She was a fairly young woman, dressed all in white like a nurse. She was kind of pretty, too, and also rather flustered—and—cross-looking. Because children like those, she could only crack down on them so hard. She could tell them what to do, but she couldn’t really insist or get tough with them, if she wanted to keep her job. And it looked like she wasn’t the only one who knew it. She’d been chasing after them, straightening out first one then the other, ever since I’d driven up. Now, finally, she had them all together in the middle of the playground, trying to get some kind of ring-around-a-rosy game started.
I took off my sunglasses and wiped them. I looked at the dashboard clock. It was five minutes after three. If he kept to his usual schedule, the real chauffeur would be showing up between three-thirty and four. So I had to be moving—if I was going to move. I had to, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t spotted my angle yet.
I put the glasses on again and looked back over at the playground. I looked just in time to see a kid, a little boy, give a girl a shove. She sat down hard on her bottom, squalling like she’d been killed. The matron shook her finger at the boy and squatted down in front of the little girl. She dusted her off and petted her, put her on her feet again. She straightened up and looked around for the boy. Then she sort of shrugged, and went back to the game. Maybe she thought he was still in the group, because with all those kids it would be easy to overlook one. Or maybe she thought he’d gone to the toilet. Anyway, she couldn’t be bothered. And I mean she really couldn’t be. She had maybe thirty kids to look after, so she couldn’t devote her whole time to one of them.
But I could. Any guy who wanted to pick one off could do it. So I knew where the little boy was.
He’d gone off to the clubhouse, but he hadn’t gone inside. Instead, he’d scooted through the patio, dropped down on his hands and knees on the other side, and started crawling along the row of sandboxes. He was headed straight for the gate. From the way he went about it, you could tell he’d done it plenty of times before.
I started the car, watching him as he reached out from behind a sandbox and eased the gate open a few inches. His hair was the same color as the Vanderventer boy’s. They were about the same size, too, but I could see he was older. He must be at least nine, I guessed, and probably he was as old as ten.
He was my angle. He could be the angle—if he got out.
And he did.
He did it so fast that I almost missed it. One second he was snaked down behind the sandbox. The next second he was out the gate, running stooped along the concrete base of the fence. At the rear of the clubhouse, he straightened up casually and walked on down to about the middle of it. Then, he took a cigarette from the pocket of his little sawed-off pants and tapped it against his wrist a few times.
He took a lighter from another pocket, and lit it. He leaned against the building, one foot crossed over the other, puffing away like a little old man. I put the car into gear. I drove past the playground, the fenced part, and stopped at the rear of the clubhouse.
He flicked his fingers at me in a kind of wise-guy salute. “Hi, Rogers,” he said, sauntering forward. “What do you know, for sure?”
I mumbled something, hello, or how are you, or something like that. Or maybe I didn’t either. Because I was pretty mixed up to begin with, and the way he talked and acted, it didn’t do anything to straighten me out.
“Okay?” He hesitated with his hand on the fender. Then he nodded at me through the windshield, went to the door, and climbed in. “How about a little ride, Rog? I want to talk to you about Charlie, and this will be my last chance.”
I got the car started again. I started it with a jerk. He was doing exactly what I wanted him to do, doing everything for me. But, well, I just don’t know. I just couldn’t think.
“Don’t remember me, do you, Rog?” He leaned back, propping his feet up on the dashboard. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t. I’ve been on the Coast for six months—just here for a few days with Grandma—and I have to go back to Paris tonight. That’s the way the judge made it when my parents got divorced. Six months with Dad in the States and six months with Mom.”
He lighted another cigarette, and held the package out to me. I shook my head, looking into the rear view mirror. There was a car or two behind me, but neither was Uncle Bud’s. I wondered if I’d figured him and Fay wrong.
“Now, about Charlie,” the boy said. “What’s happened to him, anyway Rog? What kind of shoving around are those goofy parents of his giving him?”
