101 Mystery Stories

51 The Night Runner Nedra Tyre

Hugh was running through the early morning dark. He wasn’t running as fast as he used to, stumbling, sometimes sprawling in his exuberance over having once more got by without the slightest danger of being caught. His gait now was about the same as the jogger a block ahead of him.

Everything was all right. Nothing bothered him. You’re okay, Hugh, he assured himself.

Hugh liked his name. He had given it to himself. He’d had lots of names given to him by other people, mostly foster mothers. Foster fathers worked all day and at night bellowed for you to be quiet, for God’s sake, and they didn’t call you anything. But foster mothers were hell on names. You remind me of Uncle Charles. You don’t mind if I call you Charles, do you? What could he say? How could he object? And then before he knew it, he was Charlie or Chuck.

But not for long, because nobody wanted him. Sullen they would call him to his face, or he doesn’t appreciate a thing anybody does for him, they would say when they complained to the social worker. She would come to get him and he’d be whisked off to another place where he was Christopher because that was Papa’s name and if the foster mother had ever been able to have a son — and tears spilled down her blouse — she would have named him Christopher for papa. But Christopher didn’t stay Christopher — it was Chris before the first day was over and every now and then it was Christy. At the next place the foster mother had said, you’re as bull-headed as cousin Rudolph, and then he would be Rudy or Dolphie for a while.

Even as a kid he liked to prowl around the neighborhoods or venture into town and most people on the streets or in the stores or poolrooms called him You. Come here, You, or You put that back, or listen, You, let me give you a good piece of advice, unless you straighten out and change your ways you’ll end up a hardened criminal. He didn’t like being called You, and then he realized that Hugh was very close to You and couldn’t be chopped in half or turned into something that sounded creepy like Dolphie or Christy. So when he was finally rid of foster mothers and on his own at 15, yet lying that he was 18 and getting away with it because he was so tall, he told everyone his name was Hugh.

As he jogged along he almost missed her because he had been thinking about his name. He stopped and retraced a few steps, then turned the corner and raced to catch up. The rest was simple. She didn’t know what had hit her, but Hugh had struck her hard enough to knock her to the pavement, and when she became aware of the attack all she thought of was her shoulder bag. She grasped it to her bosom as if she held a baby about to be snatched from her. He didn’t want the bag or any of the junk crammed inside — for God’s sake he earned good money and didn’t want a penny from creeps like her.

He struck her again when she squirmed to get up, and he left her. He had rounded the corner when he heard her begin to scream. Well, she ought to save her breath. He could tell her that no one would come to answer her call of distress. People were still asleep or in the kitchen making coffee or in the bathroom, and radios and TVs were turned on high. Or if anyone did hear her he or she would say, that’s some drunk screaming and even if it’s somebody being mugged or murdered, it’s none of my business.

Hugh religiously checked the papers — maybe he was like athletes who wanted to read about their exploits. Sometimes during his early months in Lexington he hadn’t been aware of exactly where he had been and he had given himself credit for attacks that someone else had made, but not any longer. Now he knew every nook and cranny of the city, every house by number, what potholes threatened, and the bus schedules that deposited easy prey on dark corners.

When he read the names of the women he had attacked he was pleased. Well, well, he would think, it’s nice to be formally introduced. I didn’t catch your name at first but there was something about you, about any woman walking by herself that reminds me of my foster mothers. I never had the chance to get even with them, but this goes a long way to make up for what I should have done to them.

There hadn’t been anything even resembling a close call. No one was interested in what happened to women out alone in the early morning. Not that the time of day had much to do with it. Streets in certain neighborhoods could be as empty at high noon as in the early morning or late at night.

Only one incident had ever jolted him, and even now his breath grew short when he thought of it. He wanted to brace himself against the siding of a house or hold onto a porch railing or even sit down on a curb when he realized what might so easily have happened. He could have killed Ruth. He could have snuffed out her life. Oh, he wasn’t a murderer, he just wanted to give women a scare that they’d never forget. But Ruth seemed so frail and delicate to him, though she insisted she was average size.

Ruth. He liked that name. He liked it as much as he liked the name of Hugh. He was glad she was named Ruth and called Ruth, not like the other girls he’d briefly known who called themselves Candy or Julie or Debbie or Merry or Jinks or Deedee or Mimi or some ridiculous name that was suitable only for a poodle or a chihuahua or a budgie.

It had been the dead of winter when 6:30 in the morning was as dark as midnight and he had seen her and had jogged to catch up with her. Another four steps and he would have grabbed her, but she dropped something and looked back to see him almost upon her and he reversed his plans and had stooped down and handed her the book she was grappling for. She had thanked him. They were beneath a street lamp and he looked closely at her and became angry at what could have happened, at what had almost happened. He became stem. “You shouldn’t be out alone. It’s not safe.”

“I know,” she said. “But I’ve been lucky, at least so far.”

Hugh wondered where she had come from and where she was going. This was his neighborhood. He had a room four blocks to the east at the Y and he worked in a bar called Frank’s Place three blocks to the north. There was a hospital only a short distance away. Didn’t he remember glimpsing white shoes and white stockings? She was wearing a heavy coat with a hood pushed far back that revealed hair cropped close or perhaps it was long and combed neatly to her skull. Obviously she worked in the hospital.

