You Can't Catch Me

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Now be quiet,” he said, “while I answer the door.”

  He backed up and opened the door a wide crack.

  “Anything wrong, sir?” the porter asked.

  “Nothing at all,” laughed the fat man. “Just a friendly little argument, son.”

  “I thought I heard somebody yelling out, sir.”

  “You certainly did,” the big man chuckled. “Everybody shouts these days when you talk politics. Don’t you? I rang for a nightcap, but we’ve changed our minds about it. My friends and I are going to play a bit of gin rummy. Here’s a buck for your trouble.”

  The porter mumbled his thanks and the door closed. The fat man stood over us.

  He said, “Kindly move closer to your companion, my friend. I’d prefer to be facing both of you. We must not have another flurry of that sort, for I’m too nervous with a gun in my hand. I’d recommend that you sit quite still and do not excite me.”

  Toni squeezed her trembling knee against mine to tell me that she was afraid.

  “What’s the gag?” I asked.

  “Gag? There is no gag.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The pleasure of your company.”

  “You mean you’re not leaving?”

  “Not tonight,” said the fat man. And once again he aimed his eyes at Toni in an appreciative flick. “Sorry that I must ruin your fun, old fellow.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Twentieth Century Limited

  10:35 P.M.—July 17th

  The fat man sat down.

  Squatting, the giant trench coat bunched up around his shoulders, giving him the appearance of a great animal, crouched and ready for anything that might move against him. His cold eyes held us in focus with a sharpness and unblinking keenness that brought the shivers to Toni’s shanks again. I started one hand down to comfort her.

  “Up,” said the fat man. “I want your hands where I can see them, son.”

  “Anything else you want?”

  “Only peace and quiet.” He let himself slide into a more comfortable position while he reached into his jacket pocket and took a small card from his wallet. He held the card in his pudgy fingers and stared at it smilingly, as though it might contain a printed joke that he alone could understand. “I am a prosaic businessman in an unorthodox situation. I can understand your incredulity, young man, but there is little you can do about it, I assure you. We might just as well remain in good temper.”

  He slid the business card along the table top so that I could read it:

  SIDNEY WRAGGE

  Importing—Exporting

  Kimberly Building—New York

  I fingered the card, but I was staring beyond it at the strong highlight on the muzzle of his automatic.

  “To be specific,” he continued, “let me say that I am pursuing a course that will insure me temporary haven for the night.”

  “Why doesn’t he talk English?” Toni Said, her fear diminishing as she read the card.

  Sidney Wragge only lifted an eyebrow at her comment before continuing. “I am following the old rule that there is always safety in numbers.”

  “Safety from what?” I asked.

  “Death,” said Sidney Wragge.

  He closed his eyes on the word, smiling at it, savoring it as Toni gasped and started to shiver again. He leaned back, a mountain of placidity. The train clacked on through the night and the boxed stillness of our little cubicle built the tension in me. I had to study the gorilla, fascinated by his closeness. He was wearing an ancient diamond stickpin in his tie, an archaic ornament, one bright stone surrounded by a circle of small emeralds. Was this a clue to his age? I figured him in his forties. He could be an Englishman or a Canadian from the way he spouted his dialogue. But where did he get his power? I had wrestled the beefy boys, lots of them, when I was in the army. I had handled his type before. Yet, Sidney Wragge had something all the others lacked against me. He used his bulk only as a foundation for his huge and dynamic hands. The tremendous paw that held the gun was neat and clean and well-manicured. He was grinning at me, his eyes wise, his thin lips curled in a mocking smile.

  I said, “Somebody wants to bump you off?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And you’re sure he’s on this train?”

  “Quite sure.” His free hand went down into the pocket of his trench coat and when he lifted it, there was a candy in it. He popped the candy into his mouth, moving his jaw slowly and pursing his lips as he sucked at its flavor. “Life Savers,” he said. “Care to join me?”

