Run, Killer, Run

by William Campbell Gault

  Tom came down again and Jean said, “The obvious entrance to the attic is through that opening in the hall ceiling. This one can’t even be seen from the floor, you’ll notice.”

  “The police are pretty thorough, Jean.”

  “If they have reason to be. I didn’t get a chance to finish my coffee at that apartment. Would you like some?”

  “I guess.”

  Jean went out. From the mantel, Walter Revolt looked at Tom and there seemed to be some challenge in the pugnacious face. Through the windows, Tom could see the wall of mist, and the drip of moisture from the eaves was audible in the muffled quiet.

  Jean was dispirited and perhaps the disappearance of Leonard Delavan was the big factor in that. Leonard had been her strong right arm, her legs, her detecting eye. Leonard had been her lion; she was left with her lamb.

  He was standing by the window, looking out at the fog, when she came to tell him the coffee was ready.

  In the dim kitchen, he sat in the ell of the fireplace. He sipped his black coffee and smoked and thought back on the hours and events since he had last sat here.

  Jean said, “What kind of a girl is that Connie Garrity?”

  “Oh — cynical, I guess. She thinks you’re a suspicious character. Not that you’re a card-carrying Commie, of course, but — ”

  “But I’m a registered Republican, and Dad was, too. But we have to work to maintain freedom. That’s the hell of it. We fight for a principle and in fighting for it, are forced to protect some scum.”

  “Maybe,” Tom said, “what you save isn’t worth the fight.”

  “Freedom?”

  “No, Tom Spears, for example. You can’t fight forever, Jean.”

  “Everybody fights as long as he lives,” she answered. “He either fights for what he believes in or he fights his conscience.” She managed a smile. “Do you see what you’d have to live with, Tom Spears, if you married me? Do you see why Joe Hubbard didn’t?”

  “I don’t want to hear about Joe Hubbard, Jean. I don’t ever want to hear his name again from you.”

  “He was no worse than a million others, honey.”

  “Yes, he was. Because he could have been so much better. That’s enough on that bastard, now.”

  Her eyes looked less weary. “Yes, darling. Yes, boss.”

  They sipped their coffee and smoked and the fog shrouded them from the sound of traffic and a view of the rest of the world.

  Tom said, “I wish I had a crystal ball. I’d like to know where I’d be a month from now.”

  “Nearer the window,” she said. “I’ll move this table back near the window after you’re cleared, and we’ll have a view when we eat.”

  “After I’m cleared — are you still that confident, Jean?”

  She started to answer, and then stopped. There was some moisture in her eyes. “I — oh, God, Tom, I don’t know — What could have happened to Leonard?”

  He shrugged. “Why don’t you phone?”

  She nodded and rose. “I will.”

  He poured himself another cup of coffee and lighted a cigarette. Jean came back in. “No answer. I wish that damned fog would lift.”

  Tom said, “Take it easy, honey. He could be chasing a very hot lead.”

  “It only takes a minute to phone. And Leonard is meticulous about keeping appointments.” She poured herself a half cup of coffee. “I don’t remember ever having the jitters like this, before, Tom.”

  “You never tried to buck Nannie Koronas before. Even the Kefauver Committee gave up on him.”

  She lifted her chin. “You still admire him, don’t you? You’ve never really lost that sense of loyalty.”

  “I don’t admire him, except in his field. For a man outside the law, he has standards of his own beyond the others. He has a certain — integrity. He’ll never let an employee down.”

  Her smile was cynical. “Never — ?”

  “So far as I know. He might — ”

  He stopped talking as Jean suddenly raised a warning hand. He looked at her questioningly.

  She whispered, “Didn’t you hear that noise? It was a car motor.”

  Tom listened, and it was audible now, a car moving in one of the lower gears, and coming up the drive.

  “Get to that room,” she said. “It could be Leonard, but we can’t take any chances.” She rose swiftly and took the coffee cups and the ash tray over to the sink. She was emptying the ash tray into the garbage grinder as Tom left the kitchen.

