Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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The platform was deserted and Michael opened the door and peered into the dim waiting room. It was empty.

“That’s funny,” he muttered.

Rousing a sleepy taxi-driver, he asked if there had been anyone waiting for the train. The taxi-driver considered—yes, there had been a young man waiting, about twenty minutes ago. He had walked up and down for awhile, smoking a cigarette, and then gone away into the darkness.

“That’s funny,” repeated Michael. He made a megaphone of his hands and facing toward the woods across the track shouted aloud.

“Charley!”

There was no answer. He tried again. Then he turned back to the driver.

“Have you any idea what direction he went.”

The man pointed vaguely down the New York road which ran along beside the railroad track.

“Down there somewhere.”

With increasing uneasiness Michael thanked him and started swiftly along the road which was white now under the risen moon. He knew now as surely as he knew anything that Charley had gone off by himself to die. He remembered the expression on his face as he had turned away and the hand tucked down close in his coat pocket as if it clutched some menacing thing.