Delicate Ape by Dorothy B. Hughes

shook his head. “I know a checker at Yellow. I’ll call his stand for you if you want.”
    “Thanks awfully.” He didn’t remain there in the empty hallway; he followed the guard to the switchboard. It was in sight of the glass doors. His neck crawled while he listened.
    “Harry? This is Nick. I want a cab. Yeah, at the International Building. Tell the driver to keep the engine running and be ready to step on it. No—nothing wrong. For a friend of mine. Yeah, it’s an emergency run … How’s Thelma? … Yeah, she’s fine. Yeah, that’s right. Be seeing you.” He disconnected the service, said to Piers, “Harry’ll send you a good driver. I can’t leave the building but I’ll keep my eyes sharp till you get away.”
    Piers said, “I’m grateful to you, Mr. … I don’t even know your name.”
    “Nick Pulaski.”
    They moved to the doors now, standing there silent, watching the muted flow of traffic. Flicker of lights up the avenue, their widening glow as they neared, the red circlets as they vanished. The sound of the tires was muffled here. There was no horn squawking, no squeal of brakes as on Broadway.
    The guard said, “It’ll take a little time. Harry’s stand is over on Lexington. In the Sixties.”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Say, I never thought,” the guard said. “We could have called Mr. Gordon.”
    “It didn’t occur to me either,” Piers said. He had folded a bill and held it out now. “Buy yourself a cigar and thanks again.”
    The guard shook his head. “I don’t want pay to take care of a German.”
    “It isn’t pay. It’s for all your trouble.” He urged it on the man. “Buy the kids a treat. There are kids?”
    “Three boys.” He took the bill. He looked at it, still reluctant. “I don’t ever want them to see what I saw. I don’t want them to know anything about things—things that happened. Bombs dropping on little kids—”
    “I saw it too,” Piers remembered. He added, “We mustn’t let it happen again.”
    “We won’t let it happen again.” The man spoke violently. “No matter what the big shots do we aren’t going to let it happen again.”
    But memories were short-lived, while greed and ambition flourished like the ancestral green bay tree. Piers said, “If anything should happen to me—”
    The taxi was pulling to the door.
    “I’ll get the guy myself,” the guard avowed. He unlocked the door.
    Piers edged out. He ran for the cab. There was only the sidewalk to cross. It couldn’t take more than seconds to reach the open cab door. But from the darkness against the building a squat figure also chugged towards the waiting taxi.
    “Mine cab,” the man grunted.
    “Sorry.” Piers pushed. His hand was on the door. He said to the driver, “Nick Pulaski called Harry.”
    The driver’s ugly face said, “You’re the one. I seen you come out of the building.”
    The squat man stood in the way. “Beers Hund—”
    “Get out of my way. I’m in a hurry.” Piers shoved the man off balance. He slammed the door as he stepped in, urged, “Go on, driver.”
    The squat man was standing there, impotent, his round face glittering after the moving wheels.
    “Where to?” the driver asked.
    “Just get out of sight. Then I’ll give you directions.”
    “Trouble?”
    “There could be.” He felt in his pocket. The letters from Gordon’s files were there. But of course, the enemy couldn’t know he had them. It was something else they wanted. Piers was as winded as if he’d undergone physical, not nerve exertion. He wanted his room quickly, bed, but he didn’t dare drive directly to the hotel. The squat man had doubtless memorized the license number. He rode in silence as far as 34th street. He spoke then, “I want to go to Grand Central.”
    “We already passed it,” the eyes in the mirror reported.
    “I know. I wanted to be certain we’d lose that man.”
    “Who is he?”
    “I don’t know.” He’d never seen the moon face before.