thoughtful. Then he sat down behind his desk and said, “Okay. You got one point on your side. Now I got a question. If you didn’t come here to bump me off, how come you’re here?”

“For information,” I said.

“You want information? You’re supposed to be the one gives information.”

“But that’s just it, I’ve never given anybody any information about anything. The reason I went to Mr. Agricola and Mr. Gross was to find out why the syndicate was down on me, because I hadn’t done anything. Mr. Gross told me it was because you said I was being an informer. But I wasn’t, so I came here to ask you who told you I was.”

“That’s easy,” he said. “Tough Tony Touhy.”

“Who?”

“Lieutenant Anthony Touhy, Mob & Rackets Squad, known as Tough Tony. He’s the one been getting the information on that bar you run, and when I asked him where the dope was coming from he said straight from the bartender, from the guy that runs the place for the syndicate.”

“He said—” But I couldn’t go on. I was dumbfounded. I had never in my life heard of Tough Tony Touhy. Why should he say such a thing?

Mahoney said, “Tough Tony is an honest cop, a nonbought cop. I’m his superior officer. When I ask him where he gets his information from, he tells me. He’s got no reason to lie.”

I said, “But he did lie.”

Mahoney held up two soft palms, making believe they were scales. “On the one side,” he said, “we got the fact it don’t make any sense you should come to the station to try to kill me. On the other side we got the fact it don’t make any sense Tough Tony should lie to me.”

Trask said, “The nephew killed Farmer Agricola. We know that for sure.”

Slade said, “And I was there not half an hour before that. It makes me feel bad to think of it.”

Mahoney still mused over his upturned palms. “Over here,” he said, “we got to add the fact Tough Tony has never lied to me before, and we got to add the fact everybody agrees it was you bumped off Farmer Agricola, and we got to add the fact you come here toting a gun, and we got to add the fact you was in the best position of anybody to give us the information that was passed over.” The hand he was considering was sinking lower and lower under the weight of all the things he felt he had to add to it. Now, after a quick glance at me, he turned his attention to his other hand, which was way up in the air all by itself. “On this side,” he said, “we got nothing to add, nothing at all. So maybe you did come here to kill me instead of waiting outside my house, and maybe you tried it this way because you’re a dumbbell or you figured on the element of surprise or something.”

Trask and Slade both nodded. Slade said, “That’s it, nephew. That’s the way it adds up, all right.”

“Somebody,” I said, rather shakily, “somebody is using me for a fall guy. I never said a word to Tough Tony Touhy in my life, I never even heard of him until just now. Either he lied to you or you’re lying to Mr. Gross, and I wish I knew which.”

Mahoney actually looked insulted. “Me lying? What the hell for?”

“Maybe it was your fault that information got into the wrong hands,” I told him. “And you’ve been trying to cover up by putting the blame on me.”

“That’s about all I want to hear,” Mahoney said.

I appealed all at once to Trask. “It’s possible,” I said. “You must have talked with Mr. Gross by now, you must have compared descriptions and you know that wasn’t Miss Althea with me last night.”

Trask frowned. “So what?”

“So Mr. Gross figured I was in cahoots with Miss Althea and that’s why I was squealing to the police and killing people. But if I’m not in cahoots with Miss Althea, what’s my motive?”

Slade said, “Maybe it’s just plain orneriness.”

Trask said, “It ain’t our business to worry about your motive.”

I told him, “It’s your business to worry about whether the syndicate is running right or not. What if it is Mahoney behind this whole thing, covering up like mad for something he did wrong? So you take me out and kill me and it doesn’t change a thing, everything’s still all loused up. And Mahoney picks somebody else to be his fall guy next time, maybe even one of you two, and it just goes on and on and on.”

Mahoney got to his feet, rather hurriedly, crying, “Now, wait just a damn minute there!”

Trask, without looking away from me, waved a hand at Mahoney to shut up and sit down. Trask was looking both amused and interested, and he said, “All right, nephew, keep it up. What else you got to say?”

“I’m being used for a fall guy,” I told him, “that’s all I know for sure. Maybe it’s Mahoney, maybe it isn’t.”

Trask said, “What if it isn’t?” Like he was just killing time, just humoring me until the phone should ring again.

All right, I had the time, no matter what his reason for giving it to me, so it was up to me to use it. I said, “Did it ever occur to you, maybe the police force has caught on to Mahoney. Maybe they’re not sure, but they suspect he’s sold out to the syndicate, so just to be on the safe side they don’t give him any information that could make trouble. Like not telling him who the real informer is in a case like this, when the informer might still have more things to tell.”

Mahoney was gaping at me open-mouthed. Trask, still looking amused, now turned his head and said, “Well, Mahoney? What do you think of that?”

“I think,” said Mahoney, somewhat strangled, “I think that’s a lot of crap, that’s what I think.”

Slade said, “There’s one quick way to check.”

“Good,” I said, turning to him. “Fine. Let’s do it.” Mahoney looked at him somewhat warily. “What’s that?”

Slade said, “Is Touhy around?”

“I think so,” said Mahoney. “He should be in his office, yes.”

