Man on the Run

Four

She drove in, closed the garage, and ran up onto the front porch. I heard her key in the lock. She came in and quickly shut the door. She was wearing another sweater and skirt outfit, and a dark coat, and her face was slightly damp with the rain. She had a briefcase under her arm.

I started to say something, but she shook her head warningly. Coming close, she whispered against my ear. “There are some men out in the road, on foot. We’ve got to hurry. I came back to get you out of here.”

“How?” I asked. “And why?”

“There’s no time for questions. Put on your coat and take down that clothesline, while I empty the ashtrays and get rid of the food cans. We can’t leave any trace of you here.”

I put on the coat, gathered up my wallet, stuffed the tie in my pocket, and put away the line. She swiftly put the place in order and picked up the blanket I’d used for a poncho. She motioned for me to follow her. We went out in the garage. The light was almost gone now, and I could scarcely see the outline of the car. She unlocked the trunk. I could just make out that the spare tire had been removed, and that there were some blankets in it, and a topcoat and hat.

She put her lips against my ear. “Get in. I fixed it so you’ll be able to breathe in there.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Sanport. That’s the safest place for you now. Hurry up. They’re going to start searching these cottages.”

I climbed in and curled up on the blankets. She lowered the cover slowly to gauge the clearance, and then pushed it down until the latch clicked. I was locked in. It occurred to me now that it was too late, that I was completely at her mercy. All she had to do was drive up to the nearest patrol car or police station and hand me over like an oyster on the half shell, if she wanted. She’d be sticking her neck out a mile by helping me, and yet I’d accepted her story without question. But still, if she’d wanted to turn me in, she would have done it yesterday. Wouldn’t she? I didn’t know. Nothing made any sense now.

I heard the tapping of her heels as she went back in the house. In two or three minutes she returned, put something in the car, and opened the garage doors. She backed the car out. I could hear rain drumming on the metal just above my face. She closed the garage, and was just getting back in the car when I heard another splashing through the puddles in the road behind us. It stopped. Little chills ran up my spine as I heard the growl and chatter of a police radio. Men were getting out. They walked up to the side of the car.

“Miss Patton?” one of them asked.

“Why, yes,” she said coolly. “What is it?”

“We’re searching these cottages for that man Foley that’s hid out around here. Were you just inside there?”

“Just for a few minutes,” she replied. “I came back for these papers I forgot when I was out here yesterday. Why?”

“You didn’t see any sign he’d broke in?”

“No-o. Everything seemed to be all right.”

“Were you in all the rooms?”

“Yes,” she said. “But, wait. I did notice yesterday that somebody had broken a pane of glass in the garage window—”

“We know about that. Well, we won’t keep you any longer.”

They came back past the side of the car, got in the cruiser, and went on down the road. I sighed with relief. She backed on out of the driveway, stopped, and started ahead. In a moment I felt the car make a right turn. We were on one of the main streets that went up through town and bisected the highway. I began to hear other cars passing. Traffic grew heavier, and twice we stopped for traffic lights. I could hear pedestrians crossing. Then we turned right once more and began to go faster. We were on the highway. Then, abruptly, we slowed and began to inch along. We stopped and then started slowly ahead again. The road block, I thought. I heard a police radio again, not much more than an arm’s length away, and a man’s voice said, “All right, lady.” We began to gather speed. I exhaled slowly. We were beyond them.

I tried to guess where she was taking me, and why, but gave up. She’d said back to Sanport, and if I’d guessed all the turns correctly, that was the direction we were headed now, but what part of town she meant and what she was up to were a complete mystery. I tried to guess what time it was, and thought it must be after six. It was probably dark outside, judging from the impenetrable blackness here in the trunk. I could move a little, and there seemed to be plenty of air. I listened to the high whine of tires on wet pavement and hoped she was a good driver. Locked in the trunk of a flaming wreck would be a horrible way to die. Then I wondered if I didn’t have enough to worry about now, without borrowing more.

After what could have been anywhere from half an hour to an hour she slowed and made another turn. The sounds changed. There weren’t nearly as many cars hurtling past in the other direction. They dwindled until we seemed to be almost alone on the road, and then the road itself was different. We were off the pavement, and she was driving more slowly. I thought I heard surf. She stopped and cut off the engine. I could hear the rain again, drumming gently on the metal above me. Then she was inserting the key in the lock.

I climbed out. She had cut the headlights, but I could make out that we were on a strip of deserted beach with a light surf running up on the sand just beyond us. In back was the dark line of some sort of low vegetation like salt cedar. Rain fell gently on my head.

