Man on the Run

Six

It was like waking up in another world. I sat up and looked around, almost as stupidly as if I had a hangover. In spite of the oversized bed, it was a very feminine room. Some light sifted in through the pale rose curtains that covered the wall at my left. The rug was a soft ivory in color, and the sliding doors of the clothes closet were full-length mirrors. The bed itself had a satin-covered headboard, a gold spread folded down at the foot of it, and a Dacron comforter. At either side were small night tables that held matching rose-shaded lamps with ebony bases. On the one at my left there was a white telephone, and tossed carelessly across it a black eyeshade of nylon or silk with an elastic band. It was warm and very quiet except for the faint and occasional sounds of traffic somewhere below. Across from me, by the dressing table with its wing mirrors and clutter of jars and bottles, was the door to the next room. It was closed..

It opened in a few minutes, and she peered in. When she saw I was awake, she smiled, and came on in. She was wearing black Capri pants and a white shirt, and she was barefoot. The light hair was carelessly tousled, and she looked as big and vital as a Viking’s dream.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Rum-dum,” I said. “As if I had a hangover.”

“You probably have. I think I poured a pint of whisky into you.”

“I really went out, didn’t I?”

“You’re lucky you’re not dead,” she said. “No food for four days except two cans of corned beef, and then nine hours soaked to the skin in freezing weather.” She sat on the side of the bed and put her hand on my forehead. “Any fever?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Where am I?”

“Seventh floor of the Lancaster Apartments, 2110 Beechwood Drive. Apartment 703. It’s four-thirty p.m. Friday, and you’ve been asleep for eleven hours. You’re safe here. Nobody saw you come in, and we can’t be heard through the walls.”

“Is there any chance they saw you last night?” I asked.

She shook her head. “They were too intent on you. And even if they did, they couldn’t have got my license number. I didn’t turn my lights on until I was a block away. According to the morning papers, they don’t believe now you ever left town at all.”

“What does A.H. stand for?”

“Amelia Holly Patton. It’s my real name, but nobody knows it except for a few close friends, so it’s as good as having an unlisted number.”

“That was a smart trick,” I said.

“It was the only way I could think of to tell you without telling him. I was pretty sure if you’d tried to find me in the book you’d catch on.”

I caught her shoulders and pulled her down toward me.

“Just a minute, you Irish hedge-hog,” she said. “The way you scratched me with that beard—”

“Where?” I asked.

There was cynical amusement in the gray eyes just above mine. “You know damned well where. After you collapsed with your head on my breast, I went on holding you for an hour before you quit shaking.”

“That was a wonderful system you had for thawing me out.”

“Not exactly original,” she said. “But effective. However, you’re not cold now.” “That’s what I mean,” I said.

“You need rest. And food. You should be in a hospital—”

I pulled her head down and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and soft against mine, and then eager, and finally urgent. I tried to unbutton the shirt, but she was lying across my chest. She tightened her arms around my neck. It was like being devoured. Then she turned a little and began tearing at the buttons of the shirt herself. She slid out of it and tossed it on the floor. She wore no bra.

“See?” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

”I mean I’m sorry I was asleep. Does it hurt?”

She smiled. “Not particularly. I’m just making a big thing of it, looking for sympathy.”

“I don’t know about sympathy, but if you could use some admiration—”

“I guess the Irish are hard to kill,” she said.

I took her in my arms and kissed her again. She made an eager little sound in her throat, and when I began trying to find the zipper of the other garment she was wearing she took my hand in hers and showed me which side it was on.

* * *

She went out into the other room. I heard music come up somewhere in the background, and then she appeared in the doorway with a pack of cigarettes. She lighted one and put it between my fingers.

“Don’t let go of it all at once,” I said. “Wait’ll I brace myself.”

She smiled. “Poor Irish. Life is just one beating after another.”

I studied the sensation of having melted and wondered if I’d ever again have strength enough to move. I tried to raise my head, and dizziness attacked me. She lighted a cigarette for herself and stood looking down at me. She had nothing on at all, but appeared completely unconcerned about it. I didn’t believe I had ever seen as much statuesque and unflawed blondeness collected in one area before.

