Run, Killer, Run

by William Campbell Gault

  If Joe hadn’t been drunk that night and he hadn’t been with him, he never would have known about her at all. Joe hadn’t ever been a real drinking man; it was an unusual combination of incidents that had revealed Connie to Joe. There were probably other incidents in Joe’s life that had been buried with him.

  And some that might not have been. Jean could know, by now.

  In the narrow street below, a hot rod’s bark disturbed the quiet night air. Tom raised himself to a sitting position and looked out. There was a dim light in the restaurant across the street, a night light. No other light showed in the neighborhood.

  Tom swung his legs to the floor and felt his injured knee. Some of the swelling had gone down but the knee was still tender. He fumbled on the coffee table nearby until he found his cigarettes and groped some more until he found the table lighter he knew was there.

  The flare of the lighter and then the glow of his cigarette and an apprehension in him stronger than when he’d gone to sleep. The dark, probably; he had never liked the dark.

  This was the darkest dark, immediately before dawn; he hadn’t finished his cigarette when the first gray streaks of it appeared in the sky over the restaurant.

  In the houses all around him, the workers would be stirring, getting ready for their day of toil. Tom had never learned much about honest labor; it was another of the things he had run from. There had always been so many easier ways to make a dollar.

  The image of Jean Revolt was vivid in his mind. He tried to analyze her attraction for him, the lure of her which certainly extended beyond the bed.

  In her room at the end of the hall, Connie would be sleeping, and he wondered if he’d been a disappointment to her. He had slept with worse. He had been married to worse.

  That wasn’t fair, that last thought; that had been a spiteful, cheap thought about a woman who had given him infinite ecstasy. And she was now dead. Murdered.

  By whom?

  Joe Hubbard? Maybe. If so, who’d murdered Joe?

  Jean wanted to know that and Jean would work on it until she learned who had or until she ran into the final blind alley. Her father’s daughter, Jean Revolt.

  But vulnerable, like all the bleeding hearts. Vulnerable to a wolf like Joe Hubbard and a lamb like Tom Spears.

  It was almost light in the room, now. Tom rose and went into the kitchen. He filled the coffeepot with water and took the oleo out of the refrigerator.

  He warmed some milk and drank it. He turned the flame lower under the coffeepot and went into the bathroom to shave. Connie had a razor in there, and some new blades.

  Through the small, bathroom window he could see the flat, grayish water of the Pacific. Gulls walked the littered sand; one hardy early-morning-dipper moved through the placid water in a steady eight beat crawl.

  He was measuring the coffee into the top of the percolator when Connie came into the kitchen. She wore a robe over her night gown; her bleached hair was tied high on her head with a ribbon.

  “I used your razor,” Tom said.

  “Well, that’s an affectionate greeting. Why the early bird routine?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. The nap, I suppose — ” He smiled at her. “You’ll be rid of me today.”

  “I’m in no hurry.” She came over to put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you know what you’re doing, Tom?”

  He watched the water start to percolate and set the timer. “No, Connie. I only know what I have to do.”

  She sighed. “Men. Men can never ride with the tide, can they? They always have to stir up trouble.”

  He turned to face her. “Do you really think I should run? You don’t think running would be wrong, cowardly?”

  “I’m no girl to judge between right and wrong, honey. I guess you’ll have to do what you have to do. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But — ”

  She gestured wearily. “But me no buts. How is that knee?”

  “Much better. I’ll get around.”

  “All right. How do you want your eggs?”

  “Connie, listen, please.” He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her earnestly. “I want you to understand this. You’ve offered me a refuge and have a right to know if I’m going to risk revealing your part in this. I never will. There aren’t enough cops in this town to worm your name out of me. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  She shook her head. “Not even slightly. What bothers me is knowing you’re falling for the Revolt girl’s line. But that’s another thing I’m through talking about. Tom, our brief and happy relationship is ended when you walk out of here. No words, please, and no tears.”

