‘Couple hours before he sails.’
‘Where are you going to meet?’
‘We agreed on three different spots. He’s going to contact me and tell me which spot it’s going to be, just before we get together.’ Luke cleared his throat. ‘I was going to call and tell you all about it, anyway,’ he said. ‘But I don’t like to call any more’n I hafta. It ain’t good.’
‘What time Saturday is she sailing?’
‘The Abaco? Seven P.M. We’re going to meet at five. He’ll call me at four.’
‘Okay,’ said Rafferty. ‘You call me at four, too. Tell me where it’s going to be. When you meet him, give him his ticket and passport, first. Just as soon as you pass it over, take a fade... and I’ll talk to him.’
‘Check,’ agreed Luke, hanging up the phone.
The next two days were quiet ones for Rafferty. His plans had been executed successfully, and the harvest of his planning would culminate in his meeting with Stack. As Stack was fleeing the country, he would have... logically... the money on his person just before boarding the Abaco; when he was confronted by an officer, he would surrender the missing money, particularly if he was offered the choice of continuing his escape or the alternative of returning to life servitude in Waupun. Regardless of the logic of this reasoning, however, an uneasiness was building within Rafferty.
Many experienced police officers play their hunches, following their instincts successfully. Most of them have no explanation for the vague impulse which compels them to take a second look at an undistinguished man walking down a street, a man wanted for embezzlement halfway across the country; or to glance through an unlocked car standing beside a curb, a car used as the vehicle in a murder ride. Training undoubtedly explains this phenomenon in part; and experience, too. But it does not explain it all. Nor does it explain the obscure warning signals which were being relayed to Rafferty.
Somewhere in New York City, Eddie Stack was hiding. There had been no story of his escape printed in the newspapers, because Stack was not in the first place, a figure of importance in the crime world and, secondly, Wisconsin, a thousand miles away, was outside of the usual geographical news interest of New York. Pictures and a description of the wanted man had been circulated by the Wisconsin authorities to the police of the other forty-seven states. In New York City, this information had been passed on as a matter of routine to the men on the force. Other than that, no other special action had been taken. With the exception, of course, of assigning Rafferty to watch Rose Pauli.
The ambiguousness of Rose’s situation may possibly have been responsible for the slight worry beginning to build in Rafferty’s mind. He felt no concern for her safety because he did not believe she was in danger. Stack, of course, knew of her presence in New York because—if Rose was telling the truth—her attorney had brought a divorce action against him from the state of which she was a resident. On the other hand, Stack did not know her address, and her phone number was unlisted. With time he could, naturally, trace Rose’s moves and ultimately locate her at the Park Avenue address; but Stack had neither time nor freedom of movement to do so. If he made New York City successfully, and escape was within his grasp, Stack would be careful to lay low, burrowing deeply into a cautious concealment until it was time to meet Luke and board the boat.
Rafferty’s main concern was fear of revealing to Rose his own connection with the police. When he had first met her it had been necessary for him to conceal his connection; later, he had continued this coggery because of Rose’s obvious dislike of the force. This single lie had resulted in a towering structure of deceit which he had been forced to build to maintain his relationship with her. In this respect, at least, he had reached a point from which there was no returning.
It was fortunate, although not surprising, that Feinberg had reassigned him to the case when Stack escaped. Rafferty had considered this possibility carefully, when constructing his plan, because it was entirely possible that his own relationship with Rose would be discovered if the apartment on Park Avenue was investigated too thoroughly. However, Rafferty had complete faith in departmental routine; he had been assigned to the Stack case originally; he had been relieved when the case was filed; he would be reassigned again if the case was reopened. This was regular police procedure, unvarying in its operation. He felt that there was little risk that another detective would be assigned. And he was proved correct.
Rose was ignorant of Stack’s situation. Rafferty had not revealed his plans to her. If, by chance, she discovered that Stack was in South America, Rafferty would profess complete surprise. He would disclaim the fact that his having the money was in any way linked with Stack’s own escape. Yet—having planned carefully and well—Rafferty could not escape his feelings of uneasiness. At first he told himself it was nerves... tension... waiting for Luke’s call on Saturday. He was anxious to get it over and done—to get the money in his own hands, and to get Stack safely out of the country. But these explanations were not enough.
