Departure Delayed, page 3
“Johnny: I suppose you'd call this the sign off because I’m writing to tell you it is completely finished and it just seems silly not to face it right away because there isn’t any point in trying to keep a bad bargain.
"Its really ended, Johnny. Of course you knew it too. When I saw you—I knew it in that instant—everything caved in like—toy blocks. And you trying to lie, trying to take it all as such a great big joke.
"I don’t mean to sound like a lovesick child. Really, I’m over that part of it. I can look back on what happened completely unaffected. It was all a whirlwind, sweet words and laughing and I thought nothing could ever be so wonderful but that isn’t what you have to have to build your life on— it isn’t really what people mean by romance. I thought it was but I was wrong. A woman hates to admit being such a fool about things like that but, you see, it’s what I’m doing now.
"I don’t particularly blame you, Johnny. Maybe you tried to mean some of the things you said and all >our fine plans and the rest of it. But now I’m on solid ground, I’ve gotten out of the chariot and come down from the stars. Whatever that crazy magic was—it’s all vanished.
"I seem to remember you don’t like women who cry and besides I’m not writing to weep. I only wanted to be sure you knew how things stood. It’s finished. I don’t know about details, Johnny. Daddy says he’ll take over the business of straightening it out. The hardest thing is to have to admit that he and the others were right about it all along. I guess I was what Daddy said—a foolish girl in a runaway dream.
"But still they say there’s good in everything. Maybe I’ll learn from this. Maybe I’ll learn to do what you said people have to do all the time-^be on guard. I’ll try to remember that.”
It was signed "Carol.” On the back of the blue envelope that went with it was the full name: Carol Eaton—77 Central Park West—New York City.”
The letter was a shock. I read it through a number of times. This had been an affair—apparently one of those blitzkrieg romances.
I’d never wanted to get mixed up in anything like that. A fellow in the service, or just getting out, shouldn’t get serious —nobody should get serious until he had a job and could pay the way.
In the Army it was easy. You picked up some girl the fellows called “brig bait” and you have fun. Maybe you even saw them two or three times. It never was anything that mattered.
This was different. She didn't sound like anybody's pickup. She didn't belong with the others. I knew from the way the letter was written, from the whole tone of it. She didn't sound in the same world with that blonde, with threats of shooting and death.
Underneath her letter I discovered a soiled, much-folded piece of rice paper—with two Chinese characters written on it in red ink. It was like meeting an old friend. I'd carried that slip of paper with me for months. It was a souvenir I'd gotten from one of the flyers who'd made his way out of North Korea by the guerrilla escape route.
The characters read hsia yü—Chinese for “heavy rains.” It had been a code phrase—a recognition signal used by our men and by guerrillas in contacting American prisoners of war in enemy territory.
There was one other letter that was important, probably most important of all. I’d seen it before too. It wasn’t addressed to John Wilson, but to Roy Marshall—Sergeant Roy Marshall at Halloran Hospital.
I remembered that letter. It had arrived the morning I left the hospital. It was a typewritten note from Captain Everett Curtis, United States Navy. A brief, businesslike request for me to stop in at his hotel as soon as was convenient following my hospital release, which he understood was to be within a few days. The date of the letter was September fourth. It was on stationery of the Park Towers Hotel.
That was the first real break I’d had. I remembered I had been planning to go to see Captain Curtis before I got my reservation for Ohio. I remembered I'd been wondering why Curtis wanted to see me.
I'd never met him. But I’d known who he was, of course.
In the East his name was like a legend. For years before the war he'd been head of Intelligence for our Far Eastern Fleet. During the years he was out there—serving as a central point for information going back to Washington—Curtis came to know more about what was going on in the East than any other man in our government. It was common talk that we never could have carried out reconnaissance missions on the coast—or been able to set up that guerrilla escape route— without the information Curtis had been able to provide.
When I got that letter, I figured maybe he had a list of all of us who’d gone in there and wanted a personal picture. Maybe he wanted to hear what I could tell him about the man, Downes. He must have known about Downes, or even had contact with him back in the old days.
But none of that added up. Curtis didn’t need any information from me. There wasn’t "any intelligence data he couldn’t get hold of in Washington. There was nothing I could tell him he wouldn’t know already.
I couldn’t remember whether I’d been to see him or not. But there was the letter before me. This was one man I knew I could go to. One man who would understand the whole story.
It was after midnight. I decided I’d stay in the room that night. I’d get over to the Park Towers first thing in the morning.
I took the spread off the cot. There was a single checkered blanket underneath. The sheets didn’t look fresh. But my legs ached and I knew I needed sleep. Rest, the doctor had said. I wondered if the doctor had completed his report. I wondered if the police were hunting me. It didn’t seem to matter. I grabbed a pair of pajamas out of the bureau.
As I lay there in the dark, one thing came to me I hadn’t realized before. That letter had been on the desk here in the room. The letter addressed to Roy Marshall.
