Delicate Ape (23 page)

The three faces turned to him with something like fear, fear of his madness. He met their eyes in turn hoping the truth could be seen in his through the pitiful admixture of hopelessness and fright. And then anger rose in him at their open rejection of his word. He demanded, “Do you want peace?”

“We got peace,” Bull said.

“Not if Germany has her will in this Conclave. Not if the International Army is withdrawn.”

“Who’s that nutty?”

Piers said, “The Germans killed Secretary Anstruther.” He wiped his thin hand over his forehead. “They tricked him into a plane and they shot him in the back.”

There was silence. Jack rubbed his nose. “What’d they want to do that for?”

Piers saw the wink to the others, humor the madman. “Because Secretary Anstruther believed that the peace terms should be carried out as written, that Germany should remain under the protectorate for fifty years.”

“And if they bump off Anstruther,” Jack explained just as if he believed, “then they don’t have to, is that it?”

Piers said, “That happens to be it. The man who will take the Secretary’s place is friendly to Germany. As is Lord Evanhurst, head of the English Commission.”

“Where do you come in?” Bull’s chin stuck out. He played the game, but grudgingly.

“I’m the man who saw the hole in Anstruther’s back. I was flying after him, carrying his dispatches which he’d left behind.” That was good enough. “I found him dead. The Germans know I have those papers. If they can kill me tonight, I can’t present them to the Conclave tomorrow.”

“There’s one thing smells.” Bull’s mind was working. “Nobody’s saying Secretary Anstruther’s dead, only that there’s something funny about him not turning up. If Secretary Anstruther was dead there’d be headlines all over the papers.”

“There will be,” Piers said. “After the Conclave. Anstruther’s successor didn’t want it published until after the Conclave. If it had been the delegates might not have convened. And Germany wouldn’t be released from the protectorate at this time.”

“Who are you, Mister?” Sammy’s mouth was round and greasy.

“I’m Piers Hunt. You’ve never heard of me.”

“I heard of you.” Bull thrust forward. “You’re the guy Winchell’s daring to come out and talk. You heard it, Sammy, the special broadcast tonight.”

Piers continued, “I’ve worked with Secretary Anstruther for twelve years, ever since peace was declared. In Europe and in Africa.” He hesitated. “I haven’t dared talk before tomorrow.”

“I’m getting it,” Jack nodded. “If you get bumped off you can’t throw a monkey wrench tomorrow. Is that it? You’re going to go to the Conclave tomorrow and tell all about Secretary Anstruther, that it?”

“That’s it,” Piers said. “That’s why I want to live until tomorrow. To keep Germany from starting another war. If you’ll only let me stay until Willie comes, he’ll tell you I’m speaking true. He has seen one of the Germans who followed me.”

Jack said, “Guess we’d better take in the Conclave tomorrow. Sounds like a good show.”

They still didn’t believe. Their interest was caught but that was all. Impassionedly he beat against their doubt. “It is important you go tomorrow. Important that you crowd the galleries with men who want peace.” It didn’t matter if they thought he was insane as long as they would be there. Surely they would go; they wouldn’t miss finding out for themselves just how crazy this man was who declared Anstruther’s death. Not these three alone, their friends and neighbors, curiosity engendered by newspaper and radio would guide them. If they would be there, even if he did die too soon, peace would have a voice. With man present, man who believed in peace, who was not afraid to demand peace, there would be peace. And he would have won no matter what happened. Watkins must be right; Man could speak.

His eyes closed. He went to sleep sitting upright there in the scarred chair, the others still asking questions. He awoke to Willie’s voice. “Looks like trouble caught up. That German scrub?”

It was two-thirty in the morning. Piers said, “His boss.”

Bull wasn’t hostile now. Willie must have talked while Piers slept.

Willie asked, “Where you want to go, Mister?”

“I’m hiring your cab, Willie.” He took out his billfold. “From now until tomorrow afternoon, until you deliver me at the Halls of Peace tomorrow.” He counted out two hundred dollars. “Is that enough?”

Willie whistled. “You buying or renting?” He stuck the money in his pocket.

“You know it’s dangerous?” Piers said.

“Where do we go?”

He said, “At eight in the morning I must be at the Thirty-third street postoffice. Until then it doesn’t matter.” He counted fifty dollars three times on the table. One for Bull, one for Sammy, one for Jack. Like buying votes in an election, votes for peace.