  In the study, he locked the door behind him and stood close to it, listening.

  Nothing for minutes, and then Jean’s footsteps coming down the hall. “Tom, the car left again. What do you think it could mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone left a message. Or it could be a car that got lost and used your driveway to turn around in.”

  “I’m going out, Tom, to the mailbox. You wait here, and keep the door locked. If I’m talking when I come in, again, get right up into that attic. Understand?”

  “Yes. Do you think it’s safe, going out into that fog?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “If anything happens, scream. I’ll come out, with the gun. Remember that, Jean.”

  “All right. Wait, and listen.”

  Her footsteps going down the hall, and silence. She evidently hadn’t closed the front door behind her; he would have heard it from where he stood.

  And then, after a minute, her footsteps on the bricks of the patio and they were running. She was still running when she entered the house and came down the hall.

  She pounded with a flat hand on the door. “Tom, open up, open up.”

  He opened the door and saw the near-hysteria on her face. He pulled her close. “What is it, honey?”

  “It’s Leonard. He’s lying out there on the patio. There’s nobody around, out there. I — ” She started to cry.

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. I saw him and got panicky. I’d better phone the police.”

  “I’ll go out, first. We want to be sure about him. He may come around. Was there any blood?”

  “I didn’t see any. Tom, do you think the — whoever, whatever it was, do you think it’s still out there?”

  Tom took the gun from a shelf in the bookcase. “I’ll go out and see.”

  Jean inhaled and stood stiffly. “I’ll go along.”

  Together, they went out into the fog and along the walk to the brick patio. The blob that was Leonard Delavan got clearer as they approached it.

  Then Tom knelt and felt for the pulse. Above him, he could hear the rasp of Jean’s labored breathing.

  She asked, “Is he — ?”

  Tom looked up and nodded. “He’s dead, Jean.”

  Chapter 11

  IN THE house, he told her, “Explain everything just the way it happened, except for my being here. And tell them you had hired Leonard to investigate Joe Hubbard’s death. Don’t mention me, except in my relationship to Joe. I’ll get out, now.”

  “No, Tom, please. That attic is the safest place you could be now. Don’t forget, I’m phoning them. That cuts down their suspicion about you considerably. And we don’t even know the police have any suspicion about you being here. Get up there, Tom, and I’ll phone them.” She looked up pleadingly. “I want you close. And when they’re gone, I want you here.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “All right. Check the room carefully for anything I might have missed.”

  • • •

  He was crouched on the two-by-sixes of the attic, his back against the brick of the chimney when he heard the fog-muffled wail of the siren on Channel Road.

  A little after that there were footsteps outside and the slam of the front door and then the indistinguishable murmur of conversation from below.

  The law was finally in this thing. And with what Jean would give them, Nannie Koronas would come under police scrutiny. Possibly that would break it wide open, but probably not. Nannie was a past
master at cover and concealment. Though covering a murder was a far more difficult job.

  Tom’s bad knee began to throb and he eased it gently to a less cramped position, conscious of his balance every precarious second. A noise from above would certainly be investigated from below.

  There was the sound of another siren. Coming for the body, undoubtedly, the lifeless body of Leonard Delavan. Nannie’s work, again? The work of Nannie’s new right arm, Luke Neilson?

  The throb in Tom’s knee grew, but he hesitated to move it again. It sounded, now, as though the conversation was coming from directly below.

  On a rafter above him, a fat and shining black widow spider seemed to be studying him. Then it began to move across the roof over his head. It was out of his line of vision, now.

  If it continued on the same path, it would be stopped by the chimney. There, it had two choices: up toward the roof or down toward Tom Spears.

  Outside, there was the sound of a car engine starting and the closing of a car door. Tom’s scalp began to itch; he was certain something was crawling in his hair.