“Trask and I’ll get out of sight. You call Touhy in here. The kid says he’s never seen Touhy, never heard of him before this. Let’s see if Touhy recognizes him, see what Touhy says to him.”

“All right,” I said quickly. “That’s good.” And it was, it seemed to me, very good. Step by step I was coming around the circle to find the charges against me and the name of my accuser. From Uncle Al to Agricola to Gross to Mahoney, and now to Touhy. If only this could be at last the end of the line.

Mahoney seemed less pleased by the idea. “What if he spills the beans? What if he starts talking to Touhy?”

Trask smiled and shook his head. “He won’t. He’d only be killing Touhy, because we’d have to shut him up. You wouldn’t want to do that to poor Touhy, would you, nephew?”

I shook my head. “No. I won’t say anything.”

Mahoney said, “Shoot Tough Tony? Right here in my office?”

Slade told him, “I got a silencer. And we can carry the body out when we get the all-clear on the nephew.”

“Besides,” Trask added, “there won’t be any need for any shooting. Will there, nephew?”

“No,” I promised.

Mahoney, doubtful, said, “Well...”

“Come on,” Trask told him. “We don’t have much time.”

Mahoney shook his head; he still didn’t like it. But he said, “Let me see if Touhy’s in his office.”

We waited and watched as Mahoney used his phone. From his talk, Touhy was in. Mahoney wanted to know could he stop by the office for a minute. Then he hung up and said, “He’ll be right in.”

Trask and Slade receded toward a door on the far side of the office. “Remember, nephew,” Slade said, and Trask grinned at me, and they both slid out of sight.

Mahoney and I stood facing one another, both of us nervous, both of us silent. Time hung in midair, like a pendulum stuck at one end of its swing.

There was a single sharp rap at the door, and then it opened, and a tall black-haired tough-looking lantern-jawed big-knuckled guy came in, the sort that’s called the Black Irish. A cross between John Wayne and Robert Ryan.

Mahoney started talking before this big fellow was halfway in the door. “Something’s come up, Tony, I’ll have to talk to you later, an unexpected visitor, I’ll get back to you in about half an hour, sorry to call you away like this for no reason at all.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” He waved a big hand, then looked at me for the first time. “Well, Charlie!” he said, and grinned wide in surprise and pleasure. “Fancy seeing you here! You giving the dope straight to the boss these days, us hired hands ain’t good enough for you any more?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out but air.

This big bastard poked me playfully on the upper arm. “That’s okay, Charlie,” he said. “I understand. You don’t have to say nothing. I’ll see you around, okay?”

And he was gone.

I stood there and stared at the door through which he had entered and exited. Behind me I heard Trask and Slade coming back into the room, but I didn’t turn to look at them. I stared at the door and tried to understand what had just happened to me.

In the silent room, the phone rang. Mahoney’s voice said, “Hello?” And then silence again, and then, “Okay, good.” And the sound of the receiver clicking into its cradle, and Mahoney saying to Trask and Slade, “Okay, it’s clear now.”

Their hands were on my upper arms. One of them murmured, “Don’t make no fuss now, nephew.”

Fuss? I couldn’t make a fuss. I was just trying to figure out what had happened.

We were moving, the three of us, along a corridor and down some stairs and out to a blacktop driveway. The black car was there, the famous black car. They had me lie down on the floor in back and they threw a knitted afghan over me that smelled for some strange reason of horse. In multicolored darkness under the afghan, bewitched, bothered and bewildered, I rolled away on the last ride.

Chapter 23

If ever you have a problem, I mean a really knotty problem, a first-class puzzler, like the square root of two, for instance, or who really killed Farmer Agricola and why, allow me to recommend a long ride in the country, lying on the floor behind the front seat of an automobile, covered by a varicolored knitted afghan smelling pleasantly of horse.

The trip took well over an hour, most of it happily on good roads. At first, I admit, I gave myself up to a stunned absence of mental processes, a blank mindlessness of shock, but slowly I began to thaw down from that frozen plateau and I began to get in there and do some no-holds-barred thinking.

There was so much to think about. Who had killed Farmer Agricola, and why, and how? Who had been informing to the police, and why? Why had Tough Tony Touhy identified me as the informant?

I poked at it the way I occasionally poke at the crossword puzzle in the Sunday Times. You struggle and struggle, trying to get just a couple good long words to give you a kind of a grip on the problem, and from there on with any luck at all you can get half or two-thirds of the puzzle lickety-split. Lying there under the afghan I poked and pried at everything I knew, everything that had happened, everything I understood and everything I failed to understand. There was a lot of that last-mentioned stuff.

I also did a lot of thinking about the people involved, all the people I’d come up against the last three days. My Uncle Al, and Farmer Agricola and his daughter Miss Althea, and Mr. Gross, and Inspector Mahoney, and Tough Tony Touhy, and Trask and Slade. And the ones who’d helped me, willingly or not: Artie Dexter and Chloe and Patrolman Ziccatta. I wondered, for instance, where Artie and Miss Althea were by now. And I wondered where Patrolman Ziccatta would get his quick nips on windy nights from now on, and would it ever occur to him to start an official inquiry into my disappearance, and I shook my head because I supposed it never would, not with his habit of keeping his nose out of other people’s business. And I wondered why Tough Tony Touhy had lied, and why and how and by whom Farmer Agricola had been killed, and who had really passed the information on to the police.

