Delicate Ape (22 page)

“Stand away. And say nothing.”

His throat was dry. “You can’t do it. You won’t get away with it. It’s murder.”

“Quiet.”

“The law will take you.” The sweat stood on his temples, in his eyes. “You can’t escape no matter what you do. You can’t lie to Cassidy—he doesn’t like Germans.” He was pushing, pushing the man to the brink of fear, of self-control. His teeth cut into his broken mouth. “I’ll live and I’ll have the letters. You’ve lost. Put away the gun.”

Hugo’s word was a snarl. “Quiet.”

He heard the pass key in the lock, the knob turning. The lights from Broadway faded. That alone he couldn’t plan. As the door swung open in the darkness, Hugo fired the silenced shot. She walked into it, kept walking.

Hugo’s face was raw. “Morgen!” The lights came up. He cried it, “Morgen!”

Her mouth opened but only blood came out. She crumpled and she lay there, moving, but without movement. Piers closed the door. He saw the gun where it had fallen from Hugo’s hand but he didn’t move. Hugo stumbled forward, knelt to her.

Piers’ throat closed. “Don’t touch her!”

Hugo didn’t hear. Piers circled to the gleam on the rug. He picked it up and pointed it at the man. There was agony beneath the numbness. He repeated,
“Don’t touch her!”

Hugo raised his head. His empty eyes saw Piers. “You killed her.” His voice was livid as a wound. “You killed her!” He came to his feet. “You knew she was there.”

Piers said, “It was her life or mine. Mine was more important.” The smile was terrible on his face. “She died for you. And you will die for her, for murdering her.”

Hugo’s voice was without feeling. “I hate you. I’ve hated you since the days of Berlin. You and your sanctimony. You and your arrogant righteousness, while you were signaling the bombs to destroy my country. I wanted to kill you the first night I met you. Morgen wouldn’t let me. She liked your pretty face.”

“She loved me,” Piers said. He was trying to understand. “It wasn’t something she could explain. But she loved me. The way she might have loved the good if she’d ever had a chance to know it.”

Hugo moved as in a dream. “I’m going to kill you.”

Piers said quietly, “I have your gun.”

“You killed Morgen. I’ll kill you.” He was whispering it, like one mad, and he kept moving.

Piers held the gun steady and then willfully he thrust it away. He didn’t want Hugo to die. He wanted him to be destroyed and to live, to live as he, Piers, would live and grieve. He needed no arms with which to battle Hugo; it must be tooth and claw alone.

As for himself, he knew now he was not to die. He had the gift of death for others, not for himself. The gift he had borne to Anstruther, to a nameless man on Broadway, in full knowledge to Morgen. The hate in him matched the hate in Hugo as they met. The lights faded, the lights glittered, with the unendurable ceaseless rhythm of a heart, of the cosmos. She lay white and silent, not seeing the beasts that tore at each other, because she was dead. This was jungle, only jungle ways were valid.

There was fresh blood in Piers’ mouth, the blood of his enemy wetted his thumbs. They fell, beating, scraping at each other. And in the heat Piers saw her face, the stillness of it, the desolation on her mouth, the stain spreading below the roses on her breast. All of his judgment on the man who had forced him to destroy her went into that last blow. Hugo was still.

Piers’ breath jerked. The faint residue of man-spirit in him alone kept him from killing the beaten man where he lay. He rose unsteadily. He rasped, “Get up.”

Hugo lay quiet. Another weak heart? He stirred the body with his toe. “Get up. Finish it.”

Hugo didn’t move. Piers took out his handkerchief, wiped at the blood on his face. He didn’t see the quick grasping movement. He heard the report of the silenced gun and the sting in his shoulder. He fell on Hugo before he could fire again and he broke the gun out of the man’s hand. He didn’t use it. His fists beat the final blows.

Hugo twitched and was still. This time he wouldn’t move. Piers swayed to his feet again. He looked at the gun in his hand. Mechanically he broke it, removed the shells. He didn’t want to be shot in the back. He didn’t trust Hugo von Eynar even when he lay unconscious. Piers dropped the empty gun beside Hugo’s hand. His own prints covered it, his and Hugo’s. It didn’t matter now. If Germany won tomorrow, nothing mattered. If they lost, his truth of tonight would be accepted. He wiped his mouth again and he walked to the door.

