  “Honestly, Peter, that’s what he said.” Peter Grey lowered his cup into his saucer. “Kings and queens,” he muttered incredulously. “And don’t forget the one-eyed giant,” Peggy reminded him. “Don’t worry, I’m not,” Peter assured her, “but I’d rather think about one thing at a time.” Peggy and Peter were sitting in a back booth of the Broadway Drugstore. Outside, the streets were comparatively empty. Half an hour earlier they had been jammed curb to curb with honking taxicabs threading through thousands of hurrying people on their way to an evening at the theater, a first-run movie, or a late dinner. But by now everyone had reached his destination. The streets off Broadway would be quiet for another two hours. Then, as if some unseen force had released a floodgate, the big doors to the theaters and movie palaces would swing open, and the rush would begin all over again. “Do you think it was all his imagination?” Peter was asking. Peggy shook her head. “I’m sure he didn’t make it up,” she said. “I don’t mean the boy,” Peter said. “I mean Tom.” “Why would he do that?” “To cheer up the little boy. To keep him from being sad about his leaving.” Peggy toyed with her cup of tea. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Maybe it all means something. Maybe Johnny Dwyer could help us.” “Yes, but not until tomorrow morning,” Peter pointed out. “And we don’t have that much time left.” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “We’ve got to figure it out tonight.” He pushed his coffee cup to one side. “Let’s start at the beginning and try to put ourselves in Tom Agate’s position. First of all, how much do we know?” “Well,” Peggy said thoughtfully, “we know that three months ago he ran out of money and left the house on Tidewater Road. It seems to me that there are four possibilities.” “All right. Let’s have them.” “He found a job.” Peter shook his head. “That’s not likely. All he knew was the theater. And if he had gotten a job in show business people would have heard about it.” “What about some other kind of job?” “What could he do? He was too old to be hired for a regular position.” “Let’s not throw out that possibility yet,” Peggy cautioned. “He might have found something like a night watchman or a caretaker.” “Yes,” Peter admitted, “that’s true. But why did he wait so long? Why didn’t he do it years ago before he was completely broke?” “I don’t know. Let’s put it aside for the moment and go on to the second possibility. He went to some member of his family.” “Absolutely not,” Peter declared. “He didn’t have any.” “None at all?” “Oh, yes, he once had a wife,” Peter said. “But it didn’t work out.” “Do you know where she is?” “I don’t even know who she is. I don’t know whether they were divorced or not. But they parted years ago. As a matter of fact, I once heard that there was some bitterness there, so I doubt if he’d find a warm reception if he went back.” “So returning to his family is out?” “I’m afraid so. What’s your third possibility?” “He might have gone to a friend.” Peter considered this carefully. “Maybe,” he said at last. “But Tom seems to be a pretty proud old codger, the kind who wouldn’t accept charity. Besides, Johnny Dwyer was one of his closest friends, and even he doesn’t know where he is. What’s next?” Peggy lowered her eyes. “I—I don’t like even to think of it,” she murmured. “But maybe....” “Suicide?” Peter said incredulously. “Never! I’d bet anything on that. Tom wouldn’t go out that way. He’s got too much courage.” “Well then, where does that leave us?” Peter leaned back in the booth and signaled the counterman for another order. “I’d rule out two of your possibilities,” he said slowly, “leaving us with two alternatives. Either he’s found a job or he’s gone to live with an old friend.” Peter reached out and made room for the two fresh cups as they were brought to the table. The counterman collected the empties and retreated behind the rows of soda stools. “Which one do you think it is?” Peggy asked as she stirred her tea. Peter shrugged helplessly. “That’s the trouble,” he said moodily. “I can’t believe that Tom has a job. My original objection still stands. Why didn’t he get one earlier? On the other hand, he just isn’t the type to sponge off an old friend, no matter how close they once were.” “But, Peter,” Peggy said with a trace of a smile, “you can’t eliminate everything. It’s got to be something.” “I know, I know,” Peter said