”Shove it, you shanty-Irish pig,” I said, and
dropped the phone, receiver and all, into the sink.
The broken end of the cord still dangled over the
edge. It didn’t look neat at all so I coiled it very
carefully, and shoved it down into the water along
with the rest of the instrument. I turned and
walked out without looking back.
Sleet pattered on my hat brim and tapped on my
face. I broke into a run, and just before I turned the
corner I looked over my shoulder. The bartender
and one of the men were standing in the doorway
to see which way I went. By the time I’d run
another block I heard the sirens.
I went on, feeling my feet lift and swing and
pound against the concrete until every breath was
agony. I turned and turned again and lost all sense
of direction. I saw headlights approaching down an
intersecting street. The car started to turn toward
me, and just before the headlights swept over me I
dived sideways into an oleander hedge. I fell
through it, and lay in a puddle of water with the
sleet tapping restfully on my hat and the side of my
face. My arm was against something metallic and
uncomfortable. I reached over and felt it with my
other hand. It was a lawn sprinkler. I thought
drowsily it would be a shame if they turned it on.
More cars went up the street, swinging
spotlights.
I didn’t know how long I lay there. After
awhile I got my breath back, and moved a little,
fighting the drowsiness. I wanted to go to sleep,
but something made me get up to my hands and
knees. It was quiet now. No cars had gone by for a
long time. I climbed through the hedge and started
walking. After a few blocks my teeth started
chattering again. I thought that was a good sign; I
didn’t believe your teeth chattered when you were
freezing. Twice more I had to duck into yards to
Man on The Run — 52
avoid the lights of cars. I was doing everything
mechanically now, and for long periods I would
forget what I was looking for. Phone booth, I told
myself. Remember that. Phone booth.
I was standing under a street light. I looked at
my watch. It said ten minutes of five. I slapped
myself on the face and looked again. It must be
stopped, or I was drunk. It couldn’t be that late.
Lousy watch, always stopping. I looked across the
street and realized I was staring at a big green
clock in the window of a filling station, and that it
said ten minutes of five. And in the shadows beside
the station was a phone booth. I focused on it,
hard, and managed to break into a run.
A for Able, H for Happy. I got the directory open
somehow and fumbled through it with nerveless
fingers. Patton . . .
Patton, Alvis W. . . .
Patton, A. H. . . . I repeated the number, prodded
the dime into the slot, and dialed.
She answered almost immediately. “Yes?” she
said eagerly.
“I’m—” I said. “I’m—uh—”
She sighed. “God, I’ve been waiting all night. He
said he gave you the message hours ago. Where
are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Wait.” I dropped the
receiver and stepped out of the booth to look up at
the sign on the edge of the cantilever roof above
the driveway BARRETT’S SHELL SERVICE, it said.
I repeated it.
“All right,” she said quickly. “I’ll have to look it
up, so I don’t know how far away it is. It may take
five minutes or thirty. Stay right there, or as near
as you can and still be out of sight. I’ll come by on
that side of the street with my right-hand turn
signal blinking. If everything is clear, come out and
get in. If not, I’ll go around six or eight blocks and
try again. All right?”
Man on The Run — 53
“Y-yes,” I said. I hung up. I went around behind
the station in the deep shadows and leaned against
the wall. My skin hurt all over the way I imagined it
did in spots when you had gout. I couldn’t really be
freezing, I thought; you never hurt then. Time went
by. I began to dream I was on the bridge of the
Dancy off Hatteras in a snowstorm. No, that
couldn’t be right. I was never wet on the bridge.
We had oilskins. I heard a car coming. I went to the
corner and peered up the street. The car’s turn
signal was blinking. I ran out. She stopped
abruptly, and I got in. I doubled over, holding my
arms, shaking violently and trying to keep from
touching the wet clothes anywhere with my skin.
She drove fast. “Only a few minutes, Irish,” she
said. I thought numbly she must have got that from
Red. He always called me Irish.
