Man on the run

by Charles Williams

  I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I stuck my hand down in the pocket of the topcoat and snapped, “All right! Back inside, all of you!” The fat man skidded to a stop almost on top of me like a character in an animated cartoon, and his eyes went wide with fright. The one who’d rolled down the steps changed his mind about getting up, and froze. I slipped sidewise toward the door and got my hand on it.

  “Anybody that comes out is going to get shot,” I said. I went out. The street was deserted and quiet, but I knew that wouldn’t last more than a few seconds. I could hear a siren somewhere already. I broke into a run, crossing the street and turning right. Two or three of the hardier ones had already come out of the vestibule to see which way I went.

  I made the turn at the corner and was on the street parallel to the one where she was parked. The siren was screaming somewhere not over five or six blocks behind me now. I put on another burst of speed and when I reached the next corner I shot a glance behind me. The cruiser still wasn’t in sight, and nobody was chasing me on foot. I turned left and ran down the street parallel to Randall, headed toward her. She might be gone now, or if they were in sight when I reached the car I’d have to run on by and ignore her, but there was still a chance. I reached the corner. The Olds was still there.

  I looked back. A car was coming slowly along the street behind me, but it had no police markings. I shot across the pavement and climbed in. She already had the engine running. We tore away from the curb. I was gasping for breath. She asked no questions. We swung left at the next corner and sped along a quiet street for two blocks. I watched the mirror. There were two or three cars behind us but no flashing lights or sirens. She turned left again, and when we crossed Randall I looked up the street. There was a police car and a crowd of people before the apartment house, and another cruiser was just screeching around the corner beyond it where I had turned. We were in the clear. I sighed. She slowed a little now and went on over and hit the arterial, turning left, away from downtown.

  I fumbled cigarettes out of my pocket and noticed I’d hurt my right hand again; the knuckles were skinned, and it was beginning to swell. I lighted two cigarettes, and passed one to her.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But you shouldn’t have waited. You’re taking too many chances.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I was caught trying to get in.” I pulled the driver’s license from my pocket and checked it. 2712 Randall Street, Apartment 203. “It was an old address,” I said wearily. “She’s moved.”

  “And there’s no new one on the back?”

  “No,” I said.

  The same thought apparently occurred to both of us at the same instant, but when we glanced at each other we shrugged and neither of us said anything. Maybe it was illegal. But then so was killing policemen.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe if I’ll let him shoot me they’ll give me the new address.”

  “Was there anything else in her purse that might have address on it? A letter, or something?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Anyway, the purse is gone. I don’t have the slightest idea where I was when I ditched it in that backyard.”

  We drove on in silence for a few minutes. Then I said, “Let’s watch for a phone booth. I want to make a telephone call.”

  “Why not make it from the apartment? We’ll be there ten minutes.”

  “No. They might be able to trace it. I’m going to call the police.”

  She glanced around at me and nodded. “That may be the best idea you’ve had yet. They might look her up.”

  “It’s worth a try, at least.”

  About two miles farther on there was a mammoth shopping center on the right. And on the sidewalk between the street and the parking area were two telephone booths side by side. She pulled to the curb near them. Some of the stores were still open, and the area was well lighted, with numbers of people about, but it should be safe enough. No one would see me very well inside the booth.

  One was already occupied. I stepped into the other, closed the door, and reached for the book. It would be much better if I could talk to one of them at home; there’d be less chance of his being able to trace the call. What was the name of that Homicide Lieutenant in the paper? Brennan? No. Brannan—that was it. I might get more results if I talked to the man in charge, anyway. I looked up in the book. There were fifteen or twenty Brannans but only one listed as a Lieutenant .I dialed the number.

  His wife answered. “No. I’m sorry. He was called back the station awhile ago.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I started to hang up, but she cut in quickly, “Wait. He may be coming now.”

  I waited. She came back. “He just drove in. If you’ll hold on—”

  I thanked her. In a moment a man’s voice said, “Brannan speaking.” He sounded tired.

  “I’ve got a tip for you,” I said. “I can tell you who killed Stedman.”

  “Yes?” There was little interest in his voice. Then I re-remembered reading that in any murder case they got hundreds of tips, mostly worthless and usually from screwballs. “Who’s this?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I went on quickly, “Just listen. It was a girl. Her name is Frances Celaya. She works for the Shiloh Machine Tool Company. You got that?”

  “Yes,” he said boredly. “Now tell me who you are. And where you picked up this idea.”

  “Never mind who I am,” I said. “But I can tell you definitely this girl was in Stedman’s apartment the night he was killed. She’s a Latin type, a real dish, about twenty-five years old, and she used to live at Apartment 203, 2712 Randall Street, but she’s moved.”

  “Hold it!” The boredom and the weariness were gone as if they’d never existed. His voice was suddenly alive, and very brisk and professional. “What was that number again?”

  “2712 Randall. Apartment 203.”

  “Check. Now, don’t hang up on me. You must be Foley?”

  “All right. I am. But don’t try to trace this call.”

  “Cut it out. There’s no way I can trace a call from here. But I want to tell you something. You’re in one hell of a mess.”

  I sighed. “Thanks for telling me. Now do you want to hear what I’ve got to say? If not, I’ll hang up.”

  “Go ahead. But when you get through I want you to listen to me for a minute. Okay?”

  “Right,” I said. I told him about trying to follow Frances Celaya home and what had happened. “So she saw me in Stedman’s apartment that night,” I finished. “That’s the only way in the world she could have recognized me. She knew I was after her, and she tried to kill me.”

  “But did you see her in the apartment?”

  “No. I didn’t see anybody. Except Stedman.” “Then what put you on her trail?”

  ”I can’t tell you that,” I said. “It involves a friend of mine.”

  “Your story doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know it doesn’t. I’m just telling you what happened. I don’t know anything about her at all, or why she’d want to kill Stedman. I can’t tell you who that big goon is, or even what he looks like, because it was too dark. But I’m pretty sure he’s a seaman or used to be one.”

  “Why?”

  “When he was telling the girl to watch me, he said if I came around, to sing out. Sing out is a seagoing expression, and one of the few that sailors ever use ashore. And that thing I hit him with was a fid.”

  “What’s a fid?”

  “It’s a heavy wooden spike, pointed at one end and rounded on the other, and it’s used in splicing line. So he might be working ashore as a rigger, or on small boats of some kind.”

  “All right,” he said brusquely. “Now I want to give you some advice, Foley. I don’t think you realize the dangerous spot you’re in, so let me spell it out for you. It’s probably the luck of the stupid Irish, but you’ve been fouling up the police force of a whole ci
ty for a week. There are several hundred men out looking for you. Some of them haven’t been home for days. Some of ‘em have been chewed out till they’re numb. I’m one of ‘em. They’re tired, and they’re mad. You’re wanted for killing a cop. And now to top it off, you’re on the list as being armed and dangerous. Is it beginning to soak in?”

  “I haven’t got a gun,” I said.

  “Maybe not. But that’s not the point. You told the people in that Randall Street apartment you had one, and the only way those men out there can play it is by the book. You’re presumed to be armed, and if you make one phony move they’re going to cut you down. Tell me where you are.”

  Somebody was rattling the door of the booth.

  “Hold it a minute,” I told Brannan. The door opened and a big round face looked in at me. It had small black eyes set in it, a flat nose, a thinning fuzz of black hair around a bald head, and it was overflowing with the solemnity of the very drunk.

  ”Par’n me, Jack,” it said. It blinked at me, swayed unsteadily, and withdrew. It was attached to a massive, thickset body in dark trousers, and a dark gray sweater with no shirt. “You can have it in just a minute,” I said. I hoped he didn’t fall on the booth and knock it over.

  “You still there?” Brannan asked.

  “Yeah. What were you going to say?”

  “Tell me where you are. When you hear the siren coming, stand in the open with your hands on top of your head.”

  The party in the other booth went out now, and I heard the big drunk stagger in and try to dial somebody, humming to himself. “Nothing doing,” I said.

  “All right. If you’re too stupid to care what happens to you, think about your friend. Somebody’s hiding you. And some of these judges can get damned nasty about harboring a fugitive.”

  “I know that,” I said. “So does he. But how about spending a few minutes of your time trying to catch the fugitive that did kill Stedman. I’ll give you this once more, so write it down. Frances Celaya. That’s C-e-l-a-y-a. Shiloh Machine Tool Company. Same name as the Civil War battle.” I dropped the receiver on the hook and went back to the car. We pulled out into the traffic.

  “Did it do any good?” she asked.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “But at least we tried.”

  She put the car in the basement garage. “You go on up,” I said, “so if anybody recognizes me we won’t be together.” I waited five minutes. When I went around to the front door and pressed the buzzer she let me in. I met no one in the corridors. I tapped lightly on the apartment door and she opened it.

  She had tossed the fur coat in the bedroom and was wearing a skirt and sweater outfit. The living room and her study were littered with books, notebooks, spread-out maps, and sheets of paper.

  “Did you have a cyclone?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve been doing some research. But let’s see how badly you’re hurt.”

  We went into the bedroom. I tossed the topcoat on the bed and stripped down to the waist. “Oh, good God, Irish,” she exclaimed. One whole side of my torso, from lower ribs to groin, had turned black. I touched it. It hurt.

  “Hadn’t we better get a doctor?” she asked.

  “No. He’d have to report me. I think it’s just a bruise, and there’s probably nothing wrong inside.”

  “Well, we’ll see, in the morning. But you come lie down in the living room, and I’ll fix you a drink. And some coffee and a sandwich.”

  She moved some of the books and maps off the sofa and I stretched out. I felt tired and beat-up and defeated. In a few minutes she brought me a Martini. When I sat up and drank it, life had a little better outlook. She put a sandwich and a cup of coffee on the low table before me and sat on the floor on the other side of it with a cigarette.

  “Let’s see where we stand now,” she said thoughtfully. “That girl will never show up for work again, and the chances are she’ll leave town. We don’t have any idea who her boy friend is. It seems almost certain she was in Stedman’s apartment during the fight, she saw you, and she killed Stedman just after you left, and then left herself by the rear entrance just before the police arrived. But even if the police did pick her up now, there isn’t one shred of evidence on which to hold her, and we don’t have the faintest idea why she should want to kill Stedman. Was it jealousy? I mean, she might have heard you accuse Stedman of running around with your wife.”

  “No,” I said. I drank some of the coffee. “I don’t think I said a word to him. I just belted him. She must have deliberately picked Stedman up there in Red’s bar because she was going to kill him when she had the chance. But why go to all that trouble? I mean, to play him along for ten days or so? She and that thug could have got him a lot easier than that.”

  She drummed her fingers on the table. “There are a couple of possibilities. Maybe she was trying to find out something from him. Or suppose it was revenge? The victim has to know, at the end, and see it coming, or there is no revenge. You follow me? She had to be in a position to tell him, and still do it, and get away with it I think Stedman was being fitted for an eventual ‘suicide,’ on the order of Purcell’s, when you blundered in. Not necessarily that night, but sometime in the near future. You just presented her with the perfect opportunity to do it then. And with you for the goat, the suicide bit wasn’t necessary.”

  “Nice crowd,” I said. “I wonder what they do for an encore? But I like the revenge angle. That takes us right back to Danny Bullard and ties it in with Purcell. And that guy with her tonight could very well be Danny Bullard’s brother.”

  She nodded. “Except for a couple of things. There’s nothing to indicate she even knew Danny Bullard. Not so far, anyway. And somehow I just can’t see her or this cold-blooded thug declaring war on two policemen merely because they killed him.” She paused, and frowned. “Even if you conceded that she might, in case she was very much in love with him, the brother is definitely out. He hadn’t even seen Danny for years, so far as anybody knows. Criminals may hate all police impartially, but I don’t think they take a personal view of a thing like that; at least, not to the point of endangering themselves for revenge.”

  “I agree with you,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense, actually. But let’s drop it for the moment and talk about something else. I’ve got to get out of here, before I get you in serious trouble. Brannan warned me it could get awful rough on whoever was hiding me.”

  “Oh, Brannan’s foot,” she said. “You’ll stay here till we solve this thing.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll ever solve it now,” I said wearily. “I’ll never find her again.” I lighted a cigarette and stood up to walk back and forth across the room. I had to step over books and maps. “What’s all this research, anyway?”

  “The battle of Shiloh,” she said, tapping a pencil absently against her teeth. Then she jerked erect. “Oh, of all the stupid idiots—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I just remembered where I ran across the name of that machine tool company. It was the other day in the library, when I was going through the back copies of the Express, looking up Purcell’s suicide.”

  I whirled. “Did it have anything to do with Purcell?”

  “No-o. That wasn’t it,” She bit her lip, concentrating.

  I crushed out the cigarette. “Let’s go over to the library and see if we can find it again.”

  She started to get up; then she glanced at her watch, and shook her head. “The library’s been closed for nearly an hour.”

  “Well, we’ll go in the morning, then.”

  “Oh, I could look it up tonight,” she replied, still frowning. “I can always get into the morgue over at the Express building. But what the devil was it? It was only a small item on a back page, and I think it was a followup on some older story.”

  Then she snapped her fingers and got to her feet. I’ve got it! It was something about a robbery.” She ran into the bedroom to get her coat.

  “But why in God’s name wou
ld anybody hold up a tool company?” I asked, helping her on with the coat.

  “To steal a lathe?”

  “No, no, of course not.” She gestured impatiently. “The payroll was held up. You stay right here. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

  Ten

  I paced the floor, smoking one cigarette after another. Just after eleven-thirty I heard her key in the door. She came in and closed it quickly, and I could see intense interest and excitement in her eyes. I took her coat.

  “Don’t bother to hang it up,” she said. “Toss it here on a chair. I think we’re onto something.”

  She shoved one of the hassocks up to the coffee table and sat down. Opening her purse, she took out two sheets of paper covered with notes. I knelt on the floor across from her and watched eagerly.

  “It was held up?” I asked.

  She nodded. “But that’s not it alone. There are really two stories, apparently not related at all. But if you struck them together in just the right way you might get a hell of an explosion. Listen—”

  She consulted the notes. “On December twentieth of last year—that would be a little over two months ago—the payroll of the Shiloh Machine Tool Company was hijacked just as it was being delivered by the armored car company. It had all the earmarks of a professional job, very thoroughly studied and thought out—cased, I believe the term is. In the first place, it was the last payday before Christmas, and all the employees were getting a cash bonus. The whole thing came to a little over fourteen thousand dollars. The timing, and the exact method of delivery of the money, had apparently been studied for some time. There were two men involved in the actual holdup, and a third was driving the getaway car.

  “But something did go wrong. A police car showed up unexpectedly just at the last moment, and one of the two gunmen was killed. They both wore masks, incidentally. The other one, and the driver of the car, got away clean. Along with the money, of course. The case has never been solved. They don’t know to this day who the two men were, and none of the money was ever recovered.”