Man On The Run (11 page)

“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 the 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.

I stepped on into the bedroom, and looked at the mess again. Who had done it? Was somebody else on her trail? I wondered where she was; she wouldn’t have left town without packing at least some of her gear. I began pawing through the dresser drawers. She must have old letters around somewhere, Christmas cards, photos, address book, diary, or something to give me an idea of the people she knew.

The dresser held not a scrap of paper of any kind. I even felt under the bottoms of the drawers the way they did in movies. Letters, letters—now where the hell would she keep old letters? I straightened and started to turn, looking futilely around the room. My gaze stopped suddenly and backed up and I gasped, feeling my scalp tingle.

The door of the bathroom was partly open, and from this side of the room I could see in past the edge of it. The light was poor, but there was no doubt that what I saw was the sloping end of. an old-fashioned bathtub, and hanging inertly from the edge of it a slender and very shapely leg. I reached the door in two strides, pushed it open, and snapped on the light. When I looked down into the tub I had to fight to keep from being sick.

She was lying on her back with her eyes open, staring up at me through about six inches of water with the long black hair floating around her face. Her head was almost under the spigots, one of which was dripping intermittently and shattering the surface to cause little patterns of distortion to play across her features. She was naked. The long legs slanted up the sloping end of the tub and hung over the edge, causing the leverage that was keeping the rest of her submerged. There were ugly bruises around her throat. I swallowed again and forced myself to reach out and touch her. The leg swung. She probably hadn’t been dead half an hour when I got here.

I groped for the light switch, got it turned off, and came out. This was the end of the trail. If she
had
killed Stedman, there was no way now it could ever be proved. I stood looking dumbly around at the mess he’d left. Searching it now would be utterly pointless; he’d already done that, just to be sure there was nothing left at all. I had to get out of here, fast, and keep going. I went over and switched off the light beside the bed. Just as I was groping my way through the door into the living room I heard voices outside in the hall.

Knuckles rapped on the door. “Miss Celaya!” a voice called out.

I stiffened up, afraid even to breathe.

The fist rapped again. “Open up in there,” the voice ordered. “Police.”

I moved somehow. Stepping softly across the rug, I parted the curtains at the window in the rear of the living room. There was no fire escape, no back way out at all. If I jumped, I’d break both legs. A key was being inserted in the lock. I went straight ahead into the kitchen just as the front door opened.

A switch clicked. Light streamed through the doorway beside me. I flattened against the wall on shaking legs.

“You’re sure she came in?” a voice asked.

“Yes, sir. About an hour ago. She’d lost her key and I had to give her another one.”

“Well, let’s take a look around.” This was still another voice.

There were three of them, apparently two policemen and the apartment house manager who’d let them in. They were moving now. It was the bedroom they’d be interested in, but one of them would check the kitchen. I could hear his footsteps approaching the door. I tried to open my mouth to call out to him not to shoot. It was too late now to show myself and surrender, and when I loomed on him suddenly, standing beside the door— No sound would come out. I couldn’t even speak. The footsteps were almost beside me now.

Then the other one called suddenly from the bedroom. “Hey! Look at this!”

The footsteps turned and retreated. I reached up and wiped the sweat off my face because it was stinging my eyes and peered around the door frame. An old man without a hat was standing just inside the bedroom, the other policeman was out of sight—probably over by the chest or dresser—and this one was just reaching the door. None of them were looking this way. I eased off the wall, tiptoed out, and started slipping toward the front door. The second cop had reached the bedroom door now and was looking in. I went on, walking on eggs.

I had less than ten feet to go. I fought the impulse to break into a run and stole a glance over my shoulder.

“Oh, good God!” The voice came from the back of the bedroom. The first cop had found her now. “Hey, Hoyt! Go call in. She’s been murdered!”

Hoyt said, “Okay,” and started to turn. I lunged toward the front door. I heard his breath suck in, and then the startled yell. “Foley!” I hurtled through the doorway, bent over, with my feet churning. “Stop! I’ll shoot!”

The gun crashed behind me, and at the front end of the hall a window pane exploded with a shower of glass. He shot again, and something tugged at the side of my topcoat, just under my left arm. It pulled me off stride. The stairs were only a few steps ahead of me and to the left. I dived, slid over onto them, rolled once, caught myself with a hand on the railing, and scrambled to my feet. I ran down three or more steps and jumped. I could hear their feet pounding down the hall above me. The glass front door was about twenty feet to my right. I made it and was pulling it open when the first one came into sight on the stairs. He shot. He hit the wood frame of the door right beside my face. Splinters flew out of it, and something stung my cheek. I was outside now. Their car was parked right in front of the door. I wheeled to the left and sped along the sidewalk. They came out behind me and one of them shot again. All the muscles in my back were drawn up in knots as I expected a slug to come tearing into me.

