Part 20 (1/2)

”Which train?” he asked me sourly. ”You've missed three already.”

”I'm waiting for a special train, officer.”

”Then please go and wait in the bar, Mr. Cornell.”

”Okay. I'm sorry I caused you any trouble, but I've a bit of a personal problem. It isn't illegal.”

”Anything that involves taking a perceptive dig at the U.S. Mail is illegal,” said the policeman. ”Personal or not, it's out. So either you stop digging or else.”

I left. There was no sense in arguing with the cop. I'd just end up short. So I went to the bar and I found out why he'd recommended it. It was in a faintly-dead area, hazy enough to prevent me from taking a squint at the baggage section. I had a couple of fast ones, but I couldn't stand the suspense of not knowing when my letter might take off without me.

Since I'd also pushed my loitering-luck I gave up. The only thing I could hope for was that the sealed forwarding address had been made out at that little town near the Harrisons and hadn't been moved. So I went and took a train that carried no mail.

It made my life hard. I had to wander around that tank town for hours, keeping a blanket-watch on the post office for either the income or the outgo of my precious hunk of mail. I caught some hard eyes from the local yokels but eventually I discovered that my luck was with me.

A fast train whiffled through the town and they baggage-hooked a mailbag off the car at about a hundred and fifty per. I found out that the next stop of that train was Albany. I'd have been out of luck if I'd hoped to ride with the bag.

Then came another period of haunting that d.i.n.ky post office (I've mentioned before that it was in a dead area, so I couldn't watch the insides, only the exits) until at long last I perceived my favorite bit of mail emerging in another bag. It was carted to the railroad station and hung up on another pick-up hook. I bought a ticket back to New York and sat on a bench near the hook, probing into the bag as hard as my sense of perception could dig.

I cursed the whole world. The bag was merely labelled ”Forwarding Mail”

in letters that could be seen at ninety feet. My own letter, of course, I could read very well, to every dotted 'i' and crossed 't' and the st.i.tching in Catherine's little kerchief. But I could not make out the address printed on the form that was pasted across the front of the letter itself.

As I sat there trying to probe that sealed address, a fast train came along and scooped the bag off the hook.

I caught the next train. I swore and I squirmed and I groaned because that train stopped at every wide spot in the road, paused to take on milk, swap cars, and generally tried to see how long it could take to make a run of some forty miles. This was Fate. Naturally, any train that stopped at my rattle burg would also stop at every other point along the road where some pioneer had stopped to toss a beer bottle off of his covered wagon.

At long last I returned to Pennsylvania Station just in time to perceive my letter being loaded on a conveyor for LaGuardia.

Then the same d.a.m.ned policeman collared me.

”This is it,” he said.

”Now see here, officer. I--”

”Will you come quietly, Mr. Cornell? Or shall I put the big arm on you?”

”For what?”

”You've been violating the 'Disclosure' section of the Federal Communications Act, and I know it.”

”Now look, officer, I said this was not illegal.”

”I'm not an idiot, Cornell!” I noted uncomfortably that he had dropped the formal address. ”You have been trailing a specific piece of mail with the express purpose of finding out where it is going. Since its destination is a sealed forwarding address, your attempt to determine this destination is a violation of the act.” He eyed me coldly as if to dare me to deny it. ”Now,” he finished, ”Shall I read you chapter and verse?”

He had me cold. The 'Disclosure' Act was an old ruling that any transmission must not be used for the benefit of any handler. When Rhine came along, 'Disclosure' Act was extended to everything.

”Look officer, it's my girl,” hoping that would make a difference.

”I know that,” he told me flatly. ”Which is why I'm not running you in.

I'm just telling you to lay off. Your girl went away and left you a sealed forwarding address. Maybe she doesn't want to see you again.”