Man On The Run Part 4

"All right," she said quickly. "I'll have to look it up, so I don't know how far away it is. It may take five minutes or thirty. Stay right there, or as near as you can and still be out of sight. I'll come by on that side of the street with my right-hand turn signal blinking. If everything is clear, come out and get in. If not, I'll go around six or eight blocks and try again. All right?"

"Y-yes," I said. I hung up. I went around behind the station in the deep shadows and leaned against the wall. My skin hurt all over the way I imagined it did in spots when you had gout. I couldn't really be freezing, I thought; you never hurt then. Time went by. I began to dream I was on the bridge of the Dancy Dancy off Hatteras in a snowstorm. No, that couldn't be right. I was never wet on the bridge. We had oilskins. I heard a car coming. I went to the corner and peered up the street. The car's turn signal was blinking. I ran out. She stopped abruptly, and I got in. I doubled over, holding my arms, shaking violently and trying to keep from touching the wet clothes anywhere with my skin. off Hatteras in a snowstorm. No, that couldn't be right. I was never wet on the bridge. We had oilskins. I heard a car coming. I went to the corner and peered up the street. The car's turn signal was blinking. I ran out. She stopped abruptly, and I got in. I doubled over, holding my arms, shaking violently and trying to keep from touching the wet clothes anywhere with my skin.

She drove fast. "Only a few minutes, Irish," she said. I thought numbly she must have got that from Red. He always called me Irish.

I didn't know how much later it was we were going down a ramp into a garage. It was shadowy, like a big cavern. Then she was helping me out. I went up the ramp after her, trying to walk without touching my clothes. We went past some gra.s.s where the sleet was bouncing, and then she was fitting a key into a large gla.s.s door. There was a small foyer inside with a potted palm and two elevators. It was very quiet. One of the elevators was standing open. We got in and she pressed a b.u.t.ton. When we got out, she took off the dark coat she was wearing, and mopped the water off the bare floor of the car. It didn't show very much on the carpet in the corridors. We met no one. Then she was unlocking another door.

I had a confused impression of a large room with thousands of books and a gray rug and colored draperies, and then she was leading me into another room. There were more curtains, and a double bed, a king-sized double bed, and beyond it was the door to the bathroom. Even the bathroom was large. She led me into it. There was a gla.s.s-doored stall shower. She reached in and turned on the taps. I went on shaking. I tried to say something. She shook her head at me and pushed me into the shower. "Sit down," she said.

I sat down with the hot water pouring over my head and shoulders. She took off my shoes. "Now can you stand?" she asked. I got to my feet. The water felt as if it were boiling, but I went right on shaking. She pealed off the topcoat and dropped it to the floor. Then the coat. I tried to unb.u.t.ton the s.h.i.+rt, but she caught both sides of it and tore at it, spraying the b.u.t.tons off. In a moment I was naked, standing on the wet clothes while steamy water sluiced down over me. "I'll be back," she said, and closed the sliding door.

My skin was dead white and drawn up in a thousand whorls and wrinkles like the pictures of fingerprints, and my teeth went right on chattering. The door slid back and she was holding a gla.s.s half full of whisky. I drank it.

"All right," she said. "Out you come. If you collapse before you get in bed I'll never be able to lift you."

She handed me a towel and took one herself. It felt as if we were tearing my skin off. She led me into the bedroom. The bed was turned down. She pushed me into it and covered me. She went out and came back almost immediately with another drink. She held it to my lips. My teeth beat like castanets against the gla.s.s, but I managed to swallow the whisky.

"Poor Irish," she said. She clicked off the light, leaving only the faint illumination from the doorway to the living room. Then I saw she was undressing. She tossed the sweater, skirt, and slip across a chair, and sat down to remove her stockings. The room began to swim in big circles. She tossed the last garment onto the chair and slid in beside me.

"This may help," she said. She gathered my head against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and a long smooth thigh slid up and over my leg and entwined with it as she held me pressed to her in every place we could touch. "It's just a chill. It'll go away."

I struggled against the blackness that was trying to engulf me.

"Easy, Irish," she said soothingly. "Just go to sleep."

The walls of the room swam by again. I tried to get my arms round her, but I went on shaking.

"You can't," she said gently. "You know you can't."

She was right. I couldn't. I made one more futile grab at the edge of the precipice and then fell, and went on falling through darkness.

