Deadline at Dawn

Chapter 10

It should have been easier this time than the last, but he had his doubts it was going to be. He had a name and an occupation this time — two names, first and last, and an occupation — and all he had to do was match them up with a present location. The time before all he’d had was a broken button and a characteristic — left-handedness — and he hadn’t even been sure of that. When he thought of the courage he’d had expecting to get anywhere last time — well, no wonder it had ended up in smoke. But then when he thought of how much less time he had this time, it almost seemed to make it equally futile.

There were three of them in the telephone book. He tackled it that way first. But that didn’t mean anything. That was only the one borough, Manhattan. That left out Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, Staten Island. That left out the hinterland, all the way up to Croton, maybe beyond, God knows where. That left out the depths of Long Island, all the way out to Port Washington. And being a broker — he didn’t know much about them, but he thought of them as mostly living outside in the suburban belt, he didn’t know why.

One of the three was on Nineteenth, one was on Sixtieth, one was on a name-street that he’d never heard of before. He took them in their order in the book.

The operator rang and rang, and he wouldn’t let her quit. No one answers a phone quickly, at such a Godforsaken hour of the night.

Finally there was a wrench and a woman’s voice got on. It sounded all fuzzy from sleep. This was Nineteenth.

“Wa-a-al?” it said crossly.

“I want to talk to Holmes, to Arthur Holmes.”

“Oh, ye do?” the voice said with asperity. “Well, you’re just a little bit too late. You missed him by about twenty minutes.”

She was going to slam up, he could tell by the tenor of her answer. Slam up good and hard.

“Can you tell me where I can reach him?” He almost tripped over his own tongue getting it out fast enough to beat her to it.

“He’s over at the station-house. You can get him there. What do you want to be ringing me here for?”

He’d given himself up. He’d gone there of his own accord— Maybe the thing was over already. Maybe all this had been unnecessary; maybe they’d been torturing themselves half the livelong night for noth—

But he had to know. How was he to know? Maybe even this woman didn’t know. She didn’t sound like— She sounded like some kind of a maid or housekeeper around the premises.

“He’s... he’s a broker, isn’t he? A stockbroker — you know, market—”

“Hoh! Him?” Fifteen years of suppressed discontent were in it. A lifetime of smouldering rancor packed into one syllable. The receiver even at his end should have softened with the searing heat of it and slowly melted into a gummy stalactite. “He’d like to be. He’s the desk sergeant at the Tenth Precinct-house, around on Twentieth Street, and that’s all he’ll ever be, that’s all he’s got sense enough to be, and you can tell him I said so, too! And while you’re at it, tell him to quit shooting off his fat lying mouth so, in every beer-joint he puts his foot in, all to mooch a few dirty drinks. One time he’s the Governor’s private bodyguard, another time he’s with the secret service, now he’s a broker. I’m getting sick of all kinds of drunken bums calling me up at all hours of the night—”

He hung up with a vicious poke at the apparatus.

One of them. He didn’t want to come any closer to one of them than he was already, a couple of miles away on a wire. He didn’t even want to come this close to one of them. That was what he was doing this whole thing for, to stay away from them.

It took him a minute to get over it. But he had to go ahead. He didn’t want to any more after that, but he had to.

Sixtieth.

This time there was no wait at all. Even at this hour. The person must have been sitting there beside it, or waiting just a few steps away.

It was a young voice. It sounded about twenty. Maybe that was its guilelessness, giving that impression. Some voices never grow up. It was bursting with pent-up impatience, impatience that had been veering over into fear. It was breathless with it. It couldn’t wait, it had to get it out.

The call was his, but it appropriated it. As though there could only be one possible call at this particular time, and this must be it. It drowned out his opening phrase. Just gave it half an ear, enough to assure itself that it was of masculine timbre, and that was all, that was sufficient.

There was absolutely no breath-punctuation in the voice’s flow.

“Oh, Bixy, I thought you never were going to call me! Bixy what took you so long? I’ve been wilting away here for hours I’ve been all packed and waiting and sitting on my things! I tried to call you two or three times and there was some sort of a mix-up, they didn’t seem to know who I meant, isn’t that ridiculous? Bixy, I got so worried for a minute or two, I couldn’t help it.” The voice tried to laugh at itself, lamely. “All my jewelry and everything — what would I do? It only occurred to me afterwards. And I already sent him the wire, as soon as I left you. I know you told me not to, but it seemed the only fair thing to do. So now we have to go ahead and carry it out—”

The flow stopped. The voice knew. He couldn’t tell how, he hadn’t made a sound, but suddenly it knew.