“You’re lovely,” I said. “How tall are you?”

“Five-ten,” she replied. “Isn’t it awful?”

“No. Magnificent is the word I was reaching for.”

She lay down beside me. “Blarney.”

“No. I’m too weak to lie about anything. But why are you helping me this way?”

“Why do you keep harping on that?” she asked. “I told you once. You interest me.”

“That doesn’t seem like much of a reason.”

“It’s relative,” she said. “I knew an old man once who sat on a bench in front of a library for eight months trying to figure out why pigeons bob their heads when they walk.”

“Did he ever find out?” I asked.”No. But it kept him from screaming.”

“Bunk,” I said. “A girl with everything? Looks, build, vitality, brains—”

“Did you ever read a volume of first chapters? But never mind; I told you there was no way to explain it to a non-writer, so let’s get back to you for a sort of preliminary brainstorming session. Do you have any money?”

“About one hundred and seventy dollars.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all I’ll ever get my hands on. There may be some in the checking account, and there’s some savings and a few shares of Southlands Oil Company stock that all add up to about six thousand, but there’s no way I can get it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I could lend you money, but that’s not the big problem, anyway. If you’re to escape for good, it’s a matter of changing your whole identity and way of life. Naturally, you can never go to sea again.”

“It won’t work,” I said. “Going to sea is the only thing I like or know how to do. I’d be like a fish with feathers, trying to live ashore. That’s what my wife and I fought about all the time.”

“All right, let’s drop that for the moment and study another possibility. I don’t think you killed Stedman, so maybe we could find out who did. What did Lanigan have to say?”

I told her.

“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. She blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and studied it. “That has a definitely intriguing ring. Especially the coincidence about Stedman’s partner. What was his name again?”

“Purcell,” I said. “Jack Purcell.”

She nodded. “I’m pretty sure I remember reading about it. And that girl sounds interesting.”

“There are probably several thousand good-looking brunettes in a city this size,” I said. “And maybe she didn’t have anything to do with it anyway.”

“You never find out why pigeons bob their heads by dismissing it as an optical illusion. The thing to do is try to find her. But you can’t even think of going out of here until that black eye fades.” She raised herself on an elbow and looked at my face with critical appraisal. I studied the interesting curves this gave her breasts and put my hand under one.

She smiled and shook her head. “The forever undefeated, or at least hopeful. But about that eye—it’ll probably be another three days, at least. They have some very sharp descriptions of you, and the red hair is bad enough, along with your height, but those bruises are like carrying a sign with your name on it.”

“I’m going to have to do something about clothes.”

“That’s all taken care of,” she said. “Except I’ll have to buy you another hat and topcoat. The ones you had on last night are in the descriptions now. Let’s see—the coat was tweed, so I’ll get you a tan gabardine—”

“Where did you get the others?”

“Courtesy of my ex-husband. Or maybe I should say the more recent of my two ex-husbands. When he moved out, he left a trunk of his personal effects in the storeroom of the apartment house and never has sent for it. I went down yesterday and broke into it to see what I could find, since he’s about your size. There were two suits, both conservative, dark gray flannel, and a lot of shirts and other things. And I brought up some pajamas and a flannel robe for you to wear around the apartment. They’re in the closet.”

She got up and went into the bath. I could hear her in the tub. After awhile she came out wearing a panty girdle and bra and sat down at the dressing table to put on her stockings.

“There’s a safety razor in the cabinet,” she said.

“Thanks,” I replied. I sat up on the side of the bed. Weakness and vertigo hit me and I almost fell over. I managed to prop myself upright, and watched her pull the nylon up a smooth and rounded thigh and clip it to the little tabs on the girdle. “You’re an exciting girl.”

She rotated the ankle and tugged it straight. “Regroup,” she said. “You’ve had all the excitement you can take.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Shopping,” she said. “We’ve got to get some food in you before you collapse. And I have to go to the library. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

She went to the clothes closet and put on a slip and a knitted dress. Sitting at the dressing table, again, she slipped on her shoes and applied some lipstick. “Tell me about your wife,” she said, glancing at me in the mirror. Weren’t you in love with her?”

