inside when she heard Mrs. Purcell scream and
then run out of the house.
“The police were there within minutes. Purcell
was slumped over his desk in the living room, shot
through the temple with his own thirty-eight. The
shoulder holster was where he always left it when
he came home, hanging on a hook in the hall
closet. The gun was lying on the rug beside his
chair. They could get only partial prints off it, but
they were all his. There was no sign of a struggle at
all, and nothing to indicate anybody else had been
there. The gate to the backyard was locked, and
nobody in the block had seen anyone come or go
from the front of the house. It couldn’t have been
an accident, because all his gun-cleaning
equipment was put away in the kitchen. There was
no note, but on the desk just under his face was a
single sheet of white paper and a ballpoint pen, as
if he’d started to write one and then changed his
mind.”
It was baffling. “What do you think?” I asked.
“That he was murdered.”
“Why?”
“Several reasons—one of which you don’t know
yet. In the first place, the back gate’s being
padlocked didn’t mean anything. It could have been
locked after he was killed. Suppose he’d stayed
home because he was expecting a visitor—a
woman? He’d have left it open for her.”
“But how would she leave afterward?”
“Take her chances and go right out the front. All
she had to do was walk half a block, turn right at
the next street, and she’d be back in the parking
lot. After eleven p.m., the streets in those housing
developments are pretty quiet.”
“All right. What else?”
“There’s no such thing as a spur-of-the-moment
suicide. When a man kills himself, whatever’s
behind it has been feeding on him considerably
longer than forty-five minutes. A single man might
Man on The Run — 70
keep it hidden, but Purcell was married, and his
wife said there’d been nothing unusual in his
behavior.”
“Yes, but damn it, we’re still just talking about
Purcell. There’s no connection with Stedman
except that they were partners on the Robbery
Detail.”
She gestured with the cigarette. “And that
they’re both dead. Don’t forget that. However,
there’s one more thing they had in common—the
one you haven’t heard yet. Remember, I said
Purcell had killed two men in line of duty?”
“Yes?”
“One of them was actually killed by Purcell and
Stedman. On the twenty-second of December. See
how your coincidence is stretching? In a little over
a month Purcell commits suicide, and in less than
three weeks after that Stedman is murdered.”
I stared at her. “Yes—but, look. The police must
have checked into it. A coincidence as obvious as
that.”
She nodded. “To some extent, yes. But
remember, it takes at least two of anything to make
a coincidence, and you killed Stedman. When you
accept that, it falls apart.”
I got up and walked across the room and back.
“But, good God, they must have made some effort
to check out any other angles.”
“They did,” she replied. “Except that there don’t
appear to be any. The man Stedman and Purcell
killed was just another vicious hoodlum. His name
was Danny Bullard, and he had a record going back
ten years, with two convictions for armed robbery.
He pulled a gun on. them when they tried to pick
him up for questioning about a liquor store holdup.
They had to shoot.”
“He have any close relatives?”
She shook her head. “There was an older
brother, a waterfront goon named Ryan Bullard,
but nobody’s seen him in years. He was tried and
Man on The Run — 71
acquitted of killing a seaman during a strike, and
after it was over he disappeared.”
I lighted a cigarette. “How about a girl friend?”
“Now you’re getting warmer. It has to be a girl.
Assuming for the moment they were both
murdered, the circumstances in both cases appear
to be the same—the murderer could have been
there clandestinely and by invitation. That spells
only one thing, obviously. The only trouble is there
doesn’t seem to be any girl.”
“Except the one Red told me about,” I said. “I’ve
got to locate her.”
She nodded. “Yes. I don’t know what we’re going
to prove if we do find her, but we’ve got nowhere
else to start. However, you can’t risk going out of
here until Monday, at least.”
* * *
We cooked the steak. I could feel strength flowing
back into me with the food. We listened to the hi-fi
and caught a news broadcast on the radio. They
were still taking the city apart, block by block,
looking for me. After awhile we went to bed. If the
heroines of all Suzy’s novels were sexy, I thought,
they came by it honestly. She was talented and
passionate and an absolute delight, but somehow
even after she cried out in ecstasy and collapsed
you felt the desperate unhappiness or boredom
that was goading her was still there and it hadn’t
done her any good at all. I awoke during the night
and she was gone. Switching on the light, I looked
at my watch. It was shortly after three p.m.
