Man on the run

by Charles Williams

  ”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 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 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.”

  “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, “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.”

  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.

  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 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.

  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 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 t
he 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 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.