“Shoving around?” I mumbled. “I, uh, I guess I don’t know what you mean.”
“Never mind. I know how they treat him, how they’ve always treated him. He’s been sick for years, and he’s getting sicker. And the worse he gets the tougher they make it for a him. Making a man out of him, they call it. Teaching him responsibility…Boy, I wish I was a little bigger! I’d get me a club, and…”
I saw them now, Fay and Uncle Bud. They were in his car. Fay was driving and they were coming up fast.
“Something wrong, Rogers?” The boy gave me a knowing look. “Want me to duck out of sight?”
“Just some friends of mine,” I said. “And, no, I want you to sit right up. Just act like—”
“I get you. You were too early to pick Charlie up, so you’re killing a little time with a pal.”
I swung into the curb and stopped. Their car shot past us, skidded to a stop, and Uncle Bud jumped out. He started toward us at a run, his hand inside his coat. Then, he got a good look at the boy, and his mouth dropped open. And he stopped as suddenly as the car had.
I got out. I sauntered up to him, deliberately looking puzzled. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “What are you two doing out this way?”
“I—we—” He shook his head helplessly, his eyes wavering. He’d planned on doing just one thing, and now he didn’t know what the hell to do. “That b-boy,” he said, at last. “Damn it all, Kid, you got the wrong boy!”
“Huh!” I let out a grunt. “But he looks—”
“Well, damn it to hell, he’s not! A blind man could see he’s not.”
“I told you. I told you I couldn’t see good with these glasses. But there’s no use in getting sore. I’ll just take him back and get the right one tomorrow.”
“Just like that, huh? Hell, of all the dumb—”
“He won’t say anything. I’ll make him think it’s some kind of game.”
“Yeah, but—” Uncle Bud hesitated. “But it’s so damned late! You’re practically a cinch to run into the other chauffeur.”
“I can make it,” I explained, “and I’m sure the kid won’t talk. He’ll be afraid to, see? He slipped off from the playground, and he’ll be—”
“Okay! All right!” He made up his mind suddenly. “But get moving, will you? Snap into it, and I’ll see you out at the house.”
Uncle Bud ran back to his car, pushing Fay back in just as she started to get out. They drove off with him at the wheel, and I went back to the station wagon.
“Well, Rogers…” The boy nodded at the dashboard clock. “I’ve got to be getting back to the playground.”
“Right away,” I agreed. I pulled the car around in a fast U-turn. “Now, about this little ride of ours. I’ll appreciate it if you don’t say anything about it.”
“I won’t,” he promised, “and don’t you say anything either. Just give me a minute to duck into the clubhouse. Then you can pick up Charlie, and no one’ll know a thing.”
I turned at the corner of the playground and parked at the side of the clubhouse. He opened the door kind of reluctantly. Sat, hesitating, half-in and half-out of the car. Then, he turned slowly around and stared thoughtfully into my face. And for a moment he looked every bit as old as he talked.
“Charlie’s sick,” he said. “Awful sick. I can’t do anything about it, and anyway I’ve got to go back to Paris tonight.”
“I’ll see about him,” I said hurriedly. “I’ll look after him. Don’t you worry.”
/>
“You better. You sure as heck better…Rogers.”
He slid out of the car, looked back in for a second. “Take it easy,” he said. “His folks need a good jolt, but don’t be too tough on ’em.”
Then he was gone. So quickly that it was hard to believe that he had ever been there. I got out of the car right away, but by the time I reached the playground he was nowhere in sight.
I opened the gate. I went inside, leaving it off the latch. It was three-thirty—it had been three-thirty when I left the car. The real chauffeur was due at any time. But I had to go through with this deal, and it was now or never.
They were still out in the middle of the playground, the children and the matron. I stopped about twenty feet away, and after a moment she turned and saw me.
“Oh, hello, Rogers!” She said it in the half-haughty way people use when they think they’re better than you are—and feel that they have to keep proving it. “You’re early for a change, aren’t you?”
