Strange Fugitive Read online

  He turned south on Simcoe Street remembering there was a bridge a few blocks away and that he could cross the railway tracks and go down to the Lakeside Drive. He walked faster, away from the city and down to the waterfront, telegraph posts, street lights, hydrants passing mechanically, unnoticed, the snow still falling and heavy underfoot. He came suddenly upon the bridge over the tracks, the surface snow unbroken by footprints, and walking slowly, his hands still in his pockets, he reached the centre of the bridge and stood by the rail, looking down the tracks to the engine yards. Clouds of vapoury smoke from engines floated in the dark valley underneath the bridge, and flashes of fire from furnaces streaked with light drifting smoke clouds. An engine shunted under the bridge and he was hidden in smoke. He closed his eyes, he opened them, the smoke had drifted eastward. Fire and smoke and engine wheels grinding on steel tracks in the yard in front of the city excited him and he gripped the railing, trying to look back at the city, but could see only a dark line of buildings. His hands tightened on the railing as he felt himself reaching beyond the line to lights and traffic and policemen on the corners, and dance halls and beer parties and Christmas trees and hundreds of men sitting up waiting for kids to go to sleep — hundreds of men willing to work for him when the time came: politicians, ward heelers, cops, gunmen, businessmen, Andy Collins, alderman in Ward Three, his good friend, and two thousand dollars could always assure his re-election. Andy Collins with his big body, heavy face and thick drooping moustache. Lawyer guys like Regan protecting him, three or four students worrying over cases. His hand dropped from the rail. He kept on looking at the city, his skin warm and tingling, and he glowed with a splendid self-satisfied feeling. In a year or two he could become the biggest exporter in the country, shipping liquor across the border — launches on the river, men on the railways — and in the meantime he was cleaning up thousands of dollars in the city.

  He hurried across the bridge, anxious to get down to the lakefront and walk east, so he could face the city, looking up long streets and at electric signs on the skyline.

  Another train passed, and watching it moving westward he suddenly thought of jumping a boxcar and going as far west as Sunnyside, then walking up to the street not far from the lake and seeing Vera. He stood still, looking at the train gathering speed. He knew he wouldn’t try and jump a boxcar. He turned away from the bridge and the cloud of white smoke from the engine, walking on uneven ground frozen under the snow.

  He walked along the drive and in the shadow of the new white warehouse on the waterfront he was muttering mechanically, “Christmas cheer, Christmas cheer,” and becoming aware of it he realized he was no longer enjoying the walk. At the temporary wooden bridge below Bay Street, he turned, as he had intended, looking over the bridge up the city streets but got none of the satisfaction he had expected. All of it had passed away, the good feeling was gone. Lights were there, noises, streetcars moving, but he was uncomfortable, definitely unhappy and anxious to get home. Taking long strides he hurried across the bridge.

  A taxi driver, looking for customers, leaned out from his cab, moving alongside the curb. Harry called him, gave him Vera’s address, and got in clumsily, confused in what he was doing. He sat back in the cab, looking at the man’s thick neck. The cab was going too slowly; he leaned forward and said, “Faster, man, faster,” then leaned back, taking off his hat and wiping his head, rather bewildered, for his hands were trembling and his forehead feverish. His fingers groped in his pocket for cigarettes. As the cab went further west, he looked out of the window, passing familiar corners, till he realized he was close to the house. He threw the cigarette out of the window and, pounding on the grating, he yelled: “Let me out here. Let me out.” The taxi stopped suddenly. He got out and paid the man, who looked at him suspiciously.

