Man on the run Read online

  I was sick and still had that sensation of having been cut in two. I realized dimly that I was lying on the floor in the back of the car and that they were in the front seat.

  “Watch him,” the man said. “If he comes to, sing out.”

  It was strange there,wasn’t more pain. Being shot in the belly was like having your wind knocked out at football. Well, it would start in a minute. Except that they’d finish the job as soon as they found a place to stop. I thought of that knife, and could feel the nausea welling up in me.

  “How in the name of God did you miss him?” she asked.

  “Miss him, hell! It knocked him down.”

  She gasped. “You hit the briefcase! I told you he was carrying a briefcase under his arm.”

  “Oh, Christ!” We swung another corner. “Well, here! Take this.” I heard the metallic tunnnk a switch-blade knife makes as it opens. “You can reach him. Right in the bottom of the throat and then down—”

  “In the car?”

  “Of course in the car, you fool. We can’t stop here.”

  “You’ll have to do it. This is beginning to make me sick.”

  “Well, of all the chicken-livered—!”

  “I can’t help it!” she cried out. “It’s taking too long.”

  “All right, all right. Just watch him till I can find a street.”

  My head was clearing a little and some sensation returning to my body. I was lying on something hard that was gouging into my hip. Moving my hand very slowly, I reached down and touched it. It felt familiar, a smooth of wood tapering to a point and rounded and heavier on the other end. I worked my fingers around the small end of it. She was probably looking over the back of front seat at me, but it was very dark down here and all could see was my face.

  It was now or never. I pushed myself erect and slid onto seat. She cried out a warning and tried to reach me with the knife. I ignored her and swung the fid as hard I could at his head. It wasn’t heavy enough to do any damage, but he grunted and slammed on the brakes. I hit her across the arm with it. The knife dropped. She kneeling on the front seat, still reaching for me, while he tried to get out the door. He took his foot off the brake, and the car started forward again, but stalled. I swept an arm, caught her across the chest, and dropped backward across him and the steering wheel. The horn began blowing. For the first time, I was conscious there were lights around us. On the front seat, beyond her threshing silken legs, was the big alligator purse. I grabbed it, pushed her back on top of him again, and jumped out. Brakes screamed, and a man’s voice cursed me. He’d come behind, and tried to swing around us. One of his fenders bumped me and threw me off stride, but I didn’t fall. I danced sidewise, swinging the purse to keep my balance.

  I was in the middle of a neighborhood business district. Opposite me, colored lights blazed on and off on the marquee of a movie theater, and on the other side of the street was a big drugstore. Cars slid to a stop and horns began to blow. I ran for the curb.

  “Purse snatcher!” somebody yelled. A man leaped from a stalled car and tried to head me off. I dodged him. Two more along the sidewalk took up the chase. A woman was screaming, “Call the police! Call the police.” At the corner ahead was a filling station, and two men in white coveralls were running out in the street to stop me. I was cut off in that direction. I whirled in the middle of the street and went the other way, dodging through the cars. I made it onto the sidewalk beyond the drugstore. A man reached for me. I swung an arm and knocked him down. Just as I reached the corner I heard a siren somewhere behind me. Half dozen men were chasing me now. I turned the corner and ran another block. I was drawing away from them. It was a residential area here, and not so well lighted. I was under trees again. I crossed another intersection and ran on. All the men on foot had given up now, but the siren was still wailing and when I looked back I saw headlights. There was an alley in the middle of the block. I ducked into it. The police car went past. Halfway down the alley a gate was open into a back yard. I slipped into it, hoping there was no dog. None challenged me. I pushed the gate closed and slid into dense shadows in a clump of oleanders. I could hear another siren screaming in the direction of the business district.

  Lights were on in the house, but the curtains were drawn over the window facing the back yard. I could see the silhouettes of the occupants as they moved across the room. I was gasping for breath and my side and abdomen hurt as if they’d been beaten with clubs. My hat was gone, as well as the briefcase, but I still had the alligator purse in a death grip under my arm. Minutes went by and I began to get my breath. I touched my side, exploring the area just under my ribs, and winced.