He didn’t look at Morgen.

He walked without seeing to the service stairway and he started down. Slowly, as a man dreaming, one step, two, and then he heard and he was frozen there listening. Footsteps ascending, the heavy footsteps of heavy men, the police! Someone had seen him enter, someone who recognized the man hunted, who summoned them. He whirled and he fled upward, softly as a fox runs, up, up until he was in the sky ballroom not yet open for the season. He forced open a door, closed it quietly after him, and he ran to the very edge of the roof, flinging himself flat in the deep shadow of a cornice. Not too soon for the lights came on in the deserted ballroom and he heard the words spoken.

“—so the service elevator’s got to go on the blink when we got to finish the wiring tonight. So what do they care if we walk up. They’re going to open the roof tomorrow on account of the Peace delegates—”

Withheld breath quivered from Piers. He didn’t know how long he lay there while the men within hammered and thumped. After the lights were out and they went away, he lay longer. When he stood his frame ached and his head was light. Blood had caked in his hand.

He stood dark against the Broadway sky, a dwarfed figure high above the theater-bright streets. No one looked up. Not to stars, not to danger in the skies. The faces were set to the dear familiar things, the expected things. He moved unsteadily across the roof seeking a fire escape. There was none. Modern fire-stairs had eliminated their need. He had to go through the hotel again.

He shut away thinking as he entered the dark ballroom and began his long descent to escape. With his appearance he dared not take the elevator. He didn’t hurry until the last flight and he turned his face from the workmen in the doorway. His arm scraped against the door as he pushed out into the street and he felt the trickle of blood again down his sleeve. He skirted through Shubert Alley, walked across to Eighth Avenue, south to 40th before doubling back to the subway entrance. In the grimy mirror of a gum vending machine, he saw himself. His mouth was swollen, discoloration marred his narrow face, his hair was torn. He smoothed the hair; there was little more he could do. His arm throbbed, blood was veining his left wrist into his palm. He held the arm close to him as he made his way to a phone booth in the underground. There could be detectives waiting for him.

He called the number Willie had given. There was no one else from whom he could seek help. He had known he wouldn’t reach a cabbie at this hour of Broadway glory. Yet he had hoped. There must be a hole where he could hide until morning.

The voice at the other end of the wire said, “Well, make up your mind. You want I should tell him to call you back or don’t you?”

Piers said faintly, “Where can I wait for him? How can I find him?”

“Wyncha say so before?” The voice was disgust. “If you want to see him tonight you better come up to the garage here. He’ll be in sometime.”

Piers repeated the address, in the West 50’s, between Ninth and Tenth avenues. He climbed the stairs to the street, the 40th street exit. But his fears returned and he couldn’t force himself to take the dark streets that led across to Ninth. He turned his face again to Broadway. The pain in his arm was enervating and his steps lagged into the brightness. He moved through the crowds as in a long dream. He faltered at the Astor, turning his head hungrily at the steps. Within the doorway there was the movement of beautiful women and expensive men. He was a beggar outside the gates. He could smell the luxury within, the luxury of plenty and of peace. No one knew that beauty had been slain above their heads, that peace and plenty might yet be doomed.

He walked on. Beneath the percussion of the street there crept the soft relentless sound of his pursuers. He couldn’t get away. If one step was silenced another caught up the sound. Follow, follow … But he wasn’t to die. He was to live. To defeat ape that Man might live. He was to live to remember Morgen.
The whole fabric of the world is empty
. It must remain empty for the eternity of life.
Fate is inevitable
.
Ubi sunt
… ?

He hesitated at 49th and he leaned against the wall of the building there for a moment of strength. He dragged across the street in time to board the cross-town bus. At Ninth avenue he descended. Fear enveloped him as he stood alone there, in the desert darkness, in the silence. There were blocks he must cover to reach the garage, haunted, knowing death followed. Knowing despite the weariness that death would not reach him. He moved only because he must move; he must run from death until was accomplished what he had come to accomplish.

He kept close to the wall, feeling his way forward, not daring look back to see what might breathe against his neck. He was wet with weakness but his fear moved him, one block, another, down the endless tunnel of loneness and shadow. He watched cautiously the intersections until he saw the dark bulk of the garage half way down and across the block. He fled towards it, moving too fast now, breaking into a half run as he covered the dark street. Up three steps, and he stumbled through the open door.