  “Nuts,” I said. “And nuts to your story, Wragge.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “You sound like something out of a bad movie.”

  Sidney Wragge shrugged casually. “Death is often unbelievable, my boy. There are significant shadings of value in the semantics of death. Being killed is a day-to-day risk that all of us take in our civilized meanderings. A man may be killed while crossing the street, riding an elevator, or shaving his chin.” He paused to allow me to follow the direction of his philosophic double talk. “A man who is running from death must take chances. That is why I am sitting here at this moment.”

  “What did he say?” Toni asked.

  “He says he’s afraid of being killed,” I explained.

  “Why doesn’t he tell the conductor and shake his fat tail out of here?”

  “Hah,” said Sidney Wragge. “The young lady has a sense of humor.”

  “Drop dead,” Toni commented. “If I was afraid of being killed, I’d be smart enough to figure that this is a big train, a hell of a big train, fat boy, with a lot of people on it. Maybe even a couple of cops. All you have to do is walk outside and pull the emergency cord and the train will stop. Take a flying jump into the nearest swamp—and leave us alone.”

  Sidney Wragge lost himself in an outburst of husky laughter, a real yak, enough to make his fleshy jowls quiver. He wound it all up in a fit of coughing, out of control, the high blood pressure alive on his cheeks.

  “A truly original sense of humor,” he gasped. “The young lady is really talented. Perhaps that is why I prefer to remain where I am.” He examined a gold wrist watch. “It is getting quite late, my friends. I’d suggest that you both try for some sleep.”

  “Do I look double-jointed?” Toni asked.

  “You will gain nothing by remaining awake,” said Wragge.

  “You don’t inspire slumber,” I said. “Nor does that fowling piece you’re aiming at us.”

  “You must put it out of your mind, my friend. Forget about my presence here.”

  “You’re too fat to forget,” Toni said.

  Sidney Wragge shrugged and popped another Life Saver into his mouth. Now, as he turned his head to stare out of the window, I found myself itching with the sudden urge to sketch him, to put him down on paper for my collection of criminal studies.

  Sidney Wragge’s head, in profile, brought his personality into truer perspective. Front face, he could be a kindly man—Mr. Babbitt, the head of a successful corporation. But in profile the cut of his features brought out the hardness in him. His eyes, deep hidden under the shaggy brows, gave his head the keen and predatory look of an evil bird, an eagle, a falcon, a hawk. His grayed brows were unkempt and uncombed in a John L. Lewis effect, falling in disorder over the dark pits that screened his eyes.

  I reached into my pocket for my tiny sketch book, but the gun was up off the table and aimed at my head before the gesture was completed.

  “Down,” said Sidney Wragge. “Keep your hands on the table.”

  “If I had a gun, I would have used it a long time ago,” I said.

  “You want a cigarette?” he asked, offering me a deck of Parliaments. “Have one of mine.”

  “Go to hell,” I told him.

  He lit a cigarette and
said nothing. Outside, the landscape fled by our window, a black panel punctuated by little dots of light. Already Toni had slumped over the table, her head in her arms, her blonde hair poured over the tabletop. Soon she was asleep and breathing in a restful pattern. But my innate stubbornness would not allow me to join her. I half closed my eyes and gave myself up to a game of cat and mouse.

  If I could catch him off guard, I might disarm him in a rush. I watched him patiently, a fogged figure through the narrowing slit of my left eye. I estimated the level at which I would hit him. If I aimed low, I could get him in the gut, knocking the breath out of him and grab the gun. He held it on his knee now and I thought I saw it waver slightly, as though he himself might be dozing off …

  I pretended to sleep deeply. I began to snore to prove it, wheezing and blubbering my imitation so that it might convince him. The muscles in my legs were tight knots as I prepared to use them, counting off the minutes as they crawled by. When I thought twenty minutes had passed, I steeled myself for the lunge at him. Now.

  And then Sidney Wragge laughed.

