Part 8 (1/2)

”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 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 screwb.a.l.l.s. ”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 s.h.i.+loh 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 h.e.l.l 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 her in the apartment?” 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 ash.o.r.e. 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 ash.o.r.e 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 city 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 ma.s.sive, thickset body in dark trousers, and a dark gray sweater with no s.h.i.+rt. ”You can have it in just a minute,” I said. I hoped he didn't fall on the booth and knock it over.