Six

It was like waking up in another world. I sat up and looked around, almost as stupidly as if I had a hangover. In spite of the oversized bed, it was a very feminine room. Some light sifted in through the pale rose curtains that covered the wall at my left. The rug was a soft ivory in color, and the sliding doors of the clothes closet were full-length mirrors. The bed itself had a satin-covered headboard, a gold spread folded down at the foot of it, and a Dacron comforter. At either side were small night tables that held matching rose-shaded lamps with ebony bases. On the one at my left there was a white telephone, and tossed carelessly across it a black eyeshade of nylon or silk with an elastic band. It was warm and very quiet except for the faint and occasional sounds of traffic somewhere below. Across from me, by the dressing table with its wing mirrors and clutter of jars and bottles, was the door to the next room. It was closed..

It opened in a few minutes, and she peered in. When she saw I was awake, she smiled, and came on in. She was wearing black Capri pants and a white s.h.i.+rt, and she was barefoot. The light hair was carelessly tousled, and she looked as big and vital as a Viking's dream.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Rum-dum," I said. "As if I had a hangover."

"You probably have. I think I poured a pint of whisky into you."

"I really went out, didn't I?"

"You're lucky you're not dead," she said. "No food for four days except two cans of corned beef, and then nine hours soaked to the skin in freezing weather." She sat on the side of the bed and put her hand on my forehead. "Any fever?"

"I don't think so," I said. "Where am I?"

"Seventh floor of the Lancaster Apartments, 2110 Beechwood Drive. Apartment 703. It's four-thirty p.m. Friday, and you've been asleep for eleven hours. You're safe here. n.o.body saw you come in, and we can't be heard through the walls."

"Is there any chance they saw you last night?" I asked.

She shook her head. "They were too intent on you. And even if they did, they couldn't have got my license number. I didn't turn my lights on until I was a block away. According to the morning papers, they don't believe now you ever left town at all."

"What does A.H. stand for?"

"Amelia Holly Patton. It's my real name, but n.o.body knows it except for a few close friends, so it's as good as having an unlisted number."

"That was a smart trick," I said.

"It was the only way I could think of to tell you without telling him. I was pretty sure if you'd tried to find me in the book you'd catch on."

I caught her shoulders and pulled her down toward me.

"Just a minute, you Irish hedge-hog," she said. "The way you scratched me with that beard-"

"Where?" I asked.

There was cynical amus.e.m.e.nt in the gray eyes just above mine. "You know d.a.m.ned well where. After you collapsed with your head on my breast, I went on holding you for an hour before you quit shaking."

"That was a wonderful system you had for thawing me out."

"Not exactly original," she said. "But effective. However, you're not cold now." "That's what I mean," I said.

"You need rest. And food. You should be in a hospital-"

I pulled her head down and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and soft against mine, and then eager, and finally urgent. I tried to unb.u.t.ton the s.h.i.+rt, but she was lying across my chest. She tightened her arms around my neck. It was like being devoured. Then she turned a little and began tearing at the b.u.t.tons of the s.h.i.+rt herself. She slid out of it and tossed it on the floor. She wore no bra.

"See?" she said.

"I'm sorry."

"I'll bet you are."

"I mean I'm sorry I was asleep. Does it hurt?"

She smiled. "Not particularly. I'm just making a big thing of it, looking for sympathy."

"I don't know about sympathy, but if you could use some admiration-"

"I guess the Irish are hard to kill," she said.

I took her in my arms and kissed her again. She made an eager little sound in her throat, and when I began trying to find the zipper of the other garment she was wearing she took my hand in hers and showed me which side it was on.

She went out into the other room. I heard music come up somewhere in the background, and then she appeared in the doorway with a pack of cigarettes. She lighted one and put it between my fingers.

"Don't let go of it all at once," I said. "Wait'll I brace myself."

She smiled. "Poor Irish. Life is just one beating after another."

I studied the sensation of having melted and wondered if I'd ever again have strength enough to move. I tried to raise my head, and dizziness attacked me. She lighted a cigarette for herself and stood looking down at me. She had nothing on at all, but appeared completely unconcerned about it. I didn't believe I had ever seen as much statuesque and unflawed blondeness collected in one area before.

"You're lovely," I said. "How tall are you?"

"Five-ten," she replied. "Isn't it awful?"

"No. Magnificent is the word I was reaching for."

She lay down beside me. "Blarney."

"No. I'm too weak to lie about anything. But why are you helping me this way?"

"Why do you keep harping on that?" she asked. "I told you once. You interest me."

"That doesn't seem like much of a reason."

"It's relative," she said. "I knew an old man once who sat on a bench in front of a library for eight months trying to figure out why pigeons bob their heads when they walk."