I kept coming back, time and time again, to the killing of Farmer Agricola. It seemed to me that had to be connected with my own plight some way, that his having been killed in the short interval between his talking to Trask and Slade about me and my own arrival at the farm was too pat for coincidence. But where was the connection, where did it connect, that was the problem.

Lying there in multihued darkness, like being inside a cathedral in late afternoon under the stained-glass windows, lying there under the afghan, breathing the smells of afghan and horse, I kept chewing it, chewing it, chewing it. Was it possible Farmer Agricola had been killed by the same person who was really giving information to Tough Tony Touhy? Could the connection between the killing and my plight be quite that specific?

What if... What if Agricola hadn’t been entirely satisfied that I was the squealer? Yes, and what if he’d done some additional investigating, and he’d discovered that I was not, in fact, the squealer? And what if he’d been about to call off the hunt for me and redirect his killers, Trask and Slade, at the real squealer? Wouldn’t the squealer, if he knew about it, kill Agricola in self-defense? Of course he would.

Except, how could he possibly have known? Or, knowing, how could he possibly have gotten there and committed the crime? At the time Trask and Slade left him he apparently still believed I was the squealer, and it was less than half an hour later than I found him murdered. In the interim, I didn’t see how anyone could have come to the farm without having been seen by me. And the three servants in the house, Clarence and Tim and Ruby, alibied one another.

Unless... Now, what if, what if... What if the killer was the killers? What if Trask and Slade were the ones themselves? Agricola had begun to suspect I wasn’t the squealer, so he told them to lay off me while he did some more investigating. So they killed him and then went on hunting me just the same in order to cover themselves. The bodyguard at the Agricola farm, Clarence, had told me Agricola was still alive after Trask and Slade left, but one or both of them could have snuck back into the house, followed Agricola upstairs, and stuck the knife into him, using the knife instead of their more-accustomed guns because a gun might have been heard by the others in the house.

Scrunched down on the floor, feeling the road vibration all over me like one of those agitator beds in the new hotels, I thought about that possibility, and the more I thought about it the less I liked it. It would explain the knotty problem of how Agricola had been killed, of course, but for the rest of it, it didn’t make sense. Trask and Slade were hardly squealers in the first place, and besides that they wouldn’t kill Agricola just for not suspecting me so much any more. They’d play a waiting game, see how things were going.

No, it wasn’t Trask and Slade. Somebody else, somebody else.

I ran through more theories, possibilities, suggestions, but none of them were any good. I tried coming at the problem through Tough Tony Touhy, and I tried coming at it through the reason for killing Farmer Agricola, and I kept on getting nowhere. I also returned time after time to the how of the killing of Farmer Agricola, how someone had managed to get there and kill him between Trask and Slade’s departure and my arrival, which in many ways was the most baffling part of all.

I could understand it if Trask and Slade had done the killing. They leave the house, Agricola stops to say something to Clarence and then goes upstairs, Trask or Slade sneak back in, follow him up, kill him, go back down, leave the house again, and they drive away. But they hadn’t done it, they just hadn’t done it, of that I was positive.

Then I saw it.

It hit me so hard I sat up, shedding afghan on all sides. Bright sunlight angling low through the back window blinded me — we were going east, which didn’t help me much, except to tell me we were somewhere on Long Island — and I squinted against it and pointed at Trask. Both of them were in the front seat, Slade driving. To Trask I said, “You didn’t go along!”

He turned his head and scowled at me. “Down, nephew,” he said.

“Tell me,” I insisted. “When Slade went to see Mr. Agricola, you didn’t go along. You stayed watching Artie Dexter’s place, or my mother’s place.”

Trask said, “So what? Lie down and cover up.”

To Slade I said, “Who went with you? Who did you take to see Farmer Agricola?”

It was the answer of course, the ultimate answer. But I wasn’t to receive it, not that easily. Slade didn’t say a word, and Trask reached over a big-boned hand with a big hard gun gripped in it and clonked me gently on the head with the barrel. “I said down, nephew.”

So I went back down, pulling the afghan up over myself.

There was the answer, locked away in Slade’s head. Trask and Slade hadn’t gone to see Farmer Agricola, Slade had gone with someone else. That someone else had seen or heard or said something that was dangerous to him, so when they left he said to Slade, “Forgot my cigarettes,” or, “Remembered something I wanted to ask the Farmer,” or, “Hold it, I got to go back and use the head.” Something, anything. Slade waited, the other guy went back in, killed Agricola, came out, rode away with Slade.

And they might have suspected him, Slade at any rate might have remembered and suspected him, if I hadn’t come blundering onto the scene a few minutes later, taking all the blame and suspicion onto myself.

I should have realized it long ago, but I was too used to thinking of Trask and Slade as a team, inseparable. But hadn’t they been separate last night, one of them watching Artie’s place while the other was probably with Inspector Mahoney? If only I’d stopped to think then of the implications, that Trask and Slade could survive for short periods of time away from one another, I might now be a lot closer to the solution than I was.

