“Go ahead. But when you get through I want you
to listen to me for a minute. Okay?”
“Right,” I said. I told him about trying to follow
Frances Celaya home and what had happened. “So
she saw me in Stedman’s apartment that night,” I
finished. “That’s the only way in the world she
could have recognized me. She knew I was after
her, and she tried to kill me.”
“But did you see her in the apartment?”
“No. I didn’t see anybody. Except Stedman.”
“Then what put you on her trail?”
”I can’t tell you that,” I said. “It involves a friend
of mine.”
“Your story doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know it doesn’t. I’m just telling you what
happened. I don’t know anything about her at all,
or why she’d want to kill Stedman. I can’t tell you
who that big goon is, or even what he looks like,
because it was too dark. But I’m pretty sure he’s a
seaman or used to be one.”
“Why?”
“When he was telling the girl to watch me, he
said if I came around, to sing out. Sing out is a
seagoing expression, and one of the few that
sailors ever use ashore. And that thing I hit him
with was a fid.”
“What’s a fid?”
“It’s a heavy wooden spike, pointed at one end
and rounded on the other, and it’s used in splicing
line. So he might be working ashore as a rigger, or
on small boats of some kind.”
“All right,” he said brusquely. “Now I want to
give you some advice, Foley. I don’t think you
realize the dangerous spot you’re in, so let me spell
it out for you. It’s probably the luck of the stupid
Irish, but you’ve been fouling up the police force of
a whole city for a week. There are several hundred
Man on The Run — 105
men out looking for you. Some of them haven’t
been home for days. Some of ‘em have been
chewed out till they’re numb. I’m one of ‘em.
They’re tired, and they’re mad. You’re wanted for
killing a cop. And now to top it off, you’re on the
list as being armed and dangerous. Is it beginning
to soak in?”
“I haven’t got a gun,” I said.
“Maybe not. But that’s not the point. You told the
people in that Randall Street apartment you had
one, and the only way those men out there can play
it is by the book. You’re presumed to be armed, and
if you make one phony move they’re going to cut
you down. Tell me where you are.”
Somebody was rattling the door of the booth.
“Hold it a minute,” I told Brannan. The door
opened and a big round face looked in at me. It had
small black eyes set in it, a flat nose, a thinning
fuzz of black hair around a bald head, and it was
overflowing with the solemnity of the very drunk.
”Par’n me, Jack,” it said. It blinked at me, swayed
unsteadily, and withdrew. It was attached to a
massive, thickset body in dark trousers, and a dark
gray sweater with no shirt. “You can have it in just
a minute,” I said. I hoped he didn’t fall on the booth
and knock it over.
“You still there?” Brannan asked.
“Yeah. What were you going to say?”
“Tell me where you are. When you hear the siren
coming, stand in the open with your hands on top
of your head.”
The party in the other booth went out now, and I
heard the big drunk stagger in and try to dial
somebody, humming to himself. “Nothing doing,” I
said.
“All right. If you’re too stupid to care what
happens to you, think about your friend.
Somebody’s hiding you. And some of these judges
can get damned nasty about harboring a fugitive.”
Man on The Run — 106
“I know that,” I said. “So does he. But how about
spending a few minutes of your time trying to catch
the fugitive that did kill Stedman. I’ll give you this
once more, so write it down. Frances Celaya.
That’s C-e-l-a-y-a. Shiloh Machine Tool Company.
Same name as the Civil War battle.” I dropped the
receiver on the hook and went back to the car. We
pulled out into the traffic.
“Did it do any good?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” I said. “But at least we tried.”
She put the car in the basement garage. “You go
on up,” I said, “so if anybody recognizes me we
won’t be together.” I waited five minutes. When I
went around to the front door and pressed the
buzzer she let me in. I met no one in the corridors.
I tapped lightly on the apartment door and she
opened it.
