Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (24 page)

After just a few minutes I heard a loud whistle. Leaning slightly forward, I craned my neck to the left, peering southward, hoping the approaching choo-choo would be coming from that direction. It was. Due to a wide curve in the tunnel, I couldn’t actually
see
the train, but the glare of the engine’s headlight foretold its imminent arrival. Stepping back from the ledge a bit, I straightened my shoulders and prepared myself for the big push forward—when the train would pull into the station and screech to a stop, and all the prospective passengers would try to crush through the open doors at once.

But the big push came
before
the train arrived, and I was the only one who moved forward. Way too
far
forward. So horribly and hideously far forward that my feet flew off the platform and I sailed out over the tracks like a clown shot from a cannon. Then I plummeted six feet down to the train bed, landing on my hands and knees in a layer of jagged gravel, both shins thwacking—like slender tree limbs—against a steel-hard metal rail.

The pain was so great and the shock so severe that I almost passed out. I surely would have, too, if the train whistle hadn’t shrieked again, and if the glare of the madly onrushing headlight hadn’t grown much brighter, filling me with terror and making any kind of blackout—however beckoning—next to impossible. The train was coming around the bend at the speed of sound. I had to move!

I vaulted to my feet, leapt back over to the crowded platform, lifted my arms, and grabbed hold of the ledge. Then I jumped as hard and high as I possibly could, desperately trying to swing my weight up onto my arms and haul the rest of my body back up to the floor of the boarding deck.

I couldn’t make it. The cliff was too high. And the train was bearing down fast. The people right above me began screaming and crying and scrambling to get out of the way. I guess they didn’t want to get splattered. For lack of a better idea (or any idea at all), I flattened the front of my body against the side of the platform, held my arms up over my head (I thought they’d be safer up there), squeezed my eyes shut, and sent a frantic mental telegram to Bob, telling him to meet me at the pearly gate, I’d be there in a minute.

But my train trip to heaven was canceled abruptly. By a large muscle-bound Negro wearing a tan wool jacket, a black porkpie hat, and the world’s sweetest smile—details I didn’t discover until several harrowing moments later, when I finally found the courage to open my eyes.

Since I didn’t actually see what happened, I can’t describe it firsthand. All I can tell you is what one of the breathless eyewitnesses told me (while I was still lying on my back in a near stupor on the platform floor): that the huge, strapping Negro kneeling over me in such sweet-faced concern had risked his own life to save mine. That he had leaned out over the edge of the boarding deck (thereby placing his own head and shoulders in the direct path of the incoming train) and grabbed both of my wrists in his big meaty paws. Then he had pulled me—like a sack of potatoes—up and over the ledge of the platform, onto the dirty, cold cement floor of the loading area. A split second later, the train had streaked in . . . and come to a dead stop for a moment or two . . . and then streaked out again, loaded to the gills with new passengers—most of whom hadn’t (like the engineer himself, apparently) even caught a glimpse of what had just happened to me.

“You mean I’m still alive?” I asked, not sure that I believed it. It seemed far more likely that I had come face to face with Saint Peter, who just happened to be a smiling Negro wearing a porkpie hat.

After being assured that I was, indeed, still a resident of Earth, I pulled myself up to a sitting position on the floor and began thanking (and rethanking and
re
rethanking!) the man who had lifted and dragged me to safety. I choked and sputtered and spilled out my heartfelt gratitude. I kissed his enormous hands and patted his sweet cheeks and showered him with a thousand blessings. And then I looked around for my purse. I wanted to give my rescuer a cash reward, and though I knew all I had with me was some loose change, I wanted to write down his name and address so I could send him a substantial gift later. (From the holes in his thin tan jacket, I could tell he needed it.)

I didn’t see my purse or shopping bag anywhere, and I didn’t have the slightest idea what had happened to them, so I asked one of the concerned eyewitnesses (several of whom had stuck around to make sure I was all right) to see if he could find them. The first place he looked was down on the tracks, but neither of the bags was there, so he walked up and down the length of the platform, looking under benches and around the trash bins.

He never found the shopping bag, but he
did
find my purse, right near the spot where I had fallen, wedged under the bottom rim of a large, standing, sand-filled ashtray. I figured I had dropped it when I fell; that it had been inadvertently kicked under the ashtray by one or more of the frantic onlookers. I took my notepad out of my purse (all diligent detectives carry one, you know!) and wrote down my savior’s name and address: Elijah Peeps, 248 East 139th Street. Then I thanked the brave, shy (and, luckily, very
strong
) man yet again and told him he’d be hearing from me soon.

They helped me to my feet and asked me if they should call a doctor. I told them no, I was okay—which wasn’t exactly the truth. Though my palms were fine (they had been protected by my gloves), my knees were scathed and bloodied and embedded with bits of gravel, and both of my gashed shins were beginning to swell and hurt like hell. Still, I could tell that no bones were broken. And the last thing in the world I needed was to waste the whole morning having my wounds cleaned up in a doctor’s office when I could do that perfectly well myself, in the ladies’ room at my own office, using the first aid kit I kept well-stocked and on hand in the supply closet. My nylons were ripped to shreds, but I had a spare pair in my desk.

They asked me if they should call the subway authorities, or a lawyer, or the police. Did I want to report the incident, or file some kind of claim? I told them no; that nobody was to blame but me; that the accident was entirely my own fault since I had been standing too close to the platform’s edge.

I was lying, of course. I knew I had been pushed. I also knew that the monster who’d pushed me had—for some utterly unfathomable reason—stolen Lenny’s lunchbox.