“What’s that for?” Bull demanded.

“For what I’ve said. Fill the galleries tomorrow. Bring your friends. I want Nick Pulaski, too—he’s for peace. Call him at the International Building. Tell him to bring his friends. Bring everyone who will shout for peace.”

“For fifty smackers I’ll fill them galleries single-handed,” Sammy grinned. “How do we report to you?”

“You don’t.”

“Then how you know we’ll be there?” Jack shook his head.

“I will know.” He would know. And he’d be in the galleries with them, somehow from the galleries he too would be heard.

He turned to Willie. “I don’t know where we’ll hide until morning. They’re on my heels now.”

“We could go to my apartment,” Willie said. “There’s a couch where you could catch a snooze.”

Bull wiped his forearm under his nose. He spoke as he folded away the fifty. “Whyncha go upstairs and lie down in my room till morning? If you go home, Willie, you’ll never make it back in time. Not the way you sleep. I’ll wake you when I go off duty at seven.”

“What you say, Mister?” Willie pursed his mouth.

Piers said, “I’d be grateful.” Grateful for any place to lay his head, for a little rest, for not having to step out into the terrors of the night again.

“It ain’t fancy,” Bull apologized. “Not very clean. I’m not much hand at housekeeping.”

“It is safe?” Piers hesitated.

“Nobody can get up there without getting by me.” There were knots in his powerful arms. He led the way up the iron staircase into the loft of parked cars. The sleeping room was half as big as the office. Bull said, “You can lie on the cot. Willie, you fix up the chairs for yourself.”

The window was small, looking down to an alley. No one could climb the blank wall. Someone was shadowed in the alley waiting. Piers drew back. He moved to the cot and he sat down.

Bull said, “You’ll be safe. I’ll wake you at seven.”

“Thanks more than I can say.”

Bull went out. Piers said, “Push your chair against the door, Willie.”

“Scared?”

He nodded. He winced as he lay down.

“You ought to have a doctor look at that arm. Don’t pay to let them go. Infection’s bad. My brother-in-law—”

“Tomorrow.” He closed his eyes. No one could get by Bull. No one could get by Willie in the chair. No one could climb through the little window. But his dreams were troubled and he walked on the top of the waters of sleep.

He heard the knocking while Willie snored on. He jerked up. “Who is it?”

“Seven o’clock. You guys in there, it’s seven o’clock.”

Piers said, “We’re up.” He said, “Come on, Willie. We have to move on now.” His clothes looked as if they’d been slept in; every bone, not only the wounded one, ached.

Willie yawned. “Jeeze,” he said. “I forgot to call the wife.” He opened the door to Bull. “I forgot to call Mame. She’ll be maddern a wet hen.”

“Two hundred smackers’ll get her over the mad fast.” Bull led them down the stairs to the washroom.

Piers rubbed the stubble on his chin, met his tired eyes in the scrap of mirror. He must find some place today to bathe and shave, to have his clothes pressed. He wondered wearily what tale Hugo had told, if now he himself was wanted for murder other than presumptive. It didn’t matter. If he won peace, his truth would be good. If he lost it, nothing mattered.

He combed back his hair, straightened his tie. “If you know a quick place and a safe one, we’ll have coffee before we go downtown.”

Bull cleared his throat gruffly. “You guys don’t need some help, do you?”

“Thanks again.” Piers took his hand. “We’ll get along.” He wouldn’t involve anyone else in what might be violence. Willie at the wheel of the cab should be out of the line of danger. “Just be sure not to miss the Conclave today.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” It was a threat.

The cab was inside the storage garage. Piers got in the back seat; it would be safer for the driver in case—

“We going to be followed today?” Willie turned on the ignition.

“I hope not.” He mustn’t be followed this morning.

“Hold on to your hat then.”

The cab shot out of the garage. Piers slumped in the seat holding the strap clenched to his right hand. He didn’t know the neighborhood where they stopped for coffee. He only knew the taste was good. They started off again, carving a curling path through the city. Seventh Avenue was quiet on this early morning, this Sunday spring morning. Piers asked as they neared the Pennsylvania station, “Anyone following?”

