Run, Killer, Run

by William Campbell Gault

  They were finishing their coffee when the door chime sounded.

  Jud said, “In the bathroom. In the shower stall. Quick!”

  Tom was in the shower stall, the opaque glass door closed, when Jud opened the front door.

  The bathroom door was open and he could hear Jud say, “Sergeant Kurtz — what an unpleasant surprise this is.”

  Tom knew him and the sergeant knew them all. He was a county man and gambling was his detail.

  The sergeant’s voice was mild. “Morning, Jud. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “I was just going out, Sergeant. Something on your mind?”

  “Yup. Tom Spears. Seen him?”

  “Tom Spears? Is he in town? Did you get word he was in town, Sergeant?”

  “Cut out the ham. I’m not stupid, you know. What’s wrong with my coming in?”

  “Nothing except the lack of a warrant in your hand. Did you come here to look for Tom? We’re not exactly buddies, you know.”

  “Save the dramatics, Shallock. If you haven’t anything to hide, there shouldn’t be anything to prevent my coming in.”

  “Nothing but the Constitution,” Jud said, and his voice was ice. “Nothing except that this is my home and I don’t like cops.”

  “I see.” A long silence. “Okay, Shallock, we’ll play it that way. I’ve given you more than one break in the past. But covering a murder would put you into a different file. I think you’d better come along with me.”

  “On what charge?”

  “I’ll think of one on the way. Let’s go. Are you resisting arrest?”

  Another long silence and then the slam of the door.

  In the shower stall, Tom felt the sweat drip off his wrists, trickle down his sides. He was sure the beat of his heart could be heard in the living room.

  Had the sergeant come in or had Jud gone out? He’d heard nothing beyond the slam of the door. Then, from outside, he heard the grind of a starter, and he expelled the breath he’d been holding.

  Slowly, he opened the shower door and stepped over the high sill. He peered around the edge of the bathroom door and saw the empty living room. He started to breathe steadily and the pounding of his heart diminished.

  The sudden jangle of the phone stopped him as he was heading toward the kitchen. He stared at it. A trick? No, there hadn’t been time, yet, for Sergeant Kurtz to try a trick.

  And it could be a friend. It could even be Nannie.

  He lifted the phone from its cradle and said guardedly, “Hello.”

  It was Jean’s voice. “Tom — ? This is you, isn’t it? Tom — ?” He asked, “Who is it, please?”

  “Jean Revolt. Tom, are you all right? I thought you’d head for that place. I knew he was your friend. Are you all right? Answer me.”

  “Jud was just picked up by a man from the Sheriff’s Department. I’m still here. But they’ll be back. I’m running, again, Jean. You were wrong. I wouldn’t have a chance. I’m running.”

  “How? On foot? You fool! I’ll pick you up. If you want to run, that’s your business, but let me give you a good start.”

  “No. I don’t want you implicated. I’m leaving right now. I won’t be here by the time you get here. Good-bye, Jean.”

  “Wait — !” Her voice was shrill, hurting his ear. “If you leave, I’ll tell them I helped you come from Arizona. I will, Tom. If you run, now, I did wrong in helping you and I’ll tell the police. I’ll be implicated, then, right up to my ears. That’s a promise, Tom.”

  Annoyance moved through him, but he knew she would do as she threatened. He said, “It’s my life, Jean.”

  “And believing in your innocence was a part of my life. But if you run, now, what I did was wrong, too. And I’m going to right it by going to the police. Tom, I’ve had legal training. Believe in me. I’m more concerned with justice than the letter of the law.”

  “You’ve never spent time behind those bars. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Her voice was low. “I can’t argue over a phone. Where can I pick you up?”

  He paused, and then said, “There’s a bar on Braddock and Mentone, in Culver City. Could you find that?”

  “I could, and will.”

  “I’ll be waiting there.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  After he’d hung up, he checked the bedroom to see if he had left any match books or any other signs of his presence. Then he went out the back door and into the fenced yard.

