Run, Killer, Run

by William Campbell Gault

  Silence, and then Jean said, “All right. A little one. I’m too weary to mix it. I guess you can handle that, Dick.”

  “And I,” a masculine voice said, “would like to use one of your smaller rooms. The one off the study available?”

  “No,” Jean said quickly, “the plumbing is jammed up in there. Use the one off my bedroom.”

  Great…. There would be no reason for the gent to assume the clothes belonged to Tom Spears. But there would be sufficient reason for him to assume the obvious. Well, maybe in her circle, this was standard operating procedure. Though he didn’t want to think so. And why didn’t he?

  He stayed near the door, a fine sweat forming on his body. The chatter from the kitchen was lower, now, indistinguishable. There was the sound of water moving through pipes.

  Then, less than a minute later, there were footsteps in the hall outside, footsteps that paused and then came his way. And then he had the feeling that someone was standing just inches away from him on the other side of the door.

  Tom stopped breathing, and the pound of his heart seemed to be audible. He heard a rasp at waist level and knew the person out there was trying the door. The knob turned, but the bolt held the door fast. In a few seconds, footsteps went up the hall toward the kitchen.

  Just friends cruising the night and looking for a friendly light …? Not this one. A nose, this one. Looking for a tidbit of scandal? Or maybe something more. Tom pressed his ear to the door, waiting for the nosy one to make some remark to his hostess.

  He heard nothing; the conversation murmur continued but there were no words he could distinguish. He stayed there, next to the door, until they’d left.

  Silence after the grind of the starter and the diminishing throb of the motor. A knock, and he opened the door.

  Jean still wore nothing but the robe. “Just friends,” she said. She exhaled. “Butterflies.”

  “Which one went to the growler as soon as he came in?”

  She stared at him in the dimness. “Why?”

  “Because, after he left the bathroom, he tried this door. Some of my clothes are still in your room, remember.”

  “Lordy, I’d forgotten.” She looked up at him and smiled. “There goes my fine reputation. Though these aren’t the kind of people who’d make a production of it. Still hungry? We could have our sandwich now.”

  “Don’t be so unconcerned, Jean. Who was the man?”

  “His name is Ames Gilchrist. Know him?”

  Tom shook his head. “But it was still a surprising thing for him to do, trying that knob, wasn’t it?”

  “Not if you knew Ames. I suspect he carries pornographic postcards in his pocket. Let’s eat; I’m starved.”

  The sandwich she’d started for him was still there, and there was still some coffee in the pot. They ate quietly in the dark kitchen, lighted only indirectly by the overflow from the living room.

  Jean was quiet, and she didn’t seem disturbed, and Tom wondered at the poise that could go through the emotional disturbances of this day.

  He said quietly, “You’re pretty well disciplined, emotionally, aren’t you?”

  “When I need to be. When it’s important to be. Dad taught me that.” She smiled. “Was I, an hour or so ago?”

  He looked at the tablecloth.

  She chuckled. “I’m sorry. I’ve tried to discipline myself against fear, against running from trouble that needs to be met. Is that wrong? Is that cold?”

  “No. How about a piece of that apple pie you baked for dinner?”

  “Damn you.” Her laugh was light. “And you call me disciplined.”

  Chapter 4

  HE COULDN’T sleep. Perhaps it was because of the afternoon nap, but he lay with open eyes in the locked, dark study that had served Walter Revolt. He thought back to St. Louis, to the finding of Lois’ body. He went back to the days before that, the great days of their marriage and their friendship with Joe Hubbard.

  It simply didn’t add. Joe had been a friend, friend, friend. He couldn’t be that wrong about Joe. And how often he and Lois had seen Joe. And he couldn’t remember any meeting with Jean except for that one in the office. Had Joe been ashamed of her?

  Or had Joe been ashamed of them, of him and Lois? Or had Joe and Lois, perhaps, been…. Watch it, Tom Spears, you’re really reaching, now.

  Well, why not? Think anything you please; your neck’s involved, and if the improbable can give you a lead, stay with it.

