The Stray

Non-stop

Elizabeth's train was the 19:37 to Manhattan, from Pelham Parkway to Bleecker Street Martha had been very thorough. Every night, except on Thursdays when the office closed in the early afternoon, she and Elizabeth walked a little way together, a couple of blocks, then Martha took Allerton ave., flanking Bronx Park, while Elizabeth continued to the underground.

Mason thought the station would be crowded, but instead there were only thirty or so people on the platform, mostly middle-aged housewives and workers in their stained overalls, a few gentlemen hooded up to their chins, their wristwatches under their noses, checking the time, and kids who looked like emperors of the world.

They were Elizabeth's people, the ones who crowned her every day.

With whom had she exchanged a few words? With whom had she shared a smile? Who had given up their seat to her? Who had been fascinated by her beauty, who had been enraptured by her gentle ways?

There was no way a girl like that could go unnoticed, he himself had not been able to escape her charms.

After the arrival of the train, Mason let all the passengers’ parade before boarding: habits had to manifest themselves without his presence altering them.

He stayed out of the way for the entire journey, holding on to the handles. The roll of the journey would certainly have knocked him out if he had leaned over. None of the passengers aroused his suspicions: with few exceptions, no one paid any attention to him. A train full of spirits invisible to each other. The day had extinguished sociability. Only the young people still had the energy for the hubbub. Perhaps it was age, perhaps it was life. There were a couple of squabbles over unused seats and one push too many, but all you could get out of it was frustration. People did not understand each other and had no intention of trying to do so. Individuals only a few palms apart were miles apart. Being born and dying alone was part of existence. Living alone was a choice.

He thought not of himself but of Elizabeth. None of the people he had listened to had yet been able to tell him anything useful or meaningful, anything personal to help him enter his world, to see the hidden threads behind the curtain. Perhaps he had not asked the right questions. Perhaps he had not asked the right people. Samuel Perkins must have been one of them.

"How much longer are you going to stare at me, soldier boy?"

A guy with a neck set in broad docker shoulders had approached him from the back of the carriage, now only half full.

"My mistake, mate." Mason still towered over him by a hat. It wasn't him his attention had been on for the last five minutes but a petty thief just behind whom he'd pinched trying to lighten an old lady's purse. He had managed to dissuade him without approaching her with his gaze.

"I don't know what to do with your apology."

"I didn't apologise."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"I wouldn't dare."

"What's your stop?"

"I live here, man. The third seat on the right is my bedroom. The fifth one on the left is where I relax on hard days. You're standing with your feet in my toilet right now, just for the record."

The man went right up to his nose. He smelled of sweat and sardines and the impetus with which he spoke made him spit.

"You think you're funny, soldier boy? I'll give you a pass on being a comedian."

"I'll give it a rest, thanks. I wouldn't want any of your syllables to end up in my mouth."

"You're good with words, let's see how good you are with actions." He was well placed, just wide enough to fill the space between himself and the corridor. Mason could have done a number of things to him: some would have interfered with his ability to walk, others would have made him forgetful.

"Sorry, mate. Here, here's to me." Mason handed him a note and a smile. He still remembered how to do it. He wanted to get back to the car, stop by the office, maybe get a few hours' sleep. There was no time to slaughter the brawlers. First duty, then pleasure.

The astonished man took the money, stuffed it in his pocket and walked away without ceasing to look at him in puzzlement.

A number of people came down to Bleecker St, including the pickpocket who slipped through the crowd and disappeared before Mason Stone could see what direction he had taken. He had missed him like a rookie.

He continued out of the station. From there to where he had left the car was a couple of blocks. A few young men in suits hurried to the party they'd been talking about nonstop the whole way; a woman and her little girl went to the charity event at their parish, even though the girl didn't want to and her shoes hurt; a hooded man scurried off, muttering and running over the man in front of him. Mason walked a short distance down the street, following the quarrel of two lovers from a distance and ahead of a woman carrying shopping bags.

