Man on the run, Page 2

  The bookshelves were just to the left of the radio. I stood looking at them, and then noticed with surprise that all the books in the top two rows were by the same writer, someone named Suzy Patton. There were at least a hundred of them. They were novels, apparently, in colorful dust jackets. They seemed to be new and untouched, as if they were on the shelves in a bookstore. I started taking them down at random and glancing at them, and I saw they were the same six novels translated into a great many different languages. I could recognize Spanish, French, and Italian, and what I thought was Swedish or Norwegian, but there were some I’d never seen before. They all had the same type of dust jacket, running largely to luscious girls with a great deal of cleavage, bustle, and hoop skirt, and dashing types of men in Confederate uniforms. Patton? Suzy Patton? The name was familiar, but I didn’t recall having ever read one of the books; I didn’t care much for historical novels. But this must be her cottage. I couldn’t think of any other reason why all these foreign editions would be stored here.

  It was almost ten. I switched on the radio again and hunkered down with my ear against the speaker grill. This time I found a news program. The first half of it was all Washington and Cape Canaveral, and another blizzard in the East. The stock market had opened irregularly lower. “And now for the local news,” the announcer continued. Two people were killed in a freeway crash. Some screwball had tried to hold up a branch bank with a water pistol. The Mayor was laid up with Asian flu. Somebody didn’t like the schools. Somebody else thought the schools were in great shape. Then I tensed up. Here it was.

  “According to a bulletin just received, the intensive manhunt for Russell Foley, seaman from this area, has been localized this morning in the vicinity of Carlisle, on the Gulf coast some fifty miles west of Sanport. Police report a brown hat similar to the one Foley was wearing when last seen, and bearing the initials R.F., was found near the railroad station in Carlisle just after dawn, together with tracks and long skid marks in the mud beside the right-of-way, indicating he had leaped from a moving freight train. Police believe he is almost certainly hiding out somewhere in the town. All exits from the area have been closed by roadblocks set up by local police, Sheriff’s Department officers, and the Highway Patrol.

  “Foley is sought for questioning in connection with the slaying last night of Charles L. Stedman, Sanport detective, during a savage fight in Stedman’s apartment. Police, summoned by occupants of an adjoining apartment, arrived just minutes after Stedman’s assailant had left the building. When they received no answer to their knocks, they forced the door and found Stedman dead of a knife wound. The assailant, allegedly recognized as Foley by two other tenants in the building, made his way to a bar in the next block, but escaped by way of a rear exit a few moments later.

  “Foley, third mate of the Southlands Oil Company tanker Jonathan Dancy, was formerly a tenant in the same building. His estranged wife, Denise Foley, is believed to be in Reno, obtaining a divorce. When last seen he was wearing a brown gabardine suit, white shirt, brown striped tie, and the brown hat believed to be that found near the railroad tracks in Carlisle. He is described as being twenty-seven years old, six-foot-one, one hundred and ninety pounds, with coppery red hair, and blue eyes. The police are convinced his face and hands will still bear bruises and cuts suffered in the fight which preceded the stabbing.”

  That was all. I turned off the radio, feeling sick. There was no description of the knife or whatever it was he was stabbed with, and no mention of anyone else at all. It had to be somebody who was already in the apartment and knew the back way out, down the service stairs, but I hadn’t seen anybody else or even any sign of anybody. Losing my head and running when I learned he was dead had been stupid—there was no doubt of that—but it hadn’t really made it any worse. It couldn’t be any worse.

  I went out into the kitchen and poured another drink of whisky. Then fatigue, exposure, and twelve straight hours of running and being afraid hit me all at once. I grabbed another blanket, and the minute I lay down on the studio couch I melted and ran all over it. When I awoke it was still raining and gusts of wind were shoving at the house. There was about the same amount of light in the room, and for a moment I thought I’d been asleep for only a few minutes. Then I looked at my watch and saw it was after three. I was sweaty and tangled in the blankets as if I’d been thrashing and turning. I was just reaching for a cigarette when I went tense all over, listening. It was the sound of a car door being shut.

  Had they come back to prowl around some more? I sprang off the couch and slipped across to the front window. Pulling back the drape a fraction of an inch, I peered out and felt the skin tighten up between my shoulder-blades. It wasn’t the police; it was worse. The car was a blue Oldsmobile, and it was stopped in front of the garage.

  There was nowhere I could hide, and I couldn’t run, with nothing on but a blanket. There was nothing I could do but stand there helplessly and watch. No one was in the car, but I could hear the rattle of the hasp as the driver unlocked the garage. Then she came suddenly into view, a tall woman in a dark coat, holding a plastic raincoat over her head and shoulders. She seemed to sway slightly, as if leaning against the wind, as she opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel. One of the doors blew shut, and she had to get out again and prop it open with something. She got back in and drove into the garage.