  All right, then, Joe and Lois. And when Lois was killed, Joe’s conscience insisted he come to St. Louis to handle the defense of his friend. Logical enough — but why was Joe killed?

  Jean said that Joe had lived in two worlds. Lois evidently had, too; one of them the shadow world of infidelity. And hadn’t he, too, with his wife’s friends in one and the organization of Nannie Koronas comprising the other?

  And Jean, crusading daughter of a crusader, who also knew some butterflies? Jean, in bed, was not the poised and determined Jean who had searched the desert for him. All four of them had some Jekyll-Hyde facets.

  There might be something in an extension of that thought; a hunch gnawed at him and went away without identification.

  He thought of Jud Shallock who had only one face, so far as he knew. He wondered about Jud and if the County men were giving him a bad time.

  Two loyal friends he had, two who had given him sanctuary, Jud Shallock and Jean Revolt. On this pleasant thought, he fell asleep.

  Early in the morning, he wakened, the sheet beneath him damp with his perspiration. There’d been a dream, now only half remembered, a dream involving cops and a narrowing circle and the putty-white dead face of his wife.

  Outside the high window over his head, a bird sang. From the air high above, the muted sound of a big plane came to him, one of the big birds, coming in across the Pacific. From where? From any of a number of places he might run to, given the money and the phony identification.

  Nannie could take care of both of those. Nannie Koronas had the money and the connections. Stay away from Nannie, Jean had warned him. But Nannie took care of his own; it was a rule he lived by. And Tom was one of Nannie’s boys.

  From the direction of the Coast Highway came the rumble of the big Diesel trucks, out early to beat the jam of work-time traffic. Outside his window, there were two birds, now, greeting the morning in a pleasantly discordant duet.

  He swung out of bed and the morning air was cool on his damp body. He took a leisurely, warm shower and then wrapped one of the huge towels around him and shaved carefully and slowly.

  He was, he reflected, as he studied his image, no longer running. But neither was he doing anything else. Unless accepting the sanctuary of a dedicated female could be called doing something.

  When he went out, later, into the hall, he could see her in the kitchen, squeezing some oranges with a hand juicer. Her short dark hair was tousled, still. She was wearing a halter and shorts and her tanned, slim body quickened his pulse.

  She looked up as he entered the kitchen, her clear blue eyes resting thoughtfully on his face. “Something’s on your mind.”

  “Inaction. I’m a man who likes to wheel and deal.”

  “We will. Patience. Eggs this morning?”

  “Scrambled.”

  “Bacon?”

  “Thank you, yes.” He sat at the end of the table protected from outside view by the brick wall. “Can I help?”

  She shook her head. “Men always sit down before they ask if they can help.” She sniffed. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. And why are you dressed so charmingly and revealingly this morning?”

  She turned to look at him. “Because the weather man assures us it’s going to be hot, a scorcher. Why else?” Her eyes probed his unflinchingly.

  He felt himself color faintly. “I — Uh, sorry — ”

  She smiled. “You’re blushing. You’re not a complete beast. You’re blushing. So I’ll admit I might have thought of you when I put this on.” She
brought him a small glass of orange juice.

  “Bring yours and sit down,” he told her. “I’ll handle the eggs.”

  She brought her glass over and sat across from him. She said, “My investigator is coming today, this morning. You won’t need to hide.”

  “He knows I’m here?”

  She nodded.

  Some tenseness moved through Tom. He had a feeling of being manipulated, a momentary sense of puppetry. He rose and went to the stove.

  She said, “I’ll take them scrambled, too. You don’t completely trust me, do you, Tom?”

  He turned the flame low under the griddle. “I trust your intentions. You’re playing what could be a disastrous game.”

  “I know that.”

  He cracked some eggs into a bowl. “And why? They’re both dead. And what am I to you?”

  “A lamb. And the word around town is that you’re — what the boys call — an ace.”

  “That’s not enough.” He added a touch of cream to the eggs.