She had tossed the fur coat in the bedroom and
was wearing a skirt and sweater outfit. The living
room and her study were littered with books,
notebooks, spread-out maps, and sheets of paper.
“Did you have a cyclone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve been doing some
research. But let’s see how badly you’re hurt.”
We went into the bedroom. I tossed the topcoat
on the bed and stripped down to the waist. “Oh,
good God, Irish,” she exclaimed. One whole side of
my torso, from lower ribs to groin, had turned
black. I touched it. It hurt.
“Hadn’t we better get a doctor?” she asked.
“No. He’d have to report me. I think it’s just a
bruise, and there’s probably nothing wrong inside.”
“Well, we’ll see, in the morning. But you come lie
down in the living room, and I’ll fix you a drink.
And some coffee and a sandwich.”
She moved some of the books and maps off the
sofa and I stretched out. I felt tired and beat-up
and defeated. In a few minutes she brought me a
Martini. When I sat up and drank it, life had a little
better outlook. She put a sandwich and a cup of
Man on The Run — 107
coffee on the low table before me and sat on the
floor on the other side of it with a cigarette.
“Let’s see where we stand now,” she said
thoughtfully. “That girl will never show up for work
again, and the chances are she’ll leave town. We
don’t have any idea who her boy friend is. It seems
almost certain she was in Stedman’s apartment
during the fight, she saw you, and she killed
Stedman just after you left, and then left herself by
the rear entrance just before the police arrived.
But even if the police did pick her up now, there
isn’t one shred of evidence on which to hold her,
and we don’t have the faintest idea why she should
want to kill Stedman. Was it jealousy? I mean, she
might have heard you accuse Stedman of running
around with your wife.”
“No,” I said. I drank some of the coffee. “I don’t
think I said a word to him. I just belted him. She
must have deliberately picked Stedman up there in
Red’s bar because she was going to kill him when
she had the chance. But why go to all that trouble?
I mean, to play him along for ten days or so? She
and that thug could have got him a lot easier than
that.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. “There
are a couple of possibilities. Maybe she was trying
to find out something from him. Or suppose it was
revenge? The victim has to know, at the end, and
see it coming, or there is no revenge. You follow
me? She had to be in a position to tell him, and still
do it, and get away with it I think Stedman was
being fitted for an eventual ‘suicide,’ on the order
of Purcell’s, when you blundered in. Not
necessarily that night, but sometime in the near
future. You just presented her with the perfect
opportunity to do it then. And with you for the goat,
the suicide bit wasn’t necessary.”
“Nice crowd,” I said. “I wonder what they do for
an encore? But I like the revenge angle. That takes
us right back to Danny Bullard and ties it in with
Purcell. And that guy with her tonight could very
well be Danny Bullard’s brother.”
Man on The Run — 108
She nodded. “Except for a couple of things.
There’s nothing to indicate she even knew Danny
Bullard. Not so far, anyway. And somehow I just
can’t see her or this cold-blooded thug declaring
war on two policemen merely because they killed
him.” She paused, and frowned. “Even if you
conceded that she might, in case she was very
much in love with him, the brother is definitely out.
He hadn’t even seen Danny for years, so far as
anybody knows. Criminals may hate all police
impartially, but I don’t think they take a personal
view of a thing like that; at least, not to the point of
endangering themselves for revenge.”
“I agree with you,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense,
actually. But let’s drop it for the moment and talk
about something else. I’ve got to get out of here,
before I get you in serious trouble. Brannan
warned me it could get awful rough on whoever
was hiding me.”
“Oh, Brannan’s foot,” she said. “You’ll stay here
till we solve this thing.”
“I’m not sure we’ll ever solve it now,” I said
wearily. “I’ll never find her again.” I lighted a
cigarette and stood up to walk back and forth
across the room. I had to step over books and
maps. “What’s all this research, anyway?”
“The battle of Shiloh,” she said, tapping a pencil
absently against her teeth. Then she jerked erect.
