Innocent Bystander

by Craig Rice

  “They’re watching for you, Tony.”

  He wheeled back to her.

  “Sure they are. Not the first time, is it, Mamie? But they’ve never caught me. Except that once.”

  He stood watching her, leaning against the window frame. Slowly he reached into his pocket, took out a crumpled cigarette package, put it back again.

  “Mamie—”

  “I’ll help you, boy.” With a groaning effort she pulled herself to her feet, sighed wearily, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain again.

  The lights of the Pier flashed in like lost and yet imperishable stars.

  There had been a murder on the Pier, but the police had gone from the scene of it now, and the crowd had drifted on to other and possibly better shows. The bandit-car was drawing a crowd. There were shouts of laughter from the Fun-House and the Diving-Bell. Beyond, the great, brilliantly lighted Ferris wheel was beginning to turn again.

  “A man’s dead,” Mamie whispered, looking through the window. “Chances are, the poor bastard didn’t want to be murdered. Most people don’t, seems like. Probably hurt him, too. Most knives hurt, even if they’re quick.”

  She wheeled around, moving surprisingly fast for one so heavy. “Tony,” she said, “I took care of you when you were a baby. I was with your mother when she died. I fixed you an alibi tonight and I’ll stick to it. But watch out.”

  She glanced once more through the window, then dropped the curtain. He pressed her fat, old hand.

  “And even as a boy, you were always a sucker for the Ferris wheel and the rides.”

  Tony stepped back from her. “What did you tell the cop?”

  “Told his fortune.” She grinned again, more mischievously than maliciously. “He’ll probably stay awake all night, wondering how I did it.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Don’t snap at me, Tony-boy. I told him that he was a cop in charge of Homicide Investigation, and that he was looking for a brown-haired girl who was witness to a murder.” The grin turned into a laugh. “He couldn’t figure out how I knew it. He didn’t know every carnie on the Pier knew all about it before he started asking questions.”

  “Did you tell him he’d find her?”

  “I always like to send my customers away happy, Tony-boy.” Her riddled old face grew serious. “It’s not always a gaffed deal. Sometimes I do feel something. I remember once in Atlantic City—” She paused. “He’ll find her.”

  Tony pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack, lighted it, inhaled slowly, let the smoke trickle from his nostrils.

  “And?”

  “You’ll find her too, Tony-boy. I’m afraid you’ll find her first.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Trouble, nothing but trouble.” There was almost a tremor in her voice. “Tony, you’ve been away in stir for two years. Any girl would spell trouble for you right now. But especially this one.”

  She turned over a few of her fortune-telling cards. The jack of diamonds. The black queen.

  “Trouble, Tony. Stay away from her.”

  He said nothing.

  There was pleading in her old eyes. “Tony-boy, I wish you’d blow town.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment, then strode to the back door.

  “Well, thanks for the alibi, Mamie.”

  “Wait, Tony-boy—”

  At the door he paused to wave a good night.

  “There’s a couple of McGurn’s men on the Pier. They might be looking for you.”

  He laughed gaily, almost boyishly. “They might even find me.” He kissed his hand to her and went out into the dark, tossing his cigarette aside.

  He’d been watching surreptitiously when Art Smith found the torn half of the picture Amby had made. Now he knew he had to find the other half of the picture. That wasn’t going to be too difficult. He had a hunch where it was.

  Then he had to find the girl herself. That might not be as easy.

  And sooner or later he was going to have to emerge into the brightly lighted main section of the Pier.

  He shrugged his shoulders and was on his way, moving quickly and quietly through the shadows. Not very far away lights were blazing. People were moving, talking, laughing. Music was coming from a dozen different outlets. The barkers were doing their stuff in loud voices.

  Somewhere in that riot of noise, lights, and confusion, the cops were looking for him. And so were McGurn’s men.