He had an uncomfortable feeling about him. He had had it ever since he got off the train. The boyfriends turned the corner and continued to argue about how to get permission from their parents. Mason, however, crossed the street. Something was wrong. His bones were telling him. When he reached the opposite pavement, he turned to his right to look at the intersection where the kids had stopped fighting and were now hugging each other. He thought he saw a shadow beyond the parked cars. He stepped back off the pavement. The sound of the paper bag collapsing and scattering the groceries on the ground distracted him from his thoughts long enough to notice the car being thrown at him. Mason Stone threw himself to the side, sure that if the car had continued in that direction, that move would have been for nothing. He glanced at the driver but the taxi's headlights exploded in his head. The tyres slammed into the kerb, pushing the car back onto the road and the bumper missed his head by a whisker. With his hand on the revolver, he leapt for the rear door, just grazing the handle. The car accelerated in a screech of wheels. Mason could not read the number plate because he turned before the flecks of light burned into his eyes faded.

All he could make out was the company emblem on the side. Sunshine Cab.

Coffee and cigarettes

Who was driving the taxi that had tried to run him over?

He wondered if it was Samuel Perkins who was determined to put an end to the manhunt. Was it possible that a man on the run, with the whole police force at his heels, had the time to try to kill a private investigator who had been on his trail for only a few hours? Yes, if he was insane: eliminating him would not intimidate the police, nor could Mason understand how Sam could feel more threatened by him than by the department. Nor was there any explanation as to how he had come to know that he himself was on the case.

It was unlikely that he had any contact with Matthews' men. He might have had some at Lloyd & Wagon's, although after a few seconds Mason pushed that possibility out of his mind. It was more plausible that he had been tailing Andrew Lloyd for a couple of days until he had gone up to his Chinatown office.

Another lead, much easier to believe, was the Sunshine Cab, the company he worked for and where he might still have some friends. Taxi drivers are the ears of the city and Samuel, never more than at that moment, needed to know what was going on.

Unable to track the taxi, he reached his car in front of the Perkins' building. He started the engine and drove into the sparse evening traffic. Unfortunately, the only witness to the incident, the lady with the shopping bags, had not been able to see the driver's face because she was busy collecting her week's salvage. She barely understood what had happened. Mason discovered that he had bruised his shoulder trying to avoid the car. He realised it when he got behind the wheel. It wasn't serious. The pain behind his eyes was nagging at him. The insistent throbbing in his temples, however, was part of the job. It was what kept him moving.

Just inside the agency, the smell of coffee reached him. April had made plenty. He poured himself a cup and walked over to his desk. He let himself down in his chair and lit a cigarette.

She had to go to Sunshine, find out what she could about Sam, his habits, his vices, what might make him a wife killer and a fugitive. He had to get to predict his moves and get ahead of him. There was a small chance that the records would contain the racing data for the last period. He still didn't know if the car was his or the company's. He had to hope for a lucky hand. After that, there were secondary leads to consider, assess their plausibility and avoid dead ends. There was still too much smoke to see clearly. He had to get back to Lloyd, find out who the notary was that the doorman had picked up and what the news was.

He wrote a note to April asking her to make an effort to track down the notary's office, then sank into the back and closed his eyes with a view of the unresting city before him. The cigarette died in the ashtray next to the hot cup of coffee.

On two sides

It was April who woke him up.

Mason had responded to her smile, a mixture of kindness and guilt, with a gruff good morning. It wasn't directed at her but at the fact that he seemed never to have dozed off. Elizabeth Perkins' case had taken over.

April didn't seem to mind his rudeness but handed him his hat, which had fallen from the nape of his neck abandoned to sleep.

Mason Stone crinkled his eyes and sat up, elbows on the desk and eyes interrogating the calendar to find out how long he'd been asleep. April brought a cup of freshly brewed coffee which he instinctively intercepted.

"Can you read what it says?" April had found his note.

"Sure, boss."

"Good thing, sometimes I get in trouble myself."

"It's not so terrible. There was a guy I dated in high school, Paul Russel, he had such terrible handwriting that when he asked me out on a date, I thought he'd scribbled me out."