He had called Luke on Monday; on Wednesday he phoned the candy store again and left the usual message, but unfortunately he was not at his desk when Luke returned his call. Luke did not call back a second time.
Nor did he hear from Luke on Thursday. He controlled his impulse to call him, to leave an urgent message at Jurgen’s; it was too dangerous, and it was unnecessary. If anything had gone wrong with the plans, he told himself, Luke would certainly have contacted him. All that was necessary was to wait until Saturday. Stack could not board the boat until he received his papers from Luke. As soon as the escaped man contacted Luke, he would be notified.
But throughout the day, his uneasiness nagged at him, giving him no peace. Thursday night he had planned to meet Rose. They were going out to dinner and afterward to a show. He was off duty at four in the afternoon, but he remained at the station until nearly six, catching up on reports, shuffling papers and killing time. Each time his phone rang, he answered it eagerly... hoping to hear Luke’s voice, and each call disappointed him. At six, he angrily shrugged himself into his coat. His apprehension increased as he left the building and he caught himself scrutinizing the faces passing on the sidewalks. He walked slowly to the subway station and caught a train to Times Square. Within the train, packed shoulder to shoulder with rush-hour riders, a sixth sense pressed silent alarm buttons in his mind. He raised his eyes, casually, ostensibly glancing at the advertising on the car cards, while he studied his fellow riders, searching for the features of Eddie Stack, which he had memorized from the bulletin. He couldn’t find them.
‘I’m getting jumpy,’ he told himself. ‘Stack doesn’t know me, doesn’t know I’m alive. Why the hell would he be tailing me?’ At Times Square he walked through the station and climbed the stairs to Broadway. From there, he caught a cab to Rose’s apartment.
She met him at the door, opening it before he could use his key. She was gay, and threw her arms around him, kissing him carefully on the cheek so as not to smear her makeup. ‘I’m glad you’re on time,’ she said. ‘I’m starving!’
‘Where’d you like to eat?’
‘Oh, someplace where there’s lots of food, and it’s real filling! I can eat loads tonight!’ She handed him her coat, and he held it for her. Then seeing his face, ‘Why so glum?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Tired, I guess...’ Suddenly, he was tired. His body heavy with tension.
‘Don’t tell me you want to stay in!’ Her face grew sulky and she stepped away, regarding him coldly.
‘No,’ he shrugged. ‘We’ll go out. Probably what I need is a good drink. How about Luchow’s?’
‘All right,’ she said, but her face didn’t soften. ‘I’d love some roast duck and red cabbage.’ She wrapped her extravagant coat around herself carefully.
They were seated in one of the big, rambling rooms of the restaurant. The small string orchestra played Viennese waltzes under the din of the multitude of diners. Discontent hung oppressively over the table. Although
Rafferty ordered drinks, the liquor failed to relax him, and Rose remained silent and aloof. In desperation, he ordered dinner, and the food was paper in his mouth.
‘Something’s eating you,’ Rose said finally. ‘You’re getting to be awfully moody. What is it?’
Rafferty glanced hopelessly around the sea of faces. He placed his fork on his plate, wiping his hands on the napkin. ‘I’ve got a lot of things on my mind...’ he replied.
‘Such as what?’
‘Well... for one thing, that dough.’ The words escaped his mouth, released by emotion. Her smooth face was watching him impassively and he fought back his impulse to tell her everything, forcing her to share the responsibility of his worries. The desire to talk about the money was irresistible and he skirted dangerously around the subject. ‘I think maybe I’m going to get it all right,’ he said.
Her eyes brightened, and interest lighted up her face. ‘Really? Really, Emmet, you think you’ve found it?’
‘I’ll know in the next couple of days,’ he said.
‘But how did you ever do it?’
‘I can’t tell you now. Wait’ll I’m sure I’ve got it.’
‘Ohhh?’ She regarded him silently for a moment. ‘Was it real difficult?’