  “Amateurish,” he chuckled, bringing the gun up so that the muzzle rested on my cheek. “A very amateurish performance, my friend. The next time you wish to feign sleep, you must not snore so soon or so loud. You should learn, too, how to control your reflexes. When I coughed a moment ago your fingers moved slightly, an unnatural reaction for a man who snores so sincerely. I assume that you’ve been planning to disarm me? I suggest you abandon that strategy. I have an uncanny ability to remain awake indefinitely.”

  I gave up the game two hours later.

  And after that, sleep slapped me down.

  CHAPTER 7

  Twentieth Century Limited—New York

  8:14 A.M.—July 18th

  I awoke when the train was rolling down through the tenement section of Park Avenue. I awoke but I didn’t move. On my right, Toni still sprawled in sleep. The sound of the wheels softened into a dull rumbling beat as the tunnel closed in on us, and above the noise of the train’s movement I struggled for some small signal that would tell me that Sidney Wragge was still with us. The signal came. Under the table, his foot moved, slowly, carefully, quietly, but close enough so that the edge of his shoe touched mine as he slipped smoothly out of his seat.

  I allowed him the time to start for the door.

  Then I leaped.

  I hit him low in a flying tackle, and he grunted his surprise as he fell forward against the door, a mountain of flesh. He was caught off guard, but the springs in his legs came to life suddenly, kicking out at me so that my hands slid away from his beefy thighs. He had his back turned to me, yet before he adjusted his massive frame for the continuance of our struggle, I knew that the little automatic was in his right hand. He made the thought a fact. He brought the gun down hard, missing my head, but slapping my shoulder so that it stung with a thousand needles of pain. It forced me back, but I managed to lay one into his midsection, a short right that would have floored any other fat man on earth but Sidney Wragge. My fist hit nothing soft. I had expected the flabby gut found on most obese characters. Instead, his larded midsection was firm and muscled, as though as a boxer in shape for an important match. He was working me over now, trying for another crack at me with the gun. The crack came. He hit me on the side of the head, above the ear. I heard his husky chuckle as I began to fall, a deep-throated laugh that faded and died by the time I hit the floor.

  After that, Toni was slapping me awake.

  The darkness cleared and the room swam back into focus. I looked first through the window, watching the concrete wall slide slowly away as the train roiled into Grand Central Station.

  “He almost murdered you!” Toni was saying.

  “But not quite,” I said, struggling to my feet. The muscles in my legs had turned to butter. I slapped out at my shanks and worked myself into a standing position. “I’m lucky, Toni. The train must have been tied up in the tunnel. I’m going after that stinker.”

  “Why bother?” Toni argued. “You’ll fall flat on your fanny if you chase him. You’re knocked out, Mike.”

  I grabbed my hat. “I’ll meet you at the Brentworth Hotel,” I said. “See you later.”

  I ran out into the corridor. The train had stopped a minute ago and a crowd of passengers clogged the exits. I pushed and shoved my way to the door, disregarding the unkind words thrown my way. Out on the ramp, the mob swelled in the catacombs leading up the station. I threaded a broken course through them and ran into the broad arena of the station.

  I saw him then.

  He was moving fast, his huge figure tilted stiffly forward in the stride of a retreating admiral, bound for the Vanderbilt Avenue exit. I raced after him, giving him his head but cutting down his lead so that I was boarding the cab behind him when he pulled away. He headed uptown to the middle Sixties on the East Side, and got out at one of the old apartment houses that lined the street. I left my cab a few hundred feet behind him and crossed the street to note the number of his place. Then I backtracked quickly to the corner and ducked into the drugstore.

  A thin and pimply youth dispensed a soft drink for me. It was a tiny trap, a combination drug and luncheonette of the type that supplies a neighborhood with everything from antihistamine to lawn seed.

  “The boss in?” I asked.

  “I’m him,” said the youth.

  “You own this store?”