I didn’t say anything; just touched my fingers to my cap. She gave her head a little toss, and looked around at the children. “Charles, Charles Vanderventer,” she called. “Oh, here you are! Run along with Rogers now.”
He moved out of the group, a pale weak-looking kid. He looked at me uncertainly, and then he looked at her.
“Is that Rogers?” he said, puzzled.
“Is it—Oh, my goodness!” She took him by the shoulders and gave him a push. “Who else would it be?”
He started toward me, moving slowly. Feeling, knowing, that something was wrong, but afraid to say so. He followed reluctantly as I turned around and started toward the gate. I walked fast for a few steps, listening to him, listening to his footsteps. He kept that same slow pace, so I had to slow down, too. I couldn’t let him get too far behind, and I couldn’t hurry him. He was used to doing what he was told, but I couldn’t lean on that too hard. If I tried to rush him, if he got scared enough…
“Oh, Rogers!” It was the matron. “Rogers!”
I paused, turned partly around.
“Charles has had a pretty trying day. Will you tell—will you please tell Mrs. Vanderventer that I suggest he stay at home tomorrow?”
I waved my hand. I started toward the gate again, and after a long moment I heard the boy following. Moving as slowly as he could. Barely dragging his feet.
My glasses were steaming over. I shifted them and they cleared for a moment, and then they seemed to fog up worse than ever. The gate was less than thirty feet away, but I could hardly see it. I glanced over my shoulder, and I could barely see the boy. Everything was blurred, a watery, hazy blur. Everything was kind of meaningless. I was a blind man, a man who had blinded himself to get something. And, now, whatever it was I’d wanted, was slipping away from me.
All at once my mind was a complete blank. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how I had gotten here, or what I was doing or supposed to be doing. I was just there, here, walking across a children’s playground. A guy in hot, funny-looking clothes, with a little boy tagging along behind him.
And how, why, what it was all about, I didn’t know. I guessed it must be some kind of a gag. The only thing I could think of was that I’d blanked out there in Bert’s road-house, and they’d dressed me up in these clothes and dumped me out here. It could have happened. I’d pulled blanks before when my mind got too tight, and people had done some funny things to me when I had.
I sort of laughed to myself, going along with the gag, thinking the joke would be on them when that crazy Jack Billingsley showed up. We’d been heading for the coast, see, me and that crazy Jack Billingsley. So the car had broken down, and I’d started back to the garage to get help, and somehow Jack had got it running again and…
I stumbled. I almost fell flat on my face. I yanked the glasses off and wiped them—cleaned them off good. And the bright sunlight struck into my eyes. And suddenly I knew where I was and why, and what I had to do.
I slapped the glasses back on. I whirled around, grabbed the boy by the hand and yanked him along with me. It was only a few steps to the gate, but there couldn’t be any more of the foot-dragging. My nerves wouldn’t take it. There wasn’t time.
The boy whimpered a little when I grabbed him. Now he was hanging back, trying to, and I was afraid he might get up the nerve to yell. So I stooped and picked him up in my arms. That quieted him; paralyzed him with fear, I guess. I straightened up, and started through the gate.
And a big black limousine pulled in at the curb, and a chauffeur hopped out. He was dressed exactly as I was. He was the man I was supposed to be.
11
He dusted at his trousers, like a man will when he first gets out of a car. He took his sunglasses off and wiped them, gave me a glance and a nod, and put them back on again.
I nodded back at him. I went through the gate and down the steps to the walk. He started toward me, still dusting at himself. We passed each other. He went up the steps and through the gate. I started down the walk.
I reached the corner of the clubhouse. I stepped behind it, glancing over my shoulder, the real chauffeur had stopped and was staring at me.
I don’t know how it came about. Whether he got a glimpse of the boy’s face, or whether it had just taken that long for the situation to sink in on him. Probably it was the last. A thing can be so completely startling that it doesn’t startle.