“Get the topcoat and hat,” she said, and ducked back in the car.

I took them out, closed the trunk, and got in beside her. I could just see the pale blur of her face and the blonde head. “Where are we?” I asked.

“West Beach, just south of the airport,” she replied. “We’re safe enough. On a night like this there won’t be many cars around.”

“You’re going to drop me here? Is that it?”

“I’m not going to drop you at all. That is, unless you want to be dropped. Do you?”

“Don’t make jokes,” I said. “But why are you sticking your neck out like this? They could make it plenty rough for you.”

“I know,” she said. “Here.” She took cigarettes from her purse and punched in the lighter on the dash. In the soft orange glow as she lighted hers, I could see the outline of her face and the alert and faintly cynical gray eyes.

“What’s the deal?” I asked.

“No deal,” she said coolly. “Except you might interest me. That’s possible.”

“Why didn’t you notify the police when you got away yesterday? I thought that’s what you did it for.”

“It was, naturally. But after I got away, I found I couldn’t. I’m not sure just why. Maybe it was because you saved my life—in spite of the fact I’m not positive it’s worth saving. Anyway, I went on home and said nothing about it, thinking I’d just let you hide out there until you had a chance to sneak out and get away.”

‘Then why did you come back?”

“Several reasons. In the first place, I started thinking about your story and began checking it. It’s interesting. And then it occurred to me that if you were caught in the cottage I might be implicated and charged with harboring a fugitive. After all, it could be proved I’d been out there after you’d broken in and therefore must know you were in the place and hadn’t reported it. So it would be safer to go all the way and get you out of there to a place where they couldn’t find you. Then this afternoon I read in the paper that they were thinking of searching all those cottages.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“My apartment,” she said. “Sanport is the last place they’d think of looking for you now, and you’ll be completely out of sight until your face heals. I’ve got you some more clothes. But we’re going to have to wait until after midnight before we try to sneak you in there. In the meantime, there are a lot of things I want to tell you.”

“And a couple I’d like to tell you,” I said. “I think you’re wonderful. And thanks a million.”

I made a move toward her. She put a hand in my chest. “Easy, boy. Don’t start that parked-car routine. We’re not teen-agers. And I said I wanted to talk to you.”

“All right. What is it?”

“First, I want to ask a question. How well do you think you can trust your friend Red Lanigan? Tell me something about him.”

”Why?” I asked.

“What do you know about Red?”

“Practically nothing, except that I talked to him today.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“No,” she replied. “I called him on the phone and merely said I was a friend of yours and that I might be able to help you. What I was doing, of course, was checking your story—or at least the part of it he would know. And he told it the same way. I think you’re telling the truth. I’m also beginning to believe there was somebody in Stedman’s apartment when you got there. And I gathered Lanigan thinks there’s a possibility of it also. What about him?”

“He’s a pretty nice guy. Used to be a pro-football player, linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers. I used to play a little football myself in high school, and I’m a nut on the pro game, so we got pretty chummy in the couple of years I’ve known him. That’s a neighborhood bar, and I lived up in the next block, you know. That is, when I was in port. So I was one of the regulars; you know how those neighborhood places are. Sometimes we go fishing together during my vacation. It was Red that stopped me from climbing on Stedman there in the bar last trip. Stedman used to hang out there quite a bit too, you know. Along with several other detectives. But what’s it all about?”

“I think he’s got something he wants to tell you. About a girl.”

“What girl?” I asked quickly.

“That’s it. He doesn’t know, except he thinks Stedman might have been involved with her.”

“Stedman was involved with plenty of girls. Including my wife.”

“I know,” she said. “Lanigan told me a little about him. And, incidentally, your wife is in Reno, in case you’ve wondered. The police checked through the Nevada police.”

‘’Why?” I asked.

“Trying to establish your motive. She admitted going out to nightclubs with Stedman a couple of times, but said that was as far as it went.”

“Sure, sure,” I said. “He was just a Boy Scout. Everybody knows that. But what about this other girl?”

“He didn’t tell me much. I gathered it was just an idea he had, but he wants you to get in touch with him. He suggested you call the pay phone there in the bar. He gave me the number. You don’t suppose that could be a trap? I mean, that the police would tap it?”

I thought about it. “No. I don’t think so. Red’s got too much to lose to put himself out on a limb by helping me hide from the police, but I don’t think he’d double-cross me. He wants to use the pay phone because it’s in a booth and he could talk without being heard all over the bar. Where could I get to a phone without being seen?”

