Man on the Run

Eleven

A switch clicked. Light streamed through the doorway beside me. I flattened against the wall on shaking legs.

“You’re sure she came in?” a voice asked.

“Yes, sir. About an hour ago. She’d lost her key and I had to give her another one.”

“Well, let’s take a look around.” This was still another voice.

There were three of them, apparently two policemen and the apartment house manager who’d let them in. They were moving now. It was the bedroom they’d be interested in, but one of them would check the kitchen. I could hear his footsteps approaching the door. I tried to open my mouth to call out to him not to shoot. It was too late now to show myself and surrender, and when I loomed on him suddenly, standing beside the door— No sound would come out. I couldn’t even speak. The footsteps were almost beside me now.

Then the other one called suddenly from the bedroom. “Hey! Look at this!”

The footsteps turned and retreated. I reached up and wiped the sweat off my face because it was stinging my eyes and peered around the door frame. An old man without a hat was standing just inside the bedroom, the other policeman was out of sight—probably over by the chest or dresser—and this one was just reaching the door. None of them were looking this way. I eased off the wall, tiptoed out, and started slipping toward the front door. The second cop had reached the bedroom door now and was looking in. I went on, walking on eggs.

I had less than ten feet to go. I fought the impulse to break into a run and stole a glance over my shoulder.

“Oh, good God!” The voice came from the back of the bedroom. The first cop had found her now. “Hey, Hoyt! Go call in. She’s been murdered!”

Hoyt said, “Okay,” and started to turn. I lunged toward the front door. I heard his breath suck in, and then the startled yell. “Foley!” I hurtled through the doorway, bent over, with my feet churning. “Stop! I’ll shoot!”

The gun crashed behind me, and at the front end of the hall a window pane exploded with a shower of glass. He shot again, and something tugged at the side of my topcoat, just under my left arm. It pulled me off stride. The stairs were only a few steps ahead of me and to the left. I dived, slid over onto them, rolled once, caught myself with a hand on the railing, and scrambled to my feet. I ran down three or more steps and jumped. I could hear their feet pounding down the hall above me. The glass front door was about twenty feet to my right. I made it and was pulling it open when the first one came into sight on the stairs. He shot. He hit the wood frame of the door right beside my face. Splinters flew out of it, and something stung my cheek. I was outside now. Their car was parked right in front of the door. I wheeled to the left and sped along the sidewalk. They came out behind me and one of them shot again. All the muscles in my back were drawn up in knots as I expected a slug to come tearing into me.

I reached the corner and cut left around it. There was no use trying to reach Suzy. They were too close behind me, and they’d get her too. Somewhere behind me the siren cut loose. One was still after me on foot while the other went around the block in the car to head me off. He’d use the car radio to call in, and the whole area would be surrounded in a few minutes. I heard the pounding footsteps come around the corner behind me. They stopped. He was going to shoot again. There were some trees along the sidewalk here, and I cut right and ran out into the street to put their trunks in the line of fire. He didn’t shoot.

Directly opposite me was the mouth of an alley. I sped into it. I couldn’t hear him any longer, but when I looked back he was still coming, about half a block away. Then I heard the siren up ahead? They had me bottled up. But the car went down the street past the mouth of the alley just before I came out. I crossed the street behind it and into a continuation of the alley in the next block. Just before I came out of it, I looked back again. He was no longer in sight. I emerged on the sidewalk. The street was deserted. But I could hear sirens. They were converging now from every direction.

My legs were weak and shaky now, and my side hurt badly. I fought to get my breath. It was useless; why not give myself up? They had me. They’d throw a ring of cars and men around an area eight or ten blocks square and search it inch-by-inch. They wanted me so badly now they could taste it. I’d been eluding them for a week, and now I’d killed a girl. Nothing could ever save me from that one. I’d gone to Randall Street looking for her. And when they finally found me I was in her apartment and she’d just been murdered.

I quit trying to think and started running again, operating on pure instinct. I turned left. In the next block there was another alley. I ducked into it. Rubber screamed behind me as a car made a turn into the street I’d just left. Up ahead there were more sirens. It was shadowy in the alley, with lights only at the ends, but there was no place to hide. I stopped and collapsed beside some garbage cans, sobbing for breath.

