Adrian had left half an hour ago. He lived only three blocks away; he should be back before this unless he had misplaced the sketches he went back to get. Or possibly he'd had to go somewhere for gasoline for his car. Or something.
I wanted another drink, but I didn't want to chance going behind the bar.
Someone might come in.
Someone did. A man, about fiftyish, and a woman of about thirty-five in a mink stole. I glanced at them as they came in, and then pretended to pay no attention to them.
They sat at the bar, the man two stools away from me and the woman on the other side. After a minute the man asked me, "Where's Mike?"
I jerked my thumb vaguely toward the back. "Back there," I said.
Maybe it was the sound of voices that gave him the idea, but he chose that moment to start thumping on the closet door. Not too loudly, and he didn't yell; I guess he was too scared for that. He was just thumping tentatively to see if he'd get any reaction.
I slid off the stool quickly and went into the back room. I stood in front of the closet door and called out, "Are you all right, Mike?"
The thumping quit. It was so quiet in that closet that I could hear the scrape of his clothes against the wall as he hugged one side of the closet and crouched down, hoping I'd miss if I fired shots through the wood.
I stood there a second as though listening to an answer and then went back into the tavern. I strolled back toward the stool I'd been sitting on.
I said casually, "Mike drank a bit too much; I think he's being sick. If you're friends of his why don't you help yourselves and leave the money on the ledge of the register?"
I didn't think they'd take the suggestion seriously and they didn't. The woman said, "Let's go to the place in the next block, Harvey."
The man nodded and said, "All right, dear."
He turned and looked at me a moment as though he wanted to ask a question.
He wanted, I could guess, to ask what Mike was being sick at his stomach had to do with that thumping on a door back there, but decided not to ask. He was a mild-looking little man; he didn't want, I could see, to ask a question that just might lead to an answer he didn't like.
I met his eyes and his dropped first. He took the woman's elbow and helped her down off the bar stool and they went out.
I took a deep breath and went back to the closet door again. I called out, "Do that again, Mike, and it'll be the last time. Get me?"
There wasn't any answer, and I went back to the bar. I held my hand out in front of me and it was shaking badly. I put it down flat on the bar to steady it and looked at my wrist watch. Twelve forty-five. Adrian had been gone for forty minutes.
I thought, I'll count to a hundred slowly, and if he isn't here I'll phone his place. I turned around to face the door and started counting, as slowly as my patience would let me, probably about one count a second.
I got to seventy-nine before the door opened and someone came in. But it wasn't Adrian Carr. It was a policeman in uniform. This is the payoff, I thought, here and now. I'm not going to shoot it out with him. If he says, "Are you Wayne Dixon?" it means he came here for me because Adrian sent him. And if he does, I'll go along quietly. It was a thousand to one shot anyway, what I had in mind doing.
And if he says, "Where's Mike?" it'll probably mean that he met the two people who went out of here a few minutes ago and that they'd told him about that suspicious thumping on the door and the story I'd told about Mike being sick.
He asked, "Where's Mike?"
I jerked my thumb casually toward the back room. "Back there," I said.
He stopped halfway between the door and the bar. "Oh," he said. "Well, tell him his brother looked in, will you, fellow? I got to make the next call-box. Tell him I'll drop in again later."
He went out, and I started to breathe normally again. When I felt able to get down off the stool without falling, I did. And I quit worrying about taking further chances. I went around behind the bar and poured myself a stiff drink of bourbon. I drank it neat and felt the warmth of it trickle from my throat downward.
Then I went back to the phone and called Adrian Carr's number.
The phone rang twice and Adrian's voice answered.
"This is Wayne," I said. "What happened to you?"
"Oh, hello, darling," he said. "Where are you?" The "darling" was enough of a tipoff; Adrian didn't talk that way. If it hadn't been, the "Where are you?" was enough too. He knew where I was.
I asked softly into the transmitter, "Cops?"
"Well, I'm afraid I'm going to be late, dear," he said. "Do you want to wait for me there?"
"No," I said, urgently, "not here, Adrian. There's trouble at this end, too. But look, what the hell are you standing up for me for? Why don't you tell them the truth?"
"A couple of hundred reasons, which I can't explain now. I'll give them to you later. You want to go on to the party, then?"
"How long will you be tied up?" I asked him.
"Another hour, possibly. But it's an all-night party. It'll keep. Shall I pick you up somewhere?"
I said, "You're mad, Adrian. But there's a little all-night restaurant on Seventy-second, south side, west of the park. I'll be there. If you change your mind, send the cops for me instead."
"Fine. 'Bye, darling."
I put the receiver back and went over to the bar for one more stiff drink. I made plenty of noise getting it so that Mike would know I was still around and wait a while before he tried hammering again. Then I left, quietly, so he wouldn't know I was gone. I didn't want him loose yet.
I walked over to Central Park West and north to Seventy-second Street. I took a seat on one of the benches along the edge of the park, from which I could watch the door of the restaurant I'd told Adrian about. I lighted a cigarette and tried to look as though I'd just sat down to rest a minute.
It must have been an off night; they weren't doing much busi-ness. After I'd been watching ten minutes I saw a policeman stroll in and out again, but I knew he wouldn't have been looking for me. If there'd been a tip-off from Adrian, there'd have been more than one of them. Three or four, probably; Adrian would have told them I was armed.
I was on my third cigarette when I saw Adrian's car drive up and park in front of the restaurant. He seemed to be alone in the car and he got out of it alone and walked to the door. I saw him look in through the glass and hesitate when he didn't see me, but he didn't look around or make any signals. He went inside.
No other car had driven up. I crossed the street and went in. Adrian had taken one of the little tables for two along the side, facing the door. He'd hung up his hat and cape, and--in full dress--he looked as out of place in that little greasy spoon of a restaurant as a peacock in a chicken yard.
He looked up as I came in and called out, "Hi, Harry."
I sat down across from him. I asked, "What's the Harry stuff?"
"Well, I didn't want to call you by your right name. Suppose it's been on a broadcast or--"
"Adrian, the guy behind the counter there knows me by my right name. He's going to wonder."
Adrian stared at me wonderingly. "You mean you actually eat in a place like this?"
"Occasionally. At least as often as I eat at Lindy's. But forget the gastronomics. What's with the cops?"
"Dropped in just after I got home to pick up the sketches." He leaned forward across the table and dropped his voice. "Lola's body was found in the park at a little after midnight. She had identification on her. They went to your place and--"
"Wait," I said. "Here comes Jerry."
The waiter had finished serving his customers at the counter and was going to our table. He said, "Hi, Mr. Dixon. How are things?"
"Swell, Jerry. Two orders of ham and eggs and coffee."