The Man in the Tree

Chapter Seven

Cooley was disappointed in Los Angeles; he spent a week there, going to art schools and asking questions, but found no trace of the boy. He drove north to San Francisco, checked into a hotel. The next morning, he got a city map at the desk, then went to a phone booth and tore out the page of the directory that listed "Schools -- Private." Seventeen of the listings seemed to have something to do with art. In his room, he called them one by one, found out their hours, and divided them into districts with the aid of the map.

That afternoon he visited the Academy of Fine and Useful Arts, the Adams Free Expression Art School, the Beacon Hill Art Centre, and the Co-op Art School. His procedure was always the same. He told the registrar, "My name is Andrew McDonnel, the painter -- maybe you've seen my work? Well, it don't matter. Now I'm looking for a particlar kind of model, very particlar -- the model agencies, they don't have what I want."

"What kind of a model, Mr. McDonnel?"

"Has to be a young boy, not more than, say, fifteen or sixteen, but he has to be tall. Now I thought maybe one of your students wouldn't mind earning a little extra money -- ?"

Then the registrar would open her record book and frown, and say something like, "No, we don't have anybody that young, I'm afraid. Here's a girl, but she's seventeen." And Cooley would thank her and say good-bye.

On the second day, at the Devonshire Gallery and Art School, the woman at the desk told him they had a student, Bob Young, who was sixteen, and she thought he was tall, although she really couldn't remember. Cooley asked when he could see the boy.

"Well, he's down here for Oil Painting on Thursday evenings at eight o'clock -- that's tomorrow. You could come and talk to him then."

Cooley said, "That's funny. I used to know a Young. Wonder if it's the same one. Does he live on Lincoln Way, by any chance?"

"No, Eleventh Avenue -- four twenty-five Eleventh."

Cooley looked up Youngs in the telephone book, and there was one at that address. The kid couldn't have been here long enough to get in the phone book, but there was just a chance that he had got himself adopted by somebody, or maybe he was living with a family and using their name at school.

He was across the street having his shoes shined at a quarter to eight the next day. He watched the students go in, first one, then three together, then a bunch. About half were college-age kids, the other half middle-aged women. There was one younger boy -- tall, sallow, black-haired. Cooley crossed the school off his list.

On Saturday, at the second place he tried, the woman said, "Why, yes, we do have a boy that age. Let's see, he's fifteen. Stephen Miller, and he is quite tall."

"Funny, I have an old friend named Miller -- wonder if it's the same one. Does he live on Lincoln Way?"

"What is it?" asked a loud voice behind him. He turned; it was a tall woman with an imposing bust and a black ribbon for her glasses; she was staring at him as if he were a burglar. "We don't give out addresses of our students," she said in a strong accent. "Why are you asking such questions?"

Cooley started his set speech all over again, but she interrupted him. "McDonnel? I have never heard of you. Go away, or I will call the police." Her voice carried very well; as he left, Cooley could hear her saying, "Miss Olney, we must be on our guard against perverts of all descriptions, constantly on our guard."

He got into the Buick and thought it over. The kid would lie about his age, naturally, and fifteen would be about the most he could get away with. The first class was at one; he had found out that much on the phone, and it was a quarter after twelve now. He lit a cigar and settled himself to wait.

After about ten minutes a cab pulled up in front of the school; the driver went inside. In a moment he was back with a woman, the same one -- the dragon who had caught him at the desk. She had her coat on, and a funny hat perched on top of her hair. Cooley's first thought was that he was in luck -- he could go in and talk to the registrar again and maybe find out something. Then he thought: where is she going, half an hour before school starts?

"There you are, ma'am," the driver said.

Madame Porgorny peered out. "This? You are sure?" It was a corner house, two stories, painted blue, with a porch and a fanlight.

"Twenty-one eighteen," the driver said. "Right there over the door."

Madame Porgorny paid him and walked up the porch steps. Through the glass pane of the door she could see a little foyer and four mailboxes. She stepped inside and read the cards. One of them, in careful ballpoint lettering, said "Stephen Miller, 2A."

She climbed the stairs and knocked. The door opened; the boy stood there with his shirt half buttoned. "Madame Porgorny," he said. He looked startled.

"Let me come in, please."

He said awkwardly, "Oh, sure," and stood aside. "I was just getting ready to come to school. Is something the matter?" Books and magazines were everywhere, on the couch, two of the three chairs, on the floor.

She turned to face him. "Stephen, the man you spoke of, the one who wants to do you harm, is he a short man, strong, with a red face?"

The boy had gone pale. "Did you see him?"

"He was at the school, looking for you."

"Oh." He sat down.

"Now you must tell me, Stephen, what does that man want?"

"I think he wants to kill me," the boy muttered.

"The police, would they protect you from him?"