“It isn’t—?”

The voice was dying. Not physically maybe, but it was shrivelling up.

“I’m sorry to get in the way. I wanted to — I was calling Arthur Holmes.”

The voice was dead now. The dead voice said, “He’s in Canada, fishing. He left Tuesday a week ago. You can reach him at—”

“Tuesday a week ago? Never mind.”

“Please get off the line. I’m expecting a call.”

He got off the line.

The next was the name-street.

The operator said finally, “They don’t answer.”

“Keep trying.”

She went ahead.

It stopped finally. He thought she’d quit. It took him a minute to catch on. She hadn’t quit, it was that it had been picked up; it was open at the other end, and yet there wasn’t a sound to show that it was. Otherwise, if she’d quit, his nickel would have come back. Somebody listening without speaking? Somebody a little afraid?

So it had begun auspiciously, if by this indication alone.

Neither end spoke. He waited to see. Somebody had to give in. He gave in first.

“Hello,” he said softly.

A throat cleared itself at the other end. “Yes?” a voice said reticently.

It was beginning good, it was beginning like the real thing. He was afraid to hope yet, he’d already been disappointed so many times before this.

The voice was a man’s. It was very low, and very wary. Even in its “yes” it was watchful.

“Is this Mr. Arthur Holmes?”

He had to hold him fast first; make sure it was he, and then hold him there. Then once he’d done that— So he had to go easy himself to start with.

“Who is this?”

He hadn’t admitted that he was Holmes; Quinn tried to get around that by taking it for granted that he was.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, you don’t know me—”

The voice didn’t fall for it. “Who is this that wants to speak to Mr. Holmes?”

He tried it again. “The name is not known to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Again the voice side-stepped. “I didn’t say that this was Holmes. I asked what your name was. Unless you tell me who you are first, I can’t tell you whether you can reach him or not. It’s quite likely that you can’t, particularly at such an hour. Now don’t take up any more of my time unless you tell me who you are and what you want of Mr. Holmes.”

That “what you want” was what he’d been waiting for. It gave him an opening-wedge.

“Very well,” he said with deceptive submissiveness, “I’ll tell you both things. The name is Quinn; that of a stranger. It’s not known to Mr. Holmes. What I want is to— I want to return a check that belongs to Mr. Holmes.”

“What?” the voice said quickly. “What was that?”

“I say, I have a check that belongs to Mr. Holmes. But I have to know if I have the right Mr. Holmes. Is this the residence of the Arthur Holmes that’s connected with the brokerage firm of Weatherby and Dodd?”

“Yes,” the voice said quickly, “yes, this is.”

“Well, now will you let me talk to him?”

The voice hesitated only briefly. The voice took the plunge. “You are,” it said quietly.

He’d won the first round. He had him hooked. He didn’t have to worry about losing him from now on. All he had to do, now, was bring him in closer.

He repeated what he’d said twice already. “I have a check that belongs to you.” He let that stand by itself, for the other to nibble at.

The voice felt its way carefully. “I don’t understand. If you say I don’t know you, how could you have?” The voice picked up speed. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken.”

“I’m holding it right here in my hand, Mr. Holmes.”

The voice faltered, ran down again. “Who’s it made out to?”

“Just a second.” Quinn took a moment or two off, for artistic effect, as if peering at it closely. “Stephen Graves,” he said, with that slightly stilted intonation that accompanies reading aloud, in contradistinction to impromptu speech. He was playing it this way consciously; the effect he wanted to convey, at this stage, was of innocent, haphazard possession, rather than dangerous knowledge. There was still too much distance between them.

There was a catch in the voice; as though it had knotted up suddenly in its owner’s throat. It said nothing, but the sounds it made trying to free itself carried over the wire.

Boy is he guilty, Quinn kept thinking. Boy is he guilty. If he gives himself away like this out of sight, can you imagine—?

