Delicate Ape (8 page)

He had had no plan in mind when he planned escape, nothing more than the throwing off of the confines of surveillance. But now that he was out of the box he knew what he would attempt to do. He walked across town to Broadway again. He had no hesitation in hailing a cab here in the Fifties. The men who were watching him might bribe the cabbies in the vicinity of the Astor; they could scarcely cover the town. Not a town with as many cruisers as Manhattan.

“Grand Central,” he said. “Lexington entrance.”

He leaned back against the leather. He could relax for this interlude. He lighted a cigarette. If he had any lingering doubts of being free he would erase them in these final maneuvers. He paid off the driver and entered the station. He didn’t go to the concourse; he followed arrows across the station and to the Biltmore exit. He went through the hotel, emerging on 43rd, and made his way to Park. The avenue lay wide and quiet save for the endless stream of traffic. He walked to the great white shaft of the International Building.

It was possible but not probable that there would be someone in the office at this hour. After ten. The imminent Conclave meant an inordinate amount of work. If there was someone there he could ask for information of little importance. He touched the night bell and waited.

The guard was a stocky man with suspicion gritted into his mouth. Piers stated, “I’m Thompson. Peace office.” The night guard couldn’t possibly know all employees of the Peace office even by name. “Mr. Gordon sent me over for some reports he needs.” He edged the door as he spoke. He didn’t want to remain longer on the street, not daring to look behind him, expecting the coincidence of Gordon himself passing on his way to some function or other.

The guard was less suspicious at mention of the office and at the magic name of Gordon the scowl smoothed.

“If you’ll take me up,” Piers suggested, “I have the key.”

“You got to sign the register.”

“Where is it?” Piers led away from the door.

“Over here.” The ledger was on the elevator stool.

Piers signed illegibly, Ed Thompson, and walked into the elevator.

“Plenty of work with that meeting coming up, I betcha,” the guard volunteered.

“Plenty,” Piers responded. “Anyone else here tonight?”

“No. But some of the girls didn’t get away till after I come on.”

Piers said, “Well, the International Conclave only meets once in two years. That’s not too tough.”

The man stopped at the 19th floor. Their voices sounded lost in the empty, cavernous building. “I hope they’ll tell them Germans where to head in,” the guard continued with violence. “Imagine them wanting the International Army moved out of their country.”

“You’re against it?”

“You just bet I’m against it. Do you know why they want it?” He scowled like a conspirator. “It’s so they can start another war, that’s why.”

“I agree,” Piers said.

“You bet that’s what it is. All the excuses they can think up—my kid could see through them. Expense for the United Nations—what do they care? And that one about their pride being hurt! Ain’t that too bad? After what they done in the Last War.” He shook his head.

“You were in it?”

“Three years. I know what war’s like. Maybe you don’t know—”

“I had four years of it.”

“You do know.” The man’s eyes met his. “I can’t see these big shots arguing we ought to withdraw the army. I can’t see it. Anybody with the brain of a little duck would know what’s behind it.”

Piers said, “I wish you were a delegate.”

“I wish I was too. I’d tell them.”

“Yes.” His thoughts were long. If it were only possible for the men to be there, the men who had evolved from war. He shook out of it. “I’d better find those reports.”

“Yeah. Gimme a ring when you want out.” The elevator door slid silently shut, the whine of its descent diminuendoed.

He was alone on the 19th floor, alone in shadows flung by the night light. His steps on the marble corridor echoed as he approached the door. The key should admit him both to the office at large and to the private offices. It was Anstruther’s key. It turned and he felt for the light before entering the austere anteroom. Light flooded. He knew then there was no one here; the room had the smell of emptiness. But it wouldn’t be wise to tarry too long. It was entirely possible that there would be watchers to report an unexpected light in the Peace office at this hour. And there was always the coincidental approach of Gordon in his mind.

Gordon’s door was lettered, not locked. He left it in darkness until he had closed the Venetian blinds, then turned on the desk lamp. The desk itself was locked; the files were open. He pulled the drawer E. Standing there, he read the Evanhurst correspondence, rapidly, photographically. There was no doubt that Evanhurst was committed to the policy of releasing Germany from supervision. There was little doubt that Gordon concurred.