I reached the corner and cut left around it. There was no use trying to reach Suzy. They were too close behind me, and they’d get her too. Somewhere behind me the siren cut loose. One was still after me on foot while the other went around the block in the car to head me off. He’d use the car radio to call in, and the whole area would be surrounded in a few minutes. I heard the pounding footsteps come around the corner behind me. They stopped. He was going to shoot again. There were some trees along the sidewalk here, and I cut right and ran out into the street to put their trunks in the line of fire. He didn’t shoot.

Directly opposite me was the mouth of an alley. I sped into it. I couldn’t hear him any longer, but when I looked back he was still coming, about half a block away. Then I heard the siren up ahead? They had me bottled up. But the car went down the street past the mouth of the alley just before I came out. I crossed the street behind it and into a continuation of the alley in the next block. Just before I came out of it, I looked back again. He was no longer in sight. I emerged on the sidewalk. The street was deserted. But I could hear sirens. They were converging now from every direction.

My legs were weak and shaky now, and my side hurt badly. I fought to get my breath. It was useless; why not give myself up? They had me. They’d throw a ring of cars and men around an area eight or ten blocks square and search it inch-by-inch. They wanted me so badly now they could taste it. I’d been eluding them for a week, and now I’d killed a girl. Nothing could ever save me from that one. I’d gone to Randall Street looking for her. And when they finally found me I was in her apartment and she’d just been murdered.

I quit trying to think and started running again, operating on pure instinct. I turned left. In the next block there was another alley. I ducked into it. Rubber screamed behind me as a car made a turn into the street I’d just left. Up ahead there were more sirens. It was shadowy in the alley, with lights only at the ends, but there was no place to hide. I stopped and collapsed beside some garbage cans, sobbing for breath.

I was behind a two-story commercial building of some kind. Directly above me was a fire escape ladder that terminated about eight or nine feet from the ground. I stood up and leaped for it, and caught the bottom rung. I held on for a second, heaved up, and caught the next one. In a minute I was far enough up to get my feet on the lower rungs. I went on up, slid over the wall, and dropped onto the roof. I looked back. No one had come into the alley yet. I could stay out of sight up here until they gave up, until tomorrow night if necessary, and then get out. Then I looked around, and my heart sank.

Adjoining the building on the left was an apartment house some two stories higher, and there were windows on this side. When daybreak came, somebody would see me down here. I looked the other way. The building on the right was also two stories higher than this one, and going up the side of it near the front was a steel ladder. I pushed myself up and went over to it, took one more deep breath, and started to climb. When I was halfway up I looked down and saw that anyone in the street could see me if he happened to look up. A police car was stopped at the corner and two men in uniform were getting out. I tried to run up the ladder. My knees were shaky, and my arms felt like lead. I almost missed a rung with one hand, and held on, sobbing for breath. Then I was at the top. I tumbled over the wall and fell onto the gravel of the roof. I lay there, too spent even to move, and listened to the baffled snarls of sirens in the street four stories down.

Then a voice said, right above me, “Hey, move your head, will you? You’re on my ephemeris.”

Maybe I was beginning to crack up. It was very dark, because of the four-foot wall around the edge of the roof that shut out the light from the streets. Then a flashlight came on, squarely in front of my face. It had red paper tied across the lens and made nothing but a faint glow. A hand came down and pushed my head a little to one side and slid something from under it. It seemed to be a pamphlet of some kind.

I drew in another shaky breath. “I’ve got a gun,” I said harshly. “You make one sound, and I’ll shoot!”

“Good,” the voice muttered absently. “That’s fine. Hmmm—here we are. Declination thirty-two forty-seven.” The light went out.

I rolled over and managed to push myself to a sitting position with my back against the wall. Then I could make out the three shadowy legs of a tripod. Above it was something like a section of stovepipe, slanted at an angle toward the sky, and sitting on a little bench to one side of it was the dark figure of a man. He was bundled up in a lot of clothes against the cold and was hunched over the lower end of the stovepipe with his eye against the side of it. I knew what it was then. It was a telescope, and he was an amateur astronomer.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

He made no reply. He made a slight adjustment to the mounting of the telescope and went on looking. “Fine,” he muttered.

He wasn’t going to call the police; it was doubtful he even knew I was here. He was out there among the light years. I took out a cigarette and lighted it.

“If you’ve got to flash lights, go somewhere else,” he said irritably.

”Sure,” I said. I had my wind back now. I pushed to my feet and walked over to the rear of the roof to look down in the alley. A police car was crawling slowly through it. I sat down with my back against the wall, trying to think. I’d got soaked with sweat while I was running, and now I was beginning to be cold. I shivered.

