Overload

After he did, she heard nothing for six days. At the end of that time, the young cabdriver, whose name was Vickery, brought her a report. To Nancy’s surprise it was detailed and neatly written. All of Birdsong’s movements were described; they were routine and innocuous. At no point had be shown awareness of being followed. More significant: He made no attempt to throw any follower off.

"Goesta show one week ain’t enough," Vickery said. "Wanna try another?"

Nancy thought: What the hell, why not?

In another seven days Vickery was back. He had the same kind of detailed report, with similarly negative results. Disappointed, she told him, "Okay, that’s all. Forget it."

The young man regarded her with unconcealed contempt. "You gonna give up now? Look whatcha got invested" When he sensed her wavering, he urged, "Go for broke! Try one more week."

"You should be a frigging salesman," Nancy said, "not driving a back."

She thought about it. She had proof that Birdsong was a fraud; did she still believe he was a crook? And would finding where he went so mysteriously help the story she intended to write? Finally, should she cut her losses or-as the smartass kid put it-go for broke?

Her instincts again. They told her all three answers should be yes.

"Okay, hotshot," she told Vickery. "One extra week. But no more."

They hit pay dirt on the fourth day.

Vickery phoned, then came to her apartment, that night. "Figured you’d wanna know right away. This aft the beard tried to shake anybody off, the way he did that day with you and me." He added smugly, "We beat the sonovabitch."

"For what it’s cost me," Nancy said, "I should goddam hope so."

The young man grinned as he presented the usual written report. It showed that Davey Birdsong had driven his own car from his apartment garage and parked it on the opposite side of the city. Before leaving the car, he had put on dark glasses and a bat. Then he had taken a taxi back across town, followed by two bus rides in differing directions, and finally a walk-a roundabout route to a small house on the city’s east side.

He went into the house. The address was given.

“The beard stayed inside two hours," Vickery said.

After that, the report continued, Birdsong took a taxi to a point a few blocks from where his car was parked. From there he walked to the car and drove home.

Vickery asked hopefully, "Warm us to watch the beard some more?" He added, “Them buddies of mine still ain’t working."

"With you for a friend," Nancy said, "they shouldn’t worry." She shook her head. "No more."

Now, two days later, Nancy was seated in her car, observing the house which Davey Birdsong had visited so secretively. She had been there nearly two hours. It was approaching noon.

Yesterday, the day after Vickery’s final report, she spent completing an Examiner feature assignment, though she had not yet turned in her copy to the city desk. She would do so tomorrow. Meanwhile her time was her own.

The house she was watching was number 117 Crocker Street. It was one of a dozen old identical row houses and, a decade ago, refurbished by a speculative builder who believed the district was destined for revival and upgrading. The builder was wrong. Crocker Street remained what it had been-an unimpressive, drab thoroughfare where people lived because they could not afford something better. And the refurbished houses were slipping back into their former state, attested to by chipped masonry, cracked windows and peeling paint. To Nancy’s eyes, number 117 seemed no different from the rest.

Cagily, she had parked her Mercedes a block and a half away, where she had a clear view of the house but believed she would not be observed herself. The presence of several other parked cars helped. She had brought binoculars but had not used them for fear of arousing the curiosity of some passer-by.

So far there had been little activity on the street, none whatever at number 3. Nancy had no idea what to expect, if anything, nor had she any plan. As the morning passed she wished she might see something of the occupants of the house, but the wish went unfulfilled. She wondered if she had stayed long enough. Perhaps she should leave now and return another day.

A vehicle passed her parked car, as had several others during the preceding two hours. She noticed casually that it was a beat-up Volkswagen van, painted brown and with a broken side window. The window was roughly patched with cardboard and masking tape.

Abruptly Nancy became alert. The VW had swung across the street and was stopping in front of 117-A man got out. Nancy risked using her binoculars. She saw that he was lean, with close-cropped hair and a bushy moustache: she judged him to be in his late twenties. In contrast to the van, be was neatly dressed in a dark blue suit and wore a tie. He went to the rear of the vehicle and opened its door. The binoculars were powerful-she used them in her apartment to watch shipping in the harbor-and she caught a glimpse of the man’s hands. They appeared to be badly stained in some way.

Now he was reaching inside the van and he lifted out a substantial red-colored cylinder. It seemed to be heavy. Setting the object down on the sidewalk, he reached inside again and produced another, then carried the two toward the house. As he did, Nancy realized they were fire extinguishers.

The man made two more journeys between the VW and the house, each time carrying in two more red fire extinguishers. Six altogether. After the final pair he stayed in the house for about five minutes, then re-emerged and drove away.

Nancy wavered about following, then decided not to. Afterward she sat wondering: Why would so small a house need so much fire protec-2tion? Suddenly she exclaimed, "Shiti" She had not thought to note the VW’s license number, which she could have done easily. Now it was too late. She chided herself for being a lousy detective and thought maybe she should have followed the van after all.

Time to go, anyway? She supposed so. Her hand went to the ignition switch, then stopped. Something else was happening at 117- Once more she reached for the binoculars.

A woman had come out of the house; she was young, slight in build, and carelessly dressed in faded jeans and a pea coat. She glanced around her momentarily, then began walking briskly-in the opposite direction from the parked Mercedes.

This time Nancy did not hesitate. She started the car and eased out from her parking space. Keeping the woman in sight, she followed slowly, warily, pulling into the curb occasionally so as not to overtake her quarry.

The woman did not look back. When she turned a comer, Nancy waited as long as she dared before doing the same. She was in time to see the woman enter a small supermarket. It had a parking lot and Nancy drove onto it. She locked the car and followed inside.

The supermarket was averagely busy, with perhaps twenty people shopping.

Nancy caught sight of the woman she had followed-at the far end of an aisle, putting cans into a shopping cart. Nancy got a cart herself, dropped in a few items at random from nearby shelves, then moved casually toward the other woman.

She appeared even younger now than she had at a distance-little more than a girl. She was pale, her fair hair untidy, and she wore no makeup. On her right hand she had what looked like an improvised glove. Clearly it covered some kind of deformity or injury for she was using only her left hand.

Reaching out, she selected a jar of Mazola Oil and read the label.

Nancy Molineaux maneuvered her cart past, then abruptly turned, as if she had forgotten something. Her eyes met the other woman’s. Nancy smiled and said brightly, "Hi! Don’t we know each other?" She added, "I think we have a mutual acquaintance, Davey Birdsong."

The response was immediate and startling. The young woman’s face went ashen white, she visibly trembled, and the Mazola Oil fell from her hand, shattering on the floor.

There was a silence lasting several seconds in which nothing happened except that a pool of oil spread rapidly across the shopping aisle. Then the store manager hurried forward, clucking like a worried hen. "My goodness! What a mess! Whatever happened here?"

"It was my fault," Nancy said quickly. "I’m sorry and I’ll pay for what was broken."

The manager objected, "It won’t pay for the cleaning up, will it?"

"No," Nancy told him, "but think of the exercise you’ll get." She took the arm of the other woman, who was still standing transfixed, as if in shock.

"Let’s get out of here," Nancy said. Unresisting, abandoning her shopping cart, the girl in the pea coat and jeans went with her.