Departure Delayed Page 2

  I could tell from the way he worked that he knew his business. The hands moved swiftly, dexterously. I had seen corpsmen in the field and doctors at aid stations working with the wounded. There was sureness about him.

  “I think—it may hurt,” he said. He was washing the wound. My shoulder felt numb. "You—you do not mind this pain?”

  The thing hurt like hell but it didn’t seem to matter. I shook my head. "Good,” he said.

  He worked in silence. "It is not bad,” he half muttered, "not bad.” There was a faint smile on his lips. There was something kindly about him.

  "Rest, of course,” he said. "You should have three—four-days in bed.”

  The job was nearly finished. He was preparing a bandage. "You were shot,” he said, almost as if talking to himself. "But the bullet only cut the flesh. It did not lodge inside. You were lucky—lucky. A little lower—a little to the right—”

  I said, "I don’t know if I have money to pay you now. But I will pay. Til send it to you.”

  His manner was imperturbable. "You do not remember,” he asked, "how it happened? You have no idea where you were?”

  I shook my head. “No idea.”

  He was looking straight at me. "Your expression—this is what I know. I see it before, many times. It is something—”

  He was putting the last touches on the bandage. "You see,” he went on, "I was in Austria. They came to me. People with that look. They were afraid too. They were hiding from the police. They wanted me to help them.”

  I didn’t say anything. I’d been shot. But maybe it had been a fight in some barroom. Maybe I had gotten stiff like I said. Maybe got in an argument.

  I lay there on the table looking up at the ceiling. The doctor was across the room. I heard the water running and guessed he was washing his hands.

  The doctor asked, "What is your name?”

  "Marshall,” I said. "Sergeant Roy Marshall.”

  I heard him suck in breath. "That is not what it says in your pocket. His words were slow.

  I lifted myself up. He was not washing his hands. He had been examining the pockets of the blue suit. I’d intended doing that myself back at the bar—but the trouble started with the bartender and there wasn’t time.

  "Who do you think you are?” I demanded. "This is America. This—”

  He lifted his hand. "I told you,” he said, “I worked with some of the underground in Austria. I know about people running away. I helped them. I knew the police—political police-swine. Then—I had to run from them myself!”

  He seemed to think that was a special, ironic little joke. "That was in my sick Austria. It is not the same here in America. Here—when a man is running away—when he is frightened—’

  "He must be a gangster," I snapped. "Or something worse."

  His expression was almost hurt. He had an air of patience. I got the feeling he had seen too much trouble. It was an old story.

  "The billfold," he said, "belongs to a Mr. Wilson."

  The words cut into me. He had gone through the wallet, of course. Hurriedly, at any rate.

  "Let me see it," I said. "Let me see everything in the pockets."

  I swung my feet to the floor. I was so groggy I almost fell. He was fumbling in the pockets. He turned, calmly handed me the brown-leather wallet and a little batch of crumpled papers. "Here you are," he told me. "After you read them—you tell me where you got them."

  I was shaking as I took them. The name John Wilson was on the inside of the billfold in gold lettering. The wallet also held three dollars. On the identification card was the name "John Wilson" and a scribbled address 3442 Second Avenue.

  The other papers—out of the pockets—had little meaning to me. There was an engraved invitation to the opening of some art exhibit on 57th Street. A bill from some laundry on Columbus Avenue. Several slips of paper had notes I couldn’t make out well—smudged, penciled scrawlings. It looked like my writing. The one I made out best had some illegible name and beneath that "Park Towers Hotel."

  Dr. Gertz’s eyes never left me as I examined them. When I had finished he said, "Now—you say what happened."

  I wanted to blurt out as much as I knew. I wanted to ask him for help. I was afraid.

  Anything could have happened in those weeks. If I was in trouble, I’d have to tell them I simply didn’t recall. I wasn’t myself—I was somebody else. That was the truth but maybe they wouldn’t believe it. Even if they check with the Army medics, the authorities might say I was lying.

