The dresser held not a scrap of paper of any kind.
I even felt under the bottoms of the drawers the
way they did in movies. Letters, letters—now where
the hell would she keep old letters? I straightened
and started to turn, looking futilely around the
room. My gaze stopped suddenly and backed up
and I gasped, feeling my scalp tingle.
The door of the bathroom was partly open, and
from this side of the room I could see in past the
edge of it. The light was poor, but there was no
doubt that what I saw was the sloping end of. an
old-fashioned bathtub, and hanging inertly from the
edge of it a slender and very shapely leg. I reached
the door in two strides, pushed it open, and
snapped on the light. When I looked down into the
tub I had to fight to keep from being sick.
She was lying on her back with her eyes open,
staring up at me through about six inches of water
with the long black hair floating around her face.
Her head was almost under the spigots, one of
which was dripping intermittently and shattering
Man on The Run — 122
the surface to cause little patterns of distortion to
play across her features. She was naked. The long
legs slanted up the sloping end of the tub and hung
over the edge, causing the leverage that was
keeping the rest of her submerged. There were
ugly bruises around her throat. I swallowed again
and forced myself to reach out and touch her. The
leg swung. She probably hadn’t been dead half an
hour when I got here.
I groped for the light switch, got it turned off,
and came out. This was the end of the trail. If she
had killed Stedman, there was no way now it could
ever be proved. I stood looking dumbly around at
the mess he’d left. Searching it now would be
utterly pointless; he’d already done that, just to be
sure there was nothing left at all. I had to get out of
here, fast, and keep going. I went over and
switched off the light beside the bed. Just as I was
groping my way through the door into the living
room I heard voices outside in the hall.
Knuckles rapped on the door. “Miss Celaya!” a
voice called out.
I stiffened up, afraid even to breathe.
The fist rapped again. “Open up in there,” the
voice ordered. “Police.”
I moved somehow. Stepping softly across the rug,
I parted the curtains at the window in the rear of
the living room. There was no fire escape, no back
way out at all. If I jumped, I’d break both legs. A
key was being inserted in the lock. I went straight
ahead into the kitchen just as the front door
opened.
Man on The Run — 123
Eleven
A switch clicked. Light streamed through the
doorway beside me. I flattened against the wall on
shaking legs.
“You’re sure she came in?” a voice asked.
“Yes, sir. About an hour ago. She’d lost her key
and I had to give her another one.”
“Well, let’s take a look around.” This was still
another voice.
There were three of them, apparently two
policemen and the apartment house manager
who’d let them in. They were moving now. It was
the bedroom they’d be interested in, but one of
them would check the kitchen. I could hear his
footsteps approaching the door. I tried to open my
mouth to call out to him not to shoot. It was too
late now to show myself and surrender, and when I
loomed on him suddenly, standing beside the door
— No sound would come out. I couldn’t even speak.
The footsteps were almost beside me now.
Then the other one called suddenly from the
bedroom. “Hey! Look at this!”
The footsteps turned and retreated. I reached up
and wiped the sweat off my face because it was
stinging my eyes and peered around the door
Man on The Run — 124
frame. An old man without a hat was standing just
inside the bedroom, the other policeman was out of
sight—probably over by the chest or dresser—and
this one was just reaching the door. None of them
were looking this way. I eased off the wall, tiptoed
out, and started slipping toward the front door. The
second cop had reached the bedroom door now and
was looking in. I went on, walking on eggs.
I had less than ten feet to go. I fought the
impulse to break into a run and stole a glance over
my shoulder.
“Oh, good God!” The voice came from the back of
the bedroom. The first cop had found her now.
“Hey, Hoyt! Go call in. She’s been murdered!”
Hoyt said, “Okay,” and started to turn. I lunged
toward the front door. I heard his breath suck in,
and then the startled yell. “Foley!” I hurtled
through the doorway, bent over, with my feet
churning. “Stop! I’ll shoot!”
The gun crashed behind me, and at the front end
of the hall a window pane exploded with a shower
of glass. He shot again, and something tugged at
the side of my topcoat, just under my left arm. It
pulled me off stride. The stairs were only a few
steps ahead of me and to the left. I dived, slid over
onto them, rolled once, caught myself with a hand
on the railing, and scrambled to my feet. I ran
down three or more steps and jumped. I could hear
their feet pounding down the hall above me. The
glass front door was about twenty feet to my right.
I made it and was pulling it open when the first one
came into sight on the stairs. He shot. He hit the
wood frame of the door right beside my face.