  He slipped through the darkness behind the concessions to the rear door of Pennyland. Here he paused, pushed the door open warily, and looked around. Everything seemed just as usual. He walked swiftly behind a row of pinball machines and opened a door marked Private.

  “Hello, Barney.”

  Barney Levine, a little, ugly, friendly man, looked up from behind his littered desk. His face paled.

  “Shut that door!”

  Tony shut it quietly. “What’s the matter? Worried about something?”

  “I don’t like this business, Tony. Suppose the cops picked you up here?”

  “Suppose they don’t. Nobody saw me come in.”

  Barney took a cigar from his pocket, slid off the wrapper, and lighted it. “We’ll help you, of course. Only, don’t get me involved.” He looked up at Tony, his face relaxed into a smile. “Oh, okay. We’ll help you. Period.”

  He reached into a desk drawer. “This is what you came for, I think.” He pulled a folded paper from the drawer, and handed it across the desk.

  It was a piece of drawing-paper, no, half of a piece of drawing-paper. It had been folded so carefully that not even a hint of a picture showed.

  “Thanks,” Tony said noncommittally. He slid the paper into his pocket without looking at it.

  “One of the boys spotted what the cops were looking for. He found this, knew you’d want it, and brought it to me. He knew you’d come here.”

  “Thanks again,” Tony said. He paused. “You haven’t seen her? You don’t know who she is?”

  The little man sucked in his lower lip and shook his head slowly. “Tony, I swear I’ve seen her some place, but I don’t know where.”

  Tony nodded silently and looked around the little room. In contrast to the gaudy lights and colors of the Arcade outside, it was dark and drab. Its furniture consisted of a well-worn golden oak desk, a few chairs, and a filing-cabinet. Autographed photographs of prizefighters covered the walls.

  “Makes me homesick,” Tony said softly. “Those were great days.”

  Barney’s eyes softened. “A lot of fun. Small-town carnivals. Coney Island. Riverview.” He scowled. “But you hadn’t served a term in San Quentin then, and you didn’t have the cops looking for you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tony said. “I won’t get you in any trouble.”

  “Tony, blow town. If you need money, I’ll give it to you. Why do you have to find that girl?”

  “To save my life,” Tony said.

  Before Barney had a chance to speak again, Tony had slipped out the door into the crowded Arcade. For a moment he stood looking around warily, his dark face expressionless. Everything seemed to be all right, but one never could tell. He slipped his right hand into his coat pocket; with his left he put a cigarette between his lips, took out a match folder, and struck a light with a swift one-handed motion.

  “There’s a plain-clothes dick over by the skee-ball alleys.”

  The whisper came from just behind him. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and walked toward the long line of penny movies. He selected one titled An Artist’s Life, put in his penny, glued his face to the machine, and began to turn the crank.

  He stood there for what seemed like hours, putting in penny after penny, with only the back of his head visible. Then there was another low voice from someone looking into the next machine.

  “The dick’s gone. But McGurn’s goons are still on the Pier.”

  “I’ll have to take my chances,” Tony said. “Pass the word along to the boys, in case of a jam.” He
added, “Have you ever seen the girl?”

  “Not that I know of. But we’re looking for her.”

  Tony gave the crank a few more turns, then stood debating his next move. Of course, he could slip out through the rear door of the Arcade, go quietly through the shadows to safety. Later, he could return and—

  No, that was no good. McGurn’s men would still be looking for him. Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that—

  And right now he had a more important problem to solve. He walked quickly and boldly out into the bright lights of the Pier, turned left, and stopped at the first concession.

  “Hi, Al.”

  “Hi, Tony.” There was no expression on the face or in the voice. “When did you graduate?”

  “Last week. Know this doll the elephant-ears is on the prowl for?”

  “Sorry. Never saw her.”

  All the way down the Pier the answers were the same. The What State Did You Come From? artist thought she looked familiar but he couldn’t place her. The gray-haired woman who sold tickets to the Fun House said, “I’ve pegged that heifer somewhere, but damned if I know, chum.” The gentle little man who sold candy apples murmured, “I’ve seen a million babes that looked exactly like her.”

