Man On The Run Part 3

"He didn't tell me much. I gathered it was just an idea he had, but he wants you to get in touch with him. He suggested you call the pay phone there in the bar. He gave me the number. You don't suppose that could be a trap? I mean, that the police would tap it?"

I thought about it. "No. I don't think so. Red's got too much to lose to put himself out on a limb by helping me hide from the police, but I don't think he'd double-cross me. He wants to use the pay phone because it's in a booth and he could talk without being heard all over the bar. Where could I get to a phone without being seen?"

"My apartment," she said. "But it'll be hours before we can get you in there without running into somebody."

"Maybe a service station-"

"Wait," she interrupted. "I know. That Playland on the beach at the end of Tarleton Boulevard. It's closed this time of year, but there are some booths on the sidewalk."

"Do you mind?" I asked.

"Let's go," she replied. "Put on the topcoat and hat. And turn the collar up."

It was less than ten miles straight up the beach, a sort of miniature Coney Island about five miles from downtown Sanport. We met few cars. The two amus.e.m.e.nt piers, closed down for the winter, were dark and foreboding in the rain. She slowed. On the left all the concessions were shuttered and the only illumination came from the street lights. I could see the shadowy arc of the Ferris wheel and the uneven dark tracery of the roller coaster.

"There's one," she said.

The white booth was on the left, near the entrance to a boarded-up chile parlor. She stopped and dug a slip of paper from her purse. "Here's the number. And a dime, if you don't, have change."

I slid out of the car and crossed the street with my coat collar turned up and the hat brim slanted across my face. A car went past, but I was across ahead of its lights. When I closed the door of the booth its light came on. I hunched over the instrument, with my back to the sidewalk, feeling naked. I dialed.

"Sidelines Bar," a man's voice answered. I hoped it wasn't one of Red's friends on the Force.

"Red Lanigan there?" I asked.

"Just a minute."I heard him call out "Hey, Red!" The jukebox was playing a Cuban number. I waited, listening to the rain on the overhead of the booth.

"h.e.l.lo. Lanigan speaking."

"Red, I hear you wanted me to call."

"Who's this? Oh-Bill, where the h.e.l.l are you? I thought you were coming over." I heard him push the door shut, and then he went on, talking quietly and rapidly. "Jesus, Irish, that was a man from Homicide that answered the phone. They were, just talking about you. Listen-don't tell me where you are; I don't want to know. Your girl friend got the message to you okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "What do you know?"

"I don't know know anything; I'm just trying to add up some wild guesses. I don't think you did it or you wouldn't have called back here the other night. I've tried to sell that to the police, but they won't buy. You're their boy all the way." anything; I'm just trying to add up some wild guesses. I don't think you did it or you wouldn't have called back here the other night. I've tried to sell that to the police, but they won't buy. You're their boy all the way."

"There was something about a girl?"

"I'm coming to that. If you didn't do it, it had to be somebody who was already up there. Right? So maybe an ex-con, somebody he'd sent up. Or a stool-pigeon he was riding a little too hard or something. But the chances are since it was in his apartment, it was a woman. You know what his reputation was with babes. You still with me?"

"Keep firing," I said.

"All right. This will bring you up to date, but it's not very promising to start with. Stedman was killed with a bone-handled hunting knife. His. He usually kept it in the desk of his living room to open letters with. No fingerprints, of course. It was one of those carved handles. No sign anybody else had been in the apartment that night. Except you. G.o.d knows you left plenty of signs. The Homicide boys say the living room looked like the two of you had been playing polo on bulldozers. But no babes. I mean, no cigarette b.u.t.ts with lipstick, no highball gla.s.ses, nothing. No prints except his. He came in around eight-thirty p.m. alone, and didn't go out again, as far as anybody knows. n.o.body seen going into his place afterward, except you. That was around ten, or a few minutes past n.o.body came out after you did. That's definite.

"But of course there's a rear entrance. You know that;your apartment has the same layout. And here's what I'm going on. He was in here about eight that night, just before he went home, and he bought a bottle of champagne from me. Stedman never drank champagne, so he was expecting company."

I was growing excited. "Do you know if he opened it?"

"No. It was still in the freezer compartment of his refrig. That killed it, as far as the boys from Headquarters were concerned. But still they could have been just about to open it when you broke up the party. Or maybe she came in the back way while you and Stedman were racking each other up out in the living room."

