She boarded a Montlake bus, the number seven
line. Two more passengers got on after her, and
then I climbed aboard. She had found a seat and
opened the magazine and didn’t look up as I went
past. I went on to the rear and sat down.
I opened the paper and pretended to read,
keeping my face down. The bus turned north along
a heavily traveled arterial. We passed a district of
apartment houses. Several passengers got off. She
went on reading. After awhile the bus swung off
onto quieter streets and we went past a large
housing development. At every stop one or two
passengers debarked. Soon there were only five of
us left. I wondered why she lived so far out; we
must be miles from downtown. Then she put the
magazine away and started watching the stops.
“Stevens,” the driver called out. She gathered up
her things and came back to the rear door. The bus
stopped and she got down. The door closed, but
just before we got under way again I glanced up
suddenly from my paper and asked, “This
Stevens?”
“That’s right,” the driver said. I grabbed the
briefcase and got off. The bus went on. I took out a
cigarette and stood momentarily on the corner as I
lighted it. It was a run-down district of older frame
houses. Diagonally across the intersection a service
station was a glaring oasis of light, but there were
few cars on the street. She crossed the intersection
and turned right opposite the service station, going
up the sidewalk under the trees on the far side. As
Man on The Run — 87
well as I could tell, she never had looked back, but
I hoped we didn’t have far to go. In this lonely and
outlying district she’d be almost certain to spot me
before long. When she was about halfway up the
block, I crossed the street and fell in behind her.
It was shadowy under the trees, and there were
street lights only at the intersections. She crossed
the next street, still going straight ahead. It was
very quiet, even this early in the evening, and I
could hear her heels tapping on the walk. There
were fewer houses in this block. One car went past,
splashing us with its headlights, but she didn’t look
around.
There were no houses at all in the third block. It
was a playground or park, enclosed in a high wire
fence. The sidewalk was in heavy shadow from the
eucalyptus trees along the curb. Across the street
was a dark building that appeared to be a school.
She went on at the same unhurried pace, about
fifty yards ahead of me. Somewhere near the
middle of the block I made out the dark bulk of a
car parked at the curb. She passed it. I tensed up,
suddenly wary, but I was too late. A massive
shadow detached itself from the bole of one of the
trees and stepped right in front of me. I tried to
duck to one side, but the gun crashed at pointblank
range, the little tongue of flame licking at the
sleeve of my topcoat.
Something slammed into me just below my ribs.
It was like being hit in the belly with a baseball bat.
I rocked backward and spun halfway around and
my knees caved under me and I fell. I tried to cry
out, but I couldn’t even breathe. Cold pavement
was against my face, and I could feel it grinding
under my cheek and the side of my jaw as I kept
opening and closing my mouth in a silent and futile
spasm as if I were trying to bite loose some air and
swallow it. I could hear. Her heels were clicking on
the walk as she ran, coming nearer, and his shoes
scraped as he took two steps and squatted beside
me. A hand touched my arm, and groped its way
across my chest.
Man on The Run — 88
She ran up. “Hurry!” she gasped. “What are you
doing? Let’s get out of here.”
“He’s just gut-shot. You want him talking when
they find him?”
The hand moved again and was on the side of my
throat. He grunted. He was coolly locating my
head, so he could put the gun muzzle against it. My
whole torso was still numb, as if I’d been cut in
two, but suddenly I was breathing again. I grabbed
the hand and pulled. He came down on top of me
like a falling horse. The gun went off. I heard it
clatter on the pavement, and then slide as
somebody hit it with a thrashing arm or leg. He
swung at me and I heard his fist smash against
concrete, He sucked his breath in sharply and
cursed.
“Find the damned gun!” he snapped.
He was as strong as a bull and could have broken
me in two if he’d ever been able to get hold of me
squarely, but I was thrashing like a wild man. We
tumbled over and rolled again.
“I can’t find it,” she cried out. “I don’t even know
where it went.”
“Well, get the knife out of my pocket! I can’t hold
him and reach for it.”
“We haven’t got time. There’s somebody coming,
at the next corner.”
I broke free of him momentarily and tried to
scramble to my feet. A big hand caught me in the
chest and slammed me over backward. My head hit
the pavement and lights exploded in it. I wasn’t
completely out, but I was helpless. I felt myself
being lifted and dragged, with my legs trailing
limply along the walk. A voice said, “Open the
door.” I fell on my back. Somebody doubled my
legs up and the car door slammed. I must have
gone out then for a moment, for the next thing I
was conscious of was the high-pitched scream of
rubber as we took a corner.
