Lotty got up and turned out the kitchen light. She looked out the window, concealed partly by a hanging geranium and thin gauze curtains. “I don’t see anyone… Why not wake up Paul? He can take my car, drive it around the block a few times. Then, if no one follows him, he can pick you up in the alley. You drop him down the street.”
“I don’t like it. You’ll be without a car, and when he comes back on foot, if there is someone out there, they’ll be suspicious.”
“Vic, my dear, it’s not like you to be so full of quibbles. We won’t be without a car-we’ll have yours. As for the second-” She thought a minute. “Ah! Drop Paul at the clinic. He can finish his sleep there. We have a bed, for nights when Carol or I have to stay over.”
I laughed. “can’t think of any more quibbles, Lotty. Let’s wake up Paul and give it a try.”
Paul woke up quickly and cheerfully. When the plan was explained to him, he accepted it enthusiastically. “Want me to beat up anyone hanging around outside?”
“Unnecessary, my dear,” said Lotty, amused. “Let’s try not to attract too much attention to ourselves. There’s an all-night restaurant on Sheffield off Addison-give us a call from there.”
We left Paul to dress in privacy. He came out to the kitchen a few minutes later, pushing his black hair back from his square face with his left hand and buttoning a blue workshirt with the right. Lotty gave him her car keys. We watched the street from Lotty’s dark bedroom. No one attacked Paul as he got into the car and started it; we couldn’t see anyone follow him down the street.
I went back to the living room and dressed properly. Lotty watched me without speaking while I loaded the Smith & Wesson and stuck it into the shoulder holster. I was wearing well-cut jeans and a blouson jacket over a ribbed knit shirt.
About ten minutes later Lotty’s phone rang. “All clear,” Paul said. “There is someone out front, though. I think I’d better not drive down the alley-it might bring him around to the rear. I’ll be at the mouth of the alley at the north end of the street.”
I relayed this to Lotty. She nodded. “Why don’t you leave from the basement? You can go down there from inside, and outside the door is hidden by stairs and garbage cans.” She led me downstairs. I felt very alert, very keyed up. Through a window on the stairwell we could see the night clearing into a predawn gray. It was 4:40 and the apartment was very quiet. A siren sounded in the distance, but no traffic was going down Lotty’s street.
Lotty had brought a flashlight with her, rather than turn on a light that might show through the street-side window. She pointed it down the steps so I could see the way, then turned it off. I padded down after her. At the bottom she seized my wrist, let me around bicycles and a washing machine, and very slowly and quietly drew back the dead bolts in the outside door. There was a little click as they snapped open. She waited several minutes before pulling the door open. It moved into the basement, quietly, on oiled hinges. I slipped out up the stairs in crepe-soled shoes.
From behind the screen of garbage cans I peered into the alley. Freddie sat propped against the back of the wall at the south end of the alley two buildings down. As far as I could tell, he was asleep.
I moved quietly back down the stairs. “Give me ten minutes,” I mouthed into Lotty’s ear. “I may need a quick escape route.” Lotty nodded without speaking.
At the top of the stairs I checked Freddie again. Did he have the subtlety to fake sleep? I moved from behind the garbage cans into the shadow of the next building, my right hand on the revolver’s handle. Freddie didn’t stir. Keeping close to the walls, I moved quickly down the alley. As soon as I was halfway down, I broke into a quiet sprint.
15
The Union Maid
Paul was waiting as promised. He had a good head-the car was out of sight in the alley. I slid into the front seat and drew the door closed. “Any trouble?” he said, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb.
“No, but I recognized a guy asleep in the alley. You’d better call Lotty from the clinic. Tell her not to leave Jill alone in the apartment. Maybe she can get a police escort to the clinic. Tell her to call a Lieutenant Mallory to request it.”
“Sure thing.” He was very likable. We drove the short way to the clinic in silence. I handed him my car keys, and reiterated where the car was. “It’s a dark blue Monza.”
“Good luck,” he said in his rich voice. “Don’t worry about Jill and Lotty-I’ll take care of them.”
“I never worry about Lotty,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “She’s a force unto herself.” I adjusted the side mirror and the rearview mirror, and let in the clutch: Lotty drove a small Datsun, as practical and unadorned as she was.
I kept checking the road behind me as I drove across Addison to the Kennedy, but it seemed to be clear. The air was clammy, the damp of a muggy night before the sun would rise and turn it into smog again. The eastern sky was light now, and I was moving quickly through the empty streets. Traffic was light on the expressway, and I cleared the suburbs to the northbound Milwaukee toll road in forty-five minutes.
Lotty’s Datsun handled well, although I was out of practice with a standard shift and ground the gears a bit changing down. She had an FM radio, and I listened to WFMT well past the Illinois border. After that the reception grew fuzzy so I switched it off.
It was six in clear daylight when I reached the Milwaukee bypass. I’d never been to Hartford, but I’d been to Port Washington, thirty miles to the east of it on Lake Michigan, many times. As far as I could tell, the route was the same, except for turning west onto route 60 instead of east when you get twenty miles north of Milwaukee.
At 6:50 I eased the Datsun to a halt on Hartford’s main street, across from Ronna’s Café-Homemade Food, and in front of the First National Bank of Hartford. My heart was beating fast. I unbuckled the seat belt and got out, stretching my legs. The trip had been just under 140 miles; I’d done it in two hours and ten minutes. Not bad.
Hartford is in the beautiful moraine country, the heart of Wisconsin dairy farming. There’s a small Chrysler plant there that makes outboard motors, and up the hill I could see a Libby’s cannery. But most of the money in the town comes from farming, and people were up early. Ronna’s opened at 5:30, according to the legend on the door, and at seven most of the tables were full. I bought the Milwaukee Sentinel from a coin box by the door, and sat down at an empty table near the back.
One waitress was taking care of the crowd at the counter. Another covered all the tables. She was rushing through the swinging doors at the back, her arms loaded up with plates. Her short, curly hair had been dyed black. It was Anita McGraw.
She unloaded pancakes, fried eggs, toast, hash browns, at a table where three heavyset men in bib overalls were drinking coffee, and brought a fried egg to a good-looking young guy in a dark blue boiler suit at the table next to me. She looked at me with the harassment common to all overworked waitresses in coffee shops. “I’ll be right with you. Coffee?”
I nodded. “Take your time,” I said, opening the paper. The men in the bib overalls were kidding the good-looking guy-he was a veterinarian, apparently, and they were farmers who’d used his services. “You grow that beard to make everyone think you’re grown up. Doc?” one of them said.
“Naw, just to hide from the FBI,” the vet said. Anita was carrying a cup of coffee to me; her hand shook and she spilled it on the veterinarian. She flushed and started apologizing. I got up and took the cup from her before any more spilled, and the young man said good-naturedly, “Oh, it just wakes you up faster if you pour it all over yourself-especially if it’s still hot. Believe me, Jody,” he added as she dabbed ineffectually at the wet spot on his arm with a napkin, “this is the nicest stuff that’s likely to spill on this outfit today.”