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

The father was in position by that time. He had been instructed by Donnelly to station himself as close as possible to CalhounТs side of the information booth, and not to move from there under any circumstances. He did what Donnelly had requested him to do; but very shortly after taking up his place at the busiest point in one of the busiest railroad terminals in the world, DonnellyТs precautions began to appear very remote to him Ч theoretical fancies which could have no effective application at this spot and under these conditions.

People pushing their way to or from the information booth shouldered him, bumped him and resented him. Porters edged past with laden handcarts; and trains were being called, one after another, on the Manhattan Depot public address system. Crowds shoved and jostled around the track gates, and a sea of voices and faces surrounded Mr. Murchison, all indistinguishable from one another, and all appearing and disappearing from minute to minute. There seemed no possible way to keep any sort of check on them.

But only one question concerned the father now. Would the men come? Perhaps; but perhaps, too, they had learned by this time about Donnelly, and about Carl Rothman. And what would that mean to Tony? What would they do to Tony? The intolerable thing there was that he did not yet know whether in co-operating with Donnelly he had betrayed his child or protected him.

Five minutes passed Ч ten, fifteen. No one, in all this crowd, seemed to look with any particular attention at the father. He waited there. Presently he began to fight waves of savage physical nausea.


Calhoun was still moving around his side of the information booth and distributing his timetables. He was also beginning to argue within himself. Of course, Calhoun insisted stubbornly, the kidnapers would trade on the supposed fact that the police had no description of them; and of course at least one of them would appear in the main concourse any minute now to see whether Murchison had followed instructions, and to determine for themselves whether or not there were any signs of police activity.

They had to do that, Calhoun told himself, because it was the safe and logical action for them to take under the circumstances. But still, at twenty minutes past six, Calhoun had to slip a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wipe his mouth and behind his ears with it. Could the big redhead have given the whole thing up for some reason? Had he killed the child yesterday, after all, and now was he afraid to show himself? Or had he sent the woman in here, whom no one had ever seen close enough to describe adequately? There was no way to tell, and so Ч

Calhoun distributed more timetables. Now, out on the concourse, the father was beginning to look white as death.


In Captain RousseauТs office Arthur Donnelly was sketching out box within box on a sheet of scrap paper.

УHalf past,Ф Nolan announced, breaking a rather long silence. УWhat do you think, Arthur? Do you still believe theyТre going to show up here?Ф

УWeТll wait for them,Ф Donnelly said. He wrote the name Louie Rothman twice on his bit of paper, and underscored it with a couple of savage pencil strokes. УWe expected to wait for them. WhatТs the matter with you, will you tell me? Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?Ф

Nolan looked at him as if he resented the remark very much; but he did not resent it by pursuing the conversation. The detective sergeant stood in back of them with folded arms, aloof from everything. Captain Rousseau went on nursing the open telephone.


Up on the west balcony Frances was still keeping a bright and expectant smile fixed in the general direction of the street doors. Just as if she were waiting for someone Ч just that; and of course it was still early yet, she reminded herself. Plenty of time. Probably no later thanЕ

A few minutes ago she had resolved not to look at the big clock over the information booth any more; but she did now. It was six thirty-two. But the kidnapers had to come, she thought numbly; why else would they have made that appointment with Mr. Murchison?

One of DonnellyТs men, the middle-aged one in civilian clothes, sat on a marble bench in front of her and turned over a page in his evening newspaper. He did not appear to be disturbed about anything. More people streamed in from the upper cab platform, and DonnellyТs other man, the one in the railroad uniform, appeared to be checking some lists over at the street door.

Six thirty-fourЕ That time she looked around at the clock before she could warn herself against it. Behind her, on the east balcony, the phonograph record synchronized with the model railroad went on endlessly Ч locomotives puffing and panting, car wheels clicking, whistle signals echoing across to her in long, mournful notes. The record had something of the effect on her which the overhead fans on the cab platform had induced last night Ч nerve-racking urgency. She tried not to pay any sort of attention to it. She did not succeed very well.


Now, at half past six on a very busy Saturday evening, trains were departing from Manhattan Depot at the average rate of one each minute. Passages, ramps, concourse, arcades and waiting rooms were all crowded. There had been more snow upstate that afternoon, delaying all east- and southbound schedules, and so traffic was beginning to back up in Manhattan Depot Ч an extremely bad thing from DonnellyТs viewpoint, because time was a valuable and carefully allotted commodity in here, with just enough of it to go around, and no more. Even an hourТs delay in incoming trains, with harried and intent men in underground signal towers attempting to fix up a new arrival schedule on complicated electric boards, meant that hundreds of people who should have been out of the terminal long ago were still awaiting, and now with bad temper and fretful impatience, the arrival of belated upstate locals, and New England and suburban afternoon trains.

Also, because the men in the signal towers had only a certain number of tracks to work with, there was some little difficulty correlating the many departing trains with the less numerous arriving ones. So more people Ч outgoing passengers this time Ч were milling around on the concourse in a turmoil of hats, coats, luggage and last-minute exasperation.

The train announcerТs room, with its huge blackboard, was packed to the doors, as were the restaurants Ч there were at least six of these in or adjacent to the terminal Ч the cocktail lounges, the telegraph offices and the incoming and outgoing baggage rooms. Minute by minute more people were crowding into Manhattan Depot, via subway, to leave through one of the many street entrances for a Saturday night dinner and show in mid-town New York; and of course there were family groups who were waiting to greet someone, or waiting to say good-by to someone, or losing children momentarily, or worrying information clerks, or just standing around and getting in everybodyТs way.

At twenty minutes of seven Lieutenant Nolan, who had been unable to sit still any longer in RousseauТs office, looked down at all this commotion from the balcony, and gave up on the kidnapers for the first time. What were they expected to do in this madhouse, anyway, Lieutenant Nolan demanded of himself.

What could anyone do in it?


A quarter of sevenЕ