“Not as I can see.” Willie wasn’t so certain now. “You got me so jittery I thought I seen a cab after we left the Coffee Cup. That’s why I cut over to the river.”

“I want to pick up my mail.” Piers spoke hushedly as if here in the rolling cab someone might overhear.

“It’s Sunday.”

“I have a box.” His heart had begun to thud. This was the moment, the act that must be kept inviolate. From the rear window he could see no approaching car. He said, “You stay in the cab. Keep the engine running.”

“If that fat Heinie turns up?”

He hesitated too long. He couldn’t say, Call the police; he would be no better off in the hands of the law than in the hands of Germany. Not with Gordon directing the law. Perhaps the way to the end would be less cruel but the end of both was defeat, ultimate destruction. He ordered, “If there’s trouble, run for it.”

“What you think I am—a yellow-belly?”

“Run for it,” Piers’ voice rang. “And go to the Conclave. Demand peace. Make them give you peace.”

He slipped from the cab door and vanished into the postoffice. He moved quickly, selecting the key from its safe hiding place among the many on his key ring, opening the box, taking out the two harmless-looking envelopes. He could hear men walking on the pavement outside, not many, casual steps. He thrust the envelopes into his inner pocket, took a breath before he stepped out to the pavement again and started to the cab.

There was no sound of a shot. The bullet stopped him. Anger rushed into him. His meeting in Samarra might have waited a few more hours. To be this close to achievement. His eyes seared. He heard Willie’s shout as he tried to force himself forward to the cab. Willie wasn’t at the wheel. Willie was running across the street, shouting. There were many voices shouting and he was falling, falling from a great height into an abyss.

He heard the soft speech. “It’s my boss, Mister. He’s been sick. I got the car right over there.”

He opened his eyes. Sight was blurred but not beyond recognition of the dark face bending over him. He tried to cry out but no sound would come. The silken voice spoke on while the words faded out. The voice was the voice of David. The irony of it smote him. Now he would be taken to Fabian.

H
E WASN’T DEAD. IN
death he wouldn’t be lying in a clean bed; he wouldn’t be fired by pain; he wouldn’t see the inscrutable face of David watching from the chair.

Piers said, “Well, you’ve won.” His voice sounded far away.

The face awoke. “You are conscious. That is good. Don’t try to rise. You have lost much blood from the two wounds. The second shot was near the lung. But if you are careful—”

Piers didn’t try to move. The effort of speech was trial enough. “You have the papers?”

“Yes. The photostatic copies of Secretary Anstruther’s. The letters of Hugo von Eynar.”

He said bitterly, “You didn’t give up, did you? You kept following, following, all those days and nights.”

“I knew you must retrieve the papers before the Conclave opened. You sent them to yourself, to a post box?”

“You know I did.”

“Wise. You didn’t go near the box until it was essential.”

Piers remembered suddenly and he started to rise up. Pain wrenched him and he again lay quiet. “What is today?”

“Sunday. The same Sunday. It is noon.”

Noon to sundown. And he a prisoner. He asked, “Will you let me see Fabian now?”

The man answered simply, “I am Fabian.”

Piers turned his head on the pillow.

“I am David and I am Fabian. Fabian is the man of state. My people need me among them, one of them, and I am also David.”

“But Fabian—Fabian is big, a giant of a man. I’ve seen him in Conclave. You are smaller, older—”

The man smiled. “You know theater, Piers Hunt. A robe—a headdress—the illusion of grandeur. I have always been grateful to Lord Evanhurst for his design for the robe of the Peace Commissioners.”

Piers closed his eyes. “I wanted to talk with you. As a friend. In peace. You came with a gun. Today you used the gun. Why?”

Fabian was unsmiling. “I did not shoot you. It was the German.”

“You didn’t shoot?”

Fabian said with righteous anger, “I am a man of peace. True, I carried a gun the night I came to you. Because I believed you had killed my friend. My people found him there in the unmarked grave. I took him to a better place, he and the unknown, that no one would know his defeat and shame. I knew you had followed his plane. I believed you were working with the Germans. I could not afford to die. My people cannot go forward as yet without me. With Anstruther gone I must help maintain peace. I have learned since you did not kill him.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Piers said. “But I did send him to his death.”

“You cannot blame yourself.”

“I let him go on the summons of that telegram—a telegram I distrusted. I should have made inquiries before I let him go.”