“How should I know? He didn’t say. Now get going.”
Holt disconsolately hung up and went back to his cab. Water trickled from the visor of his cap; rain streaked the windshield. Through the dimout he could see faintly lighted doorways and hear jukebox music. It was a good night to be indoors. Holt considered the advisability of dropping into the Cellar for a quick rye. Oh, well. He meshed the gears and headed up Greenwich Avenue, feeling low.
Pedestrians were difficult to avoid these days; New Yorkers never paid any attention to traffic signals, anyway, and the dimout made the streets dark, shadowy canyons. Holt drove uptown, ignoring cries of “Taxi.” The street was wet and slippery. His tires weren’t too good, either.
The damp cold seeped into Holt’s bones. The rattling in the engine wasn’t comforting. Some time soon the old bus would break down completely. After that-well, it was easy to get jobs, but Holt had an aversion to hard work. Defense factories-hm-m-m-m.
Brooding, he swung slowly around the traffic circle at Columbus, keeping an eye open for his fare.
There he was-the only figure standing motionless in the rain. Other pedestrians were scuttling across the Street in a hurry, dodging the trolleys and automobiles.
Holt pulled in and opened the door. The man came forward. He had a cane but no umbrella, and water glistened on his dark overcoat. A shapeless slouch hat shielded his head, and keen dark eyes peered sharply at Holt.
The man was old-rather surprisingly old. His features were obscured by wrinkles and folds of sagging, tallowy skin.
“Dennis Holt?” he asked harshly.
“That’s me, buddy. Hop in and dry off.”
The old man complied. Holt said, “Where to?”
Go through the park.”
“Up to Harlem?”
“Why—yes, yes.”
Shrugging, Holt turned the taxicab into Central Park. A screwball. And nobody he’d ever seen before. In the rear mirror he stole a glance at his fare. The man was intently examining Holt’s photograph and number on the card. Apparently satisfied, he leaned back and took a copy of the Times from his pocket.
“Want the light, mister?” Holt asked.
“The light? Yes, thank you.” But he did not use it for long. A glance at the paper satisfied him, and the man settled back, switched off the panel lamp and studied his wristwatch.
“What time is it?” he inquired.
“Seven, about.”
“Seven. And this is January 10, 1943.”
Holt didn’t answer. His fare turned and peered out of the rear window. He kept doing that. After a time he leaned forward and spoke to Holt again.
“Would you like to earn a thousand dollars?”
“Are you joking?”
“This is no joke,” the man said, and Holt realized abruptly that his accent was odd-a soft slurring of consonants, as in Castilian Spanish. “I have the money-your current currency. There is some danger involved, so I will not be overpaying you.”
Holt kept his eyes straight ahead. “Yeah?”
“I need a bodyguard, that is all. Some men are trying to abduct or even kill me.”
“Count me out,” Holt said. “I’ll drive you to the police station. That’s what you need, mister.”
Something fell softly on the front seat. Looking down, Holt felt his back tighten. Driving with one hand, he picked up the bundle of banknotes and thumbed through them. A thousand bucks-one grand.
They smelled musty.
The old man said, “Believe me, Denny, it is your help I need. I can’t tell you the story-you’d think me insane-but I’ll pay you that amount for your services tonight.”
“Including murder?” Holt hazarded. “Where do you get off calling me Denny? I never saw you before in my life.”
“I have investigated you-I know a great deal about you. That’s why I chose you for this task. And nothing illegal is involved. If you have reason to think differently, you are free to withdraw at any time, keeping the money.”
Holt thought that over. It sounded fishy but enticing. Anyhow, it gave him an out. And a thousand bucks- “Well, spill it. What am I supposed to do?”
The old man said, “I am trying to evade certain enemies of mine. I need your help for that. You are young and strong.”
“Somebody’s trying to rub you out?”
“Rub me… oh. I don’t think it will come to that. Murder is frowned upon, except as a last resort.
But they have followed me here; I saw them. I believe I shook them off my trail. No cabs are following us—”
“Wrong,” Holt said.
There was a silence. The old man looked out the rear window again.
Holt grinned crookedly. “If you’re trying to duck, Central Park isn’t the place. I can lose your friends in traffic easier. O.K., mister, I’m taking the job. But I got the privilege of stepping out if I don’t like the smell.”
“Very well, Denny.”
Holt cut left at the level of Seventy-second, “You know me ‘but I don’t know you. What’s the angle, checking up on me? You a detective?”
“No. My name’s Smith.”
“Naturally.”
“And you-Denny-are twenty years old, and unavailable for military duty in this war because of cardiac trouble.”
Holt grunted. “What about it?”
“I do not want you to drop dead.”
“I won’t. My heart’s O.K. for most things. The medical examiner just didn’t think so.”
Smith nodded. “I know that. Now, Denny—”
“Well?”
“We must be sure we aren’t followed.”
Holt said slowly, “Suppose I stopped at F.B.I. headquarters? They don’t like spies.”
“As you like. I can prove to them I am not an enemy agent. My business has nothing to do with this war, Denny. I merely wish to prevent a crime. Unless I can stop it, a house will be burned tonight and a valuable formula destroyed.”
“That’s a job for the fire department.”
“You and I are the only ones who can perform this task. I can’t tell you why. A thousand dollars, remember.”
Holt was remembering. A thousand dollars meant a lot to him at the moment. He had never had that much money in his life. It meant a stake; capital on which to build. He hadn’t had a real education.
Until now, he’d figured he’d continue in a dull, plodding job forever. But with a stake-well, he had ideas. These were boom times. He could go in business for himself; that was the way to make dough.
One grand. Yeah. It might mean a future.
He emerged from the park at Seventy-second Street and turned south on Central Park West. From the corner of his eye he saw another taxi swing toward him. It was trying to pocket his cab. Holt heard his passenger gasp and cry something. He jammed on the brakes, saw the other car go by and swung the steering wheel hard, pushing his foot down on the accelerator. He made a U-turn, fast, and was headed north.
“Take it easy,” he said to Smith.
There had been four men in the other taxicab; he had got only a brief glimpse. They were cleanshaven and wore dark clothes. They might have been holding weapons; Holt couldn’t be certain of that.
They were swinging around, too, now, having difficulties with the traffic but intent on pursuit.
At the first convenient street Holt turned left, crossed Broadway, took the cloverleaf into the Henry Hudson Parkway, and then, instead of heading south on the drive, made a complete circle and returned his route as far as West End Avenue. He went south on West End, cutting across to Eighth Avenue presently. There was more traffic now. The following cab wasn’t visible.
“What now?” he asked Smith.
“I… I don’t know. We must be sure we’re not followed.”
“O.K.,” Holt said. “They’ll be cruising around looking for us. We’d better get off the street. I’ll show you.” He turned into a parking garage, got a ticket and hurried Smith out of the cab. “We kill time now, till it’s safe to start again.”