‘It took a lot of doing,’ he said,’ and I’m still not sure...’ He motioned to the waiter. ‘Another drink,’ he said, ‘the same.’ He turned back to Rose. ‘I guess I need a drink worse than food,’ he explained apologetically ‘I’m not very hungry.’
‘I’ll have another one, too,’ Rose said. ‘I’m all excited. Oh, Emmet, won’t it be wonderful!’
‘Sure,’ said Rafferty, picking up his drink, ‘everything’s going to be wonderful.’ He was no longer nervous.
It was one o’clock in the morning when he left Rose’s apartment. Park Avenue was quiet, and the street nearly deserted; the hotels and apartment buildings were dark, except for occasional lighted windows sprinkled like dull, golden confetti high above the streets. Few cabs were cruising, and Rafferty walked to the corner, leaving the avenue, cutting over to the nearest subway station. Off Park, the intersecting streets were dim and narrow, the arching street lights doing little to pierce the opaque obscurity of the great pools of shadows. Rafferty walked quickly, his steps hurried on the patched concrete sidewalk. Unexpectedly he found his lungs panting for air as he quickened his stride, the muscles of his neck tightening … straining forward to catch the sound of following footsteps. Abruptly, he stopped and forced himself to stand quietly while he searched his pockets for a cigarette. He lit it, and dragged the smoke carefully into his lungs, eyes and ears alert. But the street behind him was deserted, and he could hear no sounds except the passing of autos on Park Avenue behind him. Calmly, then, he willed his legs into motion, and walked leisurely to the corner, turning to the left and, once out of sight, dodging into the concealing darkness of a doorway. He stepped on his cigarette and waited patiently, his eyes riveted on the corner he had turned. Five minutes, ten, and fifteen passed; no one crossed the corner except a group of late-hour revelers on their way home to Park Avenue.
Finally he stepped from the doorway and made his way to the subway station.
Chapter Ten
On Friday morning Emmet Rafferty arose early after a restless and sleepless night, his eyes hot and tired, gritty with the feeling of exhaustion. He wore a robe into the kitchen where Katherine was making breakfast for Mary and Maureen, and seated himself at the table to drink a cup of black coffee. His daughters greeted him enthusiastically.
‘Hi, Daddy,’ said Maureen, dressed for school, face scrubbed. ‘You know what?’
Rafferty smiled at her affectionately. ‘No doll. What?’
‘I’ve decided I’m going to take music lessons.’
‘That’s swell,’ said Rafferty. ‘You like music?’
‘I love it,’ said Maureen excitedly. ‘And besides, after you get good enough to be a concert artist, you make awfully good money...’
‘I told her she could start taking a lesson once a week to see how she liked it,’ Katherine Rafferty explained to her husband. ‘Beginners don’t cost much...’
‘I want to take ’em too,’ said Mary. She began hopping awkwardly on one foot around the kitchen.
‘Sit down, Mary, and eat breakfast,’ her mother commanded. ‘I promised you could start when you’re Maureen’s age.’
‘Just think,’ said Maureen dreamily. ‘Some day... if I go on tour... I can see Boston and Chicago and Los Angeles. Maybe San Francisco. With all my expenses paid, and getting a salary, too...’ She regarded her father seriously. ‘If I became famous, I might even have to have a bodyguard… and then you could travel with me.’
Rafferty laughed. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. He drank his coffee in great, continuing swallows.
‘Of course, we should get a new piano,’ said Maureen, her head tilted to one side, considering.
‘Oh, yes!’ Mary joined into the new plan with enthusiasm. ‘A brand new one!’
‘The old one is perfectly good enough to practice on for a while,’ said Katherine decisively. ‘Now quit pestering your father!’ Then to change the subject, she turned to Rafferty. ‘You must have been out awful late last night,’ said Katherine. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘About two,’ said her husband. He looked at Katherine and saw concern in her eyes. Illogically, it irritated him. He pushed back his chair. ‘I got to get downtown,’ he said. He walked slowly to the bedroom. After a shower, he began to feel better and, as he rubbed himself briskly with a towel, he started a tuneless humming. From his closet, he selected a tweed suit, his best. The same as all of his clothes, it had been tailored to permit the carrying of revolvers. After buttoning a clean white shirt and knotting a blue-and-gold striped tie, he dropped a stub-nosed police special in his hip pocket and buckled the harness of his shoulder holster over the left side of his chest. In the holster snuggled a Colt .38, motionless and deadly.
