Night of the Toads (12 page)

A real lie? Marshall had told everyone that he had gone to Anne’s apartment on Friday, as usual, and she hadn’t been home. It was his whole proof that he knew nothing—he had expected Anne to be at home as usual, so, clearly, she had told him nothing. If he hadn’t gone, then he had known that she wasn’t home, and what more had he known or done?

I took a taxi uptown this time. Sarah Wiggen’s downstairs door was open. I went up. There were voices behind her door. I recognized Ted Marshall’s voice. My finger was on the doorbell when the tone of his voice stopped me. I listened. Muffled voices, Marshall and Sarah Wiggen, rising and fading.

‘… she wouldn’t listen, Sarah. She had to do it. I was scared, but …’ Ted Marshall’s voice. Tragic, breaking as it rose higher; yet reluctant, jerky. ‘… she was so.…’

‘… determined … always that way,’ Sarah’s voice. ‘… challenge anyone, anything, when she made up her mind.’

‘… didn’t want to …’ Marshall’s voice with that odd jerkiness again, as if he was rocking where he sat. ‘Vega had me beat up, I couldn’t fight … weak, that’s me … I’d have married her … married all the time … those kids, God … I didn’t know.…’

‘She destroyed things,’ Sarah’s voice loud, a throb in it. Somehow, I knew she was holding his hand. ‘She didn’t mean to, she just had to plunge ahead her own way.’

I heard movement, a shuffling of bodies, and silence. Sarah’s low voice seemed to mumble softly. Ted Marshall’s voice had a kind of thin hope.

‘We … we knew each other first, didn’t we?’ Marshall said.

Her voice was bitter, but thick, too. ‘She was more beautiful. You wanted her more. My body isn’t the same, is it? Or is it? Tell me my body’s as good.’

Silence, and, ‘Christ, Sarah, you.…’

‘A live sister better than a dead one,’ she said. That combination, muffled through the door, of bitter edge and a drugged thickness. ‘Is my body good, Ted? Am I good—now?’

Movement on a creaking couch, and Marshall’s voice lower. ‘I shouldn’t even have come. I just … had to talk. What could I do? She forced me … damned pills … what do I do now? … finished, that’s me.…’

Silence. Sarah again, ‘I reported it to hurt you, both of you. I guess that means I still wanted you.’

‘God, Sarah, if we could, maybe I could.…’

A soft thud and a rustle of clothing. I rang the doorbell. Time seemed to hang in the silent hall, and inside the room behind the door. Time suspended. I rang again. I could see them in my mind—close together, staring at the door.

‘Open up,’ I called. ‘It’s Dan Fortune.

Another silence, a whisper, and then she came and opened the door. Her hair was dishevelled, her blouse open, her eyes smoky with the feel of a man’s hands on her. I pushed past her. Ted Marshall sat on the couch, his shirt open at the collar, the shirt pulled out of his pants. He struggled into his jacket.

I stood facing him. ‘You never went to Anne’s apartment on Friday. You were seen with her on Friday. You handled the abortion. I was listening at the door.’

He was up and running at me. Like a blind bull charging. His weight caught me, his arm under my chin. I went over like a poleaxed steer. My head hit hard. For a moment I lay stunned. All black and green and red. When I struggled up, I could hear him running down the stairs. Sarah Wiggen stood pale, her hand in her mouth, her teeth biting her own hand. As I ran past her, her eyes were a battlefield of fear, desire, confusion.

In the street Marshall was half a block ahead and running. He was younger and faster. He reached the subway at Seventy-second Street a full block ahead. I plunged down the stairs, fumbled for a token, as the train came in. I made the door with a lunge. I chased through the cars. Once I had a glimpse of him far ahead, moving on through the cars. People sat in lethargy and stared at me as I ran past. Their eyes were curious, but not even their hands moved. The train pulled into Columbus Circle.

I had to decide—stay on, or get off? I got off. It was the wrong choice. The train was long gone before I gave up hope of finding him on the platform.

Chapter Fifteen

Where does a man run from his own guilt and panic? Unless he has planned an escape, he is inexorably pulled home, and I didn’t think Ted Marshall had planned much for days. I could be wrong, but I had nowhere else to look anyway.

I went up and grabbed a taxi on Broadway. I watched the night city pass on the way downtown, and thought about Ted Marshall. The gaudy, sparkling blaze of Times Square with its masses of people mocked Ted Marshall in my mind. This was where he dreamed of finding his name emblazoned, but he had arranged an abortion, a girl had died, and now he was running. A man caught in a drama with no future for his name.

He had arranged the abortion, alone or not I didn’t know. He had not known of Boone Terrell, or the house in Queens, so if he was alone in guilt, then her death had not been murder. Before I could know, I had to find him, talk to him.