“Oh, of all the stupid idiots—”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just remembered where I ran across the name
of that machine tool company. It was the other day
in the library, when I was going through the back
copies of the Express, looking up Purcell’s suicide.”
I whirled. “Did it have anything to do with
Purcell?”
“No-o. That wasn’t it,” She bit her lip,
concentrating.
I crushed out the cigarette. “Let’s go over to the
library and see if we can find it again.”
Man on The Run — 109
She started to get up; then she glanced at her
watch, and shook her head. “The library’s been
closed for nearly an hour.”
“Well, we’ll go in the morning, then.”
“Oh, I could look it up tonight,” she replied, still
frowning. “I can always get into the morgue over at
the Express building. But what the devil was it? It
was only a small item on a back page, and I think it
was a followup on some older story.”
Then she snapped her fingers and got to her feet.
I’ve got it! It was something about a robbery.” She
ran into the bedroom to get her coat.
“But why in God’s name would anybody hold up a
tool company?” I asked, helping her on with the
coat.
“To steal a lathe?”
“No, no, of course not.” She gestured
impatiently. “The payroll was held up. You stay
right here. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
Man on The Run — 110
Ten
I paced the floor, smoking one cigarette after
another. Just after eleven-thirty I heard her key in
the door. She came in and closed it quickly, and I
could see intense interest and excitement in her
eyes. I took her coat.
“Don’t bother to hang it up,” she said. “Toss it
here on a chair. I think we’re onto something.”
She shoved one of the hassocks up to the coffee
table and sat down. Opening her purse, she took
out two sheets of paper covered with notes. I knelt
on the floor across from her and watched eagerly.
“It was held up?” I asked.
She nodded. “But that’s not it alone. There are
really two stories, apparently not related at all. But
if you struck them together in just the right way
you might get a hell of an explosion. Listen—”
She consulted the notes. “On December
twentieth of last year—that would be a little over
two months ago—the payroll of the Shiloh Machine
Tool Company was hijacked just as it was being
delivered by the armored car company. It had all
the earmarks of a professional job, very thoroughly
studied and thought out—cased, I believe the term
is. In the first place, it was the last payday before
Christmas, and all the employees were getting a
Man on The Run — 111
cash bonus. The whole thing came to a little over
fourteen thousand dollars. The timing, and the
exact method of delivery of the money, had
apparently been studied for some time. There were
two men involved in the actual holdup, and a third
was driving the getaway car.
“But something did go wrong. A police car
showed up unexpectedly just at the last moment,
and one of the two gunmen was killed. They both
wore masks, incidentally. The other one, and the
driver of the car, got away clean. Along with the
money, of course. The case has never been solved.
They don’t know to this day who the two men were,
and none of the money was ever recovered.”
”What about the one who was killed?” I asked.
“Didn’t they identify him?”
She nodded. “Yes. But there was no lead at all to
the other two. He was an out-of-town hoodlum,
from Oakland, California, I think. As far as the
police could find out, he’d never been in Sanport
before, and didn’t have any connections here at all.
His name was Al Collins and he had a record a mile
long, but he might as well have been from the
moon as far as identifying the other two was
concerned.
“Of course, the police checked out all the Shiloh
employees who worked in the accounting and
payroll departments as a matter of routine, but
found nothing. If the gunmen had got any
information from inside, the fact was well hidden.
So much for the first story.
“Late the following night—that would be
Saturday night December twenty-first—a liquor
store was held up in one of the suburban shopping
centers. It was a routine sort of thing, one gunman,
fifty- or sixty-dollar haul, nobody killed. The case
was turned over to Purcell and Stedman, along
with several others they were working on.
