Nightfall (8 page)

7

      There was morning gray in the sky as the sedan crossed Brooklyn Bridge. There was some pale blue in the sky as Vanning parked the car in an alleyway off Canal Street. He used the subway to get back to the Village, and upon entering his room the first direct move he made was to start packing his things. After some minutes of that he changed his mind, sat on a chair near the window and smoked cigarettes while he toyed with various angles. He was certain they didn't know his address. He told himself not to be too certain of anything. The logical step at this point was something simple, something easy. And the easiest thing he could think of was sleep.
      He slept until late afternoon, showered and shaved, concluded after a mirror inspection that he looked just a little too banged up for an appearance at the advertising agency where his illustrations were due. After breakfast, he used the restaurant phone booth, told the agency art director that he was sick with an upset stomach. The art director told him tomorrow would be all right, joked with him about the effects of alcohol on a man's stomach, told him milk was the best medicine for a raw stomach. Vanning thanked the agency man and hung up. He took a subway uptown. He didn't know where he was going. He wanted to get away from the Village. He wanted to think.
      It kept jabbing away at him, the desire to get out of this city, to travel and keep on traveling. But it wasn't traveling. It was running. And the desire was curtained by the knowledge that running was a move without sensible foundation. Retreat was only another form of waiting. And he was sick of waiting. There had to be some sort of accomplishment, and the only way he could accomplish anything was to move forward on an offensive basis.
      He was part of a crowd on Madison Avenue in the Seventies, and he was swimming through schemes, discarding one after another. The schemes moved off indifferently as he pushed them away. He walked into a drugstore and ordered a dish of orange ice. Sitting there, with the orange ice in front of him, he picked up a spoon, tapped it against his palm, told himself to take it from the beginning and pick up the blocks one by one and see if he could build something.
      There weren't many blocks. There was John. There was Pete and there was Sam. There was a green sedan. There was the house on the outskirts of Brooklyn. None of those was any good. There was the man who had died in Denver. And that was no good. There was Denver itself. There were the police in Denver. The police.
      A voice said, “You want to eat that orange ice or drink it?”
      Vanning looked up and saw the expressionless face of a soda clerk.
      “It's melting,” the soda clerk said.
      “Melting,” Vanning said.
      “Sure. Can't you see?”
      “Tell me something,” Vanning said.
      “Anything. I'm a whiz.”
      “I'll bet you are. I'll bet you know everything there is to know about orange ice.”
      “People, too.”
      “Let's stay with the orange ice.”
      “Whatever you say. It's no longer a sellers' market. Nowadays we've got to please the customers.
      “It doesn't take much to please me,” Vanning said. “I'm just curious about this orange ice.”
      “No mosquitoes in it. We spray the stuff every day.”
      “I mean the way it melts.”
      “It don't melt in winter, mister. But this is summer. It's hot in summer. That's why the ice melts. Okay?”
      “Okay for a start. But let's go on from there.”
      “Sure. Just as soon as I fix a black-and-white for Miss America down there.”
      Vanning waited. He dipped the spoon into the melting pale orange dome and left it there. The soda clerk came back and said, “Now where were we?”
      “The orange ice. Look, it's nearly all melted.”
      “That's the way things go. It's a tough world.”
      “But suppose we use our heads about this. Suppose we freeze it again. What I'm driving at is, a thing may look ruined, but if you give it a certain treatment you can bring it back to normal. You can still use it.”
      “That's what I claim,” the soda clerk said. “Never say die. Someday I'll own Manhattan. Just watch my speed.”
      “Good for you,” Vanning said. He picked up the check, put a fifty-cent piece on the counter and walked toward the telephone booths. There was a buzzing in his mind and it was a healthy buzzing. He liked the feel of it, the soundless sound of it. He entered a booth, closed the door, took some change out of his pocket.
      He put a coin in the slot.
       
      “Number, please?”
      “I want to call Denver.”
      “What is that, sir?”
      “Denver, Colorado.”
      “What number, sir?”
      “Police headquarters.”
      “Station to station?”
      “That's right, and don't cut in on me. I'll signal when I'm finished.”
      “Just a moment, sir.”
      He waited several moments. Then the operator waited while Vanning left the booth and got the necessary change. She was arranging the connection for him, he was putting quarters and dimes into the slots, he was waiting.