Man on The Run — 89
I was sick and still had that sensation of having
been cut in two. I realized dimly that I was lying on
the floor in the back of the car and that they were
in the front seat.
“Watch him,” the man said. “If he comes to, sing
out.”
It was strange there,wasn’t more pain. Being
shot in the belly was like having your wind knocked
out at football. Well, it would start in a minute.
Except that they’d finish the job as soon as they
found a place to stop. I thought of that knife, and
could feel the nausea welling up in me.
“How in the name of God did you miss him?” she
asked.
“Miss him, hell! It knocked him down.”
She gasped. “You hit the briefcase! I told you he
was carrying a briefcase under his arm.”
“Oh, Christ!” We swung another corner. “Well,
here! Take this.” I heard the metallic tunnnk a
switch-blade knife makes as it opens. “You can
reach him. Right in the bottom of the throat and
then down—”
“In the car?”
“Of course in the car, you fool. We can’t stop
here.”
“You’ll have to do it. This is beginning to make
me sick.”
“Well, of all the chicken-livered—!”
“I can’t help it!” she cried out. “It’s taking too
long.”
“All right, all right. Just watch him till I can find a
street.”
My head was clearing a little and some sensation
returning to my body. I was lying on something
hard that was gouging into my hip. Moving my
hand very slowly, I reached down and touched it. It
felt familiar, a smooth of wood tapering to a point
and rounded and heavier on the other end. I
worked my fingers around the small end of it. She
Man on The Run — 90
was probably looking over the back of front seat at
me, but it was very dark down here and all could
see was my face.
It was now or never. I pushed myself erect and
slid onto seat. She cried out a warning and tried to
reach me with the knife. I ignored her and swung
the fid as hard I could at his head. It wasn’t heavy
enough to do any damage, but he grunted and
slammed on the brakes. I hit her across the arm
with it. The knife dropped. She kneeling on the
front seat, still reaching for me, while he tried to
get out the door. He took his foot off the brake, and
the car started forward again, but stalled. I swept
an arm, caught her across the chest, and dropped
backward across him and the steering wheel. The
horn began blowing. For the first time, I was
conscious there were lights around us. On the front
seat, beyond her threshing silken legs, was the big
alligator purse. I grabbed it, pushed her back on
top of him again, and jumped out. Brakes
screamed, and a man’s voice cursed me. He’d come
behind, and tried to swing around us. One of his
fenders bumped me and threw me off stride, but I
didn’t fall. I danced sidewise, swinging the purse to
keep my balance.
I was in the middle of a neighborhood business
district. Opposite me, colored lights blazed on and
off on the marquee of a movie theater, and on the
other side of the street was a big drugstore. Cars
slid to a stop and horns began to blow. I ran for the
curb.
“Purse snatcher!” somebody yelled. A man
leaped from a stalled car and tried to head me off. I
dodged him. Two more along the sidewalk took up
the chase. A woman was screaming, “Call the
police! Call the police.” At the corner ahead was a
filling station, and two men in white coveralls were
running out in the street to stop me. I was cut off in
that direction. I whirled in the middle of the street
and went the other way, dodging through the cars.
I made it onto the sidewalk beyond the drugstore.
A man reached for me. I swung an arm and
Man on The Run — 91
knocked him down. Just as I reached the corner I
heard a siren somewhere behind me. Half dozen
men were chasing me now. I turned the corner and
ran another block. I was drawing away from them.
It was a residential area here, and not so well
lighted. I was under trees again. I crossed another
intersection and ran on. All the men on foot had
given up now, but the siren was still wailing and
when I looked back I saw headlights. There was an
alley in the middle of the block. I ducked into it.
The police car went past. Halfway down the alley a
gate was open into a back yard. I slipped into it,
hoping there was no dog. None challenged me. I
pushed the gate closed and slid into dense shadows
in a clump of oleanders. I could hear another siren
screaming in the direction of the business district.
Lights were on in the house, but the curtains
were drawn over the window facing the back yard.
I could see the silhouettes of the occupants as they
moved across the room. I was gasping for breath
and my side and abdomen hurt as if they’d been
beaten with clubs. My hat was gone, as well as the
briefcase, but I still had the alligator purse in a
death grip under my arm. Minutes went by and I
began to get my breath. I touched my side,
exploring the area just under my ribs, and winced.
