Nightfall (9 page)

      He sighed. He thought of other men, thousands of them, hundreds of thousands, working in factories, in offices, and going back tonight to a home-cooked meal, sitting in parlors with their wives and kids, listening to Bob Hope, going to sleep at a decent hour, and really sleeping, with nothing to anticipate except another day of work and another evening at home with the family. That was all they looked forward to, and Vanning told himself he would give his right arm if that was all he could look forward to.
      “Callahan?”
      “Yes?”
      “Just stay there. Be with you in a jiffy. We're still talking to Seattle on another phone.”
      “Make it snappy, will you?”
      “Be right with you.”
      Vanning struck a match and applied it to the cigarette that waited in his mouth. He took in some smoke blew it out, turned his head and saw a girl waiting outside the phone booth. She seemed to be fed up with waiting, and her pose was typical, the hand on the hip, the head tilted to one side, the lips tightened sarcastically and saying, Go on, take all day, it's so silly to consider other people. He smiled sheepishly, and her expression changed, she glared at him. She looked very attractive, glaring. Pretty girl with an upsweep, pretty and slim and extremely Madison Avenue. It was getting on toward the cocktail hour and evidently she wanted to check on her date at Theodore's or the Drake and it was a shame he had to keep her waiting like this. It was really unfair. All she wanted to do was keep that date, and all he wanted to do was keep himself alive. Now her expression had changed again and she seemed really worried about getting to the phone. He was just a little annoyed at himself, because he was getting an eerie sort of satisfaction watching her frown in worriment. At least he wasn't the only worried individual in this world.
      The girl shifted her position, breathed in and out in an exasperated way.
      Vanning opened the booth door, leaned out and said, “I'm calling Denver.”
      “How lovely.”
      “I'm awfully sorry it's taking this long.”
      “We're both sorry.”
      “Maybe one of the other booths—”
      “No, darling. Everybody's calling Denver.”
      “I'll try to rush it.”
      “Please do. I want to break the date before he gets there.”
      “I thought you wanted to keep the date,” Vanning said.
      “I want to break it. I hope you don't mind.”
      “It depends. Maybe he's a nice guy.”
      “He's very unexciting,” the girl said. “He wants to get married. What are you doing with that handkerchief over the mouthpiece?”
      “I have a cold. I don't want anyone else to get it. I—”
      Denver was in again. Vanning closed the door, came back to the mouthpiece.
      The voice was saying, “I think you've started something, Callahan. We have Seattle all worked up. They tell us three men did that bank job. Got away in a phaeton. Two men in the bank and one waiting in the car. One of the men was big. Hefty around the chest and shoulders. Wore a felt hat and a loafer jacket with a wide collar turned up. That was probably Vanning, alias Dilks. Now we're going to check with the Navy to see when he got out. The way we have it lined up, Harrison was waiting in Denver, acting as contact man. There must have been an argument over the split, and Vanning pulled a gun and that's about as close as we can come to it right now. That character you were telling us about, if he calls up again see if you can meet him somewhere. See if you can hold him down. And listen, if anything new turns up, get in touch with us, will you?”
      “By all means.”
      “And thanks for the tip.”
      “I'm thanking you,” Vanning said. “I think we'll have a swell story.”
      “You bet. 'Bye now.” And the other party hung up.
      The operator asked for more money and Vanning paid it. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket, and as he left the phone booth the girl went whizzing in to take his place. He walked through the drugstore, arranged his lips to whistle a tune, couldn't get the tune past his lips.
      On Madison Avenue again, he waved to a cab, climbed in and fell back against leather-looking upholstery, and the cab started south on Madison.
      “Where to?”
      “Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street.”
      “You in a hurry?”
      “No,” Vanning said. “Why?”
      “Just wondered.”
      Vanning closed his eyes, slumped in the seat, stayed that way for several seconds and then slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the driver's head. There was considerable traffic in front of the taxi's windshield, but Vanning didn't see it. He was studying the driver's head. The driver wore a cloth cap. The driver had recently treated himself to a haircut. The barber was either a newcomer to the trade or not too much interested in the work. It was a very bad haircut.
      The taxi made a turn, made another turn and came onto Fifth Avenue.
