And each accelerating stride I took towards him brought me closer to the brightly lighted and crowded safety of Tenth Avenue. I think he was startled by my abrupt turn and the speed of my approach. He stopped, shifted uneasily on his feet, gripped the bat horizontally, a hand on each end.
I think he expected me to try to duck or dodge around him, and he was wary and off-balance when I simply ran into him full tilt. There was nothing clever or skilled in my attack; I just ran into him as hard as I could, feeling the hard bat strike across my chest, but keeping my legs moving, knees pumping.
He bounced away, staggered back, and I continued my frontal assault, hearing the pounding feet of the two other assailants coming up behind me. Then my opponent stumbled. As he went down flat on his back with a whoof sound as the breath went out of him, I seized the moment and ran like hell.
I ran over him, literally ran over him. I didn't care where my boots landed: kneecaps, groin, stomach, chest, face, I just used him as turf to get a good foothold, and like a sprinter starting from blocks, I pushed off and went flying towards Tenth Avenue, knowing that I was in the clear and not even the devil could catch me now.
I whizzed around the corner, banking, and there was the New York Times truck, unloading bundles of the Sunday edition, with vendors, merchants, customers crowding around: a pushing, shoving mob. It was lovely, noisy confusion, and I plunged right into the middle of it, sobbing to catch my breath. I was startled to find that not only was my body intact, but I was still clutching my copy of the Sunday News under my arm.
I waited until complete copies of the Times had been made up. I bought one, then waited a little longer until two other customers started down my street, carrying their papers. I followed them closely, looking about warily. But there was no sign of my attackers.
When I came to my brownstone, I had my keys ready. I darted up the steps, unlocked the door, ran up the stairs, fumbled my way into my apartment, locked and bolted the door. I put on all the lights and searched the apartment. I knew it was silly, but I did it. I even looked in the closet. I was shivering.
I poured myself a heavy brandy, but I didn't even taste it. I just sat there in my parka and watch cap, staring into the fireplace where there were now only a few pinpoints of red, winking like fireflies.
That black eyepatch I'd spotted under my assailant's ski mask haunted me.
A lot of men in New York wore black eyepatches, I supposed, and were of the same height and build as the young man I had seen at the Tentmakers Club on Carmine Street. Still. .
Tippi Kipper had obviously reported to Knurr the details of our conversation. Perhaps she'd told him I'd mentioned 268
the name of Martin Reape to her. Perhaps she'd said that I had asked prying questions, doubly suspicious coming from an attorneys' clerk supposedly engaged only in making an inventory of her husband's estate.
So the two of them must have decided I had to be removed from the scene. Or, at least, warned off.
Was that the way of it?
I had to admit that I wasn't comfortable with that theory. If I knew the name of Martin Reape, then presumably my employers did too, and putting me in the hospital wouldn't stop an inquiry into the alleged bills of the private detective. And as for my 'prying questions,' I had asked nothing that could not be accounted for by sympathetic interest.
I didn't know why Godfrey Knurr had set up the attack on me. But I was convinced he had. It made me sad. I admired the man.
I looked at my watch. It was a little after ten o'clock.
Perhaps if I went to Knurr's place on Carmine Street I could observe the three guttersnipes entering or leaving the club and thus confirm my suspicions.
Disregarding the dozen reasons why this was a foolish course of conduct, I turned off the lights, pulled my parka hood over my watch cap, made certain I had my warm gloves, and went out again into the darkness. It was not the easiest thing I have ever done in my life.
When a cab dropped me off on Carmine Street and Seventh Avenue, I found to my dismay that I had neglected to replenish my wallet. I had enough to pay and tip the driver but that would leave me with only about ten dollars in bills and change, just about enough to get me home again.
I walked east on Carmine Street, hooded head lowered, gloved hands thrust into capacious parka pockets. I walked on the opposite side of the street from the Reverend Knurr's club and inspected it as I passed.
At first I thought it was completely dark. But then, through the painted-over window, I saw a dull glow of light. That could have been nothing more than a nightlight, of course. The club might be empty, the Pastor out somewhere, and I could be wasting my time.
But remembering Roscoe Dollworth's instructions on the need for everlasting patience on a stakeout, I continued down the block, then turned and retraced my steps. I must have paraded down that block a dozen times, up and down.
At that point, already wearying of my patrol, I took up a station in the shadowed doorway of a Chinese laundry, not exactly opposite the Tentmakers Club, but in a position where I could observe the entrance without being easily seen.
I continued this vigil for approximately an hour, huddling in the doorway, then walking up and down the street and back, always keeping Knurr's club in view. The street was not crowded, but it wasn't deserted either. None of the other pedestrians seemed interested in my activities, but I took advantage of passing groups by falling in closely behind them, giving the impression, or so I hoped, that I was part of a late dinner party.
I was back in the doorway, stamping my feet softly, when the light brightened behind the painted window of the Tentmakers Club. I drew farther back into the shadows. I waited. Finally the front door opened. A shaft of yellowish light beamed out on to the sidewalk.
Godfrey Knurr came out. There was no doubt it was he; I saw his features clearly, particularly the slaty beard, as he turned to close and lock the door. He was hatless but wearing a dark overcoat with the collar turned up.
He tried the door, put the keys in his trouser pocket, and then started walking east, towards Sixth Avenue. He strode at a brisk clip, and I moved along with him on the other side of the street, keeping well back and close to the deep shadows of the storefronts and buildings.
He crossed Sixth and stopped at the curb, looking southward. He would raise his hand when a cab approached, then let it fall when he saw it was occupied. I hurried south on Sixth, ending up a block below Knurr. Then I ran across the avenue and took up my station at the curb.
I got the first empty cab to come along.
'Where to?' the driver said.
'Start your meter and stay right here,' I said. 'I've got about ten dollars. When I owe you eight, tell me and I'll give you ten and get out of your cab. All right?'
'Why not?' he said agreeably. 'Beats using gas. You got wife trouble?'
'Something like that,' I said.
'Don't we all?' he offered mournfully, then was silent.
The name of the registration card said he was Abraham Pincus. He was a grizzle-haired, middle-aged man with a furrowed brow under his greasy cap and deep lines from the corners of his mouth slanting down to his chin, like a ventriloquist's dummy.
'Mind if I smoke?' he asked.
The passenger's compartment was plastered with signs: PLEASE DO NOT SMOKE and DRIVER ALLERGIC TO SMOKING
and the like.
'What about these signs? I said.
'That's the day driver,' he said. 'I'm the night driver.'
I had been sitting forward on the rear seat, trying to peer through the bleared windshield to keep Reverend Knurr in sight. He had still not caught a cab. Finally, after about three minutes, one passed us with its roof lights on and began to pull into the curb where Knurr stood and signalled.