She didn’t realize what danger she was in because she could put him in danger. He must be wary of another encounter with her. Coming upon her in the darkness he must not attack her, now that she had seen his face and could identify him. She had to be out of the way and in the hospital before he could safely begin his prowling. He must know exactly where she was. Perhaps she drove to work and parked her car as near the hospital as she could find a place. Or she might live nearby since the whole area was filled with roominghouses and apartment buildings in poor repair. For several mornings Hugh searched the neighborhood hoping he would see her leave her residence. On Friday he was lucky.

She recognized him immediately, as he had known she would, but she didn’t greet him and left it up to him to justify his presence.

“Let me walk with you to work.”

“I like walking alone.”

Anyway, she didn’t dismiss him and he walked along with her, and though their paces matched, the entire width of the sidewalk separated them.

At the hospital entrance she took no formal leave but gave a small wave and rushed up the steps through the swinging doors, and he knew that he was now free to jog down the street on his own exploits.

One morning he was surprised at his reaction when she didn’t appear. It occurred to him that she might have left town forever, and instead of being reassured by the likelihood of her permanent absence he thought how nice it was to wait for her and to walk with her to the hospital.

The next day she was back but offered no explanation for her absence. They didn’t talk during their walk together and it was many weeks before she even told him her name.

Not long after she had said her name was Ruth she invited him to supper. “You’ve been so nice to look after me and I want to show my appreciation. Please come to supper some night — that is, if you’d like to.”

“I work every night. I can’t come to supper.”

“Oh,” she had answered. He couldn’t tell whether she was sorry or not.

But two days later she told him that she had every other Sunday off and couldn’t he come to lunch some Sunday.

“Sure,” he had answered, “any Sunday you say.”

A few minutes later when he had left her at the hospital entrance he had run slowly for two blocks and had seen a woman walking alone on a side street. He caught up with her easily and knelt briefly at her ankles as if he were tying his shoelace, then he jerked her feet from beneath her and she fell on her face.

Hugh and Ruth were married in June, and Millie Watts, a nurse’s aide like Ruth, and Joe Farmer, a waiter at the bar, were their witnesses. Nothing had ever been further from Hugh’s mind than marriage, yet there he was, full partner in a Mr. and Mrs. team. Ruth gave up sharing a flat with Millie and Hugh moved out of the Y. They rented a small back apartment which they repainted light yellow — it took three coats — but they couldn’t do anything about the stains in the bathtub or the uneven floors. Anyhow, they liked staying in the neighborhood they were used to and being within walking distance of their jobs — five blocks from the hospital and two from the bar. As always, Hugh walked to work with Ruth.

They weren’t together a great deal as Ruth worked in the daytime and Hugh worked at night.

Even when they were together, Ruth and Hugh didn’t have much to say to each other. Ruth was an only child, born late in her parents’ marriage after they had given up hope of having a baby. Her father and mother were both dead. Her mother had been a little frail but not really sick a day in her life, yet she died a week after Ruth’s father — she couldn’t live without him.

“And you, Hugh, what about your family?”

“I never had one — just lots of foster homes.”

“Poor Hugh.”

No one had ever called him “poor Hugh” before and he didn’t answer Ruth because he didn’t know how to answer her.

At first Ruth had told Hugh a little about her patients, but he didn’t encourage her — the last thing in the world he wanted to hear about was sick people. Ruth remarked almost apologetically, as if it were a failing, that she had liked to take care of people ever since she was a little girl. Something drew her to the helpless. Her grandmother had become feeble and needed constant attention, and after she had died Ruth’s father had a stroke. Her mother was squeamish about tending him, so Ruth had quit school to look after him. That and the lack of money was why she was a nurse’s aide instead of a nurse. No matter, there was plenty of time and she intended to take night courses to finish high school and then begin nurse’s training. Not that there was any hurry — she was happy as she was. Hugh had no words to reply to that last remark. His answer was a kiss.

Living with Ruth hadn’t changed Hugh except to make him feel more alert and alive. He enjoyed his jogging exploits more than ever and his quiet existence with Ruth made him more daring. Until after his marriage he had never followed a woman inside an apartment house because there wasn’t any telling what he might face. Some other tenant might enter or leave and there would be a witness to his attack. But every now and then, as a special act of daring, he attempted it, and always with complete success. On occasion he was even bold enough to attack someone in the daylight. Sometimes after their early supper, while Ruth did the dishes and some laundry or wanted to watch TV, Hugh left the house to spend an exhilarating hour or so before he reported for work.

Ruth was always asleep when Hugh got home from the bar. He could look at TV, take a shower — nothing bothered her at all. She didn’t even turn when he climbed into bed beside her. Knowing that she wasn’t waiting anxiously for him, he sometimes took a long walk after work. He was giddy from all the noise and talk and smoke and the rush during the last half hour. The exercise always restored him and it was especially satisfying when he came upon a woman all alone. At 1:30 in the morning she damned well deserved what she got.