  Dr. Gertz watched as I started putting on my shirt. He gave me help With the sore shoulder. As I started buttoning up the shirt he said, Tm going to have to make a report.”

  I knew he meant the police. “Have to?”

  He shrugged. “In all matters like this, that is the law.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said. “I—I—”

  “In such cases, you have nothing to be afraid. You will have your hearing—”

  “I don’t want any hearing. But I’ve got to—”

  “You have to contact your friends—and find out what you did—while you were drinking?”

  “No,” I said. “Not that. Not exactly that, anyway. It’s simply-”

  “My boy,” he said, “I wish I could help you. I must do what the law says. I am sorry. It is—not good. But we cannot get away by running. You must face what it is.”

  I had to get the facts. They were what I had to face. I had to know. Before anything else. I had to find out for myself.

  He turned slowly, opened the door, went out into the hall. It was shadowy there, but I could see him shuffling to a corner. I heard him drop a nickel into the pay phone.

  I was putting on the coat to the blue suit. It was troublesome with the shoulder. But I buttoned it quickly, stuffed the papers and billfold into my pocket. I grabbed the gray coat and the hat.

  I could hear him on the phone: “Headquarters? Hello? It is Dr. Hermann Gertz speaking. I am on 58th Street. Yes. I wish to make a report. I have just treated a man who—”

  I decided not to wait. I sneaked out into the hall. The doctor was still talking; he had not heard me.

  I hurried down the short flight of stairs, pushed open the door and out into the night.

  The house on Second Avenue was in a block of crowded, poverty-ridden tenements. I had stopped on the way for a sandwich and a cup of coffee in a cafeteria and I felt better. It was a three floor, old fashioned walkup. I pushed into

  the vestibule, looked at the names on the door. I wasn’t quite sure what I would find.

  But there had to be a janitor or superintendent. He’d know if I’d been there before. He could tell me.

  I looked over the names on the mailboxes. Then I saw it— plainly written—in my own handwriting: JOHN WILSON APARTMENT 3G.

  Instinctively I pressed the bell. I almost laughed out loud as I did that. That’s you, I told myself. Don’t you realize that, you stupid bastard. John Wilson is you. You’re not in. You’re just coming to pay a call on yourself.

  But I was wrong. There was a clicking sound. Someone upstairs was pressing a buzzer. The front door was opening.

  I watched an instant, fascinated. Someone was up there— someone in Mr. John Wilson’s apartment.

  I pushed the door in, started up the narrow stairs. They were covered with worn, rotting linoleum. The halls were dingy and badly lit. There was an odor of onions cooking. I got up the first floor, looking at the numbers on the doors, kept on going.

  Apartment 3C was on the top floor. The door was closed. I walked over to it. For a second I hesitated, then I knocked, trying to make it sound brisk and assured. I heard a woman’s voice telling me to come in.

  I put my hand on the knob. The door swung open.

  It was a small, brightly lighted room, overcrowded with cheap furniture. The place was in disorder.

  A girl was there. She was lounging in an armchair near the window, a dyed blonde with thin, sharp features. Her eyes were brown and
large and intense and her lips had too much paint. Her legs were over the arm of the chair and the black dress had ridden above her knees.

  The lips parted when she saw me. She looked almost shocked. But if she was, she recovered quickly and laughed— high, gay laughter that didn’t sound real.

  “So they missed? And here I was hoping—’’ She hesitated. “No—I didn’t mean it, Johnny. I didn’t mean that. Come here, dope. Come over here.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I came into the room slowly. I had to play a game, at least for this time. The girl before me had answers I wanted.

  I took each step toward her slowly, like an actor trying a part he doesn’t know. As I reached the chair her arms went up and dragged me down beside her. Her lips were wet against mine.

  The kiss wasn’t fun. I didn’t like this girl. I wanted to pull away from her. She must have caught my reaction. She drew away from me, almost angrily.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded.