  Tony Webb didn’t confine his questions to the brown-haired girl. At the Bumper Ride ticket booth his lips formed the words, “Amby okay?”

  He got the answer, “Shed behind the Diving-Bell. We’ll look after him.”

  At one of the shooting-galleries he passed on a word of advice, under his breath and with an impassive face. “The Hoke boys had better go Sunday school.”

  He knew Happy Jack at the shooting-gallery would know what he meant. With the Law all over the Pier anything illegal among the concessions had better clean up, and fast.

  But no one remembered the brown-haired girl.

  News travels fast on the Pier; everyone knew whom he was looking for. But nobody could remember her.

  At last Tony reached the concession where a girl sat poised above a tank of water. Tony ignored her, motioned with one eye to the barker.

  The barker nodded to him and said, “Tony, I think I know the girl you’re looking for—” Before Tony had time to ask a question, the barker went on quickly without moving his lips.

  “McGurn’s boys. Right behind you.”

  “Thanks,” Tony’s lips answered silently. He flung down a coin, grabbed a baseball and threw it, heard the thud as it hit the target, heard the squeal from the girl as she splashed into the water. In the resulting excitement he turned and pushed his way swiftly through the crowd.

  McGurn’s men wouldn’t dare pull anything here, not with this many people around. No, they’d follow him till they got him alone. The trick right now was to lose them.

  He walked leisurely down the Pier and, as he passed the various concessions, the barkers silently signaled to him that they knew what was going on and that they were standing by. Other signals steered him toward Movieland.

  Movieland presented a wide, gaudy front of papier-mâché figures and weird scenery. At one side tiny cars vanished into a dark and yawning cavern, to emerge sometime later at the other side with breathless and occasionally shrieking passengers. One empty car was waiting.

  Tony nodded to the barker, jumped into the car, and was shot into the darkness.

  The two men who had been right behind him just barely caught the next car. The gray-haired barker grinned. McGurn’s boys were going to have the ride of their lives.

  The little cars plunged recklessly through tunnels, whipped past terrifying figures, spun around curves, made sudden, breath-taking ascents and descents. Strange sounds, uncanny laughter, and weird moans came from everywhere.

  The two gunmen clung to the edges of the little car, hanging on for dear life. Suddenly in the deepest darkness of a tunnel, the car stopped.

  “My God, we’re stuck in here!”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll get us right out.”

  The larger of the two yelled, “Hey! Hey, you up there! Get us out!”

  There was no answer, save the shrieking mechanical laughter.

  “Help! Get us out!”

  The smaller man said, “Well, there’s one thing. He’s in the car right ahead of us. He can’t get out, either.”

  But the big man was in a state of complete panic now. He went on screaming for help.

  Then, with a jolt, the car began to move again. The two men drew a long breath of relief. Another minute and the car shot out into the bright lights and began to slow to a stop.

  The car ahead was empty.

  The two hardly waited till their car had stopped before leaping out.

  “Where is he? Where did he go?”

  “He must be back in there.”

  “You’re crazy. It ain’t possible.”

  The big man cursed loudly.

  Just inside the tunnel on a narrow ledge, flattened against the wall, Tony Webb stood in the darkness and smiled happily.

  “But he couldn’t of got away so fast—”

  The barker spoke up with an air of friendly helpfulness. “Are you looking for the gentleman who got out of that car ahead of you?”

  “Yeah,” the big man said, breathing hard. “Yeah, he’s a pal o’ ours.”

  The barker pointed toward the ocean end of the Pier. “He went that way, toward the water chutes. You’ll probably find him there.”

  The big man cursed again, and the two started hurriedly toward the chutes.

  Tony waited a good full minute, then slipped out of the tunnel. “Thanks, Steve. Nice going.”