The door to the living room was ajar. I slipped on
the bottom of the pajamas and went out. All the
lights were on and she was sitting on the floor in
the middle of the living room tossing cards into a
silver bowl about ten feet away. She had on the
black Capri pants, but was naked from the waist up
except for the black silk eyeshade that was the only
thing she ever wore in bed. It was pushed up over
her forehead, and looked almost startling against
Man on The Run — 72
the silvery blonde hair and fair skin. She was
smoking a long black Mexican or Cuban cigarette,
and beside her on the rug was a bottle of vodka
and a glass. She was plastered.
She looked at me, glassy-eyed. “‘Smatter, Irish?
Can’t you sleep?”
“No,” I said. I sat on the floor near her.
She sailed another card toward the bowl. It
missed. She said a word I’d have bet she didn’t
even know.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
”Matter?” She regarded me owlishly, and poured
some more vodka. “Nothing at all.” She held out
the bottle to me. “Have some of the opium of the
futile, friend, and let’s revel in the pleasures of the
flesh.” She paused, hiccupped, and solemnly
appraised her naked torso and the swelling, darknippled
breasts. “And speaking of flesh, did you
ever see so much of it to revel in? One hundred and
sixty pounds of futility—”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
She paid no attention. “No vodka? Then
Benzedrine? Marijuana? Sex, anybody?”
She swayed. I caught her and somehow managed
to get her in my arms and stand up. Carrying her
into the other room, I put her on the bed and
covered her. “Save six for pallbearers,” she said,
and passed out cold. I stood looking down at her. It
was a rotten shame, I thought.
In the morning when I awoke it was after nine
and she was up and already dressed to go out. She
was at the dressing table putting on her lipstick,
and when she saw in the mirror that I was awake
she turned and smiled, apparently without a trace
of a hangover, as handsomely blonde and cleareyed
as ever.
She came over and sat on the side of the bed.
“Sorry about last night.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I wish there was
something I could do. Where are you going?”
Man on The Run — 73
She went over to the closet and put on the gray
fur coat “Denton Street.” She smiled. “Fitting,
don’t you think? The brunette being stalked by her
only natural enemy?”
“Leave that to me,” I said. “It’s my pigeon.”
She paid no attention and went on out. Her only
natural enemy was boredom; she had to do
something or go crazy. She came back shortly
before eleven. In the industrial area around Denton
Street everything was closed on Saturday. She had
been shopping, however, and carried two packages
that contained a gabardine topcoat and a new hat.
* * *
“All right, let’s see how you look,” she said. I
turned and she studied me critically. It was seven
a.m. Monday.
She nodded. “The suit is a little snug across the
chest and the sleeves are half an inch too short, but
it’ll never show when you have the topcoat on.”
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The
last trace of the black eye was gone now, and with
the hat on there wasn’t enough of the red hair
showing to attract attention. My shoes were
shined. I wore a white shirt with button-down
collar and a conservative tie, and a folded
handkerchief and fountain pen peeped over the
edge of the breast pocket of the jacket. I put on the
topcoat.
“And now the clincher,” she said. She handed me
the briefcase. It was a slender one, of the type with
no handles, zipper-closed, and rather old and beatup.
There were a couple of magazines in it, and
some advertising circulars and two or three
meaningless letters she had typed out. As she had
pointed out, it was the perfect piece of camouflage.
She grinned. “Darling, I just know you’re going
to land that Ficklefinger account today and get the
raise.”
Man on The Run — 74
“I think I’ll get by,” I said, “if they don’t look too
closely at my face.”
“Who ever looks closely at men’s faces?”
“Professional cops,” I said. “The very people
we’re trying to fool.”
She shook her head. “They don’t have a
photograph, as far as we know. You could walk
right up and borrow a light from any policeman in
town—as long as you don’t do anything that looks
suspicious. Don’t act nervous. And above all, don’t
run when nobody’s chasing you. Maybe he just
wants to borrow a match himself. Don’t worry
about entering of leaving the building. There are
thirty-three apartments in it, and not one of the
tenants knows ten per cent of the others, even by
sight? Ready?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You go first. And you know where to meet me.”
“I wish you’d let me go alone. If I’m picked up
and you’re with me, they can make it really rough.
You could go to prison.”
“You’ll be much safer in the car. The first time,
anyway, until you get over some of the
nervousness. I’m going.”
There was no use arguing with her. “All right,” I
said. “But remember, if I get in a jam, get the hell
out of there —fast.”
