The Player on the Other Side (23 page)

‘Queen!' called Archer. ‘Do you know what she's going to do?'

‘Good morning,' said Ellery to Ann Drew; and to the dog, ‘Good morning, Bud,' said to young Archer, ‘First tell me which of these ladies you're talking about.'

‘It isn't Bud, it's Bub,' said Archer. ‘She's going to work with me. How do you like those apples! Finishing the collection.'

‘Bud is? Oh, licking stamps.'

‘Not Bub! Ann. She's agreed to stay on in the Square and work for me, and the trustees at the bank have okayed a salary for her.'

‘You actually crave a career of stamp-licking?' Ellery asked the girl, while saying to himself, Would God I were a tender 1869 Gambia 6d. pale blue no-watermark imperf.

‘You don't lick these stamps —' Archer began indulgently.

But Ann Drew smiled, an act somehow equivalent to daybreak, which immediately darkened because she also touched Tom Archer's arm. So Ellery sighed and said to the dog, ‘You and I are in the wrong business, Bud.'

‘Bub,' Archer corrected him again. ‘It's short for Beelzebub. But don't ask Ann why,' he added, fondly teasing. ‘It shocks her.'

‘Oh, yes,' Ellery recalled. ‘The thing Miss Drew said she would
never
tell me.' And then, perhaps because her hair and her smile had made his head spin, or this sustained whimsy had passed its proper peak, he tossed off words which at once he would gladly have given lifetime first North American serial rights to recall. All he meant was, ‘Why did you call the dog that?' but what actually emerged from his mouth was, And just what would shock the likes of you, milady?'

In that split second it came to Ellery in a flood: what she had done as a girl, and how terrified she was lest Tom Archer ever hear of it. Ellery's immediate predicament all but overwhelmed him, for her stricken face was scalding; and ‘Hey!' cried Tom Archer in swift concern, and stroked her. ‘Hey, there, it's not as bad as all
that.
'

That was when Ellery said, ‘Look, I have to run, I'm late for the mumble mumble,' and fled.

And there in the sunlight they watched him go; and to Archer's astonishment and delight Ann said to him, ‘Hold me, Tom, hold me tight …' so that he forgot to question what any of it meant.

Living ghosts invaded York Square. Among the strollers and rubbernecks on wheels — among the wiring inspectors, meter readers, inventory men from the estate's bank, postmen, laundry-men and newsmen — a high percentage came from Inspector Queen's and the D.A.'s offices. These ghosts were both seen and invisible. Above and behind, around and under, in manholes with listening bugs and in neighboring buildings with field glasses and cameras, the cordon was thrown around Percival York. He was of necessity informed of what was going on, but he liked it not and he took it dimly. Some of his protection he could see; but a great deal of it was kept secret from him, and therefore Percival never felt that he was getting enough.

Yet it was impossible to rely on him. Not four hours after unreservedly promising the Queens to stay in sight at all times, or to notify the nearest guard when he felt he had to leave York Square, Percival slipped his tails (and was neatly tailed again without his knowledge, thanks to a man on Emily's tower with a handie-talkie and another on a neighboring rooftop with a tight-beam flashlight), and took a taxi to the estate's bank. Here he demanded to know if the terms of his residence in the Square under old Nathaniel's will could be stretched far enough to allow his taking a cruise until the danger was past. The bank official who told him solemnly that, were he to do such a thing, he might forfeit the entire fortune was frankly lying, because Ellery had been there against just such a contingency. Not since that magnificent miser, Jack Benny, was asked by a holdup man, ‘Your money or your life,' had a man seemed in such anguished indecision as Percival York. Living bait, he acted as if he feared the worst by the moment, by the breath, the bite and the swallow (Ellery remarked to his father that York must fear a dozen deaths; no man could be that afraid of only one). The alternative, to flee and lose his pending millions, must have been to him — judging by his behavior — quite as dreadful a prospect as death itself.

Of all things Percival feared, he feared Walt the most.

The handyman had slipped back into his routine without a sign of trauma. He was no trouble to watch; he was thoroughly preoccupied. He had regained his tongue with his freedom; but he had never exercised it lavishly, and he obeyed Inspector Queen's injunction to the letter: to answer no questions about his arrest from anyone, and to refer the persistent questioners to the Inspector.

