The Faster She Runs

by Robert Colby

  There was a time of weeping and utter desolation. But it didn’t last long, was soon replaced by the most violent anger. And now he began a relentless search for her, rushing to the office of his lawyer.

  “I’m sorry, Warren,” the lawyer told him with a solemn shake of the head, “unless you can find her, and fast, there’s very little I could do. Morally speaking, she’s a thief and a fraud, I agree. But legally-well, that’s another matter. The money was jointly held and your signature gave her the right to even that part which was yours. How are you going to prove fraud? You don’t have a single witness.

  “Now we could get a court order to stop her from spending that money until a judge determined just how it was to be divided. And I feel quite certain that in a divorce settlement you would come out with at least half of it, since the largest part of the money was earned by you before the marriage. But first you’d have to find her. And obviously the money would have to be intact. You can’t divide funds that no longer exist.

  “So I’d suggest you hire private detectives and run her down in a hurry. Sorry, but I’m afraid that’s the only hope I have to offer you, old man…”

  And that was no hope at all. Private detectives! At better than a hundred a day? Impossible! He’d find her himself.

  Of one thing he was certain. There was a man in the picture, standing in the background cheering her on. Marian was not one to hustle off into the night without the strong arms of a man around her, forty-seven thousand dollars notwithstanding. And likely the man had been some down-on-his-luck sharpie who damn well helped her plot how to take him before they ran!

  Where would she meet such a character? At the office? Hardly. How about one of the race track set—some contact she made while betting the horses? That’s closer, that’s more logical.

  Someone out of her past? But who? For the very reason that he was a jealous sort, she had been vague about her male friends in that life before they met. But she was practically a stranger in New York when he found her and therefore it was ten to one that if she was involved with a man from the past, he would be out of Miami.

  It was a tense, exhausting period of trial and error, of footwork, phone calls, questions, questions. All fruitless. By not so much as a chance remark to anyone had she given herself away.

  Finally, through Proctor Drugs (they were not exactly pleased with her since she left without notice), he got the name of her former employer in Miami. She must have told him but he had long ago forgotten, knowing only that it was some title company having to do with things like abstracts and escrows and title insurance.

  Burkholtz Title & Abstract Company. That was it! She had been secretary to a vice-president. But when he called, they told him the man had died a few months before. Well, was there anyone else in the firm who knew her? Perhaps one of the other secretaries or office workers.

  There had been a letter from some girl in Miami (he never did know her name), and Warren felt there was a slim hope that if he could find this girl she might know something.

  They connected him with a Miss Zimmerman. Yes, she remembered Marian well. No, she hadn’t been in touch with her for years, not since Marian left for New York. Anyone else? Well, there was Anita Wymer, formerly Marian’s best friend. But Miss Wymer had moved her talents to the executive offices of a supermarket chain. Would he like the number?

  Miss Wymer was most pleasant. Somehow, too pleasant, too stridently earnest. Marian? Of course, of course! But no, not a thing since her last letter a couple of months ago—just chit-chat, you understand. Was there a hint that she might be visiting Miami soon? No, not one single word! If Anita Wymer had the slightest notion that Marian was coming she would have rolled out the red carpet long ago!

  Did Miss Wymer know any of Marian’s old boy friends? Well, not really. They had double-dated, of course. But that was long ago and she had forgotten even the names of those people. They had all become lost in the shuffle and now Miss Wymer had a whole new set of friends. Besides, she thought Marian was married to a very important man in New York and divinely happy. What made Mr. Bradford (this was the name Warren gave her) think he could locate her through people in Miami when she was certainly still in New York?

  Warren said he had gone to see Mr. Emrick and Marian’s husband said they were now separated and he did not know where she was. So he, Mr. Bradford, thought maybe he could locate her in Miami. It was most important because though he did not know Marian personally, he wanted her to testify in a legal matter involving a title which had been searched by her ex-boss, now dead. He was perfectly willing to see that she was well paid for her trouble.

