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