Anyway, the man swung into action fast. He didn’t even yell, which, of course, he should have. He came charging through the gate in a leap, and down the steps in another. And he came pounding up the walk after me, fists churning, his head ducked. All action and nothing else.
I backed away from him, getting further behind the clubhouse, still holding onto the boy. When he was right on top of me, I stuck my fist out. I gave him a straight arm with a fist at the end of it, and he piled right into it with his face.
His glasses exploded. I felt his nose flatten and crunch. He reeled, wobbled on his heels, and toppled forward. He was out like a light, hit harder than I could have hit him. And no one had seen it. That fancy clubhouse was in the way, and the estate walls were in the way. They were walled off from the world, and the world was walled off from them.
I ducked around the corner. I put the boy flat on the floor of the car, climbing in over him, keeping a foot on him while I shucked out of the uniform stuff and put on the hat. Then, I wheeled the car around in a U-turn, crossed through the intersection, and headed for the highway.
The Vanderventer chauffeur was still lying where I had left him. As I turned the comer and the playground vanished from view, he was still sprawled behind the clubhouse. There’d been no cars passing by at the moment I gave it to him. But several had passed since then, and others were passing now. Yet no one stopped. They had other things to do, and it was none of their business if a man had fallen down.
I’d gone a couple of miles before I realized I had my foot on the boy. I lifted it off fast, and gave him a little pat. There was nothing to be afraid of, I told him. He’d just stay there and take it easy, and no one would hurt him.
He looked up at me, his big blue eyes filled with tears, his lips trembling and as pale as his face.
“All right. All—” He gulped. “I’ll—I’ll—”
He tried to tell me that he’d do what I’d said, but it got all tangled up in a sob. I told him not to try.
“Just rest, Charlie boy. Just be real nice and quiet, and everything will be fine. I won’t hurt you. I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”
I went on talking to him, soothing him. I guess he must have believed what I said, because the sobbing stopped and a little color came back into his face.
I turned on the car radio, keeping the volume low.
There was nothing on the air yet about the kidnapping, I didn’t think there would be, but I was curious to know when the news would break. How long it would take. Apparently the chauffeur was still knocked out, lying where I had left him. And no one had stopped to se
e why he was there. The matron? Well, I was kind of puzzled about her, too. Because she must have seen the two of us together, and she must have known that things weren’t as they should be. But—well, there you were. That’s the way it usually goes. People who might do something that needs doing are too busy to do it. The others don’t give a damn.
Yes, the police department was on the job. Relatively speaking, that was just about the best patrolled area in the city. In this section there were regularly assigned squad cars covering a five-mile area. The way it worked out on paper, the cars were supposed to cover as much territory as a dozen men on foot. And they could, too—they could “cover” it all right. But the police in it couldn’t do a hell of a lot more than that. They couldn’t drive lickety-split all day and see everything they should see. The officers couldn’t be looking into trouble while they were driving around. If there was trouble, they had to leave the car—and the radio—while they investigated. And if something popped, meanwhile, it had to wait until they got back.
That was the set-up. The same kind of “efficiency” arrangement you find in lots of cities. It saved money for the taxpayers, and it was good business—“running the department on a business-like basis.” At least, it must have seemed that way then.
Ordinarily, it should have taken about half to three-quarters of an hour for the trip from the playground to the house, but I took the trouble to drive slowly so as not to attract attention from the police or anybody. It was a strain doing that, talking to the boy now and then, and listening to the radio, so I turned it off. I wanted more and more to open up the station wagon and get there as fast as I could, but I kept well within the speed limits. Then somehow—maybe because I was trying so hard—I managed to get lost. It was well over an hour and a half before I pulled up in the yard of the house.
Uncle Bud and Fay were at the kitchen door. Just standing there, white-faced and kind of dazed-looking, almost motionless. Inside the house, I could hear the radio blaring the news of the kidnapping. So it was out now. I took my time walking up to them, then I stopped just off the steps and listened.