Splinters flew out of it, and something stung my
cheek. I was outside now. Their car was parked
right in front of the door. I wheeled to the left and
sped along the sidewalk. They came out behind me
and one of them shot again. All the muscles in my
back were drawn up in knots as I expected a slug
to come tearing into me.
Man on The Run — 125
I reached the corner and cut left around it. There
was no use trying to reach Suzy. They were too
close behind me, and they’d get her too.
Somewhere behind me the siren cut loose. One was
still after me on foot while the other went around
the block in the car to head me off. He’d use the
car radio to call in, and the whole area would be
surrounded in a few minutes. I heard the pounding
footsteps come around the corner behind me. They
stopped. He was going to shoot again. There were
some trees along the sidewalk here, and I cut right
and ran out into the street to put their trunks in the
line of fire. He didn’t shoot.
Directly opposite me was the mouth of an alley. I
sped into it. I couldn’t hear him any longer, but
when I looked back he was still coming, about half
a block away. Then I heard the siren up ahead?
They had me bottled up. But the car went down the
street past the mouth of the alley just before I
came out. I crossed the street behind it and into a
continuation of the alley in the next block. Just
before I came out of it, I looked back again. He was
no longer in sight. I emerged on the sidewalk. The
street was deserted. But I could hear sirens. They
were converging now from every direction.
My legs were weak and shaky now, and my side
hurt badly. I fought to get my breath. It was
useless; why not give myself up? They had me.
They’d throw a ring of cars and men around an
area eight or ten blocks square and search it inchby-
inch. They wanted me so badly now they could
taste it. I’d been eluding them for a week, and now
I’d killed a girl. Nothing could ever save me from
that one. I’d gone to Randall Street looking for her.
And when they finally found me I was in her
apartment and she’d just been murdered.
I quit trying to think and started running again,
operating on pure instinct. I turned left. In the next
block there was another alley. I ducked into it.
Rubber screamed behind me as a car made a turn
into the street I’d just left. Up ahead there were
more sirens. It was shadowy in the alley, with
Man on The Run — 126
lights only at the ends, but there was no place to
hide. I stopped and collapsed beside some garbage
cans, sobbing for breath.
I was behind a two-story commercial building of
some kind. Directly above me was a fire escape
ladder that terminated about eight or nine feet
from the ground. I stood up and leaped for it, and
caught the bottom rung. I held on for a second,
heaved up, and caught the next one. In a minute I
was far enough up to get my feet on the lower
rungs. I went on up, slid over the wall, and dropped
onto the roof. I looked back. No one had come into
the alley yet. I could stay out of sight up here until
they gave up, until tomorrow night if necessary,
and then get out. Then I looked around, and my
heart sank.
Adjoining the building on the left was an
apartment house some two stories higher, and
there were windows on this side. When daybreak
came, somebody would see me down here. I looked
the other way. The building on the right was also
two stories higher than this one, and going up the
side of it near the front was a steel ladder. I pushed
myself up and went over to it, took one more deep
breath, and started to climb. When I was halfway
up I looked down and saw that anyone in the street
could see me if he happened to look up. A police
car was stopped at the corner and two men in
uniform were getting out. I tried to run up the
ladder. My knees were shaky, and my arms felt like
lead. I almost missed a rung with one hand, and
held on, sobbing for breath. Then I was at the top. I
tumbled over the wall and fell onto the gravel of
the roof. I lay there, too spent even to move, and
listened to the baffled snarls of sirens in the street
four stories down.
Then a voice said, right above me, “Hey, move
your head, will you? You’re on my ephemeris.”
Maybe I was beginning to crack up. It was very
dark, because of the four-foot wall around the edge
of the roof that shut out the light from the streets.
Then a flashlight came on, squarely in front of my
Man on The Run — 127
face. It had red paper tied across the lens and
made nothing but a faint glow. A hand came down
and pushed my head a little to one side and slid
something from under it. It seemed to be a
pamphlet of some kind.
I drew in another shaky breath. “I’ve got a gun,”
I said harshly. “You make one sound, and I’ll
shoot!”
“Good,” the voice muttered absently. “That’s fine.
Hmmm—here we are. Declination thirty-two fortyseven.”
The light went out.
I rolled over and managed to push myself to a
sitting position with my back against the wall. Then
I could make out the three shadowy legs of a
tripod. Above it was something like a section of
stovepipe, slanted at an angle toward the sky, and
sitting on a little bench to one side of it was the
dark figure of a man. He was bundled up in a lot of
clothes against the cold and was hunched over the
lower end of the stovepipe with his eye against the
side of it. I knew what it was then. It was a
telescope, and he was an amateur astronomer.
