Man on The Run by Charles Williams(3)

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.
Man on The Run — 35
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.”
Man on The Run — 36
“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?”
Man on The Run — 37
“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.”
Man on The Run — 38
“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
Man on The Run — 39
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?”
Man on The Run — 40
“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.”
Man on The Run — 41
“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-
Man on The Run — 42
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
Man on The Run — 43
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,
Man on The Run — 44
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.
Man on The Run — 45
Five
My teeth began to chatter as water penetrated my
clothes. I had to find some place to get out of the
rain, and unless I discovered a hiding place before
daybreak they’d have me. Every cop in town was
alerted by now, and my description would be
broadcast over the radio. With this black eye and
the stubble of ginger-colored beard to give me
away, I couldn’t move a foot without being
recognized.
How about a hotel, a skid-row flophouse? No.
That would be suicidal. I still had a key to my own
apartment in the Wakefield, but they’d have that
covered front and rear. Maybe I could find my way
to the railroad yards again and catch another
freight. I fought down an impulse to cry out or
laugh. I must be going crazy. That would put me
right back where I’d started forty-eight hours ago. I
was going around and around in an endless circle
in a nightmare. I was a mechanical rabbit running
forever in front of a pack of hounds along a dark
racetrack in a rain that had been going on since
the beginning of time. I thought of the bridge of the
Dancy, and hot coffee, and my own room and the
rows of books, and the poker games in the steamheated
messroom.
Man on The Run — 46
I tore my mind away from the picture, and then I
was thinking of Suzy’s apartment, and of warmth
and safety, and of Suzy herself. I swore wearily.
Jesus, I’d been so near. Then I sprang up. What the
hell was the matter with me? I could still get there.
All I had to do was find another telephone booth
and look up her address. I didn’t have to call her.
The whole night was ahead of me—it couldn’t be
much after eight—and I could-make it on foot. I
wouldn’t be able to ask directions, but I knew the
city fairly well, and the chances were it would be
on a street I’d recognize. And if it weren’t, maybe
the directory would have a map in it. I’d forgotten,
but some of them did.
The first thing to do was get clear of this area—
get miles away. They’d be searching it block by
block. I walked westward along the beach. Now
and then a car went past on the roadway to the
right and above me. I stayed out of the range of
their headlights. After a long time I crossed the
road and struck inland. I found a shell-surfaced
country road following a sluggish creek. Rain kept
falling. The topcoat was soaked now and heavy. I
was seized with uncontrollable fits of shaking that
lasted for minutes at a time. Whenever I saw a car
coming, I dived off the road and hid.
Far off to the left I could see beacons flashing.
That would be the International Airport. Then there
were more lights up ahead. I was approaching the
highway that came into Sanport from the west,
from the direction of Carlisle. I began to pass more
houses, and then I was in a suburban housing
development. Few cars were moving, and there
were no pedestrians. Some of the houses were
dark. That seemed strange, until I had to pass
another unavoidable street light and looked at my
watch. It was eleven thirty-five. I’d been walking
for at least three hours. In another seven, or a little
more, it would be daybreak. I wondered if I could
keep going that long, or if I could even get to her
place in that length of time. It might be clear
across town, ten or twelve miles from here. I saw a
Man on The Run — 47
police car up ahead, and ducked down a shadowy
side street. A dog barked at me. My teeth chattered
again, and I clenched my jaws to stop them. I
turned again, still going toward the highway. I had
to find a telephone booth, and there wouldn’t be
one in this area.
Then I located one, in the edge of a suburban
shopping center. A service station on the corner
was closed, with only a single bulb burning in back
of the glass front wall of the office, and around at
the side of it was a booth standing invitingly open.
The streets were deserted except for a few cars
near the movie house still open down in the next
block. I took another quick look around and
crossed to the station driveway. When I stepped
inside the booth and closed the door, its light came
on. I felt as if I were standing naked on a large
stage before an audience of thousands. I grabbed
for the directory, dangling from its chain, and
fumbled through it with hands that shook
uncontrollably. Water ran off my hat onto the
pages.
Parker . . . Parkhurst . . . Patterson . . .
Patton . . . Here we were.
Patton, Robert . . . Patton, R.H . . . Patton,
Stewart . . . Patton, Stephen R. . . . Patton, Victor
E. . . . There was no Suzy Patton listed.
Of course there was. There had to be! I ran a
trembling finger down the column again. I shook
my head. Then, for some insane reason I couldn’t
fathom, I was counting them. There were thirtyseven
Pattons, but there was no Suzy Patton, and
there wasn’t even an S. Patton or an S. Anything
Patton. I dropped the phone book and rubbed a
hand harshly across my face.
Suzy Patton was a pen name, or she had an
unlisted number. In a city of six hundred thousand
— I started to laugh. My head felt queer. I chopped
off the laugh and pushed out of the booth, and
when the rain hit me in the face my mind cleared a
little and I was only freezing cold and chattering. I
Man on The Run — 48
went on walking. There was nothing else to do. If I
stopped, I’d probably freeze. Well, at daybreak
they’d pick me up and I’d be in a nice warm
interrogation room with a white light in my face
and then just before I cracked and went insane I
could sign a statement and go to sleep.
I stopped suddenly. Maybe there was still a
chance, if f could only call Red. I looked around,
trying to orient myself and snap my mind out of its
numbness. I was in a quiet residential district
under dark and weeping trees. I leaned against the
trunk of one and forced myself to try to think. What
would she have done? Gone home, obviously,
knowing there was no chance she could ever find
me again. And she’d realize I couldn’t find her,
since she wasn’t in the book. Red was the only
person we both knew, the only common contact.
Maybe she had called him.
No, of course she wouldn’t. After that narrow
escape back there at the Playland she’d probably
had enough, and didn’t care if she never saw me
again. She was just lucky she’d got away herself.
Did I think she’d be crazy enough to give Red an
address, when she didn’t know him and had no
guarantee at all she could trust him? How would
she know he wouldn’t give it to the police? The
whole idea was absurd. But it persisted. It was the
only thing I had left, and I couldn’t force myself to
let it go.
But how was I going to call him? I didn’t have a
dime. The idea of having one hundred and seventy
dollars but not having a dime again struck me as
one of the great jokes of the year, and I laughed. It
occurred to me I was becoming light-headed. I
pushed myself off the tree and went on. It was five
or six blocks further on that I saw the small
neighborhood bar. It was across the street, with a
neon cocktail glass above the bar and a sign that
said, TERRY MAC’S. There were three cars parked
in front of it, and on either side were stores that
were closed. I stepped back into a doorway and
looked at it hungrily. The slip of paper she’d given
Man on The Run — 49
me was still in the pocket of the topcoat. I took it
out and studied it in the dim light, memorizing the
number. Then I looked back at the bar.
No, it would be insane. Then I noticed an odd
thing. The rain had started to bounce. It fell on the
shiny black pavement and leaped into the air like
pellets of tiny white shot. It had turned to sleet.
That settled it. I was soaked all the way to the skin
and I’d freeze to death before morning if I didn’t
get inside somewhere. A long-shot chance was
better than none at all. I pulled the coat collar
tighter about my face, yanked down the brim of the
hat, and crossed the street.
It was dim and smoky inside. A man and a girl
were sitting on stools about halfway down the bar,
and beyond them was a man alone. The bartender
was an Irish-looking kid in his early twenties with
blue-black hair and unbelievably white teeth. They
all looked up as I came in, stared briefly, and
stopped talking. At the rear was a jukebox, and
beside it a phone booth.
“Shot of bourbon, straight,” I said. “And give me
the change in dimes.” I put a dollar on the bar. The
three customers glanced at each other and then
became elaborately absorbed in their drinks as if
they’d never seen drinks before. “Yes, sir,” the
bartender said heartily, avoiding my eyes. He put
the drink and the change on the bar. I grabbed up
the dimes, threw the whisky into the back of my
mouth with one sweep of my hand, and was already
moving toward the phone booth by the time it
could burn its way down my frozen throat and
explode.
I slammed the door, fumbled a dime into the slot
and dialed with a finger like a dead piece of wood.
The shakes seized me again, and I could hear water
running out of my clothes onto the floor. Christ,
wouldn’t they ever answer? I shifted a little and
shot a glance toward the front of the bar. So far,
nobody had moved.
“Sidelines Bar.” It was a girl’s voice this time.
Man on The Run — 50
“Red Lanigan,” I said, fighting the chattering of
my teeth.
The girl went away. I waited, feeling almost
drunk on the single shot of whisky. My head swam.
Then somebody was picking up the receiver.
“Lanigan speaking.”
“Listen, Red—”
He chuckled indulgently. “Look, you happy meathead.
If you have to get drunk, at least you could
do it here.” I heard him kick the door shut. “Jesus,
I’m glad you could get to a phone. Listen, she
called—”
“What did she say?” I cut in.
“A-H.”
“What?”
“That’s all. She said to tell you, ‘A-H.’ A as in
Able, H as in Happy. I hope to God you know what
it means. I don’t.”
“Thanks,” I said. I hung up. Oh, you beautiful,
blonde, brainy girl. I grabbed for the directory, and
as I nipped it open I shot another glance at the bar.
It was already too late. The Irish bartender was
pretending to wash out some glasses in the sink
with the near hand while he held the receiver of
the bar phone with the other. He was nodding his
head. I saw him turn a little and shoot a glance
toward the booth.
I stepped out and started toward the door. The
three customers returned to studying the strange
drinks they’d never seen before. Silence fell. The
bartender had stopped talking into the phone and
was holding it as if he couldn’t make up his mind
what he wanted to do with it. I wondered if he had
already given them the address. An illogical rage
seized me. I was tired of being the mechanical
rabbit all the time. It wasn’t fair. I stopped, took
the receiver out of his hand, picked up the base of
the instrument, and yanked. The cord tore apart in
the junction box under the bar.
Man on The Run — 51
“Are you Terry Mac?” I asked. My head felt as if
it were going to float out the door without me.
He stared at me, white-faced, too startled to
speak.