I’d been holding the briefcase about there, under
my arm. There’d been a New Yorker in it, and a
copy of Fortune. The slug must have hit them at
just a slight angle and they’d turned it before it
could go all the way through, but I’d still taken the
full impact of it. There was no wonder it had spun
me around and knocked me down.
The lights went out in the rear of the house and I
heard music come on somewhere inside. The
sounds of pursuit had died away now, but I had to
ditch the purse before I dared go back out on the
street again. It was too big to hide. I opened it and
knelt in the shadow of the oleanders and flicked on
the cigarette lighter, shielding the flame with my
body. When I flipped open the wallet, the first thing
I saw was a driver’s license. I slipped it out and
Man on The Run — 92
dropped the wallet back in the purse. Frances
Celaya, it said. 2712 Randall Street, Apartment
203. And in the bottom of the purse, amid the
clutter of bobby pins, lipstick, mirror, and comb,
was a key. I’d had to get shot to do it, but I’d got
just what I was after. I dropped the key and
driver’s license in the pocket of my topcoat, and
shoved the purse far back into the oleanders. It
would be safer to wait another half hour or so, but I
was in a hurry now. Slipping out the gate, I went
on down the alley. When I came out onto the next
street, it was quiet. I turned left, going away from
the business district. After five or six blocks I
began to breathe more freely. Apparently the
police regarded it as a routine purse-snatching; if
they’d recognized me from the description, the
area would be saturated with patrol cars. But now
that I’d lost my hat, trying to move anywhere in the
open was dangerous. I’d have to find a phone
booth. I went on through the quiet residential
streets. After another ten or fifteen minutes I saw a
traffic light some four or five blocks down an
intersecting street and headed that way.
The name of the street was Octavia, and I was in
the 700 block. Just around the corner was a small
neighbored shopping center; I could see a
supermarket that was still open, a bakery, and a
drugstore. There were no police cars in sight. I
ducked into the drugstore, feeling naked in the
light, but no one paid any attention to me. There
were telephone booths. I slipped into one and
dialed the apartment. Suzy answered on the first
ring.
“Where are you?” she asked quickly. “Are you all
right?”
“So far,” I said. “But I had a little trouble. And
I’ve lost the hat. Can you pick me up?”
“I’m on my way. Where are you?”
I told her. “Just park in the supermarket lot. I’ll
come out and get in.”
Man on The Run — 93
“I think I know where Octavia is. It’ll be about
twenty minutes. Try to stay out of sight.”
“Sure,” I said. She hung up. I dropped in another
dime and dialed the number of that phone booth in
the Sidelines Bar. A man answered.
“Is Red there?” I asked.
“Just a moment.”
I waited. In a minute somebody picked up the
receiver and I heard the door close. “Red?” I asked
softly.
“Yeah. How are you, boy?”
“Still afloat, anyway,” I said. “But, listen. You
may be in trouble now. Watch your step and don’t
go down any dark alleys.”
“What is it?”
“That girl you told me about—Miss Stacked,
Dark, and Deadly. I located her and tried to follow
her home to find out who she was and where she
lived, and she lowered the boom on me, but good.
She also has a very rugged boy friend. She may
figure out that it could have been you that put me
on her trail. If she does, lock your door and hide
under the bed.”
“Thanks for the tip. But what are you going to
do?”
“Go see her. I’ve got her name and address now.”
“But, look. How about hiring a lawyer and giving
yourself up? I’ll call Wittner for you. He’s the best
in the state.”
“No,” I said. “There’s not a shred of proof she
had anything to do with Stedman. I don’t know who
the boy friend is, and believe me, they’d never get
it out of her.”
“But if she recognized you, she must have seen
you in Stedman’s apartment.”
“Sure. That’s the only place she could have seen
me before. But we can’t prove it. So far, we can’t
prove anything. I’ve got the key to her apartment,
though, and I want to see what I can find.”
Man on The Run — 94
“Well, be careful, will you?”
I hung up and looked at my watch. It was five of
nine, and it would be at least another fifteen
minutes before she could get here. A phone booth
was a good place to stay out of sight. I fished out
another dime of the twenty she’d provided me with
this morning.
I looked up the number of the Seamen’s Union,
dialed it, and got hold of the dispatcher. “I’m trying
to locate a seaman named Bullard,” I said. “Would
you take a gander and see if he’s on your beach
list?”
“What’s the first name?” he asked.
“There you’ve got me,” I replied. “I don’t know.
I’m not even sure he’s a member, or that he goes to
sea any more. But he’s a great big guy, built like an
anchor windlass. And if he does ship out it’s
probably on deck.”