  Miss Wymer was extremely, sincerely sorry, but she still did not know where Marian Emrick could be located.

  Period! But Warren did not believe this was so. Anita Wymer had been just too damn positive, too gushingly, sincerely perplexed. She protested her innocence too much and with too many nervous adjectives. Furthermore, some of her little speech sounded rehearsed. He could hear the voice of Marian behind Wymer’s pitch…

  “Anita, listen! No matter who calls, I don’t care if it’s the Governor of New York, you don’t know where I am. You don’t know a thing about me…!”

  Warren was pretty damn sure that Wymer knew where he could find Marian, and if he had to scare her into a confession or break her arm, any way at all, he was going to make her talk! In any event, he might pick up other clues from other sources and the flight to Miami would not be wasted.

  The jet sank to the runway with a grunt of tires and began to taxi toward the bright cluster of terminals.

  A marriage and a career shot to hell, thought Warren. Love and money—gone! The hell with love, give me the money! Man’s best friend. His only friend!

  Forty-seven thousand! The sum total of a whole career. Years of tireless research and calculation; of watching and waiting and speculating and sweating against the odds. A hundred-million words of advice to arrogant or whining customers. A hundred-million miles of ticker tape unwinding the idiot fractions, the spastic fluctuations, before the aching shuttling eyeballs.

  When she stole the money, Marian simply poured those grinding interminable years down the drain. The forty-seven thousands were symbols of achievement, the rewards of effort, the prizes of victory.

  And without these green symbols, in effect, a man was nothing. He was a beggar in an indifferent world. He was a slinking shadow without a voice in all the markets of commerce where the symbols commanded respect and attention.

  He thought, You don’t make a man nothing, Marian. You don’t make a joke of his whole life and get away with it, sister. You’ve got trouble, baby. Hard on your little round heels. You and lover-boy, whoever he is.

  I could mangle them. I could kill them both and sleep like a wino in an alley—not a single regret!

  You thought you were just an ordinary human being with average inclinations, all mild enough. You were often selfish, sometimes jealous, occasionally resentful and, in rare moments, downright angry—though you still behaved in a civilized manner.

  But you were also thoughtful, compassionate, generous. You bought people presents and you spared their feelings and you were polite and had a sense of humor and sometimes you wanted to weep over all the individual calamities you saw around you.

  Then—suddenly—you were a savage! You were not just angry, you were in a rage of hate. You were a man with a loaded gun in his pocket and you were going out there into that neon jungle to hunt—and to kill! Kill with the insane joy of a maniac.

  And the need of vengeance was so terrible that if you didn’t have it soon you might turn against the first person who crossed you with a careless word and beat his face into a splintered mass of broken bones with your bare hands.

  They were leaving the plane now, moving down the stairs. The man in front was wise-cracking over his shoulder to the stewardess, delaying Warren’s progress, while the thing exploded inside him.

  “Hey, Romeo!” he said. “Why don’t you sh
ut your face and get out of my way!”

  He gave the man a shove that sent him nearly sprawling. Saved by his grip on the railing, the man turned, his anger replaced by fear at what he saw in Warren’s face.

  “What—what’s the matter with you?” the man said weakly. “You must be out of your mind!”

  Knowing it was true, Warren pushed past him and hurled himself down the stairs, into the terminal.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Anita Wymer lived in Miami Beach. Her apartment was in a small, white-stucco building fronting the bay.

  Warren found the address in the telephone book and, since he was not a stranger to Miami, he simply rented a car at the airport and drove to Wymer’s place as fast as he could push the Chevy through the considerable traffic of early evening.

  He climbed a flight of stairs, searched down a hall and knocked on a door. It opened.

  “Miss Wymer? Anita Wymer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Bradford, Dave Bradford. I talked with you on the phone yesterday from New York.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes, I remember. But I hope you didn’t make the trip just to see me. Because I told you everything I know.”