Still, it was something. I knew how Agricola had been killed, and I could guess why. All that remained now was the knotty question of who.

And just before the car stopped I realized who it had to be.

Had to be, absolutely had to be. There wasn’t anyone else in the world who could have known the proper things, who could have been in the right places at the right times, who could have handled this whole mess with such a teetering combination of panic and cunning, desperation and wiliness.

The car had left the road, was moving slowly now across something that crunched beneath the wheels. Sand, it sounded like. More and more slowly, rising and falling over uneven ground, the big black car finally settled to a stop.

Doors opened and then shut again. Feet crunched through sand. Another door opened, the one by my feet. Trask’s voice said, “Okay, nephew.”

I pushed the afghan away and sat up. “It’s all right,” I said. “I know now.”

“Let’s go for a walk, nephew,” Trask suggested.

He wasn’t listening to me. “But I’ve figured it out,” I said. “Everything’s all right now, I’ve got it doped out.”

Trask showed me that big hard gun again. “Come out of the car, nephew,” he said.

I looked at him. I looked past him, and saw nothing but Slade.

I had it all figured out, and these two knobheads couldn’t care less. I knew the whole thing, and I’d run the course anyway.

“Nephew,” said Trask. “Come along. We’re goin’ for a walk.”

Chapter 24

Pardon me if you will, but I intend to drop into third-person narration for just a little while now. This next scene is far too nerve-racking for me to relive in first person. I want to view it all from as great a distance as possible — the middle of Long Island Sound, for instance.

Therefore...

The setting is a bit of sandy beach not far from Orient Point, one of the two eastern tips of Long Island. The other, Montauk Point, farther to the south, is better known, duller to look at, and more heavily commercialized. A ferry leaves Orient Point three times a day in summer, bound for New London, in Connecticut. In summer, also, pleasure boats cruise these waters, swimmers and sunbathers dot these beaches, but after Labor Day pockets of emptiness appear and grow, and by the first snowfall Orient Point is virtually deserted.

This particular stretch of beach is one of these pockets of emptiness, or was until a few minutes ago, when an automobile came driving slowly across the rolling sand from the direction of the invisible road. A big black car, new and gleaming, reflecting the mid-September sun. It stopped about a city block from the water’s edge, and two tall men in dark clothing got out. They wore dark topcoats and the sea wind whipped the coat tails around their legs.

A minute or two later a third man got out of the car, somewhat shorter and thinner than the first two, this one wearing a black raincoat which also whipped around his trouser legs.

The three began to walk away from the car, in single file, the one in the raincoat coming second. The other two walked hunched and stolid, their hands in their topcoat pockets, but the one in the middle appeared to be talking; his arms were in constant motion, like an erratic windmill, and his head bobbed with the speed and intensity of his words. The other two appeared not to be listening to him.

In their dark clothing, in the wind, in the sunlight, silhouetted against the light tan of the sand, the three walkers were impressive, curious, somehow frightening. They moved across the sand in a deliberate way, the two bigger ones picking their feet up high and leaning forward and moving their shoulders a great deal, the way men will walk through sand when their hands are in their topcoat pockets and they have a specific place to go. The one in the middle slid around in the sand more, seeming to be constantly on the verge of throwing himself off balance with his waving arms.

They walked at an angle in relation to the water, not directly toward it but rather off to the right away from the car, toward a small break in the beach where the ocean had eroded away a tiny cul-de-sac of water, a minuscule pool or cove or lagoon, walled in by sand. Gray driftwood choked this cul-de-sac, and more gnarled twisted pieces of driftwood up on the sand ringed it in.

As the procession moved closer to this cluster of driftwood the walker in the middle seemed to grow more and more agitated, as though the driftwood held for him a significance he found both unpleasant and impelling. His rapid, disjointed half-sentences rang out across the water, whipped away by the wind.

The trio reached the driftwood. The two taller men situated the talker where they wanted him, standing at the edge of the little drop to the water, standing amid the driftwood, his back to the water. They moved away from him, still facing him, and both took small machines from their pockets.

The one standing shin-deep in driftwood talked louder and faster than ever, and an occasional whole sentence blew out across the water: “What if I’m right? What if you’re wrong and I’m right? How did I know who went with you to the farm?” And other comments, loud and rapid and urgent in tone.

The other two raised the machines in their hands and pointed them at the talker. But then one of them lowered his machine and said something to his partner. The two of them spoke briefly together. They seemed undecided.

The talker kept talking, waving his arms. The wind blew his raincoat around him and the sun gleamed on his perspiring forehead.

The other two finally came to a decision. They motioned to the talker, who came back out of the driftwood and walked with them across the sand again to the car they’d arrived in. While the talker and one of the other two stood beside the car, the third man opened the door, slid behing the wheel, and operated an automobile telephone mounted under the dash.

A name was spoken, blew out over the waves: “Mr. Gross.”