"Stedman knew dozens of girls," I said. "You got anybody in particular in mind?"

"Yeah. A real wild guess. She's a new one. He picked her up about ten days ago, right here in the bar. And all she was drinking was champagne c.o.c.ktails."

"Who is she?"

"That's just it; I don't know. All I know is she ought to be against the law. Stacked? Brother! But never mind. What I'm driving at is that I saw him pick her up, and I got the impression that was exactly what she came in for. Not just for anybody, but for Stedman. And believe me, this babe could do better; she'd already brushed off at least two good bets before he got there."

"Did you ever see her again?"

"Once. Three or four days later I happened to be pa.s.sing the Wakefield around eleven a.m. just as she came out the front entrance. I'm pretty sure she doesn't live there, so Stedman must have scored. But that's not what I want to tell you. The beautiful part of it is that when she came in the bar I remembered I'd seen her once before. This is not a babe you ever forget. If you're interested in her, I may know where you can find her."

"Where?" I asked.

"Look. I don't know the number, but there's a little hash-house and coffee shop on Denton Street, over near the s.h.i.+p channel. That's a kind of an industrial area in there, warehouses, small factories, like that. This beanery is right across the street from the offices of the Comet Boat Company. You know, they make those plastic outboard hulls and runabouts. That boat of mine we used to fish in is one of them. Well, I went over to their office about a month ago with a friend of mine that's trying to get a franchise to handle the line and we stopped in this diner for a cup of coffee. And that's where I saw the girl. It was around ten a.m. and she came in with three other girls. Typical coffee-break safari, so she works in an office somewhere in that area. Maybe even for Comet, I don't know.

"If you see her you can't miss her. She's a real Latin type, dark brown eyes with a lot of moxie in 'em, s.h.i.+ny black hair. She wears it long. Real white teeth, about five-five, one of those smoky-looking babes that you're never quite sure whether they're going to freeze you dead or burst into flame. Twenty-five, twenty-six, like that. No wedding ring. The three rimes I saw her she was wearing those dangly earrings."

"Thanks a million," I said. "Anything else?"

"One more pipe dream, and this is really reaching for it. Stedman was on the Robbery Detail, you know. He had partner named Jack Purcell, a real cool cat. One of those smooth ones without a nerve in his body. Well, you were probably at sea when it happened, but Purcell committed suicide just about three weeks ago. No note. No reason, that anybody could ever find out."

"It was was suicide?" suicide?"

"What else could they call it? He was alone in the house while his wife was at the movies. He was shot through the head with his own thirty-eight, which was lying beside his body with his fingerprints on it. It was a contact wound, as they call it."

"Well, it happens," I said.

"But very seldom to guys like Purcell. I realize it's goofy, but I keep thinking there may be a connection somewhere. Just after it happened a friend of mine told me he thought Purcell might have been stepping out. Said he saw him once in a car with a real dish of a brunette." There was a pause. "Be careful, Irish," he said and hung up.

I stepped out of the booth. A car was coming along this side of the street. I stopped, waiting for it to go past before I crossed. Then, as it pa.s.sed a street light, I saw it was a police cruiser. I turned and started walking slowly along the sidewalk with my back to the oncoming lights. It came abreast of me. Then it stopped. My back congealed with sudden fear.

"You looking for somebody out here?" a voice asked.

It was all right; they couldn't see my face in the darkness. I fought to make my voice sound casual. "No. Just taking a walk, officer."

"In the rain? Where do you live?"

Before I could answer, a beam of light splashed full in my face. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. "Hey!" the voice barked. "Come back here!"

I heard the car door slam behind me, and running footsteps. The one still in the car was. trying to hit me with the spotlight. "Stop, Foley! We'll shoot."

I'd never make it to the corner alive. And if I did, the other one was following me in the car. I saw an opening between two concessions on my right, and shot into it. The rear of the buildings were in deep shadow, but I could make out the dark tracery of the Ferris wheel and some of the other rides. I cut sharply to the left, ran another fifty feet, and froze against the wall. Just beyond me was another corner. I inched quietly around it just as he shot into the open at the rear of the concessions, swinging the beam of the flashlight.

"Joe!" he yelled. "Drive on around and cover the street in back so he can't get to the next block. And call in."