  I stood up, walked to the center of the room. There was a pack of cigarettes on the table and I picked up one and lit it.

  She attempted to smile but the smile faded quickly. She said, “Johnny—something happened, didn’t it? I know. I know from how you’re acting. They did try. They tried to—to—” The tone was startling. There was terror in her voice. It was as if she were saying: They tried to kill you. I looked into those large, dark eyes. I was certain I was right. I said, “You mean—did they got a pot shot?”

  “Johnny,” she said, “they—”

  So there wasn’t any doubt. I said lightly, “Sure—they tried.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The blonde hair fell to her neck. There was something pathetic about her. She said: ‘“This time—they missed.”

  “Not quite. They grazed me. Here.” I pointed to the shoulder. The thing still throbbed. “Not serious.”

  She let out a little whimpering sound of sympathy. “You wouldn’t believe me,” she said. “If you’d done what I wanted —if we’d gotten away—Johnny, we could have been half way across the country by now. We could have been safe.”

  “We’re not safe now?” I asked. “You think they’ll try again?”

  It was surprising how calmly I could ask that. I was still playing a part None of what was happening actually seemed real. Whatever trouble Johnny Wilson was in—whoever was trying to harm him—it couldn’t hurt me, Roy Marshall.

  But of course it could. I couldn’t get away from the facts. I was Johnny Wilson. I was the guy they—somebody—wanted to kill.

  She sat up straight in the chair. “Sure they’ll try again. He will. He’ll keep on trying. I want to get away, Johnny. Let’s get out now.”

  The girl was almost sobbing. In spite of her tinsel I knew it wasn’t a gag. This part of it she meant. The fear in the eyes was real.

  “I can’t go away,” I told her. “I’ve got a lot of things to find out first.”

  She settled back in the chair again. “That’s the trouble. You’re wilder even than I am. You just don’t give a damn if you live or get killed. That’s why you go sticking your nose into other people’s business—”

  “What’s other people’s business?” I demanded.

  “His, for one. You should have known better. You wouldn’t expect him to do nothing. You’re a dumb bunny. You could get away now. But you won’t go—”

  She bounced out of the chair. She was smaller than me by several inches. She had slipped off her shoes and she padded across the room in her stocking feet. She picked up a watch on the table. It was my watch, the one dad and mother gave me before I went overseas, the one missing from my wrist.

  “It’s almost nine,” she said. “I’ve got to get down to the club. I’m on at ten-thirty. I’ve been waiting here for hours, Johnny. For you. I wanted to be sure—nothing happened.”

  She sounded like a little girl telling a lie. I found my thoughts running along beside her words: This part you don’t mean, sister. This part is fake. But I said, “Now you can put the worries to bed.”

  “You don’t believe me,” she complained. “Honest, I had to know you were all right. When you decided to go down there —so insistent—” She stopped abruptly. “I’ve got to get going. I can’t be late.”

  There was a mirror over the mantel and she stood before it, daubing rouge on her face, running a comb through the hair. She slipped on her shoes.

  Her black, imitation fur coat was lying on the cot and she picked it up and started to put it on. I stepped across the room and helped her. She looked up smiling and said, “Why, Johnny, I didn’t imagine you cared.”

  Then she laughed, “I’ve got to get along. I’ll be seeing you, Johnny. Tomorrow maybe? You’ll give me a call? I’ll be at my place.”

  “Sure, we’ll get together,” I told her. “I'll call in the morning. Only—I always forget the number.”

  “Silly!” She hesitated, took the lipstick out of her purse, scrawled it on the mirror: AG 2-9357. “There—now you won’t forget.”

  She put her arms around me, pressed her lips against mine. As she pulled away she laughed again. “I’ve got you all smeared.”

  She stood at the door, an uncertain smile on her lips. “Johnny—you don’t hate me, do you? I told you about it. I tried to warn you.”