There was a brief telephone conversation on the part of the man in the car, and then he handed the telephone receiver to the talker, the one who had just recently been standing amid the driftwood. The talker began to talk again, this time into the telephone, but just as urgently and rapidly as before. He stopped talking to listen, and then he talked again. The telephone was handed to one of the others to speak a word of corroboration to the man at the other end, and then handed back to the talker to talk into some more.

The wind blew. The sun shone. The water lapped at the beach. The black auto gleamed. The talker talked. The other two stood stolid and patient, dispassionate, not caring whether the talker convinced the man on the other end of the phone line or not. One of them lit a cigarette, hunching his back and cupping his hands to protect the match flame from the wind. The white smoke blew away, out to sea, along with the words of the talker, along with anything else that might be left here.

The talker was finished. He handed the telephone to one of the others, who spoke into it briefly, listened, nodded and spoke again, and then put the receiver back on its hook under the dashboard.

The trio got into the car, all in the front seat, the talker — now silent — in the middle. The car made a wide U-turn and drove away from the beach, toward the invisible road.

Chapter 25

Phew!

Let me tell you, that was close. Down among the driftwood there, I thought it was all up, all over but the shooting. I talked like Broderick Crawford in a hurry, I said everything five or six times fast, and I kept jumping up and down and waving my arms to try to attract their attention, and for a while it looked as though I might as well have been talking French. But I just kept at it, telling them who had killed Agricola, and why he’d done it, and how come he had to be the one who’d really been giving the syndicate information to Tough Tony Touhy, and pointing out how I’d guessed he was the guy Slade had taken with him to see Agricola, and then going over the whole thing all over again, and after a while it finally did begin to seep into their skulls a little, like rain through concrete.

It was Trask who finally said, “What can it hurt? Let him talk to Gross. If Gross says he’s on, he’s on.”

Slade said, “I don’t want to take a lot of time.”

“This won’t take long,” Trask told him.

So that was how it was. We walked on back to the car, and I figured at first it meant we’d be taking another long ride together, back across the Island and south to Hewlett Bay Park, but it turned out the car had a telephone in it. I’d heard about that before, telephones in automobiles, but this was the first time I’d ever seen one.

You’d think, with my reading in science fiction and all, I would have thought about the wonders of science and like that when I saw the telephone in the black car, but that wasn’t what came into my mind at all. The black car on the sand dunes, the deserted area, the tough type calling his boss on a telephone in the car — it was all exactly like a scene from one of those movie serials I used to watch on Saturday afternoons when I was a kid. I looked up into the sky for Superman or Spy Smasher, but nobody showed.

Except Mr. Gross, of course, on the other end of the telephone. Trask had made the call, while Slade stood next to me with his hand suggestively in his pocket. After a minute or two of fiddling with the phone company, Trask finally reached Mr. Gross and told him the situation. He and Gross talked back and forth a minute, and then he handed me the phone and said, “He wants to hear it. Tell him the story.”

So I went through the whole thing again, in as orderly a manner as I could manage under the circumstances. Mr. Gross asked a few questions, and I answered them as best I could, and then he said, “It sounds possible. Not necessarily true, you understand, but possible. An alternative explanation. We will have to learn which explanation is accurate. Put Trask back on.”

“Yes, sir.”

I handed the phone to Trask, there was another brief conversation, and then the call was over. Trask said to Slade, “We’re supposed to bring him to see Mr. Gross.”

I exhaled. It was, I believe, the first time I’d exhaled in about three minutes.

Salde shrugged. “So we’ll never get done with this job,” he said. But he didn’t seem irritated, just fatalistic about it all.

Trask motioned a thumb at me. “Come on, nephew,” he said. “Back in the car.”

“Under the afghan again?”

They looked at each other. Slade shrugged and Trask said, “No. Climb in front.”

I was happy to. Not only did I anticipate a much more enjoyable ride sitting on the seat in the open air than lying on the floor under an afghan, but letting me sit up there was kind of letting me know they pretty much believed me.

Slade drove again, and Trask sat on my right. Slade steered the car around in a wide U in the sand and headed back for the highway. As we reached it and turned west, toward the late afternoon sun, Slade put the visor down and said, “I hope you’re telling the goods, nephew. I never did like that bastard anyway.”

“Neither did I,” said Trask.

I agreed with them both.

Chapter 26

There was quite a group waiting for us when we got to Mr. Gross’s house. Aside from Mr. Gross himself, there was my Uncle Al, there was Farmer Agricola’s bodyguard Clarence, there was Inspector Mahoney, and there were two tough-looking types I’d never seen before. Uncle Al and Clarence and Inspector Mahoney all looked worried, and the two tough-looking types looked like all other tough-looking types: tough-looking, uninterested, and not very bright.

We came in, Trask and Slade and me, and Mr. Gross said, “Ah. Here you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”

This was the room where three bridge games had been in progress the last time I’d been in this house. The card tables were gone now and rather frail-looking chairs and end tables were spotted here and there around the room. On the floor was a very clean oriental rug.

Mr. Gross had gotten to his feet as we came in, and now he motioned me to a chair where I’d be the inevitable center of attention. “Sit down, Mr. Poole. Make yourself comfortable.”

I sat down, but I wasn’t very comfortable. Would I be able to convince them?