  There was an alley, here, and another alley bisecting it a hundred feet beyond. He took the second alley, walking carefully, watching for any sign of the law.

  If the sergeant had really believed Jud was hiding him, the neighborhood would be alive with cops, right now. But there were none in sight as he left the alley behind and turned onto a quiet residential street fronted with small homes.

  Two blocks away, he knew, was the business district and he’d have to go through that to get to the bar. Culver City had its own police force and it was a well patrolled town.

  He saw no squad car as he approached the business district. But the urge to hurry, to keep to the shadows was strong in him. He resisted it, walking leisurely past the super market, the filling stations. As he crossed the main street, all the sunlight in the area seemed to be focused on him.

  He was in a pedestrian lane, and the traffic had to stop. In the lane nearest the other side of the street, a squad car slowed and waited.

  Tom kept his eyes straight ahead, quickening his pace a trifle, as any Milquetoast citizen would who was holding up the law. He reached the curb without being accosted, and slowed his pace again.

  Each step away from the corner seemed to take a full minute. He was halfway into the block before his breathing went back to normal.

  Herbie’s Hubby Haven was a red brick building next to a small parking lot. There were no cars in the parking lot this morning, though there was an ancient Chev parked in front. Tom went up the two steps that led to the narrow door.

  He’d been here only once before, with Jud, and there was little chance that the bartender would remember him. He was in luck; the man behind the bar wasn’t the same one who’d been here the other time.

  Tom ordered a bottle of eastern beer and sat at a table near the huge front window where he could see the street.

  The bartender said, “How about them Braves moving to Milwaukee, huh? Think it’ll go through?”

  “Hard to tell,” Tom said. He hadn’t even read about it.

  “If you ask me, I think it’s stupid,” the man went on.

  Who asked you? Tom thought. He said, “Maybe.”

  “What’s wrong with L.A.?” the man persisted. “Here’s a town of two million crying for major league ball. Milwaukee, huh!”

  Tom smiled.

  “You new out here?” the man asked. Tom shook his head. “Why?”

  “You’re kind of pale. Work inside, I suppose, huh?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Well, it beats me. It ain’t right.”

  “Maybe we can get the Browns,” Tom said. “They’re losing money in St. Louis.”

  “Baltimore couldn’t get ‘em. You work at Douglas?”

  Tom shook his head. “I used to work for May fair, but I’ve had an operation. I’ve been off for two weeks.”

  “Oh. I thought you looked kind of peaked. You been in here before, much?”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t drink much. Just a bottle of beer at home once in a while.”

  The man nodded. “You’re smart. Like I tell my wife, I just wish I had the money some of these working stiffs spend over a bar. I’d drive a Cad. And they ain’t got change for a nickel the day before payday. The next depression, won’t they be sorry they didn’t salt a few bucks? Aw, people give me a pain in the ass.”

  Tom smiled. “You’re in the wrong business if you don’t like people.”

  “I know. But I liked ‘em before I got into this business, before I saw
this side of ‘em.” He lighted a cigarette. “How do they pay at May fair, if it ain’t too personal?”

  “Good,” Tom said. “We’re pretty well organized.”

  “How good?”

  Tom shrugged, trying to think of a figure. “Oh, I take home around seventy bucks each week.”

  “Seventy take-home? How many kids?”

  “One,” Tom said.

  The man frowned. “You’re on your feet as much there as here, I suppose. And here, a guy can pick up an extra buck, now and then.”

  Tapping the till, Tom thought. He said, “I’ll trade you, any day.” And that was no lie.

  Then, outside, a Plymouth convertible was slowing at the curb. He couldn’t see who was behind the wheel, but it was Jean’s car or a replica.

  He rose and said, “My wife. Checking up on me. Stay sober, sport.”

  As he approached the car, Jean leaned over to open the door on the curb side. She looked worried.

  They were moving before she said, “I went past Jud Shallock’s house. There’s a squad car in front.”

  “I didn’t leave any clues there. That county man probably went to the local police. They may have passed me on the way over.”

