Deadline at Dawn полностью

One of them. He didn’t want to come any closer to one of them than he was already, a couple of miles away on a wire. He didn’t even want to come this close to one of them. That was what he was doing this whole thing for, to stay away from them.

It took him a minute to get over it. But he had to go ahead. He didn’t want to any more after that, but he had to.

Sixtieth.

This time there was no wait at all. Even at this hour. The person must have been sitting there beside it, or waiting just a few steps away.

It was a young voice. It sounded about twenty. Maybe that was its guilelessness, giving that impression. Some voices never grow up. It was bursting with pent-up impatience, impatience that had been veering over into fear. It was breathless with it. It couldn’t wait, it had to get it out.

The call was his, but it appropriated it. As though there could only be one possible call at this particular time, and this must be it. It drowned out his opening phrase. Just gave it half an ear, enough to assure itself that it was of masculine timbre, and that was all, that was sufficient.

There was absolutely no breath-punctuation in the voice’s flow.

“Oh, Bixy, I thought you never were going to call me! Bixy what took you so long? I’ve been wilting away here for hours I’ve been all packed and waiting and sitting on my things! I tried to call you two or three times and there was some sort of a mix-up, they didn’t seem to know who I meant, isn’t that ridiculous? Bixy, I got so worried for a minute or two, I couldn’t help it.” The voice tried to laugh at itself, lamely. “All my jewelry and everything — what would I do? It only occurred to me afterwards. And I already sent him the wire, as soon as I left you. I know you told me not to, but it seemed the only fair thing to do. So now we have to go ahead and carry it out—”

The flow stopped. The voice knew. He couldn’t tell how, he hadn’t made a sound, but suddenly it knew.

“It isn’t—?”

The voice was dying. Not physically maybe, but it was shrivelling up.

“I’m sorry to get in the way. I wanted to — I was calling Arthur Holmes.”

The voice was dead now. The dead voice said, “He’s in Canada, fishing. He left Tuesday a week ago. You can reach him at—”

“Tuesday a week ago? Never mind.”

“Please get off the line. I’m expecting a call.”

He got off the line.

The next was the name-street.

The operator said finally, “They don’t answer.”

“Keep trying.”

She went ahead.

It stopped finally. He thought she’d quit. It took him a minute to catch on. She hadn’t quit, it was that it had been picked up; it was open at the other end, and yet there wasn’t a sound to show that it was. Otherwise, if she’d quit, his nickel would have come back. Somebody listening without speaking? Somebody a little afraid?

So it had begun auspiciously, if by this indication alone.

Neither end spoke. He waited to see. Somebody had to give in. He gave in first.

“Hello,” he said softly.

A throat cleared itself at the other end. “Yes?” a voice said reticently.

It was beginning good, it was beginning like the real thing. He was afraid to hope yet, he’d already been disappointed so many times before this.

The voice was a man’s. It was very low, and very wary. Even in its “yes” it was watchful.

“Is this Mr. Arthur Holmes?”

He had to hold him fast first; make sure it was he, and then hold him there. Then once he’d done that— So he had to go easy himself to start with.

“Who is this?”

He hadn’t admitted that he was Holmes; Quinn tried to get around that by taking it for granted that he was.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, you don’t know me—”

The voice didn’t fall for it. “Who is this that wants to speak to Mr. Holmes?”

He tried it again. “The name is not known to you, Mr. Holmes.”

Again the voice side-stepped. “I didn’t say that this was Holmes. I asked what your name was. Unless you tell me who you are first, I can’t tell you whether you can reach him or not. It’s quite likely that you can’t, particularly at such an hour. Now don’t take up any more of my time unless you tell me who you are and what you want of Mr. Holmes.”

That “what you want” was what he’d been waiting for. It gave him an opening-wedge.

“Very well,” he said with deceptive submissiveness, “I’ll tell you both things. The name is Quinn; that of a stranger. It’s not known to Mr. Holmes. What I want is to— I want to return a check that belongs to Mr. Holmes.”

“What?” the voice said quickly. “What was that?”

“I say, I have a check that belongs to Mr. Holmes. But I have to know if I have the right Mr. Holmes. Is this the residence of the Arthur Holmes that’s connected with the brokerage firm of Weatherby and Dodd?”

“Yes,” the voice said quickly, “yes, this is.”

“Well, now will you let me talk to him?”

The voice hesitated only briefly. The voice took the plunge. “You are,” it said quietly.

He’d won the first round. He had him hooked. He didn’t have to worry about losing him from now on. All he had to do, now, was bring him in closer.