“My apartment,” she said. “But it’ll be hours before we can get you in there without running into somebody.”

“Maybe a service station—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “I know. That Playland on the beach at the end of Tarleton Boulevard. It’s closed this time of year, but there are some booths on the sidewalk.”

“Do you mind?” I asked.

“Let’s go,” she replied. “Put on the topcoat and hat. And turn the collar up.”

It was less than ten miles straight up the beach, a sort of miniature Coney Island about five miles from downtown Sanport. We met few cars. The two amusement piers, closed down for the winter, were dark and foreboding in the rain. She slowed. On the left all the concessions were shuttered and the only illumination came from the street lights. I could see the shadowy arc of the Ferris wheel and the uneven dark tracery of the roller coaster.

“There’s one,” she said.

The white booth was on the left, near the entrance to a boarded-up chile parlor. She stopped and dug a slip of paper from her purse. “Here’s the number. And a dime, if you don’t, have change.”

I slid out of the car and crossed the street with my coat collar turned up and the hat brim slanted across my face. A car went past, but I was across ahead of its lights. When I closed the door of the booth its light came on. I hunched over the instrument, with my back to the sidewalk, feeling naked. I dialed.

“Sidelines Bar,” a man’s voice answered. I hoped it wasn’t one of Red’s friends on the Force.

“Red Lanigan there?” I asked.

“Just a minute.”I heard him call out “Hey, Red!” The jukebox was playing a Cuban number. I waited, listening to the rain on the overhead of the booth.

“Hello. Lanigan speaking.”

“Red, I hear you wanted me to call.”

“Who’s this? Oh—Bill, where the hell are you? I thought you were coming over.” I heard him push the door shut, and then he went on, talking quietly and rapidly. “Jesus, Irish, that was a man from Homicide that answered the phone. They were, just talking about you. Listen—don’t tell me where you are; I don’t want to know. Your girl friend got the message to you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything; I’m just trying to add up some wild guesses. I don’t think you did it or you wouldn’t have called back here the other night. I’ve tried to sell that to the police, but they won’t buy. You’re their boy all the way.”

“There was something about a girl?”

“I’m coming to that. If you didn’t do it, it had to be somebody who was already up there. Right? So maybe an ex-con, somebody he’d sent up. Or a stool-pigeon he was riding a little too hard or something. But the chances are since it was in his apartment, it was a woman. You know what his reputation was with babes. You still with me?”

“Keep firing,” I said.

“All right. This will bring you up to date, but it’s not very promising to start with. Stedman was killed with a bone-handled hunting knife. His. He usually kept it in the desk of his living room to open letters with. No fingerprints, of course. It was one of those carved handles. No sign anybody else had been in the apartment that night. Except you. God knows you left plenty of signs. The Homicide boys say the living room looked like the two of you had been playing polo on bulldozers. But no babes. I mean, no cigarette butts with lipstick, no highball glasses, nothing. No prints except his. He came in around eight-thirty p.m. alone, and didn’t go out again, as far as anybody knows. Nobody seen going into his place afterward, except you. That was around ten, or a few minutes past Nobody came out after you did. That’s definite.

“But of course there’s a rear entrance. You know that;your apartment has the same layout. And here’s what I’m going on. He was in here about eight that night, just before he went home, and he bought a bottle of champagne from me. Stedman never drank champagne, so he was expecting company.”

I was growing excited. “Do you know if he opened it?”

“No. It was still in the freezer compartment of his refrig. That killed it, as far as the boys from Headquarters were concerned. But still they could have been just about to open it when you broke up the party. Or maybe she came in the back way while you and Stedman were racking each other up out in the living room.”

“Stedman knew dozens of girls,” I said. “You got anybody in particular in mind?”

“Yeah. A real wild guess. She’s a new one. He picked her up about ten days ago, right here in the bar. And all she was drinking was champagne cocktails.”

“Who is she?”

“That’s just it; I don’t know. All I know is she ought to be against the law. Stacked? Brother! But never mind. What I’m driving at is that I saw him pick her up, and I got the impression that was exactly what she came in for. Not just for anybody, but for Stedman. And believe me, this babe could do better; she’d already brushed off at least two good bets before he got there.”

“Did you ever see her again?”