"What happened to Paul?"

"He was a nice guy and my parents liked him but he wasn't for me," the girl's cheeks lit up as she shrugged.

"You did well, then."

"What do I need to find out about this notary?"

"As much as you can. I know I haven't given you much to work with but I'm sure you'll do a great job. I want to know who he is and what he went to do at the Perkins' on the day Elizabeth died. It's vital, I'm afraid. The problem is, I don't know his name or the name of the firm. Just the rough description of a doorman. If there's anything, it's in the police statements."

"Are you still working on that case? Captain Martelli..."

"Of course. Besides, since I've been forbidden to deal with it, it's all become much more interesting."

"Interesting?"

"How long have you been with me?"

"Three years, seven months and sixteen days."

"And in that time, how many cases have we had?"

"Several dozen, I'd say."

"And how many times did Martelli or a police officer call us to inform us that we were not liked people and that, not only should we disregard but, even, refuse the assignment?"

"I would say none."

"And you don't find that curious?"

"Without a doubt."

"That makes two of us."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing for the moment. We'll move on and see what happens. There are priorities to think about before playing cat and mouse with Martelli: I need to find Samuel Perkins, or find out what happened to him. The notary is your business, however. Get on it immediately."

"I'll go. One more perplexity yet, if I may."

"You may."

"What if Martelli had ordered your arrest in case you were discovered?"

"They may come."

"How?"

"Oh, fear not. If the captain arrested me, it would benefit me more than it would him. An arrest means at least a night in the slammer, an interrogation, maybe with Matthews himself, or Martelli if I'm so inclined. I doubt they'd let Peterson have me. They trust him less than they trust me. For someone who can listen and knows what to look for, a string of questions about my investigation might be more fruitful than reading all the case reports."

"But if they just wanted to keep you away they'd just keep you locked up!" April's voice trembled. "You need more than a pretext for an interrogation, don't you? They'd have to have well-founded reasons, like a serious criminal charge, to make them question you about what you know."

"And I'm on my way to get them." Mason rose from his desk and closed the study door behind him, accompanying April, uneasy but increasingly admiring, to her battle station.

Sunshine Cab

The big engine of the black Ford started at the first attempt. Sometimes she needed some encouragement, but who didn't? That car was her second office and third home after her office in Chinatown. It wasn't a king's bed but it served him like one. Without intermediate stops Mason Stone arrived at the Sunshine Cab.

Since the company's yard was bustling with cars, he parked on the opposite side of the street. Sunshine was one of the most important companies and favoured G-Model Checkers, but it was not uncommon for other cars to be converted to the job. Classifying the previous night's episode as a simple accident helped to make it less important. When you find yourself in quicksand, the best thing to do is to try to move as little as possible. At the speed at which the event had unfolded, however, he had managed to make out the taxi company's crest and guess the profile of a Checker. It was one of the cheaper cars, known for its reliability and low maintenance requirements, ideal for the job.

Mason found himself almost hoping that Sam was driving another car. If he didn't, it meant one of two things: either incredible, ostentatious stupidity on the man's part or an attempt to throw him off the scent. If the latter turned out to be true, he would waste a lot of time.

He had to track down the owner, a Julie Darden. He walked across the dusty yard and into the entrance. There was the stench of motor oil and grease stains all over the floor. The Sunshine Cab was nothing more than a huge, dirty, dusty shed with large windows opening up to the mechanics in the repair shop. No one looked up at him as he made his way to the offices. It was as anonymous as dormant the taxi drivers' capacity for wonder, so accustomed to oddities of all kinds.

Leaning against the office door, a driver in a foul mood was reading a no less pitiful newspaper, his beard unkempt and his visor cap lopsided three-quarters of the way up on his head.

"Hello." Mason stopped half a step away from him and the door. The man, distracted by his reading and intent on chewing gum, studied the newcomer for a few moments and then resumed his press review, unperturbed. The taxi driver's shoulder and weight pressed against the door. Mason reached under his arm to hold the newspaper, grabbed the handle and gave a little tug, just to check the man's intentions, who did not move.