  She kept her eyes on the street ahead. “I wonder what brought the man to Shallock’s house? Do you think he had a tip?”

  Tom shook his head. “I think it was routine, and then when Jud refused to let the sergeant in, he got suspicious. But if it hits the local paper and that bartender sees it — ” Tom paused to stare out the window. “I never should have come back here.”

  Her voice was low. “No, you should run. That’s the standard attitude today. Run from the McCarthy Committee, the Velde Committee and the Gathings Committee. Let freedom die in committee and run for your life. Let the American Hitlers take over.”

  Tom turned to look at her. He said nothing. He thought, Migawd, one of those. That’s why she came to help me. She’s looking for recruits.

  He said, “The murder of my wife wasn’t political.”

  “Of course not. I was speaking of the national attitude. And in case you’re wondering about me, I voted Republican since I could vote. I worked actively for General Eisenhower’s election.”

  Tom leaned back against the cushion. “In case you’re interested, I was wondering about you. You certainly sounded like Moscow Mollie there for a second.”

  “We’ll talk about that, later,” she said.

  Somewhere, he found a smile, “I’ll bet we will. You sounded all wound up, Miss Revolt. You’re well named.”

  “But who’s going to wind you up? Who’s going to make a fighter out of you?”

  “Nobody ever has, Jean. You’d be working stubborn clay. I’m a drifter. I always managed to make a dollar without too much effort and never had to really fight for anything.”

  “And then you marry an heiress. And then, the one time in your life you should fight, you run.” They were on Lincoln Boulevard, now, heading north.

  “All right, I should fight,” he said. “But why should you? Why should you get involved in my troubles? What am I to you?”

  “You are a man who was betrayed by his wife and by his best friend. That friend was my fiancée. I can’t fight all the injustice in the world, but I intend to fight all the injustice that touches me.”

  Tom said nothing.

  She said, “You’re thinking I should get on a soap box, aren’t you?”

  Tom shook his head. “No. I was thinking you sound like Joe used to sound. Joe was quite a crusader, too, wasn’t he?”

  “I always thought he was. Until he sold out. I’ve been trying to get some of his records from the executor of the estate. I thought there might be a hint there as to who bought Joe.” She turned left on Olympic, heading toward the ocean.

  They were in the tunnel when she said, “I haven’t had any luck, yet. The will hasn’t even been read, yet. But Joe didn’t have any relatives. And he told me, once, that he was leaving everything to me.” She paused. “That would include all his records.”

  To their left, now, the Pacific was calm in the morning sun. To their right towered the Santa Monica cliff. “You live out this way?” Joe asked. “In the Santa Monica Canyon.”

  That could mean anything. At the ocean end, the area was practically a slum. Farther into the canyon, the property values went soaring.

  On Channel Road, she turned right and continued up the canyon to Mesa, where she turned left. This area was now definitely out of the low rent district.

  Tom said, “I’ll buy that story now about your being a Republican. Though there are a few Commies in this town who live high.”

  She chuckled. “Another joke. That makes two, with that one you pulled in Arizona. You’re coming back to life, aren’t you?”

  “I hope. If an innocent girl can stick her neck out this far for me, I’d be a pretty gutless bastard to run, wouldn’t I?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  Her house was low, L-shaped, with a shake roof and walls. It wasn’t a big house, nor was it a cheap one. It was built on top of a rise and there was a view in all four directions.

  She followed the circle of the driveway to the parking area and garage in the rear, and killed the motor.

  “Yours?” Tom asked.

  “Mine. Bought before prices out here went crazy, I add. Like it?”

  “Who wouldn’t? And the beach only a few blocks away. You do all right, don’t you?”

  “Papa did. The magazines were paying him top rates.”

  Tom closed his eyes. “Revolt? Walter Revolt? The man who wrote all those exposés for the magazines and the press services? He’s your father?”

  “He was. He died two years ago.”

  Tom nodded. “I remember, now. One of his series dealt with nationwide gambling tie-ups, if I remember.”

  “That’s right.”