‘Not that he'd spill anything,' the old man growled. ‘You can make Walt answer questions by the yard without learning a blasted thing.'

And Ellery nodded, himself preoccupied.

Walt did what he was told. He was told to do little, for he had a sharpshooter's eye for a fleck of plaster, a bald spot on a lawn, a dripping faucet; for the rest, he spent most of his time in his room, since the passing of three of the four Yorks left him largely maintenance duties.

The toy printing set, on which no prints had been found but Walt's, had been returned precisely to its hiding place; so had the letters from Y — after being photostated and microphotographed by the lab. The letters, too, had yielded no fingerprints but Walt's; hence the microphotographs. If they should reveal any sign of latent prints, the originals could always be repossessed for further examination.

‘This case, though,' said the Inspector sourly, ‘will hang by no easy threads like that. This is a fall-on-your-face kind of case.'

‘This case,' retorted his son, ‘is a drop-dead kind of case.'

There was little chance that Walt might destroy the letters, both Queens felt. They meant so much to him that, to preserve their wonderful testimony to his worth, he had risked the displeasure of his guardian angel — the only thing in which apparently he had disobeyed Y.

Walt's course and Percival's seldom crossed: but when they did the result was ludicrous. Small and stocky Walt, with that queer glide-on-tracks gait, the oddly nonreflecting eye-balls, the withdrawn glance — Walt would proceed from here to there like a natural event, a distant flight of birds, or an oncoming winter, unchangeable by anything outside itself. Ambling, shambling, bag-eyed Percival, who ordinarily managed a jaunty step, would — at his first glimpse of Walt — wobble on his feet like a suddenly pierced balloon … not so much from weakness as from sheer indecision about which way to go.

At the same time Percival's pressures were not all directed toward escape; he seemed to have a stubborn desire to fluff the whole thing off like a man. If Walt's course seemed to be taking him by at a safe distance, Percival might tremble and flutter, but he would hold his ground; or, if there was a wall or a tree behind him, he backed toward it slowly, never taking his eyes off his enemy, until he stood with his bentbow spine hard-pressed against solidity … breathing noisily, nostrils aflutter, beady eyes peering out over their discolored shelves. So he would stand until Walt was unequivocally past; after which he would slump, and sigh, and straighten up and go about his business. If, of course, the encounter was direct, Percival unhesitatingly ran. It was as if he knew that Walt not only had, but was, some sort of fragmentation bomb.

As for Walt, at a distance or in close, he sidled by at never-changing speed, on a never-changing course, oblivious.

So matters held for almost a week, while the Queens,
pater
and
filius
, waited for the next move.

He was not displeased.

True, there had been delays. But then, the universe itself was created force against force, each modifying the other. The forces seldom balanced: so often there was a flow one way or the other. The hand of God met resistance in the clay it molded, or the molding would have been impossible.

He contemplated the night city through the dirty window of the hotel room. The city's lights danced nervously. He smiled.

He turned, and crossed the dreary little room, and patted the patiently waiting typewriter, and went to the door.

He put out the light.

He locked the door.

He left.

Ann Drew and Tom Archer saw a play in Greenwich Village, took the subway for the short journey home, and a little past midnight found themselves in the dark warmth of York Square. They paused to kiss briefly before the plaque bearing Nathaniel York, Junior's, name, because there they had almost quarreled once; and it was from there that they heard the distant sound of weeping.

For a shocked moment they looked toward each other in the gloom. Then Ann hurried off in the direction of the ugly sound. Then Archer hurried after her.

The sound drew them halfway around the Square, to Percival York's house; and here they found its source, on the top step, weeping and rocking.

Ann ran up the walk, Tom running after with a warning word. But before she could reach the step, or the word could be spoken, a tall blackness separated itself from a deeper blackness and said sharply, ‘Hold it, there!' and then said softly, ‘Oh, Miss Drew, Mr. Archer. Evening.'

‘
Gosh
,' breathed Ann. ‘I didn't see you at all.'