I was behind a two-story commercial building of some kind. Directly above me was a fire escape ladder that terminated about eight or nine feet from the ground. I stood up and leaped for it, and caught the bottom rung. I held on for a second, heaved up, and caught the next one. In a minute I was far enough up to get my feet on the lower rungs. I went on up, slid over the wall, and dropped onto the roof. I looked back. No one had come into the alley yet. I could stay out of sight up here until they gave up, until tomorrow night if necessary, and then get out. Then I looked around, and my heart sank.

Adjoining the building on the left was an apartment house some two stories higher, and there were windows on this side. When daybreak came, somebody would see me down here. I looked the other way. The building on the right was also two stories higher than this one, and going up the side of it near the front was a steel ladder. I pushed myself up and went over to it, took one more deep breath, and started to climb. When I was halfway up I looked down and saw that anyone in the street could see me if he happened to look up. A police car was stopped at the corner and two men in uniform were getting out. I tried to run up the ladder. My knees were shaky, and my arms felt like lead. I almost missed a rung with one hand, and held on, sobbing for breath. Then I was at the top. I tumbled over the wall and fell onto the gravel of the roof. I lay there, too spent even to move, and listened to the baffled snarls of sirens in the street four stories down.

Then a voice said, right above me, “Hey, move your head, will you? You’re on my ephemeris.”

Maybe I was beginning to crack up. It was very dark, because of the four-foot wall around the edge of the roof that shut out the light from the streets. Then a flashlight came on, squarely in front of my face. It had red paper tied across the lens and made nothing but a faint glow. A hand came down and pushed my head a little to one side and slid something from under it. It seemed to be a pamphlet of some kind.

I drew in another shaky breath. “I’ve got a gun,” I said harshly. “You make one sound, and I’ll shoot!”

“Good,” the voice muttered absently. “That’s fine. Hmmm—here we are. Declination thirty-two forty-seven.” The light went out.

I rolled over and managed to push myself to a sitting position with my back against the wall. Then I could make out the three shadowy legs of a tripod. Above it was something like a section of stovepipe, slanted at an angle toward the sky, and sitting on a little bench to one side of it was the dark figure of a man. He was bundled up in a lot of clothes against the cold and was hunched over the lower end of the stovepipe with his eye against the side of it. I knew what it was then. It was a telescope, and he was an amateur astronomer.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

He made no reply. He made a slight adjustment to the mounting of the telescope and went on looking. “Fine,” he muttered.

He wasn’t going to call the police; it was doubtful he even knew I was here. He was out there among the light years. I took out a cigarette and lighted it.

“If you’ve got to flash lights, go somewhere else,” he said irritably.

”Sure,” I said. I had my wind back now. I pushed to my feet and walked over to the rear of the roof to look down in the alley. A police car was crawling slowly through it. I sat down with my back against the wall, trying to think. I’d got soaked with sweat while I was running, and now I was beginning to be cold. I shivered.

How much longer could this nightmare go on? And what was the point of it now? There had been some hope at first, as long as there was a chance I might find out who had killed Stedman, but now everything was blown up. Frances Celaya had killed him, without a doubt, but I not only didn’t know why or have the slightest bit of proof, but I was also wanted for killing her.

There was one other person involved in it, but I didn’t have any lead to him at all except that he was as big as a horse and I thought he was a seaman. He’d taken care of that, all right. The only way to find out who he was had been through her, so he’d killed her and then made sure there was nothing in her apartment that could point to him in any way. He knew I had the purse with her identification in it and that I might eventually catch up with her. Or that sooner or later the police were going to catch up with me, and I just might sell them on the idea of at least investigating her. And there was always the possibility I might call the police. Then I stopped short.

That big drunk! The one who’d pushed open the door of the telephone booth! It was a thousand-to-one shot, but it would fit. Suppose he’d been following me, looking for a chance to kill me? But, wait. Where could he have picked up my trail? I’d lost him, along with the police, after I’d grabbed the purse. Then I saw it; it was absurdly simple. At her old Randall Street apartment house, of course.

He’d known there was a good chance I’d go for the address on the driver’s license, and he’d driven over there and waited. I’d come out running, so he didn’t have a chance to get me, but he’d followed us after I got in the car with Suzy. There’d been a car behind me in the street but I hadn’t paid any attention to it because I could see it wasn’t the police. He couldn’t get me there at the phone booths because the place was right out in the open, well lighted, and populated with shoppers from the supermarket. All he had was a knife, and it might take several minutes to do the job. But he’d pretended to be drunk and opened the door to get a good look at me. And then he’d gone into the other booth to eavesdrop.