  Miss Wymer was a honey-blonde in her late twenties, one of the few remaining whose long hair had not been victimized by the sheers of some local beauty butcher. She had small delicate features and crisp purposeful blue eyes. A rich café-au-lait tan and a stunning figure made her altogether quite a package. But Warren hardly noticed.

  “No,” he replied. “I didn’t make the trip just to see you. I have other business. But as long as I’m here—”

  “Mr. Bradford, really, you’re just wasting your time. If I knew where you could find Marian I’d be glad to tell you. There would be no point in keeping it a secret.”

  Neither her looks nor her attitude matched her phone personality. She seemed cool and formidable. Warren knew it was possible that she had been fortified by Marian since he had spoken to her long distance.

  “Look,” he said determinedly, “you might have some clue which would help me locate this woman. Just a few questions, that’s all. May I come in?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I was just going out.”

  Warren made a show of taking in the casual sun dress, the straw sandals. He could barely resist the urge to shove her backward into the room.

  Their eyes locked.

  She shrugged. “All right,” she said, standing aside and letting him pass. “But just for a minute. I have some important matters to attend to this evening.”

  “I’ll bet,” cracked Warren as she closed the door.

  “Mr. Bradford,” she snapped, “I’m not sure I like your attitude! You sound hostile to me.”

  “Do I?” Warren glanced around him. He stood in a small, immaculate living room containing modern pieces done in harmonic graduating shades of basic blue composition—lavender, turquoise, magenta. It was quite effective. The typical picture window framed a view of the bay.

  Warren sat down, crossed his legs, lighted a cigarette and leaned back in the manner of a visitor preparing himself for a long stay.

  Miss Wymer, sitting precariously on the edge of a chair, was quick to notice. Tight lines of irritation pulled sharply at her features.

  “Now what is it you want to know?” she said bitingly.

  “I want to know why you’re lying to me about Marian Emrick,” Warren said flatly.

  “You listen here, Mr. whatever-your-name-is, I don’t have to stand for that kind of talk in my own home!”

  “No, but you will for Marian’s sake,” said Warren. “If you knew her better—if you really knew her—you wouldn’t waste a minute protecting her. Or would you?”

  Miss Wymer sat very still. She studied him with cool unblinking eyes. “You’re the husband, aren’t you? You’re Warren Emrick.”

  Warren returned her gaze. “That’s right. I’m the husband. And I’m not leaving until you tell me where to find her. Just make up your mind to that and you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble.”

  “If Marian left you, she had a good reason. I’m beginning to understand that reason. You’re not exactly the lovable type. Still, I suppose you must care a lot for her or you wouldn’t race across the country after her.”

  “Miss Wymer, if you plucked a beautiful branch from a tree and it turned out to be a deadly snake, you’d know how I feel about Marian. I hate the evil bitch! What I do care for is the forty-seven thousand bucks she stole from me before she sneaked off. I intend to get that dough back. And anyone who stands in my way is going to get hurt.”

  “Does that include me?”

  He nodded. “You bet it does, honey. The frailty of the female sex no longer brings a tear to my eye. It makes me laugh out loud to think how helpless you women are. So, honey, your best defense is to just tell me where to find that slut and my money. I want to be friendly, so I’ll give you thirty seconds.”

  Miss Wymer lighted a cigarette, shifted nervously in her chair. “Marian once told me that she inherited some money and that she put this money in a joint account with you. So I imagine she just took what was hers when she left.”

  Warren laughed without mirth. “The only thing Marian ever inherited in her whole life was a sick mind. Yeah, and a hatful of losing tickets on the ponies. Marian is a thief and a liar. And if you’re her best friend, what are you?”

  “All right, that’s enough! I’m going to—”

  “You’re going to tell me where to find her, that’s what you’re going to do, sister! If Marian made up some story about inheriting money, she made it up after she ran with mine. You just gave yourself away. Naturally she had to explain her sudden wealth to her old friend, Anita.”