      And then he heard her saying “New York calling. Just a moment, please.”
      A voice said, “Yes? Hello?”
      Vanning leaned toward the mouthpiece. “Is this police headquarters in Denver?”
      “That's right. Who is this?”
      Vanning gave the name of a New York newspaper. He said, “Features department. This is Mr. Rayburn, associate editor. I'm wondering if you could help me out.”
      “Just a minute.”
      The voice handed him over to another voice. And then a third voice. And a fourth.
      The fourth voice said, “All right, what can we do for you?”
      “May I know whom I'm speaking to?”
      “Hansen. Homicide. What's on your mind?”
      Vanning repeated the self-introduction he had given to the first voice. He said, “We'd like to do a feature story on a murder that took place in Denver some time ago.”
      “That's not telling me much.”
      “Eight months ago.”
      “Solved?”
      “That's what we don't know. We got the shreds of it from hearsay.”
      “Any names?”
      “No,” Vanning said. “That's why I'm calling. We don't have any record of it in our files. But from what we've picked up, it's one of the sensational things.”
      “Is that all you can tell me?”
      Vanning stared at the wall beyond the telephone and told himself to hang up. This was a crazy move. It was packed chock-full of risk. If he stayed on the phone too long, if he made one slip they would trace the call. Maybe they were tracing it already. He couldn't understand why he was staying on the phone. For a moment he wanted them to trace the call, he wanted them to nab him, once and for all, get the entire affair over with, one way or another. In the following moment he told himself to hang up and walk out of the drugstore and leave the neighborhood. But something kept him attached to the phone. He didn't know what it was. His mind was filled with an assortment of jugglers and they were dropping Indian pins all over the place.
      He said, “We know the victim was a man. The killer was identified, but he got away.”
      “Wait a minute. I'll have a look at the files.”
      Vanning lit a cigarette. The quiet phone was like an ocean without waves. He blew smoke into the mouthpiece and watched it radiate. The minute went by. Another minute went by. And a third. And a fourth. The operator was in there for a few seconds, and Vanning told her to come in at the end of the call and tell him what he owed the phone company. Then the phone was quiet again. And another minute went by.
      And then the voice from Denver went on again, saying, “Maybe this is it. You there?”
      “I'm listening.”
      “Eight months ago. A man named Harrison. Shot and killed a few blocks away from the Harlan Hotel. Suspect a man named James Vanning. Still at large.”
      “That's it.”
      “What about it?”
      “Can you give me anything?”
      “Nothing you could build into a story. But then again I'm not in the newspaper business.”
      “Anything at all.”
      “Listen if it's this important, why don't you send a man down?”
      “We will, if I think the thing can be shaped into something.”
      “I doubt it, but you'll be paying good money for the call. You want to take it down?”
      “I'm ready. Shoot.”
      “Harrison, Fred. Record of six arrests. Served time for robbery. Arrested on a murder charge in 1936 but case thrown out of court for lack of evidence. On probation at time he was murdered. From there on we're in the dark. No motive. No trace of the suspect.”
      “You sure about your suspect?”
      “No doubt about it. Fingerprints on the gun. Vanning's car parked near the Harlan Hotel. Vanning registered at the Harlan Hotel under the name of Dilks, along with two other men.
      “Their names?”
      “Smith and Jones. You can see what we have to work with.”
      “Anything more on Vanning?”
      “He was spotted with Harrison in the lobby of the hotel. About ten minutes before the murder. Someone piped them leaving the hotel together. That was the last time he was seen.”
      “Try to stay with him,” Vanning said. “I don't promise anything definite, but we may be able to dig up a few facts you can use. Try to give me more on the man.”
      “There isn't much to give. On the face of it, we'd say that the job was handled by a hired killer. But this Vanning keeps us guessing. No record of past arrests. Worked as a commercial artist in Chicago. Served as a lieutenant, senior grade, in the Navy. Damage-control officer on a battleship. Silver Star. Excellent record. No past connection with victim. It's an upside-down case. We know he did it, but that's all. You said you could hand us a few facts.”
      “We may have something for you. Say in a few days. We're not sure yet, but there's an interesting connection that has possibilities.”
      “Why not let me have it now?”
      “I don't want to make a fool of myself. It may not mean anything. I don't want to lose my job. Remember, I'm only an associate editor. There's a boss over me.”