"Did he ever find out?" I asked."No. But it kept him from screaming."

"Bunk," I said. "A girl with everything? Looks, build, vitality, brains-"

"Did you ever read a volume of first chapters? But never mind; I told you there was no way to explain it to a non-writer, so let's get back to you for a sort of preliminary brainstorming session. Do you have any money?"

"About one hundred and seventy dollars."

"That's all?"

"That's all I'll ever get my hands on. There may be some in the checking account, and there's some savings and a few shares of Southlands Oil Company stock that all add up to about six thousand, but there's no way I can get it."

"It doesn't matter," she replied. "I could lend you money, but that's not the big problem, anyway. If you're to escape for good, it's a matter of changing your whole ident.i.ty and way of life. Naturally, you can never go to sea again."

"It won't work," I said. "Going to sea is the only thing I like or know how to do. I'd be like a fish with feathers, trying to live ash.o.r.e. That's what my wife and I fought about all the time."

"All right, let's drop that for the moment and study another possibility. I don't think you killed Stedman, so maybe we could find out who did. What did Lanigan have to say?"

I told her.

"Hmmm," she said thoughtfully. She blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling and studied it. "That has a definitely intriguing ring. Especially the coincidence about Stedman's partner. What was his name again?"

"Purcell," I said. "Jack Purcell."

She nodded. "I'm pretty sure I remember reading about it. And that girl sounds interesting."

"There are probably several thousand good-looking brunettes in a city this size," I said. "And maybe she didn't have anything to do with it anyway."

"You never find out why pigeons bob their heads by dismissing it as an optical illusion. The thing to do is try to find her. But you can't even think of going out of here until that black eye fades." She raised herself on an elbow and looked at my face with critical appraisal. I studied the interesting curves this gave her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and put my hand under one.

She smiled and shook her head. "The forever undefeated, or at least hopeful. But about that eye-it'll probably be another three days, at least. They have some very sharp descriptions of you, and the red hair is bad enough, along with your height, but those bruises are like carrying a sign with your name on it."

"I'm going to have to do something about clothes."

"That's all taken care of," she said. "Except I'll have to buy you another hat and topcoat. The ones you had on last night are in the descriptions now. Let's see-the coat was tweed, so I'll get you a tan gabardine-"

"Where did you get the others?"

"Courtesy of my ex-husband. Or maybe I should say the more recent of my two ex-husbands. When he moved out, he left a trunk of his personal effects in the storeroom of the apartment house and never has sent for it. I went down yesterday and broke into it to see what I could find, since he's about your size. There were two suits, both conservative, dark gray flannel, and a lot of s.h.i.+rts and other things. And I brought up some pajamas and a flannel robe for you to wear around the apartment. They're in the closet."

She got up and went into the bath. I could hear her in the tub. After awhile she came out wearing a panty girdle and bra and sat down at the dressing table to put on her stockings.

"There's a safety razor in the cabinet," she said.

"Thanks," I replied. I sat up on the side of the bed. Weakness and vertigo hit me and I almost fell over. I managed to prop myself upright, and watched her pull the nylon up a smooth and rounded thigh and clip it to the little tabs on the girdle. "You're an exciting girl."

She rotated the ankle and tugged it straight. "Regroup," she said. "You've had all the excitement you can take."

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Shopping," she said. "We've got to get some food in you before you collapse. And I have to go to the library. I'll be back in about an hour."

She went to the clothes closet and put on a slip and a knitted dress. Sitting at the dressing table, again, she slipped on her shoes and applied some lipstick. "Tell me about your wife," she said, glancing at me in the mirror. Weren't you in love with her?"

"Sure," I said. "But we wore it out fighting. She wanted me to quit the s.h.i.+p and get some kind of job ash.o.r.e. But h.e.l.l, there's nothing I could do ash.o.r.e that would pay anything like the same money. I couldn't stand it, anyway."

"What was she like?"

"Nice, but hot-tempered. A redhead with one of those complexions you can almost see through. She's a couple of years older than I am. A nightclub singer. Not a very good one, I guess, and when I met her she wasn't singing in very good clubs, but she hated to give it up. She was married once before."

She frowned thoughtfully, checking the lipstick. "If it was all over and you were about to break up anyway, why did you want to fight Stedman? That was childish."

"I know, I know. It was stupid. But I just didn't like the smug b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

She clucked chidingly. "De mortuis-" "De mortuis-"

"What's that?"

"The smug b.a.s.t.a.r.d's dead. Call him something else."