He went quickly to B, Brecklein. There were the same arguments Anstruther had voiced, that the guard had stated. Withdraw—save expense to the United Nations. Withdraw—we have proved ourselves peaceful in these twelve years, why humiliate us longer? Withdraw—we can become self-supporting, valuable in trade channels if we are allowed freedom of production again.

Anstruther had hinted this. Why force Germany to ship out her metals when her factories could so easily manufacture at home? Under the international laws, of course, the laws of peace. Brecklein even dared mention the building of planes, quoting the superiority of the Luftwaffe in the Last War. The guard downstairs had said it. “Even my kid could see through it.” But the kid wouldn’t be blinded by personal ambition, by worship of the ape, by wish fathering the thought.

He should leave now; he’d found out enough to know where Gordon stood, enough to know it was wisdom to steer clear of Gordon’s aid. But he went rapidly to the Schern file. Little here. The silent partner. He turned from the files. And then he forced himself to return to them, to open the file on von Eynar.

Surprisingly enough, what he had wanted was here. The border incidents. There was no doubt about Germany’s part in them. For a moment he doubted the letters as genuine; this danger in an open file. But he realized, in themselves they were nothing. It was only by adding them to his own information that their treachery was fact.

He took the three most damning. It meant time, and the sweat stood cold on his flesh while he sat at the typewriter and copied the three. He traced a signature, Hugo von E. It would pass casual inspection. He put the copies into the file. He would never again hear the sound of a typewriter without remembering its unholy percussion in a deserted building at night.

The originals he put into his inner pocket. He turned off the lamp, opened the blinds, went through the anteroom extinguishing that light, stood again in the shadowy hall. No one could come in without the guard admitting him, but anyone could give a fictitious name and reason for entry. His empty steps jarred his stomach and he pushed the buzzer with a damp finger. His hair crawled while he waited for the whine to rise. Even when it ceased at the floor he was taut until he saw the same guard who had brought him up.

“All finished?”

“Thanks, yes.” His forehead was damp. “Took me a little time but it’s all right now.”

“I had a bit of trouble myself,” the man said. “Isn’t often you get it. Not much excitement in this racket though my wife gets kind of nervous for me sometimes.”

Piers controlled his voice. “What sort of trouble?”

“Fellow tried to push in, said he come to meet a Beers Hund here. Kept telling me this Hund was waiting for him.”

Piers laughed a little. “Didn’t get in on that one, did he?”

“You bet not.” The car jolted to a stop; Piers didn’t move from its safety. “I said there’s nobody here. You come around in office hours to see your man. And when he tried to talk back to me I just put my hand on his chest and pushed.” He scowled. “Talked like a Hun. Beers Hund. If he comes around again I’ll call the cops.”

Piers was cautious. “Did he leave—after you pushed him?”

“Not right away. Guess he’s gone by now.”

He wasn’t. Piers knew that. He was waiting somewhere outside, waiting for Piers to reappear. To follow again? Not tonight. If that was all he wanted he’d have been content to wait outside, not show his hand. This was more of the real thing.

Piers couldn’t show his own hand to the guard. He’d come through too well up to now. Gordon must not know of this visit. There was no excuse to offer for prowling by night where he had access at any time. He had no moral way of obtaining a key. Yet he couldn’t in sanity walk out into the arms of one of Brecklein’s men. Perhaps the uncle of one Johann Schmidt. He had to play it quickly; he couldn’t delay here with the presumptive reports for Gordon in his pocket. He bit his lip. “I wonder.” He was confidential. “These reports are important to the Conclave. I wonder if that man could be a German who doesn’t want me to carry them to Mr. Gordon.”

The guard’s black eyes clicked.

“He must have seen me come in. Maybe he listened in on Mr. Gordon’s call to me. Germany doesn’t intend to be turned down this time. She wishes to eliminate all chance of failure.”

“Them dirty Huns.” The guard’s jaw squared.

“I must get out without that man knowing it. In case he’s hanging around.”

“We better call the cops.”

“No.” Piers spoke sharply. It could have been too sharply the way the man peered at him under the peak of his cap. “Don’t you see?” Piers went on to explain. “That’s the last thing I can do. That would mean publicity. It would give Germany something against our country, an incident, a hold over us. By the time we finished apologizing for having one of their men arrested, we’d be promising them withdrawal.”

