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

УI donТt quite know,Ф Frances admitted, stopping beside him off to the left of the platform gate, where they were protected by three or four redcaps. УThe whole thing happened in such a way that Ч Ф She drew back quickly. УThere he is now! The big man in the brown overcoat. Can you see him?Ф Her voice tightened up; she was as breathless at this moment as she had been back there in the day coach, when the redheaded man first glanced at her. УI know itТs a stupid thing to tell you that he has a bad look to me. But Ч over there, just in front of the gate. Two of them. TheyТre talking now.Ф

Calhoun turned as if casually, putting the broad shoulders Ч and very comforting broad shoulders they were to Frances just then Ч between her and the man in the brown overcoat. They conversed, the big fellow looking around and seeing Calhoun, but not the girl in back of him. Then they went by Calhoun, who did not appear to be facing in their direction, but who would remember them both very distinctly from now on, and turned right toward the train announcerТs room and the taxicab platform.

Calhoun hesitated, not having heard the complete story yet; and then, because the big redhead had rather a bad look to him also, he muttered a few words hurriedly to the girl.

УWait here,Ф he said. УWait right here. IТll be back.Ф He went after the big fellow in the brown overcoat, but with very little to act on at that point. He followed him and his friend out to the cab platform, and down to the lower end of the cab platform, where there was row after row of public lockers. The big fellow put a gray overnight bag into one of these, inserted a dime in the slot, turned the key and pocketed the key. He spoke to the other one again. They went on to the lower passage, and back through it to the main concourse. Calhoun hesitated once more, knowing that all he could afford to do here, on very little factual evidence, was to find out what these men were up to in Manhattan Depot. He was a railroad employee, and not a city detective; and he was not empowered, unless presented with incontrovertible evidence, to detain or question anyone so long as he behaved himself on railroad property.

But in the end he went after them to the concourse Ч a little uneasy, a little curious. They did not pay any attention to him, did not notice him, because at half past five in Manhattan Depot, on Friday night, the difficult thing was not to follow people around without being detected, but to move fast and agilely enough to keep them under observation. Twice, in the almost solid mass of holiday travelers wedging itself around between the ticket windows and the information booth, Calhoun lost them for a moment or two; and twice, by plunging that chesty physique of his past and in front of indignant bystanders, Calhoun succeeded in picking them up again.

Over in the southeast passage, which led to one of the Manhattan Depot subway stations, and also to one of the three terminal hotels, the men stopped at a wall counter, and the big fellow took an envelope out of his breast pocket. Calhoun, who was now level with them but keeping on the other side of the passage, accepted the opportunity to study them in the mirror facing him, and facing the men also, from in back of a soda fountain.

An exceedingly peculiar thing happened. The big fellow put his locker key into the envelope, addressed the envelope and dropped it into one of the nearby mail slots. Calhoun did not like that at all. His idea Ч and a very natural one for a man in CalhounТs position, and with CalhounТs depot experience Ч was that the big fellow had got rid of something illegal or incriminating in the bag locked out there on the cab platform, and had now disposed of the key in such a way that it could not be traced back to him without great trouble and inconvenience, if at all.

So Calhoun was annoyed with himself; and when they started on again for the subway turnstiles, the little one showing open relief now, the big one watchful but stolid, Calhoun had determined what to do about them. Near one of the subway change booths was a middle-aged man reading a newspaper; and Calhoun, on the pretense of hunting for change in one of his pockets, stopped close enough to this man to address him guardedly.

УThe big fellow in the brown overcoat,Ф Calhoun muttered. УCatch him, Eddie. Take him and that friend of his, and find out where theyТre headed for, and what theyТre doing. I think they just dumped something Ч a gun, probably Ч in one of the lockers on us. Watch yourself now. The big fellowТs keeping his eyes open.Ф

A few minutes later, after the middle-aged man, the little fellow and the big redhead had all vanished in the crowd pushing downstairs to one of the Bronx subways, Calhoun discovered that the girl in the dark coat appeared to be a sensible and reliable sort of girl, because she was waiting for him exactly where he had told her to wait for him. He explained a few matters to her in his usual direct way. He hoped to pick up some information on those fellows, Calhoun told her, without going into particulars; he thought he would; and, if he succeeded, the information would be passed on to the nearest precinct house for appropriate action.

