Delicate Ape by Dorothy B. Hughes

shoulders. The heavy jowls were shadowed by the crumpled hat. Piers waited. Sarachon’s return was hesitant. He studied Piers obliquely.
    “Well?” Piers demanded.
    Sarachon rubbed the shine of his right hand fingers against his tuxedo coat sleeve. He said, “I’m afraid I can do nothing for you, Mr. Hunt. That man is Jake Cassidy. Detective first grade of the New York police force.”
    Piers took it slowly. He asked finally, “You knew who he was before you spoke to him, didn’t you?”
    “I knew he was Cassidy,” the house detective admitted. “I thought he might be off the force, in private work, in which case I could have done something. However, he’s still active, he showed me his card. I’m sorry. And the New York force—”
    “I understand,” Piers said. “Thanks just the same.” He walked away to the elevators, leaving behind Sarachon’s disturbed polish, the clerk’s snide face, Cassidy’s imperturbable stance. Cassidy knew who the man was that he was following. The house detective had addressed him as Mr. Hunt only after he spoke with the heavy man.
    Safe in his room he closed the door, leaving the room unlighted save by Broadway flares. He drew a chair to the window, sat there looking out and seeing nothing. He was being followed by a New York detective. Why? The question blinked with the lighted sign—why—why—why. Was it in connection with Johann Schmidt’s death? Was it for some more important reason? If he knew for certain when Cassidy had picked up his trail, the answer would come clear. He had suspected a shadow after he left the precinct house. He had been certain of it after he parted with Gordon at the Chatham. If Cassidy had picked up the earlier trail, the visit to the police hadn’t been as successful as he had thought.
    Even so he could not regret the geste. Having his suspicion of Brecklein’s delegation confirmed was worth whatever difficulties might now ensue. At least he could label the enemy. If, however, it had been Captain Devlin who in suspicion had set Cassidy on his trail, how had the detective learned the name was Piers Hunt, not George Henderson?
    If his trail had been taken up later, with Gordon, it was easier to understand how he had been identified. Gordon had spoken over the office phone. Had the detective learned that and followed Gordon, he could pick up his quarry. This did not explain why the New York detective department should be interested in Piers Hunt. Unless Johann Schmidt had not died immediately, had existed long enough to exhale a man’s name. There was no other possible connection between Cassidy and Brecklein.
    If his own path were straight he could welcome Cassidy’s supervision. God knows he needed protection. He couldn’t afford its luxury as yet. He didn’t dare come out in the open; he must continue to move secretly, to hide his real motives from all, even from his own associates. He could trust no one; no matter what dangers he was led into, he must walk alone. The end was more important than he.
    The small face of the girl with lavender hair kept glimmering in the shade of his room. He had known that Anstruther had a daughter; he conceived of her as a little girl. It was a simple enough mistake. The Secretary had referred to her always as his little girl. He had mentioned schools: “I must be in New York before my daughter’s vacation begins.” “I must be home before my little girl returns from the country.” Little girls grew up, a father didn’t realize. Nor did a father’s business associate. Piers hadn’t realized that Bianca was a young woman. He regretted it; he wanted no women; the business was ticklish enough without this complication. His sympathy for her couldn’t even be hinted. She would not forgive him for prolonging her anxiety, postponing her grief. It didn’t matter save that she was Anstruther’s daughter. After this was over he should like to help her.
    He was tired. Another day gone but four yet to pass