  Tom turned to face her. “And now you bring a bookie here, a bookie convicted of murder.”

  “Papa would laugh, if he were alive. He had a sense of humor. And if he believed in you as I believe in you, he’d have helped.” She opened the door on her side of the car. “Let’s not sit here. Unless you intend to run some more. If you do, take the car.”

  Tom paused only a second before getting out. “The way you talked on the trip, I thought you came from a poor background.”

  “I grew up in a poor background. Dad didn’t really hit until about five years before he died. But when he did hit, he appreciated the dollar, and he didn’t waste any of them. He bought this place when the invasion scare was at its peak.”

  Tom nodded. “I remember. Big estates with swimming pools were selling for twelve thousand dollars.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm. Because people were frightened, people were running. And Dad never ran from anything in his life. Three years later, he was offered five times what he paid for the place.”

  They went across a bricked patio to a Dutch door, and through that to a farm kitchen, lofty, beamed, one brick wall encasing a high-hearth fireplace.

  Tom thought of the showcase Lois had maintained in Beverly Hills, the huge, cold Colonial monstrosity they had shared. He said, “This is the kind of place I wanted but Lois thought it was too California-ish.”

  Jean smiled. “The phony eastern influence. I thought Lois had more sense. Well, I’ll show you your room.”

  They went through an entrance hall and along a glass-walled passage to a hall serving the bedrooms. The room she showed him to was more like a den, paneled in Philippine mahogany, lined with built-in bookcases.

  “It used to be Dad’s study,” she said. “The windows are low enough for all the light you need but too high for anyone to see in from outside. It seemed like the logical room.”

  Tom’s glance came back to meet hers. “How long did you expect me to live here? Do you realize what you’re doing?”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing. Once I get Joe’s records, we might be able to go to work. Until then, we can compare note
s. I’ve been doing some investigating on my own, you know. That’s how I knew about Jud Shallock.”

  Tom fumbled for his cigarette pack, found it, and offered her one. She took it and he held a light for her. His hand was steady.

  “Ready for lunch?” she asked.

  “I’m not very hungry. Jean, I’ve a feeling you’re not telling me all you know, your whole reason for coming to find me.”

  “We’ll talk about that, too,” she said. “Relax, now. You’re safer than you’ve been in days. Relax, while I make some phone calls.” She went out.

  Tom went over to study a photograph in a leather case which stood on the mantel above the room’s small fireplace. It was the face of a man in his fifties, a man with short, dark hair and a blunt nose and a defiant tilt to his jaw.

  It was a fighter’s face and he recognized it dimly from old newspaper columns. It was her father, undoubtedly.

  He heard her voice from the direction of the entrance hall, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. He sat in a huge leather chair and leaned back.

  A female Don Quixote, in her father’s image. A professional bleeding heart. A girl of soap box dialogues and almost soap opera convictions, sticking her neck way out for one of the world’s frightened lambs.

  And it was such a pretty neck on such a pretty girl. She had so damned much to lose, and what to gain? Unless she’d lost her perspective when Joe Hubbard died. Joe had been a charming gent; he could leave an awful hole in a girl’s life.

  God damn Joe Hubbard, he thought. If she’s right about him, damn his dirty soul.

  And Lois….?

  He closed his eyes, and felt the ache growing behind them. He massaged the back of his neck with a digging hand. He wondered about Jud Shallock, and how he’d fared in the Sheriff’s office. And he wondered why he was sitting here, when he could be in Mexico, by now.

  He heard a step in the hall and looked up to see her standing in the doorway. “Wouldn’t you like a good, stiff drink?”

  “I think I would.” He straightened in his chair. “Shall I mix us both one?”

  “You relax. I’ll get them. Bourbon, rye, Scotch?”

  “Bourbon and water. That’s your dad’s picture, there, isn’t it?”

  She nodded, and went out.

  The eyes of Walter Revolt seemed to be fastened on Tom. He closed his own eyes, again, and saw the pinched, rodentlike face of his former cell-mate, Bugs Kiloski.