what my pursuer had had in mind. He had come softly, kicked in my door, and chased in silence.
At Grand Central I paid the driver and went to work. I had no picture, but Gertrude Radford was easy to describe: if she had taken a taxi, and if anyone remembered. My main hope was the fact that taxi drivers are a breed who work on habit, and the same cabs work Grand Central day in and day out. It took me the better part of two hours to talk to a lot of drivers with bad memories. I jumped at shadows the whole time. There is no future to working scared. In my work you have to assume that you are smarter than the enemy, and two jumps ahead at all times, or take up selling shoes. Careful but not nervous. It’s easy to say.
By the end of the second hour I had my nerves more or less under control, and I got lucky. The twenty- second driver I braced leaned back in his cab and said:
“I remember. You a cop?”
“Private. You’re sure you remember?”
“I said so, mister. Let’s see the license.”
I’ve said it before-don’t sneer at luck. Chance, fortune, accident, it does exist. While it’s true, in a sense, that men make their own luck, by things like having the gall to question twenty-two cab drivers about something that happened for a few minutes five days ago, there is still, and forever, an area of pure chance. Sometimes I think that’s all there is.
The driver gave me my license back. “She was dressed funny. In some long red thing with a mink over it. She didn’t have no bag. She paid me out of her pocket with a twenty. Grand Central’s an interesting stand, I watch, you know? She was my only real nut of the night. If she’d been a chick, I’d of figured she ran out on some guy, or got tossed out. But she was an old bag. White hair and no hat. Skinny. Nerved up. I was thinking about the cops. I mean, maybe she’d run out of some nuthouse.”
“Where’d you take her?”
“East Sixteenth Street. You want me to take you?”
“Take me.”
The driver made good time. I suppose I was his nut for that night. He probably had a lot of fun imagining the crazy lives of his passengers. As far as I could tell, no one followed us, and we soon pulled up in front of a tall apartment house near Third Avenue. I gave the driver an extra five. He drove off without looking back. Later, he’d build it all up for friends.
I found the name I expected on the bank of mailboxes in the lobby: Baron Paul Ragotzy. The name was engraved in script on an elegant calling card in the European style. This, then, had been Paul Baron’s main residence. The space was a penthouse. That could mean more good luck for me. Staff members notice the action around penthouses, and this building was an older one with an operator-controlled elevator. (Self-service elevators have played hell with a good source of information.)
This operator was a young fellow with clear, alert eyes and an intelligent face. He saw I had more on my mind than a quick trip upward. His slender brown hands held the door open.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“If you can give me some information.”
“If I have it, and it’s ethical,” he said. He hooked back the doors and sat down on his stool. I stepped into the car. He let the doors remain open. He had nothing to hide.
“Were you on duty last Monday night about nine-thirty?”
“Yes.”
“There was a woman, about sixty but white-haired. She was wearing a mink and a red housedress and no hat.”
“I remember her,” he said, “a lady. She had good manners. We don’t get many like her. You want to know where she went?”
“That’s the question.”
“Police?”
He eyed my missing arm. I showed him my credentials. He read them carefully, with interest. He gave them back.
“The police were here. They didn’t ask about Monday. They asked about Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“About Paul Baron? I mean, Baron Ragotzy.”
“Yes.”
“Then this woman went to the Baron’s penthouse?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did she come here often?”
“I never saw her before.”
“How long did she stay?”
“About an hour.”
“Did she come down alone, too?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her with the Baron?”
“No.”
I thought it over. At about 8:00 P.M. on Monday, Gertrude Radford had gotten a telephone call. She had come to see Paul Baron. That was hours after she knew that Jonathan had been murdered, and at a time when no one in the Radford family was supposed to have known that Paul Baron was involved except Walter Radford and Deirdre Fallon. And she denied knowing Paul Baron.
“How long had the Baron lived here?”
“A year or so. He was away a lot.”
“He lived here alone?”
“Yes. He had a lot of guests. They sometimes stayed a time.”
“Women?”
“Those who stayed were usually women.”
“Anyone special? Regular?”
“Quite a few were regular. I couldn’t say how special they were.”
I described every woman I could think of in the case: Misty Dawn, Carla Devine, Deirdre Fallon, Morgana Radford and Agnes Moore-clients have lied to me before.
“All of them could have been among the women,” he said. “I remember a couple of redheads as being pretty regular, and that small, dark, young one you mentioned was regular. She was sort of new, the dark kid. I can’t do any better, it’s a big building. The elevators keep pretty busy.”
“How about men?” I asked. I described Costa and Strega, and saw no recognition. I pictured Walter Radford and George Ames for him, and then tried the unknown sandy-haired man looking for Carla Devine, and the thin, pale boy in the gray coupe. For good measure I threw in MacLeod the butler.
He shook his head. “He didn’t usually have men up alone. They came in groups. Poker games, I think.” He smiled again. “I guess I don’t notice the men as much.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “When did the Baron come in that night? I mean on Monday.”
“I don’t come on until nine. I never saw him.”
“Then you don’t know who else was up there?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“Who was on earlier?”
“The afternoon men. I doubt if they’d know much, though. They’re both old guys, and they don’t pay much attention to the tenants. Between five and eight is our busiest time, both cars run then.”
“I’ll try them tomorrow anyway,” I said, and I reached into my pocket.
“I get paid,” he said.
I thanked him and went out into Sixteenth Street. The snow had stopped completely again, and the temperature was going down fast. I walked down to Stuyvesant Park at the end of the block. I sat on a bench in the cold and lighted a cigarette. The park was deserted except for a lone man walking his dog. The man had a bushy mustache, and the dog, a golden retriever, pulled him along. The man looked frozen, but the dog was eager. A good