"Are you the fellow who enjoyed terrorizing Tim MaCgrady yesterday?"

"If you're the one who's now moving and letting me in I'm all you want," he said squinting as he smiled.

"They're waiting for you." he said and walked away after rolling the newspaper under his arm. Mason Stone watched him disappear into the workshop behind a long row of vehicles and racks of tools, then opened the door. A narrow corridor opened before him. Moments later, a woman appeared through a door at the far end. Mason waited for her to say something, his hands sunk into the pockets of his mackintosh.

"Can I help you?" he finally said, aloud.

"You certainly can. My name is Mason Stone. I'm a private detective. I'm looking into the disappearance of Samuel Perkins."

"Wouldn't it be more accurate to say you're investigating the murder you're accused of?" retorted the woman, her hands crossed under her breasts.

Realising he was talking to the right person Mason didn't wait until he was invited to approach and firmly covered the distance between them "Is that a side effect, Miss...?"

"Darden. Mrs. Darden."

"Am I disturbing you, Mrs. Darden?"

"Don't stand in the doorway: follow me. If it's as long as I think it is, we'd better get comfortable. Would you like some coffee, Detective?" Mason followed Mrs. Darden to a small office in a prefabricated building. She went off to get coffee and five minutes later, when she returned, she placed a stack of papers in front of Stone in addition to the cup.

"Comfortable?" she asked him.

"Too much, comfort withers. What are they?" he asked, pointing to the stack.

"What he's here for: Samuel Perkins' racing records for the last six months. Amazed?" Mrs. Darden was a beautiful woman with a stern face and an icy soul. A businesswoman in a man's world.

"Astonishment is for fools. I'm more of a doubtful type."

"Well, I'll untie that for you: I could refuse to talk to you, no one is forcing me to tell you anything about my business and my company. You are nobody to me, Mr Stone, and you have nothing to bargain with to persuade me to do so. But I want to give you my help: if you have to scare one of my taxi drivers to death to get some information, you must obviously be desperate."

"I thought it was a rather pleasant conversation instead."

"Tim almost had a nervous breakdown."

"A rather sensitive big boy."

"By coming to you, I'm convinced you won't bring any more confusion into my company. I'll be in the next office if you need me."

"You take bad news well, Mrs. Darden."

"I assess situations and adapt. If I didn't know better, I'd have been bankrupt long ago."

"A woman with that kind of cunning, I wonder where she'd go if she wanted to."

"In the other room, for the moment."

"Don't treat me like the big bad wolf, Mrs. Darden. I'm on the shepherd's side."

"That may be. And I know you believe that, but your actions tell of your nature, I'm afraid. Tell me if I'm wrong. You are not a man who is easily discouraged. You're used to pushing, pushing and pushing. You insist, you're not capable of giving up. There are no boundaries that cannot be crossed. Maybe you don't see them or maybe you choose to ignore them," he didn't wait for her to respond and left.

A small smile had grown on Stone's face, which he still turned to the portion of the corridor he could see from his chair. It had been a long time since he had felt so attracted to a woman.

It took him no less than forty minutes to go through the copies of Samuel Perkins' records. The originals were in the hands of Matthews' team, of course. In any case, the whole thing proved almost useless. There were addresses, times and payments. Next to the tables filled out in an undoubtedly masculine handwriting, someone had written mileage notes.

Probably a Sunshine secretary in charge of monitoring that the prices corresponded to the route and the time taken to reach the destination. From what could be gleaned, Samuel Perkins was a dedicated and almost indefatigable driver: copious night shifts, at least four a week, and almost constant double shifts of around sixteen hours. However, he did not find recurring destinations that caught his eye. The records stopped four days before Elizabeth's death. Before he got up, he jotted down an address, perhaps the only one that had appeared three times in the previous two months. It was nothing to shout about, but it was still something in a city that had more taxis than private cars. It was an address in New Jersey. He turned off the lamp on the desk and left the room, taking the file with him. He knocked on Mrs. Darden's door and when she invited him in, he said thank you and stood in the doorway, his back against the doorframe and his hand on the half-open-door handle.