She opened the door and peered out into the
corridor. “All clear,” she said softly. I went out. The
stairs were just around the corner. I walked down
two flights, and punched the button of one of the
self-service elevators. It came. I went out through
the small lobby. It was a cold, clear morning
without wind, and there was frost on the grass in
front of the building.
Morning traffic was picking up along the street,
which paralleled the edge of the park. I turned
right and went up the sidewalk. There were a few
pedestrians striding briskly along. For the first
minute or two I felt naked and scared and wanted
Man on The Run — 75
to shrug down inside the coat and pull my hat over
my face. There was a bus stop at the corner. I
passed it and went on to the next one, two blocks
away.
Several people were waiting here, and there was
a newspaper rack. I dropped a dime in the box and
picked up an Express. No one paid any attention to
me.
Stedman’s murder was still on the front page.
Three men answering my description had been
picked up in skid-row flophouses and later
released. I shivered slightly. My greatest danger
was that there were at least half a dozen detectives
on the force who might know me by sight from
having seen me around the Sidelines Bar. If I ran
into one of them, I was a dead duck.
I saw the blue Olds coming. It slid to a stop at the
curb and I got in. There was a map of the city in
the glove compartment. I spread it open, partly as
an excuse to keep my face down.
“I know how to get there,” she said. “I sized it up
pretty thoroughly on Saturday. Denton Street’s in
an industrial area three or four blocks from the
ship channel. You see it—there in back of the
Municipal docks, about two miles from downtown
and three or four miles up from the Southlands
Refinery.”
“I see it now,” I said. We stopped for a traffic
light.
“If we’re lucky enough to find a parking place
near that diner, I think we can watch two bus stops
at once.”
Traffic was growing heavier. She swung off the
arterial, bypassing the downtown area, and in
about fifteen minutes she turned into Denton in the
1200 block. “Four blocks now,” she said. “The.
Comet Boat Company’s 1636.”
I looked at my watch. It was still twenty minutes
before eight. The traffic was mostly buses and
trucks. She backed into a parking place. I looked
around. On this side 0f the street the whole block
Man on The Run — 76
was taken up by the Comet plant, a long brick
building enclosed by a steel mesh fence. Directly
across from us was a low frame building with a
number of small windows. The sign said
GEORGE’S. That would be the lunchroom. Next to
it was a large wholesale plumbing supply outfit.
She lighted a cigarette. “There’s another coffee
place in the block behind us and one two blocks
ahead. So if she came into George’s, there’s a good
chance she works in the office of one of the four
places in these two blocks. There’s Comet, the
Hildebrand Plumbing Supply, and across the street
in the next block is the Warren Paint Company.
And directly ahead of us, beyond the next corner, is
the Shiloh Machine Tool Company. It seems to be
the largest.”
There was a bus zone almost in front of the diner
on the other side and one at the corner ahead of us.
We had a good view of both. The car parked ahead
of us was a small foreign sedan and we could see
over it. The sun was spilling into the street now,
and the air was warmer. I rolled down the window.
“Here comes one,” she said. A bus passed us and
pulled into the curb up ahead. Fifteen or twenty
people got off, but they were all men carrying
lunch boxes.
“It’s still too early for any of the office force,” she
reminded me.
“Yes,” I said. I wondered how much further into
left field we could go before we were up against
the wall. We were looking for a girl we’d never
seen. We weren’t even positive she existed. Red
could have been mistaken. And if he weren’t, it was
over a month ago. And there was no evidence at all
that the girl he’d seen in the Sidelines had had
anything to do with Stedman other than that he’d
picked her up. He did that all the time.
More buses came by, still loaded with workmen.
It was after eight now. I slipped out and put a
nickel in the parking meter.
Man on The Run — 77
“That Shiloh Machine Tool Company,” she said
musingly. “I keep thinking there’s something
familiar about the name.”
“Wasn’t it a battle in the Civil War?” I asked.
She gestured impatiently. “Yes, of course. In
April of sixty-two, just south of Pittsburgh Landing
on the Tennessee, Grant and Buell against Johnston
and Beauregard. It was a very bloody and
disorganized affair, green troops hacking away at
each other in isolated detachments lost in the
thickets—” She broke off. “But I didn’t mean to get
started on that. What I meant was I’ve seen the
name somewhere recently. It keeps bothering me.
Oh, well, I suppose it wasn’t important.”
Cars began coming into the Comet parking lot,
and office workers were getting off the buses now.
