by Marvin Kaye
Evans had on an old T-shirt and faded dungarees. His straggly blond hair appeared almost white in the glare of a naked 100-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling by a wire.
“What’s up?” I asked, taking the chair/crate he waved me to. “You sounded worried over the phone.”
“I am,” he replied. “I had to talk to someone about Armand, and I didn’t want to call the police. Not just yet.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“I saw him.”
I could have shown off by guessing that was where he’d gone when he’d given the trailing cop the slip, but I didn’t want to risk losing Evans’ confidence, so I let him tell it his own way without interruption.
“Armand phoned me this morning,” the actor began. “I asked how he was, and he said he was desperate. I told him I’d help, and he wanted to know whether I’d throw some clothes in a small bag and bring it to him, along with some money. I assured him I would, and he gave me instructions on how to find him. It was a little complicated because he was afraid the police might be watching me, so I had to take a subway, a cab, a bus, and another cab.”
“Where has he been staying?”
“With a friend of a friend.”
“Namely?”
“Charlie Stockton,” said Evans, somewhat bitterly, “has an acquaintance who’s out of town. Armand called Stockton and he arranged to get him out of sight.”
“I gather you’re not overly fond of Lord Ross?”
Evans’ mouth twisted as if to utter something vindictive, but he thought better of it. “Let’s just say,” he remarked, “that Mr. Stockton once caused me a great deal of inconvenience.”
I wanted to pursue the thought, but, restraining myself, I asked Evans to continue. “You brought Mills a change of clothes and some cash. Then what?”
“Then,” he stated, “while I was there with him, I overheard part of a telephone conversation.” He leaned forward and stared intently at me through rimless glasses. “That’s what’s got me worried. It’s why I called you for advice!”
“Go ahead,” I urged, “I’m listening.”
“I was lying down. Armand went into the next room to fix us some drinks. I heard him clinking ice into glasses. There was a long pause, and I thought maybe he’d gone to the bathroom, but then I heard his voice, speaking very low. ...”
“Were you alone with him in the apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear him say anything? I don’t mean an approximation, I mean the exact words.”
“Well,” said Evans dubiously, “I don’t know. I could try an emotional recall. Early Stanislavski stuff. But I’ll need a few minutes to get into it.”
“Take your time.”
He got up from where he’d been sitting and reclined on the army cot “This is about how I was lying down,” he explained. He closed his eyes; a moment passed, then he shook his head. “Can’t concentrate. You’ll have to talk me through it. Can you?”
“Uh-huh. I can try.” Hilary had shown me the technique about a year ago when she wanted to extract some information in the precise form I’d learned it. I was hardly an expert at it, but this wasn’t a performance for the critics. I gave him another minute to relax and concentrate on regulating his breathing, then I began.
“Okay, you’re on the bed, and Mills is in the next room. Build up the sensory anchors: feel the texture of the blanket beneath you. Try to capture the tang of the air, its temperature and degree of thickness or thinness.”
I waited a moment, monitoring Evans’ respiration and the motion of his eyes beneath the closed lids. The signs were similar to those in a hypnotic trance or Yoga meditation.
“All right,” I continued, “now try to place the various pieces of furniture about you in the room. Note their color and texture, their size and position.” I paused again, remembering that I’d neglected odors; they should have come before visual stimuli. I backtracked and took him through olfactory recollection, picked up the physicality of the room a second time, then proceeded, at last, to the all-important auditory recall.
“Don’t clutch at the conversation yet,” I warned. “Go back a little. You’re in bed, and Armand has just gone out. Are there any room noises—creaks, whispers, the flutter of a curtain, perhaps? If there are, hear them. Listen for sounds in the street. Remember them too—if they were there.” Another pause. “Now Armand is dropping ice into the glasses. ...”
It was time to let him go with it. I cut out and left him alone for several minutes. At last, his eyes opened; he turned in the direction of the windows. He was still in the recall, starting to relive the moment.
“What do you hear?” I whispered.
“His voice.” Evans spoke from far off. At that moment, he was a divided person: the tangible instrument attuned to the recollected event; the controlling mentality locked away in a corner of his mind, observing the recall as if from an Olympian height It was to the latter that I addressed my questions.
“Can you make out any words?”
His lips moved soundlessly.
“Again?”
“ ‘Leave a message?’ ” Evans repeated, a little louder.
“That’s all?” I asked.
“His voice is too low to hear the rest of the sentence, but it’s a question. Then he says something I can’t make out except for the word ‘pencil.’ ” Evans stopped to listen. “He’s writing something. I can hear a faint scratching.”
“What do you think he’s doing?” I didn’t mean what Evans thought upon reflection, but rather what had crossed his mind as he heard Mills in the next room.
“It must be an answering service,” he replied, still hushed, remote. “They’ve given him a number to call.”
“Does he?”
“Shhh. He’s dialing.” The young actor waited for a short while, then stealthily rose from the cot and approached the windows. Partway there, he crouched and leaned his ear against a nonexistent wall, listening to Mills’ phone conversation as if it were still going on.
“He said hello,” Evans told me.
“What else?”
