Mrs. John Doe

Chapter 5

The little girl was still screaming, and someone else was shouting, “Hey, you!” The nanny. Another scream from farther away, probably the teenage girl. A dog barking. Then she heard footsteps running toward her from several directions at once.

Nora was lying facedown on the paving stones by the fountain, dazed. Her arms were outflung, and her beret had flown off to land somewhere nearby. Her left knee and her forehead above her left temple were throbbing; they must have struck the pavement when she went down. She wasn’t sure, really; it had happened so fast. She was gasping for air when she felt a sharp tug at her left shoulder. Someone grabbed her Coach bag and tore it from her arm.

More shouting and barking. The spray from the cascading water pelted her as she reached out with her hands, scrabbling for purchase. She rolled over onto her back and looked up, but she could barely see anything. She started to rise, but a wave of dizziness sent her back down, flat against the sidewalk.

“Ouch,” she muttered.

Hands. Big, strong hands grasping her shoulders. She cried out and struck at the air in front her, trying to knock the hands. Her fist came into hard contact with soft skin.

“Oof! Careful, ma’am. Please calm down. I’m trying to help you.” A West Indian accent, melodious, beautiful. “Lena, stop dat noise! Stop it, child!”

The screaming abruptly ended, but other sounds continued, a scuffle not far away. Male shouting and the dog’s frenzied barks. Nora blinked, peering up into the mist. The nanny was looming above her, holding her, helping her up. Nora relaxed and allowed the big, surprisingly agile woman to raise her to her feet. She was standing now, leaning against the woman, damp and disoriented, trying to make out what was happening a few feet away through the dense fog. She heard the sound of a blow, a fist striking flesh, and a groan. Something large rushed by from behind her on her left, running toward the action. A male shout. Another female scream.

She tried to move closer, but the woman stopped her with a firm grip on her elbow. “You stay right here, ma’am. Don’t get involved in dat. De men will handle it.”

Nora blinked again, and now she could just make out three figures a few yards in front of her, near the benches on the far side of the fountain. As she and the governess watched, the tallest one-the jogger, she now saw-punched the face of one of the other figures, a dark-haired, dark-skinned man in a dark suit, sending him reeling. As he staggered, the man dropped something-her shoulder bag!-to the ground. The jogger reached down to snatch it up while the third figure, the teenage boy, closed in on the thief, fists raised. He and the jogger now had the other man cornered against a tree.

“Okay, ye feckin’ Paki wanker, now ye’re gonna get it!” the boy growled.

“No, Gary!” A desperate female cry from somewhere behind her: the teenage girl.

Click. A low, ominous sound, and now the dark-haired man against the tree thrust an arm out in front of him, toward the two men who closed in, waving it from side to side in a slashing motion. In that moment, through a gap in the mist, Nora saw two things with perfect clarity.

Her would-be robber was the young man from the plane this morning. And he was holding a knife. A switchblade.

“Hoy!” Gary cried, leaping directly toward the knife, but the tall jogger reached over with one arm to snatch the boy from midair and pull him away, out of reach of the glinting weapon’s deadly arc.

“No!” the jogger said. “Stay back, mate.”

The big dog was still barking its head off, and the old lady was shouting at it, trying to control the animal. Nora couldn’t see them, but she could hear everything. She heard the children crying as they arrived to clutch the nanny’s skirt. Nora reached down to place her hand on the shoulder of the nearest little girl, listening. She heard the ragged breathing of the three men in the mist before her, facing off. There was a moment of suspended animation: the man against the tree, Gary and the other man facing him, Gary’s screaming girlfriend, the sobbing children, the barking dog, the shouting old woman, the constant splash of falling water.

Then, with a final violent wave of the knife, the thief took off from under the tree at a dead run, sprinting away across the grass toward the entrance at the southern end of the park. He was swallowed by the fog, leaving only the brief sounds of his retreating steps, then silence. Gary started to go after him, but a firm command from the jogger stopped him. The big man had his cellphone at his ear again, speaking low, conveying some soft but urgent message. The police, Nora supposed.

Now, at last, the dog got into the act. With a shout from the unseen old lady in the fog behind her, the big brown animal burst through a wall of mist, streaking past Nora in the direction the running man had taken. Everyone watched as it too disappeared in the fog, its menacing, low growl fading. A moment of silence, then a sharp male cry, followed by an equally sharp whine from the dog. Nora winced, thinking of the ugly blade she’d glimpsed in the man’s hand. Oh God, not the dog! she thought. She broke free of the nanny’s grasp, ready to run blindly through the mist.

The hand that stopped her was more powerful than the nanny’s considerable grip. The big man in the sweatshirt was now standing beside her.

“Don’t,” he said, and Nora froze.

The elderly woman hurried over, one gloved hand on her tweed-covered heart, the other holding a dangling leash.

“Buster!” she cried.

Another whine from the fog. Then Buster came trotting into view, materializing from the swirling mass like the Hound of the Baskervilles, and Nora realized that he was indeed a hound of some kind. He was limping slightly, and he had something in his teeth. They all rushed over to him. His mistress reached him first, sinking to her knees on the pavement, and everyone else crowded around. Nora noticed that the pretty teenage girl had finally joined them as well, her hand clutching the hand of her hot-tempered boyfriend.