“The next day, the owner of the liquor store
tentatively identified a photograph of Danny
Bullard as the gunman who’d held him up. This
Man on The Run — 112
wasn’t particularly surprising; he’d held up plenty
of them and had served time in prison for at least
one. Late that afternoon Stedman and Purcell got a
tip from a stool pigeon as to where Bullard was
living. It was an old apartment house in a run-down
section of town on Mayberry Street. They went out
to pick him up for questioning. He didn’t answer
their knock, but they thought they heard him
inside, so they broke down the door. He was trying
to get out a window and turned with a gun in his
hand, ready to open fire. They shot and killed him.
They made out their report, there was the
customary hearing, and they were completely
exonerated. End of second story.” She glanced up
at me. “You can see the possibilities now.”
I nodded. “Did they ever find out if Bullard
actually did rob the liquor store?”
“The case was closed that way. After all, he had a
record of liquor store robberies, and the owner was
pretty sure of his identification.”
”Then if your guess is right,” I said, “there would
be one person—and maybe two—who knew Bullard
hadn’t held up any liquor store and that he was just
hiding out with fourteen-thousand from the Shiloh
job; fourteen-thousand that hasn’t showed up to
this day.”
“That’s right,” she replied. “And it goes a long
way toward establishing the revenge motive.
Justifiable killing in line of duty is one thing, but
cold-blooded murder by two crooked cops for a pile
of money is something else. But I’m inclined to
think they might be wrong, about the killing, at
least.”
“It’s possible,” I agreed. “Their idea probably is
that Purcell and Stedman found out about the
Shiloh loot and deliberately fast-talked the liquor
store man into an identification, for an excuse.”
“That’s right. But they’d have to be pretty
gruesome to do it. It’s more likely they didn’t even
know Bullard had anything to do with the Shiloh
job until they found the money in the apartment
Man on The Run — 113
after they’d already killed him for resisting arrest.
The temptation was overpowering, it looked safe,
so they risked it. They probably thought the third
man was also an out-of-town import. And he
probably was, except that he was Danny Bullard’s
brother.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And a cold-blooded goon who’d
already killed two or three men. They picked a
lovely spot to turn crooked.”
She lighted a cigarette. “There’s only one trouble
with it, of course. And that is there’s still not the
slightest connection between Danny Bullard and
Frances Celaya, as far as anybody knows. And
remember, the police have checked it in both
directions. They investigated the Shiloh employees
for underworld connections after the holdup, and
looked into Bullard’s girl friends after Purcell’s
death.”
“But there has to be,” I said. I got up and walked
across the room. “Jesus, if I could only have got
into her apartment. I might have found a letter or
something.”
She looked thoughtful. “You’re absolutely
positive there was nothing else in her purse that
might have the address?”
“No,” I said. “Just the usual cosmetics and junk,
and a pair of stockings she bought at Waldman’s.” I
stopped. “Oh, sweet Jesus, how stupid can you
get?”
”What is it?” she asked.
“There’s a charge-a-plate in it and the sales slip
for the stockings! She charged them, and I forgot
all about it.”
She came instantly alert. “Well, maybe we can
find the purse.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think there’s a chance.”
“Think,” she ordered. “Try to remember about
how far you ran, and in what direction, after you
jumped out of the car.”
Man on The Run — 114
“Oh, that part’s easy,” I said. “It was only three
blocks, and I could find it blindfolded from there.
But I don’t know where I jumped out of the car. I
was lying on the floor. I don’t know how long. Part
of the time I may have been unconscious. All I can
remember is that it was a little neighborhood
business district, maybe two or three blocks long.
There was a movie theater on one side of the street
and a drugstore on the other, and a filling station
down at the end of the block. There are probably a
hundred little districts like that in the city.”
“Hah! And you’re supposed to be a navigator.”
She grinned. Springing up, she went into her study
and returned with a city map. She spread it out on
the coffee table. “I’ll bet we can find it in thirty
minutes. Now come around here so we’re on the
same side.”
I moved over. “Look,” she said, “right here is
where I picked you up. Octavia, in the 700 block.
See? Now, which way did you approach Octavia?”
