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Authors: Dorothy B. Hughes
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recalled caution—“is in retirement.”
Cassidy belched. “I’m not looking for the Secretary.” His little eyes peered from under his hat. “I’m looking for a briefcase.” He began to laugh, choking with it.
Piers echoed, “A briefcase.” Bewilderment must have shown on his face for Cassidy wheezed until a globule fell from each eye.
But there wasn’t a briefcase. He’d invented it for Captain Devlin. And Devlin, accepting George Henderson, had set this watchdog on Piers Hunt. It didn’t add up. In order to recover a briefcase Devlin wouldn’t set a watch on the man who lost it. The answer must lie in Johann Schmidt. Piers repeated now, shaking his head, “A briefcase?” And he frowned. “Whose briefcase?”
The laughter was shut off like that. The little eyes were again chips of stone. “The briefcase of Secretary Anstruther.”
Piers removed his fingers one by one from the stem of the wineglass.
“It’s about so big.” The gnarled hands moved. “Made out of alligator. Real alligator.”
Piers had realized it with a rush of fury at his self-betrayal. The betrayal of the subconscious. He had described Anstruther’s dispatch case to Devlin. He had been so certain that no one would believe he would retain that case, that he had done any more than return it to the Secretary. Because no one but he knew the Secretary was dead. If he’d ever owned a briefcase, if he’d handled any other—it was too late to retract description. More than ever now he wanted to learn who had set the detective on his trail. How to ask he didn’t know. He parried, “Do you mean the Secretary has lost his case?”
Cassidy drained the glass.
“And do you mean to say,” he gathered momentum, “that Secretary Anstruther told you in order to find it you should follow me?”
The mask covered the face again. “Who says I’m following you?”
Piers said flatly, “I don’t believe it.” He forced it upon the hulk of man. “I’ve worked with Secretary Anstruther for years. If he’d lost something and thought I might know where it was, he’d ask me. He wouldn’t ask the New York detective force to find it by trailing me. Who set you on me?”
“The boss.”
“The Commissioner of Police?” He was the boss, Devlin had said it. And he was averse to murder. Johann Schmidt was a part of the answer. Piers hadn’t killed the man. But he mustn’t talk about it. First they must give him their knowledge. He paid the check. “I’m going to dinner now, the theater later. I don’t imagine it will do any good to tell you I have no briefcase, neither of my own nor of Secretary Anstruther, and that you might as well go home and get a night’s rest.”
“Don’t worry about me none.” Cassidy wiped his mouth. “I’m obliged for the beer.”
Piers left him standing in the lobby, worrying a tabloid. But the eyes above the paper were watching.
2.
On Broadway at night, glittering and noisy, he was not haunted by African desert, by silence and sun. He moved with the crowd as far as Lindy’s, waited for a booth. No one here was concerned about the future of peace. They had peace. He ordered a steak dinner, watched the crowd thinning as curtain time neared. Dining alone was dining quickly. He would reach the musical before its late curtain. There would be standing room; that was important, to get inside the theater.
When he came out of the restaurant he saw Cassidy, a loiterer on the corner. Cassidy didn’t appear to see him. But it proved Cassidy had spoken true; it didn’t matter that his identity was disclosed. He would follow until he was led to what the boss, or someone behind the boss, wanted.
Piers knew this theater, knew the second floor exit to a catwalk leading to the producer’s office. An office which would not be locked until after the final curtain and which would be unoccupied during that time. The producer clung to the wings whenever he had a leg show. The SRO sign was out. Piers bought a
Cassidy belched. “I’m not looking for the Secretary.” His little eyes peered from under his hat. “I’m looking for a briefcase.” He began to laugh, choking with it.
Piers echoed, “A briefcase.” Bewilderment must have shown on his face for Cassidy wheezed until a globule fell from each eye.
But there wasn’t a briefcase. He’d invented it for Captain Devlin. And Devlin, accepting George Henderson, had set this watchdog on Piers Hunt. It didn’t add up. In order to recover a briefcase Devlin wouldn’t set a watch on the man who lost it. The answer must lie in Johann Schmidt. Piers repeated now, shaking his head, “A briefcase?” And he frowned. “Whose briefcase?”
The laughter was shut off like that. The little eyes were again chips of stone. “The briefcase of Secretary Anstruther.”
Piers removed his fingers one by one from the stem of the wineglass.
“It’s about so big.” The gnarled hands moved. “Made out of alligator. Real alligator.”
Piers had realized it with a rush of fury at his self-betrayal. The betrayal of the subconscious. He had described Anstruther’s dispatch case to Devlin. He had been so certain that no one would believe he would retain that case, that he had done any more than return it to the Secretary. Because no one but he knew the Secretary was dead. If he’d ever owned a briefcase, if he’d handled any other—it was too late to retract description. More than ever now he wanted to learn who had set the detective on his trail. How to ask he didn’t know. He parried, “Do you mean the Secretary has lost his case?”
Cassidy drained the glass.
“And do you mean to say,” he gathered momentum, “that Secretary Anstruther told you in order to find it you should follow me?”
The mask covered the face again. “Who says I’m following you?”
Piers said flatly, “I don’t believe it.” He forced it upon the hulk of man. “I’ve worked with Secretary Anstruther for years. If he’d lost something and thought I might know where it was, he’d ask me. He wouldn’t ask the New York detective force to find it by trailing me. Who set you on me?”
“The boss.”
“The Commissioner of Police?” He was the boss, Devlin had said it. And he was averse to murder. Johann Schmidt was a part of the answer. Piers hadn’t killed the man. But he mustn’t talk about it. First they must give him their knowledge. He paid the check. “I’m going to dinner now, the theater later. I don’t imagine it will do any good to tell you I have no briefcase, neither of my own nor of Secretary Anstruther, and that you might as well go home and get a night’s rest.”
“Don’t worry about me none.” Cassidy wiped his mouth. “I’m obliged for the beer.”
Piers left him standing in the lobby, worrying a tabloid. But the eyes above the paper were watching.
2.
On Broadway at night, glittering and noisy, he was not haunted by African desert, by silence and sun. He moved with the crowd as far as Lindy’s, waited for a booth. No one here was concerned about the future of peace. They had peace. He ordered a steak dinner, watched the crowd thinning as curtain time neared. Dining alone was dining quickly. He would reach the musical before its late curtain. There would be standing room; that was important, to get inside the theater.
When he came out of the restaurant he saw Cassidy, a loiterer on the corner. Cassidy didn’t appear to see him. But it proved Cassidy had spoken true; it didn’t matter that his identity was disclosed. He would follow until he was led to what the boss, or someone behind the boss, wanted.
Piers knew this theater, knew the second floor exit to a catwalk leading to the producer’s office. An office which would not be locked until after the final curtain and which would be unoccupied during that time. The producer clung to the wings whenever he had a leg show. The SRO sign was out. Piers bought a
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