“Oh, Buster, are you all right?” the old lady whispered, reaching out with her gloved hands to inspect him for damage. A sharp bark from Buster, then he began to lick her face. She felt his right foreleg, and he yelped in obvious pain. “He kicked you!” she cried indignantly. She leaped to her feet, faced the wall of fog in the general direction the man had taken, drew herself up to her full four-foot-ten-inch height, and shouted at the top of her voice. “You’d better keep running, you son of a bitch! Arsehole!”

They all stared at her, even the dog. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then everyone but Nora started to laugh. The men began it, joined by the girlfriend and the nanny. Even the little girls were giggling. Miss Marple turned around to face her audience, blushing. Then she too burst into ladylike chuckles. She knelt down beside Buster and took him in her tiny arms, crushing him in a hug. She removed the object from his mouth and held it up in triumph for all to see: a strip of dark material, part of the fleeing man’s trouser leg. They all laughed harder, and some of them began to clap their hands, a round of applause for the fearless Buster.

Nora blinked around at the crowd. The big man beside her held up her shoulder bag, and she took it from him, staring blankly at his handsome, laughing face. Then she smiled, and the smile became a grin. The first titter of laughter escaped her lips, and she gave herself over to it. She sagged against the nanny and the two girls, laughing with the rest of this motley group of strangers in this cold, foggy park. Buster shook himself, barked, and began furiously wagging his tail, which set everyone off again.

Just as they were all about to collect themselves and go their various ways, a uniformed park security guard appeared from the mist. He was an older man, barrel chested, red faced, with a thick mustache and muttonchop whiskers. Arthur Treacher in the flesh, the perfect Central Casting bobby.

“Eh, wot’s all this, then?” he wanted to know.

Nora took one look at him and screamed with laughter, but the fresh explosion of mirth around her drowned it out. The guard stared at them all, his mustache twitching, utterly at a loss. Nora hitched her bag over her aching left shoulder as the jogger stepped forward and took charge.

“It’s okay, sir,” he said. “It’s all over now. A little excitement, that’s all. Some deadbeat tried to steal this lady’s purse, but we sent him on his way.” He jerked a thumb to include the beaming Gary in the rescue.

The guard turned to Nora. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m fine. Thank you-all of you. I just want to go back to my hotel.”

“I’ll come with you,” the jogger said.

Nora was about to protest, but the look on the young man’s face stopped her. He was escorting her home, and that was that. The teen girl was tugging on Gary’s arm, and the nanny had taken the twins firmly by the hand. Miss Marple was putting Buster’s leash back on his collar.

“Please see these people safely out of here,” the jogger said to the guard. It was more a command than a request. The guard nodded and led the little group away down the sidewalk, not even questioning the young man’s authority. In moments, they were lost in the fog.

Nora stood beside the fountain with the young man, forming words to thank him for his help. He was watching the others go. As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to her, pointing at her shoulder bag.

“Have you got a handkerchief in there?” he said quietly. “Or maybe some plasters?”

It took her a moment to translate from British to American English. Plasters: Band-Aids. She blinked and looked down. He was gingerly rolling up the right sleeve of his sweatshirt, and now she saw a dark spot next to a slit in the material. A thin red line ran up his forearm, six inches long, beaded with drops of blood.

“Oh God, you’re hurt!” she cried.

“Just a scratch,” he mumbled. “But I could use a sop.”

Nora pulled a travel pack of tissues from her bag, then felt around in the bottom of it and came up with two Band-Aids and an atomizer. She took his arm in one hand, dabbed the blood away from the scratch, and sprayed it. He winced.

“Ow! What the hell is that?”

“Chanel Number Five. Hold still.” She placed a wad of tissues against the cut and taped it in place with the bandages. “There, that’s the best I can do till we get to the hotel.”

He sniffed the dressing. “I smell like a tart.”

Nora laughed. “Well, a high-end tart, anyway. Here.” She found a tiny bottle and handed him two Advil gelcaps. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed.

“Cheers,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of this soup. Um, where are you staying?”

“The Byron, in-”

“I know where it is.” He retrieved her soaked beret from the ground and handed it to her, and they began to walk toward the park’s southwest entrance. “Are you traveling with people? I mean, is there someone at the hotel…”

Nora stopped walking, and everything came back to her. She looked down at her left hand, at her wedding ring. “No, there’s no one. I just arrived from America this afternoon. My husband died here two nights ago, a car accident, and I’ve come to-to take him home. My name is Nora Baron.”

“I’m sorry,” the young man said. They were silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m Craig Elder. Well, me da’s Craig Elder, so I guess I’m Craig Elder the younger.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Irish?”

“Through and through,” he replied, and he smiled too.

“We’re from Donegal, originally,” she said, “but I’m a New Yorker. Pleased to meet you, Craig Elder.”

“Likewise, Mrs. Baron.”

“Nora,” she said, and they walked out of the misty garden together.