So the blonde must have known. Even if she hadn’t known before—she wasn’t the kind who would sit alone in my room and not read letters open on a desk. So she knew. She knew my name wasn’t really John Wilson. She knew I was Sergeant Roy Marshall.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Park Towers was just off Central Park South. It was an old-fashioned, lush sort of place, with heavy carpets on the floor in the lobby and an expensive, hushed atmosphere. You almost felt you should be talking in whispers.
I went up to the desk. There was a young man behind it. He had a pimply face and wore glasses. “Yes, sir?” he said. “What can we do for you?”
His tone said he was sure there was little he could do for me. I said, “Td like to see Captain Everett Curtis. Would you tell him it’s Sergeant Roy Marshall calling.”
For half a minute he looked at me without answering, his face without expression. At last he said, Tm afraid thats impossible, sir.”
“How do you mean?”
“Wait a moment, please.” He turned quickly, hurried into an inner office and closed the door. After a moment, he came out. This time there was with him an older, silver-haired, florid man who looked as if he might have been the manager.
“Yes, sir?” the older man asked, with a professional hotel smile. “Whom did you wish to see?”
I told him I wanted to see Captain Curtis. It was a matter of business and urgent.
“I am very sorry to have to inform you,” he said, “Captain Curtis is dead.”
The words had a numbing sound. Captain Curtis is dead. I am very sorry to have to inform you, Sir—
“When did he die?” I heard myself asking. “When was it —he—how?”
The silver-haired man would have been the perfect host for conventions. “You must have read about it in the papers,” he said softly. “Captain Curtis was killed—slain in his room. It was an unfortunate occurrence for our hotel.”
“Yes, it must have been—unfortunate for the hotel.” I’d never met the Captain but I wondered how much time this florid gentleman had given in service to his country. “He was murdered? Shot to death?”
"How did you know he was shot,” he asked, "if you didn’t know he was dead?” He hesitated. "But—if you want details— you can obtain them out of back newspapers, I’m sure.”
There was nervousness, a jerkiness in words that should have flowed even.
"Of course. Til get the story out of the papers.”
I stood there an instant. The man said, "If there is anything else—”
Something was going on in this place. I caught the jittery atmosphere. "Nothing more. There’s—nothing. Thank you for your information.”
I turned and started out. I saw a signal pass from one of the men behind the desk to two men standing in a comer of the lobby.
The two men caught up with me as I reached the sidewalk. They were rugged looking. Police badges flashed in their hands.
"Homicide Squad—Headquarters,” the heavier one said. "Like to have a little talk if you don’t mind. People downtown—”
"They got a few questions maybe you’d like to answer,” the other finished.
I couldn’t make a fight. They were on either side of me, the pressure of their hands at my elbows. If I tried to break and run I knew their bullets would be in my back. They were too calm, too damned certain. They shoved me forward into the waiting car.
They took my fingerprints at Headquarters. In charge of the fingerprint bureau was a tall, thin man named Lieutenant West. When the job was finished he tossed me a rag soaked in alcohol and told me to rub the ink off my hands.
The two detectives who had brought me down down were joined by four or five others. They walked around me, looking me over.
Several times on the way downtown, I tried to ask questions, tried to find out what the deal was. They told me to keep my shirt on and I’d get answers later.
I tried again now, waiting in the fingerprint bureau. I looked around at the officers. I said I had a right to know what it was all about.
“I’ve been hurt,” I told them. “I’ve been in a hospital because I was hurt. I was overseas and I got hit. I’ve got a right to know—”
When I said that, some of them started to laugh.
“You son of a bitch,” one said. “Who the hell told you— you had any rights?”
“He must of been reading a book.”
I was thinking—police are like everybody else. Some are decent and some no good. A couple of them seemed to enjoy this badgering game. They kept at it.
I tried to hold my temper. Finally one said, “Why don’t you talk, you stupid jerk?”
The man was beefy faced. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to send my fist smashing into his rotten face. I felt my fingers digging into my palms.
Another detective broke into the talk.
“Lay off,” he told them. “McCormick’s waiting upstairs. We better take the guy up.”
McCormick was Lieutenant Barry McCormick of Homicide. He had his own office. From the way the others treated him you could tell he was one of the key men. He knew the questions—and the answers.
He was behind his desk when we came in. Broad shoulders and a round face with prominent features. His head was bald and shiny and the strands along the sides were reddish, streaked with gray.
His whole manner was uninterested. He leaned forward a little when we came in, hands together on the glass-topped desk. He had a slight, impersonal smile. I could have been someone dropping in to ask about a job.
One of the detectives said, “This is the fellow we picked up, Lieutenant. Gives his name as Roy Marshall.”
For an instant the little smile went away as McCormick surveyed me with a quick look. I felt he had me under a microscope. But it lasted only a few seconds. The smile came back as if somebody pressed a button.
“Mr. Marshall?” he said politely. “Sit down, please.”
Two policemen stayed at the end of the room near the door. I sat in the chair in front of the desk. McCormick leaned back in his own chair.
For several minutes he didn’t say a word. His blue eyes gazed at the wall. He didn’t appear to remember I was there.
Then, without preamble, he said, “You’re in a spot, Marshall. What do you say about it?”
It was neat. It caught me off balance. “You mean—about the murder?”
