Death of a Tall Man by Frances Lockridge Read Free Book Online Page A

entered and spoke firmly. Then the driver spoke more firmly and, usually, you got out. The next—Pam’s own favorite—was the please-it’s-just-a-short-run method. That involved a bright, but suitably submissive, smile, to be turned on just as you reached for the handle of the door. A slight wistfulness helped, sometimes. Frequently this method got you refused before you were entirely in the cab—a concession, this.
    There were other methods. There was the stern, I’ll-tell-a-cop-on-you method. There was the desperate situation, or I’ve got-to-get-to-the-hospital method—seldom efficacious, particularly when used by women. There was the promising or Boy-what-a-tip-I’m-going-to-give-you method. And there were variants of all these. They were alike only, at last, in their common inadequacy. And all involved, first, the miracle of the cab-with-its-flag-up. That was where you began.
    Pam was beginning there. Her first startled leap—which was a little, somehow, like one of Martini’s leaps—carried her halfway across the sidewalk. It was involuntary, almost a reflex. The rest of the way, Pam moved more slowly. She only trotted. The taxicab did not move. Sometimes they merely went away while you were reaching for them, remote in their contempt. This, at worst, was one of the coquettish ones. It might be wooed. Pam reached it, and still it did not move. She reached out a hand and touched its door handle. The touch was almost a caress. She looked quickly, with her prettiest smile, at the driver. He looked at her with no comment in his face. But his face did not reject her; did not utterly reject her. It reserved decision. Gently, so as not to frighten the taxicab, Pamela North turned the door handle. (There had been a time, dim now in memory, when taxicab drivers reached back and opened the door for passengers. It was strange to remember that time, even mistily—even fleetingly.) Pam turned the door handle. It was probable, of course, that the door would not open. Many taxicabs, in those months, opened only on one side. Some did not, it appeared, open at all. They were merely decoys. This one opened.
    The door did not fall off, which was always, also, slightly to be expected. It was secured inside by a heavy rope, but the rope allowed a medium-sized opening. It was quite sufficient for Pam North, who was barely medium sized herself. She slipped in, still cautiously—there was a chance, naturally, that the cab might be half filled with original settlers—and, when she found herself alone, sat down gingerly on the edge of the seat.
    Now, slowly, with majesty, the driver turned toward her. Now was the moment. He was about to speak. Tensely, perched more tentatively than any bird, Pam North waited. He spoke.
    â€œWhere to, lady?” he said.
    His voice was almost like anyone’s voice. It was not harsh or condemning; it was not even notably contemptuous. Its tone accepted Pam as, at the least, a candidate for the human race—an entry, not yet scratched.
    A delicious feeling of warmth spread through Pam North. She had a taxicab! She had a taxicab!
    It was only then, suddenly, that she realized she did not in the least want a taxicab. She was not going anywhere, except down the street and around the corner to Charles. It was a bright, warm day. She had never felt better in her life. She had been overtaken, and overcome, by conditioned reflexes—the reflexes built up among New Yorkers through many, many months of almost hopeless longing, interrupted by short, mad dashes. Few, in those days, could watch an empty taxi-cab go by, or pause momentarily, without some reflex response—a slight watering of the mouth, a momentary twitch of the taxicab-waving arm, a tensing of the leg muscles in anticipation of a spring. Pam North merely carried these responses farther than more phlegmatic people did. But she had carried them quite a distance, this time.
    For a moment,