Уильям Макгиверн - Collected Fiction - 1940-1963

“This is Ryan,” he said, recognizing the House Sergeant’s voice. “Did they pick up that little drunk yet?”

The sergeant’s voice was cautious. “We ain’t supposed to talk about it, Ryan. But they haven’t got him, I can tell you that much.”

“Just who in hell is he?”

“Damned if I know. I’m not sure anyone knows. The FBI is in on it now. Maybe he’s a spy or a big smuggler, or something like that.”

“He’s just a soft-headed lush, if you ask me,” Ryan said. He hung up the phone, paid his bill and went out into the darkening evening. Now we got the FBI in it, he thought, grinning crookedly. Lot of good that would do. Those college kids would run around with trucks full of fancy equipment, using two-bit words, and wind up lost in Brewery Town, or somewhere deep in the South Side. This was a job for cops who knew their way around the city, who knew the joints and the dives, the stoolies and hoods.

“I could find him,” Ryan muttered into the wind. He stopped at an intersection for an instant, and his next thought was reflexive, inevitable. “I’ll find him,” he said, in a low bitter voice. “Yeah, I’ll get you, you little clammed-up bum. You made a sucker out of me last night, and it’s time to even the score.”

Ryan Walked swiftly toward his district. He stopped across the street from it, studying the three-story redbrick building with narrow, thoughtful eyes. Fifteen hours ago a nameless little man had sauntered casually out of that place, to disappear into the city. So far the FBI, the local cops, and a variety of imported brass hadn’t been able to trace him. Ryan was facing the side door of the station, the exit the little man must have used in making his escape. Okay, he had come out that door, descended a flight of stairs to the sidewalk — and then what? The little man had the choice of walking in two directions at that moment. He could go left or right. Ryan elected to check right first. That decision, if it was the one the little man had made, would have taken him into a nondescript block of delicatessen stores, business shops, and a few moderately well-kept rooming houses.

Ryan pulled his hat brim down, and squared his jaw. Okay, I’m coming after you, little man, he thought. He crossed the street and started down the block, moving slowly but purposefully, trying to imagine the chances that would have been available the little, man, and which of them he might have chosen.

First of all, Ryan reminded himself, it had been about three-thirty in the morning when the little man evaporated from the station. At that time these shops would have been closed up tight. The little man would have been hurrying along a dark empty street. Since it had been raining at the time, there was damn little chance than any insomniac resident of this neighborhood had been out for a restless stroll.

So what would the little man have done? Well, that was simple; he’d just have to keep going. Obviously he must get inside, off the streets, and that meant a place that was open in the early hours of the morning. Ryan stopped at the end of the block, and looked down the next one with a grim little smile on his lips. This looked more promising; here there were a few taprooms, an all-night restaurant, and a penny arcade and shooting gallery that was open around the clock.

“Was this what you ran for?” he said aloud, still smiling. “The bright lights, the chance to roll a drunk, or of finding some lushed-up broad who’d take you home for the night?” He started down the block slowly, a big man with hard flat features, and something of the jungle in his sort measured strides and the depths of his pitiless eyes. I’m right behind you, little man, he thought, right on your heels.

Ryan remembered then that the little man had had no money. He frowned; that ruled out the bars and the all-night restaurants pretty definitely. You couldn’t hang around such places for long without at least springing for a beer. The penny arcade was a better bet for a guy without funds.

Ryan sauntered into the brightly lighted arcade, and changed a quarter into pennies at the cashier’s cage. Then he wandered around for a few minutes, stopping to test his grip at a strength machine, and waiting in line to peer through a cloudy lens at a pair of tiny figures doing an Apache dance. After studying the joint a while he drifted over to the open door of a small office. Inside a paunchy balding man in his early forties was looking gloomily at a set of figures.

“Got a minute, chief?” he said.

The little man looked up at him frowning. “What’s on your mind?”

Ryan hesitated. He couldn’t flash his badge and demand cooperation or else. “Matter of fact, I’m in a little trouble,” he said, and the words, faintly entreating, were stiff and awkward on his lips.

“Well, what is it?” the balding little man said. “Lose your bankroll out there?” he asked, grinning.

Ryan smiled slightly. “Nothing like that. The thing is I’m looking for my brother. He’s not nuts exactly, but he’s a little slow in the head. He wandered away from the house early this morning, around two-thirty or three, I think, and I’ve traced him this far. I’m wondering if you saw him. He’s a little guy, with silvery hair and kind of a lost look about him. Were you here this morning?”

“Yeah, I was here till eight. But I didn’t see no one looking like your brother.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said.

He left the arcade, not discouraged, only impatient. The break would come, of course; it always did. Somewhere there would be someone who had seen the little man. Ryan had only to keep plodding along, asking questions, and eventually, inevitably, he’d get on the track of the little man with the silvery hair.

Ryan spent the next few hours in barrooms, listening to the gossip, asking a few casual questions. He learned nothing of value. When he got a mile away from the district, he decided that he wasn’t on the right trail. The little man had found a hole immediately, otherwise he would have been picked up by the squad cars that had covered the area earlier in the morning. Frowning, Ryan retraced his route until he came back to the district. Now he’d have to start over. Well, that was okay, he thought. A slow illogical anger against the little man was building up inside him. Why hadn’t the little bastard been sensible and talked? He’d given him the chance, hadn’t he? Okay, you won’t get another one, Ryan thought. The next time I’ll play for keeps, he told himself, pounding a big fist into the palm of his hand.

Ryan stood on the street corner, still frowning, imagining the problem the little man had faced when he left the police station. It had been raining and cold, the street had been deserted, all the shops were shut up for the night, and the little man hadn’t had a dime in his pockets. Where in hell could he have gone?

Suddenly Ryan had an idea. Undoubtedly the street had been deserted — no one would have been out in that rain at three in the morning unless it was absolutely necessary. This thought brought a grim smile to his lips. Supposing the little man had met someone who had found it necessary to be out at that time of the night. There were such people, of course: cab drivers, waitresses, printers, newspapermen, to list only a few. Ryan moved down the block again, studying the half-dozen or so rooming houses with sharp, alert eyes. Perhaps someone who lived in this block had been coming home from a night job and bumped into the little man...

Ryan turned and walked quickly back to the drug store. He entered a phone booth and called a special number of the cab company. When a voice answered, Ryan said, “Police. I want to know if one of your drivers dropped a fare on Huntington Street around three or three-thirty this morning. Yeah, that’s right. Between Third and Fourth on Huntington. I want this right away.”