The eyes focussed on me. “Yes—about the murder. Of course, about the murder. Why else would we have you here now?”
“I don't know,” I told him quickly. “I—I wasn't sure that was why I was here. Nobody bothered to answer any of my questions. I didn’t know about—Captain Curtis. I didn't know he was dead until I went there this morning.”
“Didn't know he was dead?” His heavy eyebrows lifted like question marks. “Didn’t know it at all? Why were you going to see him?”
“I had a letter from him. Some time ago, in Halloran Hospital. Before they let me out. You see—”
Somehow I had to tell him this story. Somehow I had to get over to him that those weeks in between were blank cards. I didn’t—couldn't—remember. But when I tried to explain, the words stuck in my throat.
“It may sound crazy,” I said, “I can't help it. This is the truth. It’s God’s truth. I was wounded in the head. Something happened to me when I got out. My mind must have snapped. I don't remember what happened. I don’t remember anything-”
I managed to get some of it out. I told him about coming to on the subway—realizing who I was. He listened with an air of amusement. My words were getting excited, spilling over each other and I tried to check myself.
I said, ‘Tin sorry. I know it must seem crazy—me going in there and asking for Captain Curtis—when he's dead. But— I didn't know—''
“Not only crazy," he said. “It may also be clever. Particularly if you've been afraid we were getting close. You got to the one place where you're sure to be identified—you wouldn't do that if you were guilty. Or that's how you figure we'll figure.”
The one place where you're sure to be identified. The one place you wouldn't go if you were guilty. McCormick broke into a short laugh. “But you don't remember, do you? You can't recall having been there before.”
“Before?”
“On the day Captain Curtis was killed.” The tone was matter-of-fact.
I stood up. The thing was coming clearer. I’d gone to the hotel as I'd planned to do. It must have been while I was there—or just afterwards—that my mind snapped. That must have been it. His death—and what happened to me—were tied in together.
McCormick still had the impersonal expression. I glared at him. “You've got to tell me,” I said. “You've got to tell me what happened.”
The two policemen moved forward. McCormick waved them off.
“Take it easy,” he told me. “We’re not holding back. You see, we've had men up at that hotel ever since the murder. Not knowing who might show up. Of course the clerks spotted you this morning. While you were talking to them— they got the word to us.”
“How do you mean—spotted me?”
“Let's not kid. You were in there the day Curtis died. You asked to see the Captain. You went upstairs. No one saw you come down. Sometime after you went up a shot was heard. A little later they found Curtis dead.”
He pitched the words at me like darts. These were facts he recited—simple and inescapable.
“I told you,” I said. “I don't remember anything about that day.”
“I didn't say we don't believe you.”
There was a pause. I asked, “Where—where was Captain Curtis hit?”
“Now that's a good question.” He frowned. “It was a single bullet in the heart. He died instantly.”
Single bullet in the heart. Words came back to me. Words they had drilled into my mind. Aim for the vital regions. The heart is the bullseye. Day after day on the target range. Never forget that one good shot is worth twenty that miss.
Sergeant Roy Marshall, expert marksman. . . .
It wasn't so, of course. It couldn't be so. I'd read that book in the hospital. You couldn't make people do things.
“I didn’t have any reason to kill him,” I said. “They—the police—assumed it was I because—”
McCormick shrugged. “They didn't assume anything. There was a fire escape door on that floor. It was kept closed on account of cold weather. It was found open that day.”
“Where did the door lead?”
“Down to an alley. The alley leads out into the street. Rather handy exit.”
I closed my eyes. This man thought I was guilty of murder. He was sure of it. He'd held the trial in his mind and brought in the verdict.
“I didn't kill Captain Curtis,” I said. “I didn't know him. I didn't have any reason. I just didn't have any reason to do it.”
“Perfectly possible,” he said. “The fact is—no one here has accused you of anything—except yourself. Don't you think that's interesting?”
“Why don't you check with the Army?” I demanded. “My record's clear. Everything I've told you is true. I'm Roy Marshall. I was a Sergeant. I was wounded in the head. I've been in the hospital. And—”
“And you've been out a couple of months and nobody's been able to find you.”
It was a dead center hit. They'd been looking for me. Looking for me ever since I got out. Ever since they found Captain Curtis murdered in his room.
“You knew who I was?” I asked. “You were searching—”
“Sure. Sent out wanted circulars, all over the country. Confidential, of course. We didn't want to tip you off we were looking for you. There wasn't any publicity in the papers.”
He stood up, hands in his pockets. He looked out of the window. “Your parents were notified. The FBI even had a couple of men stationed at your house, waiting for you to show up.” He paused. “Too bad—ruining your life. And their lives too.”
He turned, watching my reaction. “It's a pretty terrible shock for them. They knew you were getting out, coming home. They were excited about it. Then—you didn't show. The next thing—you're a fugitive, wanted in a murder case.”
I didn't say anything. I was trying to let his words sink in, trying to picture what the thing must mean to them.
“Trouble was,” he was saying, “we couldn't get any recent photos. You fellows change a lot after you've been overseas a couple of years. Must have lost weight in the hospital too.”
