It was called “Point of View” and told about a pair of monkeys sitting on a limb, in their cage, watching the crowd. They are watching the people and wondering what people are thinking about, while the people are wondering what they are thinking of. The author had something there.
I wondered what the conductor was thinking about as he punched tickets, and what the people were thinking as they handed him the tickets to be punched.
I wondered what Leonore had been thinking about when she got the note supposedly from Evans? Other than hatred and anger of course. What had she thought when she read the demand to return the bracelet that meant so much to her?
What was she thinking about that night on the lake, skating? What torturing thoughts had so completely blinded her that she had not seen the looming danger of the hole?
Hold on a minute. Louise, I’m not so sure that was Leonore on the lake that night.
The person I saw on the lake appeared to be a girl. The girl appeared to be a very poor skater. She might have been doped. And Leonore was not doped if I could believe Dr. Elizabeth Saari. On this particular point I could believe Dr. Elizabeth Saari because the complete autopsy report was down in black and white if I cared to read it. Therefore, the person on the ice was a poor skater, and, therefore, it was not Leonore.
Leonore may have been under the ice at that moment.
The guy who had driven me back to town had steered rather slowly along that rutted lake road. I had thought at the time he was being careful. But now, as I mentioned to Rothman earlier, I think it was because he wanted me to see the skater. He was coolly manufacturing a witness who could testify later to having seen a girl skating on the lake at midnight. When the body of Leonore turns up, the witness will naturally jump to the conclusion it had been Leonore skating.
Very clever. On another man it would have worked. On me it almost worked. Swisher’s error was that he didn’t know Leonore had previously convinced me she could skate.
What kind of a stinking rat must this Swisher be to manipulate a nasty thing like that? What kind of a man can deliberately use an unborn child as a wedge to force a couple apart, force the woman to murder the man she loves, and then casually eliminate the woman when she comes to him for help?
After a while the train stopped with a series of jerks at some way-side station. I watched a bearded old man dressed in faded overalls push a little cart alongside the train, heading for the mail car up ahead. Pretty soon he came back with one limp, dirty sack and a bundle of tightly wrapped newspapers in the cart. A few people climbed on and the train started up with a repetition of the jerks and wheezes. I went back to my newspaper.
Somebody standing in the aisle nudged my feet and said, “Give the lady the seat, fella.”
I said sure and put my feet on the floor. The man who had spoken sat down beside me. When I looked up at him he smiled in a greasy way and rammed something hard into my side, just above the hip bone.
It wasn’t hard to guess what the hard thing might be. He continued to smile and spoke in a very low voice.
“We’re getting off at the next stop, fella.”
“You’ve got the wrong man,” was my answer.
He wagged his head ever so gently.
“No we haven’t. We’re getting off at the next stop.”
The gun was in his pocket. He casually kept both hands in his pockets. Anyone sitting across the aisle couldn’t see a thing. But I could feel it. He pushed it into my side so far it actually hurt.
He had said, “Give the lady your seat, fella.”
I looked across at the lady.
Eleanor sat there, cold, hard eyes boring into mine.
I wasn’t given time to get out of the mess, Louise.
Chapter 14
The train rattled on, whistling mournfully for every crossroad. Little patches of frost clung to the edges of the dirty windows; the day was beginning to grow gray with the approach of evening.
I studied Eleanor for a long time.
There wasn’t anything readable in her face. Her eyes, other than for their calculating hardness, were just blank pieces of glistening glass set in the dark skin. She was bareheaded and wore her jet-black hair pulled tight at the nape of her neck. Sitting there so distant and aloof she reminded me very much of Leonore.
But Leonore had been warm and capable of pleasure, almost friendly to me. Leonore had the stuff to inspire dreams. In men other than me, for a fact.
At the moment and in the watchful presence of the greasy man, at least, Eleanor was no friend of mine. That observation brought a small measure of comfort. Apparently no one knew of my recent visit with her and accordingly she was under no suspicion, was still safe.
I continued to hunt for something in her eyes.
The greasy gunman turned to me.
“Y’see that brake cord up there?” He pointed to the wooden handle on the end of a rope, protruding from the forward wall of the coach.
I glanced up at it and said yeah.
Then he said, “Y’see that car out there?” And pointed to a large black sedan on the highway, pacing the train.
I turned to take it in. There wasn’t much more of a description I could give it, other than it was a large black sedan. It looked like a Cadillac and it was undoubtedly a damned fast car. There was one man in it, driving. I repeated my yeah.
Greasy continued, “Y’know we can stop this can and get th’hell outta here in a hurry?”
“Yeah.”
“And y’know I don’t givva damn whether I bump ya or not?”
“I guess so.” I shot a side look at Eleanor. She was watching the black sedan without expression.
“Okay fella. You’re wise. Na’don’t try anything funny. Be a good egg and we’ll get off at the next stop. Be stupid and we get off now — but you don’t. Get me?”
“I get you all right.”
“Y’got a ciggie, fella?”
I had to grin at the abrupt change. He was one of those trustworthy badmen who followed orders to the letter — trustworthy from his employer’s standpoint — and his imagination didn’t go much farther than the brisk, cold words that made up the orders.
I gave him a cigarette and offered the pack to Eleanor. She declined with a short jerk of her head. Greasy lit his and then held the match for me. He glanced around, noticed the little sign at the front of the car reading:
and dropped the match in his trouser cuff. We puffed in silence. I folded the newspaper and laid it in my lap. The minutes dragged by and still the sedan paced us, remaining about level with our coach.
After several miles and twice that many minutes had passed a small five- or six-year-old girl began running up and down the aisle, clutching a crinkled paper cup. About the third time she went by I noticed that Eleanor followed her with her eyes. There was almost an expression in the eyes.
Uncountable trips later the little girl suddenly stopped at our seats. She inspected the three of us and finally smiled up into Eleanor’s face, offering a timid, “Hello.”
Eleanor unbent to return the smile. “Hello.”
The child asked, “Are you going home with us?”
Eleanor replied that we were not; that we were getting off pretty soon now. On the “we” business the kid resumed her inspection of us, Greasy and me. She decided that I was all right and gave me the flashing smile. My seat companion got no more than a careful, disapproving scrutiny — not that it bothered him any. He continued to smoke, flicking off the hot ashes in the palm of his hand.