"No. He -- he is the police." He looked at her. "I did something bad, Madame Porgorny, but I didn't mean to."

"And your parents?"

"They couldn't help me."

"So. Well, then," she said, "I will ask you no more questions, but you must go away. And you must not go to art school any more, because that is how he found you." She opened her purse. "Do you have money?"

"Yes."

"Take this anyway, you may need more." She held out fifty dollars. When he shook his head, she pressed the money into his hand. "Do not be foolish."

"Well -- I'll send it back to you."

"No, you must not. You must not tell me where you are going, and you must not write to me, or to anyone. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

She looked at him: so tall, but so terribly young. She wanted to hold him for a moment, kiss him on the forehead, but she knew how much he would hate that, and then she would have to wipe off the lipstick. "Good-bye then, Stephen. Be very careful."

"Good-bye, Madame Porgorny."

She went down the stairs more slowly than she had gone up. How could it happen that a child so young should be hunted like a criminal? And what would happen to him now, without friends, alone?

As she turned away from the house she saw a big car parked across the street, and in it a red-faced man. Her heart trembled, and she stopped, afraid to look again. In God's name, what was she to do? If she went back into the house he would know, and if she kept walking-- She opened her purse blindly, fumbled in it to gain time, and the ghost of a plan came to her. She closed the purse, turned back with her mouth set angrily. She did not look across the street. He must believe I have left something behind, she told herself. Let him believe it.

She entered the house, climbed the stairs, knocked at the door again. "Stephen, it is I, Madame Porgorny."

He opened the door, looking startled. He had a shopping bag in his hand. "What's the matter?"

"Let me come in. Close the door. Stephen, he is here -- that man. He is waiting downstairs in a car. My poor boy, it is my fault. He must have followed me. I led him to you. My God, let us think. Is there a back way from the house?"

"Yes, but -- it comes out the side. Would he see me there?"

She thought a moment. "Yes. He is sitting where he can see down both streets. I must lead him away, but how is it possible?"

"I don't know."' Something new had come into the boy's expression; his mouth was firmer, his eyes narrowed. It was a look she did not like to see.

"Wait, Stephen," she said, "there must be a way. My brain is dead. Think, think!" She rubbed her eyes. "Tell me, is there a place where you could hide, not here, but in this house?"

"There's a closet under the stairs."

"Good. Now listen to me. You must hide there, and when you hear us going up the stairs, you must go out quietly and then run as fast as you can. Do you understand?"

"Yes." His expression had softened; he took both her hands. "Madame Porgorny -- "

"I know, my poor boy, I know." She let him hold her hands, even though it hurt her swollen fingers. After a moment they did not hurt quite so much. "Thank you for doing this for me," he said.

"It is nothing. And now it is really good-bye. Remember all I have told you."

"Good-bye, Madame Porgorny. I'll remember."

In her mind she rehearsed her part as she went down the stairs. Something terrible has happened, she told herself, I am bouleversée, hysterical, but I must not overplay it, he must be convinced.

She opened the front door and stepped out, looking wildly around. "Help!" she cried. She looked again, saw the man in the car as if for the first time, and ran toward him. He was opening the door.

"You!" she said. "Why are you here? What do you want? Never mind, you must help me. The boy is ill -- he fell down, he is not breathing."

"Did he faint or what?" the red-faced man asked, following her.

"I do not know. It was like a seizure -- suddenly he fell down, and his face so white!" She was toiling up the stairs.

"Which door is it?"

"There. That one."

The red-faced man tried the knob, then knocked and listened. "He may be dying!" cried Madame Porgorny.

"Who locked the door, for Christ sake?"

"I must have done it, when I ran out. My God, what a horrible thing!"

"Hell," said the red-faced man. He stepped back, raised his foot, kicked the door below the lock. A panel splintered. He kicked it again and again until a jagged piece fell into the room. He reached inside, grunting, and opened the door.

She watched him as he went through the cluttered rooms. "He's not here," he said, coming back to her. His face had turned a darker red, and his lips were moist. For a moment she thought he might strike her.

"Stephen, where are you.'?" she cried, running out into the hall. "Ah, my heart!" She clutched herself, stumbled, and managed to fall at the head of the stairs, sprawled across the way.

"Hell!" said the red-faced man, stepping over her gingerly. She made it as difficult for him as she could; he almost fell, but recovered himself and went running down the stairs. When she got to the street, she heard the tires of his big car squealing as it turned the corner.

Madame Porgorny hailed a cab on the avenue and went back to the school. The plumber was there, making his usual mess, and the janitor was not to be found; the clay for the ceramics class had not come; there was a bill from the electrician that she had already paid. She had enough to keep her busy all day, and it was not until evening, when she was sitting down to dinner, that she realized the swelling in her fingers was entirely gone and that there was no pain.