Some of the girls were dark-haired. Each time I
saw one I felt a surge of hope, but none of them
ever answered the description Red had given me.
“She might have changed her hairdo in a month,”
Suzy said. “It could be cut short.”
“She could even be a blonde by now.”
She grinned. “Don’t fire, men, until you see the
roots of their hair.”
By nine o’clock we knew we’d drawn a blank. She
pulled out of the parking place and drove down
toward the beach. On the way we passed the big
Southlands Refinery. As we drove by the Marine
Department gate I stared longingly at it. She
noticed it. “You’ll make it yet, Irish,” she said.
I didn’t answer. I felt too rotten to say anything.
“What would they do with your clothes and
license and things?” she asked. “I mean, when the
ship had to leave without you?”
“Take them off and hold them there in the
Marine Department,” I said. “Captain Bryce’s office
—”
I broke off suddenly, freezing with fear. A siren
had cut loose in a short burst not a hundred yards
behind us.
Man on The Run — 78
“Don’t panic,” she whispered. “I think I was just
going too fast.”
The police car snarled its way up abreast of us in
the inside-lane and the driver waved us over. She
eased off onto the gravel shoulder and stopped. He
stopped ahead of us, got out, and walked back. My
mouth was dry, and I shoved my hands in the
pockets of the topcoat to hide their trembling.
He leaned an arm on the window on her side and
looked in. I fought an impulse to turn my face
away. He was about thirty, lean, alert, with a windburned
face and unemotional gray eyes. He
scarcely glanced at me. “Lady, that’s a twenty-fivemile
zone past the refinery.”
“Oh,” she said contritely. “I—I’m sorry, Officer. I
guess I was going a little faster than that, wasn’t
I?”
“Forty,” he said, somewhat less sternly. She was
pretty and sorry, and far too smart to gush or turn
on too much charm. “Can I see your driver’s
license?”
I breathed softly and went on fighting that
impulse to turn and try to hide my face. Thank God
she was so spectacular; he couldn’t see past her.
She handed him the license. He checked it, tapped
it thoughtfully against his thumbnail, and handed it
back.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll let it go this time. But
watch it. Those signs mean what they say.”
“Thank you, Officer. I’ll be careful.”
For the first time, then, he looked past her at me.
For an instant his eyes were squarely on my face. It
was like a year. Then he turned away and walked
back to his car. Once he paused, as if about to turn
around. She pulled back on the pavement, and as
we went past him he stared thoughtfully after us.
We were drawing away now. I watched the
mirror, holding my breath. Then I saw him slip
behind the wheel and slam the door. The car
Man on The Run — 79
clawed its way back onto the pavement and was
after us like a big cat.
“Here he comes!” I said. “He recognized me.”
“Maybe I can outrun him. Until you can get out
—”
“No,” I said harshly. “Listen, when he waves you
over, stop. After he grabs me, go to pieces. Say I
was threatening you with a gun in my topcoat
pocket. Take it from there.”
He wasn’t using the siren now, but he was
closing on us as if we were standing still. He came
up abreast and motioned us over. She pulled off.
He stopped behind us. There was no use trying to
get out and run; he’d cut me down before I could
get twenty feet.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Remember, I forced my way into the car.”
He came up on her side and looked in. There was
a sheepish grin on his face. “It didn’t sink in at
first,” he said. “Those first names threw me. You’re
Suzy Patton, aren’t you?”
He wondered if she would autograph a book for
his wife if she brought it over. His wife was crazy
about Suzy Patton. She gave him the address. He
thanked her and tipped his cap. We drove off. After
about a mile I took out cigarettes and tried to light
one with hands that were as limp and useless as
jelly.
Man on The Run — 80
Eight
Neither of us said anything until we came down to
the beach and she parked near the jetties at the
entrance to the ship channel.
“I can see why fugitives crack after awhile and
get caught,” she said.
I nodded. “Nobody could take more than a few of
those.”
It was warmer now. The water was sparkling and
blue in the slight offshore breeze. A tanker came
down the channel, headed seaward. I could see the
men on the flying bridge, taking her out, and felt
sick. I’d never be up there again. They’d catch me.
Today, tomorrow, sometime. I’d spend the rest of
my life in a cell.
She had fallen silent. “What are you thinking
about?” I asked
“Shiloh,” she said.
“The battle? Or that machine tool company?”
