It was quite dark when I got back to Grossbeck’s Pharmacy. The blue and orange globes in the window were lighted up, conveying their message of confidence and yesterday’s scientific mysticism much more eloquently than the neon sign which was not there. I tried the door. It was locked. I pressed my nose against the plate glass. I could see one lonely fly-specked light burning inside the pharmacy—probably over the safe. I saw nobody moving around.
I strolled down the street, looking for an alleyway that led to the back court. There had to be an alleyway, because I had seen trash cans in the court when I unlocked the window near the phone booth. There was.
I made my way down the dark, narrow passage, until I reached the areaway. Orienting myself by the shadow of the ailanthus tree, I quickly found my window. It was still unlatched. When I raised it, the sash pulleys screamed in protest. I crouched against the wall, sure that a dozen other windows opening on the areaway would echo the screech, that lights would go on, heads pop out, voices challenge. Nothing of the sort took place. New Yorkers are callously indifferent to the domestic noises of their neighbors, to sounds either of joy or of distress. I straddled the window sill and plunged into the pharmacy without bothering to close the window behind me.
It took me at least fifteen minutes to find what I was looking for. At first I feared that the prescription book might be locked in the safe. In that case I would be really up the creek. I was no Jimmy Valentine. I spent some time in the dusty cubicle that was apparently Grossbeck’s office, but found nothing. I then concentrated on the prescription department, the back room, which was the pharmaceutical heart of the establishment. I lit matches, to examine the ghostly rows of jars and bottles, the scales and beakers, the neatly labeled boxes of herbs and drugs. I found a desk with locked drawers. Three matches later I found a key under a heavy mortar and pestle. The key opened the desk. The prescription book was in the deep bottom drawer.
I carried the heavy book into the office where I could study it by the dim light over the safe. I maneuvered into a corner where I would be invisible from the street. Then I got to work.
The chore was not nearly as tedious or complicated as I had feared. Within twenty minutes I had come across several familiar names in the prescription book. The notations on the prescriptions meant little to me, but I was sure that some of them would mean plenty to the professional eye. So I made copious notes of all of them. I was just putting the paper in my pocket, getting ready to leave, when the light went out.
I sat in the darkness for a full minute without moving. I couldn’t move. It’s no use pretending I wasn’t scared. I was. I was petrified—all except my knee joints, which were gelatinous. I half expected the chilling, paralyzing wail of the air-raid alert to make the blackness vibrate with dread. I told myself that this was no London blackout, that this was Greenwich Village in peace-time New York, but I could not get rid of that numbing, stupid terror that had always come to me unbidden when a buzz bomb fell on London. Not the V-2S. They didn’t terrify. They just made people mad. But the awful build-up of the alert, the distant ack-ack, the fighter planes taking off, the sound of the buzz bomb itself, then the deadly seconds of silence after the motor stopped, just before it hit—all this had always gripped my viscera hard and left them cold, until well after a distant explosion had told me that the bomb was for some poor devils on the other side of town, or a crash and tinkle of breaking glass indicated a narrow escape.
While my memory wandered across the Atlantic, I did hear the crash and tinkle of broken glass—and I sprang up, my nerves tingling and my scalp crawling. After the first instinctive reaction, I realized that the crash was not a projection of past experience, but the result of somebody knocking over a beaker or a bottle. This brought the danger rushing into the present. I was not alone in the darkness, and I had better get ready to defend myself. From the sound, I roughly estimated the position of the person who was sharing the pharmacy with me. He was not far away.
I took a few tentative steps, trying to make no sound, aiming to change corners. I knocked against a table with what seemed to me to be a resounding crash. I stood a minute, breathless, listening. I heard no sound.
I felt my way along the edge of the table. I ducked behind it. I crouched, waiting, watching the doorway of the office which was faintly illuminated by the glow of the colored globes in the window, reflected from the ceiling.
I saw the silhouette of a man pass quickly through the doorway and disappear. I did not recognize the silhouette, but I saw that the man was holding something in his right hand.
Again I held my breath, listening, hearing nothing. I sensed the presence of this other man near me, but it was a silent one. I could not even hear his breathing. I was beginning to think perhaps that I had been imagining things, that Conchita’s drops had affected my brain, when I heard at last the scrape of a shoe along the floor.
Instantly I vaulted the table, jumped toward the sound. I collided with something yielding, and my momentum was enough for both of us. We hit the floor at the same time. I sprawled on top of a squirming, kicking, grunting body. Desperately I groped for the thing I had seen in the man’s right hand.
