Piers removed his fingers one by one from the stem of the wineglass.
“It’s about so big.” The gnarled hands moved. “Made out of alligator. Real alligator.”
Piers had realized it with a rush of fury at his self-betrayal. The betrayal of the subconscious. He had described Anstruther’s dispatch case to Devlin. He had been so certain that no one would believe he would retain that case, that he had done any more than return it to the Secretary. Because no one but he knew the Secretary was dead. If he’d ever owned a briefcase, if he’d handled any other—it was too late to retract description. More than ever now he wanted to learn who had set the detective on his trail. How to ask he didn’t know. He parried, “Do you mean the Secretary has lost his case?”
Cassidy drained the glass.
“And do you mean to say,” he gathered momentum, “that Secretary Anstruther told you in order to find it you should follow me?”
The mask covered the face again. “Who says I’m following you?”
Piers said flatly, “I don’t believe it.” He forced it upon the hulk of man. “I’ve worked with Secretary Anstruther for years. If he’d lost something and thought I might know where it was, he’d ask me. He wouldn’t ask the New York detective force to find it by trailing me. Who set you on me?”
“The boss.”
“The Commissioner of Police?” He was the boss, Devlin had said it. And he was averse to murder. Johann Schmidt was a part of the answer. Piers hadn’t killed the man. But he mustn’t talk about it. First they must give him their knowledge. He paid the check. “I’m going to dinner now, the theater later. I don’t imagine it will do any good to tell you I have no briefcase, neither of my own nor of Secretary Anstruther, and that you might as well go home and get a night’s rest.”
“Don’t worry about me none.” Cassidy wiped his mouth. “I’m obliged for the beer.”
Piers left him standing in the lobby, worrying a tabloid. But the eyes above the paper were watching.
2.
On Broadway at night, glittering and noisy, he was not haunted by African desert, by silence and sun. He moved with the crowd as far as Lindy’s, waited for a booth. No one here was concerned about the future of peace. They had peace. He ordered a steak dinner, watched the crowd thinning as curtain time neared. Dining alone was dining quickly. He would reach the musical before its late curtain. There would be standing room; that was important, to get inside the theater.
When he came out of the restaurant he saw Cassidy, a loiterer on the corner. Cassidy didn’t appear to see him. But it proved Cassidy had spoken true; it didn’t matter that his identity was disclosed. He would follow until he was led to what the boss, or someone behind the boss, wanted.
Piers knew this theater, knew the second floor exit to a catwalk leading to the producer’s office. An office which would not be locked until after the final curtain and which would be unoccupied during that time. The producer clung to the wings whenever he had a leg show. The SRO sign was out. Piers bought a standing room ticket and turning from the window glanced back at the sidewalk. Cassidy was there.
The house lights were darkening as he entered. Cassidy hadn’t followed as yet. There were the last moments of confusion of seating. Piers moved on up the red-carpeted stairs to the balcony lounge, went to the water fountain for excuse and waited there while the orchestra leaped into rhythmic frenzy. There were others who came up the steps but none lingered, none noticed him. All were in haste to be seated before the rising of the curtain. It was possible that Cassidy would not come into the theater, taking it for granted that Piers had gone to the hit show for the purpose of seeing it. It was even possible that Cassidy would take time to feed himself, the big man must be hungry by now. Not that Piers believed that Cassidy would in so doing leave the way clear for Piers to slip away unencumbered into the night. There would be someone watching the exits, a policeman on the beat, a cabbie who could use a slice of police favor, a theater doorman. Meantime, what of the watcher who was watching both Cassidy and Piers? If there were such a one, he hadn’t as yet passed the detective to come after Piers. Perhaps he too was hungry and did not fear losing his quarry as long as Cassidy was in clear view.