A blind man running through the night city. No one lives in a smaller world than a city man. For a rural man his home is a whole town, an entire countryside. For a city man home is a neighbourhood, a narrow world of a few blocks, a few friends. The rest of the giant city is as alien as a foreign country. All doors are closed, any stranger can be an enemy. There is nowhere to go, and a man in panic runs to what he knows. It was a theory, anyway. Terror seeks the familiar.

The taxi dropped me at Marshall’s apartment house. I went to the rear. There was no light in Marshall’s windows. I went down into the basement. Frank Madero’s rooms were silent, no light under the door. I used my keys. Madero’s apartment was empty, votive lights guttering eerily. I rode up to the Marshall apartment. I heard nothing inside, and opened the door.

The four rooms were dark; as still as a lunar landscape. Light from other buildings cast pools of faint light near the windows. I bumped into the overcrowded furniture, and found no sign of Ted Marshall in his own room. I went back out into the hall to see if there was a place to stake out. There wasn’t. I was considering that a stake-out in the street would be better, when I heard an elevator coming up.

I ducked back into the dark apartment, and closed the door. I heard the movement behind me. I had time to see a large, dim shape, nothing more. I had come in from the light, and my eyes had not adjusted to the dark. His had. I took a slashing blow of something hard and metal. Only time to see the motion, try to evade, fail … on my knees, down but not out. My head split pain. I tried to get up. My brain told me I had to fall and roll away. Caught between the two commands, I did nothing. I kneeled like a prisoner about to put his head on the block.

A thick arm came around my throat. I tried to reach back with my lone hand. The arm tightened … squeezed … black …

I had two arms, a fine figure of a whole man. Two fine arms, and still couldn’t evade her blows. She hit hard for a woman, Anne Terry: ‘I’m a good mother, Gunner. I love my kids, Gunner. I just want a chance.’ Why didn’t she love me with my two fine arms? Sarah Wiggen’s eyes smoked at the touch of hands on her breasts: ‘I saw him first. I love him. Hate her.’

I opened my eyes. I saw nothing. God, I was blind! Doc, you never told me I’d be blind, blind.…

Shapes emerged from a black pit. A ghostly furnace. Some … washtubs? Thick, square pipes over my head. The sound of traffic somewhere. People walking. The night sounds of the city. Where I sat nothing moved. Silence, dust.

My head ached, not badly. A small wound burned hot on my temple. My throat was bruised. My feet were tied, I saw them in the dim light where I sat against a wall. My hand was tied behind me: to my belt, and then to some kind of pipe. The furnace said I was in some cellar. If I had been unconscious for very long I would have felt much worse. So—I had not been carried far. The basement of Ted Marshall’s building.

I tried my bonds. They wouldn’t give. I couldn’t move to find a way to cut them. I had no miracle escape tools.

I yelled.

I got an echo, and a pounding head. No one came.

I considered time: hit about 7:15, out for maybe ten minutes, so nearly 7:30 p.m. now. All at dinner, early TV.

I yelled anyway.

I began to know how a prisoner in solitary confinement feels. Time motionless.

Later, I decided to identify my attacker. Strong, quick, muscular—big? Run down the list, Fortune. Nuts. What did I remember? Maybe he was weak, slow and skinny. Surprise did it.

I yelled.

I dozed in the dim dust. Hours now, or a few minutes? What had he wanted? Not to be found in Ted Marshall’s apartment? Urgent business with Ted Marshall, no outsiders wanted? Someone who had known about Queens, and knew what the right pills would do to Anne Terry?

I yelled.

A door opened above. ‘Hello? Someone down there?’

‘Behind the furnace,’ I called.

He found me, stared. A round little man with vest and a watch chain. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Practical joke. Get my hand loose.’

He was nervous, shocked by the unusual, and his hands fumbled, but he made it. After he helped me untie my feet, he looked around for monsters in the shadows.

‘Just a joke,’ I said, ‘but thanks.’

‘Sure,’ he said. He retreated quickly up the stairs.

I looked at my watch 9:32. Two hours at least. I walked through the cellar toward the stairs, and saw a broad shaft of light from the direction of the superintendent’s apartments. Frank Madero stood in his open doorway, peering in my direction. I walked to him.

‘I hear someone yell,’ he said. ‘Just now. You?’

‘Someone hit me, tied me down here. You didn’t hear my yelling before?’

‘I just come home.’

‘Ted Marshall here, Frank?’

‘I don’t see him since I talk to you.’

I edged in past him. The votive lights still flickered, but the apartment was empty.

‘I see a man maybe six-thirty, when I go out,’ Madero said. ‘Big man, blond. I think one of the men who beat up Ted.’