A small light burned in the dingy office. There were three men there, three mongrel men. Piers tried to speak but his throat was closed.

The man with grease smudged on his stubbled chin demanded, “Whatcha want?”

Piers recognized the voice of the phone. He could speak now if hoarsely. “I want Willie.”

“You the guy what called him up?”

He nodded and he put his back against the wall to steady himself. He saw a man pass the open door, disappear into the dark beyond. He began to tremble.

The smallest man with a cab-driver’s cap hung over his crumpled ear rolled towards him. “Looks like you got trouble.”

His speech came with difficulty. “Willie said—if trouble—come to him.”

“Jeeze, he’s shot!” the second cabbie said sharply.

“Nothing.” He let them put him in the scarred wooden chair away from that open door. “A scratch.”

The boss said, “We don’t want no trouble with the cops, Mister.”

“What’s the matter with you, Bull?” the first cabbie demanded. “He’s a friend of Willie’s.”

“It isn’t the cops,” Piers said.

“How do we know, Jack?” Bull demanded of the first cabbie in return. “We don’t want no trouble.”

Piers found the dirty card. “Willie gave me this.”

The three examined it.

“I’m all right.” As long as he was out of the dark, safe with other men. “I could use a drink. And some food. I’m hungry, that’s all.” Dinner seemed dreams away. He brought two tens out of his pocket. “Any place around you could get me some food and a bottle of brandy?”

Jack said, “I’ll take care of it.” He took the money and he went out whistling. Piers didn’t know if he’d return with the police or not. If so he would have to be taken; he hadn’t the strength to move.

Bull was still dubious. “You better wash your face. If the cops should be hanging around—Sammy, you show him.”

Piers’ head was light as he felt his way after Sammy to the miserly washroom. He splashed his face. His left arm was too stiff to move it but he washed away the blood from his hand and wrist as he could. Sammy led him back to the room. He sat down in the chair furthest from the door.

Sammy’s curious eyes, Bull’s suspicion watched him. He didn’t care. He sat there silent until Jack returned. The little cabman was alone. He had a bucket of coffee in his hand and a sack of hamburgers. From his back pocket he took a bottle of brandy. The change clinked on the table. “There you are, Mister.”

Piers opened the bottle, took a stiff slug. He passed it to the next man. He began to eat hungrily. He spoke through a mouthful, “Help yourselves. This is all I needed. I’ll be all right. Willie’s sure to come in?”

Bull wiped the mouth of the bottle with his forearm. “He’ll be here. Maybe two o’clock—three—”

It wasn’t yet one o’clock. Piers ate the second hamburger more slowly. Sanity was returning to him and courage.

Jack grinned through a bite. “How does the other guy look?”

Piers said solemnly, “I should have killed him. He tried to kill me.” Death was too good for Hugo. He should suffer torment worse than death.

“What was the trouble? A woman?” The curiosity was idle.

“Yes.” He cried it from the depths, “Yes. He killed her.” And I killed her. She whom we loved, we have slain.

Bull’s lip jutted out and he stood tall. “I told you we don’t want to get mixed up in no trouble with the cops. Killing’s trouble.” His head jerked to the door.

Piers’ fingers gripped the warped table. He spoke from his desperate need. “You can’t put me out now. Willie told me to come here. He’s the only one I can trust to help me. I must have help. This man is a killer.”

“We don’t want no Valentine massacres here.” Bull’s neck muscles were dark and thick. “Sorry, Mister.”

Sammy squeaked as if a gun covered the room. “We’ll tell Willie where to meet you. Where?”

“I have no place to go.” Grayness ate into his face. “Only to death. I can’t die, not yet.”

Sammy’s hand described what might have been a cross. Bull stood, an unyielding mass. Jack said, chewing, “Why not wait till Willie shows up?”

“You shut your face,” Bull threatened. “I’m not having no cops here. Once they get on you they never get off. I know.”

Piers made a last hopeless try. “Do you know who Secretary Anstruther is?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Do you?” he insisted.

“Who don’t?” Bull said. “He’s Secretary of Peace.”

Piers spoke carefully, as to a child. “The man who attempted to kill me tonight, who will if he can kill me before tomorrow, is the man who murdered Secretary Anstruther.”