Piers had choice of following his original plan, that of leaving the theater during the general confusion of intermission, or of disappearing now. Despite the risk of drawing the attention of an usher by immediate movement, it seemed advisable to move before Cassidy’s weary shoes dogged after him. He wasn’t actually worried about getting past the usher, he had glib excuses waiting on his tongue for his exit. It was the later questions that would be asked concerning him by Cassidy, by an unknown man in the dark.
He crumpled the cup and dropped it in the waste container. By the time of questioning he should be well away. The corners of his mouth tweaked. Cassidy had definitely stated he didn’t care if Piers did escape him. Escape him he would. He walked then without haste, with definite purpose, to the left of the house. The usher stood at the head of the aisle, her eyes on the comedy team chanting on stage. Piers murmured as he passed, “Leo’s office,” and waited a moment for no response. His father had been one of Leo’s first stars. He continued without haste to the door, opened it a slip and stood outside on the narrow passageway, high above the dark alley below. He moved quickly now, listening for the crank of the door opening behind him, but it was silent. He hadn’t been followed yet.
He had a moment as he reached the producer’s door but the knob turned under his hand. It was the same grubby little office, unchanged in twenty years. Even the shabby couch was no more shabby, with no more brown criss-crosses in the worn black leather. He took a breath before he opened the door into the small anteroom. It was empty.
Luck had been with him. There was now the immediate necessity of getting away from here. He opened this door a wedge, slid through. One dim bulb lighted the landing. He remembered three flights to the alley exit. In the death silence the iron steps reverberated to his careful descent. Only if he removed his shoes could he muffle the sound. That chance he couldn’t take. It would stamp him with suspicion if anyone should enter on legitimate business. Moreover, it would hinder progress if he had to cut and run.
Cursing breathlessly he wound down the staircase until he stood in the almost complete darkness of the alley level. There was no sound from above. As he remembered it the alley was short, only a few strides to the street in back of the theater. Yet he hesitated before opening that door, fearing not Cassidy but another man who might stand outside. He didn’t want to die. His hand was actually clammy when he touched the knob, drew the door ajar, guarding himself behind it.
He looked out into an empty lane. He moved without sound now; closing the door noiselessly, his walk was swift to the end of the alley. Before stepping from its narrow confines, he peered out. No one was waiting for him. It was a cheap street. Without theaters, a cavernous garage across, a small dingy restaurant, dark windows of theatrical shoes, tailor shops, leather goods. This end of the block was deserted.
Piers left the alley in one stride and moved towards Eighth Avenue. There was more danger in picking a less lighted thoroughfare, one as deserted as a village at this hour, and none too savory at best. Nevertheless, he had no intention of walking into Cassidy’s grasping hands again. And if, as he believed, he had not been followed, he was as safe here as he would have been in Berne. He walked Eighth to 54th street. By that time he was certain he had escaped all trackers. For the remainder of the evening he was free to do as he should choose.
He had had no plan in mind when he planned escape, nothing more than the throwing off of the confines of surveillance. But now that he was out of the box he knew what he would attempt to do. He walked across town to Broadway again. He had no hesitation in hailing a cab here in the Fifties. The men who were watching him might bribe the cabbies in the vicinity of the Astor; they could scarcely cover the town. Not a town with as many cruisers as Manhattan.
“Grand Central,”
he said. “Lexington entrance.”
He leaned back against the leather. He could relax for this interlude. He lighted a cigarette. If he had any lingering doubts of being free he would erase them in these final maneuvers. He paid off the driver and entered the station. He didn’t go to the concourse; he followed arrows across the station and to the Biltmore exit. He went through the hotel, emerging on 43rd, and made his way to Park. The avenue lay wide and quiet save for the endless stream of traffic. He walked to the great white shaft of the International Building.
It was possible but not probable that there would be someone in the office at this hour. After ten. The imminent Conclave meant an inordinate amount of work. If there was someone there he could ask for information of little importance. He touched the night bell and waited.