“Hmmm, let’s see—No, there’s nobody named
Bullard on the beach right now. But we got several
members by that name—I know two myself. Johnny
Bullard and Step-and-a-half Bullard. I think Step’s
first name is Raymond. Bad knee. Strafed on the
Murmansk run in World War I— “
“How about Johnny?” I asked.
“Young guy. About twenty-five. Ships as
Ordinary. He’s at sea now. We shipped him out on
a Victory last week, for Rio and B.A.”
“No-o,” I said. “The one I’m looking for was in
some kind of trouble here a few years back, during
a strike.”
“Oh, you mean that fink bastard! Well, look,
friend—he’s not a member of this union, and never
was. But I’ll you what. If he ever shows up around
here, you can come get him. Just bring a blotter.”
“You got any idea where he is?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Let’s just say I’d like to get in touch with him. I
might have the blotter ready now. What do you
know about him?”
Man on The Run — 95
‘His name’s Ryan Bullard. And except for being a
rat, a fink, a scab, a thug, and a goon, he’s one of
the sweetest guys you’ll ever meet. And, oh yes,
he’s also an ex-con, I understand. And he beat a
seaman to death with a baseball bat.”
“When?” I asked.
“About five years ago. During the Inland
Boatmen’s strike. Bullard was scabbing, and he
killed a picket. He was arrested and charged with
murder, but before the trial both the witnesses
disappeared. Later on, they found one of ‘em in the
bay.”
“Murdered?”
”Yeah, unless he always went swimming with a
Ford transmission tied to his leg. Anyway, Bullard
got a hung jury the first time and beat it on the
second trial. But he hasn’t been around here for
years. Right after the trial he shipped out on some
pot under the Panamanian flag. I think I did hear a
couple of years ago that he was doing time in a
Cuban pen for working over one of Batista’s strong
boys. And somebody else says he’s been shrimping
out of Pensacola or Tampa. I don’t know; you
always hear stories.”
”Okay, thanks a million,” I said.
We were as far out in left field as ever, I thought.
Where could there be any connection between
Frances Celaya and Ryan Bullard and Stedman?
Bullard had been gone from here for years.
Frances Celaya worked for a machine tool
company. And Stedman was just a detective who
thought he was God’s gift to women. I shook my
head and went back outside. My stomach and ribs
felt as if I’d been run over by a tank.
It wouldn’t do to stand around. I walked back up
through the residential streets for about ten
minutes, and when I came back the blue Olds was
just pulling into the parking lot. I went over and
got in. She was wearing the gray fur coat, with the
collar turned up about her throat. I kissed her, and
she clung to me for an instant.
Man on The Run — 96
“I’ve been scared,” she said. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” I said. “Do you know
how to get to the 2700 block on Randall Street?”
“Randall? Yes. That’d be near the downtown
area. Why?”
“Let’s go,” I said. “That’s where our girl friend
lives. I’m going to call on her.”
Man on The Run — 97
Nine
She swung over on Octavia and into an arterial
heading downtown. I told her about it.
“Oh, my God,” she said, horrified. “I never heard
of anything as cold-blooded and brutal. You can’t
go there.”
“I’ve got to,” I said. “Maybe I can find out
something about her. There must be some lead to
Stedman.”
“But suppose they’re there?”
“I’ll just have to take a chance on it. Anyway, he
hasn’t got the gun now.”
She stopped for a traffic light. “Why do you
suppose she didn’t just call the police when she
recognized you?”
“Too risky,” I said. “She figured I must know
something, or I wouldn’t be following her. If they
picked me up, I might sell them on it too.
Incidentally, I suppose that john there at
Waldman’s has phone booths?”
“Yes, of course.”
“She’s a smart baby,” I said. “She suspected that
would never occur to a dumb sailor, and she was
right. If I’d seen her make the phone call, I might
Man on The Run — 98
have begun to suspect something when we wound
up out there in the sticks.”
“The horrible part of it is you know now she was
in Stedman’s apartment when the two of you were
fighting.”
“That’s right. Know it and can’t possibly prove
it.”
Traffic was lighter now, and it took only about
twenty minutes. She turned off the arterial before
we got downtown, swung over eight or ten blocks,
and hit Randall in the 3100 block. We turned left. It
was apparently a low-rent apartment house
district. She slowed as we went by. 2712 was a
three-story building of dingy red brick.
“Turn right at the corner,” I said. “I want you to
park at least a block away. And if I get in trouble
and police start swarming in here, get out fast.”