I didn’t know how much later it was we were
going down a ramp into a garage. It was shadowy,
like a big cavern. Then she was helping me out. I
went up the ramp after her, trying to walk without
touching my clothes. We went past some grass
where the sleet was bouncing, and then she was
fitting a key into a large glass door. There was a
small foyer inside with a potted palm and two
elevators. It was very quiet. One of the elevators
was standing open. We got in and she pressed a
button. When we got out, she took off the dark coat
she was wearing, and mopped the water off the
bare floor of the car. It didn’t show very much on
the carpet in the corridors. We met no one. Then
she was unlocking another door.
I had a confused impression of a large room with
thousands of books and a gray rug and colored
draperies, and then she was leading me into
another room. There were more curtains, and a
double bed, a king-sized double bed, and beyond it
was the door to the bathroom. Even the bathroom
was large. She led me into it. There was a glassdoored
stall shower. She reached in and turned on
the taps. I went on shaking. I tried to say
Man on The Run — 54
something. She shook her head at me and pushed
me into the shower. “Sit down,” she said.
I sat down with the hot water pouring over my
head and shoulders. She took off my shoes. “Now
can you stand?” she asked. I got to my feet. The
water felt as if it were boiling, but I went right on
shaking. She pealed off the topcoat and dropped it
to the floor. Then the coat. I tried to unbutton the
shirt, but she caught both sides of it and tore at it,
spraying the buttons off. In a moment I was naked,
standing on the wet clothes while steamy water
sluiced down over me. “I’ll be back,” she said, and
closed the sliding door.
My skin was dead white and drawn up in a
thousand whorls and wrinkles like the pictures of
fingerprints, and my teeth went right on
chattering. The door slid back and she was holding
a glass half full of whisky. I drank it.
“All right,” she said. “Out you come. If you
collapse before you get in bed I’ll never be able to
lift you.”
She handed me a towel and took one herself. It
felt as if we were tearing my skin off. She led me
into the bedroom. The bed was turned down. She
pushed me into it and covered me. She went out
and came back almost immediately with another
drink. She held it to my lips. My teeth beat like
castanets against the glass, but I managed to
swallow the whisky.
“Poor Irish,” she said. She clicked off the light,
leaving only the faint illumination from the
doorway to the living room. Then I saw she was
undressing. She tossed the sweater, skirt, and slip
across a chair, and sat down to remove her
stockings. The room began to swim in big circles.
She tossed the last garment onto the chair and slid
in beside me.
“This may help,” she said. She gathered my head
against her breasts, and a long smooth thigh slid
up and over my leg and entwined with it as she
Man on The Run — 55
held me pressed to her in every place we could
touch. “It’s just a chill. It’ll go away.”
I struggled against the blackness that was trying
to engulf me.
“Easy, Irish,” she said soothingly. “Just go to
sleep.”
The walls of the room swam by again. I tried to
get my arms round her, but I went on shaking.
“You can’t,” she said gently. “You know you
can’t.”
She was right. I couldn’t. I made one more futile
grab at the edge of the precipice and then fell, and
went on falling through darkness.
Man on The Run — 56
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
Man on The Run — 57
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.
Man on The Run — 58
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
Man on The Run — 59
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?”
Man on The Run — 60
“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 goodlooking
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.
Man on The Run — 61
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.”
Man on The Run — 62
“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.
Man on The Run — 63
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.
Man on The Run — 64
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
Man on The Run — 65
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.
Man on The Run — 66
Seven
The Martini made me dizzy and gave everything a
gauzy effect. I didn’t dare pour another; as weak
and empty as I was, two would drop me on the
floor. She came back in a little over an hour,
carrying a large bag of groceries and looking
excited. I tried to help her but she shook her head.
We went out in the kitchen and unpacked the bag.