  He stood there, watching the cab turning, hesitating to move till he was sure of being unobserved. He took a few steps along the street, looking around carefully, observing only big flakes of snow drifting across the street lamp and carried diagonally on a light breeze. A man came down the street, a basket on each arm, and alarmed, he realized he might be recognized, so he crossed to the other side of the street, moving out of the light. He put his hands in his pockets, his chin dipped down in his turned-up coat collar, and walked slowly down the street to the house, without an idea of what to do when he got there. He dallied guardedly with the notion of going upstairs to talk with her casually, but when directly opposite the house he decided not to go in at once, not until he had tried to see her shadow on the window blinds. Her shadow moving on the window shade. Standing opposite the house, he saw no light downstairs (the Farrels were out) and no light in the front room upstairs, though Vera would probably be back in the kitchen anyway. He shivered nervously. “I’ll go in and see her,” he muttered, though he walked carefully along the side entrance to get to the back of the house. His toe stumbled against a picket in the walk, covered by a thin layer of soft snow, and in the backyard he tripped on the clothes prop leaning against the fence.

  A few feet from the rear of the house he stopped, looking up quickly, but there was no light in the upstairs windows. He took four quick steps further away from the house and looked again, then hurried back along the alley-way, for there might be a reflection of light from a window on the wall of the opposite house. He stood still, then learned against the wall, for it had never occurred to him she would be out, and it was ridiculous that there shouldn’t be light in the apartment. He thought of a solution that, at the moment, was entirely reasonable. When he had been at the front of the house, she was probably in a back room, and just moving to another part of the house, after turning off the light, as he walked in the alleyway. He hurried along the picket walk, confident of seeing a light in the front room upstairs. There was no light. Crossing the road, he leaned against the lamppost, staring up at the front room.

  Suddenly he was angry at Vera. She ought to be moving around in the front room, her shadow on the window shade, and she might just as well be irritating him deliberately.

  Someone was watching him, he knew, and turning, he saw a woman on a veranda, her arms folded, looking directly at him, a suspicious character prowling around the neighbourhood. He grew afraid she might recognize him, and feeling guilty, and even detected, he hurried up the street to the corner and stood in the entrance to a grocery store that had just closed. He was waiting for a streetcar, he thought, but one passed by and he kept looking down the street to the corner where the car lines intersected. A second streetcar passed and he didn’t even pretend he was anxious to get it. He said: “I’ll wait three cars more and if she doesn’t come along the street, I’ll go home.”

  A girl on the street, walking gracefully, aroused him, and hesitating a moment, he hurried toward her, then wondered how he could make such a mistake. She didn’t really walk like Vera, who carried her neat body so perfectly. Years ago, the first time he danced with her, his hand on her back, he had felt the gently curving groove of her spine and splendid firmness of her back. He wanted very much to see her come along the street.

  He walked to the corner, then back and forth. He walked slowly, his feet getting wet in the soft snow. He took off his hat, his gloved finger scraping thick snow from the brim. His feet were very cold. He had no energy, and he looked down the street a last time, taking a deep breath, his face wet from melting snow. He got a streetcar. Not many people on the car. “What a hell of a Christmas Eve,” he thought, leaning back on the wooden seat, and angry because not many people were on the car. He wondered why a vague thought of his mother made him feel better.

  Anna was asleep when he got home. He went into the kitchen to get a glass of wine. He took off his shoes and his coat and collar. He sat down at the kitchen table, filling the glass again, regarding the bottle seriously. He filled the glass four times. It was good wine and he tilted back on the chair. After the fourth glass he was too lazy to get up and stretched slowly but finally got up. He went into Anna’s bedroom. He sat
down on the edge of the bed and it creaked. He made the spring creak again, thinking of Isaac Pimblett and the walk they had taken on a Sunday night, months ago. “Old Isaac was right,” he muttered, peering at Anna’s face, turned away from him on the pillow, eyes closed. “Here I am, getting into bed.” He had left Vera and was simply getting into bed with someone else.

  He got up and went into his room. He undressed quickly and got into bed. He was drowsy and fell asleep quickly.

  Christmas Day was pleasant, not too cold, and they had a good time exchanging gifts. In the afternoon Jimmie and Eva Lawson called and they exchanged more gifts. In the evening they went downtown to a hotel and had a big dinner.

