— I shouldn't think so, she said.
Her face was framed by short black hair. She spoke with a thick accent. I will not marry you, thought James. You are not suitable at all. I don't like your yellow-dress. I don't like your hair-cut, and I don't like your approaching-of-men in public places. But, he was smiling.
— You dropped this, I think.
She was holding James's wallet.
James took it from her. He examined the contents. Nothing was missing.
— Nothing is missing, she said.
He took a long look at her.
— How could you know that? he asked. Someone could have taken something before you found it.
— Not true, she said. I saw you drop it, and then I picked it up.
— When was this? James asked.
— On the bus.
They looked at each other. James felt that he had been outmaneuvered. He did not like this feeling very much.
— Well, then, you must have followed me off the bus to here. You must have sat here against the wall a whole hour before deciding to give me my wallet back. Who would do such a thing?
He said this somewhat triumphantly.
— I did, she said. Only this moment did I decide to return your wallet to you. Before that, I was making up my mind.
To this James had no reply. Her eyes were like arrow slits. He shifted slightly on the stool.
— Anyway, she said. My name's Anastasia. Just like the murdered Tsarevna. I know all about you, but you don't have to worry.
She started to walk away.
— I mean, she continued, you shouldn't worry. There are always things to worry over, but we can't help that, can we? It's better not to get involved in things that we don't understand, I've always thought. I make it my business to understand only what's in front of me. I don't cause trouble, and trouble isn't caused me. Do you know what I mean? See you around.
She went out the door.
The waitress came over.
— She said you would pay for her meal. I hope it's true.
Her face was frank, and a little concerned.
— Of course, said James shortly. Of course.
The waitress gave him the two checks, his own and Anastasia's. Anastasia had ordered a ham sandwich cut into twelve pieces. This was specified on the receipt. There had been an additional charge of 40 cents for the cutting. She had also ordered a glass of pressed orange juice.
He pictured her in her yellow-dress eating the ham sandwich piece by piece, drinking the orange juice and watching him. He felt that he had been used in some way.
James uncrumpled the napkin and looked at it again.
He had had his wallet when he got off the bus. After all, he had used it when he bought the newspaper. The girl was lying. Where had she followed him from? If she was the agent of someone else, and they in turn were working for someone, then who, ultimately, had given the order to follow him? She wouldn't have done it on her own, not a girl like that.
Someone must have seen him speaking with McHale. But they mustn't be sure. They couldn't know how much he told me; otherwise they wouldn't let me walk about like this. It'd be too dangerous for them.
The one thing I have, then, he thought, is that they don't know what I know.
Fifteen minutes passed in this frame of mind. An hour. The diner was now full of different people, all seeming to be ordering, seeming to be eating, seeming to be conversing intently. James felt comprehensively suspicious.
And furthermore, the clouds had turned from their dispersing to gather again. Beyond the walls of the diner, sheets of rain were strung all through the streets, upon the houses, the buildings, the trees and yards. Such a rain seemed to conceal within its clothing things dangerous to James Sim. He was suddenly certain that the letter in the newspaper was real, that Samedi somehow did have a strange power, and could, if he chose, cause the catastrophe that was now contemplated. But could he really? Perhaps.
A trembling then, slight, at the ankle and thumb. Someone could say to someone else in a far place, once acquainted with all the facts of the case, that it had been he, James Sim, who could have done something to prevent it. This afterwards, of course, after the tragedy, in an altered world.
This far conversation in mind, James went out into the rain and was soon completely drenched.
day the second
As though at the announcement of his own accomplished execution,
James approached 2 Verit Street. This was the address he had found that morning when, instead of going in to work, he had begun his inquiries at the various theatres near the Chinese district.
Soon enough he had spoken to a girl who had auditioned for a part in a play directed by the man, Estrainger. She had gone to his home to do so. It was her considered opinion that the man was no good as a director, but that his plays were quite well written. She wondered how it was that anyone could write a play at all. Basing things on real life, she thought, was easy enough. But to make things up entirely, well, that was something else. I mean, it seems like you would have to be psychotic. How could you remember what was even real? James had loudly agreed with her; he too, he said, wondered how anyone might remember what was real. Then he disengaged himself from the conversation and left.
An hour later, he stood before 2 Verit Street.
None of the buzzers was marked. James looked them over slowly. A man was smoking a cigarette on the stoop. James turned to him.
— Do you know which is Estrainger?
— Going up to see Estrainger, eh, that old fox? You don't look the type, if you don't mind my saying.
The man spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a sort of insolently apologetic way.
James repeated his question.
— I could tell you which buzzer was his if I thought it would help you. But he won't let you in no matter what you say. He's terrified of the police. Are you a cop? You look like a cop. Man, it's bad to look like a cop if you ain't one. Is that your thing? You go around looking like a policeman? Wouldn't do it if I was you. Not for one hour. Not even for an hour. Get yourself hurt.
He threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground, rubbed it into the ground with his foot, and then cocked his head to look at James.
Just then a boy came up, slipped in the door, and hit the buzzer. A man's voice, then, came through the intercom.
— Who is it?
— Willy. .
— Come on up.
The boy entered the building, and James followed, leaving behind his new acquaintance.
— Won't do you any good, the man said.
The Boy Had Entered the Apartment
James heard the door close after him. He had stayed behind on the stairs, so as not to arouse suspicion, and had listened carefully to hear which door it was. Now he stood in the passage outside. Through the door he could hear the sound of voices, arguing. A girl's voice, and the voice from the intercom. Must be Estrainger, thought James.