By God, that was it! I tried to remember the exact sequence of the conversation with Brannan. I’d told him about the big killer and my hunch he might be a seaman, but that was before the drunk had shown up. And after he had gone into the other booth I hadn’t mentioned him at all. I’d simply said to Brannan, “How about spending a few minutes of your time trying to find the fugitive that did kill Stedman?” I’d even spelled her name and told him where she worked. It would have been obvious to anybody listening that I was talking to the police. I broke off and shuddered. I might as well have strangled her myself.

That was all right; I’d feel sorry about it some day when I had more time. She’d got me into this whole mess by killing Stedman and hanging it on me, and then she’d tried to butcher me too. From where I sat, she had it coming to her, and the only thing wrong with it was the fact that now I was hopelessly saddled with Stedman’s murder. And hers. I wished she could have lived long enough to do a little talking.

I sat up suddenly. I had to warn Suzy! That gorilla knew where she lived, and he might try to get her too. If he’d followed us from Randall Street to those phone booths, he must have tailed us all the way to the apartment. She was with me, so he would figure she was after him too. God, maybe it was already too late. And just how was I going to warn her? They had me treed like a raccoon on top of this building.

But maybe there was a pay phone in the building. Sometimes in cheap apartment houses where a lot of the tenants didn’t have phones of their own there were pay phones in the corridor on each floor. I sprang up and strode over to the big man with his telescope. He still had his eye glued to it.

My eyes were well accustomed to the darkness now, and I could see him somewhat better. He appeared to be about forty, rather moon-faced, heavy-set, and wide across the shoulders, but soft-looking. He wore a cap, a scarf around his neck, and one of those he-mannish coats that sports car fanatics went in for, a three-quarter length affair with wooden dowels for buttons.

“Is there a pay phone anywhere in the building?” I asked.

He made no reply.

I reached down, caught him by the arms, and hauled him to his feet “Pay attention, friend,” I said. “I’m talking to you.”

He stared at me in surprise and outrage. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see I’m busy? If you want to look at Saturn, go bother somebody else. I’m studying the Cepheid variables.”

I shook him. “Come back and join us for a minute. The planet I want to talk about is this one. Remember it? It has people on it. And they sometimes use things called telephones. Is there a pay phone down there in the corridors?”

“No,” he said.

“Have you got one in your apartment?”

“I have not,” he said irritably. “Now, will you please get out.”

“Not yet,” I said. “Peel off that bird-watchers’ coat and hand it here. And the cap.”

For the first time he looked slightly nervous. “Are you going to rob me?”

“No. I’m just trading coats with you. And since mine’s got a bullet hole in it I’ll give you twenty dollars to boot.”

“I never heard anything so ridiculous—”

“Get it off,” I said. “Or I’ll kick your telescope.”

He’d decided by now I was crazy, so he took it off and handed it to me, along with the cap. I handed him two tens and felt in the pockets of the gabardine for anything I’d left in them. I came out with a small, folded piece of paper. What—? Then I remembered. It was that girl’s name and telephone number I’d taken from Frances Celaya’s purse. I shrugged and dropped it in the pocket of my suit coat. He put on the gabardine, muttering to himself. “Twelve straight days of either clouds or turbulence, and then when you get one hour of good viewing—”

I put on his. The cap was slightly too large, but I could keep it on my head. He had sat down again, glued his eye to the telescope, and forgotten I even existed. I wondered if he was married. Well, it probably didn’t matter, I thought. The average wife might have a little trouble understanding how you could trade coats with somebody on the roof of a four-story building at two o’clock in the morning, but no doubt his had become accustomed to the fuzzier types of explanation. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time, dear. I was just sitting there studying the Cepheid variables, and this man came by—

I located the door and went down a flight of steps to the top floor. The corridors were poorly lighted and deserted. They were rather depressing with landlord-tan wallpaper and the smells of old cooking. I met no one at all. In the corridor on the ground floor, just inside the front door, there was a mirror hanging on the wall above a small table containing a potted plant of some kind. I stopped and checked myself. The coat and cap were fine, and I looked entirely different, but there was a scratch on my left cheek and a little streak of dried blood. I rubbed at it with a moistened forefinger and then my handkerchief, and got most of it off. I turned up the collar of the coat, tilted the cap at a careless angle, and sauntered out, feeling scared as hell. It might work or it might not, but I had to get to a phone, even if they caught me.

