The one who’d missed the tackle was after me now. I stopped abruptly on the landing, swinging inward toward the wall, and when he came even with me I hit him. He shot against the railing, stumbled, and rolled on down the stairs. I jumped over him and streaked for the door. Now the occupants of the lower floor were erupting into the corridor, and a fat man in a bathrobe was running to head me off.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I stuck my hand down in the pocket of the topcoat and snapped, “All right! Back inside, all of you!” The fat man skidded to a stop almost on top of me like a character in an animated cartoon, and his eyes went wide with fright. The one who’d rolled down the steps changed his mind about getting up, and froze. I slipped sidewise toward the door and got my hand on it.
“Anybody that comes out is going to get shot,” I said. I went out. The street was deserted and quiet, but I knew that wouldn’t last more than a few seconds. I could hear a siren somewhere already. I broke into a run, crossing the street and turning right. Two or three of the hardier ones had already come out of the vestibule to see which way I went.
I made the turn at the corner and was on the street parallel to the one where she was parked. The siren was screaming somewhere not over five or six blocks behind me now. I put on another burst of speed and when I reached the next corner I shot a glance behind me. The cruiser still wasn’t in sight, and nobody was chasing me on foot. I turned left and ran down the street parallel to Randall, headed toward her. She might be gone now, or if they were in sight when I reached the car I’d have to run on by and ignore her, but there was still a chance. I reached the corner. The Olds was still there.
I looked back. A car was coming slowly along the street behind me, but it had no police markings. I shot across the pavement and climbed in. She already had the engine running. We tore away from the curb. I was gasping for breath. She asked no questions. We swung left at the next corner and sped along a quiet street for two blocks. I watched the mirror. There were two or three cars behind us but no flashing lights or sirens. She turned left again, and when we crossed Randall I looked up the street. There was a police car and a crowd of people before the apartment house, and another cruiser was just screeching around the corner beyond it where I had turned. We were in the clear. I sighed. She slowed a little now and went on over and hit the arterial, turning left, away from downtown.
I fumbled cigarettes out of my pocket and noticed I’d hurt my right hand again; the knuckles were skinned, and it was beginning to swell. I lighted two cigarettes, and passed one to her.
“Thanks,” I said. “But you shouldn’t have waited. You’re taking too many chances.”
“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. “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 screwballs. “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 Shiloh 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 hell 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 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.”