  “I don’t hate you,” I said. “Maybe I should. Whatever happens—”

  She shook here head. “You’re the hardest guy to understand. Honest—sometimes—”

  She drew the coat tightly about her. She was too thin and the hips too prominent. But she had a flashy appeal and you figured she didn’t have too much trouble getting by.

  You couldn’t help feeling somehow sorry for her. Maybe it was the put-on air of bravado. The uncertain smile stayed on her lips. I tried to smile back. She turned quickly and went out. I heard the high heels clattering down the stairs.

  I was alone in the room. It was a curious sensation. This was my room—yet I was a stranger in it. I felt I should apologize to Johnny Wilson for butting into his life.

  The girl was hard to figure. From what she said, she worked in a night club—probably a singer or dancer. She had the air of being bom for trouble—you felt pity for her, without knowing why, but you couldn’t trust her. Something in the way she looked and spoke gave you the tipoff.

  She was mixed up in this business I was in—whatever and whoever was behind it. It wasn’t my safety she bothered about—it was herself. She was scared—scared for her own precious skin. That was why she wanted out. That was why she kept talking about us clearing before it was too late.

  I looked around the room. It was shabbily furnished. The cot in the comer was covered with a green spread. There were a couple of straight-backed chairs and the faded gray armchair near the window. Behind the armchair was a bridge lamp with a battered yellow shade.

  The atmosphere of the place was depressing. The walls were a spotty, tannish color. At one end was a small bath and a cubby-hole kitchenette. On the floor was a cheap blue rug, worn through in several places. The table in the center must have been somebody’s dining room table once. It was piled with magazines and papers, several packs of cigarettes, and a couple of glass ashtrays stuffed with butts.

  None of the things in this room were familiar to me—except for the watch nothing seemed to be my own. In the old-fashioned bureau dresser were a couple of shirts several pairs of shorts and some socks. When I’d left the hospital all I’d had was a barracks bag full of Army clothes and a few souvenirs I was bringing back for my folks. The barracks bag wasn’t around—neither were any of the articles I’d had with me. The single small closet I examined held nothing except a few wire coat hangers and a little pile of soiled laundry on the floor.

  But there was a second table in the room which caught my interest. It was a small table set against the wall with a chair before it. Apparently it served as a writing desk. On top was a reading lamp and a clutter of papers, envelopes, letters and bills. There was also an open b
ottle of ink and a black fountain pen.

  Those letters sat before me like treasure I wouldn’t have traded for all the cash in the mint.

  It was Johnny Wilson’s desk. These were Johnny Wilson’s letters. Out of them I could reconstruct some of what had been happening—I could begin to come to grips with these people who wanted Johnny Wilson dead.

  I pulled out the chair and sat down.

  I studied those papers for hours. Some I read a dozen times, trying to squeeze out the last drop of meaning.

  Most of them weren’t particularly personal or helpful. There was a theater program for a musical at the Morosco. There were two ticket stubs for prize fights at St. Nicholas Arena. An advertisement from a liquor store featured a new shipment of blended whiskey. There was a half-used package of matches from the Plaza Hotel.

  One crumpled piece of paper particularly puzzled me. The writing was my own. But the words were senseless. They sounded almost as if I’d been drugged:

  “This isn’t—sure it is, yes, it is. I’ll be Queen of the Mayor June, July, August—anyway Evie knows but she’s afraid. . . . Evie has to hurry she always has to sing, has to be the show . . . poor little Evie running out into the night singing but nobody listens Evie says they get drunk.”

  I studied the thing, tried to figure its meaning. I must have been drunk myself when I wrote it. Drunk and trying to set down my ideas and impressions. It was the only explanation I could figure. Evie—she was of course the blonde. That singing business probably was about her going to the night club. And there was one line that stood out: “Evie knows but she’s afraid. . . .” ,

  The blonde had talked that way—as if there were something I knew, something I’d been trying to find out—she’d warned me about butting into “other people’s business.”

  There was another letter there I couldn't understand. It was written on blue folded stationery with a white monogram “C” on the first page. The writing was feminine. It was very neat and even. It read: