Man on the run, Page 3

“Were you armed when you went to that detective’s apartment?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Were you drunk?”

  “I’d had five or six drinks.”

  “You must have known he might be armed. After all, he was a policeman.”

  “I suppose so,” I said irritably. “I didn’t even think about it. All I was interested in at the time was bending his fat face for him. And as for having a gun myself, I could have thrown away twenty of them by this time. With the case I’ve got, a lawyer would tell me to plead guilty and pray.”

  She shook her head. “I thought the paper said he was killed with a knife. That should prove you didn’t have a gun, or you’d have used it. Whose knife was it? His?”

  “How do I know?” I said. “I didn’t see it.”

  “You’re not really serious about that?”

  “Of course not. The electric chair just brings out the clown in me. How’d you like to see my impersonation of Red Skelton?”

  “Don’t get sarcastic. I’m not forcing you to stay here.” She lay back on the chaise longue and gestured toward the couch with her cigarette. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

  “What do you care?” I asked.

  “I probably don’t. But if we’re going to stay cooped up together the rest of our lives, we might as well talk.”

  I sat down, diagonally across the coffee table from her, and lighted a smoke. “I’d had trouble with him before. About two weeks ago I threatened to knock his roof in if he didn’t watch his step. It was in front of witnesses, so that helps too. Don’t bother telling me that sort of thing is stupid; I know it, but when it comes to characters like Stedman I’ve got a very short fuse. He’s a Lover Boy, one of those big, flashy, conceited types that has to spread himself out as much as possible to give all the girls a break. Especially the ones whose husbands are away a lot.

  “My wife used to be a nightclub singer. We’ve been married about a year. It didn’t work out very well, because it’s no cinch being married to a guy on a tanker unless you just like being alone most of the time. We run up the East Coast and back like a commuter train, gone fifteen days and home one, except that we do get a long vacation once a year. She couldn’t take it. Last trip in I found out she’d been running around with Stedman. He was single and had an apartment there in the same building, the Wakefield, in the 1200 block on Forest Avenue. We had a real fight about it, and the same night I ran into Stedman in the Sidelines Bar, up in the next block, and had a few words with him. The owner of the place is a good friend of mine, though, and he broke it up and talked me out of starting anything.

  “Last evening when we docked, I got the word. About the divorce, I mean. She was in Reno, along with the car and most of the joint checking account. Around nine o’clock I came uptown from the refinery and stopped in the Sidelines for a few drinks, and the more I thought about it the more burned up I got. I mean, I wasn’t broken up about it—hell, we were about washed up anyway—but I don’t like being played for a sucker, at least not by types like Stedman. So I went up to his apartment.

  “When he opened the door and saw who it was he tried to shut it again, but I pushed my way in and belted him one. He wasn’t wearing the gun and holster, of course, because he was off duty, but he was a long way from being a pushover. He was a little heavier than I am, and he could really punch. We made a hell of a mess out of his living room. The apartment-house manager started pounding on the door and saying he was going to call the police. We were both pretty well banged up and winded after about five minutes of it. When I went out Stedman was on his knees in the middle of the living room trying to get up, and I wasn’t in much better shape myself. I was groggy from some of the punches I’d taken, and I had blood on my hands and clothes from some of the cuts I’d opened on his face. The manager was gone from the hallway, but I met two tenants who knew me, at least by sight. I went back to the Sidelines, but before I got there I heard the siren and saw the police cruiser pull up in front of the Wakefield. At the bar, I went on through to the washroom to clean up. It took three or four minutes to get the blood off and straighten out my clothes, and then I heard some cops come in the front looking for me. I ducked out the back way into the alley. I didn’t want to spend the night in jail and take a chance on missing my ship in the morning. I figured that by the time I got back from the next trip it’d have blown over and at the most I’d just have to go in and pay a fine. It was starting to rain by then. I ducked into a movie.

