“Now I believe all this,” Ellen said. “Let’s take the handcuffs to Murphy and get him to come back here with us.” She wrapped her arms around herself and stepped closer to Conor.
“I think he’d toss us all in the slammer if he saw us down here,” Conor said.
Poole and Underhill nodded.
“I want to see about something,” Maggie said, and went down the rest of the way, still clutching the light bulb. Poole watched her go into the barber shop.
“I think Dengler took out the light bulb,” Conor said. “I bet Dengler was waiting for him when he got here. And he took him somewhere, which means they aren’t too far away.”
Maggie came out of the barber shop looking very excited. “They
“That’s funny,” Poole said. “Harry always wanted people to think he was a cop.”
“It wasn’t Harry,” said Underhill. “They saw Dengler.”
“Did they say anything else about him?”
“Not really. They said he stood there a long time, and then they forgot about him, and when they looked the next time, he was gone. They didn’t see a struggle or anything.”
“I don’t suppose they would have,” Poole said. “If you were going to take somebody quietly out of the arcade, which way would you go?”
“That way,” Ellen said, pointing toward Elizabeth Street.
“Me too.” Poole went up the steps ahead of the others.
“What are you going to do, Michael?” Ellen called after him.
“Take another look,” Poole said. “If Dengler hustled Beevers out onto the street, maybe something else fell out of his pockets. Maybe Beevers was bleeding. Harry wouldn’t have come unarmed, given what he intended to do. There has to be something out there.”
It was almost hopeless, he knew. Koko could simply have shoved a knife into Beevers and dragged his body outside to a car. Anything Beevers would have dropped—a paper, a matchbook, a scarf—would have been blown away by the wind.
“What are we looking for?” Maggie asked as they walked out onto the Elizabeth Street sidewalk.
“Anything Beevers might have dropped.” Poole began moving down the sidewalk, looking at the pavement and the curb. “Conor, will you take the middle of the street? Tim, maybe there’s something on the other sidewalk.”
Tim nodded, hunched himself against the wind in his big coat and hat, and crossed the street. He began making slow side-to-side sweeps up the opposite sidewalk. Maggie floated across the street to join him.
“Conor?” Ellen repeated.
Conor put his finger to his lips and walked out into the middle of the street. Poole moved slowly back and forth across the sidewalk, hoping to find anything at all that might tell him what had become of Beevers. Looking down for something he was not finding, he heard Maggie saying something to Underhill in her precise comedie voice, and then heard her giggle.
“Oh, hell,” Ellen said, and went out into the middle of the street after him. “I suppose if we find any severed fingers or other body parts you won’t object to my yelling my head off.”
All Poole had seen on the sidewalk were two pennies, a punctured nitrous oxide capsule, and a tiny unstoppered vial which he failed to recognize as the former container of ten dollars’ worth of crack. Ahead of him on the pavement were a discarded black rubber child’s boot and something that looked like a damp ball of fluff but which Poole was certain would turn out to be a dead sparrow. More than two hours ago, Koko had caught Beevers in his own killing box. It was likely that Beevers was dead by now. What he was forcing the others to do was quixotic. Yet his body still felt a spurious excitement. They had been right about the arcade; they were standing on ground that M.O. Dengler and Beevers had crossed only an hour or two before. He had traveled thousands of miles to come this close to Koko. His whole body balked at the idea of yelling for Lieutenant Murphy and the fat-necked young policeman.
“Michael?” Maggie said softly from the other side of the street.
“I know, I know,” Poole said. He wanted to throw himself down on the sidewalk and tear through the pavement with his fingernails, to rip through the concrete until he reached Koko and Harry Beevers.
If he did that, if he could do that, if he knew where to dig and had the strength and tenacity to do it, maybe he could save Harry Beevers’ ridiculous life.
“Michael?” Ellen echoed Maggie.
He balled his hands into fists and held them before his face. He could barely see them. He turned around and through blurry eyes looked down Elizabeth Street and saw a stocky body dressed in a long blue coat swing into view like a wandering ox.
“Get back, hide, don’t rush but get out of sight,” he said.
“What—” Ellen began, but Conor grabbed her hand and began walking her up the street. Poole ducked his head and moved into the shelter of the arcade’s entrance, trying to look like a preoccupied citizen on his way home. He felt the policeman’s eyes on him as he slipped into the arcade. He heard a wobbly, unearthly sound and realized that Conor was actually whistling. As soon as he got into the arcade Poole flattened out against the side and peeked out. The stocky young policeman was still looking in his direction. He seemed puzzled. Poole looked across the street, but Maggie and Underhill had disappeared into one of the tenements.
The policeman put his hands on his hips—something had disturbed him. Probably, Poole thought, he had just gotten around to recognizing Maggie and Conor and himself. He looked as if he was trying to work out what they could all be doing on Elizabeth, Street. He looked back down Bayard Street at the other policemen, then took a step up toward the arcade. Poole stopped breathing and looked up toward the other end of the street. Conor and Ellen Woyzak were now doing a better imitation of a tourist couple who had wandered into unpromising territory. The young policeman looked behind him, then back toward the other officers. He stepped backwards and began motioning toward the policemen around the patrol car.
“Oh, shit,” Poole said.
He heard a short, sharp whistle and thought that Conor had relapsed into his Gary Cooper imitation. Poole looked across the street and saw Tim Underhill, like a scarecrow in the voluminous coat and droopy-brimmed hat, just inside the arched entrance of one of the tenement buildings. Maggie Lah was standing slightly behind him, and behind her Poole saw a portion of a little courtyard. Maggie’s eyes seemed very wide. Underhill was gesturing for Poole to join them, waving his arms like a traffic cop.
The young policeman stood down at the end of the street, waiting for someone—he was as impatient as Tim Underhill. Then the young policeman straightened up, and Dalton sauntered into view.
Poole glanced up the block: Conor and Ellen had disappeared around the corner. Dalton could see nothing but an empty street.
For a moment the young policeman spoke to Dalton. Dalton’s only movement was to look once up Elizabeth Street.
Michael wished he could hear everything they said.
Then did Dalton say
Whichever it was, Dalton strolled back out of sight, either leaving Thick-Neck by himself or on his way to get Murphy. Thick-Neck turned his back to stare down at the crowds of Chinese on Bayard Street, and sighed so hugely Poole could almost hear it.
Poole looked back across the street. Underhill was practically exploding, and Maggie stared at him with wide eyes he could not read. The brooding young policeman did not shift his stance as Poole advanced out onto the street. Now Elizabeth Street seemed very wide. Poole moved as fast as he could, trusting that he would not hit a stone or make any noise. The wind seemed to roar around him. Finally he came up onto the opposite sidewalk. Underhill’s whole face was blazing at him. Down at the end of the street, he thought he saw Thick-Neck’s shoulders
