Black-Eyed Stranger Read online

  “You’re being careful?” Salisbury asked. He held a hand between his weary eyes and the lamp. He felt the awful responsibility of acting for the sole objective, moving flawlessly in the pattern, making no error in an utterly strange and perfectly horrible world.

  “It’s all undercover, sir. Don’t worry. Nobody even guesses she’s gone. But Lynch just is not around. However, there’s a rumor that he keeps a car. They’re trying to discover where. If it has gone, too, I must advise using the police organization. They can find a car, sir.”

  “Not yet, Alan.”

  “But how long? I can’t understand,” Alan beat his knee, “why they don’t communicate. If it is what we think, they’re bound to communicate quickly, before the police get into it. Don’t you see? They should have done so already.” He was puzzled by a break in the pattern. He did not notice the motionless silence of his host, the movement of Martha’s elbow as it pressed her knitting bag to her side. “When they do, we may get hold of something more to work on. At least, we will be sure what this is. We will have something to turn over …”

  Salisbury said quietly, “You’re not, in any way, going against our wishes, Alan. Are you?”

  Alan’s face tightened. “I only wish I could convince you. This isn’t for you to handle, sir. You are too close, too emotionally involved. Amateurs cannot deal with this thing. My men aren’t amateurs, of course, and they are doing their best but it needs the organization.”

  “I want my girl,” said Salisbury for the second time. Although his voice was quiet it was as if he had screamed. He was sorry to have said it. He looked anxiously at Martha.

  She was knitting. Her hair was oddly tousled. It was a strange effect. She sat so quietly, knitting under the lamp, and her hands were swift and her voice was calm. As if she had everything under control except her white hair, which rebelled and rose from her scalp to betray her.

  Martha said, “If we could find Sam Lynch. Where can he be? He knows.”

  “He certainly must know,” Salisbury murmured. The sum Lynch mentioned was the sum they asked. Lynch had known.

  “He more than knows,” Alan was grim.

  “And yet,” Salisbury spoke with an admonishing doubt, “he did come here to warn us. And although they left the building at about the same time, they did not leave together. I believe he is on our side. I think he would help us. If it was his plan to take her away, why did he warn us?”

  “The man’s mind is so twisted,” Alan said, “so devious, so split, I don’t suppose, sir, that you and I could follow his reasoning. I’m sure he is involved.”

  Salisbury, watching from behind his hand, felt an impulse to cry out at the tense young face, don’t be so cocksure! The boy was behaving well. He’d done no breast-beating, no brow-clutching, and he had been industrious. Nevertheless, something about him plucked at the nerves. Some glib use of words, as when he said “emotionally involved.” And some arrogance, as of an expert in these things, and even his very assumption of so much responsibility was irritating.

  “Lynch will be found,” Alan said as if. this was doom, “and Lynch will talk.”

  Salisbury didn’t feel so sure. He could imagine Lynch never talking at all, since dead men don’t. But he kept this image to himself. “I suppose your people can do little more tonight,” he murmured. “Alan, Martha is too tired. I rather think she must take something and sleep.”

  “You, too,” Martha said. “Both of us, Charles.”

  They seemed to lean on each other, and by leaning, hold each other up. Yet they dared not admit to each other anything but hope. The father thought, ah, my brave love! and felt a fullness behind his tired tearless eyes. “Must rest,” he murmured.

  Alan sensed no dismissal. “If only I,” the pronoun bore some emphasis, “had heard all Lynch had to say. Maybe he let drop more than you realize. There may have been something.”

  “I’ve told you everything,” the father said.

  The blond boy turned to the mother. “Tell me everything he said to you.”

  Martha’s hands became still. Her pretty face, framed in the wild white hair, lacked the airs and graces of her prettiness, but all its lines seemed to have been carved deeper, cleaner, to a most somber beauty. She told how Sam Lynch had identified himself. How they had spoken, and she so frivolously, about crime. “And we spoke about you and your interests, Alan. I saidhow Kay was interested, too. As I had been in Charles’ business. In the biscuit business. He said something about a warehouse. I gathered that he wrote fiction. I don’t remember why.”

  “Warehouse?” Alan frowned.

