I located the door and went down a flight of steps to the top floor. The corridors were poorly lighted and deserted. They were rather depressing with landlord-tan wallpaper and the smells of old cooking. I met no one at all. In the corridor on the ground floor, just inside the front door, there was a mirror hanging on the wall above a small table containing a potted plant of some kind. I stopped and checked myself. The coat and cap were fine, and I looked entirely different, but there was a scratch on my left cheek and a little streak of dried blood. I rubbed at it with a moistened forefinger and then my handkerchief, and got most of it off. I turned up the collar of the coat, tilted the cap at a careless angle, and sauntered out, feeling scared as hell. It might work or it might not, but I had to get to a phone, even if they caught me.
The streets were almost completely deserted. That made it even worse; anybody moving at all was conspicuous. There wasn’t a police car in sight at the moment, however. I went up to the corner and turned left. Straight ahead about fifteen or twenty blocks I could see the tall buildings of the downtown area. If I could make it, that would be the easiest place to find a phone at this time in the morning.
I was crossing the intersection when I saw a squad car turn into the street about three blocks up. It stopped, the men in it apparently talking to the uniformed cop on the corner. Then it shot ahead, coming toward me. They’d seen me. The only way to do it was play it very cool, no matter how scared I was. If they actually stopped and asked me for identification, of course, I was done for, but they might not if I didn’t show any nervousness. I went on at the same pace, stepped up on the curb, and paused to light a cigarette. They slowed, made the turn, and crawled past me on the other side of the street. I could feel the eyes on me. I glanced briefly in their direction, took a puff on the cigarette, and kept on. They went on past. I felt weak all over. They turned right at the next corner and disappeared.
I made a full block before I had to go through it again. This one was coming, toward me, along this side of the street. They saw me, came on faster, and then slowed. They were going to stop. Then their radio said something in a staccato burst of sound, and they shot ahead, cutting in the siren. When they were a few blocks away I stopped and listened. I could hear three sirens closing in on some place back there. I sighed. Somebody had probably reported a prowler, and now some of the heat was off me. I started walking faster. I was three blocks away and then five. After ten I stopped counting. I was out of the area now.
I crossed Pemberton Avenue, in the edge of downtown. The Greyhound bus terminal was only a block away on my right. The bars were all closed now, and that would be the nearest place with phone booths. Should I risk it? They had men watching it. But they’d never take a second look at me in this crazy sport coat. I was safer in a crowd, anyway, and the bus station always had people in it. I turned and hurried toward it.
Fifteen or twenty people were boredly reading papers or trying to sleep sitting up on the benches, and some more were drinking coffee at the lunch counter further back. The phone booths were to the left of the lunch counter. I stepped into the first one, dropped in a dime, and dialed. The phone rang. And then again. After awhile I was conscious that I was counting the rings and that I was very scared. She’d helped me, and I may have got her killed.
I hung up. Now what? If I could get out there, I couldn’t get in. If she were still out somewhere, there was no way I could warn her. But maybe she’d got bored and started on that vodka again. I’d wait a few minutes and try again.
Then I remembered that phone number I’d got from Frances Celaya’s purse. I hauled it out of my pocket and looked at it. GL 2-4378 Marilyn. From the way the paper was creased, it had been in her purse for months, and I didn’t see how it could have anything to do with Stedman, but this was all we had left so I might as well try it
I dropped in a dime, and dialed a number. A man answered.
“Is Marilyn there?” I asked. “Yeah, she’s here,” he replied.
I came alert; this might be something after all. “Could I speak to her, please?”
“What’re you, a damn wise guy?” he snarled, and hung up.
I stared blankly at the receiver, and put it back on the hook. Maybe this was the way you cracked up; things just quit making any sense. No doubt it was perfectly logical—
I stopped, wondering how I could have been so stupid. I should have known it all the time. Ducking around to the side of the booth I grabbed the directory. I flipped to the yellow pages, found what I was looking for, and ran my finger down the telephone numbers of the watchmen’s shacks on the Municipal docks.
Pier Five was GLenwood 2-4378. And Marilyn was a boat.
A shrimper or commercial fisherman, I thought. Pier Five was where they tied up. Now we were getting somewhere. Then I thought of Suzy again, with that cold uneasiness inside me. Before I went out I had to try once more. I dropped the book, and when I turned to go back in the booth I was looking directly at a man at this end of the lunch counter. He had a cup of coffee and a newspaper in front of him, but his eyes were on my face. Then he looked away and picked up his paper. His face was vaguely familiar, and a little whisper of warning ran along my nerves. But, hell, nobody would recognize me in this sporty outfit. I entered the booth and dialed Suzy’s number. The phone rang and went on ringing, but there was no answer. The fear grew worse. I turned my head, and the man at the counter was looking toward the booth with a thoughtful expression on his face. I recognized him now. He was a detective, one of Stedman’s friends I’d seen several times at Red Lanigan’s bar.
Twelve
I turned back and went on listening to the futile ringing of the phone in the apartment while I tried to think. I just couldn’t take much more of it; pretty soon I was going to crack and start gibbering.
Maybe he still hadn’t recognized me, and I might make it. There was a cab stand at the Pemberton Avenue entrance. I hung up, reached for a cigarette, and was putting it in my mouth as I came out of the booth. I didn’t look toward him. Turning, I sauntered casually toward the entrance, pausing for a moment to look over the rack of paperback books at the newsstand as I lighted the cigarette. There was no way to tell whether he’d got up or not; looking back would be like waving a sign. I went on, waiting for the voice behind me. I reached the door. There was one cab in the taxi zone, and the driver was behind the wheel. Just as I turned and started up toward it, I glanced back through the window. He had got up, and he was coming. He signaled to somebody on one of the benches and began to walk faster.
I yanked open the door of the cab and leaped in. “Pier Nineteen,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said. He pushed the flag down and hit the starter. We pulled away from the curb. The two detectives emerged from the doorway, running now, and turned up the sidewalk after us. They shouted at the driver. He saw them in the mirror.
“Friends of yours?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Probably a couple of drunks. Keep going.”
We were a block ahead of them and gathering speed. I saw them turn and start back to the station, still running. There was no police car in sight, but the cab’s number would be on the air within seconds now. In the deserted streets at three a.m. we weren’t going to get far before they picked us up. I took two dollar bills from my wallet and held them in my hand.