I felt all the eyes on me and I was feeling a fright that was only partially stage fright.

Mr. Gross said, “I called these people here to listen to your ideas. I want you to tell it all again, just like you told it to me over the phone. They can tell us if the story holds together right.”

Mahoney said, “This is dangerous, Gross. I shouldn’t be here, this is endangering my usefulness to you and myself and the whole organization.”

Gross waved a sausagy hand at him. “Relax, Mahoney. Just sit and listen.”

Uncle Al said to me, “Charlie, what are you up to now? How much trouble you want to get yourself in?”

“That’s enough,” Gross said. He sat down, like a white toad settling himself under a mushroom, and crossed pudgy hands over his white-shirted black-suited torso. “Begin,” he said.

I said, “Two things happened, and you thought I did both of them. Somebody gave away secrets to Tough Tony Touhy, and somebody killed Farmer Agricola. You were wrong about me doing them, but you were right it was the same person did both. The reason you thought it was me was because you had Inspector Mahoney find out where the leak was coming from, and he asked Touhy, and Touhy said it was from me.” I turned to Mahoney. “But at first,” I said, “he didn’t say precisely that I was the one talking to him. You said to him something like, ‘Where’s this information coming from?’ And he said something like, ‘It’s coming from the bartender at the Rockaway Grill.’ Isn’t that right?”

Mahoney shrugged and spread his hands and looked at Gross. “How do I know?” he said, talking directly to Gross. “How do I know what exact words was used? What difference does it make?”

“The difference,” I told him, “is you asked one question and Touhy answered a different one. Most policemen keep the identities of their regular informants secret as much as they can, at least that’s what I’ve always read, so I guess Touhy didn’t ever think you wanted to know the name of the informant. You asked him where the information was coming from, and he thought you meant what was the ultimate source in the organization, and that was me. But he didn’t mean I was telling him anything directly. What he meant was, the guy who passed the information on to him first got it from me.”

Mahoney said, “So you worked through an intermediary. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not an intermediary,” I said. “There was only one person I ever talked to about organization business, and I only talked to him because it was supposed to be safe to talk to him, he was a member of the—”

Uncle Al jumped to his feet and shouted, “Wait a goddam minute!”

Mr. Gross pointed a sausage at him. “Sit down, Gatling.”

But Uncle Al stayed on his feet. “What is this, a goddam railroad? You think you can pull—”

Mr. Gross made a small gesture with the sausage. The two tough-looking types had already moved over close behind Uncle Al’s chair. Now they reached out and put their hands on his shoulders and pushed him very slowly and quietly back down into his chair. He went down, mouth open, and just sat there. He watched me, and his mouth was open, but he didn’t interrupt any more. And the two tough-looking types left their hands on his shoulders.

I said, “Touhy got something on Uncle Al, I don’t know what. But instead of pulling him in, he used Uncle Al to give him information about syndicate business. Including dope about shipments of things going through my bar. Every time I was with my Uncle Al we’d talk about how I was doing at the bar, how much work there was, what the story was with shipments and packages and all that. He knew as much about what was going on there as me, and he was the only one I ever talked to.”

Mahoney was watching me at last, instead of Mr. Gross. He said, “That’s just your word against his. He’s been a trusted member of the organization for years, so why should we believe you?”

“Because he killed Mr. Agricola,” I said.

Clarence spoke up, saying, “Not so’s you’d notice it. You’re the one killed Mr. Agricola, and nobody else.”

“No, I didn’t. When I got away from Trask and Slade the second time, at Artie Dexter’s place in Greenwich Village, they had Uncle Al with them. They phoned Mr. Agricola, and he said Trask should keep watch some place or other, and Slade should come out for further instructions, and bring my Uncle Al along to fill him in on his nephew Charlie Poole.” I turned to Slade. “Isn’t that right?”

Slade nodded. “Right.”

“I should have figured that out long ago,” I told them, “but I kept thinking of Trask and Slade always together, like Siamese twins. Anyway, while they were there Uncle Al let something slip, something that Slade wouldn’t know about but that Agricola would, something that Agricola didn’t catch right away. I don’t know what it was, but Uncle Al realized he’d made the mistake and knew Agricola would catch on sooner or later, so after he and Slade went out to the car he made some excuse to go back inside—”

Slade said, “He forgot his cigarettes.”

Uncle Al shook his head, abruptly, once, but he didn’t say anything.

I said, “He went upstairs and killed Mr. Agricola with that knife. I don’t know where he got it.”

“It was in the room,” Clarence said. “A letter opener is what it was. But I still say you were the one used it.”

I asked him, “Did you know Al Gatling had come back into the house?”

He frowned a little and shook his head. “No. So what?”

“Wouldn’t you have heard him if he’d made a normal amount of noise? I mean, after all, you were supposed to be guarding the place.”

“I’ll hear anybody that comes in the front door,” he said, getting truculent now. He didn’t like being reminded he’d failed in his duty. He was like a watchdog after a successful burglary; so irritated and embarrassed he’s liable to bite any leg that comes close.

I told him, “You didn’t hear Albert Gatling come in, though.”