Something hard and metallic smacked me on the left side of my face and I grabbed with both hands. Fingers twisted themselves into my hair, knees and feet tried to batter me into relinquishing my grasp. But I managed to plant one of my own knees on a right arm, and my fist closed on a long cylindrical object with a cold, smooth, metallic feel.
“Drop it!” I panted. “Or I’ll kick your teeth in.”
The fingers relaxed, and I was a little surprised to find myself in full possession of what seemed to be a heavy flashlight. My thumb found the switch and pressed it.
“Stand up!” I said.
I shone the light into the face of Eddie Westerford. He was bleeding a little from a cut on his cheek, and there was a distraught flicker in his eyes. He was even more scared than I was. I frisked him.
“I haven’t got a gun or anything,” he said. “I wasn’t going to hurt you. I was just after—”
“I know what you were after. You’re a little late.”
“I suppose you found what you were looking for,” Eddie said.
“Yes. I think so.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Turn it over to the police, of course.”
“But why?” Eddie pleaded. “It hasn’t anything to do with the murder of Dr. Norman.”
“The hell it hasn’t. Where’s the light switch?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop funnin’,” I said. “You turned it off. Now turn it back on.”
“Okay. It’s over here.”
I walked him over to the switch and supervised the operation of his snapping it on. “Now let’s talk,” I said.
“There’s really nothing whatever to talk about, old man,” he said.
“Look, Eddie. You don’t have to give me the British routine. My life in England was very secluded. I was practically cut off from mingling with the natives by walls of my own countrymen with eagles and stars on their shoulders. I never lost my American accent, and I’m not impressed by the pseudo-Oxonian. Tell me. Did Conchita tip you off that you’d find me here?”
No answer.
“Of course she did. She was phoning you while I was locked in the bathroom. And I suppose you’d taken up your vigil in some nearby bar with a good view on Gross-beck’s Pharmacy as soon as your show was over.”
Still no answer.
“The answer is yes,” I continued. “Conchita kept me long after you were off the air, pretending that her watch was stopped and she’d lost track of time. You’ve got a damned fine wife, Eddie. I hope you appreciate her. She’d do anything for you.”
“Let’s not talk about Conchita,” Eddie said. “She’s not concerned in any of this business.”
“Isn’t she? She went up to the Super Fidelity Sound Studios to try to destroy whatever was left of Norman’s recording.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“That’s a lot of road-apples, Eddie. Conchita gave Norman the address of the studio, and Norman went up there to make the recording that was smashed when he was murdered.”
“I didn’t know anything about that recording until today. Neither did Conchita.”
“But you both found out plenty. Judging from your presence here, you must have called Super Fidelity Sound Studios from that roadside bar this afternoon.”
“What of it?”
“Wasn’t it rather silly to pose as Dr. Norman, inasmuch as Norman was dead?”
“It was silly,” Eddie admitted. “I didn’t intend to, naturally, but when that asinine engineer at the studio said, ‘Is this Dr. Norman speaking?’ I just said ‘yes,’ automatically, without thinking.”
“Did you know I was following you?”
“No. But when I heard that playback on the phone, I was afraid somebody would get the idea of coming to Grossbeck’s. Conchita watched the place while I was doing my show, and I came back just after the broadcast. I was watching from that bar just down the street. I saw you go in a little while ago.”
“And you followed. Why?”
“Because my personal habits are no possible concern of yours or of anyone else. Practically everyone indulges in some form of narcotics—tobacco, alcohol, music.… Is it anyone’s business if I happen to prefer some more delightfully pernicious form? As long as I do my work—”
“Maybe you wouldn’t get any work,” I interrupted, “if word got around that you were fond of nose candy.”
“That’s precisely the point I’ve been trying to make, my dear fellow.”
“Maybe Dr. Norman was going to tell the world that he’d been feeding you prescriptions. Maybe—”
“See here, old man, you don’t really think I killed Norman.”
“I think you almost certainly received unfavorable mention in the recording that was smashed when Dr. Norman was killed.”
“That was an unfortunate coincidence.”
“And I think the man who smashed the recording killed Norman.”
“You don’t think I got solo billing on Norman’s show, do you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Was Dr. Hurley feeding you prescriptions, too?”
“No,” Eddie replied, after a slight hesitation.
“Then why was he meeting you in Room 13 at the inn today?”