  4

  For two weeks Jimmie and Sam Martin watched Cosantino. They found out how many trucks he had on the road, and where he made his biggest deliveries, and how many men were usually on a truck. Cosantino had good trucks in four garages in different sections of the city. He was called a fruit importer and had a fruit store in the city run by his father and mother. In the daytime these trucks made deliveries all over the city to regular customers mainly on streets in the centre of the city.

  Once a week in the evening three trucks went along the highroad to Hamilton.

  In three days Harry had rented eight houses in downtown sections because respectable people and university fellows liked to do their drinking away from home. For the houses he got good men who knew they would be well-paid, if forced to do a stretch in jail. He picked out men with wives and children so they would be more reliable, and promised to pay at the end of every week. It took three hundred dollars to pay a month’s rent on eight houses. The salary list was increasing.

  They had to make money quickly. Their own truck was making small but regular deliveries, and some customers were behind in payment. They had just enough money to pay store rent and wages for two weeks. Thinking of money worried Harry and he was restless because the houses weren’t ready to be used for storing liquor. He hadn’t sent any money to Vera for two weeks and was irritable because Jimmie was so happy in the store, talking and laughing with Eva Lawson. Even if the houses were successful there wouldn’t be any money for at least a few weeks. But Anna was good company and loaned him three hundred dollars, all she had in the bank. It really belonged to her husband, she said.

  On a Thursday evening he was eating with Jimmie and when they had finished he said: “Well, we get Cosantino’s trucks tonight.”

  “I wish like hell I was going with you,” Jimmie said.

  “I wish you were too, only you got to be on deck in the city here and me and boys’ll be enough.”

  They talked it over on the way home from the restaurant. The January thaw had melted the snow and the streets were slushy.

  At half-past eleven it was cold out. The slush on the street had frozen. Snow was falling lightly. Harry, Sam Martin, Eddie Thomas and Joe Atkins drove out to the highway and across the river, where there were hardly any houses, back a little from the road. Lights from a suburb were a few miles ahead across fields in the big curve of the highway and, looking back, they could see a line of city lights curving around the margin of the lake.

  It was hard driving in the icy ruts. They drove the last mile without talking. Harry, sitting in the back seat, looked straight ahead, following the glare of the headlights, avoiding thoughts of anything but a suitable place for parking the car. The highway curved by a clump of trees, and they drove the car at the snow bank and into the shadow of the trees, and got out of the car and Joe Atkins switched off the lights. Sam, Eddie and Joe got the sawed-off shotguns from under the back seat, and Joe went back to the road and stood there looking toward the city. But there were no lights on the highway and the snow was falling heavily.

  Joe waved his arm when he saw lights coming along the highway, and the others got out of the car again and Joe went further down the road. They knew it was a truck because it sounded heavy on the road and the engine was powerful. Joe came back and said: “I’m sure it’s them, all right.”

  “Are we all set?” Harry said, and the truck came around the bend.

  The truck stopped when three men stepped out with the sawed-off shotguns. Harry stood a few feet back from the road. The boys didn’t have to use the guns. Three men got out of the truck and stood in the middle of the road. They were Italians and stood there without speaking.

  “Tie the wops up, Eddie,” Harry said, “and lean them over there by the tree.”

  Eddie went back to the car and got some rope. He tied them up quickly, their hands and feet, and they sat down on the road. Eddie and Sam dragged them over to the tree and gagged them. Atkins got in the truck and had a hard time turning it around in the snow. Harry talked to him and then watched the tail light of the truck going toward the city.

  They waited for Cosantino’s second truck. The air got colder and a sharp wind from the lake blew across the field. They sat in the car, huddled together, talking quietly. Harry talked casually and good-naturedly to the boys. They were close together in the car.

  An hour later they had more trouble with the second truck. Sam and Eddie stood in the road, but the truck didn’t stop and they exchanged gunfire. Joe fired from the side of the road. The truck stopped twenty paces further along. A man jumped from the passenger’s seat and ran across the field, twisting and dodging. They ran up to the truck. The driver had been hit in the arm. They had no trouble tying him up. Harry was glad the man had been hit because Sam had also been hit in the hand, not a bad wound, but Sam was swearing softly. They carried the man who had driven the truck over to the tree and leaned him against the trunk with the other two.

