I was in the middle of a neighborhood business district. Opposite me, colored lights blazed on and off on the marquee of a movie theater, and on the other side of the street was a big drugstore. Cars slid to a stop and horns began to blow. I ran for the curb.
“Purse snatcher!” somebody yelled. A man leaped from a stalled car and tried to head me off. I dodged him. Two more along the sidewalk took up the chase. A woman was screaming, “Call the police! Call the police.” At the corner ahead was a filling station, and two men in white coveralls were running out in the street to stop me. I was cut off in that direction. I whirled in the middle of the street and went the other way, dodging through the cars. I made it onto the sidewalk beyond the drugstore. A man reached for me. I swung an arm and knocked him down. Just as I reached the corner I heard a siren somewhere behind me. Half dozen men were chasing me now. I turned the corner and ran another block. I was drawing away from them. It was a residential area here, and not so well lighted. I was under trees again. I crossed another intersection and ran on. All the men on foot had given up now, but the siren was still wailing and when I looked back I saw headlights. There was an alley in the middle of the block. I ducked into it. The police car went past. Halfway down the alley a gate was open into a back yard. I slipped into it, hoping there was no dog. None challenged me. I pushed the gate closed and slid into dense shadows in a clump of oleanders. I could hear another siren screaming in the direction of the business district.
Lights were on in the house, but the curtains were drawn over the window facing the back yard. I could see the silhouettes of the occupants as they moved across the room. I was gasping for breath and my side and abdomen hurt as if they’d been beaten with clubs. My hat was gone, as well as the briefcase, but I still had the alligator purse in a death grip under my arm. Minutes went by and I began to get my breath. I touched my side, exploring the area just under my ribs, and winced.
I’d been holding the briefcase about there, under my arm. There’d been a New Yorker in it, and a copy of Fortune. The slug must have hit them at just a slight angle and they’d turned it before it could go all the way through, but I’d still taken the full impact of it. There was no wonder it had spun me around and knocked me down.
The lights went out in the rear of the house and I heard music come on somewhere inside. The sounds of pursuit had died away now, but I had to ditch the purse before I dared go back out on the street again. It was too big to hide. I opened it and knelt in the shadow of the oleanders and flicked on the cigarette lighter, shielding the flame with my body. When I flipped open the wallet, the first thing I saw was a driver’s license. I slipped it out and dropped the wallet back in the purse. Frances Celaya, it said. 2712 Randall Street, Apartment 203. And in the bottom of the purse, amid the clutter of bobby pins, lipstick, mirror, and comb, was a key. I’d had to get shot to do it, but I’d got just what I was after. I dropped the key and driver’s license in the pocket of my topcoat, and shoved the purse far back into the oleanders. It would be safer to wait another half hour or so, but I was in a hurry now. Slipping out the gate, I went on down the alley. When I came out onto the next street, it was quiet. I turned left, going away from the business district. After five or six blocks I began to breathe more freely. Apparently the police regarded it as a routine purse-snatching; if they’d recognized me from the description, the area would be saturated with patrol cars. But now that I’d lost my hat, trying to move anywhere in the open was dangerous. I’d have to find a phone booth. I went on through the quiet residential streets. After another ten or fifteen minutes I saw a traffic light some four or five blocks down an intersecting street and headed that way.
The name of the street was Octavia, and I was in the 700 block. Just around the corner was a small neighbored shopping center; I could see a supermarket that was still open, a bakery, and a drugstore. There were no police cars in sight. I ducked into the drugstore, feeling naked in the light, but no one paid any attention to me. There were telephone booths. I slipped into one and dialed the apartment. Suzy answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?” she asked quickly. “Are you all right?”
“So far,” I said. “But I had a little trouble. And I’ve lost the hat. Can you pick me up?”
“I’m on my way. Where are you?”
I told her. “Just park in the supermarket lot. I’ll come out and get in.”
“I think I know where Octavia is. It’ll be about twenty minutes. Try to stay out of sight.”
“Sure,” I said. She hung up. I dropped in another dime and dialed the number of that phone booth in the Sidelines Bar. A man answered.
“Is Red there?” I asked.
“Just a moment.”
I waited. In a minute somebody picked up the receiver and I heard the door close. “Red?” I asked softly.
“Yeah. How are you, boy?”
“Still afloat, anyway,” I said. “But, listen. You may be in trouble now. Watch your step and don’t go down any dark alleys.”
“What is it?”
“That girl you told me about—Miss Stacked, Dark, and Deadly. I located her and tried to follow her home to find out who she was and where she lived, and she lowered the boom on me, but good. She also has a very rugged boy friend. She may figure out that it could have been you that put me on her trail. If she does, lock your door and hide under the bed.”
“Thanks for the tip. But what are you going to do?”
“Go see her. I’ve got her name and address now.”
“But, look. How about hiring a lawyer and giving yourself up? I’ll call Wittner for you. He’s the best in the state.”
“No,” I said. “There’s not a shred of proof she had anything to do with Stedman. I don’t know who the boy friend is, and believe me, they’d never get it out of her.”
“But if she recognized you, she must have seen you in Stedman’s apartment.”
“Sure. That’s the only place she could have seen me before. But we can’t prove it. So far, we can’t prove anything. I’ve got the key to her apartment, though, and I want to see what I can find.”
“Well, be careful, will you?”
I hung up and looked at my watch. It was five of nine, and it would be at least another fifteen minutes before she could get here. A phone booth was a good place to stay out of sight. I fished out another dime of the twenty she’d provided me with this morning.
I looked up the number of the Seamen’s Union, dialed it, and got hold of the dispatcher. “I’m trying to locate a seaman named Bullard,” I said. “Would you take a gander and see if he’s on your beach list?”
“What’s the first name?” he asked.
“There you’ve got me,” I replied. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure he’s a member, or that he goes to sea any more. But he’s a great big guy, built like an anchor windlass. And if he does ship out it’s probably on deck.”
“Hmmm, let’s see—No, there’s nobody named Bullard on the beach right now. But we got several members by that name—I know two myself. Johnny Bullard and Step-and-a-half Bullard. I think Step’s first name is Raymond. Bad knee. Strafed on the Murmansk run in World War I— “