      The haircut was bad because it took too much hair from the driver's skull, and instead of shading gradually from hair to shaven neck, it broke up acutely, so that there was a distinct cleavage between black hair and white flesh. That was one thing that made the driver seem a little wrong. And another thing was the way the driver sat at the wheel. The driver leaned to one side, and didn't seem to be watching the traffic in front. Instead, the driver seemed to aim attention at the rearview mirror.
      “Where did you get that haircut?” Vanning said.
      “What's the matter with it?”
      “Everything.”
      “Makes no difference,” the driver said. “Who sees me?”
      “Don't you care how you look?”
      “All I care about is getting rid of hair in the summer. If men had any sense, they'd shave their entire heads. Nothing like it if you want to keep cool.”
      The taxi made another turn. It was going toward Sixth Avenue.
      “Why not stay on Fifth?”
      “Too much traffic.”
      “I'm a New Yorker,” Vanning said. “Just as much traffic on Sixth. Just as many lights.”
      “Should we try Eighth?”
      “That's taking me out of my way.”
      “You said you weren't in a hurry.”
      Vanning leaned forward. “That's what I said. That's why I'm wondering why we didn't stay on Fifth.”
      “You want me to cut off the meter? I don't need the money. I make out.”
      The taxi passed Sixth Avenue, passed Broadway, moved on toward Eighth.
      “Sure,” the driver said. “I break even. I don't have to stretch a ride. I never go in for that sort of thing. And I don't like to be accused of it, either. I been driving a cab for fifteen years and I never stretched a ride. I like when people start telling me how to operate a cab.”
      “What do you want me to do, sit here and argue with you?”
      “I like when these people think they're doing me a favor when they get in the cab. I got more money in the bank than most of the people who ride with me. And you don't have to tip me if you don't want to. I'm not asking for a tip. I don't want anybody to think they're doing me favors.”
      “Now we're passing Eighth,” Vanning said. “If this is a sight-seeing tour, why not start with Grant's Tomb?”
      “You want me to stop the cab?” the driver said. “You can get out here if you want to.”
      “It sounds like an idea.”
      “We'll stop right here,” the driver said.
      The taxi slowed down, going toward the curb. The driver turned around and stared at Vanning as Vanning looked at the meter. The driver stared past Vanning. And Vanning was taking money from his pocket and then he was looking at the driver, whose eyes remained focused on the rear window.
      “All right,” Vanning said. “Let's forget the beef. Let's keep going.”
      “Maybe you better get out here.”
      “Keep going,” Vanning said.
      “It's got to be level. I can't do it if it ain't level. You know how it is.”
      “I said keep going.”
      The taxi moved away from the curb, stopped for a red light. The light changed. Traffic was thinning out. Vanning folded his arms, sat stiffly on the edge of the seat.
      “Down Ninth Avenue?” the driver asked.
      “Try Tenth.”
      “A lot of trucks on Tenth.”
      “All right. Ninth. Give her some speed.”
      “Now look, mister—”
      “You heard me.”
      The taxi commenced racing down Ninth Avenue. A red light showed and the taxi ignored it, raced toward the next red light.
      “Make a turn,” Vanning said. “Turn left.”
      “Can't do that. One-way street. We'll be bucking traffic.”
      “Make the turn,” Vanning said.
      The taxi started a turn, veered away to remain on Ninth Avenue, cut past the next red light, then turned down a side street, and there was the sound of a policeman's whistle, and the taxi raced on.
      “Back to Fifth,” Vanning said.” Go past Fifth. Go toward the river. Don't stop for anything.”
      “It ain't no good,” the driver said. “We're in the center of Manhattan. We don't have no room to move. First thing you know, we'll have a smash-up. It's bound to happen.”
      “Don't look back at me. Keep your eyes on the windshield. Keep us moving.”
      “If I stop in heavy traffic you can hop out and—”
      “Don't tell me how to plan my day,” Vanning said. “Just drive your taxicab and let's see if we can do something smart.”
      “I sure did something smart when I picked you up.”
      “Drive, Admiral. Just drive.”
      They were going past Sixth. Past Fifth. There was another red light. They went past it. They went rushing toward the rear of a huge truck, and the truck came to a stop, and the truck became an expanse of dull green wall in front of them.
      “On the sidewalk,” Vanning said.
