Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

“I’m not sure. Somebody with a shopping bag.”

The driver studied him silently for a moment. Then he said, “I got to have a destination, mister. I got to write down a destination on my call sheet.”

“Okay, write down Radio City Music Hall.”

“Is that where you’re going?”

“No, but you can say that’s where I’m going. Then I’ll change my mind as soon as I spot whoever has my shopping bag. I’m allowed to change my mind.”

“That’s true, you’re allowed to change your mind.”

“Okay, so write down Radio City.”

“How you gonna find this person with your shopping bag?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve got to keep my eyes open until we catch up with the train.”

“What train?”

“The one up there heading for Manhattan.”

“Mister, there are a hundred trains up there heading for Manhattan.”

“Yes, but this one just left about five minutes ago. I’m sure we can catch it.”

“Mister,” the driver said, “I’ll tell you the truth, I was just on my way in to the garage, you know? So why don’t I just help you get another cab, huh?”

“No, this’ll be fine,” Mullaney said. “Here,” he said, and handed the driver his dollar and fifteen cents. “This is all the money I’ve got. Just keep driving until the meter hits ninety-five cents, and keep the twenty cents for your tip. If we haven’t caught up with the train by then or found my shopping bag by then, well, that’s that, we tried, right? We can’t go looking all over the city for that pot of gold, now can we?”

“Not on a buck-fifteen, we can’t,” the driver said.

“Right, so let’s get moving, right?”

“This won’t take you to Radio City,” the driver said, pocketing the money and throwing the cab into gear.

“I know, but that’s okay because I’m not going to Radio City, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the driver said.

“You forgot to throw your flag,” Mullaney said.

“Yeah, yeah,” the driver said.

“Do you know what time it is?” Mullaney asked.

“Quarter to four,” the driver answered. “You know, don’t you, that the minute I throw this flag, you got thirty-five cents on the meter right off.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“What I’m saying is this money ain’t gonna take you very far. I mean, I don’t know what kind of manhunt you got in mind here, but this money ain’t gonna take you very far at all , if you know what I mean.”

“Well, that’s a chance I’ll have to take, right?” Mullaney said. “Life’s full of little chances one has to take, right?”

“If you say so, mister,” the driver said, and lowered the flag, starting the clock on the meter.

“Please drive as slowly as you can,” Mullaney said. “I have to look at the people. One of them may have my shopping bag.”

“Mister, do you know how many people live in the borough of Brooklyn?”

“How many?”

“I happen to live in the borough of Brooklyn myself,” the driver said, “and so I know whereof I speak. There happens to be 2,018,356 people living in this borough, and on a Saturday afternoon like this, with the sun shining and it so nice out, I’ll bet you half of them are out here in the street. And I’ll bet you furthermore that half of them that are out here in the street are carrying shopping bags. Now how do you expect to find...”

“Slow down, slow down,” Mullaney said.

“... a person carrying your shopping bag?”

“It’s a very special shopping bag,” Mullaney said.

“Oh? It has your name on it or something?”

“No, it has Judy Bond’s name on it.”

“Who’s Judy Bond? A relation to James Bond perhaps?” the driver said, and burst out laughing. Undoubtedly thinking Mullaney had not heard him, he said again, “A relation to James Bond perhaps?” and laughed again. “You now have forty-five cents on the meter, mister.”

“I see it,” Mullaney said.

“That’s almost half your ride,” the driver said.

“I know.”

The streets, as the driver had observed, were thronged with people, but Mullaney could not see anyone carrying a Judy Bond shopping bag. He was desperately hoping that the shopping bag was still on the train, and that he could catch up with the train before his meter money ran out. (The meter now read fifty-five cents, he noticed with rising despair.) He would then board the train (What would he use for fare? he suddenly wondered), retrieve the bag and figure out a way of tricking K into revealing the jacket’s secret. That was his biggest hope, and he was gambling that his money would not run out before he could realize it. (The meter now read sixty cents.) But the possibility also existed that someone had picked up the shopping bag, disembarked from the train, and was at this very moment hurrying homeward with a supposed treasure trove, little suspecting that all the bag contained was a jacket with a torn lining. So he kept his eyes on the pedestrians scurrying past, shifting his attention from them to the meter and then back again, and suddenly hearing a siren somewhere up ahead.

He leaned forward tensely and peered through the windshield, noticing from the corner of his eye that the meter now read seventy cents and thinking I’ll never make it, all is lost. There was a crowd of people milling about the steps of the elevated station stop ahead. An ambulance was parked at the curb, and the police car he had heard was just pulling up beside it.

“Slow down,” he told the driver.

The driver obediently slowed the taxi as they came abreast of the ambulance. Two attendants were coming down the steps of the platform, carrying someone on a stretcher. Mullaney could not see the person on the stretcher, but he recognized George walking beside it, a grave, pale look on his face. That will be poor Henry on the stretcher, Mullaney thought, and grinned ghoulishly, figuring he would not have to worry too much about either of the twins for the rest of the day, what with hospital emergency rooms and all that. Even Kruger seemed only a remote menace now that his musclemen were out of the action. Still grinning, he said to the driver, “Scratch two.”

“I beg your pardon?” the driver said.

“Drive on,” Mullaney said, grinning. “And remember that a horse race isn’t over until all the photos arc in.”

“Your particular horse race is gonna be over in exactly twenty cents,” the driver said.

“Be that as it may,” Mullaney said.

“Are you a cop?” the driver asked instantly.

“Oh no indeed,” Mullaney said.

“Mister, there is now eighty cents on the meter.”

“Yes, yes,” Mullaney said, “well, that’s the way it goes, you cannot win them all.”

“Did you say a Judy Bond shopping bag?” the driver said.

“Yes. Why?”

“Because I just saw a girl carrying one.”

“What! Where?”

“Up ahead there. You want me to pull over?”

“Yes, where is she? Where’d you sec her?”

“Right over there, oops,” the driver said, “she’s gone.”

“Let me out,” Mullaney said.

“One moment please, sir,” the driver said, and put his hand on Mullaney’s arm.

“Look, I can’t afford to lose that...”

“The fare is only eighty cents whereas you gave me ninety-five cents plus a twenty-cent tip,” the driver said. “Now twenty cents is a more than sufficient tip on an eighty-cent ride, so if it’s all the same to you, I would like to give you fifteen cents change.”

“Fine, fine,” Mullaney said. “Only please...”

“One moment please, sir,” the driver said, and reached over for his change dispenser, pushing a lever in the dime section, and another lever in the nickel section, and then presenting both coins to Mullaney.