Meanwhile, without making any attempt to conceal what he was doing, he inspected Frances in great detail. A medium-sized girl, Calhoun saw, with dark hair and complexion, good teeth, no distinguishing marks Ч none that were visible, anyway Ч brown eyes, small ears and erect carriage. No engagement or wedding ring. Good, slim figure. A hundred and twenty pounds, probably, and about five four and a half high. Manner? Just a little bossish, Calhoun decided. General impression sensible, determined and businesslike.

УNow,Ф he said. УWhatТs your name, lady? WhatТs your business?Ф

УI donТt see where that matters,Ф Frances said, very distant then. УI certainly donТt intend to get mixed up in this thing. All I Ч Ф

УI donТt think you can help it,Ф Calhoun told her, sure about the bossishness then, and making a very slight chewing motion of the bulldog jaw. УAnd I donТt want no argument here, lady. YouТre in. You want to know why? IТll tell you. You come to me with some information; I stick my neck out on it; and now IТm gonna find out just what kind of a source that information comes from. ItТs all nice and simple, lady, if you take the trouble to think about it. LetТs try it again, huh? LetТs pretend nothing happened. Okay. WhatТs your name now? WhatТs your business?Ф

Frances flushed; but Frances gave him his answer this time. And yet, even when he had learned how the gray sedan had almost rammed into Charles up in North Rhinehill, and that she was Miss Frances Kennedy, the private secretary to Henry L. Murchison, of Murchison Oil, his manners remained just as curt and decided as ever. A very uncouth and unpleasant individual really, Frances thought him.

УSo now we got something,Ф he said. УSo now we can see about locating the gun.Ф

He took her out to the cab platform, to Locker 572, where the redhead had left his overnight bag a few minutes ago.

УIn there,Ф he said, looking at her but jabbing a forefinger at the locker. УRight in there.Ф

Then he was annoyed that she did not comprehend him immediately.

УWhat do you think IТm talking about?Ф he grunted at her. УUse your head. The gun, the gun! YouТre the one who saw it, arenТt you? IТll tell you something.Ф Now he was pointing the forefinger at her chest. УWe have to open and inspect these lockers every twenty-four hours, because theyТre the best place in New York to get rid of something you donТt want. I could curl your hair with the stuff weТve picked up out of them. Ask me sometime.Ф

He whisked her back up the cab platform, and into a small, glassed-in office where there was a desk, a phone and a few chairs. He used the phone. УCalhoun,Ф he said, when his connection had been put through. УIТm down in the slot, Howie. Look. I want you to call around and get Tom Nelligan to open a locker for me. Yeah, IТll wait. WhatТs goinС on up there?Ф

There did not appear to be anything much going on. He offered Frances a chair Ч or at least waved in an offhand way in the general direction of one, leaving it up to her as to whether she wanted to sit or not Ч and sat down himself. He was a very homely young man, Frances noticed; and very rude, too, because, once seated, he folded his hands high up over the barrel chest and made no attempt to initiate a conversation. He whistled between his teeth, though. His hat was pushed up and he had placed his feet on one corner of the desk. The smart and superior type, Calhoun was deciding. Well, let her wait. Let her sit here now, and stew in her own juice. The private secretary to Mr. Henry L. Murchison, of Murchison Oil, seemed to have the idea that she was something extra fancy. Hah! Calhoun thought. He should let anything like that impress him. He Ч

A tall, elderly man wearing a railroad coat came in and nodded at him.

УNow whatТs up, Willie?Ф the man said.

It was the last name Frances would have selected for him; probably he suspected it. He gave her one quick, almost abashed look.