  He didn’t move his head, nor move a hand toward his head; the thing wouldn’t bite unless attacked or crowded. He tried to take his mind from it, tried to force his mind to the significance of Leonard’s death. But his skin crawled; his mind refused to move away from the plight of Tom Spears.

  From below, there was the sound of the front door closing, but conversation continued. Tom pulled at the front of his shirt, trying to pull taut the open collar, to close any apertures that might attract the thing.

  Silence, now, from below? Silence. Outside, another car motor coughed into life. On Tom’s neck, a light brush, light as a spider’s leg. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

  Conversation started up again below. Overhead, a jet plane roared and the shock wave trembled through the house. On Tom’s neck, the weight was heavier now; it was crawling around the top edge of his collar.

  It came to his chin, and paused. He tried to see it, but it was still outside his line of vision. He moved his right hand slowly up into his lap, ready for a time when he could brush the thing off in one certain motion.

  Again the front door opened and closed and now the silence below seemed complete. The weight was on his chin but there was no movement. If it moved toward his eye, toward his mouth, he would have to take the chance of striking at it.

  Footsteps below, coming along the hall. Then, from directly below, Jean’s quiet voice. “All right, Tom.”

  He didn’t move. He didn’t answer. If he answered, he would need to move his jaw.

  Her voice was louder. “Do you hear me, Tom? Answer me.”

  The brushing of a thread like leg; no other movement. “Tom, what’s the matter?”

  He moved his hand from his lap and started it backward, so he could strike from behind. But the action pulled his shoulder back and the open front of his collar widened. He brought his upper arm in close to his body, bending his hand backward at the wrist.

  When his fingertips were even with his shoulder, he moved the hand swiftly, cupping the fingers and brushing savagely from the side of his neck forward.

  The spider shot to the top of the plywood in front of him. It scrambled a moment and then Tom’s leg lifted and he pulled off a shoe.

  He smashed it a moment before it would have disappeared over the corner of a two-by-six.

  “Tom — !”

  “I’m all right, now,” he called. He lifted the plywood covering the attic entry and looked down at her. “There was a black widow on my jaw. I was afraid to move or talk.”

  “My God!” She put a hand on the closet wall. “Where is it, now?”

  “I killed it.” He put his shoe back on and moved achingly over to the entry hole. He dangled a moment until his feet found one of the shelves and then he came down to stand beside her.

  She was pale; she stared at him sickly. He put his arms around her and drew her close. “Bad day, honey. There’ll be better ones.”

  She said nothing. A shiver passed through her slim body and she clung tightly to Tom. She began to sob. Through the high windows of the study, Tom could see the fog still pressing in around the house.

  Tom thought back to the scene in the apartment when Leonard had said, “Maybe this is one of my gutless afternoons.” Leonard hadn’t wanted to face Luke Neilson.

  Jean said, “Leonard was working for me, Tom. He’d be alive if he hadn’t been working for me.”

  “You were paying him, but he was working for me, Jean, to clear me. And yesterday afternoon, he didn’t want to go back and face Neilson. Leonard was getting — ” He stopped.

  She lifted her wet face. “Getting scared? But he went ahead, didn’t he? I’m scared, too, Tom.”

  “I’m not. Because I’ve everything to gain. Did you tell the police about Nannie?”

  She nodded. “And they asked about you. I didn’t tell them about this afternoon and Luke Neilson. I couldn’t very well, without telling them about you.”

  “But they asked if you’d seen me?”

  She nodded. “So I’m on record as a liar. Tom, do you believe Neilson was telling the truth when he said he left Leonard at the office?”

  “Who knows? Let’s sit down, honey. I’ll make you a drink. That’s what you need.”

  She sat in the leather chair while he went out to the kitchen. She was staring at her father’s picture when he left the room; she was still staring at it when he returned with a small glass of brandy.

  He touched her shoulder, and she looked up. He handed her the brandy. “Try to relax.” He took his over to the day bed and sat on the edge.