“Down this street,” I said, tracing it with my
finger, four or five blocks.”
“All right. And did you turn into that street from
the right, or left?”
“Hmmm—I made a right turn.”
She nodded. “Good. Then you were coming from
this section. From the west. So let’s extend this line
a short distance and leave it for the moment, then
try from the other end. Do you remember what bus
she took?”
“Wait—” I said. “I do. It was a number seven. And
we got off at Stevens Street.”
“I think we’re in business,” she said. She went
over to the telephone, looked up the number of the
Transit Company, and called it.
“Could you tell me where your number seven line
crosses Stevens?” She held on for a moment, and
then nodded, “On Bedford? Thank you very much.”
She came back and sat down. Referring to the
street index at the bottom of the map, she said,
Man on The Run — 115
“Bedford Avenue—R-7. Hmmm. Here we are. You
were going north on Bedford. Here’s Stevens.”
I ran a finger along the line. “And here’s the
playground, three blocks from the bus stop. That’s
where they jumped me.”
“Right,” she said. She made a mark there with
her pencil. “You were put in the car there. And
that’s south and west of Octavia Street. You
approached Octavia from the west, so they were
taking you in a generally northeasterly direction.”
She extended the two lines until they intersected
and drew a circle around them some fifteen or
twenty blocks in diameter. “Now hand me the
telephone directory again.”
I put it in front of her. She flipped through the
yellow pages to Theaters. “Read them off, with the
street addresses,” she said. “I know most of the
downtown ones, so we can eliminate them and just
concentrate on the neighborhood houses.”
It took about ten minutes. We wound up with two
neighborhood movies whose street addresses fell
inside the circle. “It’ll be one of those,” she said.
“Probably this one,” I said. “The Vincent, on
Stacy Avenue. It’s nearer Octavia. I couldn’t have
walked much over a mile.”
She stood up. “Let’s go get it.”
I put on my shirt, tie, and coat, and was just
reaching for the topcoat when I stopped abruptly.
“The key!” I said. “My God, I don’t know what I did
with that. The address is no good if I can’t get in.”
I’d had it in my hand when he grabbed my
topcoat. Had I held onto it? I shoved a hand into
the right topcoat pocket and sighed. There it was. I
must have dropped it in there while pretending I
had a gun in it
“You still have it?” she asked.
“Yeah. I guess I’m getting tired.”
I went out first and she picked me up a block
away. “Listen,” I said, “this time, if I get in trouble,
run.”
Man on The Run — 116
She shook her head. “Relax. I’m getting the feel
of this business of being a fugitive.”
Fifteen minutes later we turned off an arterial
into Stacy Avenue. It was strictly residential here.
We went straight up it for about ten blocks.
“That’s it,” I said excitedly. “Right ahead there.”
It was after midnight now, and the theater
marquee was dark, as well as the big drugstore
across the street, but the service station was still
open down at this end of the block.
“Turn right at the corner beyond the drugstore,”
I said. “Then it’s less than three blocks.”
She made the turn. The streets were deserted
now, and nearly all the houses were dark. We went
slowly past the mouth of the alley in the second
block. “That’s it,” I said. “But go on for another
block, and I’ll walk back.”
She crossed the next intersection and parked
under some trees at the curb. She switched off the
lights. I got out, softly closed the door, and walked
back. When I reached the mouth of the alley there
was no one in sight anywhere. I ducked in. It was
on the left, about halfway to the other end, I
thought. When I was almost there I could make out
the gate, still open.
It was pitch dark inside the yard, but I could see
the blacker mass of the oleanders in the corner. I
slipped toward them and bumped into something.
It was a garbage can. It fell over, the lid clattering.
I froze, crouching beside the high board fence. A
minute passed, and then two, but no lights came on
in the house. I eased past the fallen can and
reached into the oleanders. Kneeling, I pushed into
them, groping with my hand. In a moment my
fingers touched it. I slid it out, clamped it under my
arm, and hurried to the car.