The guard was a stocky man with suspicion gritted into his mouth. Piers stated, “I’m Thompson. Peace office.” The night guard couldn’t possibly know all employees of the Peace office even by name. “Mr. Gordon sent me over for some reports he needs.” He edged the door as he spoke. He didn’t want to remain longer on the street, not daring to look behind him, expecting the coincidence of Gordon himself passing on his way to some function or other.
The guard was less suspicious at mention of the office and at the magic name of Gordon the scowl smoothed.
“If you’ll take me up,” Piers suggested, “I have the key.”
“You got to sign the register.”
“Where is it?” Piers led away from the door.
“Over here.” The ledger was on the elevator stool.
Piers signed illegibly, Ed Thompson, and walked into the elevator.
“Plenty of work with that meeting coming up, I betcha,” the guard volunteered.
“Plenty,” Piers responded. “Anyone else here tonight?”
“No. But some of the girls didn’t get away till after I come on.”
Piers said, “Well, the International Conclave only meets once in two years. That’s not too tough.”
The man stopped at the 19th floor. Their voices sounded lost in the empty, cavernous building. “I hope they’ll tell them Germans where to head in,” the guard continued with violence. “Imagine them wanting the International Army moved out of their country.”
“You’re against it?”
“You just bet I’m against it. Do you know why they want it?” He scowled like a conspirator. “It’s so they can start another war, that’s why.”
“I agree,” Piers said.
“You bet that’s what it is. All the excuses they can think up—my kid could see through them. Expense for the United Nations—what do they care? And that one about their pride being hurt! Ain’t that too bad? After what they done in the Last War.” He shook his head.
“You were in it?”
“Three years. I know what war’s like. Maybe you don’t know—”
“I had four years of it.”
“You do know.” The man’s eyes met his. “I can’t see these big shots arguing we ought to withdraw the army. I can’t see it. Anybody with the brain of a little duck would know what’s behind it.”
Piers said, “I wish you were a delegate.”
“I wish I was too. I’d tell them.”
“Yes.” His thoughts were long. If it were only possible for the men to be there, the men who had evolved from war. He shook out of it. “I’d better find those reports.”
“Yeah. Gimme a ring when you want out.” The elevator door slid silently shut, the whine of its descent diminuendoed.
He was alone on the 19th floor, alone in shadows flung by the night light. His steps on the marble corridor echoed as he approached the door. The key should admit him both to the office at large and to the private offices. It was Anstruther’s key. It turned and he felt for the light before entering the austere anteroom. Light flooded. He knew then there was no one here; the room had the smell of emptiness. But it wouldn’t be wise to tarry too long. It was entirely possible that there would be watchers to report an unexpected light in the Peace office at this hour. And there was always the coincidental approach of Gordon in his mind.
Gordon’s door was lettered, not locked. He left it in darkness until he had closed the Venetian blinds, then turned on the desk lamp. The desk itself was locked; the files were open. He pulled the drawer E. Standing there, he read the Evanhurst correspondence, rapidly, photographically. There was no doubt that Evanhurst was committed to the policy of releasing Germany from supervision. There was little doubt that Gordon concurred.
He went quickly to B, Brecklein. There were the same arguments Anstruther had voiced, that the guard had stated. Withdraw—save expense to the United Nations. Withdraw—we have proved ourselves peaceful in these twelve years, why humiliate us longer? Withdraw—we can become self-supporting, valuable in trade channels if we are allowed freedom of production again.
Anstruther had hinted this. Why force Germany to ship out her metals when her factories could so easily manufacture at home? Under the international laws, of course, the laws of peace. Brecklein even dared mention the building of planes, quoting the superiority of the Luftwaffe in the Last War. The guard downstairs had said it. “Even my kid could see through it.” But the kid wouldn’t be blinded by personal ambition, by worship of the ape, by wish fathering the thought.
He should leave now; he’d found out enough to know where Gordon stood, enough to know it was wisdom to steer clear of Gordon’s aid. But he went rapidly to the Schern file. Little here. The silent partner. He turned from the files. And then he forced himself to return to them, to open the file on von Eynar.