“A little of each, I think. And fugitives. And what
it’s really like to be a fugitive.” She fumbled
absently in her purse for a cigarette. I lighted it for
her. “Take a Union soldier,” she went on. “Maybe
he was captured when Prentiss’s division was cut
off and sent to the rear. And then escaped behind
Man on The Run — 81
the Confederate lines after Bragg’s rearguard
action and the withdrawal toward Corinth. He was
wounded and in enemy territory—” Her voice
trailed off and she stared out over the water.
“But what does this have to do with the factory?”
“Nothing.” Then she glanced at her watch. “But
we’ve got to get back if we’re going to catch the
coffee break.”
“I’ll take it from here,” I said. “You drop me and
go on back to the apartment.”
* * *
She let me out three blocks away and I walked
slowly up Denton Street in the sunlight. It was tenfifteen.
Just as I reached George’s coffee shop two
girls came out of the gate at the Comet Boat
Company across the street. One was brown-haired,
the other blonde. I opened the screen door and
went inside.
There was a long counter at right angles to the
doorway, and to the right were ten or twelve
booths. I went on around to the far end of the
counter and sat down facing the door. There were
two men and a girl at the counter, and I was aware
of some more people at two of the booths, though I
hadn’t looked at them yet. I set the briefcase on the
counter and unzipped it to take out one of the
letters Suzy had typed.
The waitress came over. “Yes, sir? May I help
you?”
I glanced up. “Oh. Coffee, please. And one of
those rolls.”
“Yes, sir.” She drew the coffee and placed it in
front of me, and put the sweet roll on a plate. I took
a sip of the coffee, pushed it to one side, and
opened the letter, and as I did so I glanced casually
around the place. The girl at the counter was a
dishwater blonde. There were two girls in one of
the booths, and a girl and a man in another, but
nobody was anywhere near the description Red had
Man on The Run — 82
given me. I unclipped the fountain pen and started
making some notes on the bottom of the letter. The
two girls I’d seen leaving the Comet office came in.
Five or ten minutes went by, and the place was
filling up. I ate some of the roll, sweated out the
coffee as long as I could, and ordered some more.
They came in by twos and threes, mostly girls
talking and laughing. From where I was sitting I
could watch the door without appearing to. I
glanced at my watch. It was ten-thirty-five. The
whole thing was a pipe dream, I thought. The
screen door opened again. I glanced up, and I was
looking right at her.
There was no doubt of it at all. And no doubt that
Red really had an eye. She was with two other girls
that nobody would ever see unless they took their
clothes off or dyed themselves purple. They sat
down at a booth near the door and ordered coffee. I
went on making notes on the back of the letter,
carefully concealing my excitement.
In a moment I shot another glance at her. She
was sitting alone on one side of the booth with the
other two facing her and was in left profile. There
was no ring on her hand. She had on a brown
tailored suit, white blouse, nylons, and high-heeled
alligator shoes, and carried a very large alligator
purse. The hair was midnight black, turned under
on the ends and bouncing off her shoulders. She
was about five-five or five-six, not over twenty-five
years old, and built like a dream. The skin was
slightly olive and the lips full and red with a
stunning shade of lipstick. She turned then,
glancing around the place, and her eyes swept over
me.
She’d caught me looking at her, but it didn’t
matter. The only thing that would ever strike her as
unusual would be discovering a man who wasn’t
looking at her. The eyes were dark brown, and you
could see the smoldering Latin fire in them. She
paid no attention to me. I returned to my scribbling
on the back of the letter and didn’t look at her
Man on The Run — 83
again. In about ten minutes they paid their checks
and went out.
I put the papers back in the briefcase, lighted a
cigarette, and sauntered out. They had turned to
the left, and were about half a block away, going
up the sidewalk on this side. They were already
past the entrance to the plumbing supply company.
They stopped at the corner, waited for the light to
change, and crossed Denton. I walked slowly up to
the corner. They crossed the intersecting street. In
the middle of the next block they turned in. It was
the entrance to the Shiloh Machine Tool Company.
Lathes and Milling Machines, the sign said. The
plant was enclosed by a steel mesh fence and took
up most of the block. There was an office building
in front, at the entrance, and in back of it a larger
building of dark red brick. I went on up the street
on this side. Two blocks away I found a beer joint
that had a phone booth and called Suzy.
“I found her,” I said excitedly. “She works for
that Shiloh outfit.”
“Good,” she replied. “Can I come and pick you
up?”
“No. The next step is to find out where she lives.
I’m going to try to follow her home tonight.”