  She twisted out of his grasp and went over to the refrigerator. She took out a bottle of orange juice and a carton of eggs. Tom went over to sit in the upholstered nook near the door.

  Below, he could see the restaurant. And the ‘51 Chev Club parked in front of it. And the man behind the wheel. The man seemed to be waiting for someone, slouched in the seat, smoking a cigarette.

  Tom said, “I think our lounger is back. On wheels, this time. A Chev Club, parked in front of the restaurant.”

  She was cracking eggs into a bowl. “Maybe he’s waiting for the restaurant to open.” She cracked the last of the eggs and came over to the window. “Same man? Are you sure?”

  “Fairly sure. Wish I had some binoculars.”

  “I’ve some opera glasses, believe it or not. Wait.” She went out.

  The man in the Chev didn’t look up; his gaze was straight ahead through the windshield. The restaurant was closed; Connie’s guess could make sense.

  When she came back, she handed him a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses and he focused them on the man across the street.

  It wasn’t a face Tom recognized nor a face that would be remembered if seen infrequently. It was broad and placid and not distinguished by any unusual features, a John Doe sort of face.

  Connie said, “Let me see him. I recognized the other man and if this is the same one, we shouldn’t worry.”

  In a few moments, she lowered the glasses. “Same man. A nothing. He surely doesn’t look like any kind of menace.” She put the glasses on the table and went back to beat the eggs.

  Tom had seen killers who looked less dangerous, torpedos who wouldn’t look out of place at the Union League Club. He sipped his orange juice and said nothing.

  A few minutes later, a man came to open the restaurant and a few minutes after that, the occupant of the Chev went in.

  “Maybe you were right,” Tom told Connie. “He just went into the restaurant.”

  “We’ll see.” She started to say more, and stopped.

  Tom smiled. “Say it. Whatever it is, I can take it.”

  “Just this — be careful, won’t you? Be careful every second.” She took a breath. “And if you find Miss Revolt dull, I’m always home days.”

  “Miss Revolt,” Tom told her, “is carrying the torch, still, same as you are, for a man I don’t want to talk about.”

  “Maybe. Your appeal is different, Tom, but just as strong. And you’re no fighter. Don’t let anybody talk you into a corner.

  “I promise.”

  Half an hour later, when they had finished the dishes, the Chev Club was still parked across the street.

  “Maybe he works there,” Connie suggested. “Maybe he was finishing his day, yesterday, when we saw him.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t want to go out where he can see me. I’ve a feeling about him.”

  Connie went to the window, to stare out at the car. “I could go past the place; I need to go to the store. If I see him working in there, we’ll know he’s all right. If he’s just sitting — ” She turned to face Tom. “Well, if he’s just sitting — what next?”

  “If he’s just sitting, I’ll have to leave here without his seeing me. Can that be done?”

  She nodded. “The stairs aren’t in sight of that restaurant. And you could walk right to the beach, and down a few blocks and I’d
pick you up down there.” She paused. “But not now. The least I can do is get you readier than you are, first.”

  Tom frowned. “The knee — you mean?”

  “The face, I mean. I know where I can get a fine mustache and I have a pair of spectacles, here, horn-rimmed jobs that — ”

  “No,” Tom interrupted. “The glasses make sense, but no mustache. I’d feel so damned self-conscious, I’d automatically make people suspicious.”

  She studied him a few moments. “All right. I’m through arguing. I’ll get dressed and take my stroll. You keep an eye on me through the window. Once the man sees me leave, he may try to come up here.” She went out.

  When she came through, again, dressed, all the warmth was gone from her face. She put a spectacle case on the table in front of Tom and went out the door without a word.

  Tom opened the case and looked at the horn-rimmed glasses within. He tried them on, and there was no distortion of vision. Theatrical glasses with flat lenses.

  He saw her come around the corner of the building below and head directly across the street. But she didn’t walk past the restaurant.