‘Inspector Queen's know-how, Miss Drew,' said Detective Zilgitt amiably. ‘Inspector knows the value of assigning a black detective to a dark night.'

Ann smiled a faint smile. Her pupils had adjusted to the darkness by now, and she could just make out the glow of the city detective's answering smile. ‘Is that … Mr. York?'

‘Nobody else.'

‘But he's crying.'

‘Been crying for close to an hour.'

‘Can't you do anything for him?'

‘I'm just my brother's keeper,' said Zillie dryly. ‘Holding his hand isn't my department.'

Ann licked her lip, braced, began the swift movement to kneel by the weeping, rocking Percival. Instantly the detective checked her, with the same gesture taking her purse. Archer, squinting, saw how deftly the man passed it from one hand to the other, weighing it, taking inventory. ‘Let Mr. Archer hold this for you,' said Zilgitt kindly. He handed it over.

‘But this
is
your department,' said Archer.

‘That's right,' said the detective, and he drifted in close as Ann sank down before the sobbing man.

‘Percival.' Ann shook his shoulder gently. ‘It's me, Ann.'

‘Didn't want you to — see me — this way,' sobbed Percival.

‘Ah, now listen,' said Tom Archer. He hauled Ann to her feet from behind. ‘Let the guy be. Didn't you ever see a crying jag before?'

She shrugged his hands away. ‘He has
not
been drinking, Tom! Don't you see he's in trouble?' She knelt again. Archer, feeling foolish, stepped back. ‘Percival?'

‘Didn't want you to — see me — like this,' wept Percival stubbornly.

‘What is it? What's wrong?'

He put down his hands. She reached past to snare his display handkerchief, shook it out and gave it to him. Reflexively he wiped his face. ‘Annie — I mean, Miss Snff.'

‘Ann,' she said.

Not noisily, Tom Archer spat.

‘Don't bother about me. Please.'

‘Isn't there something we can do for you?'

‘Nobody can do anything. I wish I never heard of this place. Or the money.'

‘You don't have to stay here.'

‘But I do. You think I've got the moxie to walk away from eleven million bucks? But —'

‘Go on,' Ann Drew crooned.

Percival slapped his own face angrily with the handkerchief. ‘But I can't stand it here, either. I've got nobody, nothing.'

Tom Archer said, ‘You'll have eleven million bucks.'

‘And what's that, all by yourself?' Percival sniffed and blew his nose. ‘Look at you two, what you've got. Each other. Work you like, that pays your way. And people who like
you
. Know anybody that likes me? In forty-six years I've never had anybody'

‘You could still have it,' Ann said emotionally.

He shook his head. ‘I never learned how. You know, Ann,' he said, very quietly, ‘I really did
not
want you to see me like this. This thing's done something to me. You won't believe it, but I've quit drinking — I haven't been near a single horse parlor — I got rid of … Well.' He made a difficult little laugh. ‘And here I am, having to
tell
it to people! Where do you start if you want to be like everyone else and you don't know how?'

Tom Archer squatted on a heel beside Ann and looked into Percival's face from a distance of six inches. ‘You actually mean what you're saying?'

‘Tom, he does!' cried Ann. ‘Percival — Mr. York — look. I know at least three people who'll help. Tom and me —'

‘And who else?' It was part leaping hope, part wry disbelief.

‘You.'

Young Archer rose. ‘Perce, you be at Robert's house nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I've got a deadline on those stamps, and Ann and I are swamped. I can use your help. Will you come?'

The last known survivor of the Yorks leaned eagerly toward the two young faces, peering in astonishment. Then — ‘All right!' Percival York said. ‘All
right!
'

The hardest thing Ellery had had to do was con his father into taking the tails off John Henry Walt after releasing him from custody. The hardest thing Inspector Queen had had to do was con his superiors into looking the other way. By some magic, possibly the alchemy of desperation, both succeeded.

‘They're examining my reports,' mumbled the Inspector, ‘when they ought to be examining my head. I've got everybody so dazzled by this thing that no one's opened his eyes wide enough to see that I'm letting an indictable killer run around loose with a completely bare bottom.'