ninety-seven! He didn't take nothing!"
"For no rizzon," the little storekeeper panted amazedly.
"Like gless, his eyes!" the woman shuddered.
Spillane had picked up the much-trodden-on hat. "K. T." he read from the sweatband. "Yeah, I think I know who he was," he said gloomily.
"For no rizzon," the shopkeeper heaved again. "Ufficer O'Kiff didn't even know he was in there. I didn't myself! Did you, Momma?"
"Sure, but I forgat."
Spillane eyed the glass-littered booth. Then he reached in and from its furthermost recesses picked up a dislodged "Out of Order" placard, that must have fallen unnoticed long hours before Turner had ever sought refuge in it.
"Yeah, that was him," he repeated. He questioned them on his appearance. They told him. They told him copiously, nearly breaking their necks nodding in confirmation.
He started out toward the locked store entrance, beyond which the shoals of excluded onlookers now stood peering in.
They didn't understand what he meant when they heard him mutter troubledly: "Now it -is- too late——— Now there's only one language to speak———"
The key to memory had been a simple one after all; simple but effective. An unguarded telephone directory, this time hanging on the wall, almost at the entrance of a long narrow, all-night lunchroom, with a dozing vagrant or two nodding in the one-armed chairs. The huddled entrance, the book snaked from the hook and cowered-over in the corner with back turned, the vibrating finger tracing the classified list of hotels, recognition — like striking a match on sandpaper — when his nail struck the name. The Continental.
And now, the Continental itself.
She stepped out of the car in a peach-colored wrap, and she was beautiful enough to have caused even death to relent and pass her by. The man who loved her was standing beside her, holding her hand, and she was right under the lighted marquee of the hotel she lived in; how could anything happen to her. There was nothing waiting for her but sleep, upstairs.
"Goodnight and thanks, Matt. I enjoyed the evening tremendously."
"Won't you let me come up for a minute?"
She smiled disarmingly. "It's late and I'm tired. Call me from your office tomorrow, instead."
"Well, at least let me take you in as far as the elevator."
This time she laughed outright. "You don't have to be so formal. You'd better run along home and get some sleep yourself. No one will kidnap me between here and the lobby."
"Well, may I call you back in ten or fifteen minutes, just to say goodnight? It's hard to say it the way I'd like to, down here in the middle of the street."
There was another machine, blocked off from the entrance by his, trying to reach it and discharge its occupants. It had already sounded its horn querulously a couple of times. He had to get in and drive off without waiting to hear whether he had her permission or refusal for the last request.
She waved and turned away. On the bottommost entrance-step she dropped her handkerchief or something. She had to stop a minute to pick it up. Otherwise perhaps———
That was when the whisper reached her, from the outer darkness beyond the marquee. "Eleanor! Eleanor!" She turned and looked that way, uncertain she had actually heard anything, and a blurred form seemed to draw still further back into the gloom. There were a line of shrubs, growing in tubs, ranged on each side of the entrance, and it seemed to sidle in between two of them.
She hesitated, stepped toward the border of the light. The whisper came again, clearer now. "Eleanor. Come out of the light, I gotta speak to you———" She could make out a crescent of pale face looming there between the shrubs.
The darkness fell over her peach cloak like a gray curtain as she advanced a step further in that direction. The crescent-face enlarged to full. "King!" she gasped in sibilant astonishment.
"I have to
"For no rizzon," the little storekeeper panted amazedly.
"Like gless, his eyes!" the woman shuddered.
Spillane had picked up the much-trodden-on hat. "K. T." he read from the sweatband. "Yeah, I think I know who he was," he said gloomily.
"For no rizzon," the shopkeeper heaved again. "Ufficer O'Kiff didn't even know he was in there. I didn't myself! Did you, Momma?"
"Sure, but I forgat."
Spillane eyed the glass-littered booth. Then he reached in and from its furthermost recesses picked up a dislodged "Out of Order" placard, that must have fallen unnoticed long hours before Turner had ever sought refuge in it.
"Yeah, that was him," he repeated. He questioned them on his appearance. They told him. They told him copiously, nearly breaking their necks nodding in confirmation.
He started out toward the locked store entrance, beyond which the shoals of excluded onlookers now stood peering in.
They didn't understand what he meant when they heard him mutter troubledly: "Now it -is- too late——— Now there's only one language to speak———"
The key to memory had been a simple one after all; simple but effective. An unguarded telephone directory, this time hanging on the wall, almost at the entrance of a long narrow, all-night lunchroom, with a dozing vagrant or two nodding in the one-armed chairs. The huddled entrance, the book snaked from the hook and cowered-over in the corner with back turned, the vibrating finger tracing the classified list of hotels, recognition — like striking a match on sandpaper — when his nail struck the name. The Continental.
And now, the Continental itself.
She stepped out of the car in a peach-colored wrap, and she was beautiful enough to have caused even death to relent and pass her by. The man who loved her was standing beside her, holding her hand, and she was right under the lighted marquee of the hotel she lived in; how could anything happen to her. There was nothing waiting for her but sleep, upstairs.
"Goodnight and thanks, Matt. I enjoyed the evening tremendously."
"Won't you let me come up for a minute?"
She smiled disarmingly. "It's late and I'm tired. Call me from your office tomorrow, instead."
"Well, at least let me take you in as far as the elevator."
This time she laughed outright. "You don't have to be so formal. You'd better run along home and get some sleep yourself. No one will kidnap me between here and the lobby."
"Well, may I call you back in ten or fifteen minutes, just to say goodnight? It's hard to say it the way I'd like to, down here in the middle of the street."
There was another machine, blocked off from the entrance by his, trying to reach it and discharge its occupants. It had already sounded its horn querulously a couple of times. He had to get in and drive off without waiting to hear whether he had her permission or refusal for the last request.
She waved and turned away. On the bottommost entrance-step she dropped her handkerchief or something. She had to stop a minute to pick it up. Otherwise perhaps———
That was when the whisper reached her, from the outer darkness beyond the marquee. "Eleanor! Eleanor!" She turned and looked that way, uncertain she had actually heard anything, and a blurred form seemed to draw still further back into the gloom. There were a line of shrubs, growing in tubs, ranged on each side of the entrance, and it seemed to sidle in between two of them.
She hesitated, stepped toward the border of the light. The whisper came again, clearer now. "Eleanor. Come out of the light, I gotta speak to you———" She could make out a crescent of pale face looming there between the shrubs.
The darkness fell over her peach cloak like a gray curtain as she advanced a step further in that direction. The crescent-face enlarged to full. "King!" she gasped in sibilant astonishment.
"I have to
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