  She went in.

  A quick apprehension moved through him. But almost as quickly, he realized it was the best way to check on the man. If she had stayed on this side of the street, it was possible she couldn’t see into the restaurant. If she crossed here, it would seem illogical, inasmuch as the corner was only a few buildings down the street. She could go in and order a cup of coffee without being suspect.

  He sat and waited and the apprehension came back. He didn’t take his eyes from the restaurant door as the seconds dragged by. It would not be her natural instinct to walk boldly into trouble; this thing she was doing for him ran counter to the trend of her living, of drifting with the tide.

  He told himself she would need to spend some time in the place. The more leisurely she was, dawdling over coffee and a cigarette, the less suspicious she would be. Unless the man was watching this place. In which case, her entry would strengthen his belief.

  The door opened, and she came out and Tom breathed easier. She didn’t head for the market, however. She came straight across the street again and disappeared around the corner of the building.

  He heard her feet on the wooden stairs outside and was facing the door when she opened it.

  Her eyes met his without apparent interest. “He’s just sitting in there, at a table, facing the window.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “I know the proprietor, there. I told him I was out of coffee and had to drink his bilge, this morning. Very light, very casual. I was scared, but I don’t think my voice showed it.”

  “If the man is watching for me,” Tom said, “he’d be in a place where he could watch that door.”

  “Where the sun is, now, he can see the door and the steps. They’re reflected in that bay window across the court.”

  “Did he look like a cop?”

  “Not the kind I’ve met.”

  “I’ll go,” Tom said, after a few seconds. “If there’s any other way out, I’ll take it. He’s no cop. He’d have been here with a warrant, if he was a cop. He must be somebody who thinks I know something.” Tom paused. “And maybe he thinks you know something, too, now, Connie.”

  Her voice was dead. “Maybe. There is a back way out, over the roof of the garage. You could walk down to the beach from there, and I’d wait the block this side of Windward. It’s a ‘48 Ford Tudor, deep blue.”

  Tom shook his head. “You’ve done too much already. I’ll get away all right.”

  “No. I want you as safe as possible. You owe that to me. I don’t want you caught, for my own protection.”

  His voice was gentle. “You’re doing this for me, because you want to help a man in trouble. Why don’t you admit that, at least to yourself?”

  “Maybe I do — to myself. Try the glasses. I want to see how you look.”

  Tom put them on, and she studied him a few seconds. Then she nodded. “Gives you a scholarly look, entirely different. Come on; I’ll show you the way out.”

  “First I should know where I’m going.” Tom said. He rose and got the phone book.

  The office of Leonard Delavan was on Selma in Hollywood. Tom closed the book, again, and said, “I’ll take the red bus from here.”

  From here to Beverly Hills and the streetcar from Beverly Hills to Hollywood. This part of it he didn’t voice.

  “I’ll take you further away than the bus stop,” she told him. “I don’t want to know where you’re going.” She looked past him. “If they put the pressure on me, I won’t have the guts to shut up about this. So, for your own protection, I don’t want to know where you’re going.”

  “I’m going to Beverly Hills, first.” He put the spectacle case into his pocket. “To look over my property. If the police should ask.”

  “Police?” Her smile was bleak. “That’s the least of our troubles, isn’t it?”

  He stared. “But you said ‘they.’ You said ‘they’ might put the pressure on you. Didn’t you mean the police?”

  “If that man in the restaurant is a policeman, I meant the police.”

  He came over to stand in front of her and grip her shoulders once more. “Connie, if you know something, tell me. That’s the best way, all around.”

  She looked at him, and away. “If I knew anything, you’d have had it yesterday. Not today, but yesterday. I know you were mixed up with gamblers and with Joe Hubbard. What other kind of yeggs you two knew, I don’t know. But there must have been some killers in the bunch.”

  “Gamblers, the kind I worked with and for, aren’t killers, Connie. Con men and honest gamblers never kill. That’s SOP.”