      “Let me speak to the boss. I'll hold the phone.”
      “Wait,” Vanning said. “Let's see what I can do with this.” He turned his face away from the mouthpiece, said to empty air, “Johnny, is the boss around?” Then he waited. Then he came back to the mouthpiece and said, “Wait there a minute.”
      “I'm waiting.”
      Vanning lit another cigarette, took small, rapid puffs at it, closed his eyes, his forehead deeply creased in groping thought. All at once he snapped his fingers. The idea was glaring and he didn't see any holes in it. He whipped out his breast-pocket handkerchief, put it across the mouthpiece, put his voice on a high-pitched, nasal plane as he said, “Callahan speaking. Features editor.”
      “This is Hansen. Denver police. Homicide department.”
      “What did Rayburn tell you?”
      “Nothing. He only asked questions. But he said he might be able to tell me something. He said it was a little over his head, so I asked if I could speak with you.”
      “If Rayburn was a good newspaperman, he wouldn't be dragging me in here. I don't know why they're always putting these things on my shoulders.”
      “Look, Callahan, that's between you and Rayburn. I'm a policeman and we're trying to catch a murderer. You're trying to get a story. If we can help each other out, that's fine. But you can't expect me to throw information your way and have you sit there in New York and hold back on me. If you have something you think we can use, let's have it. Otherwise, stop wasting your time and mine.”
      “I guess you make sense.”
      “I guess I do.”
      “Okay,” Vanning said. “I'll give it to you but I want you to understand it's not a definite lead. It's just something we picked up more or less by accident. Some character called us up and told us a story about a bank robbery in Seattle. About eight or nine months ago, he said it was. A big job, three hundred thousand dollars. He said it was connected with a murder in Denver. We called Seattle and they told us the bank robbers were traced as far as Colorado.”
      “That's interesting.”
      “Is it new to you?”
      “Brand-new. Tell me something. How many men were in on that Seattle thing?”
      “Three,” Vanning said, and he tried to bite it back before it hit the mouthpiece, but it was already in the mouthpiece, it was already in Denver.
      “Three men. That adds up to Dilks and Smith and Jones. That brings Vanning in on the bank job. I'm going to check with Seattle. I think you've handed us something we can use. Will you hold the phone a minute?”
      “Don't be too long,” Vanning said.
      He took a deep breath, blew it out toward the handkerchief spread and tightened across the telephone mouthpiece. He wondered how long he had been in the phone booth. It seemed as if he had been here for a full day. And it seemed as if he was making one mistake after another. There were too many things to remember, and already he had forgotten one of the most important, that angle concerning Sam, the fact that Sam had been absent from the Denver affair. Sam had been in Leadville, under the care of that doctor. Three men in the Seattle robbery. Three men in the Denver deal. He felt like rapping himself in the mouth. Now he had gone and done it. Now he was glued to Seattle as well as Denver. Now he had taken Sam's place in the line-up. He was only a substitute and yet at the same time he was the headline performer. He was the star, the stellar attraction, he was the goat, the ignoramus who deserved every rotten break he got. This phone call was just another major error in a long parade of major errors. He was kidding himself now and he had been kidding himself all along. He wasn't a criminal, he wasn't even an amateur criminal. He was a commercial artist, a grown man, an ordinary citizen who believed in law and order, a man who looked upon too much excitement as an unnatural, neurotic thing. He didn't belong in this muddle, this circle, that went round and round much too fast.
      The voice from Denver was there again. “Hello. Callahan?”
      “Still here.”
      “We're checking with Seattle. Can you hold on?”
      “I'll wait.”
      “Good. We won't be long.”
      Vanning put another cigarette in his mouth, had no desire to light it. He put his hand in front of his eyes, wondered why his fingers weren't shaking. Perhaps he had gone beyond that. Perhaps it was actually a bad sign, his steady fingers. He sat there, his head lowered, feeling sorry for himself, sorry for every poor devil who had ever stumbled into a spot like this. And then, gradually lifting his head, he gradually smiled. It was such a miserable state of affairs that it was almost comical. If people could see him now their reactions would be mixed. Some of them would have pity for him. Others would smile as he was smiling at this moment. Maybe some of them would laugh at him, as they would laugh at Charlie Chaplin in hot water somewhere up in the Klondike.