Arthur Hailey - Overload

There was no time to return to her car, but luckily a taxi was approaching. Nancy bailed it. She flashed a twenty-dollar bill and told the driver, a young black, "Keep that bus in sight but don't make it obvious we're following it. Every time it stops, though, I want to see who gets off."

The driver was instantly with it. "Will do, lady! Just sit back. Leave the action to me."

He was smart and resourceful. He passed the bus twice, then each time eased into right lane traffic so the bus, in an outside lane, would pass him. While both vehicles were close, Nancy kept her bead averted. But whenever the bus stopped to take on or disembark passengers, the taxi was positioned so she could see clearly. For what seemed a long time, Birdsong did not appear and Nancy wondered if she had missed him after all. Then, about four miles from his point of boarding, he got off.

She could see him looking around.

"That's the one-with the beard," she told her driver.

"I see him!" the cabby accelerated past, without glancing in Birdsong's direction, then eased into the curb. "Don't turn around, lady. I got him in the mirror. Now be's crossing the street." After a minute or two: "Be damned if he ain't getting on another bus."

They followed the second bus too. It was going in an opposite direction from the first and retraced some of the original route. This time Birdsong got off after a few blocks, again looking around him. Close by were several parked taxis. Birdsong took the first and, as it pulled away, Nancy could see his face peering through the rear window.

She made another decision and instructed, "Let him go. Take me back downtown."

Nancy reasoned: there was no sense in pushing her luck. She hoped Birdsong had not detected her taxi trailing him, but if she persisted he undoubtedly would. Solving the mystery of where he went, and why, would have to be done some other way.

"Geez, lady, kinda bard to figure you out," the cabby complained when they had changed direction. "First you wanna tail the guy, so we do okay. Then you quit." He went on grumbling, "Didn't even get close enough to see the other hack's number."

Because he had done his best, she decided to explain why she didn't want to be that close, and possibly be seen. He listened, then nodded. "Gotcha!"

A few minutes later the young driver turned his bead. "You still wanna find out where the beard goes?"

"Yes," Nancy said. The more she thought about Birdsong's elaborate precautions, the more convinced she became that something important was happening. Something she had to know.

The driver asked, "Know where the guy hangs out mostly?"

"His home address? No, but it wouldn't be hard to find."

"Maybe we could work a deal," the driver said. "Me and two buddies. They ain't working, and they got cars with CB radios. I got a CB too. Three of us could take turns following the beard, pulling a switcheroo so he don't keep seeing the same heap. We'd use the radios. That way, when one guy eased off, he'd call another in."

"But to do that," Nancy pointed out, "you'd have to keep watch on him all the time."

"Can do. Like I said, my friends ain't working."

The idea had possibilities. She asked, "How much would it cost?"

"Have to figure that out, lady. But not as much as you'd think."

"When you've done your figuring," Nancy said, "call me." She scribbled her apartment phone number on the back of a business card.

He called late that night. By then she had looked up Birdsong's home address which was in the phone book.

"Two hundred and fifty a week," the cabby said. "That's for me and the other two."

She hesitated. Was it important enough to go to all that trouble and expense? Again her instincts told her yes.

So should she ask the Examiner for the money? Nancy was doubtful. If she did, she would have to disclose everything she had uncovered so far, and she was certain the paper would want to publish immediately the material on Davey Birdsong and his p&lfp. In Nancy's opinion that would be premature; she believed strongly there was more to come and it was worth waiting for. Another thing: the newspaper's penny pinching management bated to spend money unless it had to.

She decided to go ahead on her own. She would pay the money herself and hope to get it back later. If she didn't it would be no great disaster, though it would violate one of the rules she lived by. By most standards, Nancy Molineaux was wealthy. Several years ago her father established a trust fund which provided her with a regular, comfortable income. But, as a matter of pride, she kept her private finances and professional earnings separate. For once, pride would have to be humbled. The cabby said he would like something in advance, which was reasonable, and Nancy told him to drop by and pick it up.

After he did, she heard nothing for six days. At the end of that time, the young cabdriver, whose name was Vickery, brought her a report. To Nancy's surprise it was detailed and neatly written. All of Birdsong's movements were described; they were routine and innocuous. At no point had be shown awareness of being followed. More significant: He made no attempt to throw any follower off.

"Goesta show one week ain't enough," Vickery said. "Wanna try another?"

Nancy thought: What the hell, why not?

In another seven days Vickery was back. He had the same kind of detailed report, with similarly negative results. Disappointed, she told him, "Okay, that's all. Forget it."

The young man regarded her with unconcealed contempt. "You gonna give up now? Look whatcha got invested" When he sensed her wavering, he urged, "Go for broke! Try one more week."

"You should be a frigging salesman," Nancy said, "not driving a back."

She thought about it. She had proof that Birdsong was a fraud; did she still believe he was a crook? And would finding where he went so mysteriously help the story she intended to write? Finally, should she cut her losses or-as the smartass kid put it-go for broke?

Her instincts again. They told her all three answers should be yes.

"Okay, hotshot," she told Vickery. "One extra week. But no more."

They hit pay dirt on the fourth day.

Vickery phoned, then came to her apartment, that night. "Figured you'd wanna know right away. This aft the beard tried to shake anybody off, the way he did that day with you and me." He added smugly, "We beat the sonovabitch."

"For what it's cost me," Nancy said, "I should goddam hope so."

The young man grinned as he presented the usual written report. It showed that Davey Birdsong had driven his own car from his apartment garage and parked it on the opposite side of the city. Before leaving the car, he had put on dark glasses and a bat. Then he had taken a taxi back across town, followed by two bus rides in differing directions, and finally a walk-a roundabout route to a small house on the city's east side.

He went into the house. The address was given.

“The beard stayed inside two hours," Vickery said.

After that, the report continued, Birdsong took a taxi to a point a few blocks from where his car was parked. From there he walked to the car and drove home.

Vickery asked hopefully, "Warm us to watch the beard some more?" He added, “Them buddies of mine still ain't working."

"With you for a friend," Nancy said, "they shouldn't worry." She shook her head. "No more."

Now, two days later, Nancy was seated in her car, observing the house which Davey Birdsong had visited so secretively. She had been there nearly two hours. It was approaching noon.

Yesterday, the day after Vickery's final report, she spent completing an Examiner feature assignment, though she had not yet turned in her copy to the city desk. She would do so tomorrow. Meanwhile her time was her own.

The house she was watching was number 117 Crocker Street. It was one of a dozen old identical row houses and, a decade ago, refurbished by a speculative builder who believed the district was destined for revival and upgrading. The builder was wrong. Crocker Street remained what it had been-an unimpressive, drab thoroughfare where people lived because they could not afford something better. And the refurbished houses were slipping back into their former state, attested to by chipped masonry, cracked windows and peeling paint. To Nancy's eyes, number 117 seemed no different from the rest.