“He didn’t meet me in Room 13 at the inn,” Eddie said.
“I know he didn’t. He sent Betty to tell you he couldn’t take the risk. What risk, Eddie?”
“You’re pretty smart, aren’t you, Lawrence? Did you have a dictaphone planted in Room 13?”
“I had the plumbing wired for sound,” I said. “What were you looking for? What did Norman leave behind? A toothbrush?”
“I have a toothbrush of my own, old man.”
“Then you were looking for a deck of dream powders that Norman promised to bring along. And I suppose Hurley gave you a booster shot in the morning to tide you over.”
“Suppose what you like.”
“Okay, Eddie. You don’t have to talk to me. But some folks are going to be a lot more stuffy. Come on. Let’s make some phone calls.”
“Now see here, old man,” Eddie protested. “Can’t we—? Ow! Let go my wrist. You don’t have to show off your jiu-jitsu on me.”
“This isn’t jiu-jitsu,” I said. “This is a hold I learned in London while training to take command of my LMD.”
“LMD,” Eddie sneered. “You weren’t in combat. I know you weren’t in combat.”
“An LMD,” I explained, “is a Large Mahogany Desk.” I gave another twist. “Come on, Eddie.”
Eddie winced. “All right, I’ll come. But keep your hands off me.”
He came, but I didn’t keep my hands off him. I walked him back to the telephone and hung on to his wrist through the door of the booth while I fumbled for nickels.
I dialed Dr. Hurley’s Manhattan number and got the physicians’ answering service. The operator told me Dr. Hurley could be reached at the Lakeside Inn, Blindman’s Lake, New York. So I fumbled for dimes and quarters and called the inn.
“I’d like to speak to Dr. Hurley,” I said.
There was a pause. Then another voice said: “Hello? Who is this?”
I recognized the voice as Captain McKay’s. When I asked again for Dr. Hurley, the recognition became mutual.
“Goddamit, Lawrence, you’ve got your nerve!” McKay shouted into the phone. “Are you ready to give yourself up?”
“First I’d like to talk to Dr. Hurley,” I repeated.
“You can’t talk to Hurley,” McKay said. “He’s with Miss Boyd. She’s been quietly having hysterics. And don’t think you can hide out much longer. I’ve got six thousand men looking for you, and you haven’t got a Chinaman’s chance. You might just as well give yourself up now.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Captain,” I said. “I just want one word with Hurley, and then I’ll come out and surrender to you personally.”
“You get the hell out here right away,” McKay ordered. “Or else.” He hung up.
I was surprised that McKay had hung up so quickly. I thought he would keep me talking until he could have the call traced and start his bloodhounds converging on the spot. Obviously, since McKay was no dope, he had other plans. I wondered what he was up to.
Still holding fast to Eddie’s wrist, I stepped out of the phone booth. Eddie dragged his feet a little, but he came quietly when I went back to pick up the heavy prescription book.
“Now what?” Eddie wanted to know.
“We’re going back to Blindman’s Lake and give ourselves up,” I said.
“Not me,” Eddie said. “I’m never going back to that place.”
I gave his wrist another round of Grosvenor Square commando tactics. He winced again, but this time he hit me right under the eye. It didn’t hurt much, but instinctively I dropped his wrist and smacked him back. It made me a little sick to hit him, because he was not the pugilistic type and I outweighed him by at least sixty pounds. His head bobbed twice, and he dabbed at his nose with a silk handkerchief. I think he was a little disappointed to find he wasn’t bleeding, because while I’m sure I had done him little bodily harm, I had no doubt left scars on his soul. He was quite docile as I towed him through the rear window of the pharmacy.
“Look, Eddie,” I said, as we walked down the dark alleyway. “If you try to give me the slip or yell for the cops or do anything else to stop our getting to Blindman’s Lake, I swear I’ll bust this thing so wide open you’ll never get it together again. If you behave yourself, you’ll at least have an even break. I think McKay is fundamentally a decent guy. Is it a deal?”
“Can I call Conchita first?”
“No. You’ll have to make your own decision.”
Eddie sighed. “All right, you win,” he said listlessly.
We picked up a taxi in Christopher Street and drove to the garage where I had parked Grace’s car. I didn’t see any cops around. Apparently Grace’s license plates had not yet been spotted.
I gave the night man my stub and a dollar. I watched Eddie get into the car first, then climbed in beside him and stepped on the starter.