West, his partner, was dead, shot by the intrepid but foolhardy guard who had drawn on two leveled revolvers. The loss of his partner had thrown Frank into a frenzy until he realized — after his desperate getaway — that now the contents of the valise belonged to him alone.
He had left the city that night before a positive identification had been established. In Pittsburgh he had picked up a New York paper and stared into his own face — his picture leering up at him as at some sardonic joke. The sight of it put wheels under him, sending him off on a journey without destination.
He had disguised himself as best he could, dyeing his naturally reddish hair black and obtaining a pair of glasses with plain glass lenses. This could alter his appearance slightly — but it could not affect the constant self-harassment which the hunted man inflicts upon himself.
As far as he knew the police were still searching for him in New York. Passing through the ticket gates at the Cleveland and then the Chicago stations, he had not been aware of any scrutinizing faces.
Perhaps he would go to Vegas or L.A., or perhaps even slip into Mexico and sit there with his valise until he became less prominent and the climate he had created cooled off.
But the old couple were sticking in his mind. He had to laugh, humorlessly, when he thought of them trying to get that money away from him, if that was their game. If they had recognized him and not informed the authorities, then it certainly was their game. But he knew, too, that an excessively active distrust of all people and all things was not good either. Perhaps they were complete innocents. Perhaps it was their gentle, twilit serenity that was annoying him. The constant nearness of serenity always has a pernicious-effect on tension. Privately, unconsciously, he begrudged them their peace of mind. He certainly had never known tranquility, not as a youth and he’d never know it now, because that guard was going to die.
At midnight the train stopped at a small town. After its headlong rush through the dark it seemed to be pausing for a breather. Frank had dozed off, the valise on the floor between his legs. The train’s jolting halt woke him. He looked around at the bleak little station, the small dark platform, the alien lights in the little ticket office. Suddenly he became afraid of the old couple, the uncanny fear flooded him all at once; it was as if they had entered his soul during his sleep. Here he could lose them once and for all. He jumped up and picked up the valise and pulled his other piece of luggage down from the rack and hurried to the end of the car.
A cool night breeze swirled out of the strange dark, the strange town. The conductor, standing on the platform, raised an odd look to him as Frank came down the iron steps.
“Getting off here, sir?” the conductor asked.
“Yes,” Frank said. “This is my home town. I’ve decided to pay a brief, surprise visit.”
The conductor’s big ruddy face cracked with a large smile, filling it with small-wrinkles and an appreciative sentimentality.
“That’s very nice I think,” he said.
“It isn’t often that I get the chance to pass through,” Frank said.
“There’s nothing like coming back to the old town,” the conductor said. “Well,” he said, flipping one finger to the peak of his little cap, “have a nice stay.”
“Thank you,” Frank said.
He hunched his shoulders and lighted a cigarette. The conductor picked up the portable step, waved down the train and then climbed up into it. A metal door banged. Frank stood there on the platform as the train began to pull out. He watched the thick massive cars roll past him one by one with increasing speed, each dark window framing a sleeping or disinterested face, the iron wheels grinding and clattering. Then the train was gone and he was watching it tail off into the dark, as if into a mysterious oblivion, standing alone on the platform between his luggage.
He looked around. Across the tracks lay a small town in its repose, small clapboard buildings lining a down-sloping main street. It was dark. The stars bristled high overhead, circling over the town as though over a blessed place.
It seemed a simple enough place, a place where people went to bed at nine o’clock and didn’t get around to asking questions. Perhaps it would be an ideal place.
He bent and picked up his luggage and walked into the ticket office. As the rickety wooden door closed behind him he almost dropped the luggage. It took a terrific effort of self-control not to betray himself. The old couple were sitting on the bench there with their luggage. The old woman smiled at him. The man nodded. Frank stared at them. If they were indeed following him, as it seemed, then they would have had to get off that train in a hurry, as he had. But they were sitting so placidly, bags packed and clustered around them, that it appeared hurry was the last thing on their minds.
Then he decided it was probably all a great coincidence. He had best treat it as lightly as possible. To show irritation or suspicion would perhaps be to cast an unnecessary seed. So he walked toward them, casually, forcing a smile that felt terribly stiff.
“Hello there,” he said, feeling self-conscious, discovered, his disguise notwithstanding.
The two old people smiled warmly, as if they genuinely appreciated this gesture of friendship.
“Good evening,” the, old man said.
“Listen,” Frank said, maintaining his smile, “are you following me or am I following you?” The look of concern that entered the old man’s face made Frank regret that he had said it.
“We’re merely traveling,” the old man said, in his voice a note of apologetic explanation.
“It seems we’re all traveling together,” Frank said amiably.
He sat down on the bench. The old couple turned their heads and stared at him. He waited for some indication of recognition, but none was forthcoming.
“Do you live here?” the man asked.
“No,” Frank said. “Do you?”
“Oh no. We’re on our vacation. The first real vacation we’ve had in years. We decided we wanted to see the country. You see nothing from an airplane. So we’re taking the train, from here to there, trying to see as much as we can.”
Frank nodded. It sounded reasonable. Perhaps. But now it was his turn. He was going to have to concoct something, and fast.
“I feel the same way about traveling,” he said. “In fact I’m a writer, doing a series of articles for a travel magazine.” It sounded very feeble. But these were gullible old people. They would believe it. In fact they even were impressed, he could tell. It seemed incredible now that fear of them had caused him to leave the train in the way that he had.
“You’re a writer?” the old woman asked, her voice emerging for the first time.
“Yes,” Frank said, easing into the role, feeling his jacket turn to tweed. “I grind out articles for a living.”
“Interesting work,” the old man said.
“Well, do you think they have a hotel in this town?” Frank asked. He got up — carrying the valise with him, a pure reflex action — and went to the ticket window. A bored young man was sitting there with crossed arms. He glared up at Frank from under the green eyeshade strapped around his head.
“Pardon me,” Frank said. “Is there a hotel in this town?”
“There is,” the young man said.
“Can you tell us where it is?”
“I can.”
After an awkward pause, Frank asked, “Well, where?”
“On Main Street,” the youth said with irascible logic.
“Is it very far?”
“Main Street’s only four blocks,” the young man said, seriously, clearly not intending this to be taken as a joke.
“Thank you.” Frank turned back to the old couple. Seeing them sitting there, it suddenly struck him that they might actually become useful to him. Who would have more respectability and be less apt to arouse suspicion than a man traveling with two such mild-looking old people? He went back to them.