HE FIRST NOTICED THE new man in the neighborhood on a Tuesday evening, on his way home from the station. The man was tall and thin, with a look about him that told Ray Bankcroft he was English. It wasn’t anything Ray could put his finger on, the fellow just looked English.
That was all there was to their first encounter, and the second meeting passed just as casually, Friday evening at the station. The fellow was living around Pelham some place, maybe in that new apartment house in the next block.
But it was the following week that Ray began to notice him everywhere. The tall Englishman rode down to New York with Ray on the 8:09, and he was eating a few tables away at Howard Johnson’s one noon. But that was the way things were in New York, Ray told himself, where you sometimes ran into the same person every day for a week, as though the laws of probability didn’t exist.
It was on the weekend, when Ray and his wife journeyed up to Stamford for a picnic, that he became convinced the Englishman was following him. For there, fifty miles from home, the tall stranger came striding slowly across the rolling hills, pausing now and then to take in the beauty of the place.
“Damn it, Linda,” Ray remarked to his wife, “there’s that fellow again!”
“What fellow, Ray?”
“That Englishman from our neighborhood. The one I was telling you I see everywhere.”
“Oh, is that him?” Linda Bankcroft frowned through the tinted lenses of her sunglasses. “I don’t remember ever seeing him before.”
“Well, he must be living in that new apartment in the next block. I’d like to know what the hell he’s doing up here, though. Do you think he could be following me?”
“Oh, Ray, don’t be silly,” Linda laughed. “Why would anyone want to follow you? And to a picnic!”
“I don’t know, but it’s certainly odd the way he keeps turning up….”
It certainly was odd.
And as the summer passed into September, it grew odder still. Once, twice, three times a week, the mysterious Englishman appeared, always walking, always seemingly oblivious of his surroundings.
Finally, one night on Ray Bankcroft’s way home, it suddenly grew to be too much for him.
He walked up to the man and asked, “Are you following me?”
The Englishman looked down his nose with a puzzled frown. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you following me?” Ray repeated. “I see you everywhere.”
“My dear chap, really, you must be mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken. Stop following me!”
But the Englishman only shook his head sadly and walked away. And Ray stood and watched him until he was out of sight….
“Linda, I saw him again today!”
“Who, dear?”
“That damned Englishman! He was in the elevator in my building.”
“Are you sure it was the same man?”
“Of course I’m sure! He’s everywhere, I tell you! I see him every day now, on the street, on the train, at lunch, and now even in the elevator! It’s driving me crazy. I’m certain he’s following me. But why?”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“I’ve spoken to him, cursed at him, threatened him. But it doesn’t do any good. He just looks puzzled and walks away. And then the next day there he is again.”
“Maybe you should call the police. But I suppose he hasn’t really done anything.”
“That’s just the trouble, Linda. He hasn’t done a single thing. It’s just that he’s always around. The damned thing is driving me crazy.”
“What—what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do! The next time I see him I’m going to grab him and beat the truth out of him. I’ll get to the bottom of this….”
The next night, the tall Englishman was back, walking just ahead of him on the train platform. Ray ran toward him, but the Englishman disappeared in the crowd.
Perhaps the whole thing was just a coincidence, and yet….
Later that night Ray ran out of cigarettes, and when he left the apartment and headed for the corner drugstore, he knew the tall Englishman would be waiting for him along the route.
And as he came under the pale red glow of the flickering neon, he saw the man, walking slowly across the street from the railroad tracks.
Ray knew that this must be the final encounter.
“Say there!”
The Englishman paused and looked at him distastefully, then turned and walked away from Ray.
“Wait a minute, you! We’re going to settle this once and for all!”
But the Englishman kept walking.
Ray cursed and started after him through the darkness. He called out, “Come back here!” But now the Englishman was almost running.
Ray broke into a trot, following him down the narrow street that led along the railroad tracks. “Damn you, come back! I want to talk to you!”
But the Englishman ran on, faster and faster. Finally Ray paused, out of breath.
And ahead, the Englishman had paused too.
Ray could see the gleaming glow of his wristwatch as he raised his hand in a gesture. And Ray saw that he was beckoning him to follow….
Ray broke into a run again.
The Englishman waited only a moment and then he too ran, keeping close to the edge of the railroad wall, where only a few inches separated him from a twenty-foot drop to the tracks below.
In the distance, Ray heard the low whistle of the Stamford Express, tearing through the night.
Ahead, the Englishman rounded a brick wall that jutted out almost to the edge of the embankment. He was out of sight around the corner for a moment, but Ray was now almost upon him. He rounded the wall himself and saw, too late, that the Englishman was waiting for him there.
The man’s big hands came at him, and all at once Ray was pushed and falling sideways, over the edge of the railroad wall, clawing helplessly at the air.
And as he hit the tracks, he saw that the Stamford Express was almost upon him, filling all space with its terrible sound….
Some time later, the tall Englishman peered through a cloud of blue cigarette smoke at the graceful figure of Linda Bankcroft and said, “As I remarked at the beginning of all this, my darling, a proper murder is the ultimate game of skill….”