"Walsh, Thomas - Nightmare In Manhattan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Walsh Thomas)

УBut they had to,Ф Calhoun insisted huskily, as if insistence could help them. УI tell you they had to.Ф

УDid they?Ф OТMara said. УI wouldnТt say so. They got rid of him first thing this afternoon, Willie. Think it out.Ф


It was about ten minutes past two when Calhoun started the coupe away from Dover Village. One of the police sedans had been detailed then to drive the father over to North Rhinehill; but, when Calhoun left, the police car was still in front of 24 Maple Avenue, and Donnelly had one arm around the father beside it, and was talking to him quietly and earnestly in the Donnelly monotone.

In swinging around, CalhounТs headlights passed over them, so that Donnelly blinked and turned his head away for a moment, although the father did not appear to be affected by them, or even to notice them. The last thing Calhoun saw up there was the father standing beside the big police car with a cap Ч the boyТs cap which Calhoun had found in Locker 572 earlier Ч in his left hand. Apparently he was listening to Donnelly, and nodding at him. Every so often, however, he would touch the cap, smooth the top of it, and then start turning it over and over again.

Mike Frost, who was going down to headquarters now, and the Kennedy girl, who was going home, rode along with Calhoun. She did not say anything to either of them. She did not show anything. Later, when they turned right at the foot of the hill for the Dover Village traffic circle, she kept her eyes fixed stonily ahead through CalhounТs windshield.

Mike Frost, addressing himself to Calhoun, but of course for her benefit, announced that in his opinion this thing had just started. Donnelly would get hold of some information by the time he was done with 24 Maple Avenue, and Donnelly was the man to know what to do with it. There was, consequently, no reason to feel upset or discouraged yet. Why should there be?

But Frances said nothing to that argument; nor did Calhoun. Of course, Mike Frost added irritably, a lot of people did not understand how a police organization got things done; but he hoped no one here would entertain the idea that what had happened to Carl Rothman tonight was going to be made public information.

The other two men could find out about him if they came up to Dover Village in person, or if they attempted to phone the house; but if they did either of those things they were going to find a lot of trouble waiting for them. A phone call from New York, Mike Frost pointed out, could be traced almost instantaneously with the police watching for it; and if the other two men were reckless enough to show themselves at 24 Maple Avenue they would be just where Donnelly wanted them. So all in all, Mike Frost saidЕ Still nobody responded to him. He stirred restlessly, looked at the girl, and looked at Calhoun.

УAll right,Ф he said, as if he was very much annoyed with Calhoun. УWhat are you sittinС there for like a dummy? Why donТt you say somethin? Why donТt you open your mouth?Ф

Calhoun made the effort. The best thing that could have happened, Calhoun declared; the house at 24 Maple Avenue would probably lead them right to little Tony Murchison. These affairs were all built up bit by bit; and in the long run Ч

УI suppose thatТs the best way to look at it,Ф Frances said quietly. УIn the long run. ThatТs what matters. Not that we should have paid them, and that you both know we should have paid them.Ф

Mike Frost blustered at her. He said that he had been in this business for twenty-four years, and that of all the stupid things to do, paying the ransom was just about Ч

УDonТt lie to me,Ф Frances said. УDonТt bother.Ф Her breathing had become difficult. УWhy donТt you think of the child, if he isnТt too unimportant? I know what it is. YouТve all got to prove how smart you are, how much you know and tough and curt you can be. Well, go ahead, if thatТs what bothers you. A little boy who likes picture books Ч heТs nothing at all. HeТs only Ч Ф

УThatТs not the truth,Ф Calhoun told her, just as quiet as she was. УAnd nobody has the right to say those things. If they do, they donТt know what theyТre talking about.Ф

УOh, of course,Ф Frances said, her voice openly shaking then. УNo right at all. But IТm afraid I canТt quite manage the beautiful detached viewpoint. That little boy matters to me. And thatТs stupid, isnТt it? ThatТs simply Ч Ф

Mike Frost made one or two awkward attempts at comforting her; but Willie Calhoun did not. Those heavy features of his never looked at her all the way down the West Side highway; he said nothing, and even when they stopped outside her apartment house on East 58th Street he let Mike Frost get out and open the door for her. Savages, Frances thought blindly Ч all of them; and the worst this chunky and powerful young man with the ugly face, and the very small and very hard-pupiled gray eyes.

She was not afraid of him any more. The idea she had of him at that time was not so different from the idea she had of the big redheaded man; she even insisted to herself, not too logically, that anyone as unfeeling and as tough-looking as Willie Calhoun could be on her side, and on little TonyТs, by nothing but mere chance. There was no word, really, for what she felt in regard to him; and of course she never suspected that there was no word for what Willie Calhoun was again beginning to feel in regard to himself.

The old questions were back. Why hadnТt he stopped those two men in the station at half past five? Why hadnТt he taken them upstairs, worked them over a little and made them talk? There seemed to be no defense for him at all; and no reaction but an almost unbearable sense of shame and anguish. Live with it now, Calhoun thought dumbly. Why not? HadnТt he earned it?

He drove down to Manhattan Depot with Mike Frost, where they found that nothing new had developed. Locker 572 was still under observation, but with no further results so far; and up near Fordham Road Eddie Mather and Lieutenant Nolan were still trying to locate the big redhead. Nothing anywhere, Calhoun told himself; and so that six-year-old boy Ч

They went on into the depot for a cup of coffee. Now the ticket windows were all closed and dark, the train gates deserted and shadowy, and most of the overhead lights off, so that the main concourse was not as Calhoun saw it usually. A few footsteps, the remote echo of a few quiet and leisurely voices, composed themselves, up there under the high vault of Manhattan Depot, to a ghostly whispering.

The big clock over the information booth showed that it was twenty-five minutes to four Saturday morning. A crew of men were swishing soapy water across the floor from the outgoing baggage counter on the west to the incoming baggage counter on the east, and then returning to mop up with effortless skatersТ gestures. The main ramp was as empty from end to end as the concourse; and in one of the subway passages only two belated drunks conversed argumentatively. Even the escalator up to the east arcade had been turned off; and right of the escalator, in one of Manhattan DepotТs perennial balcony exhibits, Calhoun happened to see tiny mountains covered with artificial snow, over and through which a model railroad was operated in the terminal every day from twelve noon until nine p.m.

Just now those mountains gleamed in a very pale and unreal way from heavy shadow; and Calhoun reminded himself that little Tony Murchison would have thought the whole display very wonderful, with the model trains chugging around, and the block signals flashing on and off. But now, because Willie Calhoun had failed him, that child would perhaps neverЕ

He looked dully around the main concourse, knowing that every night during these hours Manhattan Depot dozed briefly in an attempt to freshen itself up for the next day; and yet missing the strong light that blazed down ordinarily on polished green marble, on noise and confusion, and on countless hurrying people. All those details, against common sense, he wanted to pop up suddenly and miraculously from the concourse floor. He felt exposed and isolated in all this unnatural quiet; and he had the fantastic idea that there were beings watching Willie Calhoun, and whispering scornfully about Willie Calhoun, from the balcony shadows.

УLetТs get out of here,Ф he muttered at Mike Frost. ItТs like a morgue. Come on!У