  I ran into the kitchen. The moment she walked in she’d see the open can of food and the coffee, and I had to grab her before she could back out and run. I could hear the car’s engine, still running, and then the click of high heels on concrete. The garage doors slammed shut in a heavy gust of wind that shook the cottage. I waited tensely inside the door. Nothing happened. Maybe she’d gone outside and was going to come in through the front door. I ran back, slipping noiselessly across the tile, and listened beside the window. There was no one on the porch, unless she was standing utterly still. I parted the drape enough to peer. out. She was nowhere in sight. Rain was beating across the porch and against the window.

  I hurried back to the kitchen again and stood silently with my ear against the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps. She must be getting something out of the car. It had been several minutes now since she’d driven in. I could still hear the car’s engine running, just barely audible above the sound of the rain. Had she discovered the broken pane of glass in that window and run out? No, that was ridiculous. Anyway, if something had scared her she’d have backed the car out. I waited, growing more puzzled with every minute. There was something spooky about it. Why didn’t she at least shut off the engine? I could smell carbon monoxide beginning to seep in around the edge of the door. Was she trying to commit suicide?

  I unlocked the door and gently pushed it open a few inches. Even with the broken pane of glass in the window, the exhaust smell was overpowering. I didn’t see her anywhere. It was almost dark with the front doors closed, but the left-hand door of the car was open, so the ceiling light was on, and I could see she wasn’t in it. Where could she have gone? The car practically filled the garage. I looked farther back then and saw her—or rather, I saw an arm and a hand in back of the rear wheel on this side. She’d fallen between the rear of the car and the garage doors, and was lying right under the tailpipe.

  I jumped down the two steps, opened the car door on this side, and shut off the ignition. Already beginning to choke on the fumes, I knelt, caught her by both arms, and pulled her out from under the overhang of the trunks. She was a big woman, and heavy, with the limp, dead weight of the unconscious. I was gasping by the time I got her across my shoulder. I hurried into the kitchen, kicked the door shut, and sped toward the bedroom with her. Rolling her off onto the bed, I turned her on her back just under the window and put a hand on her chest. She was still breathing. I parted the drape. The window was a casement type. I unlatched one side and cranked it open a few inches to catch the wind. Holding the bottom of the drape, I forced the blast of fresh air down across her face. She had on lipstick
, so it was impossible to tell whether her lips were blue or not, but the color of the rest of her face seemed to be all right. A few drops of ram blew in on her, and she stirred faintly. She was going to come around, all right, but if I’d waited another five minutes before going out there she’d have been dead.

  She’d probably been hit by that door when it slammed shut. Then I remembered the way she’d weaved as she got back in the car the first time, and bent down to sniff her breath. At least part of Suzy Patton’s trouble—if this was Suzy Patton—was that she was crocked to the teeth. I didn’t know how carbon monoxide and alcohol mixed in the human system, but I had a hunch she was going to be a very sick girl in a few minutes. I slipped off the high-heeled sling pumps and kicked open the bathroom door. She began to retch. I half-led and half-carried her and held her up. When she was through being sick, I wet a wash cloth at the basin and bathed her face while she leaned weakly against the bathroom wall with her eyes closed. She didn’t open them until she was back on the bed. She took one look at me and said, “Oh, good God!” and closed them again. She made a feeble attempt to pull her skirt down. I straightened it for her, and she lay still. I went out in the living room and lighted a cigarette. I could handle her all right, but if the police came by again and noticed those garage doors were unlocked, I was dead. I looked at my watch. It would be at least three more hours before it was dark.

  I stood in the doorway and looked at her. She was a big girl and a striking one, with blonde hair almost as white as cotton. Close to five-nine, I thought. Probably thirty to thirty-three years old. She wore her hair in one of those short haircuts they used to call Italian; I didn’t know what they were called now. She was dressed in a dark skirt, soft dark sweater, and a rust-colored shorty coat. She wore gold earrings, and an expensive-looking watch, but no rings of any kind. It was a handsome face, and even as sick as she was now there was the stamp of vitality on it.

  I went out and heated the coffee. When I came back with a cup of it she was sitting up on the edge of the bed holding her head. “Try a little of this,” I said.

  She sighed. “Are you still here? I thought I’d died and gone to hell.”

  She didn’t seem to be particularly scared. Probably the way she felt at the moment she considered that anything that could happen to her now would have to be for the better. I held out the coffee, and she took a sip of it. I lighted a cigarette and passed it over.

  She took a drag on it and shuddered. “What happened?”

  “I pulled you out from under the back of your car. One of the garage doors must have conked you.”

  She felt the back of her head. She winced. “I remember now. And the engine was still running, wasn’t it? I tried to get up and passed out.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” I said.

  She looked up at me and shook her head. “I think you’re out of focus. You look like Spartacus, and sound like Sergeant Friday. Who are you, and how’d you get in here?”

  “My name’s Foley,” I said. “And I broke in.”

  “Oh. Then you must be the one they’re looking for. Those roadblocks out on the highway.”

  “Are they searching the cars?”

  “Just slowing them down, I think, and looking in. I was too busy being sober to pay much attention.”

  I held out the coffee again. She drank a little more of it. “Why are they looking for you?” she asked.

  “They think I killed a policeman.”