“Please be careful,” she said. We found a place to
park a little over a block from Randall, and I
squeezed her hand, got out, and walked back.
There were a few pedestrians out, but no police
cars in sight. Most of the windows across the front
of 2712 showed lights. I crossed the street and
stepped into the vestibule.
To the right of the doorway was a row of buttons
opposite the little nameplate holders. Some of them
were blank, including 203. I pressed the button and
waited. There was no answer. I tried twice more,
just to be sure. Fine. She wasn’t home. I took out
the key, but when I tried to insert it in the door it
wouldn’t go in. That was odd; usually any
apartment key in the building would unlock the
downstairs door so you didn’t have to carry two.
Well, it didn’t matter. I reached over and pressed
three or four of the buttons. The door buzzed. I
shoved it open and went in. There was a central
hall, going straight back, and stairs on the right
and left.
The second floor was the same arrangement.
Number 203 was the second apartment on the left.
There was no one in sight, but I could hear music
Man on The Run — 99
and snatches of television programs from beyond
the doors. I hoped the apartments had rear
entrances. It was going to be deadly if she came
back with that big gorilla and caught me. Maybe he
even lived here with her. Well, I’d find out as soon
as I got inside.
I was putting the key to the lock when I heard
the front door open down below and then heavy
footsteps on the stairs. The key didn’t go in. I must
have it upside down. I reversed it. It still wouldn’t
insert. I looked at the number on the door. This
was the right one—203. The footsteps were nearing
the top of the stairs now, and I began to feel
panicky. But maybe he’d go on to the third floor. I
turned slightly, and stood with my back toward the
stairs as if waiting for someone inside to answer
my knock.
The footsteps came up behind me, and a man’s
voice asked, “You looking for somebody?”
I had to turn around. He was a tall, bony-faced
man wearing a bus driver’s cap and whipcord
jacket. “I guess there’s nobody home,” I said.
He regarded me stonily. “I’m here. Whatta you
want?”
Before I could think of anything to say, he caught
sight of the key that was still in my hand. He
grabbed the front of my topcoat. “Why, you dirty
sneak-thief!”
I jerked down on his wrists and broke the hold on
my coat, and tried to get past him. He reached for
me again. I hit him in the face. He rocked back on
his heels, but didn’t fall. “Thief!” he yelled at the
top of his voice. “Burglar!” He lunged at me,
flailing his arms. He seemed to have six or seven. I
hit him in the stomach. He doubled over, but
managed to fall into me and get his arms around
my legs. We both fell. Doors were opening along
the corridor now, and people were spilling into it. I
tried to get up, but he was all over me like four
cocker spaniels.
Man on The Run — 100
“Call the police!” he was yelling now. I rolled out
from under him once more, peeled his arms loose,
and got to my feet. He scrambled up. I swung,
connected with his jaw, and this time I dropped
him. I wheeled and ran toward the stairs. A man
shot out of 201 and tried to tackle me. I stiff-armed
him and slipped past, but somebody got me from
behind. We crashed to the floor. I rolled up and
over him, and swung at his face. He grunted. I
pushed to my feet once more in pandemonium that
was like a fire in a madhouse and lunged toward
the stairs.
The one who’d missed the tackle was after me
now. I stopped abruptly on the landing, swinging
inward toward the wall, and when he came even
with me I hit him. He shot against the railing,
stumbled, and rolled on down the stairs. I jumped
over him and streaked for the door. Now the
occupants of the lower floor were erupting into the
corridor, and a fat man in a bathrobe was running
to head me off.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I
stuck my hand down in the pocket of the topcoat
and snapped, “All right! Back inside, all of you!”
The fat man skidded to a stop almost on top of me
like a character in an animated cartoon, and his
eyes went wide with fright. The one who’d rolled
down the steps changed his mind about getting up,
and froze. I slipped sidewise toward the door and
got my hand on it.
“Anybody that comes out is going to get shot,” I
said. I went out. The street was deserted and quiet,
but I knew that wouldn’t last more than a few
seconds. I could hear a siren somewhere already. I
broke into a run, crossing the street and turning
right. Two or three of the hardier ones had already
come out of the vestibule to see which way I went.
I made the turn at the corner and was on the
street parallel to the one where she was parked.
The siren was screaming somewhere not over five
or six blocks behind me now. I put on another burst
of speed and when I reached the next corner I shot
Man on The Run — 101
a glance behind me. The cruiser still wasn’t in
sight, and nobody was chasing me on foot. I turned
left and ran down the street parallel to Randall,
headed toward her. She might be gone now, or if
they were in sight when I reached the car I’d have
to run on by and ignore her, but there was still a
chance. I reached the corner. The Olds was still
there.