“Well, that was fast,” she said softly, as she
pulled away from the curb. She turned, went back
to Stacy Avenue, and swung left, toward the
arterial.
Man on The Run — 117
I set the purse on the floor between my feet, and
bent over it, flicking the cigarette lighter. Taking
out the little bag containing the nylons, I extracted
the sales slip. The imprint of the charge-a-plate was
inked on it. Frances. Celaya, it said. 1910 Keller
Street. Apt. 207.
“Keller Street,” I said. “You know that one?”
“No,” she replied. “We’ll have to look it up on the
map.”
I pulled it from the glove compartment and
unfolded it. At that moment she made a turn into
the arterial and pulled to the curb under a street
light. We both bent over the map.
“Here we are,” she said quickly. “K-3.” She ran a
finger out along the line and found it. “That’s in the
same area as Randall Street. Only five or six blocks
over.”
“Maybe we’ve got her this time,” I said. “But,
God, I hope she’s lost that gorilla.” I put the map
away.
She had lifted the purse onto the seat and was
taking everything out of it. I checked the wallet.
There were five or six dollar bills in it, but no other
identification except a Social Security number. I
was about to drop it back into the purse when I
noticed it had a zippered compartment in the back.
I, opened it. At first glance it appeared to be
empty, but then I saw a folded scrap of paper down
in one corner. I fished it out and unfolded it. There
was a telephone number penciled on it, and a girl’s
name. GL 2-4378 Marilyn.
“What is it?” she asked.
I showed it to her. It looked as if it had been in
the wallet a long time. “Odd way to write it,” she
remarked. “With the number first.”
It probably wasn’t important, but I shrugged and
dropped it in my coat pocket. “Nothing else?” I
asked.
She shook her head and began replacing
everything in the purse. “That seems to be it.” She
Man on The Run — 118
turned and dropped the purse in the back, and we
pulled away from the curb.
I glanced at my watch. It was after one a.m. now.
I was probably already too late. If I’d got the
correct address the first time I might have made it
to the apartment before they did, but now there
was no telling what I’d run into. Would she have
left town, or would she be waiting for me with that
cold-blooded killer? I gave up. There was no way to
guess what she would do.
It was a little nearer the downtown area than the
Randall Street address, a run-down district of
grimy apartment buildings and small stores,
shadowy and empty at this time of night. 1910 was
an old three-story brick. She drove slowly past.
Only two or three of the windows showed any light.
“Go on around the corner,” I said. She turned.
We had to go on to the second block before we
found a place to park. Apparently the tenants of the
apartment buildings had to leave their cars out.
She backed in and cut the lights.
“I shouldn’t be over fifteen minutes,” I said. “Be
careful.”
I got out and turned the coat collar up around my
face. If I met a prowl car on these deserted streets
I was almost certain to be recognized. They knew
I’d lost the hat, and the tan topcoat and red hair
had probably been burned into their minds with
some real blow-torch profanity by now. I reached
the corner of Keller and turned into it. There were
no cars in sight at all. I stepped quickly into the
dingy vestibule of 1910. A small bulb overhead cast
enough light for me to see the row of name-plates
beside the buttons. Number 207 was Frances
Celaya, all right. I reached for it, but hesitated, and
drew back my hand. If they were up there waiting
for me, they wouldn’t answer anyway, and all I’d
accomplish would be to warn them. I took out the
key and tried it. It worked. I opened the door and
slipped inside, conscious of an empty, fluttery
feeling in my stomach.
Man on The Run — 119
There was a dimly lighted hallway going straight
back. The stairs were to the right. I slipped over to
them and started up. They were carpeted with a
threadbare runner, and my shoes made no sound
on them. The upper hallway was the same as the
one below, with two antique light fixtures in the
ceiling and a single strip of carpeting down the
center. It was intensely silent except for a man’s
snoring somewhere beyond one of the doors. I
looked at the numbers. 207 was straight back at
the end of the hall.