The streets were almost completely deserted. That made it even worse; anybody moving at all was conspicuous. There wasn’t a police car in sight at the moment, however. I went up to the corner and turned left. Straight ahead about fifteen or twenty blocks I could see the tall buildings of the downtown area. If I could make it, that would be the easiest place to find a phone at this time in the morning.

I was crossing the intersection when I saw a squad car turn into the street about three blocks up. It stopped, the men in it apparently talking to the uniformed cop on the corner. Then it shot ahead, coming toward me. They’d seen me. The only way to do it was play it very cool, no matter how scared I was. If they actually stopped and asked me for identification, of course, I was done for, but they might not if I didn’t show any nervousness. I went on at the same pace, stepped up on the curb, and paused to light a cigarette. They slowed, made the turn, and crawled past me on the other side of the street. I could feel the eyes on me. I glanced briefly in their direction, took a puff on the cigarette, and kept on. They went on past. I felt weak all over. They turned right at the next corner and disappeared.

I made a full block before I had to go through it again. This one was coming, toward me, along this side of the street. They saw me, came on faster, and then slowed. They were going to stop. Then their radio said something in a staccato burst of sound, and they shot ahead, cutting in the siren. When they were a few blocks away I stopped and listened. I could hear three sirens closing in on some place back there. I sighed. Somebody had probably reported a prowler, and now some of the heat was off me. I started walking faster. I was three blocks away and then five. After ten I stopped counting. I was out of the area now.

I crossed Pemberton Avenue, in the edge of downtown. The Greyhound bus terminal was only a block away on my right. The bars were all closed now, and that would be the nearest place with phone booths. Should I risk it? They had men watching it. But they’d never take a second look at me in this crazy sport coat. I was safer in a crowd, anyway, and the bus station always had people in it. I turned and hurried toward it.

Fifteen or twenty people were boredly reading papers or trying to sleep sitting up on the benches, and some more were drinking coffee at the lunch counter further back. The phone booths were to the left of the lunch counter. I stepped into the first one, dropped in a dime, and dialed. The phone rang. And then again. After awhile I was conscious that I was counting the rings and that I was very scared. She’d helped me, and I may have got her killed.

I hung up. Now what? If I could get out there, I couldn’t get in. If she were still out somewhere, there was no way I could warn her. But maybe she’d got bored and started on that vodka again. I’d wait a few minutes and try again.

Then I remembered that phone number I’d got from Frances Celaya’s purse. I hauled it out of my pocket and looked at it. GL 2-4378 Marilyn. From the way the paper was creased, it had been in her purse for months, and I didn’t see how it could have anything to do with Stedman, but this was all we had left so I might as well try it

I dropped in a dime, and dialed a number. A man answered.

“Is Marilyn there?” I asked. “Yeah, she’s here,” he replied.

I came alert; this might be something after all. “Could I speak to her, please?”

“What’re you, a damn wise guy?” he snarled, and hung up.

I stared blankly at the receiver, and put it back on the hook. Maybe this was the way you cracked up; things just quit making any sense. No doubt it was perfectly logical—

I stopped, wondering how I could have been so stupid. I should have known it all the time. Ducking around to the side of the booth I grabbed the directory. I flipped to the yellow pages, found what I was looking for, and ran my finger down the telephone numbers of the watchmen’s shacks on the Municipal docks.

Pier Five was GLenwood 2-4378. And Marilyn was a boat.

A shrimper or commercial fisherman, I thought. Pier Five was where they tied up. Now we were getting somewhere. Then I thought of Suzy again, with that cold uneasiness inside me. Before I went out I had to try once more. I dropped the book, and when I turned to go back in the booth I was looking directly at a man at this end of the lunch counter. He had a cup of coffee and a newspaper in front of him, but his eyes were on my face. Then he looked away and picked up his paper. His face was vaguely familiar, and a little whisper of warning ran along my nerves. But, hell, nobody would recognize me in this sporty outfit. I entered the booth and dialed Suzy’s number. The phone rang and went on ringing, but there was no answer. The fear grew worse. I turned my head, and the man at the counter was looking toward the booth with a thoughtful expression on his face. I recognized him now. He was a detective, one of Stedman’s friends I’d seen several times at Red Lanigan’s bar.