It held the biggest double sirloin I had ever seen
and some frozen french-fried potatoes and a halfgallon
carton of milk among other things.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, “but
first we start this food. Put my coat away, will you,
Irish?”
I took it into the bedroom and hung it in the
closet. When I returned she was putting the frozen
potatoes in the oven and turning on the broiler.
She broke out a box of frozen broccoli and put that
on, then started some coffee. I leaned against the
refrigerator and watched her. In the high heels she
was nearly as tall as I was, and the way she
dominated and sculptured a knit dress was
something to see.
“I’m no cook,” she said, “but I do think we have
to let that steak sit awhile at room temperature.”
Man on The Run — 67
“Here,” I said. I opened the refrigerator and
poured her a Martini. “Tell me this news you’ve
got.”
“Aren’t you having one?” she asked.
“I already have. One more and you’ll have to
shoot that steak into my arm.”
We went into the living room. She kicked her
shoes off and put her feet up on a hassock. The
hardboiled gray eyes were alight with interest. “It’s
about Purcell,” she said. “He committed suicide.
But he couldn’t have.”
“That’s what you went to the library for?”
She nodded. “I’ve been going through the back
files of the papers. Then I called a friend of mine on
the Express. He’s on the police beat and knew
Purcell. Hand me my purse, will you, Irish?”
I got it for her. She took out a small notebook.
“Here we are,” she said. “The official verdict was
suicide, but the police have never been quite
satisfied with it. Lanigan summed it up pretty well
when he said he was a real cool cat. He was tough,
in a civilized sort of way, one of the few collegeeducated
men on the force, strictly on the make,
but highly competent. He was a detective First
Grade and was a cinch to make Sergeant the next
time around. He’d been married for three years to
a very nice girl. Good health and no difficult
financial troubles that anybody knew anything
about. Nothing crooked on his record. In his ten
years on the force he’d had to kill two men, but I
suppose that’s the risk you take in being a police
officer. Doesn’t seem likely they would have
bothered him. They were both men with long
records, and dangerous, and in both cases he was
exonerated.”
She paused and took a sip of the Martini. “Now,
the actual suicide. He lived in a housing
development called Bellehaven, about six miles
north of town—”
Man on The Run — 68
“I know where it is,” I said. “Two- and threebedroom
houses, fifteen thousand dollars and up.”
She nodded. “Then you know where the big
shopping center is. I was just out there; that’s
where I bought the steak. Purcell’s address was
2531 Winston Drive. That’s the last street in the
subdivision, and it parallels the edge of the
shopping center. In fact, part of the supermarket
parking area is directly behind the row of houses in
that block.”
“Then you could park in the supermarket lot and
go right into the back yard?”
She shook her head. “Not easily. The whole area
is lighted. And all the back yards are enclosed with
six-foot basket-weave fences covered with
Pyracantha. There are gates, but they have latches
that can be secured from inside. And Purcell’s was
padlocked. You could climb the fences, of course,
but in the early evening somebody in the parking
lot would be almost certain to see you.
“It happened on the night of January twentyeighth,
a little over three weeks ago. Mrs. Purcell
went to a movie with the wife of a next-door
neighbor. She often did; Purcell cared nothing for
movies. She left around eight and there was never
any doubt Purcell was alive afterward. The
neighbor came over about the same time and he
and Purcell had a beer and watched a fight on
television until a little after nine. And after he left,
about nine-thirty, Purcell’s boss, Lt. Shriver of the
Robbery Detail, called him about something. He
said Purcell sounded perfectly normal over the
phone. And as nearly as they could tell afterward,
that was only forty-five minutes before he killed
himself. Neighbors on both sides heard the shot,
and they placed it at approximately ten-fifteen. At
the time they thought it was a car backfiring.
“The picture was a double feature, so it was ten
after twelve when Mrs. Purcell returned home. She
put the car in the garage, and the two women said
goodnight. The neighbor woman had hardly got
Man on The Run — 69
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