Concealed by his double-breasted jacket, only the sharpest examination would have disclosed the slight telltale bulges of the revolvers. He had dressed himself in his finest raiment; why he had done so, he could not have explained to himself.
Rafferty’s eight-hour shift of duty dragged by slowly. The day was neither any better nor any worse than a thousand others he had served. The suicides and near-suicides, the killings and near-killings varied in no way from the myriad which preceded them or the ones that would inevitably follow. The morgue and potter’s field, the gas-filled back rooms, and the quick knives of Harlem were everyday acquaintances of Rafferty. He accepted them as part of his profession with no more like or dislike than he felt for the two tools of his trade which he carried at his shoulder and in his hip pocket. Behind his desk, he made innumerable phone calls, and in return he awaited the constant flow of information coming back to him from the police network: names to fit dead faces, addresses to locate lost witnesses, motives to explain sudden deaths.
But the one call he wanted, the one call for which he was anxiously waiting, didn’t come.
Rafferty rationalized Luke’s silence. He could explain it perfectly to himself: Luke had promised to call on Saturday. It was now only Friday. Why should Luke call on Friday? It was dangerous both to Luke and to himself. It was true that Luke had not returned his call on Wednesday. But that, too, could be explained. Luke was playing it smart, keeping quiet, remaining away from the candy store.
Yes, it all could be explained. Rafferty, however, wasn’t quite satisfied with the answers he gave to himself.
At four o’clock, he left his desk. He stood on the steps of the station house, buttoning his overcoat. Men in plain clothes and uniforms streamed past him, some leaving, others reporting for duty. Green and white patrol cars were cueing up by the curb, the departing drivers and their partners checking out their machines to the relieving squads. Men walked slowly around the machines, kicking the tires, examining new scratches and dents. Their conversations drifted up t
he steps to Rafferty.
‘Jesus, Jack, what’d you do to that fender?’
‘How’s the heater working?’
‘That left front tire looks like it’s going out soon...’
The answers came up, too... some bantering, some argumentatively.
‘That goddamned fender was like that when I got it this morning...’
‘I think we got screwed on that heater. I can blow more heat off’n my cigarette.’
‘Yeah, you better take it easy with that tire...’
Rafferty listened to it without hearing; he saw the men without seeing. The old familiar sights and voices washed over him, and receded, without touching his senses. He was tracing to a tiny invisible spoor in a far, deep place in his mind, inwardly searching for a sign recognizable to his hunter’s instinct. Shaking his head, he jammed his hands in his overcoat pockets, and walked slowly down the street. Dusk, a warning of winter’s early darkness, erased at the details of the streets. Signs were turned on, their neon brightness watery and pale now in the thin remaining moments of light, but soon to blaze and glow, throwing their multicolored messages against the backdrop of night. He walked along the sidewalk, thinking... feeling... throwing his senses round himself in a wide, protective net... drawing the net in, casting it out again at every step. But in the net, he caught nothing.
Deliberately, he turned into a small saloon and made his way along the bar to the end. It was only partly filled, and men stood beside the mahogany wood, drinking listlessly, waiting patiently until it was time to eat or time to catch a train or time to go home. In twos and threes they talked of subjects they had discussed before, moments of little interest to anyone but themselves: ‘It’s what they call twenty-four-hour flu: a frienda mine knew a guy who died of it; it hits you, and in twenty-four hour you’re either well or dead.’ Or, ‘It’s the trucks that tie up the traffic; it’s getting so a man can’t drive his car no more. Just take the goddamned trucks off’n the streets and see what happens.’ And, ‘So I was just gettin’ ready to go home, when this babe stops me. A real dandy-looking dame, and she’s carrying this suitcase, see. She wants to know where...’
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