He shrugged, sullen. “So what?”

“That means he must have been moving extra special quiet, doesn’t it?”

“If he came back in.”

Slade said, “He went back in, I saw him go. I waited for him.”

Mahoney said, “But why kill Agricola? What’s the point?”

“Maybe Uncle Al will tell us,” I said, and looked at him, but he just glared and wouldn’t say a word.

Slade said, “Listen, there’s a name you said before.”

I turned to him. “Me?”

“Yeah. A cop or something.”

“Touhy?”

Slade nodded. “Right. Gatling mentioned that name.”

“To Agricola?”

“Yeah. I remember. Something about he had no idea why his nephew would pass news like that on to this guy Touhy.”

I turned back to Gross. “Would that do it? Should there have been any way for my Uncle Al to know which policeman was getting the information?”

Mr. Gross shook his head. “Not unless Mahoney told him.”

Mahoney said, “Why should I tell him? No point in it. I never dealt with him at all.”

“So that’s why,” I said. “Uncle Al realized he’d made the mistake, and he was afraid Agricola would catch on a little later, and he panicked. He’s been running scared the last few days, terrified out of his head. Trask and Slade can tell you. From the time he found out the organization was after me for the squealing he’d been doing he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t take the rap for me, and he was even too scared and panicky to try to help me. He made a mistake with Agricola, and killed him because he was so panicky. And since then he’s just been sitting around waiting for the whole thing to be over.”

Mahoney said, “From the look on Gatling’s face, and from everything everybody’s said, it looks like you’re telling the truth, kid. Except for one thing.”

“What thing?”

“Tough Tony.” Mahoney pointed a finger at me. “He identified you in my office this afternoon. Not your Uncle Al, you.”

“The only thing I can figure,” I told him, “is that he suspects you. He’s on to you now.”

“That’s right,” said a voice from the doorway. We all turned our heads, and there was Tough Tony Touhy smiling in the doorway, a revolver in each hand and a hall full of cops behind him.

“Stick ’em up, gents,” said Tough Tony. “It’s the end of the road.”

Chapter 27

Riding toward New York in the back seat of the police car, sitting next to Tough Tony Touhy, I got the rest of the story.

“We’ve been on to that Rockaway Grill for months,” he told me. “For instance, Patrolman Ziccatta isn’t really a patrolman at all. He’s a detective third grade, working out of the Mob & Rackets Squad, on special detached duty to the 69th Precinct in Canarsie so he can keep an eye on the Rockaway Grill. There’s nothing like disguising a cop as a cop to allay suspicion.” He laughed, a big healthy hearty sort of a laugh, and slapped his own knee.

I said, “You mean, all this time he’s been watching me?”

“Not you so much,” Tough Tony said. “The bar, the customers, that’s what he’s been watching. The other night, when he saw Trask and Slade in there, he figured they were just coming by to make another drop or pick up another package. But a little later, when he saw part of the sign knocked down, and saw the back door broken in, and saw you nowhere around the place, he began to think there was something up, and he called me right away.”

I said, “So you’ve been hanging around me the whole time.”

“Well, not exactly,” he said. “To tell you the truth, we didn’t know where you were or what the hell was going on till last night, when you showed up in Canarsie again, asking about a policeman named Patrick Mahoney. Ziccatta called me and then tried to stall you until we could get a tail on you. Up till then none of us could figure out what was going on, but when you asked about Mahoney dawn began to break. I remembered telling him you were the source of the dope we’d been getting, and I could see how he’d get the idea I meant you were the one talking to us, and slowly the pieces began to fit into place.”

“So,” I said. “You’ve had people watching me ever since last night.”

“No, not precisely,” he said. “Ziccatta didn’t manage to stall you long enough, so you were gone before our man could get there from Queens. But we knew you were going to try to reach Mahoney, so we surrounded him with men and waited for you to show up. That was easy, surrounding him with men, since there he was right in Police Headquarters anyway.” He laughed again and slapped his knee some more.

“Well,” I said. “So you had me in view from the time I got to Police Headquarters.”

“I wouldn’t entirely say that,” he said. “To tell you the truth, we didn’t expect such a direct approach from you, and none of our special-detail men even knew you were in the building. If Mahoney hadn’t called me to come into his office, where I could get a look at you, I don’t know what would have happened. Still, all’s well that ends well. And when saw you there, I knew exactly what was going on, and I knew Mahoney wanted to see if I’d recognize you or not, so naturally I said what I did, in order to keep Mahoney from getting suspicious. I figured then we’d watch you, see where you were taken and what happened next.”

“Ah,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “So you were on hand the whole time out at Orient Point and I really wasn’t in danger at all.”

“Well, no,” he said. “The fact of the matter is, they moved you on out of Headquarters faster than we expected. We lost you again practically as soon as we’d found you.”

I said, “Then how did you show up at Mr. Gross’s house?”

“We followed Mahoney.”

“Oh.” I looked out the window and we were in Queens. “You can let me off at the subway,” I said. “Any subway.” I looked at him. “You can find the subway, can’t you?”

He gave me a tough look. “Is that supposed to be funny?” he said. “We saved your life.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I forgot.”