  “It’s enough for me.” Her voice was quieter. “And for lagniappe, we have last night.”

  A pause, a moment’s meaningful silence, and he asked, “How many strips of bacon?”

  Her laugh was low and mocking.

  • • •

  The investigator came at ten-thirty. His name was Leonard Delavan and he was a man of about forty-five, a stocky man with a square, intelligent face. His hair was gray and cut short. It gave the block face a pugnacious look.

  In the living room, as they were being introduced, Jean said, “Leonard has had seven years with the FBI and four with Naval Intelligence. He is not what you might contemptuously consider a ‘shamus’.”

  His own word, she was throwing at him. Tom smiled and shook Leonard Delavan’s hand. And as Delavan smiled, Tom saw a quick, transient resemblance to the picture of Walter Revolt.

  Delavan said evenly, “You have the most to lose in this operation, Tom. But you also stand to gain the most. Neither Jean nor I have anything to gain, personally.” He took a breath. “And our necks to lose. We’re all outside the law, I guess you realize.”

  Tom nodded. “I do.”

  They went back to the study. There, Delavan said slowly, “I’ve been investigating your wife’s — background.” He studied Tom. “She was a — busy woman.”

  Tom nodded. “I’m beginning to learn that.”

  Delavan continued to study him. “Insatiable might be the word.”

  Tom took a deep breath. Outside, the bird still sang. He asked quietly, “How sure are you?”

  Delavan shrugged. “I never followed her, personally. As sure as a man can be who is trained to examine evidence and evaluate witnesses. The gist of it makes you out a pretty sad patsy.”

  Tom said nothing. Resentment was moving through him, resentment at this invasion of his privacy, but he stilled it. He sat on the unmade studio bed.

  Delavan said, “One of her lovers was Joe Hubbard.”

  Jean’s quick intake of breath rasped through the room. Tom turned to look at her and then looked back dully at the detective. He said calmly, “I was thinking of that possibility last night.” He looked at Jean. “Late, last night, after those people left.”

  Jean sat down in the big chair, staring at him.

  Delavan said, “That might account for the miserable defense Joe put up for your life. But it doesn’t account for Joe’s death, at least not directly. Incidentally, Joe Hubbard’s death strengthens your position. Because you were in jail, when he died. And it would need one hell of a belief in coincidence to assume his death and your wife’s weren’t connected in some way.”

  “It couldn’t have been suicide?”

  Delavan frowned. “No. What made you think of that?”

  “I was thinking that Joe had a conscience. It might not look like it from where we stand, now, but I’m sure he did.”

  In the big chair, Jean nodded. “I’ll accept that. It might give us a lead, too.”

  Delavan shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s theory. I think, though, we’re getting Joe’s papers. That could give us a more definite lead. I’ve a date with his executor at one o’clock.”

  Jean said, “We’ll be waiting for you, here. And what else have you learned? What about Jud Shallock?”

  “He was released.” Delavan looked at Tom. “You didn’t leave any signs of occupancy behind, fortunately, and the police seem to feel Shallock’s in the clear. He’s safe enough.”

  “From the police, anyway,” Jean said. “All right, Leonard, we’ll wait for those papers.” She rose, and went to the door with him.

  When Jean came back, she said, “I’m going out in the back for a sunning. I’ve locked the front door and perhaps you’d better lock this one. I’ll hear any bells.”

  “Okay. I’ll finish your book.” He paused. “Do you believe that story about Joe and Lois?”

  “Why not? One corruption is all corruption. Keep this door locked.”

  “Sure. Doesn’t it bother you — about Joe and Lois?”

  She stared at him a moment without answering. Then she went out and closed the door quietly behind her.

  He sat there for seconds before rising to lock the door and get her book.

  She composed a readable and interesting prose; he stayed with the book right through to the end, in complete communication all the way. He understood her a little better, now, a girl brought up in the nasty section of this town, a girl of sensitivity and courage who didn’t know how the better half lived until five or six years before her father’s death.