The car went ahead and turned the corner. The one who was afoot had run-on back and was throwing the beam of his flashlight in wide arcs around the Ferris wheel. I slipped quietly along the narrow pa.s.sage between two small buildings, and peered out into the beach boulevard. The Oldsmobile was gone. She'd managed to get away while they were occupied with me, and they probably hadn't even noticed her. There was only one car in sight, some two blocks away. I shot across the street and over the edge of the far sidewalk. I landed on the sand, lost my balance, and fell. I was near one of the amus.e.m.e.nt piers, and the long expanse of beach stretched ahead of me, black and deserted in the rain. I got up and ran. I could hear sirens wailing behind me as police cars began pouring into the area. I ran until my side hurt and breathing was an agony.

I sat down at last with my back against the concrete of the seawall. Rain drummed on the brim of my hat. Now they knew I was back in Sanport. And I'd lost Suzy. I didn't know her address or her phone number, and even if I could find another outside phone booth and look it up in the book, I couldn't call her. I had a hundred and seventy dollars in my pocket, but I didn't have a dime.

Five

My teeth began to chatter as water penetrated my clothes. I had to find some place to get out of the rain, and unless I discovered a hiding place before daybreak they'd have me. Every cop in town was alerted by now, and my description would be broadcast over the radio. With this black eye and the stubble of ginger-colored beard to give me away, I couldn't move a foot without being recognized.

How about a hotel, a skid-row flophouse? No. That would be suicidal. I still had a key to my own apartment in the Wakefield, but they'd have that covered front and rear. Maybe I could find my way to the railroad yards again and catch another freight. I fought down an impulse to cry out or laugh. I must be going crazy. That would put me right back where I'd started forty-eight hours ago. I was going around and around in an endless circle in a nightmare. I was a mechanical rabbit running forever in front of a pack of hounds along a dark racetrack in a rain that had been going on since the beginning of time. I thought of the bridge of the Dancy, Dancy, and hot coffee, and my own room and the rows of books, and the poker games in the steam-heated messroom. and hot coffee, and my own room and the rows of books, and the poker games in the steam-heated messroom.

I tore my mind away from the picture, and then I was thinking of Suzy's apartment, and of warmth and safety, and of Suzy herself. I swore wearily. Jesus, I'd been so near. Then I sprang up. What the h.e.l.l was the matter with me? I could still get there. All I had to do was find another telephone booth and look up her address. I didn't have to call her. The whole night was ahead of me-it couldn't be much after eight-and I could-make it on foot. I wouldn't be able to ask directions, but I knew the city fairly well, and the chances were it would be on a street I'd recognize. And if it weren't, maybe the directory would have a map in it. I'd forgotten, but some of them did.

The first thing to do was get clear of this area-get miles away. They'd be searching it block by block. I walked westward along the beach. Now and then a car went past on the roadway to the right and above me. I stayed out of the range of their headlights. After a long time I crossed the road and struck inland. I found a sh.e.l.l-surfaced country road following a sluggish creek. Rain kept falling. The topcoat was soaked now and heavy. I was seized with uncontrollable fits of shaking that lasted for minutes at a time. Whenever I saw a car coming, I dived off the road and hid.

Far off to the left I could see beacons flas.h.i.+ng. That would be the International Airport. Then there were more lights up ahead. I was approaching the highway that came into Sanport from the west, from the direction of Carlisle. I began to pa.s.s more houses, and then I was in a suburban housing development. Few cars were moving, and there were no pedestrians. Some of the houses were dark. That seemed strange, until I had to pa.s.s another unavoidable street light and looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty-five. I'd been walking for at least three hours. In another seven, or a little more, it would be daybreak. I wondered if I could keep going that long, or if I could even get to her place in that length of time. It might be clear across town, ten or twelve miles from here. I saw a police car up ahead, and ducked down a shadowy side street. A dog barked at me. My teeth chattered again, and I clenched my jaws to stop them. I turned again, still going toward the highway. I had to find a telephone booth, and there wouldn't be one in this area.

Then I located one, in the edge of a suburban shopping center. A service station on the corner was closed, with only a single bulb burning in back of the gla.s.s front wall of the office, and around at the side of it was a booth standing invitingly open. The streets were deserted except for a few cars near the movie house still open down in the next block. I took another quick look around and crossed to the station driveway. When I stepped inside the booth and closed the door, its light came on. I felt as if I were standing naked on a large stage before an audience of thousands. I grabbed for the directory, dangling from its chain, and fumbled through it with hands that shook uncontrollably. Water ran off my hat onto the pages.