“What are you watching?” I asked.
He made no reply. He made a slight adjustment
to the mounting of the telescope and went on
looking. “Fine,” he muttered.
He wasn’t going to call the police; it was doubtful
he even knew I was here. He was out there among
the light years. I took out a cigarette and lighted it.
“If you’ve got to flash lights, go somewhere else,”
he said irritably.
”Sure,” I said. I had my wind back now. I pushed
to my feet and walked over to the rear of the roof
to look down in the alley. A police car was crawling
slowly through it. I sat down with my back against
the wall, trying to think. I’d got soaked with sweat
while I was running, and now I was beginning to be
cold. I shivered.
How much longer could this nightmare go on?
And what was the point of it now? There had been
Man on The Run — 128
some hope at first, as long as there was a chance I
might find out who had killed Stedman, but now
everything was blown up. Frances Celaya had
killed him, without a doubt, but I not only didn’t
know why or have the slightest bit of proof, but I
was also wanted for killing her.
There was one other person involved in it, but I
didn’t have any lead to him at all except that he
was as big as a horse and I thought he was a
seaman. He’d taken care of that, all right. The only
way to find out who he was had been through her,
so he’d killed her and then made sure there was
nothing in her apartment that could point to him in
any way. He knew I had the purse with her
identification in it and that I might eventually catch
up with her. Or that sooner or later the police were
going to catch up with me, and I just might sell
them on the idea of at least investigating her. And
there was always the possibility I might call the
police. Then I stopped short.
That big drunk! The one who’d pushed open the
door of the telephone booth! It was a thousand-toone
shot, but it would fit. Suppose he’d been
following me, looking for a chance to kill me? But,
wait. Where could he have picked up my trail? I’d
lost him, along with the police, after I’d grabbed
the purse. Then I saw it; it was absurdly simple. At
her old Randall Street apartment house, of course.
He’d known there was a good chance I’d go for
the address on the driver’s license, and he’d driven
over there and waited. I’d come out running, so he
didn’t have a chance to get me, but he’d followed
us after I got in the car with Suzy. There’d been a
car behind me in the street but I hadn’t paid any
attention to it because I could see it wasn’t the
police. He couldn’t get me there at the phone
booths because the place was right out in the open,
well lighted, and populated with shoppers from the
supermarket. All he had was a knife, and it might
take several minutes to do the job. But he’d
pretended to be drunk and opened the door to get
Man on The Run — 129
a good look at me. And then he’d gone into the
other booth to eavesdrop.
By God, that was it! I tried to remember the
exact sequence of the conversation with Brannan.
I’d told him about the big killer and my hunch he
might be a seaman, but that was before the drunk
had shown up. And after he had gone into the other
booth I hadn’t mentioned him at all. I’d simply said
to Brannan, “How about spending a few minutes of
your time trying to find the fugitive that did kill
Stedman?” I’d even spelled her name and told him
where she worked. It would have been obvious to
anybody listening that I was talking to the police. I
broke off and shuddered. I might as well have
strangled her myself.
That was all right; I’d feel sorry about it some
day when I had more time. She’d got me into this
whole mess by killing Stedman and hanging it on
me, and then she’d tried to butcher me too. From
where I sat, she had it coming to her, and the only
thing wrong with it was the fact that now I was
hopelessly saddled with Stedman’s murder. And
hers. I wished she could have lived long enough to
do a little talking.
I sat up suddenly. I had to warn Suzy! That
gorilla knew where she lived, and he might try to
get her too. If he’d followed us from Randall Street
to those phone booths, he must have tailed us all
the way to the apartment. She was with me, so he
would figure she was after him too. God, maybe it
was already too late. And just how was I going to
warn her? They had me treed like a raccoon on top
of this building.
But maybe there was a pay phone in the building.
Sometimes in cheap apartment houses where a lot
of the tenants didn’t have phones of their own
there were pay phones in the corridor on each
floor. I sprang up and strode over to the big man
with his telescope. He still had his eye glued to it.
My eyes were well accustomed to the darkness
now, and I could see him somewhat better. He
Man on The Run — 130
appeared to be about forty, rather moon-faced,
heavy-set, and wide across the shoulders, but softlooking.
He wore a cap, a scarf around his neck,
and one of those he-mannish coats that sports car
fanatics went in for, a three-quarter length affair
with wooden dowels for buttons.