  “It was around one in the morning when I came out I called the Sidelines and asked Red Lanigan if the dust had settled enough so I could come back and have a drink, and that’s when the roof started to fall in. He pretended I was somebody else and said Stedman had died of a knife wound and that the police were taking the city apart trying to find a sailor named Foley. I thought he was kidding, but before I could say anything else he hung up on me. I called Stedman’s apartment. A man answered without saying who he was, and it wasn’t Stedman’s voice at all. It still didn’t make any sense, but I was beginning to be scared. I flagged a cab, thinking I’d ride by the apartment house and see if there were police cars in front of it. But the driver kept watching me in his mirror. At first I thought it was because of the shiner and the bruises on my face, but then I began to wonder. Maybe the police had broadcast my description. I paid him off and got out, high-tailed it in the other direction, and ducked into an alley, and in less than two minutes the corner where I’d got out was surrounded with police cars. I guess I lost my head completely then. They almost got me twice in the next hour, and the last time was near the railroad yards. I lost them in the dark and the rain. Then I saw a freight pulling out. I ran and got aboard and climbed down into a gondola.”

  She shook her head. “That’s probably the most fantastic story I ever heard.”

  ”Right,” I said. “So I ought to give myself up and try it on them for laughs?”

  “There wasn’t any knife involved in the fight? And you didn’t see one?”

  “No,” I said.

  “And he was on his knees, still alive, when you went out?”

  “That’s right. He might have had just a shade the worst of the fight, but he wasn’t badly hurt, any more than I was. He was a pretty tough boy.”

  “Did you close the door when you went out?”

  “I suppose so. I was pretty groggy, but it would be the natural thing to do.”

  She nodded. “You say the manager was gone, presumably to call the police, but there were other people in the corridor?”

  “That’s right. There was a woman about half out of the doorway of the next apartment. She’d probably already called the police. At least, according to the radio news I heard, it was somebody next door. I don’t know what her name was, but I knew her by sight, and I suppose she knew me. She ducked back when she saw me come out of Stedman’s door. And then I met another tenant on the stairs—”’

  She gestured with the cigarette. “That’s not what I mean. Apparently there’s no question of identification. But when -you came out, this woman couldn’t have seen into his living room? And verified that he was still alive?’

  “Not a chance,” I said. “She was in her own doorway, on the same side of the corridor.”

  “And how long do you suppose it was from the time you left and the police got there and found him dead?

  “I don’t know.” I said. “Somewhere between three and five minutes, probably. I walked down a flight of stairs and out the front of the building, and I was about a block away when the cruiser pulled up at the entrance. They had to find out which apartment, and then force the door—”

  “How do you know they had to force it?”

  “That’s what the radio said.”

  She nodded. “Then you must have closed it, and it was self-locking.”

  ”Probably. Unless he closed it, or somebody else went in or out after I did.”

  “No,” she said. “That woman wouldn’t
have given up her ring-side seat. She’d have stayed right there watching the hall until the police arrived. If anybody else had gone in or out, she’d have said so.”

  “Then there had to be somebody else already in the apartment when I got there.”

  “How would he get out?”

  “Through the kitchen and down the back stairway that leads to the garage in the basement. There’s an exit to the alley on the ground floor.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “But you didn’t see anybody else in the apartment:”

  “No. But I was only in the living room.”

  “You didn’t see a coat, wrap, hat, or a purse, or anything?”

  “No. I wouldn’t have noticed, though, if there had been one. I was boiling, and all I saw was Stedman.”

  “If there were somebody there, why would he suddenly decide to kill Stedman? Presumably, it would be a friend or acquaintance.”

  “Or one of his girl friends. I don’t know. All I know is that he was all right when I went out of the room, and less than five minutes later he was dead.”

  “Do you think anybody will ever believe it?”

  “Of course not. Why do you think I ran?”

  “It does have one thing in its favor,” she said. “It’s stupid enough to be true. Anybody could make up a better story.”

  I shrugged and got up to prowl restlessly around the room. Light was fading now inside the house. I turned, and her eyes were on me. This time she didn’t look away. She shook her head musingly.

  “I keep trying to decide whether you look more like a Roman gladiator,” she said, “or some raffish medieval monk who got caught in the wrong bedroom.”

  “Well, my clothes will be dry in a little while.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. It’s a fascinating combination—a cassock and a black eye.”

  There was something provocative in her tone, and when I turned quickly to look at her I saw the same thing in her eyes. I walked over beside her. She moved over almost imperceptibly, and I sat down on the edge of the chaise.

  “Can’t we have a fire?” she asked teasingly.

  “No.”

  “Think how cozy it would be,” She smiled. “An open fire and the sound of the rain.”

  “And the police kicking in the doors.”

  “Maybe I’d send them away.”

  “Sure you would,” I said.