“Once. Three or four days later I happened to be passing the Wakefield around eleven a.m. just as she came out the front entrance. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t live there, so Stedman must have scored. But that’s not what I want to tell you. The beautiful part of it is that when she came in the bar I remembered I’d seen her once before. This is not a babe you ever forget. If you’re interested in her, I may know where you can find her.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Look. I don’t know the number, but there’s a little hash-house and coffee shop on Denton Street, over near the ship channel. That’s a kind of an industrial area in there, warehouses, small factories, like that. This beanery is right across the street from the offices of the Comet Boat Company. You know, they make those plastic outboard hulls and runabouts. That boat of mine we used to fish in is one of them. Well, I went over to their office about a month ago with a friend of mine that’s trying to get a franchise to handle the line and we stopped in this diner for a cup of coffee. And that’s where I saw the girl. It was around ten a.m. and she came in with three other girls. Typical coffee-break safari, so she works in an office somewhere in that area. Maybe even for Comet, I don’t know.

“If you see her you can’t miss her. She’s a real Latin type, dark brown eyes with a lot of moxie in ‘em, shiny black hair. She wears it long. Real white teeth, about five-five, one of those smoky-looking babes that you’re never quite sure whether they’re going to freeze you dead or burst into flame. Twenty-five, twenty-six, like that. No wedding ring. The three rimes I saw her she was wearing those dangly earrings.”

“Thanks a million,” I said. “Anything else?”

“One more pipe dream, and this is really reaching for it. Stedman was on the Robbery Detail, you know. He had partner named Jack Purcell, a real cool cat. One of those smooth ones without a nerve in his body. Well, you were probably at sea when it happened, but Purcell committed suicide just about three weeks ago. No note. No reason, that anybody could ever find out.”

“It was suicide?”

“What else could they call it? He was alone in the house while his wife was at the movies. He was shot through the head with his own thirty-eight, which was lying beside his body with his fingerprints on it. It was a contact wound, as they call it.”

“Well, it happens,” I said.

“But very seldom to guys like Purcell. I realize it’s goofy, but I keep thinking there may be a connection somewhere. Just after it happened a friend of mine told me he thought Purcell might have been stepping out. Said he saw him once in a car with a real dish of a brunette.” There was a pause. “Be careful, Irish,” he said and hung up.

I stepped out of the booth. A car was coming along this side of the street. I stopped, waiting for it to go past before I crossed. Then, as it passed a street light, I saw it was a police cruiser. I turned and started walking slowly along the sidewalk with my back to the oncoming lights. It came abreast of me. Then it stopped. My back congealed with sudden fear.

“You looking for somebody out here?” a voice asked.

It was all right; they couldn’t see my face in the darkness. I fought to make my voice sound casual. “No. Just taking a walk, officer.”

“In the rain? Where do you live?”

Before I could answer, a beam of light splashed full in my face. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. “Hey!” the voice barked. “Come back here!”

I heard the car door slam behind me, and running footsteps. The one still in the car was. trying to hit me with the spotlight. “Stop, Foley! We’ll shoot.”

I’d never make it to the corner alive. And if I did, the other one was following me in the car. I saw an opening between two concessions on my right, and shot into it. The rear of the buildings were in deep shadow, but I could make out the dark tracery of the Ferris wheel and some of the other rides. I cut sharply to the left, ran another fifty feet, and froze against the wall. Just beyond me was another corner. I inched quietly around it just as he shot into the open at the rear of the concessions, swinging the beam of the flashlight.

“Joe!” he yelled. “Drive on around and cover the street in back so he can’t get to the next block. And call in.”

The car went ahead and turned the corner. The one who was afoot had run-on back and was throwing the beam of his flashlight in wide arcs around the Ferris wheel. I slipped quietly along the narrow passage between two small buildings, and peered out into the beach boulevard. The Oldsmobile was gone. She’d managed to get away while they were occupied with me, and they probably hadn’t even noticed her. There was only one car in sight, some two blocks away. I shot across the street and over the edge of the far sidewalk. I landed on the sand, lost my balance, and fell. I was near one of the amusement piers, and the long expanse of beach stretched ahead of me, black and deserted in the rain. I got up and ran. I could hear sirens wailing behind me as police cars began pouring into the area. I ran until my side hurt and breathing was an agony.

I sat down at last with my back against the concrete of the seawall. Rain drummed on the brim of my hat. Now they knew I was back in Sanport. And I’d lost Suzy. I didn’t know her address or her phone number, and even if I could find another outside phone booth and look it up in the book, I couldn’t call her. I had a hundred and seventy dollars in my pocket, but I didn’t have a dime.