«Turn around,» he ordered, making his voice sound grim and deadly. He stepped in close to them, keeping the muzzle of the gun in the W.B.I. man’s back—he was more afraid of Slade trying something than Winton—and felt Slade’s hip pockets. Yes, there was a pair of handcuffs there. He took them, stepped back.
He said, «All right, step over by that post in the archway. You, Winton, reach through it. Then cuff yourselves together. Wait a second; first toss me your keys, Slade.»
He backed out to the door when they had followed his orders. He started to tell them not to yell, then realized they would anyway and didn’t bother. He slid the gun into his pocket and went through the door.
He heard their voices behind him as he went down the hall to the stairs and doors were popping open. He walked fast but wouldn’t let himself run. Nobody, he thought, would actually try to stop him, although somebody would be phoning the police by now.
Nobody did stop him. He made the street and kept up his fast walk. He was a block away when he heard sirens. He slowed down instead of hurrying faster but he turned off Gresham Street at the next corner.
Within ten minutes squad cars would be cruising the neighborhood with his description. But by that time he could be on Fifth Avenue, walking north from Washington Square and they wouldn’t be able to pick him out of the crowd. Or better yet—
A taxi went by, empty, and he started to hail it, then swore at himself as he realized he had forgotten to get his billfold back, in Winton’s apartment. On top of everything else now, he was broke. He couldn’t even take the subway.
A dozen blocks away, he felt safe from the squad cars that were undoubtedly looking for him. He was walking north on Fifth Avenue then and the sidewalks were fairly crowded.
He stepped up his pace a little when he noticed that most of the others were walking faster. Above all, he didn’t dare to be inconspicuous. And there seemed to be hurry in the air.
The realization of the reason for it struck him almost like a blow. It was becoming twilight.
It was going to get dark pretty soon. Dark? That wasn’t the word for it. The blacker dark, the mist-out. All these people were hurrying because they were scurrying home to get under cover for the night. The doors would be locked and barred and the streets left to crime and banditry and scavenging.
For the first time since he’d made his getaway from the apartment he stopped, wondering where he was going. Not back to his hotel, of course. They’d be waiting for him there. He’d given his right address on those manuscripts he’d turned in to Winton.
And that meant he’d lost everything—the clothes, the suitcase, the toilet articles. Again and more bitterly he thought of his stupidity in not getting his billfold back after Winton had taken it. There hadn’t been a lot in it but enough that he could have taken a room for the night, enough to have lived on for at least a few days until there was a chance for him to figure a new plan for living in this mad world. Writing was out but maybe there was another way.
Broke, flat broke, what chance did he have? Somehow he’d give himself away at every turn. Of course there were the few coins from a sensible universe and he was glad now he hadn’t dared to leave them in his hotel room. But they represented danger as well as possible capital. He shrugged. What difference could a little thing like that make now? If the police got him he was dead anyway, coins or no coins.
Slowly he started walking again, still northward. He knew where he was going now. Thirty-seventh Street, just off Third Avenue. The fifth floor.
It was dusk when he got there and the few people left on the streets were hurrying, almost running. It was deeper dusk because the street lights had not gone on as they should have by this time in the evening. And the street lights weren’t going to go on.
A janitor was just reaching to lock the outer door as Keith opened it. The man’s hand went quickly to his back pocket, but he didn’t pull the gun. He asked, suspiciously, «Who you want to see?»
«Miss Hadley,» Keith said. «Just staying a minute.»
«Okay.»
He walked back to the self-service elevator but the janitor’s voice came back after him. «You’ll haveta walk. Juice is off already, mister. And hurry down if you want me to take a chance on opening the door to let you out.»
Keith nodded and took the stairs instead. He went up them rapidly and had to stop on the fifth floor landing to get his breath back. Then he rang the bell of the front apartment.
After a moment Betty’s voice called out, «Who is it?»
«Karl Winston, Miss Hadley. It’s important.»
The door opened on the chain, and Betty’s face looked at him through the three-inch opening. Her eyes were a little frightened. He said, «Awfully sorry to bother you so late, Miss Hadley, but I’ve got to get in touch with Mekky. Is there any way it can be done?»
The chain slid out of the groove and the door opened. She said, «Come in, K-Keith Winton.»
Scarcely daring to breathe, Keith stepped into the room. She’d called him by name, by his right name.
He stood with his back against the door, scarcely believing, staring at her. The room was dim, the shades already pulled down. The light came from a candle in a candlestick on the table behind Betty. Her face was shadowed but the dim light behind her made a golden aura of her soft blonde hair.
She asked, «You’re in trouble? They found you out?»
He nodded.
«You haven’t mentioned Mekky to anyone else? No one would think of your coming here?»
«No.»
She turned and Keith saw for the first time that a colored maid was standing in the far doorway. Betty said, «It’s all right. Della. You may go to your room.»
«But, Miss—»
«It’s all right, Della.»
The door closed quietly behind the maid and Betty turned back to Keith.
He took a step toward her. He asked, «Do you—remember—uh—-I don’t understand. Which Betty Hadley are you? How could you have known—»
It sounded inarticulate and confused even to him.
She said, «Sit down, Mr. Winston. I’m going to call you that, to avoid confusing you with the other Keith Winton. What happened? Was it Keith Winton who found you out?»
«Yes.» Keith laughed a little bitterly. «The two stories I gave him were his own stories. I didn’t even try to explain—and I’d have been shot first if I’d tried. And by the way, tear up that story I left with you. It’s both an original and a plagiarism. But that’s not important, now. What about Mekky?»
She shook her head slowly. «You can’t reach Mekky. He’s back with the fleet. The Arcs are—» She stopped short.
«Going to attack, I suppose,» Keith said. «Mekky told me there was a crisis in the war.» He laughed a little. «But I can’t get excited about the war—I can’t believe in it enough. What I want to know is what Mekky told you about me?»
Betty Hadley looked at him thoughtfully. «Not much,» she told him. «He didn’t know much himself. He hadn’t time to go under the surface of your mind. But he learned that you were from—somewhere else. He didn’t know where. He knew that where you came from you were called Keith Winton, although you don’t look like the Keith Winton I know.
«He knew you were in a jam here because—well, because you don’t know enough about things not to make mistakes. He knew you were not an Arc spy but that you’d get shot for one unless you were awfully careful.»
Keith leaned forward. «What is Mekky? A robot, a thinking machine?»
«That—and a little more than that. Dopelle made him that but—I don’t know. Even he doesn’t understand—he has emotions too. Even a sense of humor.»