“ ‘You know who it is.’ ” Something of the tone and rhythm of Mills’ manner of speech crept into Evans’ voice.
“ ‘Tonight, no longer,’ ” he continued, unconsciously assuming Mills’ personality, “ ‘The full amount.’ ”
A pause. Then the ghost voice grew angry.
“ ‘Don’t pretend, I’m not a dolt! I know who shot him and why! Meet me at seven or I won’t be the only one sucked down by this bloody mess!’ ”
Another pause. Then Evans made a chopping motion with his hand, one I’d often seen Mills use when portraying Macbeth. He nodded and spoke again.
“ ‘Grand Central.’ ”
Brief silence.
“ ‘No, not there. Behind the information booth. The main floor between the clock and the Pan Am escalators. At seven. Be there!’ ” The tone of command was unmistakable.
Suddenly, Evans scurried to the cot and lay down on it, breathing rapidly.
“What happened? Did he hang up?”
He nodded, unwilling to speak lest his phantom friend hear. It took me a few seconds to work him back out of the recall. At last, he rolled over onto one elbow and opened his eyes. He blinked.
“It always seems brighter when you come out of one of those things,” he commented, shaking his head slowly.
I stood up and deliberately clapped my hands together to dispel the mood. “All right, that was well done,” I told him. “Did he say anything to you afterward which might have tied into the phone call?”
He shook his head. “We had one drink together, then Armand hustled me off without saying he’d get in touch.” The kid nervously ran a hand along his face and neck. “Gene,” he asked, “is he ... is he in bad trouble?”
“You’re no dummy—you don’t need my confirmation! It won’t go away just because you won’t give it a name.”
He grimaced. “Blackmail?”
“That’s how I make it out. And it’s insane, putting the bite on a murderer. ...”
Evans rose and grasped my hand, squeezing it. “What should we do?” he whined, an inexperienced actor overplaying the scene. “I’m frightened for him!”
“You’re not going to do anything but wait,” I said, forcing him to sit down. “I’ll see what I can do for our mutual friend.”
He stared gratefully into my eyes. Then a shadow of doubt appeared. “You’re not going to call in the police?”
“That’s my business,” I said patiently. “Mills won’t know you talked to me, and anyway, what’s more important—betraying him or keeping him in one piece?”
“Yes, you’re right. Do what you think best!” It was a bit too effusive. Evans was looking at me with a degree of admiration that I found uncomfortable.
I said so long and headed for the door, but he rose, stood in front of it, and put a restraining hand on my arm.
“Gene ...” Evans asked, tentatively.
“What?”
“I may never see Armand again.”
“That’s possible,” I replied.
“Even if he gets away safely, he may not call.”
“So?”
“So ... I’ll be lonely.”
Silence.
“Loneliness,” I said, gently disengaging his hand, “is the necessary emotional ferment of the artist.”
“Who said that?”
“My fiancée.” (I’d actually heard it from Hilary Quayle.)
Evans thanked me for helping him and Mills, then politely stepped away from the door, and I left.
Grand Central Station.
Six-thirty.
Betterman agreed it wouldn’t do to scare off Mills; we might not find out where an alternate meeting would be held. Consequently, the gendarmes remained out of sight and only a few plainclothesmen patroled the immense perimeter of the room.
The place has too many exits. On the north, there are the escalators to the Pan Am building; south, a secondary waiting room opens onto Forty-second Street. There are large double arches east and west to Lexington and Vanderbilt avenues, respectively; in addition, the eastern end leads toward the Lexington and Flushing subways and several train platforms. To the west, there is a stairway to the basement gates; on each side of it passageways run back, one opening on more debarkation sidings, the other providing access to the shuttle train to Times Square, a ninety-second ride away.
On Saturday evening, Grand Central is nowhere near as hectic as at rush hour, but it is still far from deserted. People still rush from ticket windows to the gates, streaming to and from every direction and portal, traversing the great uncluttered floor in dozens of impromptu and bewildering traffic patterns.
I had no easy task, trying to find Mills in the confusion of strange faces. I took up a position halfway between the eastern wall and an imaginary line running from the Pan Am escalators straight across the vaulting lobby to the Forty-second Street egress. I faced the main information booth situated near the center of the domed area; the only permanent structure on the main floor, it was ringed by several queues of bewildered travelers. My eyes swept back and forth across the changing pattern of alien features. One of the plainclothesmen, catching my attention, gestured quizzically, but I could only reply in kind.
Mills had chosen his rendezvous carefully; among the press of hurrying commuters it would be difficult to recognize a solitary fugitive. As for the potentially dangerous person he intended to meet, it would be extremely unlikely that he would attempt anything foolhardy there, surrounded by so many witnesses.
Extremely unlikely.
Mills emerged from the eastern corridor at five of seven. When I saw him, I turned the other way and waited for him to pass me, which he did—fortunately not too close. He walked with his chin pressed into the collar of a thin, light-hued raincoat; most of his face was obscured, but his deportment and gait were giveaways (to me). When he stopped near the information desk, his years of treading the boards showed through: he didn’t just stand, he struck an attitude.