  “Yes. He said … I remember the words …‘somebody watching over them night and day.’ It was a strange thing to say.”

  “Watchman,” cried Salisbury. “Wait. I remember that word.”

  Alan’s held breath demanded more.

  Salisbury dredged it up. “Something about visiting the sins of the employees upon the boss—”

  “An employee? A watchman?” Alan jumped up. “Must mean something. Who is your night watchman at the warehouse?”

  “I don’t know. Have no idea.”

  “Can you find out.”

  “Yes, of course I can. Wait.” Salisbury turned from the phone. “The name is Perrigrine. He is on duty now. Had the job only a week, since the old man died.”

  “The old man died?”

  “Yes, in an accident.”

  “Wait,” said Alan. “How long was the old man there, sir?”

  “I can ask.”

  “No, wait. There was some kind of shooting affair, last year. And your watchman testified. Remember? He saw something suspicious. Wait, I’m recalling it. He called the police before the thing happened. That was it. It was the time Ambielli was nearly killed. A gang thing. Classical underworld feud. Everyone knew that Emanuel was behind it. Ambielli was pretty well ruined. He left town.”

  “But this … what has this to do—?”

  “Ambielli,” said Alan thoughtfully.

  “What about Ambielli?” snapped Salisbury.

  “Is back in town.”

  To Salisbury the thought came, in sequence, quietly. And the old man died. It came so quietly that he began to say it. “And the old man …” Before he came to the end of the phrase his mind ran ahead of his tongue and he stopped.

  He heard Alan asking, “What kind of an accident did the old man die in?”

  Salisbury shook his head. He didn’t know. He was wondering. He wanted to ask when Ambielli had come back to town, but he didn’t dare. He sat, looking at it. The hideous idea. An old man, on duty, saw something. Dutifully, called the police. Now, died. Now. Months later! “Oh, no, ridiculous!” he said loudly.

  “If Lynch was hinting,” Alan mused, “he couldn’t have meant Emanuel. No reason for him to carry a grudge against you.” Alan chewed his fingernail. “Can’t be. It is ridiculous.”

  Charles Salisbury lifted his hands. “What grudge against me?” Such a grudge, he thought, as killed an old man, months later. “How could I be held responsible? I had nothing to do with it.” Reason protested. But, all the same, his mind reached outside a strict and reasonable order and he thought, no, it wasn’t a grudge exactly. But it was a way, almost a whimsical, an accidental way for me to have been heard of, known about, and chosen for this. Since I have a daughter. Salisbury’s eyes winced.

  “Ambielli is back in town,” Alan said, “I’ve heard as much.” His pupils slid sideways. “I don’t believe it, ‘visiting the sins …’ That’s sensationalism. Must have been Lynch’s idea of a réd herring.” His mouth curled.

  “But if Mr. Lynch were honest,” Martha said gravely, “and if it were this man he overheard, then where is Lynch?”

  Salisbury thought to himself, if Lynch were honest, he may be dead. As the old watchman is dead. He didn’t speak. He moistened his lips.

  “Oh, lying low,” said Alan contemptuously. “Keeping out of the way. So much is plausible. People like Lynch have an exaggerated dre
ad of the Ambiellis. Part admiration, of course. But I don’t think he was honest. If so, why not name the name?”

  Salisbury said, “Because of the dread.”

  Alan raised his brows.

  “Lynch was afraid,” Salisbury said slowly, “and the name wasn’t essential, yesterday.”

  “Or,” said Alan skeptically, “those cryptic hints were dropped to confuse and mislead us.”

  “I d-don’t …” Salisbury stuttered. “You say it’s plausible that he is afraid. But you won’t grant he thought he was putting himself in danger.”

  Alan smiled. “Why would he put himself in danger?”

  “Because he had a decent impulse.”

  “That is out of character. I assure you.”

  So sure? thought Salisbury. Are we never out of character? Is there never anything wild, not named in the catalogue?

  “My mind is open, of course,” said Alan, and Salisbury blinked. “I had better phone the agency. Better see what they can turn up on Ambielli. This may be helpful. May be important.” Alan had a bustling air.