The guard growled, “Diplomats are too lily-livered. I’d like to see myself knuckling under to any damn Hun.”

“We must preserve peace,” Piers said. No matter what you’d like to do to those who threatened it.

“Then how you going to get out?” the guard asked.

“I don’t know.” He could call Cassidy to come for him. But Cassidy mustn’t be allowed to report that he’d visited the Peace office. He asked, “Is there a phone?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d better phone for a cab.”

“You’d get one quicker standing outside.” He shook his cap. “You can’t do that though. If he’s out there.”

“I’ll have to chance making it from the door to the cab. That’s all I dare do.”

The guard spoke with regret. “Wish I could get my brother-in-law. He drives for Yellow. But he’s cruising Broadway this time of night.” He shook his head. “I know a checker at Yellow. I’ll call his stand for you if you want.”

“Thanks awfully.” He didn’t remain there in the empty hallway; he followed the guard to the switchboard. It was in sight of the glass doors. His neck crawled while he listened.

“Harry? This is Nick. I want a cab. Yeah, at the International Building. Tell the driver to keep the engine running and be ready to step on it. No—nothing wrong. For a friend of mine. Yeah, it’s an emergency run … How’s Thelma? … Yeah, she’s fine. Yeah, that’s right. Be seeing you.” He disconnected the service, said to Piers, “Harry’ll send you a good driver. I can’t leave the building but I’ll keep my eyes sharp till you get away.”

Piers said, “I’m grateful to you, Mr. … I don’t even know your name.”

“Nick Pulaski.”

They moved to the doors now, standing there silent, watching the muted flow of traffic. Flicker of lights up the avenue, their widening glow as they neared, the red circlets as they vanished. The sound of the tires was muffled here. There was no horn squawking, no squeal of brakes as on Broadway.

The guard said, “It’ll take a little time. Harry’s stand is over on Lexington. In the Sixties.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Say, I never thought,” the guard said. “We could have called Mr. Gordon.”

“It didn’t occur to me either,” Piers said. He had folded a bill and held it out now. “Buy yourself a cigar and thanks again.”

The guard shook his head. “I don’t want pay to take care of a German.”

“It isn’t pay. It’s for all your trouble.” He urged it on the man. “Buy the kids a treat. There are kids?”

“Three boys.” He took the bill. He looked at it, still reluctant. “I don’t ever want them to see what I saw. I don’t want them to know anything about things—things that happened. Bombs dropping on little kids—”

“I saw it too,” Piers remembered. He added, “We mustn’t let it happen again.”

“We won’t let it happen again.” The man spoke violently. “No matter what the big shots do we aren’t going to let it happen again.”

But memories were short-lived, while greed and ambition flourished like the ancestral green bay tree. Piers said, “If anything should happen to me—”

The taxi was pulling to the door.

“I’ll get the guy myself,” the guard avowed. He unlocked the door.

Piers edged out. He ran for the cab. There was only the sidewalk to cross. It couldn’t take more than seconds to reach the open cab door. But from the darkness against the building a squat figure also chugged towards the waiting taxi.

“Mine cab,” the man grunted.

“Sorry.” Piers pushed. His hand was on the door. He said to the driver, “Nick Pulaski called Harry.”

The driver’s ugly face said, “You’re the one. I seen you come out of the building.”

The squat man stood in the way. “Beers Hund—”

“Get out of my way. I’m in a hurry.” Piers shoved the man off balance. He slammed the door as he stepped in, urged, “Go on, driver.”

The squat man was standing there, impotent, his round face glittering after the moving wheels.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Just get out of sight. Then I’ll give you directions.”

“Trouble?”

“There could be.” He felt in his pocket. The letters from Gordon’s files were there. But of course, the enemy couldn’t know he had them. It was something else they wanted. Piers was as winded as if he’d undergone physical, not nerve exertion. He wanted his room quickly, bed, but he didn’t dare drive directly to the hotel. The squat man had doubtless memorized the license number. He rode in silence as far as 34th street. He spoke then, “I want to go to Grand Central.”