Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

“He live in New York City?”

“Can’t find any folder for Mr. Forst. Peculiar. Not even any letters to him — or from him.”

Teccard chewed on his pipestem. Was Forst another one of Willard’s aliases? Had Helbourne been putting one over when he claimed to know nothing about other letters from the mysterious individual who always wrote from Manhattan? “When did this deluded dame come through with Helbourne’s fee?”

“Week ago today.”

The lieutenant reached for the phone. “Hustle me through to your super, pal. Supervisor? This is Lieutenant Jerome Teccard, New York Police Department, Criminal Identification Bureau. Talking from Bryant 32717. Yair. Get me the chief of police of Algers, New York, in a hurry, will you? Algers is up near Whitehall. Yair... I’ll hang on...”

While he was waiting, Teccard tried the only-flat key, from Helbourne’s bunch, on the locked middle drawer of the desk. It fitted. In the drawer was an empty cigar carton, some paper matchbooks, an overdue bill from one printer and a sheaf of estimates from another, a half-full flask of Nip-and-Tuck Rye, and a torn, much-folded plain-paper envelope, addressed to the Herds of Happiness, Box KDD!

The envelope was postmarked three weeks ago, from Station U, New York City.

Helen looked up Station U. “East One Hundred and Sixth Street, Jerry.”

“Same precinct as the bones. And friend Willard. One will get you ten that’s where we find brother Forst, too.”

There was a voice in the receiver. Teccard held it to his ear, muttered “Yair” a few times, added “Much obliged, Chief,” racked the receiver.

“Too late. Sucker Yulett left Algers on the morning train.”

Helen punched the files with her fist, angrily. “For New York?”

“Didn’t know. Southbound, anyway.”

The hurt look came into her eyes again.

Teccard shoved his hands into his pockets, gloomily. “All he did know — she had her suitcase, and the station agent said she was wearing a corsage.”

She showed teeth that were clenched. “Those damned flowers again!”

“They’ll probably last just long enough to be used on her casket,” Teccard brooded. “Wait, though. We might still be in time.”

“It wouldn’t take her all day to get to New York!”

“It might. Station master didn’t tell the chief what time the train left, this a.m. Might have been late morning. And those trains up north of the capital run slower than a glacier. If the Yulett girl had to change at Albany, and wait...”

Helen got the phone first, called train information. It was busy. The sergeant kept pounding the desk with her fist until she got her connection.

Before she hung up, Teccard was asking: “Can we stop her?”

“Only train making connections from Algers to New York arrives at Grand Central, eight forty. Gives us about twenty minutes.”

He caught her arm. “Hell it does. We’ll have to burn rubber to make it. We can’t wait until she gets off the train. We’ll have to find her, convince her we’re on the level, tip her off what she’s to do. Chances are, Forst’ll be waiting for her. We’d scare him off before we spotted him.”

She was streaking down the corridor toward the elevator. “We catch the train at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, come in with her?”

“If she’s on it. If we can locate it. And if she’ll listen to reason. That’s a hell of a lot of ‘ifs.’ ”

The department sedan zoomed over to Park and Thirty-fourth — went through the red lights with siren screeching. They didn’t stop to park at a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, sprinted up the stairs as the conductor gave the “Boa-r-r-r-d!”

The sergeant saw the bunch of lilies-of-the-valley first. “That sweet-faced one, in the dark blue coat and that God-awful hat, Jerry.”

“Yair. You better break the ice. She’ll be suspicious of a man.”

Helen dropped into the empty seat beside the woman in the unbecoming hat. The lieutenant stayed a couple of paces in the rear.

“Miss Yulett?” the sergeant inquired, softly.

“You’re Miss Marion Yulett, from Algers, aren’t you?”

The woman smiled sweetly, opened her bag, produced a small pad and a pencil.

Swiftly she wrote: Sorry. I am hard of hearing.

Teccard smothered an oath. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been crippled or scarred up — Helen would have been able to fix it so the Yulett woman could step into a ladies’ room, somewhere, and give her instructions to handle the man she was going to meet. But there wouldn’t be time to write everything out in longhand, without arousing “Forst’s” suspicions. And if the killer had an accomplice, as the lieutenant believed, this deaf woman couldn’t hear what “Forst” and the other would be saying to each other — and that might prove to be the most important evidence of all!

Helen scribbled away on the pad. Teccard sidled up alongside so he could read.

I am Sergeant Dixon from the N. Y. Policewomen’s Bureau. Are you Marion Yulett?

The woman shrank back in her seat.

“Yes. Why do you want me?” Her voice shook.

The pencil raced in Helen’s fingers.

Only to save you unhappiness. Maybe worse. You plan to meet a man named Peter Forst?

“Yes. Is anything wrong?”

The sergeant held the pad out, again.

We believe he’s a killer who’s murdered several women who became acquainted with him through the Herald. Have you a picture of him?

Miss Yulett fumbled nervously in her bag, produced a small, glossy snap-shot. Teccard’s forehead puckered up. This couldn’t be a photo of Willard, by any possibility! The man in the snap-shot was round — faced and pudgy-cheeked. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and his hair receded at the temples, from a high forehead!

Helen wrote: How will Forst recognize you?

“I had my picture taken, too. I sent it to him day before yesterday.” Miss Yulett bit her lip to keep from crying. “I’m afraid it wasn’t a very good likeness — I don’t photograph well. But I was wearing this hat and these beads,” she touched a necklace of imitation pink jade, “and I’m wearing his flowers, too.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks, she turned her face toward the window. “You must be mistaken about Peter, his letters were so sweet and kind. I can’t imagine his... hurting anybody.”

The train began to slow for the track intersections in the upper yard. There was no time for softening the blow, with sympathy.

Helen made the pad say: If he’s the man we’re after, he doesn’t intend to marry you at all. If you have any money, he’ll wheedle it away from you and then— Did he mention anything about money?

The words came out between convulsive sobs: “Only that he had a small and prosperous business. With a partner who wasn’t... quite honest, perhaps. If Peter and I... got... along... he said I might want to buy out this other man’s interest. So my... my husband and I... could be partners.”

The pencil moved so swiftly Teccard could hardly follow it.

Brace up now, Marion. We’re getting in. Take off your hat. And your beads.

Miss Yulett dried her eyes on a tiny handkerchief, did her best to smile. “You’re going to meet him, with me — so he can have a chance to explain?”

No, I’m going to meet him. As you. Wearing your hat and beads. Unpin those flowers, too.

“But, please! Please let me—”

Don’t waste time arguing. If he looks all right to me, I’ll let you meet him later. I’ll take your bag, too. You take mine. And wear my hat.

The disturbed woman unclasped her beads. “But what on earth am I to do? Where will I go? I don’t know anybody but Peter—”