  A knock, and her voice. “Ready for lunch?”

  He went to open the door. “Any time. I’ve finished your book. I like you.”

  This time, it was her turn to blush. “Thank you. It wasn’t completely autobiographical.” She turned, and had started down the hall, when the sound of the siren came.

  Tom had started to follow, but he paused as she turned. Her voice was steady. “Easy. There are sirens all the time on the Coast Highway.”

  Tom nodded. They stood there, unmoving, waiting for another sound. Then Jean indicated with a gesture that he should stay where he was. She went down the hall to the kitchen.

  Tom didn’t take his eyes from her as she stood by the sink, looking out the window that revealed the parking area.

  Then, as he dimly heard the sound of a car coming up the grade, she turned and said, “Get in the room. Lock the door.”

  He knew at that moment, somehow, that the room was no longer a sanctuary. He put on his jacket and had picked up his extra shirt before the chime sounded.

  He was back at the door in time to hear her opening, “Yes?”

  The voice of the man at the door was too low for him to hear, but he heard Jean’s, “I don’t quite understand. You’re looking for someone?”

  A mumble, and then Jean’s, “You’ve brought a warrant, a search warrant, I suppose? You have? Well, in that case — ”

  Tom didn’t wait to hear more. He pulled a chair over to the high window near his bed and climbed up on it. He slid the window open and looked out.

  There was a gully behind the house, here, and the drop was certainly enough to break an ankle, or worse. But a future much worse than anything the gully might offer was personified in that cop at the door. He was never going back to that place.

  He stuffed his shirt into his jacket pocket and threw a leg over the sill. He didn’t look down, again. There were some shrubs lining the walls of the gully; the position he intended to drop from would land him directly over one of them. How strong the roots were, how much his passing grasp would break the fall were things he couldn’t know until he’d dropped. All he knew now was that the gray walls were closing in, again.

  He pulled the other leg out and swung around, gripping the slanting edge of the sill. Then his legs were free and dangling and his fingers were slipping from the sill. He held his breath and managed by an effort of will, to keep his eyes open as his fingers left the edge.
/>   There was the slap of the shrub on his legs and he grabbed out blindly. The leaves came off in his hand and he grasped desperately at the thickest bough in sight. He had a grip on it momentarily and his body swung in an arc.

  And then his knee smashed into an outcropping of rock and the fierce pain of it screamed through his brain. His hands loosened on the bough and he dropped the rest of the way, nausea surging in him, his aching knee half bent in a hopeful attempt to prevent its taking the impact of his fall.

  There was a jar in his uninjured leg and then he went head over heels down the last few feet of the fall. He lay there a moment, the breath knocked out of him, a boulder that could have meant his finish not three feet from his blurred vision.

  He was alive, he was conscious. And nothing, he was sure, was broken. His bruised knee throbbed steadily and there was the bitterness of vomit in his mouth. But he was alive — and out of the house now being searched for him.

  He had to get up. The grass was tall enough here to make crawling an adequate camouflage if his pursuers were on the ground. But viewed from above, the grass was no cover. And it was hot, today, and he knew what rattlesnakes remained in this gully would be out.

  A snake bite below waist level was not nearly as dangerous as one above; he had to get to his feet. He took a deep breath and put a tentative hand out toward the boulder for support. He rose, his weight centered on his left leg. He looked up and saw that the open window above was still devoid of any searching eyes.

  Gingerly, he tried to shift his weight to his injured right leg. Nausea stirred in him, again, and the aching knee seemed to expand until the pain ran from his hip to his ankle.

  He took another deep gulp of the hot, clean air and tried to flex the knee slightly. His mouth was dry as the gray grass around him as he turned to consider the quickest way to concealment in the gully.

  There was no bend in it, no cover in either direction; he started limping painfully down the slight grade that must lead to the sea.

  Still, no face had appeared in the window. Jean had undoubtedly shown the policeman every room in the house as slowly as possible until he had demanded entrance into the locked study. And there, she could have stalled for more time, pretending to search for a key.