“No,” he told her, keeping his voice thick, “he didn’t have any money.”
“Oh, Jo — ey!” Marge wailed. “What did that louse mean—?”
“See here, Marge,” Devlin broke in brusquely. “I can’t stay here all night talking to you. I’m not — I’m not in very good shape, Marge,” he added. In his anxiety and frantic hope for a word, a clue that might give him even a vague idea of what had happened to him, Devlin had forgotten his throbbing temple. Now, the pain came sharply, and he groaned aloud.
“Joey — what happened? Are you hurt?”
“I got — hit on the head,” he told her, his words slurring. He turned his head slowly to the side, hoping to give her the impression of fading strength. “Things are going round and round. I’m dizzy and all mixed up. I can’t — remember — things. I’ve got to get out of here before I pass out again.”
“Joey — don’t. Listen to me, Joey. Come on home — now.”
“Home? Where is — home?” he mumbled. “Forgot — can’t remember — anything. Tell me — tell—” He made a croaking sound in his throat, holding his lips close against the mouthpiece now.
“Damn you!” she said angrily, and then there was silence.
Devlin pressed the receiver against his ear so hard that it hurt. “Marge — Marge—” He was sure she hadn’t hung up. He hadn’t heard a click.
“Who are you?” The words were cold, hard, suspicious. “How do I know you’re Joey? You don’t sound like—”
“I am Joey,” Devlin said, alarmed. “It’s just that I’m sick — I’m hurt—”
“And having this call traced while you keep talking,” she snapped, and there was a harsh click of her receiver.
Devlin slowly lowered the receiver, stared at it for a moment, then placed it on the hook with a shaking hand. Dead — silent — like the body on the floor. Mysterious as his twelve lost days. Sweat was streaming down his face and he was breathing heavily. He had messed that up, too. Now he would never know who Marge was. He didn’t know whether he was Joey or Skid, or, as she had suspicioned, someone else entirely.
Of course she had become suspicious when he didn’t know where home was — Joey’s home. If he had played it smarter he might have found out, but it was too late now. The thread that might have led back into the lost dozen days was severed.
Devlin went over and sat down on the thin mattress. Remembering the agony of getting up from it, he dared not lie down. For the first time in his life he became cagey, wary, cautious and evasive, like an animal seeking to avoid a trap. He, Arthur Devlin, whose life had, heretofore, been an open book.
What had he become in twelve days?
Had he become Joey to a woman named Marge? And what sort of a person was Joey? What horrible identity had he assumed during those twelve days to be called endearing names by a woman who was glad he had murdered a man and angry because he had no money on him?
None of these questions could be answered so long as he cringed in this bleak bare room with the two hats and a corpse. He had to get out, back to the security of his own apartment and his own identity, where he could think things out and decide what to do. Every moment he stayed here was dangerous.
He got up from the bed and tiptoed to the door and pressed his ear against the thin panel. There was deathly silence. Except for the wicker chair, the iron bedstead, and the memory of the automobile horns, he might have been on a desert island somewhere in the Caribbean Sea.
He went back to the lavatory and washed his hands, splashed more water on his face and hair, drank several handfuls of water, then combed his hair with his fingers. The bump on his head was conspicuous, but the pain was easing.
Then he remembered the hats. He turned to look at them. The straw one seemed to fit the ensemble worn by the dead man. As Joey, the gray felt must have been the one he had worn. He abhorred hats, but he needed a hat for concealment, and the soft felt would be kind to his aching lump. He went over and stooped carefully, holding his head up to ward off a throb, and picked it up. He eased it on his head, thankful that the size was too large, pulled the brim low, and turned to the mirror. It hid his face quite well.
He went over and pulled the chain above the lavatory. The room was in utter darkness except for the faint glow around the drawn shade at the lone window. He took a deep breath and went shakily to the door, opened and closed it, and found himself in a narrow corridor lit by a tiny bulb that led past two closed doors on either side to a wooden stairway leading down.
He clung to the railing, stepping cautiously and quietly. He wanted to run, but he remembered that criminals, murderers, were suspected when they ran. From now on he must be wary, slow, keep himself above suspicion.
He still had another flight that led to a tiny foyer and double doors that led outside — and escape. In his agony and suspense he had forgotten the healing balm of fresh air. Slow and easy was his best bet from now on. If he could get outside without attracting attention and back to his apartment he was sure he could throw this horrible nightmare into the rubbish heap. He could probably go to bed and wake up again and remember it only as a dream.
The second step from the bottom creaked loudly, dispelling his hope. He was startled when a door on his left was jerked open. A little man stood in the doorway, bald and wizened and with an ingratiating smile on his face.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I’m sorta jumpy tonight. Just couldn’t get sleepin’ sound.”
“It’s me,” said Arthur Devlin, and started on.
“Found your friend all right, I reckon. In three-oh-four?”
Devlin turned his head and tried to hide his chin against the pinkish tie. “Sure. Thanks.”
The old man said something else, but Devlin reached the front door, opened it, swung it shut behind him, and stepped outside into the cool balmy night. For a moment he leaned against the building and drew fresh air into his lungs, noting that the street was now deserted. His heart stopped its pounding, and he looked at the number above the door. The house was a duplicate of two others pressed close against it on either side, all of them, he guessed, cheap boarding-houses. The number was 819.
He started walking toward a corner where there was a bright street light, hoping against hope that a taxi would come along. He was close enough to see the street sign — Palmleaf Avenue — when he heard a car stop. He turned and saw that it was a taxi. A very drunk man was getting out, and as Devlin tried to make his legs move rapidly, he saw the man swaying and trying to take money from his wallet. He raised his hand and called out, but his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
He went on toward the taxi, trying to impress the number he had seen above the door of the rooming-house and the name of the street upon his foggy memory. 819 Palmleaf Avenue. He could not recall ever having heard of it before, and it was not likely he would ever be allowed to forget it.
The drunk was staggering across the sidewalk toward the door of a rooming-house, leaving the rear door of the taxi open. Devlin got in and closed it.
The driver turned and looked suspiciously at Devlin. “What you want, bud?” he asked scathingly.
“What do you think I want?” said Devlin angrily.
“In a district like this—”
“Get going,” Devlin commanded. The luxury of the wide rear seat and the prospect of getting back to his comfortable apartment brought the first sense of well-being he had felt since returning to consciousness.
“Listen, bud, where you wanta go?” the driver asked insolently.
“To the Clairmount Apartments,” Devlin snapped.
The taxi moved forward. “Only Clairmount I know is on the Beach.” His tone sharply questioned Devlin’s right to be taken to the swanky neighborhood.