  He stood, then moved toward her. “Where is she?” he shouted.

  “I suppose you’re going to use force now,” Anita Wymer said defiantly, though she rose from her chair and backed toward the door. Fear was in her eyes and flight in the tense coil of her body.

  Warren hated her. He saw her as Marian’s friend and therefore an accomplice, an enemy. He sprang forward and caught her by the hair. He lifted his open hand to smash it across her face.

  The phone rang.

  “Answer it,” said Warren, releasing her. “And watch what you say. I’ll be listening.”

  She moved into a bedroom. He followed. The phone was on a night table. She caught up the receiver, but he grabbed it from her and held it so they could both listen.

  “Anita?”

  “This is Anita.”

  “It’s Tony. We’re over in Miami, on the town. We’re gonna do it big, top to bottom. Wanna join us? I got a guy for you, a real swinger. I’ll send him to pick you up. Half an hour—okay?”

  It was a heavy voice, demanding, arrogant. Warren lost interest. He had thought it might be Marian by some sweet quirk of fate.

  “I’d like to, Tony. But I just can’t tonight. I have a date.”

  “Okay. So bring ’im along.”

  “Can’t do that either, Tony. We’re going to a party. I’d invite you but I don’t know the people. Listen, I’ll call you in the morning, all right?”

  “Sure, kid. Don’t forget. Marian will—”

  “Good-bye, Tony.”

  She hung up.

  Warren stared at her. “Marian will what, Anita?”

  “He was talking about a different Marian,” she said quickly. “My God, the world is full of Marians!”

  “Sure. But it happens this one stole my money. Okay, Anita, I’ve had it. Up to here! I’m fresh out of patience. I’ll just take this whole place apart until I find Marian’s address. And if that doesn’t work, you’ll come apart next.”

  He pushed her ahead of him into the living room. He crossed to a limed-oak desk.

  “I’m going to call the police,” she threatened.

  “You just do that. I hope you do. They’ll put your friend Marian away for about ten years. They’re already hunting for her in New York,” he bluffed. “Go right
ahead. You might get a couple of years yourself as an accessory after the fact.”

  He watched her closely, saw doubt and fear shadow her face. “Logically,” he said, “the best place to start would be here at this desk.” He began to open drawers, pulling them out, emptying the contents on the desk top.

  “Never mind,” she said wearily. “Bottom right-hand drawer. An address book with a green cover.”

  He found the book and began to thumb through it.

  “Under her maiden name,” said Anita.

  Warren had to reach back in his mind. He had almost forgotten, so seldom was the name mentioned.

  He flipped the pages until he came to Ostermann. There were several scratch-outs, then an address on Biscayne Key and a phone number. He copied them down.

  At the door she asked, “Was that really your money Marian took?”

  “Yes, my money.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “And I couldn’t care less. Tell me about this bastard, Tony. Who is he?”

  “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

  “Ahh, loyalty. Well, I have plans for Tony.”

  “Would you really have hurt me?”

  “Yes. But later I might have been sorry. Though I’m not even sure of that.”

  He opened the door and went out.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a lemon-colored, one-story house a block from the bay on Biscayne Key. The house was dark but Warren rang the bell anyway.

  After a minute of listening he went around back. There was the usual screened porch called a Florida Room. It had jalousie windows and a door opening upon a patio. The door was wood frame with glass louvers protecting a screen.

  He had to break one of the glass sections in order to poke a hole in the screen and unlock the door. He entered, groped for a wall switch and brazenly turned on the lights. As he went from room to room he turned on other lights.

  He didn’t care about the lights. He didn’t care if he was seen or not. His anger was too big for creeping and cringing in darkness. His conviction that all his acts were justified by the treachery of his wife was enormous, his reasoning twisted out of shape in the heat of his fury.