Delicate Ape Read Online Free Page B

procedure for the many like accidents which must occur in the city. If the latter, the police were to be respected for their careful regard for death.
    The old sergeant stuck his head through the door. “You, there. Come on in. Captain says he wants to see you.”
    “Certainly.”
    Piers followed the man down a corridor into a drab box of a room. It was furnished with a too large desk, an old wooden bench and chair, a calendar portraying an Indian girl stepping into a birch canoe, and a large brass cuspidor. The man behind the desk was large, gray-haired, ruddy-faced. He wore his hat on the back of his head.
    “I’m Captain Devlin. Sit down, Mister … Sit down, O’Leary.”
    The sergeant sat on the chair. Piers lounged easily on the old bench.
    “Your name?” Captain Devlin asked. He had a green pencil with a large brass clip on it pointed at a paper. His desk was assorted with papers.
    “George Henderson.” Piers didn’t hesitate. He’d been Thompson in Washington, he was Pierce at the Astor, but Henderson came easily to his lips. He knew these names well, always he used ordinary names, nothing too common or too unusual to attract suspicion. “I lost my briefcase—it’s of brown alligator.”
    “Yeah,” Captain Devlin interrupted. “Your address, Mr. Henderson?”
    They couldn’t be meaning to detain him while they checked on this. He was a casual. An innocent bystander. He said as if he were slightly ashamed of it, “It’s seventeen Sheridan Square.” He had been born at 17 Sheridan Square. He hoped the building still stood. “I’m staying with friends there—it’s just temporary. I expect to get a place of my own soon. I’m a playwright.” He gave the captain a smile both proud and happy, and then he frowned a little. “My newest manuscripts are in that briefcase and it’s very important I find it. Of course I have my rough drafts but I don’t want to have to type the whole thing again—” He prattled, at ease in his role.
    The captain interrupted again. “You witnessed the accident in front of the Paramount last night?”
    “But I didn’t. I was right there but I was walking the other way.” He said with slight regret, “I just missed it.”
    The captain’s square face took on a shade of disappointment. “You don’t know if he fell or was pushed then?”
    “No,” Piers said. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I heard the brakes of the taxi when it stopped. Everyone was terribly excited, all talking at once. Some said the man jumped and some said he was pushed. I couldn’t wait though. I was late for an appointment. It wasn’t until I was in the theater later that I missed my brief case. It’s been turned in?”
    The sergeant said, “No. Nothing good ever is.”
    Piers was emphatic. “It was a good briefcase. I’d hate to lose it. It means so much work—” This time he did the breaking off and his eyes were bright with curiosity. “Who was the man who was killed? Was he someone important? Is that why you think he was pushed?”
    Captain Devlin shook his head. “We don’t think he was pushed. But some of the witnesses say he was. There’s always witnesses with big imaginations in any accident case—”
    Piers waited, taut. He couldn’t repeat his question. He mustn’t be anything but a naïve young playwright in this room. He could play the role. His face was un-lined, boyish enough for his thirty-six years. He waited and the identity was forthcoming.
    “He wasn’t anyone at all,” Devlin continued. “John Smith.”
    “John Smith,” Piers repeated, and then he brightened to hide his disappointment. “That’s like a play, Captain. That anyone should actually be named John Smith and be in an accident.”
    “It was his name.” Devlin tapped his pencil. “He was identified late last night. By his uncle. We could write it off as closed if it weren’t for those two damn witnesses insisting he was pushed.”
    Piers said thoughtfully as if weaving a plot, “And of