  “I wish,” Salisbury shielded his eyes to hide alarm. “Alan, let it alone a day. I beg of you.”

  “But—”

  “If they communicate with me … Don’t you understand?” Let it alone, he was thinking, because perhaps they haven’t hurt her yet. Don’t start up trouble and suspicion. Not now. Not yet.

  The young man was earnest. “Believe me, I no more want to risk … anything than you do, sir. I don’t feel it is a risk. Or that you realize how perfectly discreet these men can be. There won’t be any fanfare, or the ponderous movement of the department. Which, I agree, may have its spies. But I am sure—”

  “I am not so sure as you are,” Salisbury said sharply. “I want no risk. No added risk.”

  Alan pursed his lips together.

  Then Martha threw back her rumpled head. “Indulge us, Alan,” she said tartly.

  Alan said, gently, “I know how you feel. I do understand. How paralyzing it all is.” He squared his shoulders. “That’s always the hideous difficulty in these things.”

  “Good night,” she said abruptly. Both her hands held to her knitting bag.

  Charles Salisbury showed Alan out. When he came back, his wife was sitting with her eyes shut, holding in both her hands the piece of silk that had been hidden in her knitting bag. She said, “I’m glad we didn’t tell him.” Her eyes opened, and they were cloudy. “He makes me nervous.”

  “Yes.”

  She said, “As if it were a case. A type of thing. Not Katherine.”

  Not, thought Salisbury in agony, the only Katherine in all time, all space, forever. He said, aloud, “I know.” He came and touched the purple-red scarf in her hands. It was the sign that had come with the message. It was their hope. “Another day,” he sighed.

  “I wish it were tonight. I wish the note had said tonight.”

  “No, no. Don’t you see? They give me time, the daylight hours tomorrow, to get the cash. They want the money. That’s their only objective.”

  “Yes, of course. Of course, Charles.”

  “So they give me time to get the money. It’s reasonable.” He pretended.

  “Yes. Yes, I do see.” She bowed her head to his reasoning. As they both must.

  He thought, ah, my brave love. And Thursday was gone, but it would be a long day, Friday.

  Chapter 10

  IT was incredible that Thursday had gone by. Kay, wakening to day, thought, but this is Friday! How could it be? “Is it Friday?” she said.

  “Far as I know, and Friday afternoon at that. Why don’t you sleep nights?” He was hoarse. As far as she knew, he hadn’t slept at all.

  She sat up angrily. “Because I’m looking for a chance to get away.”

  For a moment, his black eyes laughed at her. Then he told her soberly that there was no chance.

  “Why not? Sam, let me.”

  “You’re too young and foolish, that’s why not.” She wondered if he were evading. “God knows what would happen to you,” he grumbled.

  “God knows what’ll happen to me anyway. You don’t.”

  “That’s right. There’s coffee. And salmon.”

  “Salmon!”

  “On crackers, it makes a meal. This isn’t the Waldorf, sister.”

  She went into the bathroom and locked the door. Across the dirty narrow window pane she could see the wild green and yellow grasses. She washed her face and combed her hair, flung open the door and said, “It’s a pigsty.” She straightened the bunks, quickly, energetically, with righteous anger. She neatened the shelves. She went into the narrow rustic inconvenient camp kitchen and she fell upon the disorder there.

  For the first time, with shock, she saw that there was a door in the left wall, which was the outside wall. She stepped softly and put her hand on the knob. It wasn’t locked. It was only a cupboard. She sighed. Then she knew he was leaning on the wall, watching her, and she began vigorously to rearrange the things in the cupboard.

  “Well, busy as a bee.”

  But she skipped the chance to squabble and, turning, said seriously what she had been thinking. “You don’t trust anyone. But I do. Sam, this is stupid. We can’t wait here forever, just because you don’t know what to do next. I trust my father and mother.”

  “Naturally,” he said. “And Alan?”

  “Naturally, for heaven’s sake. Sam, will you listen to me?”

  “Yes, I will,” he said quietly.

  “All right. I will believe all you say. And I will do my best to protect you. I promise,” she told him earnestly, “I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done. I don’t have to tell.”

  “You will protect me, sister?” He wasn’t exactly amused. She couldn’t read his eyes.

