Deadline at Dawn

“No, he asked me to break a dime into nickels for him and he went back there.” He motioned to an alley leading back, offside to the counter. “To use the phone, I guess. He took the ammonia-water with him.”

“Did you see him go out again?”

“No, as a matter of fact I didn’t. Busy waiting on someone else by that time, I guess. But he must’ve, without my noticing.”

Quinn handed back the glass. He’d drained it and he’d never even known he had, he was so steamed up. But it had been worth it. Even if it had been prussic acid, it would have almost been worth it, the way he felt.

The druggist was still a mile and a half behind him. He thought they’d been carrying on a desultory, aimless conversation. “Guess you’re looking for him, is that it? You sure must want to see him bad.”

“I do,” Quinn said. “Bad.” He turned away. “I guess I’ll go back there myself.”

He turned into the little dead-end aisle and passed from the druggist’s sight.

There were two booths there, both on one side. There was a rack on the other side, with the directories in it. One had been up-ended, opened, was lying there flat. The others were still underneath in their grooves.

The glass was standing there, the empty glass, on the exposed directory-page. He’d forgotten to take it back with him again when he left.

Page-finder for murder.

Quinn looked at it first, the way you do a sudden unexpected apparition. Almost as though afraid it would disappear again if he put his hand on it. His, all right.

For a moment an ambitious idea occurred to him. Fingerprints. It must still have his prints on it. Wrap it up and turn it over to the police.

Then it deflated again. No, that was no good. Take too long. The night would be gone. The bus would be gone. Besides, who was to turn it over to them? They were looking for him himself. Or soon would be. It wouldn’t prove this unknown to be the killer anyway. This wasn’t the scene of the crime. The house around the corner was. That was where they’d have to be found, not around here outside a telephone-booth.

So I’ve followed him this far, he mused, and now I’ve lost him again. He’s gone up in smoke, here at the back of this drugstore, leaving behind an empty glass reeking of spirits of ammonia.

He called someone, though. He came back here to call someone. Whom did he call? He stepped inside the first booth, without closing the front after him. Ah, if the slots on that little wheel could only speak. He sat down on the little ledge, put his hand to his forehead, tried to think.

Whom do you call after you’ve just killed someone? That depends on who you are, what type you are. You call and say: “I’ve done as you told me to, boss; it’s all taken care of.” That was one type. Or you call and say: “I’m hot, pal; I’m in trouble, I’m in a jam, you’ve got to help me out.” That was another type. Or maybe you even call someone and don’t say anything about it one way or the other; call someone and say: “I’ve got that dough I owe you, never mind how. I’m ready to settle up, you can turn off the heat.” That would be still a third type. And then there was even another, more hideous to contemplate. Calling and saying: “I know it’s late, baby, but how about me dropping over for a little while and lifting a few with you? I feel like a little relaxation.”

But he wouldn’t be that last type. Not if he’d had to go into a drugstore for a dose of something to settle his nerves.

He turned his head and looked out of the booth, over at the glass. It was directly sideward to him. The pages it stood on were cornmeal-yellow. It was the Classified.

He got up and crossed quickly over to it and peered down.

The heading at the top of the page was “Hospitals-Hotels.”

He looked straight down through the center of the glass, using it as a sort of sight-finder. This is what he saw through the transparent bottom:

“Sydenham Hospital, Manhattan ave—

York Hospital 119 East 74

Hospitals — Animal — See Dog and Cat—”

Hospitals. He hadn’t thought of that. That was one type of call you made after murdering someone, if— He remembered something the prescriptionist out there had said just now. “Holding the front of his coat up like this, as if he was having a chill.” That wasn’t from any chill, that was from something else.

He jumped back again into the booth he’d just been in, struck a match, floated it all around just over the surface of the floor. Nothing, just the usual debris of phone-booths. Tinfoil from chewing-gum, the masticated end-product of the same, a cigarette-husk or two. They all came floating into the matchlight, floating out again, as he circled it.

He whipped it out, turned, jumped into the second booth, the one he hadn’t been in until now. He struck another match and paid that around, turning the floor tawny-pale.