  Now there was nothing to do but get away, and as fast as possible. Without looking back once, Tony walked to the end of the Pier, turned into the crowded street, and hailed the first cab that came along.

  Not until he was safely away from the Pier did he take the folded paper from his pocket, unfold it, and look at it.

  There was the upper half of a girl’s face. Soft, brown hair that looked as though it might be sweet to touch. A smooth forehead with slightly curving eyebrows. Eyes that were remarkably blue. Smiling eyes. Innocent, trusting, almost childlike eyes.

  “Not a hell of a lot to go on,” Tony muttered. He refolded the paper and tucked it in his inside pocket. Right over his gun.

  Chapter Five

  A MATTER OF SURVIVAL

  Art Smith was a bachelor, and it wasn’t from preference. On the rare occasions when he visited one or another of the married members of the force, he envied them their homes and their wives. The trouble was, partly, he’d never had time to get married.

  Or maybe it was because the seventeen years he’d spent in an orphanage had made him shy.

  He couldn’t even remember when he’d first decided to be a cop, or why. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to be a cop now. He’d worked toward it, though, and made it.

  He lived in a little two-room apartment with maid service, made his own breakfasts, and took his other meals out with the exception of an occasional late and solitary supper.

  The apartment was comfortable, convenient to transportation, and incredibly dreary. He saw as little of it as possible.

  It seemed drearier than ever right now, coming back to it at three in the morning. Cold, too. He considered lighting the gas heater and making himself a pot of coffee. No, it was too late, and he was too tired. Too goddamned and eternally tired. He decided to go to bed.

  He undressed hastily, put on his flannelette pajamas, brushed his teeth, shivering in the chilly bathroom, crawled into bed, and switched off the light.

  The girl. Who was she? He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. Brown hair, a pink mouth, a tan coat. What was her name? What was she like, what did she do for a living? Somebody’s stenographer? Or maybe a home girl, who lived with Mama and Papa. Or somebody’s wife. Or just a floozy.

  How was he ever going to find her?

  Routine police procedure. That did it every time.

  He tried to put her
out of his mind with no success. Tomorrow, he reminded himself, was another day with another day’s problems. He had to get to sleep.

  He tucked the pillow under his cheek, shut his eyes, and began to count to a thousand by threes. At seventy-eight he lost count, swore, got out of bed, and put the coffee on to boil.

  Was she married? Single? Divorced? A widow?

  What kind of place did she live in?

  She must be asleep by this time. What kind of night clothes did she wear? Something silky and caressing, he thought. What kind of cold cream did she use, or did she wash her lovely face in soap and water? Did she brush out her hair when she went to bed, leave it soft and smooth, wonderful to touch—

  Art Smith poured himself a cup of coffee and reminded himself that he didn’t know whether her brown hair was long or short, straight or curly.

  All he knew about her was that she had had a crayon portrait made of herself on the Pier and later had torn it in half and thrown it away. That she had unwittingly been an eye-witness to a murder and then had disappeared. That she was in danger of murder. That he wanted her.

  At last he dug the torn half of her portrait from the pocket of his discarded suit, smoothed it out, and propped it up against the coffee pot. For a very long time he sat there, brooding. He had to know everything about this girl. Everything there was to know.

  Maddening, to see only half a face! He let his imagination go and tried to fill in the rest of it.

  A curving throat, a delicately rounded chin. A smiling, seductive mouth, touched with pale pink lipstick.

  Dimly, as in a dream, the whole face began to take on form. The forehead. Arched eyebrows. The soft brown hair would probably curl a little over her forehead and would be perfumed. Yes, with one of those perfumes whose enticing and slightly scandalous names he had noticed in magazine advertisements.

  Her eyes. Art Smith laughed a little. He knew that they were blue. He imagined them with long, dark, curling lashes. Wicked, inviting, hinting, fascinating eyes. It seemed for a moment almost as though they winked at him.

  No, definitely not a good girl.

  Art Smith sighed.

  He wondered how soon he would find her.