impatiently. “That’s the whole trouble. And where does it all fit in with this story of kings and queens and people living inside trunks?” He rested his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. “I feel like a dog that’s trying to chase his tail. I’m going round and round, but can’t quite catch it.” “I’ve got an idea,” Peggy said suddenly. “How about combining the two possibilities?” “What do you mean?” “Suppose he is living with an old friend and has a job at the same time—like taking care of the friend’s place of business at night?” Peter looked interested. “Say,” he said admiringly, “that sounds good. But what kind of business?” “Something to do with—” “Oh, no,” Peter groaned. “Not one-eyed giants, please.” “It’s the only thing that makes any sense,” Peggy insisted. “But what sort of business is that?” Peter complained. “A freak show someplace?” Before Peggy had a chance to reply, she heard her name being called out and looked up to see a young girl on her way to their table. Peter turned around in his seat with ill-concealed annoyance. The girl seemed to be bubbling over with good news and was likely to stay awhile. “Peggy!” cried the girl. “I’m so happy for you. I just heard about your getting the part today. When do you start on tour?” “Not for another five weeks,” Peggy replied, sliding over. “Won’t you sit down?” The girl shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve had such an exhausting day. But I saw you from the street and simply had to come in and tell you how wonderful I think it is.” She reached out and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder as he struggled to his feet. “No, please don’t get up.” She smiled. “I’m on my way home.” “At least let me introduce you two,” Peggy said. “Anna, this is Peter Grey. Peter, Anna Warwick, a friend from drama school.” “How do you do,” Anna said. “You’re with Mr. Stalkey’s office, aren’t you?” Without giving Peter a chance to answer, she turned back to Peggy. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a day,” she confided. “You know I’m in an off-Broadway company. We open in less than two weeks.” “No, I didn’t know that,” Peggy said. “Congratulations. What’s the play?” Anna shrugged her shoulders. “Heavens, I don’t know. It’s a new play all in verse. They keep changing the name every other day. Anyway, it’s in costume and has a perfectly huge cast. And that’s where the trouble comes in. They’re trying to save money, so they brought us all down to this horrid little junk shop to rummage around for costumes. I’ve been there all day, and I’m simply dead on my feet.” “What’s the name of the place?” Peggy asked without much interest. “I’m sure you know it,” Anna said breezily. “You must have passed it a hundred times. It’s just down the street here. Syd Walsh’s Theatrical Costumes. It’s way up on the top floor of the building. I can’t tell you how stuffy and smelly, but, my dear, they do have the most fabulous costumes. He pried open some trunks that hadn’t been looked into for years, I suppose, and came out with—well, with exquisite materials. I can’t think where he got them all. They must have been—” “Syd Walsh!” Peter almost shouted the name. “On West Forty-ninth Street?” Anna looked at him in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “That’s the place.” Peter threw some money down on the table and slid out of the booth. “Come on,” he said with mounting excitement. “Come on, Peggy. Let’s go.” Anna blinked at him and moved aside to give Peggy room. “He’s closed now,” she said in a mystified voice. “I know, I know,” Peter said impatiently, grabbing Peggy by the arm. “That’s just the right time to go.” He leaned forward and shook Anna’s hand warmly. “Thank you. Thank you very much. I can’t tell you how much help you’ve been. Nice meeting you. G’by.” “Yes, but”—Anna faltered, “I haven’t done a thing.” Peter patted her on the hand. “You just don’t know.” Taking Peggy by the arm, he rushed her down the aisle and into the revolving doors at the drugstore entrance. As she spun out into the street, Peggy caught a last glimpse of Anna’s face as she sat bolt upright in the deserted booth. Her look was one of complete bafflement. Peter guided Peggy deftly through the traffic and started up the block with long, loping strides. “Peter,” Peggy cried. “What’s going on?” “It’s Syd Walsh,” Peter explained. An expression of absolute certainty was on his face. “Syd Walsh is