Parker . . . Parkhurst . . . Patterson . . .

Patton . . . Here we were. Here we were.

Patton, Robert . . . Patton, R.H . . . Patton, Stewart . . . Patton, Stephen R. . . . Patton, Victor E. . . . There was no Suzy Patton listed. There was no Suzy Patton listed.

Of course there was. There had to be! I ran a trembling finger down the column again. I shook my head. Then, for some insane reason I couldn't fathom, I was counting them. There were thirty-seven Pattons, but there was no Suzy Patton, and there wasn't even an S. Patton or an S. Anything Patton. I dropped the phone book and rubbed a hand harshly across my face.

Suzy Patton was a pen name, or she had an unlisted number. In a city of six hundred thousand- I started to laugh. My head felt queer. I chopped off the laugh and pushed out of the booth, and when the rain hit me in the face my mind cleared a little and I was only freezing cold and chattering. I went on walking. There was nothing else to do. If I stopped, I'd probably freeze. Well, at daybreak they'd pick me up and I'd be in a nice warm interrogation room with a white light in my face and then just before I cracked and went insane I could sign a statement and go to sleep.

I stopped suddenly. Maybe there was still a chance, if f could only call Red. I looked around, trying to orient myself and snap my mind out of its numbness. I was in a quiet residential district under dark and weeping trees. I leaned against the trunk of one and forced myself to try to think. What would she have done? Gone home, obviously, knowing there was no chance she could ever find me again. And she'd realize I couldn't find her, since she wasn't in the book. Red was the only person we both knew, the only common contact. Maybe she had called him.

No, of course she wouldn't. After that narrow escape back there at the Playland she'd probably had enough, and didn't care if she never saw me again. She was just lucky she'd got away herself. Did I think she'd be crazy enough to give Red an address, when she didn't know him and had no guarantee at all she could trust him? How would she know he wouldn't give it to the police? The whole idea was absurd. But it persisted. It was the only thing I had left, and I couldn't force myself to let it go.

But how was I going to call him? I didn't have a dime. The idea of having one hundred and seventy dollars but not having a dime again struck me as one of the great jokes of the year, and I laughed. It occurred to me I was becoming light-headed. I pushed myself off the tree and went on. It was five or six blocks further on that I saw the small neighborhood bar. It was across the street, with a neon c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s above the bar and a sign that said, TERRY MAC'S. There were three cars parked in front of it, and on either side were stores that were closed. I stepped back into a doorway and looked at it hungrily. The slip of paper she'd given me was still in the pocket of the topcoat. I took it out and studied it in the dim light, memorizing the number. Then I looked back at the bar.

No, it would be insane. Then I noticed an odd thing. The rain had started to bounce. It fell on the s.h.i.+ny black pavement and leaped into the air like pellets of tiny white shot. It had turned to sleet. That settled it. I was soaked all the way to the skin and I'd freeze to death before morning if I didn't get inside somewhere. A long-shot chance was better than none at all. I pulled the coat collar tighter about my face, yanked down the brim of the hat, and crossed the street.

It was dim and smoky inside. A man and a girl were sitting on stools about halfway down the bar, and beyond them was a man alone. The bartender was an Irish-looking kid in his early twenties with blue-black hair and unbelievably white teeth. They all looked up as I came in, stared briefly, and stopped talking. At the rear was a jukebox, and beside it a phone booth.

"Shot of bourbon, straight," I said. "And give me the change in dimes." I put a dollar on the bar. The three customers glanced at each other and then became elaborately absorbed in their drinks as if they'd never seen drinks before. "Yes, sir," the bartender said heartily, avoiding my eyes. He put the drink and the change on the bar. I grabbed up the dimes, threw the whisky into the back of my mouth with one sweep of my hand, and was already moving toward the phone booth by the time it could burn its way down my frozen throat and explode.

I slammed the door, fumbled a dime into the slot and dialed with a finger like a dead piece of wood. The shakes seized me again, and I could hear water running out of my clothes onto the floor. Christ, wouldn't they ever answer? Christ, wouldn't they ever answer? I s.h.i.+fted a little and shot a glance toward the front of the bar. So far, n.o.body had moved. I s.h.i.+fted a little and shot a glance toward the front of the bar. So far, n.o.body had moved.

"Sidelines Bar." It was a girl's voice this time.

"Red Lanigan," I said, fighting the chattering of my teeth.

