The realization was strangely comforting to Harpur as he moved on through the crowded streets. Something in the atmosphere of the late evening struck him as being odd, then he noticed the city centre was jammed tight with out-of-town automobiles. Men and women thronged the sidewalks, and he knew they were strangers by the way their eyes occasionally took in the upper parts of buildings. The smell of grilling hamburger meat drifted on the thick, downy air.
Harpur wondered what the occasion might be, then he noticed the general drift towards the police headquarters. So that was it. People had not changed since the days they were drawn towards arenas, guillotines and gallows. There would be nothing for them to see, but to be close at hand would be sufficient to let them taste the ancient joy of continuing to breathe in the knowledge that someone else has just ceased. The fact that they were five years out of date, too, made no difference at all.
Even Harpur, had he wanted to, could not have got into the underground room. Apart from the monitors, there would be only six chairs and six pairs of special binoculars with low magnifications and huge, light-hungry objective lenses. They were reserved for the state-appointed observers. Harpur had no interest in viewing the crime with his own eyes—he simply wanted to hear the result; then have a long, long rest. It occurred to him he was being completely irrational in going down to the police building, with all the exertion and lethal tension the trip meant for him, but somehow nothing else would do. I’m guilty, he thought suddenly, guilty as…
He reached the plaza in which the building was situated and worked his way through the pliant, strength-draining barriers of people. By the time he was halfway across sweat had bound his clothes so tightly he could hardly raise his feet. At an indeterminate point in the long journey he became aware of another presence following close behind—the sorrowful friend with die white-hot needle.
Reaching the untidy ranks of automobiles belonging to the Press, Harpur realized he could not go in too early, and there was at least half an hour left. He turned and began forcing his way back to the opposite side of the plaza. The needle point caught up with him—one precise thrust—and he lurched forward clawing for support.
“What the…!” A startled voice boomed over his head. “Take it easy old-timer.” Its owner was a burly giant in a pale blue one-piece, who had been watching a 3-D television broadcast when Harpur fell against him. He snatched off the receiver spectacles, the tiny left and right pictures glowing with movement like distant bonfires. A wisp of music escaped from the earpiece.
“I’m sorry,” Harpur said. “I tripped. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Say! Aren’t you Judge…”
Harpur pushed on by as the big man tugged excitedly on the arm of a woman who was with him. I mustn’t be recognized, he thought in a panic. He burrowed into the crowd, now beginning to lose his sense of direction. Six more desperate paces and the needle caught him again—right up to its antiseptic hilt this time. He moaned as the plaza tilted ponderously away. Not here, he pleaded, not here, please.
Somehow, he saved himself from falling and moved on. Near at hand, but a million miles away, an unseen woman gave a beautiful, carefree laugh. At the edge of the square the pain returned, even more decisively than before—once, twice, three times. Harpur screamed as he felt the life-muscle implode in cramp.
He began to go down, then felt himself gripped by firm hands. Harpur looked up at the swarthy young man who was holding him. The handsome, worry-creased face looming through reddish mists looked strangely familiar. Harpur struggled to speak.
“You…you’re Ewan Raddall, aren’t you?”
The black eyebrows met in puzzlement. “Raddall? No. Never heard of him. I think we’d better call an ambulance for you.”
Harpur thought hard. “That’s right. You couldn’t be Raddall. I killed him five years ago.” Then he spoke louder. “But, if you never heard of Raddall, why are you here?”
“I was on my way home from a bowling match when I saw the crowd.”
The boy began getting Harpur out of the crowd, holding him up with one arm, fending uncomprehending bodies away with the other. Harpur tried to help, but was aware of his feet trailing helplessly on the concrete.
“Do you live right here in Holt?”
The boy nodded emphatically.
“Do you know who I am?”
“All I know about you, sir, is you should be in the hospital. I’ll call an ambulance on the liquor store phone.”
Harpur felt vaguely that there was some tremendous significance in what they had been saying, but had no time to pursue the matter.
“Listen,” he said, forcing himself to stand upright for a moment. “I don’t want an ambulance. I’ll be fine if I can just get home. Can you help me get a cab?”
The boy looked uncertain, then he shrugged, “It’s your funeral.”
Harpur opened his door carefully and entered the friendly darkness of the big old house. During the ride out of town his sweat-soaked clothes had become clammy cold, and he shivered uncontrollably as he felt for the light switch.
With the light on, he sat down beside the telephone and looked at his watch. Almost midnight—by this time there would be no mystery, no doubt, about exactly what had happened in the Fifty-third Avenue playground five years earlier. He picked up the handset, and at the same moment heard his wife begin to move around upstairs. There were several numbers he could ring to ask what the slow glass had revealed, but the thought of talking to any police executive of someone in City Hall was too much. He called Sam Macnamara.
As a guard, Sam would not know the result officially, but he would have the answer just the same. Harpur tried to punch out the number of the direct line to the guard kiosk but his finger points kept buckling on impact with the buttons and he gave up.
Eva Harpur came down the stairs in her dressing gown and approached him apprehensively.
“Oh, Kenneth!” Her hand went to her mouth. “What have you done? You look…I’ll have to call Dr. Sherman.”
Harpur smiled weakly. I do a lot of smiling these days, he thought irrelevantly, it’s the only response an old man can make to so many situations.
“All I want you to do is make me some coffee and help me up to my bed; but first of all get me a number on this contraption.” Eva opened her mouth to protest, then closed it as their eyes met.
When Sam came to the phone Harpur worked to keep his own voice level.
“Hello, Sam. Judge Harpur here. Is the fun all over yet?”
“Yes, sir. There was a press conference afterwards and
that’s over, too. I guess you heard the result on the radio.”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t, Sam. I was…out until a little while ago. Decided to ring someone about it before I went to bed, and your number just came into my head.”
Sam laughed uncertainly. “Well, they were able to make a positive identification. It was Raddall, all right—but I guess you knew that all along.”
“I guess I did, Sam.” Harpur felt his eyes grow hot with tears.
“It’ll be a load off your mind all the same, Judge.”