  Then Eddie got the truck’s engine going and, turning around, went back toward the city. Disappointed, Harry watched the truck until it was out of sight. No use waiting for another truck. He tied a handkerchief on Sam’s hand and they went over to the car near the trees. They finally got the engine going, but the wheels spun in the snow and wouldn’t grip till Harry got out and pushed. He got into the car again.

  Sam watched him tugging at the wheel and said: “What are we going to do about the guys under the tree?”

  “Let ’em stay there.”

  “But Jesus, boss, it’s cold, they’ll freeze.”

  “What the hell do you care, you won’t freeze.”

  “Yeah, but one guy’s hit in the arm.”

  “Well, you got hit on the hand.”

  “All right. You know I don’t care. I don’t give a damn what happens to them.”

  “Oh, they’ll get loose in a few minutes anyway.”

  They drove back to the city. Once off the highway and on the lighted streets Harry was more contented. The two trucks were heavily loaded. It was over and he let himself think about it. Things could move forward. He drove faster, turning north near Exhibition Park and along Queen, heading for University Avenue. He was sure a truck would be parked near the corner of Winslow Street. No one could interfere. It had been hard getting police protection. In a week’s time they had only four policemen from the beats. These policemen had been useful in getting others who were easier because not many of them wanted to miss anything.

  5

  At home he took off his shoes, walking in his stockinged feet. He didn’t want to awaken Anna. He was tired, and went to sleep quickly.

  In the morning he took a cold bath before Anna was up. He pulled on his underwear slowly, then sat down on the bed, arms linked behind his head, and stretched out comfortably. Rays of morning sun fell across his face and he blinked, rubbing his eyes. He scratched his head with both hands. He closed his eyes so he could feel the sun without blinking, lazy and comfortable. Uneasily he remembered how he had always been eager to tell Vera anything that had increased his opinion of his own strength. Often he had thought there would be no fun in doing anything if he couldn’t go home and tell her about it, while she listened attentively. For that reason, she insisted on reading all his letters, discussing them seriously even when they were dull and uni
mportant. Of course Anna was all right, too, and even more direct and simple. He puckered his forehead and sat up on his haunches, stroking the hair on his leg. “I wonder why I was so fond of Grace Leonard?” he thought. In the beginning Vera had said Grace was beautiful, and always, for him, she would be a lovely woman, though he preferred merely to remember her rather than actually meet her again. But her legs weren’t nearly as good as Vera’s so she wore her skirts too long.

  Vera had encouraged him to be friendly with Grace. The three of them were often together and at such times he was happy and very nice to Vera. They went to shows together and danced at the island across the bay. They were over at the island one night, sitting on a bench near the lagoon and there was moonlight and dew on the grass. He had one arm around Vera but, out of the corner of his eye, saw in the half-light and shadow the lines of Grace’s face. And then, walking down to the boat, Vera gaily ran on ahead over the damp grass and Grace told him she was going to Virginia the following Monday, and that she hoped he would enjoy himself with the Julie Roberts woman he had mentioned to her. She spoke maliciously. He wondered why he had ever mentioned Julie to her. They walked slowly down to the boat, the three of them arm in arm, and he thought he was very much in love with Grace. She had gone away the following Monday.

  In the two women, Grace and Julie Roberts, he had found something to take the place of an old feeling for Vera, and when Grace went away he was miserable for three days. She had reminded him of Vera as she seemed in the early days, only prettier, and he could never think of Julie in the same way. Grace was simply a beautiful thought for him, and so he imagined, in her, all the sympathetic qualities that might have made him happy. She was a part of a background for all his emotional experience, a memory that assisted him in his lovemaking with the big woman, Julie Roberts, and in his practical life with Vera.