”Sure,” I said. “But we wore it out fighting. She wanted me to quit the ship and get some kind of job ashore. But hell, there’s nothing I could do ashore that would pay anything like the same money. I couldn’t stand it, anyway.”

“What was she like?”

“Nice, but hot-tempered. A redhead with one of those complexions you can almost see through. She’s a couple of years older than I am. A nightclub singer. Not a very good one, I guess, and when I met her she wasn’t singing in very good clubs, but she hated to give it up. She was married once before.”

She frowned thoughtfully, checking the lipstick. “If it was all over and you were about to break up anyway, why did you want to fight Stedman? That was childish.”

“I know, I know. It was stupid. But I just didn’t like the smug bastard.”

She clucked chidingly. “De mortuis—”

“What’s that?”

“The smug bastard’s dead. Call him something else.”

“All right.”

She removed a grayish fur coat from the closet and draped it across her shoulders. “Don’t get absent-minded and answer the phone if it rings. Or the buzzer downstairs.” She went out.

I made it to the bathroom on legs like overcooked spaghetti and had a shower. I found the safety razor, put in a new blade, and shaved. My face was gaunt, as if I’d lost ten pounds in the past four days. The puffy place on my jaw was better now and was hardly noticeable, but the eye was still discolored even though some of the swelling was gone. I put on the pajamas and robe she’d told me about and went out in the living room.

It was a large room, carpeted in gray, with a long picture window on the left. The rose-colored curtains were closed, but they let in a little light, and when I parted them slightly and looked out I saw the building faced a park. The weather had turned clear now, but it was sunset, and the bare trees looked cold. I turned away and switched on a light.

There was a screened fireplace of Roman brick beside the window, and the whole wall next to the bedroom was lined with books. Opposite the window, near the front door, was a long blond console that appeared to be a hi-fi system, and three watercolors in heavy, bleached wood frames. The sofa and chairs were lightweight and modern-

There were two doors at the far end of the room. I went over and looked in the one on the left. It was a small study, lined solidly with books except for one window that was covered with dark green drapes. There was a desk that held a covered typewriter. A shaded lamp was suspended above it.

The other door led into a small dining room, and just beyond it was a long, rather narrow kitchen. I went in and switched on the light, feeling faint with hunger. The only thing edible in the refrigerator was a piece of cheese and half a bottle of milk. I ate a slice of the cheese and drank a glass of milk. Then I ransacked the cupboards. I found some vermouth and gin and an unopened can of salted peanuts. Locating a pitcher, I broke out some ice cubes, mixed a batch of Martinis, poured one, and put the rest in the refrigerator. Opening the can of peanuts, I carried them out into the living room.

Something dropped on the rug outside the door. It sounded like a newspaper. I put down the Martini and peanuts and listened for a moment. Then I peered out. The corridor was empty, and the evening paper was lying just under my feet. I snatched it up and closed the door. Switching on a reading light at the end of the sofa, I took a sip of the Martini and spread it open. I was across two columns of the front page.

SEAMAN CONTINUES

TO ELUDE DRAGNET

“Feb. 21 . . . Russell Foley, local seaman sought in connection with the slaying last Tuesday of police detective Charles L. Stedman, was still at large this afternoon in spite of an intensive search now going into its third day. Police are convinced he is still in the city, and all bus and railway terminals and the airport are being closely watched . . .”

The story went on with an account of the two times I’d been seen last night. The description was chillingly accurate, right down to the black eye. My apartment was being watched. If I stepped outside the next few days they’d have me within an hour. They were making a block by block search of all cheap hotels and flophouses. They knew I’d holed up somewhere or I’d have frozen to death last night. The police commissioner and Chief of Police were promising action. If they got their hands on me it was. going to be rough; I was a cop killer, and I’d been making a city’s whole police force look silly for four days.

On the second page was a rehash of the fight and of the arrival of the police to find Stedman dead with the hunting knife in his throat. It was substantially the same as I’d pieced it together from Red’s account and that on the radio, except that the patrolmen hadn’t forced the door. The manager had let them in. There was no mention of anyone else at all. I was it. All they had to do was get their hands on me and the whole thing was solved. And all that was standing between me and them at the moment was a girl who was interested in me because she was bored.