“Is there a pay phone anywhere in the building?”
I asked.
He made no reply.
I reached down, caught him by the arms, and
hauled him to his feet “Pay attention, friend,” I
said. “I’m talking to you.”
He stared at me in surprise and outrage. “What’s
the matter with you? Can’t you see I’m busy? If you
want to look at Saturn, go bother somebody else.
I’m studying the Cepheid variables.”
I shook him. “Come back and join us for a
minute. The planet I want to talk about is this one.
Remember it? It has people on it. And they
sometimes use things called telephones. Is there a
pay phone down there in the corridors?”
“No,” he said.
“Have you got one in your apartment?”
“I have not,” he said irritably. “Now, will you
please get out.”
“Not yet,” I said. “Peel off that bird-watchers’
coat and hand it here. And the cap.”
For the first time he looked slightly nervous. “Are
you going to rob me?”
“No. I’m just trading coats with you. And since
mine’s got a bullet hole in it I’ll give you twenty
dollars to boot.”
“I never heard anything so ridiculous—”
“Get it off,” I said. “Or I’ll kick your telescope.”
He’d decided by now I was crazy, so he took it off
and handed it to me, along with the cap. I handed
him two tens and felt in the pockets of the
gabardine for anything I’d left in them. I came out
with a small, folded piece of paper. What—? Then I
Man on The Run — 131
remembered. It was that girl’s name and telephone
number I’d taken from Frances Celaya’s purse. I
shrugged and dropped it in the pocket of my suit
coat. He put on the gabardine, muttering to
himself. “Twelve straight days of either clouds or
turbulence, and then when you get one hour of
good viewing—”
I put on his. The cap was slightly too large, but I
could keep it on my head. He had sat down again,
glued his eye to the telescope, and forgotten I even
existed. I wondered if he was married. Well, it
probably didn’t matter, I thought. The average wife
might have a little trouble understanding how you
could trade coats with somebody on the roof of a
four-story building at two o’clock in the morning,
but no doubt his had become accustomed to the
fuzzier types of explanation. I didn’t really think
anything of it at the time, dear. I was just sitting
there studying the Cepheid variables, and this man
came by—
I located the door and went down a flight of steps
to the top floor. The corridors were poorly lighted
and deserted. They were rather depressing with
landlord-tan wallpaper and the smells of old
cooking. I met no one at all. In the corridor on the
ground floor, just inside the front door, there was a
mirror hanging on the wall above a small table
containing a potted plant of some kind. I stopped
and checked myself. The coat and cap were fine,
and I looked entirely different, but there was a
scratch on my left cheek and a little streak of dried
blood. I rubbed at it with a moistened forefinger
and then my handkerchief, and got most of it off. I
turned up the collar of the coat, tilted the cap at a
careless angle, and sauntered out, feeling scared
as hell. It might work or it might not, but I had to
get to a phone, even if they caught me.
The streets were almost completely deserted.
That made it even worse; anybody moving at all
was conspicuous. There wasn’t a police car in sight
at the moment, however. I went up to the corner
and turned left. Straight ahead about fifteen or
Man on The Run — 132
twenty blocks I could see the tall buildings of the
downtown area. If I could make it, that would be
the easiest place to find a phone at this time in the
morning.
I was crossing the intersection when I saw a
squad car turn into the street about three blocks
up. It stopped, the men in it apparently talking to
the uniformed cop on the corner. Then it shot
ahead, coming toward me. They’d seen me. The
only way to do it was play it very cool, no matter
how scared I was. If they actually stopped and
asked me for identification, of course, I was done
for, but they might not if I didn’t show any
nervousness. I went on at the same pace, stepped
up on the curb, and paused to light a cigarette.
They slowed, made the turn, and crawled past me
on the other side of the street. I could feel the eyes
on me. I glanced briefly in their direction, took a
puff on the cigarette, and kept on. They went on
past. I felt weak all over. They turned right at the
next corner and disappeared.
I made a full block before I had to go through it
again. This one was coming, toward me, along this
side of the street. They saw me, came on faster,
and then slowed. They were going to stop. Then
their radio said something in a staccato burst of
sound, and they shot ahead, cutting in the siren.
When they were a few blocks away I stopped and
listened. I could hear three sirens closing in on
some place back there. I sighed. Somebody had
probably reported a prowler, and now some of the
heat was off me. I started walking faster. I was
three blocks away and then five. After ten I stopped
counting. I was out of the area now.