I eased up to it and listened with my ear against
the panel. There was no sound at all from inside.
No light showed under the door. I slipped the key
into the lock and turned it very gently until it came
full over and stopped. With the other hand I turned
the knob and pushed the door open about an inch.
It was dark inside. I turned the key back, softly
withdrew it, and dropped it in my pocket, conscious
of my shallow breathing and the tightness of my
nerves.
I pushed the door open a few more inches and
felt inside along the wall with my hand. My fingers
encountered a light switch, but I didn’t turn it on. I
reached further. There was no one standing beside
the door; not on this side, at least. I eased the door
on open, slipped inside, and closed it very softly,
turning the door knob and the knob of the lock with
my fingers so they wouldn’t click.
For at least a full minute I stood perfectly still
with my back against the door, listening. There was
complete silence except for a slow dripping of
water somewhere in another room. If there were
anyone near me, he was breathing even more softly
than I was. My eyes gradually became accustomed
to the darkness. Opposite me, at the back of the
room, was a small window. It was curtained, but
the material was thin enough to show faint light
behind it, apparently coming from somewhere in
the alley below.
I could make out a sofa against the wall at my
right, and a chair and bridge lamp. There were the
Man on The Run — 120
slightly darker oblongs of open doorways on either
side at the back of the room. I moved cautiously
toward the one on the right, feeling my way and
easing my feet down very gently on the carpet. I
reached it and listened. There was still no sound of
breathing. Then I saw the ghostly blur of
something large and white, and realized it was a
refrigerator and that this was the kitchen.
I turned and eased across the room to the other
door. This should be the bedroom. There was no
sound except that of the slowly dripping water,
which was a little louder now and was somewhere
off to my left. The bath must be at that end. At my
right was another curtained window. I could just
make out the pale oblong of the bed.
I took another step into the room, staring in the
direction of the bed. I was certain now; there was
no one on it. Sighing with relief, I flicked on my
cigarette lighter. There was a small reading lamp
on a stand beside the bed. I clicked it on and
looked around. The place looked as if a band of
monkeys had been playing in it.
Beyond the bed was a chest of drawers. The two
top drawers were pulled about halfway out, and the
rug before it was littered with pants, stockings,
slips, and bras. Beyond the chest was a clothes
closet. Two or three dresses still hung from the
bar, but there were several on the floor, along with
two empty suitcases and a cardboard box of books
that had been dumped on the rug. To the left of the
closet was the bathroom door. It was ajar, and I
was conscious again of the sound of dripping
water. To my left was a dresser. Its drawers were
pulled open too, and handkerchiefs and costume
jewelry and cosmetics were scattered across the
top and on the floor in front of it. The place had
been thoroughly ransacked by someone in a hurry.
I turned quickly and went out in the living room.
Nothing had been disturbed here. But then there
was nothing to disturb—no desk or chest—only the
dreary sofa and chairs of a cheap furnished
apartment. I stepped over to the kitchen and
Man on The Run — 121
clicked on the light. Everything appeared to be
normal there.
I snapped the light off and started back to the
bedroom, and then went rigid as the buzzer
sounded. Somebody was at the door downstairs. It
buzzed again, the noise rasping harshly across the
silence. Then my nerves slowly uncoiled as I
realized whoever it was couldn’t get in. He didn’t
have a key, or he wouldn’t have rung for her to
open the door. I waited. There was no further buzz.
He’d apparently given up.
I stepped on into the bedroom, and looked at the
mess again. Who had done it? Was somebody else
on her trail? I wondered where she was; she
wouldn’t have left town without packing at least
some of her gear. I began pawing through the
dresser drawers. She must have old letters around
somewhere, Christmas cards, photos, address
book, diary, or something to give me an idea of the
people she knew.
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