Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012
- Автор: Макдермид Вэл, Манфредо Лу
- Год: 2012
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012». Краткое содержание книги:
“Ought to go teach the skunk a lesson,” someone else said. “Hear him at the strike vote? Says Hanson’ll wait till the sympathy strikers go back, then he’ll brag he whupped us. It’ll hurt unions all round the country.” The crowd at the trolley stop rippled with threats and angry laughter.
“Never heard of the Teamsters. Won’t be around long if it’s full of cowards. I’m I.W.W. Let’s go show him what it takes to make a union last.”
“Leave him be.” Ella put out her arm to stop him. “It’s a new day. Don’t start it with blood on the street.”
The Wobblie looked at her hand touching his sleeve. For a second she thought he’d bat it off. But Mario said to him, “Soldier boy, he gonna get it, you no worry. You see he’s got a goon follows him?”
The Teamster was at the end of the block, where it met an alley famous for its shanghai tunnels. A few steps behind him, entering a circle of lamplight as the other stepped from it, was the goon.
He was hatless, his hair glowing muted orange in the stippled beam. It was Marshal Killy. Ella was sure of it. The wide shoulders, the square head, the tiger-fur shade of ginger.
The marshal was here. Close enough that if he turned, he’d spot her.
Ella had seen the photos in The Star every day, marshals boarding trains west. She’d heard Ole Hanson brag he had hundreds of them coming. She’d even worried one might be Killy. Worried, but then reminded herself she had a new name now and false papers.
With the instinct people show when being watched, the marshal turned toward her. She shifted to hide her face, then jostled her way up the streetcar steps. Had he seen her? Recognized her? There was no seat available, and the aisle was packed, but she elbowed her way to the back window. By now, he’d be following the Teamster into the alley.
But it wasn’t so: He hadn’t moved, except to face the trolley. He seemed to be looking right at Ella now. Fog made it impossible to be sure of eye contact, but she felt it like a lightning strike.
She told herself it didn’t matter — he couldn’t recognize her from this distance (though she recognized him). Her hair was different now, and he wouldn’t be looking for her here. He’d assume she was some other girl. It meant nothing, it was just coincidence that he stood motionless, watching. And in any case, he’d have to hurry away or he’d lose the Teamster.
She was relieved when the streetcar started to move. As it arced out into the street, she shifted to look through a side window. She hoped to see Killy’s back as he retreated. But no, he was closer now. Close enough that she made out his scowl. She tried to persuade herself he couldn’t see her as well as she could see him, not with the trolley picking up speed. But then he bolted toward it.
When he reached it, he began pounding the side with a flat hand.
Another time, the driver might have stopped. People were friendly here. But the car was full, and a crowd waited for the next.
Within seconds, Killy had to sprint to keep up. His knocking became insistent and closed-fisted. Ella watched the driver list left in his seat for a better look in the long side mirror. She craned for his view, causing a seated passenger to mutter and shift. She saw Killy pull a big nickel star from his pocket and wave it.
So she’d been right, not paranoid, that night in Chicago. And now the tiger had found her again.
Someone said, “A marshal wants on.”
Ella hoped the driver supported his union’s aye to strike. She called out, “Ole Hanson’s got a nerve, bringing these lawmen here to bust our heads.”
“I don’t see any marshal out there.” The driver doubled their speed.
Ella heard the chatter around her, speculation about what had just happened. Mario had pushed his way to her side, and she spoke to him in rusty Italian. “I know that marshal.” Saying it made it seem more real. “The trolley takes too long at the stops — there’s no chance he won’t catch up. I think I have to — If I get off, can you get off too? Stay back so it doesn’t look like we’re together? If he leads me someplace, follow us. Will you? And then... then lure him away, in some other direction? Give me time to... Or... or I suppose knock him out if you absolutely have to?”
“Certo,” Mario murmured. “Posso pur’ ammazzarlo.”
“No!” She’d have no man’s death on her hands. And wouldn’t Ole Hanson love to see a marshal murdered here? The mayor probably hoped the week would start with blood and riot. He certainly didn’t want the strike viewed as a benevolence, rippling across America to change it for the better. “I just need enough time to get far enough away. That’s all.”
Mario grinned to show (she hoped) that he was joking.
At the next stop, she got off, then threaded through the crowd waiting to board. She didn’t look over her shoulder to check for Mario. She knew he’d be there someplace.
She began walking toward the previous stop. At first only strangers came toward her. They were hunched into thick work jackets as the drizzle intensified. Then she saw a man running.
She stopped, leaving it to the marshal to close the distance. If he was winded, maybe he’d be less careful. Less likely to notice Mario melting into a shadow or a group. And anyway, she couldn’t persuade her legs to take her closer to the tiger.
Killy was upon her before she finished the thought. Without a word, he grabbed both her arms, pinning them to her sides.
“Have I committed a crime?” She tried to pull free. “Did I read the wrong newspaper or criticize that politician you work for?”
It was disconcerting to stare up at him, to compare his face to the image her mind summoned sometimes, late at night, when fears came over her. She’d forgotten details after three months. She remembered the pale brows and broad forehead, the slight flattening of his nose, the hint of a dimple on one side. But she’d recalled only the pale blue of his eyes, not the near-black outer rings, as daunting as bull’s-eyes. She’d wrongly thought his lips were thin and unpleasant when actually they were rather full. And though he was a head taller than she, and broad-shouldered, he didn’t actually tower like a menacing beast.
“It is a crime, you know, to lie to a U.S. Marshal.” He was bumped against her as people hurried past on both sides, rushing for the departing trolley.
“And is it a crime to lie to someone who doesn’t tell you he’s a marshal? Besides, I admitted I was no schoolgirl.”
“Yes, and then pulled a grand stunt to escape.”
“I slipped away from a stranger who showed too much interest.”
“Feared I was a masher, did you?” He showed his dimple, but it was no warm smile. “Is it not more traditional to refuse dinner with a man you find annoying? Or do you generally accept invitations and then create an uproar and disappear?” He gave her a little shake.
“I didn’t create the uproar,” she lied. “I just... took advantage of it.”
“But you’re done pretending you don’t know I’m a marshal?”
“Are you done pretending you just like to chat about politics?”
“Oh, that’s no pretense, more’s the pity. As to the rest, my girl... I supposed it would be simpler to talk to you without the star on my lapel.”
“What did you want?”
“I wanted you, Miss Gualtieri. But you guessed as much.”
Only knowing Mario was close gave her the courage to ask, “Why?”