I looked back. A car was coming slowly along the
street behind me, but it had no police markings. I
shot across the pavement and climbed in. She
already had the engine running. We tore away from
the curb. I was gasping for breath. She asked no
questions. We swung left at the next corner and
sped along a quiet street for two blocks. I watched
the mirror. There were two or three cars behind us
but no flashing lights or sirens. She turned left
again, and when we crossed Randall I looked up
the street. There was a police car and a crowd of
people before the apartment house, and another
cruiser was just screeching around the corner
beyond it where I had turned. We were in the clear.
I sighed. She slowed a little now and went on over
and hit the arterial, turning left, away from
downtown.
I fumbled cigarettes out of my pocket and noticed
I’d hurt my right hand again; the knuckles were
skinned, and it was beginning to swell. I lighted
two cigarettes, and passed one to her.
“Thanks,” I said. “But you shouldn’t have waited.
You’re taking too many chances.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“I was caught trying to get in.” I pulled the
driver’s license from my pocket and checked it.
2712 Randall Street, Apartment 203. “It was an old
address,” I said wearily. “She’s moved.”
“And there’s no new one on the back?”
“No,” I said.
The same thought apparently occurred to both of
us at the same instant, but when we glanced at
each other we shrugged and neither of us said
Man on The Run — 102
anything. Maybe it was illegal. But then so was
killing policemen.
“What now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe if I’ll let him shoot
me they’ll give me the new address.”
“Was there anything else in her purse that might
have address on it? A letter, or something?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Anyway, the
purse is gone. I don’t have the slightest idea where
I was when I ditched it in that backyard.”
We drove on in silence for a few minutes. Then I
said, “Let’s watch for a phone booth. I want to
make a telephone call.”
“Why not make it from the apartment? We’ll be
there ten minutes.”
“No. They might be able to trace it. I’m going to
call the police.”
She glanced around at me and nodded. “That
may be the best idea you’ve had yet. They might
look her up.”
“It’s worth a try, at least.”
About two miles farther on there was a mammoth
shopping center on the right. And on the sidewalk
between the street and the parking area were two
telephone booths side by side. She pulled to the
curb near them. Some of the stores were still open,
and the area was well lighted, with numbers of
people about, but it should be safe enough. No one
would see me very well inside the booth.
One was already occupied. I stepped into the
other, closed the door, and reached for the book. It
would be much better if I could talk to one of them
at home; there’d be less chance of his being able to
trace the call. What was the name of that Homicide
Lieutenant in the paper? Brennan? No. Brannan—
that was it. I might get more results if I talked to
the man in charge, anyway. I looked up in the book.
There were fifteen or twenty Brannans but only one
listed as a Lieutenant .I dialed the number.
Man on The Run — 103
His wife answered. “No. I’m sorry. He was called
back the station awhile ago.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I started to hang up, but she cut in quickly,
“Wait. He may be coming now.”
I waited. She came back. “He just drove in. If
you’ll hold on—”
I thanked her. In a moment a man’s voice said,
“Brannan speaking.” He sounded tired.
“I’ve got a tip for you,” I said. “I can tell you who
killed Stedman.”
“Yes?” There was little interest in his voice. Then
I re-remembered reading that in any murder case
they got hundreds of tips, mostly worthless and
usually from screwballs. “Who’s this?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I went on quickly, “Just
listen. It was a girl. Her name is Frances Celaya.
She works for the Shiloh Machine Tool Company.
You got that?”
“Yes,” he said boredly. “Now tell me who you are.
And where you picked up this idea.”
“Never mind who I am,” I said. “But I can tell you
definitely this girl was in Stedman’s apartment the
night he was killed. She’s a Latin type, a real dish,
about twenty-five years old, and she used to live at
Apartment 203, 2712 Randall Street, but she’s
moved.”
“Hold it!” The boredom and the weariness were
gone as if they’d never existed. His voice was
suddenly alive, and very brisk and professional.
“What was that number again?”
“2712 Randall. Apartment 203.”
“Check. Now, don’t hang up on me. You must be
Foley?”
“All right. I am. But don’t try to trace this call.”
“Cut it out. There’s no way I can trace a call from
here. But I want to tell you something. You’re in
one hell of a mess.”
Man on The Run — 104
I sighed. “Thanks for telling me. Now do you
want to hear what I’ve got to say? If not, I’ll hang
up.”
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