  I’d been holding the briefcase about there, under my arm. There’d been a New Yorker in it, and a copy of Fortune. The slug must have hit them at just a slight angle and they’d turned it before it could go all the way through, but I’d still taken the full impact of it. There was no wonder it had spun me around and knocked me down.

  The lights went out in the rear of the house and I heard music come on somewhere inside. The sounds of pursuit had died away now, but I had to ditch the purse before I dared go back out on the street again. It was too big to hide. I opened it and knelt in the shadow of the oleanders and flicked on the cigarette lighter, shielding the flame with my body. When I flipped open the wallet, the first thing I saw was a driver’s license. I slipped it out and dropped the wallet back in the purse. Frances Celaya, it said. 2712 Randall Street, Apartment 203. And in the bottom of the purse, amid the clutter of bobby pins, lipstick, mirror, and comb, was a key. I’d had to get shot to do it, but I’d got just what I was after. I dropped the key and driver’s license in the pocket of my topcoat, and shoved the purse far back into the oleanders. It would be safer to wait another half hour or so, but I was in a hurry now. Slipping out the gate, I went on down the alley. When I came out onto the next street, it was quiet. I turned left, going away from the business district. After five or six blocks I began to breathe more freely. Apparently the police regarded it as a routine purse-snatching; if they’d recognized me from the description, the area would be saturated with patrol cars. But now that I’d lost my hat, trying to move anywhere in the open was dangerous. I’d have to find a phone booth. I went on through the quiet residential streets. After another ten or fifteen minutes I saw a traffic light some four or five blocks down an intersecting street and headed that way.

  The name of the street was Octavia, and I was in the 700 block. Just around the corner was a small neighbored shopping center; I could see a supermarket that was still open, a bakery, and a drugstore. There were no police cars in sight. I ducked into the drugstore, feeling naked in the light, but no one paid any attention to me. There were telephone booths. I slipped into one and dialed the apartment. Suzy answered on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” she asked quickly. “Are you all right?”

  “So far,” I said. “But I had a little trouble. And I’ve lost the hat. Can you pick me up?”

  “I’m on my way. Where are you?”

  I told her. “Just park in the supermarket lot. I’ll come out and get in.”

  “I think I know where Octavia is. It’ll be about twenty minutes. Try to stay out of sight.”

  “Sure,” I said. She hung up. I dropped in another dime and dialed the number of that phone booth in the Sidelines Bar. A man answered.

  “Is Red there?” I asked.

  “Just a moment.”

  I waited. In a minute somebody picked up the receiver and I heard the door close. “Red?” I asked softly.

  “Yeah. How are you, boy?”

  “Still afloat, anyway,” I said. “But, listen. You may be in trouble now. Watch your step and don’t go down any dark alleys.”

  “What is it?”

  “That girl you told me about—Miss Stacked, Dark, and Deadly. I located her and tried to follow her home to find out who she was and where she lived, and she lowered the boom on me, but good. She also has a very rugged boy fri
end. She may figure out that it could have been you that put me on her trail. If she does, lock your door and hide under the bed.”

  “Thanks for the tip. But what are you going to do?”

  “Go see her. I’ve got her name and address now.”

  “But, look. How about hiring a lawyer and giving yourself up? I’ll call Wittner for you. He’s the best in the state.”

  “No,” I said. “There’s not a shred of proof she had anything to do with Stedman. I don’t know who the boy friend is, and believe me, they’d never get it out of her.”

  “But if she recognized you, she must have seen you in Stedman’s apartment.”

  “Sure. That’s the only place she could have seen me before. But we can’t prove it. So far, we can’t prove anything. I’ve got the key to her apartment, though, and I want to see what I can find.”

  “Well, be careful, will you?”

  I hung up and looked at my watch. It was five of nine, and it would be at least another fifteen minutes before she could get here. A phone booth was a good place to stay out of sight. I fished out another dime of the twenty she’d provided me with this morning.