Chapter 28

It was rush hour. When the train reached West Fourth Street I had to claw my way through a mass of sullen humanity to get through the door and out onto the platform. That was possibly the most dangerous moment I’d lived during the past week.

But I did make it to the platform, and the doors snicked shut behind me, and the subway raced its squirming mass of innards southward through the black tunnel. I went up stairs, and up stairs, and up stairs, and eventually got to the street. I walked west through the begining of evening, through the Village.

I didn’t know her home address, and I didn’t know her parents’ address in the Bronx. This was the only place I knew her, so this was where I came.

I walked down Perry Street and I saw light gleaming in those windows, but did that mean Chloe or did it mean Artie back at last from his unexplained disappearance? Although I wanted to know what the hell Artie had been doing the last couple of days, at the same time I wished desperately for it to be Chloe up there.

Murder wasn’t the only thing I’d been figuring out this afternoon. I’d also been figuring Chloe. I’d come to some realizations about Chloe, and I was eager to get started acting on those realizations.

Like for instance her telling me her life story last night, all about her marriage and her little girl and everything. She wouldn’t have told me all that if she thought we were just a couple of ships passing in the night. No, it meant she was interested in me, interested in me, and willing to see where the interest might lead.

And also, like for instance, her telling me she knew I had a letch for her because she heard me tossing and turning until practically dawn. What I didn’t stop to realize at the time, what I only figured out hours later when my brain was all tuned up and figuring out everything that came its way, was if she had heard me tossing and turning until practically dawn that had to mean she was awake until practically dawn herself. And what did that mean?

You betcha.

So I hurried across Perry Street toward those lighted windows, second-floor front, hoping it was Chloe and not Artie, and I dashed up the steps outside the building, found the door unlocked yet again, and bounded on up the stairs to the second floor. I knocked on the door, and waited, and knocked again, and at last it opened.

Chloe.

She had changed clothes. She was wearing a black skirt that flared out over her hips, with a lot of fluffy petticoat sort of things underneath to make the skirt stand out even more, and she had a scoop-neck white blouse on that did nothing bad at all for her breasts, and she was wearing stockings and high heels, and she had a good moderate amount of make-up on, and she looked absolutely fabulous.

I suddenly felt raunchy. Still in the same slacks I’d been wearing since this thing started. Same shoes too. Borrowed underwear. Borrowed white shirt that was too small for me. Borrowed raincoat.

I wished I’d thought to stop off at my place in Canarsie first to get cleaned up.

She looked at me standing there in the hallway, and she smiled in a tentative kind of way and said, “You looking for a place to hide out, mister?”

I shook my head. “It’s all over,” I said. “We won.”

“What? Really?”

So the first thing I had to do was come in and sit down and have a cup of coffee and tell her what had happened, tell her the whole day in the tiniest detail. Which I did, and she made suitable comments here and there, and when I was done she said, “So you came back to get your own clothes and leave Artie’s stuff here, is that it?”

I shook my head again. “No. I came back here to get you.”

“Me?” Said as though she had no idea what I was talking about.

So I reached out and pulled her close and kissed her. We melted awhile, and then we split and looked at each other and both started giggling. “And here I’d given up on you,” she said, giggling.

“The hell you did,” I said.

“What do you know about it?”

“Plenty.” I kissed her again, and then I said, “Shall we spend the night here or at my place down in Canarsie?”

“We? What do you mean, we?”

“You know what I mean.”

She disengaged herself from my arms, backed up a couple of steps, and looked me over. “You’re going to run that bar again?”

“I guess not,” I said. “The organization won’t be operating it any more, and my contract with the organization ended with Uncle Al. I guess I’ll just have to settle down and find myself a sensible job somewhere with good pay and nice fringe benefits and a top-flight retirement plan.”

“You’re overstating it,” she said. “But you do really mean to settle down and start behaving like an adult.”

“Definitely,” I said.

“In that case,” she said, “I imagine you’ll ask me that question again a little later this evening, in a more acceptable manner.”

“I imagine I will,” I said. “And how would you like to eat dinner in a real restaurant?”

“Fine. Just—”

The doorbell rang.

We looked at each other. Chloe said, “Do you suppose that’s Artie?” Her voice was hushed.

I said, “I don’t know.”

“What if it is?”

“You mean, because of us?”

She nodded.

“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Don’t worry, I know Artie pretty well. He never had any long-term plans with you anyway, you or anybody else.”

“I know,” she said.

So I went over and opened the door and it wasn’t Artie, it was a Western Union boy. He handed me the envelope and went away, and I shut the door and opened the envelope and Chloe came over and put an arm around my waist and rested her cheek against my upper arm, and we read the telegram together.

It was from Huntsville, Alabama. It was addressed to both Chloe and me at this address, and it said:

ALTHEA AND ME MARRIED HERE THIS AFTERNOON STOP FLYING SWITZERLAND MORNING STOP WHY DON’T YOU TWO GET TOGETHER QUESTION MARK

ARTIE

“Oh!” said Chloe. “If that isn’t the end!”

She was right.

Content

Donald E. Westlake
The Fugitive Pigeon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28