I planned to keep some distance away until after he’d made contact with the mystery party, but if it looked like either of them were trying to escape, I had only to thrust one arm into the air. That signal would bring the police converging upon the spot.
I observed Mills for ten minutes, but there was no sign that the person for whom he waited was anywhere in sight. He fidgeted impatiently, first looking at his watch, then checking it against the large clock suspended high above him, mounted on the Forty-second Street wall.
Another ten minutes crept by without incident. Then the actor quitted his station and headed for a rack of telephones mounted in open cubicles along one wall. He fished in his pocket for a coin, deposited it, and began to dial.
I skirted the border of the room, keeping him in view, and made my way to a point a few feet behind Mills. He tried the number another time, got no answer, and hung up violently.
“Somebody stand you up, Mills?” I asked, bracing myself against a possible onslaught.
The actor whirled, saw me, and sagged, shrinking within himself. The color left his cheeks, though he made a ghastly effort to force a smile.
“Please,” he begged, hands stretched forth palms up in entreaty, “no violence! I couldn’t help the other night!”
“Relax,” I said, “I’m not here to settle that score. I want some answers!” Putting an arm around his shoulders as though he were a long-lost cousin, I steered him back toward the information booth. “Don’t try to get away,” I warned, “or every cop in the place will stomp on you!”
He accompanied me without resistance. “I suppose,” he remarked bitterly, “that I have my little Ganymede to thank for walking into a trap?”
“Who?”
“Billie-boy. Le catamite malgré lui.” His lips twisted with scorn. “ ‘He wept that he was ever born, and he had reasons.’ At least, he thinks he has reasons to wish me ill.”
“Never mind about him,” I said. “Suppose you tell me just who you’ve been waiting for the last twenty-five minutes?”
Mills refused to answer. Just then a heavyset woman toting a black umbrella loomed in front of me and I pushed Mills to the left to get out of her path. Someone slammed straight into him from that side. He groaned. I saw a short, white-haired man hurrying in the opposite direction and cursed at the clumsy oaf. Then I asked Mills to stop leaning his weight on me.
He didn’t respond.
“Mills?”
He sagged heavily on my arm. “My back,” he gasped. Then his knees buckled.
The heavyset woman screamed.
I grabbed him, eased him to his knees, and saw the jeweled hilt of a dagger protruding from his back. There was hardly any blood. My arm shot into the air, signaling the police, but the scream had already mobilized them and they were running toward me from all sides.
I looked for the white-haired man who’d bumped Mills. He was just passing under the west arch. The woman shrieked a second time. One of the more zealous patrolmen blew his whistle. The two shrill sounds evidently broke the assailant’s nerve, and he started to run.
“Quick,” I shouted to the first plainclothesman to arrive, “grab Mills, he’s hurt!”
Then I started off after the killer. The detective roared something at me, but I ignored it. Maybe he thought I’d knifed Mills. There was no time to explain. I didn’t think he’d send a bullet after me in that crowd, so I kept running.
The opposite side of the west arch leads to a long transverse hall. I barked a question at some bystanders, but, receiving no intelligible reply, decided to play the hunch that the likeliest escape route would be via shuttle.
I dashed down a connecting passage, rounded the corner, and headed into a long arcade. It was the right choice: there he was, sprinting past the book store, past the coffee shop. The entrance to the shuttle lay just beyond.
He had to stop to buy a token. There was no one i
n front of him and it only took a second, but by then I’d burst out of Grand Central and into the gray squalor of the subway alcove.
He dropped the token in the slot and pushed past the barrier. I was right behind him. Without thinking, I made a lunge for his coat, hoping to yank him back. The metal turnstile bar banged me in a sensitive spot. I doubled over.
The booth attendant yelled at me. Paying no attention, I forced myself to disregard the pain. I leaped over the steel barrier, and the attendant shouted again. The fugitive involuntarily started to turn toward me to see what all the ruckus was, but he instantly thought better of it.
Nevertheless, I saw enough of his face to recognize him. The shock hit me almost as violently as the turnstile.
He lost no time in fleeing down the stairs. In spite of the shouts from the transit official, I stayed in hot pursuit.
But luck decided to run against me. There was a shuttle train waiting to pull out and he made it just as the doors closed. I was only a few paces behind, but that’s all the lead he needed. The engine started up and the car pulled off into the dark tunnel.
For a second or so, my mind raced. I couldn’t grab the rear platform of the train, not if I wanted to stay healthy. It was too far to chase it, and there wouldn’t be another shuttle for five or ten minutes. Maybe if I ran up to the street and hailed a cab ...?
I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and exhaled. There was no point in trying to follow. The shuttle takes less than a minute and a half. Even if I immediately got a cab, and even if all the lights were with us, and even if the killer were still in the Times Square station, I wouldn’t know where to look. There are at least half a dozen street exits at the Forty-second Street subway depot, a long path to the Eighth Avenue IND, and transfers to the IRT, BMT, and Flushing lines.
I gave it up and started to return toward Grand Central. But I had taken only a few steps when a burly transit policeman grabbed me. It took five minutes to explain that I had no intention of cheating the company out of the price of a token. Finally, in desperation, I convinced him by surrendering a buck without asking for change.