  I looked up the number of the Seamen’s Union, dialed it, and got hold of the dispatcher. “I’m trying to locate a seaman named Bullard,” I said. “Would you take a gander and see if he’s on your beach list?”

  “What’s the first name?” he asked.

  “There you’ve got me,” I replied. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure he’s a member, or that he goes to sea any more. But he’s a great big guy, built like an anchor windlass. And if he does ship out it’s probably on deck.”

  “Hmmm, let’s see—No, there’s nobody named Bullard on the beach right now. But we got several members by that name—I know two myself. Johnny Bullard and Step-and-a-half Bullard. I think Step’s first name is Raymond. Bad knee. Strafed on the Murmansk run in World War I— “

  “How about Johnny?” I asked.

  “Young guy. About twenty-five. Ships as Ordinary. He’s at sea now. We shipped him out on a Victory last week, for Rio and B.A.”

  “No-o,” I said. “The one I’m looking for was in some kind of trouble here a few years back, during a strike.”

  “Oh, you mean that fink bastard! Well, look, friend—he’s not a member of this union, and never was. But I’ll you what. If he ever shows up around here, you can come get him. Just bring a blotter.”

  “You got any idea where he is?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Let’s just say I’d like to get in touch with him. I might have the blotter ready now. What do you know about him?”

  ‘His name’s Ryan Bullard. And except for being a rat, a fink, a scab, a thug, and a goon, he’s one of the sweetest guys you’ll ever meet. And, oh yes, he’s also an ex-con, I understand. And he beat a seaman to death with a baseball bat.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “About five years ago. During the Inland Boatmen’s strike. Bullard was scabbing, and he killed a picket. He was arrested and charged with murder, but before the trial both the witnesses disappeared. Later on, they found one of ‘em in the bay.”

  “Murdered?”

  ”Yeah, unless he always went swimming with a Ford transmission tied to his leg. Anyway, Bullard got a hung jury the first time and beat it on the second trial. But he hasn’t been around here for years. Right after the trial he shipped out on some pot under the Panamanian flag. I think I did hear a couple of years ago that he was doing time in a Cuban pen for working over one of Batista’s strong boys. And somebody else says he’s been shrimping out of Pensacola or Tampa. I don’t know; you always hear stories.”

  ”Okay, thanks a million,” I said.

  We were as far out in left field as ever, I thought. Where could there be any connection between Frances Celaya and Ryan Bullard and Stedman? Bullard had been gone from here for years. Frances Celaya worked for a machine tool company. And Stedman was just a detective who thought he was God’s gift to women. I shook my head and went back outside. My stomach and ribs felt as if I’d been run over by a tank.

  It wouldn’t do to stand around. I walked back up through the residential streets for about ten minutes, and when I came back the blue Olds was just pulling into the parking lot. I went over and got in. She was wearing the gray fur coat, with the collar turned up about her throat. I kissed her, and she clung to me for an instant.

  “I’ve been scared,” she said. “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” I said. “Do you know how to get to the 2700 block on Randall Street?”

  “Randall? Yes. That’d be near the downtown area. Why?”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “That’s where our girl friend lives. I’m going to call on her.”

  Nine

  She swung over on Octavia and into an arterial heading downtown. I told her about it.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, horrified. “I never heard of anything as cold-blooded and brutal. You can’t go there.”

  “I’ve got to,” I said. “Maybe I can find out something about her. There must be some lead to Stedman.”

  “But suppose they’re there?”

  “I’ll just have to take a chance on it. Anyway, he hasn’t got the gun now.”

  She stopped for a traffic light. “Why do you suppose she didn’t just call the police when she recognized you?”

  “Too risky,” I said. “She figured I must know something, or I wouldn’t be following her. If they picked me up, I might sell them on it too. Incidentally, I suppose that john there at Waldman’s has phone booths?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “She’s a smart baby,” I said. “She suspected that would never occur to a dumb sailor, and she was right. If I’d seen her make the phone call, I might have begun to suspect something when we wound up out there in the sticks.”