They didn’t bring their work home with them. Ruth didn’t tell him about the emergencies or deaths at the hospital and he didn’t talk about the bar patrons. Even now and then Ruth phoned the hospital about the condition of a patient, and one night when he was leaving for work she had called about a Mrs. Moore. Then when she saw that Hugh had put on his jacket she set the receiver down and kissed him goodbye.

Ruth’s patients meant nothing to Hugh. He got enough of other people’s trouble at the bar. not that he let it bother him. He didn’t pay much attention. Well, maybe he shook his head or mumbled that’s tough, but he didn’t intend to get involved just because a guy had bought a bottle of beer or a shot or two of bourbon. He didn’t give one faint damn about what had happened to them.

One night he and Ted were leaning against the counter while all the customers were occupied with their drinks.

“Go on. Hugh.” Ted said. “Let me take care of this. Take as long a break as you want. I owe it to you for handling it all by yourself the other night.”

Hugh thanked Ted and left by the back door, and at once he was in his element. He liked the dark streets, whether in the early morning or at night. He liked running in the long stretches of darkness between the dim street light. It made him feel strong and adventurous. There was lots of talk in the bar about robbery and muggings, and the talk was shot by indignation. “This poor guy — did you read about it? — murdered and all for seventy-nine cents. That’s all the guy had on him.”

The customers were welcome to get sentimental over what happened to others. Hugh hadn’t once felt any regret for his actions. Those women had demanded what they got. They shouldn’t be out alone, flaunting themselves. making targets of themselves.

Ahead of him tonight a woman was walking her dog. When Hugh read crime prevention pieces saying that dogs were good protection against attack he snorted. Any fool dog would lick the hand of anyone, mugger or not. And sure enough the dog just stood aside with his tongue hanging out when Hugh slowed his pace to shove the woman. It wasn’t much of a shove, just hard enough to make her realize she had been hit.

He returned to jogging speed until he reached Steward Street when he stopped to get his breath and to enjoy the exhilaration he always felt after making an attack. Well, Hugh, he said to himself, you’ve had your fun for tonight. You might as well get back to the bar.

Then he saw a woman some distance away going up the steps of an apartment house. She was picking her way carefully like someone walking on ice. The steps must be broken. Then she entered the hall and closed the door behind her. She seemed unsure of herself. Venturing inside was dangerous, Hugh realized, but it was heady stuff and he couldn’t resist.

He crossed the threshold and watched her knock on a door. The dim globe that was the only light flickered and went out. After a long interval it came back on and Hugh saw the woman begin to mount the stairway. When she got to the top she might turn toward the front of the house and if she did, she’d be sure to see him. He had to reach her before then. He rushed up the steps and the light flickered off, but she was easily within his grasp. He had her by the throat but his hands were slack, and her elbows jabbed sharply against his chest, and her right heel lashed out at his shins.

Hugh hadn’t ever encountered resistance before. His other victims had given in almost as if they were hypnotized. Occasionally he had wondered what he would do if a woman put up a fight, and now he knew — rage and uncontrollable fury overwhelmed him and he knocked her to the floor. The light must have gone out for good. Everything was dark and very quiet as he tiptoed down the stairs. Then just as he opened the front door the light flickered on again and threw his shadow across the split uneven floor of the narrow porch.

He leaped across it and then ran to the bar. When he reached it he lingered outside beneath the defective neon sign that announced FRA K’S P ACE. A wave of power and peace seemed to have entered his bloodstream and to pervade the air he slowly inhaled. He had never felt so sure of himself or so proud and confident.

Business had picked up when Hugh joined Ted behind the bar.

“You didn’t stay long,” Ted said.

The customers looked especially friendly, but they usually were a well-behaved crowd. In the three years that Hugh had worked at Frank’s Place he could count on the fingers of one hand the times they had had to call the cops. Tonight everyone was genial and the voices weren’t loud, and then with the next round of drinks the atmosphere got a little raucous, not enough to annoy anyone, but more like a Friday or Saturday crowd than a midweek one. As usual he and Ted worked frantically as if they were trying to put out brush fires in the last minutes of serving final drinks.

Then the night’s work was over, the lights were turned out. the sign that leaned in the front window was switched from OPEN to CLOSED.

Hugh was more tired than he could remember as he walked toward home. The two blocks seemed to stretch to the distance of a marathon, and he wanted Ruth more than he had ever wanted her.

At last his key was in the lock, and he felt a welcome as he always did when he entered their apartment. Ruth was a good housekeeper and he liked the neat way she kept everything. It was nice, too, that she had such pretty pot plants — she said she got her green thumb from her grandmother.

He walked into the bedroom expecting to see Ruth lying in the bed, but she wasn’t there. The bed had an appalling smoothness — the covers hadn’t even been turned down. She must have been called back to the hospital on an emergency. Anyway, she couldn’t have left without letting him know.

He hurried to the kitchen to look at the bulletin board where they left messages and instructions for each other, and as he untacked the note he took pride in Ruth’s small precise handwriting.