 

 

AS SHAKEN AND BRUISED AND BLOODIED AS I was, I insisted on boarding the next uptown train, which pulled into the station a few minutes later. (If you fall off a horse, blah, blah, blah . . .) Elijah Peeps and my other new friends and protectors got in the same car with me. We all had to get to work (except for Elijah, who was on his way
home
from work), and we were glad to go together. I was the gladdest of all, to be sure. The comforting presence of my band of kindly caretakers kept me from having a nervous breakdown when the train lurched forward—or passing out when the shrill whistle blew.

 

Two members of our group got off the train before I did—one at 14th Street, the other at 23rd. Two others got off with me at Times Square. As soon as we had squeezed our way out of the crowded car, I turned and peered back through the train window, fastening my eyes on Elijah Peeps’s bashful brown face.

 

I smiled and waved at him; he smiled and waved back. I folded my hands in a prayerful gesture in front of my heart for a second, then blew him a soulful kiss. He gave me another shy smile and then bowed his head in embarrassment (certain unwritten racial restrictions prohibited him from blowing
me
a kiss). I waved again and so did he. And several highly emotional eons later—long after the train had whisked away, spiriting my incomparable hero totally out of sight—I was still waving.

Chapter 19

THE SECOND PART OF MY MORNING WENT a bit more smoothly than the first. (All evidence to the contrary, I am not
completely
incapable of understatement.) I got to work on time (it’s astonishing how brief a full-blown brush with death can be!), so I was able to clean up my knees and shins, as well as all the coffee cups, before Harvey Crockett stomped in.

“Glad you could make it,” he scoffed, hanging his hat and coat on the tree. He didn’t ask how I was feeling or anything, which was just as well, since—not knowing what ailment Lenny had used for my sickday excuse—I wouldn’t have known how to respond. “Coffee ready?” he asked.

I could hardly believe my ears. It was a polite (for Crockett) inquiry instead of a gruff demand.

“Yes, sir,” I said, wondering what had caused this odd outbreak of civility.

“Then bring me some, please,” he said, stomping away toward his private office.

Please?
Did the man actually utter the word
please?
Either Crockett had suddenly been struck with the holiday spirit, or he had really, really missed me (his morning coffee, that is).

After I’d taken the boss his newspapers and caffeine and returned to my desk, Lenny stumbled in. He hooked his hat and coat on the rack and—lunch sack in hand—hurried right over to me, still red-faced and out of breath from his nine-flight climb.

“All right, out with it, Paige!” he said between loud intakes of oxygen. “You can’t keep me in the dark forever. I want to know what you’re up to, and I want to know right
now
. ”

“Good morning to you, too,” I said, pretending to be insulted by his discourteous greeting.

“Yeah, okay, good morning. Now tell me what’s going on. Where were you yesterday? I called your apartment at least three times. You’ve gotten yourself in deep trouble again, right? I can tell by your shifty eyes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I said, stalling, still pretending to be miffed. “I never had a shifty eye in my life!” It wasn’t that I didn’t want Lenny to know about Judy’s murder and my efforts to find out who killed her. It was just that it was all so complicated and would take me so darn long to explain. And then, afterward—after I’d rehashed all the ugly details till I was blue in the face—I’d still have to listen to all of Lenny’s dreadful death warnings, not to mention his dire predictions that I was going to lose my job. Ugh. I simply didn’t have the time (or the stomach) to deal with Lenny’s anxieties. I could barely handle my own. “Look, Lenny, you really can’t . . .”

I was interrupted (okay,
saved
) by the office entry bell. And for once in my life, I was really glad to see Mike and Mario.

“Hello, boys!” I said, flirting, doing my best Jayne Mansfield (which meant I probably looked and sounded just like Francis the Talking Mule). “How’s tricks?” I was trying to engage them in a bout of spicy banter, so that Lenny would get embarrassed and sulk away and stop badgering me.

A glint of suspicion flashed in Mario’s eye. He knew I was faking, not really making a pass. But for once in
his
life, he didn’t try to one-up me. He hung his hat and coat on the rack and turned toward his desk in the rear without making a single nasty crack about my name or sex. All he said (in a
very
sarcastic tone) was, “Nice of you to join us today, Paige. There’s a great deal of work to be done. And you can bring me some coffee now, if you’re not too busy.”

Mike didn’t make any jokes either. He merely aped Mario’s moves at the coat rack, then sat down at his desk and lit up a Lucky. “I’ll have some coffee, too, please,” he mumbled.

What was that word? Did I just hear another
please?
What the hell’s
wrong
with everybody today?

I gave Lenny a questioning look, but he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged, signaling that he didn’t understand our coworkers’ weird behavior either. Then—knowing full well I’d never say a word about my new story investigation while Mike and Mario were in the same room—Lenny shot me a fierce
you-damn-well-better-tell-me-everything-soon
look and marched off down the aisle toward his desk in the back corner, slapping his sandwich bag impatiently against his thigh.

 

 

BY THE TIME THE LUNCH HOUR ROLLED around, I had all the office work under control. And since Pomeroy hadn’t come in yet, I was free to leave at the stroke of noon. I grabbed all my stuff—plus the shopping list for the Christmas party and the petty cash Crockett had given me to pay for everything—and made a mad dash for the elevators, praying I wouldn’t run into Pomeroy on my way out.

When I reached the lobby, I actually hid behind the big Christmas tree for a minute, peering through the glass wall and revolving glass doors of the entryway, until I was certain the coast was clear—that Pomeroy wasn’t approaching or about to enter the building. Then I wrapped my muffler around my face, pushed through the circling door, and scrambled back to the subway.

Even if you haven’t believed a word I’ve written up to now, you should believe this: I really
hated
going down into the subway again. After what had happened to me that morning, the gloomy sights, metallic smells, and hideous skreaking sounds reverberating in that cold cement dungeon made me sick to my stomach. But I had to get across town
fast
—so the 42nd Street shuttle was the only way to go.