  She glanced up quickly. “Oh. I think that was in the paper this morning. Something about a fight.”

  “That’s it,” I said. I set the coffee on the dresser. “How do you feel now?”

  “Terrible. But thanks for pulling me out of there. You saved my life, such as it is.”

  “Is anybody meeting you here?” I asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “I had to know. Is this your cottage?” She nodded.

  “Then you’re Suzy Patton?”

  “That’s right. Suzy Patton, the has-been. The written-out writer.”

  I wondered if she were still drunk. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “It’s something an ex-writer never attempts to explain to a non-writer. There’s no language, if you follow me.”

  ”I probably don’t,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. Just keep quiet, and don’t try to call the police or get out of here.”

  “Are you trying to threaten me?” she asked.

  “Don’t get tough,” I told her. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I’ll tie you up if I have to.”

  “What do you expect to gain by that?”

  “Time. If I can hide out long enough, they may think I’ve got away, and I can get out.”

  She had clear gray eyes that didn’t seem to be afraid of much of anything. “That’s a stupid procedure. Why don’t you give yourself up?”

  “I’d get life. Or the electric chair. Cut it out.”

  “They’ll catch you sooner or later. You know that.”

  “I’m not trying to make any long-range plans,” I said coldly. “They’re after me, and if they get me it’s going to be rugged. I’m operating one minute at a time. When I’ve used up this minute, I’ll start on the next one.”

  “And in the meantime you’re going to add a charge of kidnaping to make it worse?”

  “It doesn’t get any worse,’ ‘I said.

  “So you intend to stay here?”

  “That’s right.”

  She sighed. “Well, could I get my purse out of the car? Or is that against the rules?”

  “We’ll both go get it. That is, if you think you can walk now.”

  “I’m all right. Except I’ve got a splitting headache.” She slipped her shoes on and stood up. She seemed to be steady enough. We went out through the kitchen.

  “Wait there by the door,” I said. “I’ll get it.” I stepped down into the garage, keeping an eye on her. She made no attempt to run back and get out the front door. I brought the purse in. She drew some water at the tap and swallowed a couple of aspirin she took from the purse. We went back into the living room. I walked over and felt my clothes. The shirt and shorts were fairly dry, but the suit was still soggy. When I looked around she’d gone into the bedroom. Maybe she was trying to get out the window. I ran to the doorway and looked in. She was standing before the mirror of the dresser, calmly touching up her lipstick. She glanced at me inquiringly. “What’s the matter?”

  ”I thought you might be trying to get out.”

  “In that rain? Don’t be silly.” She pressed her lips together, surveyed the result, and dropped the lipstick back in the purse. Then she combed her hair. She was a very smart-looking girl. And spectacular. And about as unflustered as they came.

  “You don’t scare easily, do you?”

  “Not any more,” she said. She dropped the comb in the purse and looked at me. “Should I?”

  “Why not?”

  She gave me a crooked smile. “I’ve had two unsuccessful marriages. I’m over thirty. I’m utterly alone. And I’m washed up as a writer. So what are you going to do to me, Mr. Foley? Think of something.”

  “All right. But just don’t try to get out of here.”

  “Who said I was going to? This is my cottage, isn’t it? I don’t intend to be chased out of it by some displaced gladiator hiding from the police.”

  I tried to read what went on behind that face, but I got nowhere. There was a chance, of course, that she was unworried because somebody was meeting her here. And when he arrived I couldn’t handle the two of them. Well, all I could do was sweat that out along with the rest of it.

  Three

  Wind shook the house again, and rain slashed at the windows. It was a little after four now, and in another two hours it should be growing dark. I could hear the rattle of the hasp and padlock once in awhile as gusts of wind battered at the garage doors. She was sitting on the chaise longue by the coffee table, calmly smoking a cigarette.

  “
Didn’t the paper say you were a merchant marine officer?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Third mate on a tanker.”

  “Then why the trouble with a policeman? You’re not a criminal.”

  “It was personal,” I replied. “Had nothing to do with his being a cop.”

  “Did you go there with the intention of killing him?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What?”

  I heard a car coming along the road. Whirling, I slipped to the window and peered out. It was a police cruiser, going slowly past with its windshield swipes beating against the rain. It went on. In a few minutes it came back by, and I had to go through the whole thing again. It went past without slackening speed. They hadn’t noticed. I sighed. She said something.

  “What?” I asked, turning away from the window.

  “Was that a police car?”

  I nodded.

  “Why are you so worried? They have no reason to try to come in here.”

  I told her about their being here before. “If they find out your car’s here now, they’re going to come in just to be sure you’re all right.”

  “Oh,” she said. “So that’s the reason we can’t have a fire in the fireplace?”

  ”Of course.”

  “What will you do if they do come?”

  I shrugged. “What can I do? If you don’t go to the door they’ll know something’s wrong and they’ll come in anyway. They seem to think I have a gun.”

  I reached out to feel the clothes again. The suit was still damp. When I turned she was watching me. She looked away. It was the second or third time I’d caught her doing that, and I wondered what she was thinking.