Delicate Ape (7 page)

Until these border incidents had begun. The government of South Africa had reported them in March. It was undeniable that they had been fomented; the territory they spotted was too widespread for a mere local squabble. The instigators were held by Europeans to be of Equatorial Africa. That was the expected. What was not expected, what came in nature of a shock, was that Piers’ independent investigating proved that only Germans had reported trouble. It was the sinister echo, out of the not too long ago past, of German voices howling of persecution.

He had waited for Fabian to speak, to report his finding to the commission. And Fabian had not spoken. That Piers could not understand. With charges made against his people, Fabian had blanketed Equatorial Africa in immutable silence. Piers’ request for discussion with Fabian had been swallowed up in that silence. It was then, a fresh incident of purported butchery for stimulus, that Piers had secretly sent word to Secretary Anstruther asking him to confer with him in Africa. If any man could reach Fabian, it was Anstruther. If any man could see through the manipulations against peace, it was Anstruther. It was in the midst of this secret conference that the wire from Fabian had come. And Anstruther had gone to meet death.

With first report of the trouble had descended this enveloping depression. Piers knew history too well not to realize that war had more than once started from just such seemingly unimportant friction. Far more frightening was the presumptive evidence that the incidents were no more than smokescreen for the dread events shaping behind them, that there were deliberate plans for laying waste the world again in a holocaust of destruction.

It must be prevented no matter how many heads fell. He put away his dark thoughts. The heat of his mind must cool, give him respite in order to give him strength. He would go out, join Broadway. He started to the doors but seeing the ungainly bulk of Cassidy slouched against the same pillar, Piers diverted his steps.

He stood before the man. “Come along. We’re going to do a spot of theater.”

The little blue eyes sharpened. “What you talking about?”

Piers said, “I thought you might as well know. Dinner and the theater. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Cassidy shifted his feet. “It’s none of your business where I go, is it? Or is it?”

“You are following me,” Piers smiled. “I’m just making it easy for you. I might get lost in the crowd, you know.”

“Suits me.” Cassidy studied his thumb.

“And me,” Piers laughed.

“If you get lost,” he put the side of his thumbnail between his teeth, “I’ll find you again. New York isn’t so big.”

“I know,” Piers admitted. “But there are hiding places.”

“You’d come out by Sunday.” Cassidy wasn’t interested but he knew something he shouldn’t know, that no one here should know.

Piers erased his sudden frown, spoke easily. “Can I stand you a drink before we start out—separately, if you prefer?”

Cassidy would have refused. He should have refused. Suspicion narrowed his eyes and he shifted again. But he’d had a long vigil and his feet must have hurt. There were no chairs here. The bar was near with sweet and acrid odors of stimulants and soporifics.

He said finally, reluctantly, “I could use a beer.”

“That’s better,” Piers approved.

The man lagged behind him as if still following the letter of his orders. The bar was a little less crowded now, the dinner hour. There was no sign of Bianca Anstruther and her party. Cassidy pulled out a chair at a small table, sighed into it. “Bottle of Budweiser,” he said.

“You won’t mind if mine’s an aperitif, Mr. Cassidy? I haven’t dined.” He directed the waiter.

“How do you know my name?” Cassidy wasn’t at ease.

“I made inquiries.” Piers laid his package of cigarettes across the table.

Cassidy struggled with deep thought. “That damn Sarachon. Used to play the drums in a band here.”

“Perhaps.” Piers held across a light. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me why you’re following me?”

“Who said I was following you?”

Piers’ look was level and ironic. “I can’t believe your private tastes are as catholic as the greensward of the park and the bar of the Astor.”

Cassidy’s knobbed hand cooled on the bottle of beer. He relaxed after he tasted.

Piers said, “I’ve followed men myself in my time. Perhaps that gives one a sixth sense.” He sighed. “I presume now that I’ve spotted you there’ll be a new man put on me.”

“That don’t make no difference,” Cassidy said.

Piers sipped. “It surprises me that you should be the shadow.”

“Why’s that?” The demand was belligerent.

