Стюарт Стерлинг - The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

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—”

The gentleman standing behind us is Police Lieutenant Teccard. He’ll see that you get to a hotel. Stay where he tells you to until I can get in touch with you.

Teccard gripped Helen’s shoulder. “No you don’t. You take Miss Yulett to the hotel. I’ll meet pal Peter.”

Sergeant Dixon looked up at him. “What evidence do you think you’d get out of him, Jerry? He’s not the same man you ran into uptown, is he? As things stand, you haven’t a thing on him.”

“I’ll sweat the evidence out of him, all right.”

“Maybe you couldn’t. There’s always the possibility this fellow’s on the level. If he is, I turn him over to Miss Yulett. If he isn’t, I’ll be able to give first-hand testimony as to how he operates. This is a job only a policewoman can handle effectively.”

Teccard grimaced. “Put your gun in her bag, then. And don’t be dainty about using it. Another thing: I’m going to turn Miss Yulett over to one of the pick-pocket squad in the terminal and tail you and your intended.”

“All right, as long as he doesn’t spot you.” Helen adjusted the ridiculous brim of the hat, snapped the beads around her neck. Hastily, she used the pad once more.

Did Forst tell you where you were to stay in New York? Or how soon you’d get married?

“As soon as we could get the license.” Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes again. “He said I could stay with his family. But I don’t know just where they live.”

“I bet Peter doesn’t, either,” Teccard muttered, beneath his breath. He watched Helen go through the contents of Miss Yulett’s bag — the little leather diary, the packet of envelopes like the one in Helbourne’s desk drawer, the savings bank book.

The train slid alongside the concrete platform, redcaps kept pace with the slowing cars.

Helen put her arm around Miss Yulett’s shoulders, hugged her lightly. Teccard pulled down the worn, leather suitcase from the overhead rack. “I’ll get a porter for you.”

“Don’t be silly.” The sergeant hefted the bag, easily. “She wouldn’t spend a quarter that way. So I won’t.” She nodded cheerfully at the woman, joined the procession in the aisle.

Teccard got out his notebook, penciled: Fm going to get a detective to take you to the Commodore Hotel. Right here in the station. Register and stay right in your room until Sergeant Dixon comes for you. Don’t worry about your bag, or expenses. We’ll take care of them. Understand?

She didn’t hide her fear. “Yes. But I’m afraid.”

He patted her shoulder. “Nothing to be scared of—” he said before he realized she wasn’t reading his lips. He followed her out to the platform, located one of the boys on the Terminal Squad, told him what he wanted done. “Keep her here on the platform for a while, too. Better take her out through one of the other gates — in case the man we’re after is still waiting there. Phone my office and tell them her room number. Notify the desk at the hotel to route all calls to her room through the office of one of the assistant managers.”

He tipped his hat to Miss Yulett, left her staring blankly at the bandage on the back of his head. The poor soul must be scared stiff, he knew. Well, better than being a stiff...

He had managed to keep sight of Helen’s abominable hat, thirty or forty yards ahead. He put on steam to catch up with her. She was playing the part of the timidly anxious woman, to the hilt — searching the faces of the crowd lining the gate-ropes with just the right amount of hesitancy.

Teccard couldn’t see anyone who resembled the snapshot. He was completely unprepared for what happened. A young man of thirty or so stepped abruptly out of the thinning crowd and took the suitcase out of the sergeant’s hand.

Except for the exaggerated sideburns, his thin, clean-cut features could have been called handsome, in a sinister sort of way. If it hadn’t been for the cream-colored necktie against the extravagantly long-pointed soft collar of his mauve shirt, he might have been considered well-dressed. There was no goatee, none of the full roundness of the face in Miss Yulett’s snapshot. Yet Teccard was sure he recognized the man. He had only seen those dark eyebrows in side view — the deeply cleft chin had been covered with a towel when the lieutenant had pointed a gun at him. But this would be Harold Willard, beyond much doubt.

Teccard couldn’t get too close to them. “Willard” or “Forst,” or whatever his name was, would be certain to recognize the man who had crashed the room on Eighty-eighth Street! How could the lieutenant shadow them without being spotted himself?

Evidently “Willard” knew that Miss Yulett was deaf, he showed no surprise when Helen offered him the pad. But apparently there was some difference of opinion going on. The sergeant was shaking her head, as if she were bewildered.