"I had already said a number of times which train we needed," Estelle cut in with a sniff. "I studied the map this morning while others of us dallied in the bathroom for a good hour."
The accused bristled. "You said one time that we needed the downtown train."
The accuser bristled back. "And I suppose one ain't a number anymore?"
I barely restrained myself from assaulting them. Both Durmond and Cambria sagely had decided to refrain from asking questions, and they'd also shown enough sense to back away from the twosome. "One is a very good number," I said irritably, "and I would like one of you to tell us what happened. Did this person actually approach you and make threats?"
After an exchange of dark looks, Ruby Bee shrugged and said, "Estelle decided to consult this big dirty map on the wall, and some old geezer started trying to explain how we had to change trains somewhere down where the map was so smudgy it was a disgrace. That's when I saw him. I told Estelle to stop yammering and come through the little gate so we could get on a train. She couldn't find her token, and by the time she remembered it was in her pocket, why-the maniac was not ten feet away."
"How did you know he was a maniac?" Durmond asked.
"I did not get off the watermelon truck yesterday," Ruby Bee retorted. "Anyway, we got by the track, kinda down toward the end where he couldn't see us, and then, just as the train pulls up, there he is coming at us like a rabid skunk."
"Then," Estelle said, "the train doors open and all these people come spewing out like ants out of a flooded hill, and people from behind are shoving us and nearly knocking us down, and we finally get on, but there he is in the same car, grinning and licking his lips, so I scream at Ruby Bee to get off-"
"And we did," she interrupted smoothly (they'd perfected the routine over the last thirty years). "But so did he, and we didn't know where the exit was, so we had to climb over the little gates. The lady in the booth starts yelling at us, and Estelle has to go and spill her purse, and by the time she's gathered up everything, this policeman shows up."
Estelle tightened her grip on her purse. "The strap got caught, which was hardly my fault. The policeman was right friendly about it, but the maniac, who was no dummy, had disappeared."
"I don't think he believed us," Ruby Bee said, winding down. "But I'd like to know something-how come you can't ever find a policeman when you need one?"
We all mulled that one over for a minute. Durmond sighed and said, "I'm sure it's my fault, but I don't understand why you were so sure this…man was following you, determined to harm you? Did he say or do anything?"
"He's been following us since we got here," said Estelle, making it clear she didn't appreciate being doubted for one teensy second, "I saw him leaning against the wall over there when we got out of the taxi, and yesterday morning when I went to call Arly from a pay phone on the corner up there, guess who turned up like a bad penny not five minutes later? This is the third time, and he probably thought it'd be the charm. He just didn't realize who he was tangling with!" Cambria lifted his bushy white eyebrows. "Isn't it possible he simply lives in the neighborhood? That would explain his presence on the street and in the subway station. And why shouldn't he have noticed two attractive ladies like yourselves, noticed and admired?"
Patting her hair, Estelle said, "That's right kind of you to say so. He did sorta smile, so maybe he thought he was being friendly." She and Ruby Bee moved away from us to evaluate this newest theory.
I glanced down the sidewalk, then nudged Durmond in the opposite direction and in a low voice said, "I'm not comfortable with the explanation. It's possible they've attracted the attention of someone with less pure motives than Cambria assigns him. I'm not suggesting this man is a serial killer out to get them, but there are a lot of screwy people on the streets. However, if I try to warn them, especially now that they've decided the city is thick with secret admirers, I'm afraid they won't take my advice." I made a face at the hissing pair. "Not that they ever do."
"Then we have no choice," Durmond murmured. "it would be irresponsible of us to allow them to resume their day's plans on their own. While we keep an eye out for the maniac, you and I must escort them-for their own safety, naturally."
"Naturally," I echoed unenthusiastically, recalling my uneasiness about venturing outside the hotel.
Durmond squeezed my arm briefly. "Then it's settled. Come along, ladies. Let's see if they're serving breakfast at Tiffany's."
Ruby Bee and Estelle were still debating the name of the cat as we slammed shut the taxi doors and took off into the slate gray maze of Manhattan. I'd long since given up trying to convince them it didn't have one.
Chapter Seven
It was approaching four o'clock when we returned to the Chadwick Hotel. It felt more like midnight (in the Arctic Circle, no less) to me, but I'd just spent six hours in the company of two exceptionally unimpressed tourists, who were still verbalizing disbelief that a crowded little coffee shop (and by no means spic and span) had the audacity to charge seven dollars and fifty cents for a cheeseburger-and then put the coleslaw in a paper bonbon cup. And some of those silly things at the Museum of Modern Art! Both of them had made known, loudly, that someone had sure pulled the wool over the museum folks' eyes. Why, anyone with half a brain could see that big picture was nothing but a black square. Minimal art? About as minimal as you can get with nuthin' more than a can of black paint! And look at that, Miss Art Expert-it ain't anything more than a bunch of ropes curled up, and a mite sloppily at that. If we was to gather up the junk out behind Raz Buchanon's barn and send it to these folks, they'd probably send back a generous check and a thank-you note. As for those other so-called paintings, prettier pictures were taped on Joyce Lambertino's refrigerator, and you could tell what they were supposed to be, presuming you were charitable and remembered how old the children were.
And so on and so on, until I was no longer amused, or bemused, and was reduced to offering sullen explanations and wishing I were wearing a hood…and a noose. Even Durmond, who'd initially made an effort, had quieted down after we'd been asked to leave Tiffany's (Ruby Bee had been determined to get Gloria Swanson's autograph, and the woman thus identified all the way across the showroom had taken the accusation rather poorly).
Geri was in the lobby, the clipboard clutched in her hand and a faint frown marring her flawless brow. "Oh, good," she said, taking attendance with a gold pen. "I can't promise which media people will show, but there were a few who didn't curse at me or flatly refuse. It's shaping up nicely. The caterers are here, and the bar is set. The flowers came at noon, and…" The frown deepened just a teensy bit. "I haven't seen Kyle all afternoon. The grocers delivered the ingredients an hour ago, but since he'd danced off with the key, I had to have the boxes left outside the kitchen. I do hope he didn't say to hell with it and head south to join his father and dear Mr. Fleecum."
"I saw him midmorning," I volunteered. "He was going out to buy the utensils that were needed for the contest. He didn't mention suntan lotion and a beach towel." A genetic disposition to meddle in romantic endeavors made me add, "He wasn't too happy to be treated like a combination of a scullery maid and an errand boy." Geri stiffened. "I was working on the media contacts, which is my area of expertise. There's absolutely no reason to sponsor these things if coverage isn't forthcoming, and Prodding, Polk and Fleecum does have a reputation in the field. In any case, Kyle'll be in the spotlight tomorrow when he presents the grand prize."