  “The horrible part of it is you know now she was in Stedman’s apartment when the two of you were fighting.”

  “That’s right. Know it and can’t possibly prove it.”

  Traffic was lighter now, and it took only about twenty minutes. She turned off the arterial before we got downtown, swung over eight or ten blocks, and hit Randall in the 3100 block. We turned left. It was apparently a low-rent apartment house district. She slowed as we went by. 2712 was a three-story building of dingy red brick.

  “Turn right at the corner,” I said. “I want you to park at least a block away. And if I get in trouble and police start swarming in here, get out fast.”

  “Please be careful,” she said. We found a place to park a little over a block from Randall, and I squeezed her hand, got out, and walked back. There were a few pedestrians out, but no police cars in sight. Most of the windows across the front of 2712 showed lights. I crossed the street and stepped into the vestibule.

  To the right of the doorway was a row of buttons opposite the little nameplate holders. Some of them were blank, including 203. I pressed the button and waited. There was no answer. I tried twice more, just to be sure. Fine. She wasn’t home. I took out the key, but when I tried to insert it in the door it wouldn’t go in. That was odd; usually any apartment key in the building would unlock the downstairs door so you didn’t have to carry two. Well, it didn’t matter. I reached over and pressed three or four of the buttons. The door buzzed. I shoved it open and went in. There was a central hall, going straight back, and stairs on the right and left.

  The second floor was the same arrangement. Number 203 was the second apartment on the left. There was no one in sight, but I could hear music and snatches of television programs from beyond the doors. I hoped the apartments had rear entrances. It was going to be deadly if she came back with that big gorilla and caught me. Maybe he even lived here with her. Well, I’d find out as soon as I got inside.

  I was putting the key to the lock when I heard the front door open down below and then heavy footsteps on the stairs. The key didn’t go in. I must have it upside down. I reversed it. It
still wouldn’t insert. I looked at the number on the door. This was the right one—203. The footsteps were nearing the top of the stairs now, and I began to feel panicky. But maybe he’d go on to the third floor. I turned slightly, and stood with my back toward the stairs as if waiting for someone inside to answer my knock.

  The footsteps came up behind me, and a man’s voice asked, “You looking for somebody?”

  I had to turn around. He was a tall, bony-faced man wearing a bus driver’s cap and whipcord jacket. “I guess there’s nobody home,” I said.

  He regarded me stonily. “I’m here. Whatta you want?”

  Before I could think of anything to say, he caught sight of the key that was still in my hand. He grabbed the front of my topcoat. “Why, you dirty sneak-thief!”

  I jerked down on his wrists and broke the hold on my coat, and tried to get past him. He reached for me again. I hit him in the face. He rocked back on his heels, but didn’t fall. “Thief!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Burglar!” He lunged at me, flailing his arms. He seemed to have six or seven. I hit him in the stomach. He doubled over, but managed to fall into me and get his arms around my legs. We both fell. Doors were opening along the corridor now, and people were spilling into it. I tried to get up, but he was all over me like four cocker spaniels.

  “Call the police!” he was yelling now. I rolled out from under him once more, peeled his arms loose, and got to my feet. He scrambled up. I swung, connected with his jaw, and this time I dropped him. I wheeled and ran toward the stairs. A man shot out of 201 and tried to tackle me. I stiff-armed him and slipped past, but somebody got me from behind. We crashed to the floor. I rolled up and over him, and swung at his face. He grunted. I pushed to my feet once more in pandemonium that was like a fire in a madhouse and lunged toward the stairs.

  The one who’d missed the tackle was after me now. I stopped abruptly on the landing, swinging inward toward the wall, and when he came even with me I hit him. He shot against the railing, stumbled, and rolled on down the stairs. I jumped over him and streaked for the door. Now the occupants of the lower floor were erupting into the corridor, and a fat man in a bathrobe was running to head me off.