I crossed Pemberton Avenue, in the edge of
downtown. The Greyhound bus terminal was only a
block away on my right. The bars were all closed
now, and that would be the nearest place with
phone booths. Should I risk it? They had men
watching it. But they’d never take a second look at
me in this crazy sport coat. I was safer in a crowd,
Man on The Run — 133
anyway, and the bus station always had people in
it. I turned and hurried toward it.
Fifteen or twenty people were boredly reading
papers or trying to sleep sitting up on the benches,
and some more were drinking coffee at the lunch
counter further back. The phone booths were to the
left of the lunch counter. I stepped into the first
one, dropped in a dime, and dialed. The phone
rang. And then again. After awhile I was conscious
that I was counting the rings and that I was very
scared. She’d helped me, and I may have got her
killed.
I hung up. Now what? If I could get out there, I
couldn’t get in. If she were still out somewhere,
there was no way I could warn her. But maybe
she’d got bored and started on that vodka again.
I’d wait a few minutes and try again.
Then I remembered that phone number I’d got
from Frances Celaya’s purse. I hauled it out of my
pocket and looked at it. GL 2-4378 Marilyn. From
the way the paper was creased, it had been in her
purse for months, and I didn’t see how it could
have anything to do with Stedman, but this was all
we had left so I might as well try it
I dropped in a dime, and dialed a number. A man
answered.
“Is Marilyn there?” I asked. “Yeah, she’s here,”
he replied.
I came alert; this might be something after all.
“Could I speak to her, please?”
“What’re you, a damn wise guy?” he snarled, and
hung up.
I stared blankly at the receiver, and put it back
on the hook. Maybe this was the way you cracked
up; things just quit making any sense. No doubt it
was perfectly logical—
I stopped, wondering how I could have been so
stupid. I should have known it all the time. Ducking
around to the side of the booth I grabbed the
directory. I flipped to the yellow pages, found what
Man on The Run — 134
I was looking for, and ran my finger down the
telephone numbers of the watchmen’s shacks on
the Municipal docks.
Pier Five was GLenwood 2-4378. And Marilyn
was a boat.
A shrimper or commercial fisherman, I thought.
Pier Five was where they tied up. Now we were
getting somewhere. Then I thought of Suzy again,
with that cold uneasiness inside me. Before I went
out I had to try once more. I dropped the book, and
when I turned to go back in the booth I was looking
directly at a man at this end of the lunch counter.
He had a cup of coffee and a newspaper in front of
him, but his eyes were on my face. Then he looked
away and picked up his paper. His face was
vaguely familiar, and a little whisper of warning
ran along my nerves. But, hell, nobody would
recognize me in this sporty outfit. I entered the
booth and dialed Suzy’s number. The phone rang
and went on ringing, but there was no answer. The
fear grew worse. I turned my head, and the man at
the counter was looking toward the booth with a
thoughtful expression on his face. I recognized him
now. He was a detective, one of Stedman’s friends
I’d seen several times at Red Lanigan’s bar.
Man on The Run — 135
Twelve
I turned back and went on listening to the futile
ringing of the phone in the apartment while I tried
to think. I just couldn’t take much more of it; pretty
soon I was going to crack and start gibbering.
Maybe he still hadn’t recognized me, and I might
make it. There was a cab stand at the Pemberton
Avenue entrance. I hung up, reached for a
cigarette, and was putting it in my mouth as I came
out of the booth. I didn’t look toward him. Turning,
I sauntered casually toward the entrance, pausing
for a moment to look over the rack of paperback
books at the newsstand as I lighted the cigarette.
There was no way to tell whether he’d got up or
not; looking back would be like waving a sign. I
went on, waiting for the voice behind me. I reached
the door. There was one cab in the taxi zone, and
the driver was behind the wheel. Just as I turned
and started up toward it, I glanced back through
the window. He had got up, and he was coming. He
signaled to somebody on one of the benches and
began to walk faster.
I yanked open the door of the cab and leaped in.
“Pier Nineteen,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said. He pushed the flag down and
hit the starter. We pulled away from the curb. The
Man on The Run — 136
two detectives emerged from the doorway, running
now, and turned up the sidewalk after us. They
shouted at the driver. He saw them in the mirror.
“Friends of yours?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Probably a couple of drunks. Keep
going.”
We were a block ahead of them and gathering
speed. I saw them turn and start back to the
station, still running. There was no police car in
sight, but the cab’s number would be on the air
within seconds now. In the deserted streets at
three a.m. we weren’t going to get far before they
picked us up. I took two dollar bills from my wallet
and held them in my hand.
