The Stray

"Black hair, pointed face, tall and serious looking. A handsome man."

"Anything else?"

"Only family stories left, are you interested?"

"He was very kind, Mr. Cochrane. And patient. I bid you good day." Mason held out his hand to the old doorman and, taking his hat, left the room.

"You didn't tell me how the coffee was!"

"Hot, Mr. Cochrane.".

A taxi ride

He walked out of the Perkins' building and felt more tired than ever. The accumulating questions weighed heavy in his notebook. His sleepy, tired eyes, bothered by the light, were slits, his temples throbbed so much that if they didn't stop soon he might not be able to take off his hat. Instead of going to the car, he stopped a taxi. He told the driver his destination and said to take it easy, let him choose the route. An unusual phrase to say to someone who makes money on the time he takes to do his job.

Stone finished transcribing Mr Cochrane's words and dozed off. Not even the noise of rush hour, the driver's bad driving and the rancid smell of the interior disturbed his sleep.

The company where Elizabeth worked as a secretary, Lloyd & Wagon's, was located in the Bronx. The underground from her home took about an hour, and who knows how many people had seen her, noticed her, desired her in the battered and dilapidated carriages she took every day. Perhaps the girl had met her murderer there, perhaps she had been observed, watched, followed once she got off at the stop. Maybe they had started chatting with a trivial excuse, maybe he had picked up her handkerchief and offered her a cup of coffee. Maybe they had become friends.

The image of Elizabeth appeared in front of him. She was still alive: her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, her sincere smile. When the girl peeped into his dream, the detective woke up, looked out of the window and tried to figure out where she was. The traffic had softened the taxi driver's driving. At that speed they would be there in about ten minutes.

"Big traffic, mister," he justified himself.

"Never mind." Mason craned his neck and read the nameplate on the dashboard. "Tim...I told her not to rush."

"Sure...sure! patience is a great virtue! If everyone thought like her!"

"You'd be a millionaire, Tim!"

"Sure, sure! Are you from New York, mister?"

"Florida adopted me when I married my wife."

"She's lost the accent a bit, though!"

"Not only that, Tim."

"You said it, mister."

Tim was a big guy with full cheeks, muscular arms and a wide waist. Judging by the colour of his sparse, yellow teeth, he was an avid tobacco chewer.

"How are you finding the Sunshine Cab, Tim?"

"Huh?!"

"What?"

"Forgive me: that's not a question I get asked often. I'd say I'm fine. In the two years I've been there, there have never been any problems."

"Is the climate good?"

"The good thing about this job, coach, is that you don't have to agree with anyone and as long as you're happy with yourself you're a lucky man. Of course, every now and then we get a few nutcases up here..."

"What about colleagues?"

"What's with all the questions, man?"

"I like to get to know the people I travel with. I love your company, it's my favourite one. I know all the Sunshine taxi drivers now!"

"Ah, I know who you are! You could have told me right away! Carl and Peter talk about her all the time!" Mason knew that Tim the taxi driver was lying. We always tend to agree with someone who is disturbing us, who is strange to the point of frightening us, someone whose back we are turning and whose movements we can't keep an eye on.

"And Sam, how is he? I haven't had a run in with him in a while."

"Look, mister, I don't want any trouble," gone was the high jester's voice and the talkative manner, Tim had become a bundle of nerves.

"And you won't have any, but try to keep your eyes on the road. That's a good boy." Mason had moved closer to Tim's seat and was now speaking quietly.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a guy who takes corners better than you do."

"I don't know anything about Sam."

"I just want you to tell me what he's like. You work at Sunshine enough to know him."

"He was ok"

"Try to be a little more forthcoming, mate." Tim stopped chewing the dark mush, wiped his lips with his free hand and swallowed. He hadn't dared roll down his window to spit out the excess saliva. Mason thought that had been a very bitter pill to swallow.

"None of us have ever had a problem with Sam. He's not a chatterbox, he just gets on with it. He worked a lot of overtime and covered a lot of people's shifts. He did it on the side. The pay isn't much but it's enough for me, you know, I don't have anyone..."

"Let's save the story of your life for the second date, shall we?"

"Yes, sir. Excuse me."

"What did he do when he got off work?"

"When he got off, he always went straight home. Is it true what they say, the things he did to his wife?"

"What do they say?"

"Well, that's why he ran away, isn't it?"

"Was there anywhere he used to hang out with you colleagues, just to take the stress off work, have a drink and a cigarette? A bar, for example?"

"Dude that's against the law!"

"Yeah, I got the word, but you know what? I don't believe in rumours. How about you, Tim?"