  He looked up from the sink slop and gave me the dregs of his disregard, as sad-eyed as a sick cow. “What are you, a tax collector, mister? I tell you this is my place. Period.”

  “For how long?”

  “How long, he’s asking me,” he said to the rag in his hands. “All this for a nickel coke? All right. I’ve been here two years. You happy?”

  “I’m tickled to death,” I told him. “Because you can help me with some information. I’m looking for a friend of mine and I can’t seem to find him. A fat man. You know him, maybe?”

  He wiped his hands and thumbed his chin and stared at the ceiling. Druggists are the most helpful merchants on earth to the private eye brigade. They had helped me before on many occasions, especially when the hunt involved a hideout or a stray. The local pill and powder emporiums cater to a broad mass of customers, who come in regularly for their accustomed medicaments and occasional cigarettes and soft drinks. A druggist with a brain and a memory can cut down a chase and simplify the threads that lead to the quarry. From where I sat the entrance to the apartment where the fat man had disappeared was in focus for me. I kept my eye on that door and watched. Nobody stirred down there.

  “A fat man from around here?” the druggist asked himself. And then it came to him. He snapped his fingers and something resembling the spark of life entered his watery eyes. “Of course. Down the block?”

  “He lives around here, then?”

  “Number 465. Over there.” He pointed to the house I watched.

  “You remember his name?”

  “Sidney.”

  “Then you know him well?”

  “I know Sidney, all right.” He studied the glass he was polishing for a moment. He was making up his mind about something, a problem that forced him into the original pose, the bovine speculation that suited him, so well. “He a friend of yours?”

  “Sidney and I are pals.”

  He leaned over the counter. He took off his glasses and began to heat them with his breath and polish them. He returned them to the bridge of his long nose and stared at me. “Do you want him for a bet, mister? He makes book for you, too?”

  “Sid and I are in the same line,” I said, grabbing the hook and holding it. Sometimes a private eye spends four weeks working up to a lead like this. Other times the gods are kind, and the check-up is easy. “I just got into town from Chicago and figured I’d stop in and chew the fat with Sid. You been betting with him long?”

 
“Couple of months,” the druggist said. “But he hasn’t showed up lately.”

  “Listen, do you know where I can get him? You know his hangouts?”

  “I know from nothing about him.”

  “His friends, maybe?”

  He hesitated, chewing his lip while throwing me occasional sly and jerky glances. He was making up his mind about something. But it would take a full day for him to come to any conclusion at the rate his feeble intellect meshed its gears. He lit a cigarette nervously and mixed himself a cherry drink. He sipped it, studying the bubbles.

  “You remember one of his friends?” I asked.

  “No. But I was just thinking. You want to take a bet for me?”

  “I don’t want Sid’s customers,” I said. “I don’t operate that way.”

  But he was reaching into his pants and producing two dog-eared dollar bills. “What do you care?” he asked laughingly. “Sid isn’t here to take my money. So why shouldn’t you? Put this on Lady Lombar in the fifth at Belmont.”

  “A dog,” I said. “Lay off the nag. Take my advice.”

  He reddened around the ears as though I had insulted his mother. “Never mind the advice, mister. I bet what I bet. Lady Lombar in the fifth. You taking it?”

  So I took it. He came alive after I had pocketed his dough, a typical reaction of the horse player who has done his duty to his conscience. Sometimes you do a man a favor by taking his loot. The small-time gambler burns with the yen to get one bet down each day, his ritual battle with the gods of chance. And from the way this goon acted, Lady Lombar would go off a long shot and he was already rejoicing at her victory. He poured me another drink, this one on the house. He expanded for me.

  “That Sid,” he said. “He’s got the business. Does he book much?”

  “Plenty,” I lied. “Sid’s loaded.”

  “You’d never know it, would you? I mean, the way he acts—just a nice fat guy minding his own business. Only time I figured him for the bigtime dough was when he came in here with that broad of his.”