  “You don’t think so?” She ran a finger gently along the bruise on my jaw. “Does that hurt?”

  “No,” I said. I kissed her. Her lips parted and her arms tightened fiercely around my neck. Then she was whispering against my mouth. “It’s the way you look in that garment. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you.”

  I kissed her again. She made a little whining sound in her throat, but then she twisted away from me and stood up. Her face was flushed and her breathing ragged as she eluded my hands and ran toward the next room. I caught her beside the bed.

  “It’s so cold in here,” she whispered. “Did you close that window?”

  I reached out across the bed to pull the drape aside to make sure, and while I was off balance she hit me with a shoulder and both arms. I spun around, landed on the corner of the bed, and slid to the floor. She ran out into the living room and slammed the door shut. I got up, raging. She’d play hell getting away with that; there was no lock on the door.

  I hit it on the run, turning the knob and starting to lunge through after her. It opened six inches or so, and stopped abruptly, and I slammed into it face-first. Something was holding it at the bottom. I could hear the sound of her heels as she ran out into the kitchen. Wild now, I backed off and hit the door again as hard as I could. The top sprang outward a few inches, but the bottom scarcely moved. I heard the car door close out in the garage and then the engine starting. I lunged frantically at the door, and this time I managed to fight my way around the edge of it. It was too late. She was backing out of the garage. I ran to the front window just in time to see her get out with the plastic raincoat over her head, lock the garage doors, and then calmly get back in the car and drive off. She knew she was safe once she was outside the house.

  I turned away, swearing bitterly, and lighted a cigarette. There was no use even trying to run; they’d be here in less than five minutes. Damn her, anyway; this was the thanks I got for saving her life. Then I cursed myself for being so stupid as to leave the keys in the car. I’d forgotten about them in the urgency of getting her out of that carbon monoxide. And now I’d let her make a complete sap of me.

  But how had she jammed the door? It didn’t matter now, but I went over and looked at it. It was clever. She’d jammed the end of the fireplace poker under it. The poker had a large handle, so it acted as a wedge; the harder I’d shoved, the tighter it had jammed. Suzy was a clever girl. I called her that and several other things.

  I went over and yanked my clothes off the line and started dressing. She’d find a police car inside half a mile, and I might as well be ready when they got here. I wadded up the blanket and threw it savagely across the room. I stopped to listen, but heard nothing except the rain. A minute passed, and another, while I put on trousers, shirt, and shoes. What were they doing, sneaking up on me? She must have told them I had no gun. I went to the window and peered out. The road was deserted and rainswept in the gathering dusk, with no cars in sight anywhere.

  A full hour went by before I dared believe it. She hadn’t reported that I was here. I wondered why? Had she been in a wreck?

  * * *

  Before it was fully dark, I ate some more of the corned beef and drank a cup of coffee. I turned off the gas heater for fear it might be seen through the drapes, made sure the outside doors were locked, and curled up on the couch with a blanket. The rain went on. It had a lonely sound.

  The Dancy would have sailed this afternoon, and by now she’d have made her departure from the sea-buoy and be shouldering her way southeastward toward the Florida Straits: I lighted a cigarette and took a quick look at the time. I’d just now be going up to the bridge in oilskins to take over the watch. Homesickness and longing swept over me. I shoved them out of my mind.

  In the morning it was still raining, not as hard now, but with a steady gray drizzle that looked as if it might go on for a week. I made some coffee and listened to the radio news. The police were still convinced they had me surrounded in the vicinity of Carlisle and were continuing their search. The only thing to do was stay right here as long as I could. There was no way to account for her not going to the police, but she hadn’t, so presumably she wasn’t going to. I searched the place, trying to find a razor so I could shave, but there was none. The black eye was still puffy and badly discolored; it would be days before it disappeared. And by that time the ginger-colored beard would be worse. Either way, I’d attract attention. It seemed hopeless.

  The day dragged on. I searched the rows of Suzy’s books until I found an English edition and tried to read. It was laid in New Orleans during the Civil War and was full of intrigue and sizzling bedroom scenes. Most of the girls were petite and blonde, with a high degree of inflammability and a low flash-point. Their descriptions were like scaled-down versions of Suzy herself; and thinking of them reminded me of her and made me uncomfortable. After awhile I put the book away. And just at dusk I heard a car drive up and stop in front of the garage. I peered out. It was Suzy.

  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, w
hile 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?”