We turned right on Walker and headed
downtown. We passed a patrol car going in the
other direction. It paid no attention to us. The
lights were all blinking amber along Walker and we
didn’t have, to stop. Ten blocks ahead we swung
left into Western Avenue and were headed for the
ship channel and waterfront, less than twp miles
away now. We met another cruising patrol car. It
went on past. I watched it. We were about eight
blocks away when I saw it suddenly make a U-turn
in the middle of the block. It came toward us,
gathering speed.
“Turn right at the next corner,” I told the driver.
“But—”
“I said turn right.”
There was no siren yet, but they were closing on
us fast. We made the turn. “Stop!” I told him. He
knew something was wrong and slammed on the
brakes. I dropped the two dollar bills on his lap and
was out before the car stopped moving. “Get
going!” I told him. He went on.
I lunged across the sidewalk and jumped into a
shadowy area between two buildings, out of range
of the street light. The police car made the turn on
screaming rubber and went past. The taxi was
about three blocks away. I cut across the street
Man on The Run — 137
directly behind the police car, headed diagonally
up toward the next corner and ran as fast as I
could. Just as I reached the corner and turned
down the intersecting street I heard the siren cut
loose. They’d been chasing it so far merely because
it was the same type of cab as that on the
broadcast and they wanted to check the number,
but now they’d got that in their headlights. They’d
be back here in less than a minute. I reached the
next corner and turned right. I was one block over
now and parallel to the street they were on.
It was an industrial area, not far from Denton
Street, and probably half a mile or less from the
railroad yards. It was deserted this time of
morning, and shadowy between the widely spaced
street lamps. I reached a big warehouse on the
next corner and stopped to look up the intersecting
street. The patrol car shot past up in the next
block, running without the siren. I ran straight
ahead, across the intersection, and went on,
driving hard. My only chance lay in getting as far
from that place as possible before the other cars
began pouring into the area. Two blocks further on,
I turned left again, toward the railroad yards and
the ship channel. I could hear the sirens now. They
were something that would haunt my dreams for
years—if I lived that long.
Two more blocks and I knew I couldn’t run any
further without rest. Across the street was a vacant
lot piled high with big sections of sewer pipe. I ran
over, ducked in between two stacks, and lay down
in the weeds behind them. It was very dark. I rolled
over on my left side, because of the pain in my
right, pillowed my head on my arm, and struggled
for breath. I heard a car go past the corner on
whining tires, but paid no attention. There’d been
too much of it, and I didn’t even feel anything any
more; I just avoided them mechanically, like an
animal that has been trained to perform a trick at
the correct signal. I wanted to reach the Marilyn,
but after that I didn’t care. If I found out nothing
there, I was going to quit running.
Man on The Run — 138
I started thinking about Suzy and kept seeing her
lying on the floor beside the door in the living
room, killed by that cold-blooded thug. It would be
so easy for him; all he’d have to do was knock, and
she’d open because she would think it was me. I
tried to shake it off. She was probably all right.
There must be plenty of reasons she hadn’t
answered the phone. I couldn’t think of any then,
though.
But worrying about it now wasn’t going to do any
good. And I had a long way to go to get to Pier
Five. I tried to orient myself. Pier Nineteen was at
the end of Walker Avenue, but I was considerably
south of Walker now and should be somewhere
opposite Pier Ten or Twelve. If I turned right when
I hit the railroad yards and went on another half a
mile or mile it would put me pretty close to Pier
Five. It was going to be hazardous all the way.
They would probably reason that the address I’d
given the driver was phony, but they’d search the
whole waterfront, since we’d been headed that
way. I flicked on the cigarette lighter briefly and
looked at my watch. It was three-twenty. In another
fifteen minutes I got up and went on. I was very
tired. In the seven blocks to the rail-yards I had two
close calls. Once a police car turned to the street
less than a block behind me, and I barely made it
under a warehouse loading platform before its
lights could hit me.
* * *
It was four-ten. I snapped the lighter off and was in
darkness again between the two rows of freight
cars. Somewhere behind me a switch engine was
working. I knelt and peered beneath the trucks of
one of the cars. Beyond me was the quiet street,
and the dark shed of a pier still slightly to the right
of where I was, and in back of the shed a shadowy
jungle of masts and drying shrimp nets. I couldn’t
see the pier entrance or the number, but it should
be the one. I walked down another dozen cars and
climbed up on the coupling between two of them.
Man on The Run — 139
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