Surprisingly enough, what he had wanted was here. The border incidents. There was no doubt about Germany’s part in them. For a moment he doubted the letters as genuine; this danger in an open file. But he realized, in themselves they were nothing. It was only by adding them to his own information that their treachery was fact.
He took the three most damning. It meant time, and the sweat stood cold on his flesh while he sat at the typewriter and copied the three. He traced a signature, Hugo von E. It would pass casual inspection. He put the copies into the file. He would never again hear the sound of a typewriter without remembering its unholy percussion in a deserted building at night.
The originals he put into his inner pocket. He turned off the lamp, opened the blinds, went through the anteroom extinguishing that light, stood again in the shadowy hall. No one could come in without the guard admitting him, but anyone could give a fictitious name and reason for entry. His empty steps jarred his stomach and he pushed the buzzer with a damp finger. His hair crawled while he waited for the whine to rise. Even when it ceased at the floor he was taut until he saw the same guard who had brought him up.
“All finished?”
“Thanks, yes.” His forehead was damp. “Took me a little time but it’s all right now.”
“I had a bit of trouble myself,” the man said. “Isn’t often you get it. Not much excitement in this racket though my wife gets kind of nervous for me sometimes.”
Piers controlled his voice. “What sort of trouble?”
“Fellow tried to push in, said he come to meet a Beers Hund here. Kept telling me this Hund was waiting for him.”
Piers laughed a little. “Didn’t get in on that one, did he?”
“You bet not.” The car jolted to a stop; Piers didn’t move from its safety. “I said there’s nobody here. You come around in office hours to see your man. And when he tried to talk back to me I just put my hand on his chest and pushed.” He scowled. “Talked like a Hun. Beers Hund. If he comes around again I’ll call the cops.”
Piers was cautious. “Did he leave—after you pushed him?”
“Not right away. Guess he’s gone by now.”
He wasn’t. Piers knew that. He was waiting somewhere outside, waiting for Piers to reappear. To follow again? Not tonight. If that was all he wanted he’d have been content to wait outside, not show his hand. This was more of the
real thing.
Piers couldn’t show his own hand to the guard. He’d come through too well up to now. Gordon must not know of this visit. There was no excuse to offer for prowling by night where he had access at any time. He had no moral way of obtaining a key. Yet he couldn’t in sanity walk out into the arms of one of Brecklein’s men. Perhaps the uncle of one Johann Schmidt. He had to play it quickly; he couldn’t delay here with the presumptive reports for Gordon in his pocket. He bit his lip. “I wonder.” He was confidential. “These reports are important to the Conclave. I wonder if that man could be a German who doesn’t want me to carry them to Mr. Gordon.”
The guard’s black eyes clicked.
“He must have seen me come in. Maybe he listened in on Mr. Gordon’s call to me. Germany doesn’t intend to be turned down this time. She wishes to eliminate all chance of failure.”
“Them dirty Huns.” The guard’s jaw squared.
“I must get out without that man knowing it. In case he’s hanging around.”
“We better call the cops.”
“No.” Piers spoke sharply. It could have been too sharply the way the man peered at him under the peak of his cap. “Don’t you see?” Piers went on to explain. “That’s the last thing I can do. That would mean publicity. It would give Germany something against our country, an incident, a hold over us. By the time we finished apologizing for having one of their men arrested, we’d be promising them withdrawal.”
The guard growled, “Diplomats are too lily-livered. I’d like to see myself knuckling under to any damn Hun.”
“We must preserve peace,” Piers said. No matter what you’d like to do to those who threatened it.
“Then how you going to get out?” the guard asked.
“I don’t know.” He could call Cassidy to come for him. But Cassidy mustn’t be allowed to report that he’d visited the Peace office. He asked, “Is there a phone?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d better phone for a cab.”
Delicate Ape Page 6
