ivory throat, killed, murdered.
I remembered!
5
IT WAS DARK WHEN I LEFT THE MOVIE THEATER, FORTY-SECOND Street sparkled with the wilted glitter of a Christmas tree on Twelfth Night. Pairs of policemen and pairs of homosexuals cruised blindly by one another. I kept my face turned toward the store windows and walked toward Eighth Avenue with my head lowered. I held my breath for the last fifty yards and let it out in a rush as I turned the corner.
I absolutely had to have money. The last dime, gone to buy a candy bar, could have bought me a phone call instead. If I could reach MacEwan, I could borrow money. Without money I had no chance at all. No chance to stay away from the police, no chance to find out whose hand had wielded the knife that slashed Robin’s throat.
I was disgusted at the alacrity with which I had divested myself of Edward Boleslaw’s five dollars. Taxi, cigarettes, food, subway, movies, candy. Gone.
Yet it was not difficult to understand how I had permitted this to happen. Until the last fragment of memory returned in that theater balcony, until the sudden incredible revelation that I was not guilty, that I had not killed little Robin, the idea of making a genuine attempt to remain free was basically unreal. I had been taking no positive steps to avoid the law. On the contrary, I had merely failed to surrender myself. By impoverishing myself once again, I did no more than advance the inevitable moment of capture or surrender.
Now, with the last dime spent, I had a reason to remain a fugitive. Once arrested, I was finished. I had provided the police with a perfectly sound case against me. No assistant district attorney could be so unpolished as to lose such a case, no jury so blind as to fail to convict.
I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was innocent. And there was no reason on earth for anyone else on earth to believe me.
A man, very tall, with long hair neatly combed, dressed in an Italian silk suit and wearing black shoes with sharply pointed toes, emerged from a rooming house on Eighth Avenue a few doors south of Forty-first Street. He turned my way, and I moved from the shadows to meet him, and hoped as I did so that my face was not one he had recently seen on television.
I said, “I hope you’ll pardon me, I hate to impose, but my wallet was lifted on Times Square. I didn’t even realize it was gone until I got to the subway toll booth. If you could spare twenty cents-”
Liquid brown eyes met mine. They showed sympathy with just the smallest touch of humor beneath.
“Of course,” he said. “A dreadful lot, these pickpockets. The city’s absolutely turned jungle, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Will a token help you?”
“Yes, it will Sorry to bother you this way-”
“Don’t happen to have the time, do you?”
I looked at my empty wrist, then at him. “Don’t have my watch,” I said. “Must have left it home.”
“Got your watch too, did he?”
“No, I must have-”
He ran a long-fingered hand through his wavy hair. “Oh, I sympathize,” he said, smiling gently. “These boys are dangerous, there’s no gainsaying that. We know better than to go with them, don’t we? They rob us with impunity. We can hardly scream for the police, after all.” A languid sigh. “And yet go with them we do. For they are such a delight at times, are they not?”
“Uh.”
“I’m for uptown, if you’d care to share a taxi-”
“I live in Brooklyn.”
“Ah. Ships that pass in the night.” He handed me a subway token. “I hope you didn’t lose very much money?”
“Not too much.”
“You’re fortunate.” A quick smile. “Better luck next time, friend.”
People were queued up at the token booth. I waited until the line was gone, then went to the booth and slid the token through the window. “Better cash this in,” I said. “Won’t do me any good in Spokane.”
The attendant took the token, poked two dimes my way. I went upstairs and outside. I walked half a dozen blocks down Eighth Avenue looking for an outdoor telephone booth, then gave up and called from a cigar store.
Doug answered.
I said, “It’s Alex. I have to tell you-”
“Oh, God,” he said. “Where have they got you? I’ll get a lawyer down to see you. I-”
“I’m not in custody.”
“You haven’t turned yourself in yet? You’d better. The police were here a few hours ago, asking about you. And they showed a photo of you on television. It’ll be in the morning papers. My God, Alex, what happened?”
“Nothing happened.” We were both silent for a moment, and then I said, “I didn’t kill the girl Doug.”
“Oh?”
“I was with her, but that’s no crime. Someone else killed her.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you-”
“I
“You were drinking.”
“Yes.”
“Memory’s a funny thing, Alex. Of course the police can try to help you. Pentothal, drugs like that, they might improve your memory. Fill things out.”
“I can’t go to the police.”
“I don’t see what else you
“I can’t go to them.”
“Why not?”
It was a thoroughly maddening conversation. “Because they won’t for a minute believe me,” I said, “any more than you do.”
The sentence echoed back and forth over the telephone line. Neither of us had anything in particular to append to it. Finally, his voice somewhat different now, he said, “Why are you calling me?”
“I need money.”
“To make a run for it? You’ll never do it.”
“Not to run, damn it To survive while I find out who in hell killed the girl Doug, please, humor me.
“Oh, Christ-”
“Let me have a couple of hundred in cash. You’ll get it back.”
“Are you that flat?”
“Well, I can’t exactly run around cashing checks. Can I come up there? I’ve got ten cents in my pocket, that’s all. I’ll find a way to get another dime for the subway. All right?”
“I don’t want you coming up here.”
“Why not?”
“The police were here, don’t you understand? I don’t want to be an accessory-”
I stopped listening. I tuned in again long enough to hear something to the effect that, after all, this was not the first time this had happened, and then I tuned out again and gave up.
“Alex? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