      Two wheels of the cab climbed up on the sidewalk, stayed on the sidewalk as the cab fought to get free. A man appeared in front of the cab, and the man's eyes bulged, the man leaped toward the wall of a building. The cab returned to the street, went tearing its way past the red light that showed on Madison.
      “I needed this,” the driver complained.
      “Don't worry,” Vanning said. “Everything's going to be all right. We're doing great.”
      “I'm glad you think so. That makes me feel a lot better.”
      Another truck blocked them off on Lexington Avenue. The driver twisted the wheel, they cut between two other cars, and the two other cars came together and there was the sound of a crash. Vanning's cab continued on its way, and in the distance there was the sound of a policeman's whistle. And another whistle.
      “You hear that?” the driver said.
      “I heard it.”
      “But that's the law.”
      “That's why it sounds so good.”
      “You don't get me, mister. I said the law. I'm doing the best I can, but we're working in a crowded city and there's too much law and not enough space. They're going to catch this cab.”
      “And the car in back of us.”
      “You know who's in back of us, mister?”
      “Sure,” Vanning said. “A green sedan. Right?”
      “Wrong,” the driver said. “Take a look. See for yourself.”
      Vanning stared at the driver's third-rate haircut. Then very slowly he turned and looked through the rear window and he saw another cab. It was quite a distance behind, and some cars were in front of it, but it was pushing its way past the cars. It was coming on.
      “The cab?” Vanning said.
      “Of course it's the cab. I thought you knew from the beginning.”
      “When was the beginning?”
      “When you climbed in. When we started out on Madison. I saw him making a beeline for that other cab. That's why we took the long ride. I was trying to help you out.”
      Vanning smashed a fist into his other hand. “It's John,” he said. “It's got to be John. It's got to end here. They've got to catch me and they've got to catch John. This is the windup. The only way it could end.” He knew he was getting onto the hysterical side, but there was nothing he could do about it. His voice sounded odd as he said, “You hear me?”
      “I hear you, mister, but I don't know what you're talking about.”
      “I'm talking about a bank robber named John.”
      “In that other cab?”
      “Right.”
      “Wrong,” the driver said. “The guy in that other cab is no bank robber. I know what he is.”
      “What?”
      “Detective.”
      At first it didn't click. It was too far away. Too high up or too far underground, and Vanning had to close his eyes and rub his palms into his eyes, and then he had to take himself back, to the phone booth in the drugstore, and he had to remember how long he had stayed on the phone, talking to Denver, and he had to estimate how long it would take Denver to trace the call, how long it would take Denver to call Manhattan police, how long it would take Headquarters in Manhattan to send a man to the drugstore. Vanning figured out in terms of minutes, and then he shook his head in a convulsive way, he tried to forget that he was in a racing taxi. And just then the whole thing clicked, and it made a tremendous noise in his head. And it was too much for him.
      “Take me to the river,” he said. “I may as well jump in.”
      “Don't go nuts on me,” the driver said. “Past Second Avenue I'll drive up an alley and you can hop out. We got a nice lead.”
      “How do you know he's a detective?”
      “I've seen him around.”
      “You sure?”
      “I'm telling you he's a plain-clothes man. I've seen him operate. What I ought to do is mind my own business. But you looked all right. You looked like a guy who needed a break.”
      “Where's that alley?”
      “Not far,” the driver said. “From now on,” he promised, “I'll get my excitement in the movies.”
      “Drive,” Vanning said. “I'm an innocent man. Believe me—”
      Slashing past Second Avenue, the cab almost made contact with another truck, curved away, and then out in front of the truck, then past a jalopy, then made a turn into a wide alleyway. On one side there was a gate that ran the length of the alley, and beyond the gate a grim line of wall with no windows showing. On the other side there was a warehouse, and Vanning saw windows and he saw doorways, and a few of the doors were open.
      His wallet was out, he was flipping a twenty-dollar bill toward the front seat, the cab was coming to a stop.
      “Keep moving,” he said. “Drive up the alley. After that I don't care what you do.”
      He jerked the door handle, leaped out of the cab, sprinted across the alley and threw himself at the nearest open doorway. As he went in, he could hear the noise made by an approaching siren.
      The warehouse was a huge place. It was quite dark in the area across which Vanning moved. He had to move slowly because it was so dark. Men's voices came from somewhere on the floor above. Vanning walked into a column of boxes, grabbed them as they started to topple over.