“I should say that the New York detective force would not be interested in my itinerary.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for another beer before I push along.” He beckoned the waiter, repeated the order. “As far back as mind serves, quite a way back that is—I was born in New York—I’ve never caused any trouble in this city. Not even a filched banana or a slug in a gum-vending machine. Yet I’m of interest.” He softened his voice. “Or is it for my protection?”

“You need protection?” Cassidy watched the foam rise in his glass.

“My room was searched today. Is that part of the service?”

The detective grunted, “I don’t know nothing about that.” He didn’t; surprise had quickened his face.

“I didn’t think you did.” Piers let his hand flat on the table. “It wouldn’t surprise me if we were both being followed, Mr. Cassidy.”

“Who’d be doing that?” the detective scowled.

Piers stabbed out lightly. “There might be others interested in Secretary Anstruther’s whereabouts.”

Cassidy pulled himself up in the chair. The mask was pushed from his face. Behind it was revealed a man of brain, a hunter of strength, stubbornness.

“I can tell you you’re wasting your time.” Piers matched the coldness. “I do not know where the Secretary”—he recalled caution—“is in retirement.”

Cassidy belched. “I’m not looking for the Secretary.” His little eyes peered from under his hat. “I’m looking for a briefcase.” He began to laugh, choking with it.

Piers echoed, “A briefcase.” Bewilderment must have shown on his face for Cassidy wheezed until a globule fell from each eye.

But there wasn’t a briefcase. He’d invented it for Captain Devlin. And Devlin, accepting George Henderson, had set this watchdog on Piers Hunt. It didn’t add up. In order to recover a briefcase Devlin wouldn’t set a watch on the man who lost it. The answer must lie in Johann Schmidt. Piers repeated now, shaking his head, “A briefcase?” And he frowned. “Whose briefcase?”

The laughter was shut off like that. The little eyes were again chips of stone. “The briefcase of Secretary Anstruther.”

Piers removed his fingers one by one from the stem of the wineglass.

“It’s about so big.” The gnarled hands moved. “Made out of alligator. Real alligator.”

Piers had realized it with a rush of fury at his self-betrayal. The betrayal of the subconscious. He had described Anstruther’s dispatch case to Devlin. He had been so certain that no one would believe he would retain that case, that he had done any more than return it to the Secretary. Because no one but he knew the Secretary was dead. If he’d ever owned a briefcase, if he’d handled any other—it was too late to retract description. More than ever now he wanted to learn who had set the detective on his trail. How to ask he didn’t know. He parried, “Do you mean the Secretary has lost his case?”

Cassidy drained the glass.

“And do you mean to say,” he gathered momentum, “that Secretary Anstruther told you in order to find it you should follow me?”

The mask covered the face again. “Who says I’m following you?”

Piers said flatly, “I don’t believe it.” He forced it upon the hulk of man. “I’ve worked with Secretary Anstruther for years. If he’d lost something and thought I might know where it was, he’d ask me. He wouldn’t ask the New York detective force to find it by trailing me. Who set you on me?”

“The boss.”

“The Commissioner of Police?” He was the boss, Devlin had said it. And he was averse to murder. Johann Schmidt was a part of the answer. Piers hadn’t killed the man. But he mustn’t talk about it. First they must give him their knowledge. He paid the check. “I’m going to dinner now, the theater later. I don’t imagine it will do any good to tell you I have no briefcase, neither of my own nor of Secretary Anstruther, and that you might as well go home and get a night’s rest.”

“Don’t worry about me none.” Cassidy wiped his mouth. “I’m obliged for the beer.”

Piers left him standing in the lobby, worrying a tabloid. But the eyes above the paper were watching.

On Broadway at night, glittering and noisy, he was not haunted by African desert, by silence and sun. He moved with the crowd as far as Lindy’s, waited for a booth. No one here was concerned about the future of peace. They had peace. He ordered a steak dinner, watched the crowd thinning as curtain time neared. Dining alone was dining quickly. He would reach the musical before its late curtain. There would be standing room; that was important, to get inside the theater.

When he came out of the restaurant he saw Cassidy, a loiterer on the corner. Cassidy didn’t appear to see him. But it proved Cassidy had spoken true; it didn’t matter that his identity was disclosed. He would follow until he was led to what the boss, or someone behind the boss, wanted.