  She turned her head to face him. “Why did they — ? It — was a sort of — warning, I suppose, bringing Leonard’s body here?”

  “Probably. Or a way to get the police to investigate you.” He took a breath. “And thus discover me.”

  “Who’d want you discovered?”

  “The murderer. It’s better for him if I’m locked up for the crime instead of out hunting him.”

  She sipped her brandy, holding it in her mouth. She leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. “We’ve nobody now, Tom. Nobody.”

  “We’ve us. We’ve me. And the .38. Even Nannie isn’t immune to a .38.”

  She kept her eyes closed. “That won’t do it. A gun never solves anything.”

  “Guns have solved a lot of problems. How did Leonard die? Had he been shot?”

  “He was shot in the back, in the spine. With a fairly small caliber; they think it was a .32. I had to listen to all that.” She opened her eyes, staring at the picture of her father again.

  Tom sensed that the horror of this day had been its own anaesthetic, numbing her mind.

  She said quietly, “That damned fog. It never before has lasted all day. Never, since we moved here, have we had a fog like this, all day.”

  “Get hold of yourself, Jean. Look ahead, not back.”

  “Ahead to what — ?” She turned to stare at him dully. “What can we do, Tom? Without Leonard.”

  “If we can’t do anything, I’ll get out of town. But I intend to stay with it for a while.” He paused. “It’s my neck.”

  In the big leather chair, her body shook and one hand pressed desperately on the padded arm. “I hired Leonard. I came to talk you out of running away.”

  “Leonard was for hire. It was his job and he knew its risks. Accepting the employment was his idea; he wasn’t so poverty-stricken he was forced to accept it.” Tom paused. “And I’m glad you talked me out of running away. I’m so glad we met.”

  Nothing from her. She sipped her drink, looking out into the room at nothing. She seemed huddled and small in the huge chair.

  “I think you’d better take a sedative and lie down,” Tom suggested. “You should rest if you can.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t risk it. They’ll be back, with questions, I’m sure.”

  “They’re not going to break in if you don’t answer
the door. Jean, you mustn’t crack up. And you mustn’t take any blame for Leonard’s death. He was a free agent.”

  Her face was blank. “Don’t worry, I’ll rationalize that away. In time. Meddler, that’s all I am, a meddler.”

  “No, honey, a citizen. And that takes some meddling these days. Nothing you did was wrong. Nothing.”

  From the direction of Channel Road came the hysterical shriek of suddenly applied brakes, and Jean jerked in the chair.

  Traffic would be stacked up today along here; the Coast Road would be bedlam at going-home time. Tom finished his drink and came over to take the empty glass from Jean’s tight grasp.

  He took both glasses to the kitchen and then made sure the front door was locked. He came back to the study and said, “Lie down. If you don’t want to go to bed, lie on the couch over there. But you have to relax. Please, Jean.”

  She looked at him and rose obediently. She went over to the couch and lay on her side, and Tom covered her with a blanket.

  She said, “There are some sleeping pills in the medicine closet in my bathroom. And a half glass of water, please?”

  Fifteen minutes later, she was asleep. Tom sat in the kitchen, looking out at the fog, trying to fit the death of Leonard Delavan into the pattern that had started forming in St. Louis.

  So far as he knew, Neilson had been the last man to see Leonard. And Neilson worked for Nannie.

  Outside, the fog was thinning. The afternoon shift of wind was blowing it out to sea. Tom rose and went over to turn a low flame under the coffee. As he was reaching for a cup from the cupboard, he saw Jean’s car keys on the tile of the drainboard.

  What had he brought her but trouble? He could take her car right now, while she slept, and drive to Nannie’s. He had the gun, and there was the car.

  But that would leave Jean alone and asleep. A dead man had been found on her patio today and she would waken to an empty house. He couldn’t desert her now.

  He poured a cup of coffee and sat near the window, watching the fog slowly disperse, opening an increasing vista. If only the fog in his mind would clear as well.