  “All right. ALL RIGHT!” She twisted from his grasp. “I don’t want to play detective. I’ll show you the window that leads to the top of the garage next door. It’s not much of a drop from the garage.”

  He didn’t argue further. He followed her to her bedroom and she showed him how he would have to stretch to cover the few feet from the window to the flat roof of the garage. From the western end of the roof, he could drop into a vacant lot.

  “You can follow the beach from there to Windward,” she said. “I’ll pick you up there, or a block this side of it, wherever I can park.”

  “Okay.” He looked at her, trying to find some words, but none came.

  She stayed behind until he was dressed and out on the flat roof. Then she closed the window and locked it.

  He came to the far end of the roof and looked down. There would be a drop of only a few feet, if he hung from this edge. He looked around, but nobody was watching him. The alley ran along the front of the garage; below him was a sandy, weed-filled lot.

  The knee was still sore, but if he hung full length, there would be very little drop. He kept the right leg slightly bent, took the shock of the fall along the left side of his body. He kept the garage between him and the restaurant as he walked down toward the beach.

  Where Seventeenth dead-ended, he turned back toward Speedway. The ‘48 Ford was waiting no more than twenty feet from the corner. She opened the door on the curb side as she saw him approach. The motor was running.

  Tom climbed in and closed the door, and the Ford was moving with the click of the latch. Connie said, “As far as I know, the creep’s still sitting in the restaurant. But I’ll make a few turns, just to be on the safe side.”

  On Windward, she turned right, but continued past Main, which was the through artery to Santa Monica. A block down, she cut off this new street and started zigzagging back toward Main.

  Tom, who’d been watching the rear, said, “Not a Chevrolet in sight. I hope he doesn’t bother you, Connie.”

  “You don’t hope it as much as I do.” They were back on Main, now, heading for Santa Monica. “Outside of the police, nobody bothers me too much.”

  “We could be wrong about him,” Tom said. “It doesn’t figure that anyone would
know there was a possibility of my going to your place. Only four people knew about that time Joe brought me there. Unless that girl who went to Milwaukee — ”

  Connie shook her head. “No. Not her. Maybe you were followed from Jean’s place.”

  “Maybe. But I’d bet a hundred to one against it.”

  “Well, then, maybe we were seeing ghosts. But don’t worry about me, Tom. I’ll get by. Would you light me a cigarette?”

  He lighted her a cigarette and handed it to her. She offered no further conversation all the way to Beverly Hills.

  There, near the post office, Tom said, “This will be fine. I’ll keep in touch with you, Connie, after I’m clear, again.”

  Her smile was bleak. “Mmmm-hmmm. Luck, lamb. God knows you’ll need it.”

  “Do you think I’m being foolish, Connie?”

  “I’ve stopped thinking. Hurry; we don’t want to get pinched for double parking.”

  He opened the door. “Thank you for everything. I’ll never forget it.”

  He was outside, the door handle still in his grasp, when she put the car in motion again. He slammed the door hurriedly and stepped back as the rear tires squealed under the rush of power. The Ford shot up the street and Connie didn’t look back.

  Women …

  He was now in Beverly Hills, the most vigorously policed area in America, and his former home. Someone could recognize him; he hurried to the car line.

  It was a clanking, tedious ride to Hollywood. Tom sat near the rear, where he could watch anyone who entered. The car held about a dozen passengers, none of whom showed any interest in him.

  The office building on Selma was a five story, stucco monstrosity in pseudo-Spanish architecture, a maze of halls and stairs and turns. The office of Leonard Delavan — Investigations was on the second floor, across from a reading fee literary agency.

  Tom was in luck; Delavan had the door to the waiting room open and Tom could see through into the inner office where Delavan sat at his desk.

  But he couldn’t see if anyone else was in the office; he waited in the open doorway to the hall.

  In a few moments, Delavan looked up. He rose immediately, gesturing Tom in.