  “Then, Ambielli will never know.”

  “Too late.”

  “Why do you say—?”

  “I don’t know. I have a hunch.” He looked so tired as to be almost ill.

  “You must see that I will be guarded, now,” she cried. “After this. You must see that.”

  “Yes, I see that,” he answered numbly.

  “Are you … so afraid of Ambielli?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid.”

  “But he couldn’t blame you,” she said softly, “if I ran away.”

  “No.” His face didn’t change but she knew he was sad and disappointed.

  “Then, take me home, and you stay there, too. They can guard both of us.”

  “Alan would love that, sister.”

  “But—”

  “Maybe Alan could rehabilitate me. He’s got his theories. He’s a moral snob, all the same.”

  “What!”

  “Once soiled, never quite white again. A guy who forgives with his head. Nothing moves in the heart.” He lay his head against the wood of the wall. “Look at my mouth hanging open.”

  “You’re so stupid about Alan,” she raged.

  “And you trust him, sister.”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  “Well, you’d trust anybody.”

  “I would not.” She stamped her foot like a child. “Oh, Sam, I can believe—maybe I can—that you were trying to do something for my sake. But I think, if you didn’t senselessly hate Alan Dulain, you’d never. have gotten into this mess.”

  “Maybe not. That’s very shrewd. That’s a right shrewd notion.”

  “Isn’t that true?”

  “Don’t nag me.”

  She said, “You’re tired.”

  “To the bone,” he admitted. “Yeah, I’m pretty tired, sister. Dare say.”

  “Coffee?”

  They sat down at the table together. For a moment, it was companionable. It was almost cozy.

  “Listen, sister,” he said hoarsely, “when you see your mamma, tell her, will you? I never made a pass.”

  She thought, startled, we’re shut in so close we’re reading minds. She said, aloud, turning the subject, “Why do you keep listening, Sam? You�
��re always listening.”

  “For wolves. I’ve told you and told you, there are wolves,” he muttered. “There really are. I told you about Baby Hohenbaum.”

  “Baby Hohenbaum,” she nodded.

  “He only knows one thing. Without pay, even. The boss is God. And I told you about Ambielli. Ambielli kills. He thinks nothing of it. He’s got nothing much to lose, either. He’s raw. He’s death walking. Sister, you can’t kid around with death. It’s so permanent.”

  “I know.” She sucked in breath.

  “So don’t say it again.” His eyes shut, wincingly. “Please, I beg of you. If I could figure out how to take you safe home, believe me, I would do it. Glad to get rid of you. No offense.” He looked so tired! “Well, seems as though nobody’s coming out here. Maybe, after today, if nobody comes, I can reconnoiter.”

  “Another day?” she exclaimed in dismay.

  “Another night,” he said. “Sister, I’m confused. I freely admit it.” He reeled in the chair. “I had no business thrusting an oar in. Not my style. Nor my habit. A reporter, I said to your mamma, is one who sees what’s going on. Watches, you know? Looks on. Well, I’ll tell you, that’s more my style.” He rubbed his face. “No man of action, I. No hero. You don’t believe in the wolves, though. Not yet. That’s the trouble.”

  She thought, he’s getting so tired and confused, before he knows it, he’ll let me go.

  And by that close magic he answered her thought. “No, I won’t let you go. I can’t trust you yet.”

  “Ah, why?”

  “You’re too inexperienced, too romantic.”

  “Sam …”

  “Alan said so. And the difference between Alan and me is this, sister. I tell you. Alan tells me. That’s the difference.”

  “Alan,” she said severely, “is a fine person. He is very intelligent and well informed, and he is heading for all kinds of important good works, and his ideal is service to mankind. I don’t like the way you talk against him.”

  “Good works, eh?” Sam looked wild. “Oh, yes. A do-gooder. He’s going to do this sorry world a lot of good. But not in my dictionary, he doesn’t. Listen, shall I tell you the way for a man to do good? I don’t claim I do it, you understand, but I know. You’re born and you grow. You live and learn, and you take out of yourself what it is you’ve got and you lay it on the line and you offer it. Out of yourself, what you can do, for other people to use if they can. This is service. See? See it?”