small voice, BIG MAN By STEWART PIERCE BROWN Illustrated by SCHELLING _No one had heard of Van Richie for years. Now his songs whispered ghostly through the air, and did their work of love and hate._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories December 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Car 43 cruised slowly up Eighth Avenue. At the wheel, Patrolman Vince Ferraro thought mixed thoughts about Patricia Ann Burke. Beside him, Sergeant Gus Kleiber watched the city in a bored and automatic way, his mind on Augustus Junior, about to take his bar exams. The radio crackled in a low key. The evening traffic was light, few people were on the streets. The Sergeant turned heavily in his seat. "You hear that?" "What?" "A guy singing. Over the radio." * * * * * Ferraro shook his head. He pulled over and they listened. Routine police calls squawked from the speaker. Kleiber frowned. "No, this was singing. It--there!" Faintly behind the official monotone they heard a man's voice singing. "You know who that sounds like? Van Richie." "Van Richie? Come on. He's dead." "Could be a record. Anyway, he ain't dead. He made a movie here a while back." "Ten years ago." "Yeah, but he ain't dead." "He isn't singing on the radio, either." Kleiber stared at the radio. The singing had faded out. Ferraro eased the car back into the stream of traffic and his thoughts back to Patricia Ann. They were interrupted again as he drove past the Garden. "I tell you," Kleiber said, "that was _Van Richie_." Oh, great, Ferraro thought. Now he won't be able to let up on _that_ for a week. * * * * * "It's cold in here," the girl said. The man at the easel didn't answer. She hugged herself and tucked her feet under her, frowning petulantly. "Alex?" "Put a sweater on," the man said without looking away from his painting. His voice echoed in the huge loft. "I've _got_ one on." "There's a blanket there." With a sigh, the girl lay back on the bed, pulling the blanket around her. She draped one arm over her eyes, shielding them from the banks of fluorescent lights. Under her ear, on the not-very-clean pillow, she tucked a tiny pocket radio. In the corner, water dripped from a tap into the chipped basin. Dimly the sounds of the traffic on Tenth Avenue floated up to them. Almost an hour passed. When she looked up, the man was standing back, frowning at the canvas. "That's enough for now," she said gently. He dropped the brushes on the taboret and wiped his hands absently, his eyes on the half-finished painting. "Alex?" "Hmm?" "Keep me warm." Only then did he look at her. He came and stood over the bed, faintly smiling. She lifted a corner of the blanket like a tent flap.