‘Where?’

‘Out front. Like he watch building, you know?’

I took the elevator to the fifth floor, and got out warily. I listened at Marshall’s door. No sound, no light. I used my keys, and this time went in ready. When I was sure that the place was really empty. I turned on the light. I checked the closets of Ted Marshall’s room. All his clothes seemed to be there, and three suitcases. No one had even sat on his bed.

In the living room I searched the floor where I had been hit. I found nothing. Then I saw the two glasses, and two cans of beer, on a coffee table. Both glasses were empty, ringed with dried foam. I had a sense memory of the coffee table being empty. I also remembered the pools of light from other buildings. The worn drapes were drawn now. All but one set open to a closed rear window. A chair near the undraped window was not on the marks it had made in the rug. I opened the window and looked down.

Down in the courtyard something black lay in stray light from other apartments. A bundle of old clothes. I left the light on as I went down in the elevator. The courtyard was slashed with beams of light from many windows. A concrete yard fenced with a cyclone fence, the gate locked. A chorus of TV words and music came from the apartments all around me in the night—the Greek chorus of mid-century America.

Ted Marshall lay on his back in the clothes I had last seen in Sarah Wiggen’s apartment. One arm was broken under him. His neck was broken. What else was broken I couldn’t tell, and the back of his head was crushed in a pool of blood. I saw no marks that couldn’t have come from the fall. His pockets contained money, keys and a wallet. In the wallet there were a few credit cards, old newspaper clippings that told how good Ted Marshall had been in some stock company show, a lot of small portrait pictures of himself, and two nude pictures of Anne Terry. It was hard to remember she was dead. It was almost harder to remember that Ted Marshall had been alive.

I went up and called Gazzo.

Gazzo watched the Medical Examiner work. Detectives were all over the courtyard, and up in the apartment.

‘Two hours in the cellar?’ Gazzo said.

‘While someone had a beer with Marshall.’

‘Nothing says they were the same: the visitor, the man who tapped you, and the killer. Marshall fixed up the abortion?’

‘That’s how it looks. But maybe not alone, with this.’

‘No suicide, Dan? You’re so sure?’

‘The window was closed. He didn’t close it himself. So he wasn’t alone.’

‘Men jump in front of friends,’ Gazzo mused. ‘The friend closed the window. Reflex. He could have hit the way he did from a jump.’

‘Why was I put on ice?’

‘Him or the friend. He had to know you were after him after the Wiggen girl’s place. Later, scared witless, he jumped. Where’s the mother?’

‘She works. Okay, if there was a friend here, why didn’t he yell for help when Marshall jumped?’

‘Maybe not a real friend. An associate. Someone who wanted no connection to Marshall, but not a killer.’

‘You want it to be suicide, Captain?’

‘Sure I want it a suicide. Neat and simple,’ Gazzo said. ‘Abortion and suicide. What about it, Doc? Suicide?’

The M.E. stood up wiping his hands. ‘My guess is no. The autopsy may help. Dead about an hour, no more. He might have been hit first. A jump should have landed him farther out.’

Gazzo nodded, thought for a time. ‘I guess I go back out to Queens and check Boone Terrell’s story some more. That McBride was seen around, Dan?’

‘The super said so.’

A detective called down from above that Mrs Marshall had been located at work, was on her way home. Gazzo went up. I left to put a band-aid on my cut temple.

Ricardo Vega’s name was up above the show title on the marquee of The Music Box Theatre on Forty-fifth Street. I went in through the front. The auditorium was dark, some thirty people scattered across the rows of orchestra seats watching the rehearsal on the stage. I slipped into a seat in the last row. Marty wasn’t on the stage, Ricardo Vega was. In his sweat suit and boots, doing a scene. Most of the other players were in costume. It didn’t matter to Ricardo Vega.

I didn’t know what the scene was, but it was Vega’s. He seemed taller, more powerful, and even in the sweat suit he gave a sense of dignity that made me feel suddenly calm. Calm and no longer in the theatre. Almost without being aware of it I was no longer in a dark seat: somewhere else, sunk into the moment on the stage. His voice carried with no effort to all parts of the theatre, encompassing the whole theatre within his quiet voice. He moved with authority and a sense of joy. Totally alive. Transformed into something that was always Ricardo Vega, and more than Ricardo Vega. Something with a life of its own that was all of Ricardo Vega and much more. Not a different person, rearranged. Taken apart and put together in a different pattern—the pattern of the person he was creating up there in a world he made more real than the world where I sat. Oblivious to all but his art. Nothing held back, nothing. Given to the audience, but not for them, no. For his art, work, the hands of his art.