How much longer could this nightmare go on? And what was the point of it now? There had been some hope at first, as long as there was a chance I might find out who had killed Stedman, but now everything was blown up. Frances Celaya had killed him, without a doubt, but I not only didn’t know why or have the slightest bit of proof, but I was also wanted for killing her.

There was one other person involved in it, but I didn’t have any lead to him at all except that he was as big as a horse and I thought he was a seaman. He’d taken care of that, all right. The only way to find out who he was had been through her, so he’d killed her and then made sure there was nothing in her apartment that could point to him in any way. He knew I had the purse with her identification in it and that I might eventually catch up with her. Or that sooner or later the police were going to catch up with me, and I just might sell them on the idea of at least investigating her. And there was always the possibility I might call the police. Then I stopped short.

That big drunk! The one who’d pushed open the door of the telephone booth! It was a thousand-to-one shot, but it would fit. Suppose he’d been following me, looking for a chance to kill me? But, wait. Where could he have picked up my trail? I’d lost him, along with the police, after I’d grabbed the purse. Then I saw it; it was absurdly simple. At her old Randall Street apartment house, of course.

He’d known there was a good chance I’d go for the address on the driver’s license, and he’d driven over there and waited. I’d come out running, so he didn’t have a chance to get me, but he’d followed us after I got in the car with Suzy. There’d been a car behind me in the street but I hadn’t paid any attention to it because I could see it wasn’t the police. He couldn’t get me there at the phone booths because the place was right out in the open, well lighted, and populated with shoppers from the supermarket. All he had was a knife, and it might take several minutes to do the job. But he’d pretended to be drunk and opened the door to get a good look at me. And then he’d gone into the other booth to eavesdrop.

By God, that was it! I tried to remember the exact sequence of the conversation with Brannan. I’d told him about the big killer and my hunch he might be a seaman, but that was before the drunk had shown up. And after he had gone into the other booth I hadn’t mentioned him at all. I’d simply said to Brannan, “How about spending a few minutes of your time trying to find the fugitive that
did
kill Stedman?” I’d even spelled her name and told him where she worked. It would have been obvious to anybody listening that I was talking to the police. I broke off and shuddered. I might as well have strangled her myself.

That was all right; I’d feel sorry about it some day when I had more time. She’d got me into this whole mess by killing Stedman and hanging it on me, and then she’d tried to butcher me too. From where I sat, she had it coming to her, and the only thing wrong with it was the fact that now I was hopelessly saddled with Stedman’s murder. And hers. I wished she could have lived long enough to do a little talking.

I sat up suddenly. I had to warn Suzy! That gorilla knew where she lived, and he might try to get her too. If he’d followed us from Randall Street to those phone booths, he must have tailed us all the way to the apartment. She was with me, so he would figure she was after him too. God, maybe it was already too late. And just how was I going to warn her? They had me treed like a raccoon on top of this building.

But maybe there was a pay phone in the building. Sometimes in cheap apartment houses where a lot of the tenants didn’t have phones of their own there were pay phones in the corridor on each floor. I sprang up and strode over to the big man with his telescope. He still had his eye glued to it.

My eyes were well accustomed to the darkness now, and I could see him somewhat better. He appeared to be about forty, rather moon-faced, heavy-set, and wide across the shoulders, but soft-looking. He wore a cap, a scarf around his neck, and one of those he-mannish coats that sports car fanatics went in for, a three-quarter length affair with wooden dowels for buttons.

“Is there a pay phone anywhere in the building?” I asked.

He made no reply.

I reached down, caught him by the arms, and hauled him to his feet “Pay attention, friend,” I said. “I’m talking to you.”

He stared at me in surprise and outrage. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see I’m busy? If you want to look at Saturn, go bother somebody else. I’m studying the Cepheid variables.”

I shook him. “Come back and join us for a minute. The planet I want to talk about is this one. Remember it? It has people on it. And they sometimes use things called telephones. Is there a pay phone down there in the corridors?”

“No,” he said.

“Have you got one in your apartment?”

“I have not,” he said irritably. “Now, will you please get out.”

“Not yet,” I said. “Peel off that bird-watchers’ coat and hand it here. And the cap.”

For the first time he looked slightly nervous. “Are you going to rob me?”

“No. I’m just trading coats with you. And since mine’s got a bullet hole in it I’ll give you twenty dollars to boot.”

“I never heard anything so ridiculous—”

“Get it off,” I said. “Or I’ll kick your telescope.”

He’d decided by now I was crazy, so he took it off and handed it to me, along with the cap. I handed him two tens and felt in the pockets of the gabardine for anything I’d left in them. I came out with a small, folded piece of paper. What—? Then I remembered. It was that girl’s name and telephone number I’d taken from Frances Celaya’s purse. I shrugged and dropped it in the pocket of my suit coat. He put on the gabardine, muttering to himself. “Twelve straight days of either clouds or turbulence, and then when you get one hour of good viewing—”