Piers knew this theater, knew the second floor exit to a catwalk leading to the producer’s office. An office which would not be locked until after the final curtain and which would be unoccupied during that time. The producer clung to the wings whenever he had a leg show. The SRO sign was out. Piers bought a standing room ticket and turning from the window glanced back at the sidewalk. Cassidy was there.

The house lights were darkening as he entered. Cassidy hadn’t followed as yet. There were the last moments of confusion of seating. Piers moved on up the red-carpeted stairs to the balcony lounge, went to the water fountain for excuse and waited there while the orchestra leaped into rhythmic frenzy. There were others who came up the steps but none lingered, none noticed him. All were in haste to be seated before the rising of the curtain. It was possible that Cassidy would not come into the theater, taking it for granted that Piers had gone to the hit show for the purpose of seeing it. It was even possible that Cassidy would take time to feed himself, the big man must be hungry by now. Not that Piers believed that Cassidy would in so doing leave the way clear for Piers to slip away unencumbered into the night. There would be someone watching the exits, a policeman on the beat, a cabbie who could use a slice of police favor, a theater doorman. Meantime, what of the watcher who was watching both Cassidy and Piers? If there were such a one, he hadn’t as yet passed the detective to come after Piers. Perhaps he too was hungry and did not fear losing his quarry as long as Cassidy was in clear view.

Piers had choice of following his original plan, that of leaving the theater during the general confusion of intermission, or of disappearing now. Despite the risk of drawing the attention of an usher by immediate movement, it seemed advisable to move before Cassidy’s weary shoes dogged after him. He wasn’t actually worried about getting past the usher, he had glib excuses waiting on his tongue for his exit. It was the later questions that would be asked concerning him by Cassidy, by an unknown man in the dark.

He crumpled the cup and dropped it in the waste container. By the time of questioning he should be well away. The corners of his mouth tweaked. Cassidy had definitely stated he didn’t care if Piers did escape him. Escape him he would. He walked then without haste, with definite purpose, to the left of the house. The usher stood at the head of the aisle, her eyes on the comedy team chanting on stage. Piers murmured as he passed, “Leo’s office,” and waited a moment for no response. His father had been one of Leo’s first stars. He continued without haste to the door, opened it a slip and stood outside on the narrow passageway, high above the dark alley below. He moved quickly now, listening for the crank of the door opening behind him, but it was silent. He hadn’t been followed yet.

He had a moment as he reached the producer’s door but the knob turned under his hand. It was the same grubby little office, unchanged in twenty years. Even the shabby couch was no more shabby, with no more brown criss-crosses in the worn black leather. He took a breath before he opened the door into the small anteroom. It was empty.

Luck had been with him. There was now the immediate necessity of getting away from here. He opened this door a wedge, slid through. One dim bulb lighted the landing. He remembered three flights to the alley exit. In the death silence the iron steps reverberated to his careful descent. Only if he removed his shoes could he muffle the sound. That chance he couldn’t take. It would stamp him with suspicion if anyone should enter on legitimate business. Moreover, it would hinder progress if he had to cut and run.

Cursing breathlessly he wound down the staircase until he stood in the almost complete darkness of the alley level. There was no sound from above. As he remembered it the alley was short, only a few strides to the street in back of the theater. Yet he hesitated before opening that door, fearing not Cassidy but another man who might stand outside. He didn’t want to die. His hand was actually clammy when he touched the knob, drew the door ajar, guarding himself behind it.

He looked out into an empty lane. He moved without sound now; closing the door noiselessly, his walk was swift to the end of the alley. Before stepping from its narrow confines, he peered out. No one was waiting for him. It was a cheap street. Without theaters, a cavernous garage across, a small dingy restaurant, dark windows of theatrical shoes, tailor shops, leather goods. This end of the block was deserted.

Piers left the alley in one stride and moved towards Eighth Avenue. There was more danger in picking a less lighted thoroughfare, one as deserted as a village at this hour, and none too savory at best. Nevertheless, he had no intention of walking into Cassidy’s grasping hands again. And if, as he believed, he had not been followed, he was as safe here as he would have been in Berne. He walked Eighth to 54th street. By that time he was certain he had escaped all trackers. For the remainder of the evening he was free to do as he should choose.