“It’s only eleven now. You’ll have six hours to
kill.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ll be safe in a movie.”
I caught a bus and rode to the downtown area. I
didn’t feel so naked and exposed in the large
crowds of shoppers. Half a dozen times I passed
uniformed policemen, and after awhile I stopped
cringing inside my clothes when I saw one. The
motion picture theaters were open now. I picked
one showing a double feature and went inside.
At four-thirty I went out, bought an afternoon
paper, and boarded a bus that would take me back
to Denton Street. I unfolded the paper, SEAMAN
SOUGHT IN POLICE MURDER STILL AT LARGE, a
front-page headline said. A Lt. Brannan of
Man on The Run — 84
Homicide was quoted as saying it was obvious by
now that somebody was hiding me.
“Any person knowing Foley’s whereabouts and
withholding the information is a guilty of harboring
a fugitive,” he went on. “This is a serious offense.”
At the next stop a man sat down beside me. I
kept my attention on the paper, conscious that he
was looking at it too. “Some bunch of cops,” he
said. “Whole police force can’t find one dumb
sailor.”
“Maybe he’s left town,” I said.
“Naah. Probably walkin’ around on the street
right now. Whatta you suppose they’d do if they
ever run up against a real smart cookie like Willie
Sutton or somebody?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered. I wished he’d shut up.
I turned to the comics and let him read them.
Apparently he never had looked at me. I got off the
bus at the Comet Boat Company and crossed to the
other side of Denton. It was five minutes of five.
There was a parking lot inside the fence at the
Shiloh Tool Company, and I could see about thirty
cars in it. Since we hadn’t seen her get off a bus
this morning there was a possibility she drove to
work. If she did, I’d be out of luck. But at least I
could spot the car, and tomorrow Suzy might be
able to follow it. At five a whistle blew, and men
came pouring out of the Shiloh plant, but none of
the office staff emerged.
They came out at five-thirty. Some of them
headed for their cars around at the side. In a
moment I saw. her. She came on out to the
sidewalk. She had on a lightweight cloth coat and
was carrying the large alligator bag. When she
reached the corner, she stopped, waited for the
light, and came over on this side. She was going to
catch the bus at the stop in front of the coffee shop.
I walked down that way behind her. There were
five or six other people waiting, and a bus was
coming now. It was already well loaded, but it
pulled to the curb and the doors opened. She got
Man on The Run — 85
on. I was last in line, and for an instant I was afraid
I wasn’t going to make it. Then the driver yelled for
everybody to move back, and I got aboard.
She was just beyond me, standing in the aisle and
holding onto the bar. I could see more room at the
rear, and squeezed past her, through the other
standees. She didn’t even look around. I went all
the way back. I could see the dark head without
any difficulty.
The bus went through the downtown section, and
she almost caught me by surprise when she got off.
I stepped down just as the doors were closing and
picked her up again in the throngs hurrying along
the sidewalk.
She went in the Second Avenue entrance of
Waldman’s, the city’s largest department store. It
was nearly six p.m. now, and the street lights were
on. I picked her up again inside and stayed close
behind her in the crowd. It occurred to me a
professional would probably wince at the crude
tailing I was doing, but she never once looked
around, so it was all right. She went up an
escalator to the second floor and stopped at the
hosiery counter. I moved over to another aisle,
staying behind her, and pretended interest in
perfume while she bought a pair of nylons. She
gave the clerk a charge-a-plate. The clerk stamped
it on the slip, returned it. and put the stockings in a
small bag.
She crossed to the other end of the floor and
went into the women’s lounge. I moved back to
where I could watch the doorway without being
conspicuous, and found a chair and an ashtray. I
lighted a cigarette. Some ten minutes went by. I
began to worry. There might be another exit;
maybe she’d spotted me, and had gone in there to
give me the slip. Then, when I’d almost given up
hope, she came out. She took the escalator back to
the ground floor and went out the Butler Street
entrance. It was six-thirty now, and darkness had
fallen, but the streets were still crowded.
Man on The Run — 86
In the next block she stopped at a newsstand and
bought a magazine, then entered a restaurant. It
was on a corner, with large plate glass windows on
both sides. I could see her without going in myself.
She ordered a sandwich and coffee and looked at
the magazine while she was eating. The corner
where I was standing was a bus stop. In about
twenty minutes she paid her check and came out I
moved back, and she came over and stood on the
curb where I had been. I sighed. Maybe she was
going home at last.
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