another old-timer like Tom Agate and Johnny Dwyer. But instead of being a song-and-dance man, he was a vaudeville magician. Sydney the Great, he called himself. He retired years ago and started a theatrical costume and prop shop.” “But what makes you think—?” Peggy asked as she ran to keep up. “Syd Walsh,” Peter said, “was known as the tallest man in vaudeville. He was six foot five at least. And,” Peter added significantly, “he had only one eye. He wore a black patch for all his performances.” “The one-eyed giant!” Peggy breathed. “That’s it,” Peter said. “It all fits together now. The kings and queens—Tom was talking about Syd’s costumes.” “And the trunks, too,” Peggy cried. “Memories in trunks! Old theatrical costumes!” “Right,” Peter said, as they turned the corner of Forty-ninth Street. “Tom Agate’s got a job looking after Syd Walsh’s costume shop at night. I’m convinced of it.” Peter pulled to a stop in the middle of the block and scanned the darkened buildings. “It’s right around here,” he muttered. “I remember coming here years ago.” “There it is!” cred Peggy, pointing to a plate-glass window on the fifth floor of a dingy brownstone building. Across the front of the glass was lettered: Syd Walsh’s Theatrical Costumes. The light of a street lamp barely caught the faded sign. Peter took her by the arm. “Come on,” he said. “In we go.” The next instant they were standing in a cramped lobby in front of the iron grillwork of an old-fashioned elevator. Peter reached out and pushed the button. A bell jangled down in the elevator shaft. The old building seemed deserted. “How about the stairs?” For some reason, Peggy was whispering. Peter nodded wordlessly and turned into a corridor behind the elevator. Through the gloom of a single night light, Peggy could see stairs leading upward. “Take a deep breath,” Peter advised over his shoulder. “It’s on the fifth floor.” “I’m right behind you,” Peggy assured him. Slowly, they made their ascent. On the second floor they passed the bolted front door of a sporting goods manufacturer. The third floor was occupied by a firm that specialized in trimmings for ladies’ hats. The night light on the fourth floor was out and Peggy couldn’t read the name on the door. “Peter,” she whispered through the darkness, “Where are you?” There was a shuffling step in front of her and a hand reached out for hers. “Here,” came the answering whisper. “Just one flight more.” About halfway up the last flight, Peggy felt Peter freeze. His hand tightened over hers. Catching her breath, Peggy tried to peer through the inky gloom. Then she heard the sound of a banjo being played. It seemed to come from a great distance. Peter advanced a few more steps, made a sharp right turn, and stopped on a landing. In front of them a thin slit of pale yellow light illuminated the floor. They were now standing directly in front of the door that led to Syd Walsh’s shop. From the other side Peggy heard a soft voice singing the tune that had recently become so familiar to her. Moving very slowly, Peter turned the handle of the door and opened it a crack. By crowding behind him, Peggy could see the interior of the shop. It was a jumble of old boxes, trunks, musty figures clothed in period costumes. Masks of all descriptions leered down from the walls, and in one cabinet there was a shadowy row of wigs. The singing was clearer now and Peter pushed in a little farther. In one corner of the room, half hidden by what Peggy assumed was a worktable, stood a white-haired old man. One leg was planted easily on a low stool, and cradled lovingly in his arms was a banjo. The words of his song floated quietly through the absolute stillness of the shop and Peggy suddenly realized that she was in the presence of a true artist—a man who could take a simple instrument and a familiar folk melody and weave a magic spell capable of moving an entire audience. The song whispered to its husky, haunting conclusion, and the old man stood bowed over his instrument. Perhaps it was Peter or maybe it was some sudden movement of hers, but the door moved forward another inch and, through the quiet, there suddenly rang a sharp tinkle of a bell. The old man with the banjo straightened up and whirled around to face the intruders. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he advanced toward the door. “Who’s there?” he challenged. “Who is it?” |
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