The knot had been effaced; the voice spoke suddenly. “Nonsense, there’s no check of mine made out to any such person. Look, my friend, I don’t know what’s up your sleeve, but I advise you not to—”

Quinn kept his tone even, colorless. “If you’ll compare it with your stub you’ll see I’m telling the truth. The number in the right-hand corner is 20. It’s the twentieth check in that particular book. It’s drawn on the Case National Bank. It’s dated August the twenty-fourth. It’s to the amount of twelve thous—”

He sounded as if he was falling apart there at the other end. Something knocked hollowly, as if the instrument had slipped out of his hand and he’d had to retrieve it.

I’ve got him, Quinn revelled. Oh, this time I surely have.

He could wait. The thing to do from this point on was to improvise as he went along, fit his responses to the circumstances as they presented themselves.

“And how’d you — how’d you come to get hold of such a check?”

“I found it,” Quinn said matter-of-factly.

“Would you — would you mind telling me where?”

It was doing things to him. He’d breathe just once, quickly. And then he’d forget to breathe the next two or three times he should have in-between. Then he’d breathe again just once, quickly. Quinn could hear the whole process as plainly as if he were holding a stethoscope to his ear instead of a telephone.

“I found it on the seat of a taxi. It looked like somebody who was in it before me opened their wallet in the dark and it slipped out.” Let him think it was Graves.

“Who was with you when you found it?”

“No one. Just me by myself.”

The voice tried to use skepticism as a sort of probe, to draw out the admission it believed to be there, lurking just below the surface. “Now don’t tell me that. There are always two heads in anything like this. Come on, who was with you?”

“No one, I tell you. Didn’t you ever hear of anyone happening to be by himself sometimes? Well, I was.”

The voice had wanted to hear that. The voice liked it that way. He could tell.

“Who’d you show it to afterwards? Who’d you speak to between the time you found it and now?”

“No one.”

“Who’s with you now?”

“No one.”

“What put the idea into your head of calling me up at four-thirty in the morning about it?”

“I thought maybe you’d like to have it back,” Quinn said disarmingly.

The voice considered that. Not that it was kidding him any, but it tried to give the impression of deliberating, weighing the matter. As though there could be more than one answer to his suggestion. “Let me ask you something first. Suppose — this is just theoretical — suppose I say I don’t want it back, that it’s of no value to me, then what do you do with it? Throw it away?”

“No,” Quinn said evenly. “Then I’ll probably keep it and look up the payee; Stephen Graves. See if I can locate him.”

That got him if nothing else had until now. And plenty else had until now. Quinn could almost hear his heart turn over and do tailspins; all the way up through his throat and across the wire.

There was a break; somebody else got between them. The operator said: “Your five minutes is up. Deposit another nickel, please.” Meaning Quinn.

He glanced down at the one he’d been holding in readiness in his palm. In case the conversation hadn’t taken the successful turn it had.

He held it out a minute, to try out something.

The voice cried out wildly, “Wait a minute! Don’t cut us off, whatever you do!”

Quinn dropped in the nickel. There was a click and then they went on as before.

Me afraid of losing him? Quinn thought. He’s the one afraid of losing me.

The voice had had a bad fright. It decided not to do quite so much feinting. “Well, all right, I... I would like to see this check you’re holding,” it capitulated. “It’s of no possible value to anyone. There was a mistake, and—”

Quinn gave him the axe on that. “It was returned by the bank,” he said flatly.

The voice swallowed that; literally as well as metaphorically.

“Let me ask you— You said your name was Flynn?”

“Quinn. But that doesn’t really make any difference.”

“Tell me something about yourself. Who are you? What do you do?”

“I don’t see that that has anything to do with it.”

The voice tried again. “Are you a married man? Have you a family to support?”

Quinn shied off a little, while he looked this one over. What’s he asking that for? To figure how large a payment it’ll take to shut me up? No, there must be some darker purpose behind it. To try and find out if I’ll be missed if... if anything happens to me.

He could feel the hairs on the nape of his neck tighten a little. “I’m single,” he said. “I live by myself.”

“Not even a room-mate?” the voice purred.

“Nobody. Strictly lone-wolf.”

The voice mulled that over. It sniffed at the trap. It edged closer. It reached in for the bait. And the primary bait, Quinn sensed, was no longer the check itself. It was his life.

“Well, look, Quinn. I’d like to see the check and — maybe I can do something for you.”

