The Stray. Alessio Chiadini Beuri

      "Compliments of the company, mister," he said, relieved that that service was coming to an end.

      "Take five dollars for the chat." Stone extended the money over Tim's shoulder, after he had pulled over, and got out. He crossed the street and reached the entrance to Lloyd & Wagon's. It was a low, two-storey building.

      He was greeted on the threshold by a frantic Andrew Lloyd. The large windows on the first floor had announced Mason as having just stepped out of the taxi.

      Stone advanced through the offices without waiting for his client, his hands buried in his raincoat, his gaze vaguely distracted as Lloyd entered his field of vision. Mason found him funny and more awkward than when he had first met him: he hopped around him, industrious as a bee, never ceasing to ask how the investigation was going, that he shouldn't bother so much but that he could contact him by phone. Mason Stone knew his business well enough to realise that Elizabeth's former employer was under intense stress. He studied the place, the environment, the atmosphere that Elizabeth Perkins had experienced while she was alive.

      He found it cosy, not particularly baroque. Partly sad. As they passed by, the heads of the employees had popped out of their paperwork and loculi like springs from a broken clock.

      Unfortunately, the visit proved fruitless.

      He was able to inspect the girl's desk, although Matthews' team had already taken away all the interesting items. Except for a few items of stationery, the drawers were empty. On the table there was only a picture of her with Samuel. She asked Lloyd if she could keep it so that she would have no difficulty in recognising the man if she came across him. The department had not yet released the sketch. Maybe Lloyd had been right after all. Matthews and his people weren't losing any sleep over the girl.

      As the boss's personal assistant, Elizabeth had few opportunities for dialogue with her colleagues. Everyone, however, thought she was a smart woman. She had not seemed strange to anyone in the last week, some said they had not noticed, others did not remember. Only one employee, Martha, Wagon's secretary, said that on a couple of occasions her eyes and nose had seemed red. She told Mason that she had let it go, believing it to be just a seasonal cold. She herself had had a fever the week before.

      Mason avoided Andrew Lloyd's questions about her progress by asking if he could make a phone call. As long as he was on the suspect list, the fewer details he knew the less he could get in his way. Lloyd offered him the phone installed in his office, as if relieved that it was out of sight. After a few seconds, the switchboard connected him. April answered at the same time that Mason was pushing Lloyd away with his eyes. The man closed the door behind him.

      "Stone, private investigation. Good evening, this is April."

      "Mason."

      "Ah, boss!"

      "What are you still doing there?"

      "I was closing up. How's it going?"

      "Before you go, have there been any phone calls for me, any messages?"

      "Captain Martelli has been looking for you."

      "Splendid. What did he want?"

      "He wanted to talk to you. When I told him you weren't there he seemed upset."

      "I can understand that. The man is crazy about me. What time is he picking me up for the dance?"

      "He said to stop meddling in the Perkins case. If you keep it up, he's going to put you in the slammer."

      "Did you thank him for me?"

      "What kind of case are you on, boss?"

      "That's what I'm trying to figure out, April. Be careful going home."

      "You want me to wait for you? I can stay if you need me to."

      "Go ahead, thanks. I'll stop by the office tonight. I think I can manage on my own with the coffee."

      "I'll make some before I go."

Non-stop

      Elizabeth's train was the 19:37 to Manhattan, from Pelham Parkway to Bleecker Street Martha had been very thorough. Every night, except on Thursdays when the office closed in the early afternoon, she and Elizabeth walked a little way together, a couple of blocks, then Martha took Allerton ave., flanking Bronx Park, while Elizabeth continued to the underground.

      Mason thought the station would be crowded, but instead there were only thirty or so people on the platform, mostly middle-aged housewives and workers in their stained overalls, a few gentlemen hooded up to their chins, their wristwatches under their noses, checking the time, and kids who looked like emperors of the world.

      They were Elizabeth's people, the ones who crowned her every day.

      With whom had she exchanged a few words? With whom had she shared a smile? Who had given up their seat to her? Who had been fascinated by her beauty, who had been enraptured by her gentle ways?

      There was no way a girl like that could go unnoticed, he himself had not been able to escape her charms.

      After the arrival of the train, Mason let all the passengers’ parade before boarding: habits had to manifest themselves without his presence altering them.

      He stayed out of the way for the entire journey, holding on to the handles. The roll of the journey would certainly have knocked him out if he had leaned over. None of the passengers aroused his suspicions: with few exceptions, no one paid any attention to him. A train full of spirits invisible to each other. The day had extinguished sociability. Only the young people still had the energy for the hubbub. Perhaps it was age, perhaps it was life. There were a couple of squabbles over unused seats and one push too many, but all you could get out of it was frustration. People did not understand each other and had no intention of trying to do so. Individuals only a few palms apart were miles apart. Being born and dying alone was part of existence. Living alone was a choice.

      He thought not of himself but of Elizabeth. None of the people he had listened to had yet been able to tell him anything useful or meaningful, anything personal to help him enter his world, to see the hidden threads behind the curtain. Perhaps he had not asked the right questions. Perhaps he had not asked the right people. Samuel Perkins must have been one of them.

      "How much longer are you going to stare at me, soldier boy?"

      A guy with a neck set in broad docker shoulders had approached him from the back of the carriage, now only half full.

      "My mistake, mate." Mason still towered over him by a hat. It wasn't him his attention had been on for the last five minutes but a petty thief just behind whom he'd pinched trying to lighten an old lady's purse. He had managed to dissuade him without approaching her with his gaze.

      "I don't know what to do with your apology."

      "I didn't apologise."

      "Are you making fun of me?"

      "I wouldn't dare."

      "What's your stop?"

      "I live here, man. The third seat on the right is my bedroom. The fifth one on the left is where I relax on hard days. You're standing with your feet in my toilet right now, just for the record."

      The man went right up to his nose. He smelled of sweat and sardines and the impetus with which he spoke made him spit.

      "You think you're funny, soldier boy? I'll give you a pass on being a comedian."

      "I'll give it a rest, thanks. I wouldn't want any of your syllables to end up in my mouth."

      "You're good with words, let's see how good you are with actions." He was well placed, just wide enough to fill the space between himself and the corridor. Mason could have done a number of things to him: some would have interfered with his ability to walk, others would have made him forgetful.

      "Sorry, mate. Here, here's to me." Mason handed him a note and a smile. He still remembered how to do it. He wanted to get back to the car, stop by the office, maybe get a