"Ask away, Detective," Mrs. Darden said, filing the records in a huge cabinet in front of her desk. It was a cramped, makeshift office. She could hardly move, even the thin Mrs. Darden.

"A few more things, if you'll indulge me."

"Until now, I have given you everything you wanted." Mrs. Darden sat down on the edge of the desk. She slid the small reading glasses down to the tip of her nose.

"Then let's see how far I can go: the records are missing the last four days."

« I'm afraid I don't have them either, and neither do the police. You see, Detective, here at the Sunshine Cab we ask our drivers for trip reports every week. That's the best we can ask for. Some of them are out there so much that if we asked for it daily, the furthest areas would go uncovered for too long. As you will understand, I can't afford to give up even one street corner to other companies."

"Where are the service records kept?"

"Each employee is free to keep them wherever he wishes. It goes without saying, however, that they should always be at hand, so most keep them on the dashboard."

"Suppose, Mrs. Darden, that someone wanted to keep these records safe. Where would he hide them?"

"If there was anything in them that had the potential to get me into trouble, I would burn them."

Mason instinctively thought back to the ashes in the Perkins' stove.

"What if I didn't want to destroy it because, for some reason, it might come in handy?"

"In every man's castle, then: the house."

"But they should always be at hand, don't forget that."

"The taxi."

"Entrust it to one of the family?"

"For as long as Samuel Perkins worked for me he never mentioned anything that reminded him of her. The only leave he ever requested was for his wife."

"I see. But a man with a taxi can go anywhere without having to explain himself."

"Not quite, Detective. A company that gave its employees that much freedom would go bankrupt in less than a week. We periodically check the mileage against the mileage on the books."

"How do you know that a driver has not stopped somewhere to take a break?"

"We calculate the distance of the last run with that of the area where drivers stop. Generally their home."

"But there's still a margin of error. A mile today, another half tomorrow, and in no time you create a fairly large grey area."

"Every week the kilometres, approximated by excess, which do not turn out and which cannot exceed a certain limit, are marked. "'Frozen', if you will."

"You've thought of everything."

"I am pleased with your admiration. Is there anything else?"

"I bet he wants to get his car back."

"Samuel was a freelancer. The car was his. We just provided him with the equipment and signs. In such cases Sunshine Cab 'leases' the vehicle to the owner, who becomes our employee. Obviously, the cars have to be above certain standards to work with us. It's a question of image."

"A free hitter, then."

"Within certain limits."

"Did he have an area of expertise?"

"All our drivers must have it or areas would form with an overabundance of service and others totally abandoned. You understand it would be chaos. Samuel was assigned Grand Central."

"What kind of vehicle are we talking about?"

"A Checker T."

"What kind of man is Samuel Perkins?"

"Tim didn't tell you enough?"

"I like to have a choice."

"If you want to hear that Sam was capable of doing everything that is being attributed to him I am forced to disappoint you. He was no saint, that must be clear: he had his good temper tantrums too, and frequent ones, but that's part of the job, especially in a city like this. He was a hard worker with all the strengths and weaknesses of all of us. No more, no less. no more, no less."

"Did he know his wife?"

"Not well. She came over a few times, maybe at Christmas, to bring Sam lunch. Something special. Yeah, Sam always worked at Christmas. It's the time of year when the real money is made."

"Why do you think he worked so hard? They both had good jobs and no children."

"I never get involved in private matters. I see what you're getting at but, I'm sorry, I didn't know anything about their married life, so I ignore whether they were on the rocks, whether Sam preferred to spend more time in his taxi than with his wife. I don't think so, Detective, but if I can give you a professional opinion, street kids who manage to grow up and, miraculously, stay out of trouble, become tireless workers. I know a thing or two about that."

"I don't want to take up any more of your time, Mrs. Darden."

"Duty."

"One last thing: is there a Mr. Darden, by any chance?"

The woman, who had already returned to the papers in front of her, looked up at him.

"I imagine it's relevant to your investigation."