“Fair enough.”

“Where are you now?”

He wondered if he should tell him the exact truth. He told him. “I’m on Fifty-ninth Street? You know the Baltimore Lunchroom on Fifty-ninth Street? I’m in there, speaking from there.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You’ll have to give me a little time to get dressed — I was in bed, you see, when you rang. I’ll get dressed and come out. You go to — let’s see now—” The voice was trying to work out something. But something more than just the selection of a meeting-place for the two of them. Quinn gave it its head, waited. “I’ll tell you. You go over toward Columbus Circle. You know where Broadway splits off from Central Park West, forming a narrow little triangular block. There’s a cafeteria there with two entrances, open all night. You go in there and— You have no money on you, have you?”

“No.”

“Well, go in anyway; they won’t bother you. Say you’re waiting for someone. Sit by the window, close up against the window, on the Broadway side. I’ll contact you there in fifteen minutes.”

Quinn thought: Why shift me to another place? Why not just meet me at the place I’m in already? He’s afraid there’s a set-up here, I guess; that I’ve got someone else planted out of sight. He also took note of the expression he’d used; he hadn’t said “I’ll meet you,” he’d said “I’ll contact you.” He’s going to case me first, case me good, before he comes near me, he told himself. He’s playing it smart. But no matter how smart he plays it, that won’t save him. I’ve got that check, and he has to have it back. If we take all night and cover all New York between us.

He played it dumb, for his part. Played it dumb and unsuspecting.

“Right,” he said.

“Fifteen minutes,” the voice said.

The conversation ended.

Quinn left the phone. He went into the men’s room, planted his foot up against the wall, and stripped off his shoe. Then he took the check out, covered it with an extra piece of paper to protect it, and put it down flat on the bottom of the shoe. Then he put his foot back in again. He was taking a leaf from Graves and the note he’d received at the night-club.

He came outside again, and on his way out to the street stopped for a moment beside the rack where they had the trays and cutlery.

There was no one in the place but himself, and the attendant behind the counter wasn’t watching him. He picked up one of the chrome-plated knives and surreptitiously fingered the edge of it. They weren’t very much good; blunt. But he had to have something; even if only for moral effect rather than actual use. He sheathed it in one of the paper napkins and bedded it slantwise in his inside coat-pocket.

He walked the park-breadth over to Columbus Circle and got to the second place in about twelve minutes out of the fifteen he’d been given. He sat down at a table up against the window on the Broadway side and waited.

You could look straight through the place. For instance, from the Central Park West side, if you were out there in the dark, either on the sidewalk or in a car up against the curb, you could look in through the window, across the entire lighted depth of it, to where he was sitting, obliviously looking out the other way.

Quinn knew that, knew that was why he’d picked this place.

He glanced around that way, to the far side of him, once or twice. One time he thought he saw the dark, blurred form of a car, that had been motionless until his eye caught it, glide slowly onward in the gloom. But it might have been just some legitimately passing car, halting for the lights as it neared the Circle.

The fifteen minutes was up, then eighteen, then twenty.

He began to get uneasy. Maybe I had him figured wrong; maybe he just wanted time to make a getaway. Maybe he’s more afraid of coming near me than of not getting the check back.

It’s him, all right, it’s him, and now maybe I’ve fumbled the thing, lost him again. His forehead started to get damp, and every time he’d wipe it dry, it would get damp all over again.

The phone suddenly rang, up by the cashier’s desk.

He looked around, then looked away again.

Somebody began to thump on glass. He looked around again, and the cashier was motioning him.

He went over and the cashier said, “There’s somebody on here says he wants to talk to a man sitting by himself up against the window. Now look, people aren’t supposed to get calls here at my desk—” He handed it over to him nevertheless.

It was he. “Hello, Quinn?”

“Yeah, what happened to you?”

“I’m waiting for you at a place called Owen’s. I’m at the bar there. It’s down on Fifty-first.”

“What’s the idea of doing that? You told me here first. What’re you trying to do, give me the run-around?”

“I know, but — you come where I am now. Take a cab, I’ll pay for it when you get here.”

“Are you sure you’re not kidding this time?”

“I’m not kidding. I’m in the place already, waiting for you.”

“All right, I’ll see whether you are or not.”