The girl went away. I waited, feeling almost drunk on the single shot of whisky. My head swam. Then somebody was picking up the receiver. "Lanigan speaking."

"Listen, Red-"

He chuckled indulgently. "Look, you happy meat-head. If you have to get drunk, at least you could do it here." I heard him kick the door shut. "Jesus, I'm glad you could get to a phone. Listen, she called-"

"What did she say?" I cut in.

"A-H."

"What?"

"That's all. She said to tell you, 'A-H.' A as in Able, H as in Happy. I hope to G.o.d you know what it means. I don't."

"Thanks," I said. I hung up. Oh, you beautiful, blonde, brainy girl. I grabbed for the directory, and as I nipped it open I shot another glance at the bar. It was already too late. The Irish bartender was pretending to wash out some gla.s.ses in the sink with the near hand while he held the receiver of the bar phone with the other. He was nodding his head. I saw him turn a little and shoot a glance toward the booth.

I stepped out and started toward the door. The three customers returned to studying the strange drinks they'd never seen before. Silence fell. The bartender had stopped talking into the phone and was holding it as if he couldn't make up his mind what he wanted to do with it. I wondered if he had already given them the address. An illogical rage seized me. I was tired of being the mechanical rabbit all the time. It wasn't fair. I stopped, took the receiver out of his hand, picked up the base of the instrument, and yanked. The cord tore apart in the junction box under the bar.

"Are you Terry Mac?" I asked. My head felt as if it were going to float out the door without me.

He stared at me, white-faced, too startled to speak.

"Shove it, you shanty-Irish pig," I said, and dropped the phone, receiver and all, into the sink. The broken end of the cord still dangled over the edge. It didn't look neat at all so I coiled it very carefully, and shoved it down into the water along with the rest of the instrument. I turned and walked out without looking back.

Sleet pattered on my hat brim and tapped on my face. I broke into a run, and just before I turned the corner I looked over my shoulder. The bartender and one of the men were standing in the doorway to see which way I went. By the time I'd run another block I heard the sirens.

I went on, feeling my feet lift and swing and pound against the concrete until every breath was agony. I turned and turned again and lost all sense of direction. I saw headlights approaching down an intersecting street. The car started to turn toward me, and just before the headlights swept over me I dived sideways into an oleander hedge. I fell through it, and lay in a puddle of water with the sleet tapping restfully on my hat and the side of my face. My arm was against something metallic and uncomfortable. I reached over and felt it with my other hand. It was a lawn sprinkler. I thought drowsily it would be a shame if they turned it on.

More cars went up the street, swinging spotlights. I didn't know how long I lay there. After awhile I got my breath back, and moved a little, fighting the drowsiness. I wanted to go to sleep, but something made me get up to my hands and knees. It was quiet now. No cars had gone by for a long time. I climbed through the hedge and started walking. After a few blocks my teeth started chattering again. I thought that was a good sign; I didn't believe your teeth chattered when you were freezing. Twice more I had to duck into yards to avoid the lights of cars. I was doing everything mechanically now, and for long periods I would forget what I was looking for. Phone booth, Phone booth, I told myself. Remember that. I told myself. Remember that. Phone booth. Phone booth.

I was standing under a street light. I looked at my watch. It said ten minutes of five. I slapped myself on the face and looked again. It must be stopped, or I was drunk. It couldn't be that late. Lousy watch, always stopping. I looked across the street and realized I was staring at a big green clock in the window of a filling station, and that it said ten minutes of five. And in the shadows beside the station was a phone booth. I focused on it, hard, and managed to break into a run.

A for Able, H for Happy. I got the directory open somehow and fumbled through it with nerveless fingers. Patton . . . I got the directory open somehow and fumbled through it with nerveless fingers. Patton . . .

Patton, Alvis W. . . .

Patton, A. H. . . . I repeated the number, prodded the dime into the slot, and dialed. I repeated the number, prodded the dime into the slot, and dialed.

She answered almost immediately. "Yes?" she said eagerly.

"I'm-" I said. "I'm-uh-"

She sighed. "G.o.d, I've been waiting all night. He said he gave you the message hours ago. Where are you?"

"I don't know," I said. "Wait." I dropped the receiver and stepped out of the booth to look up at the sign on the edge of the cantilever roof above the driveway BARRETT'S Sh.e.l.l SERVICE, it said.

I repeated it.