I ran into the kitchen. The moment she walked in she’d see the open can of food and the coffee, and I had to grab her before she could back out and run. I could hear the car’s engine, still running, and then the click of high heels on concrete. The garage doors slammed shut in a heavy gust of wind that shook the cottage. I waited tensely inside the door. Nothing happened. Maybe she’d gone outside and was going to come in through the front door. I ran back, slipping noiselessly across the tile, and listened beside the window. There was no one on the porch, unless she was standing utterly still. I parted the drape enough to peer. out. She was nowhere in sight. Rain was beating across the porch and against the window.
I hurried back to the kitchen again and stood silently with my ear against the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps. She must be getting something out of the car. It had been several minutes now since she’d driven in. I could still hear the car’s engine running, just barely audible above the sound of the rain. Had she discovered the broken pane of glass in that window and run out? No, that was ridiculous. Anyway, if something had scared her she’d have backed the car out. I waited, growing more puzzled with every minute. There was something spooky about it. Why didn’t she at least shut off the engine? I could smell carbon monoxide beginning to seep in around the edge of the door. Was she trying to commit suicide?
I unlocked the door and gently pushed it open a few inches. Even with the broken pane of glass in the window, the exhaust smell was overpowering. I didn’t see her anywhere. It was almost dark with the front doors closed, but the left-hand door of the car was open, so the ceiling light was on, and I could see she wasn’t in it. Where could she have gone? The car practically filled the garage. I looked farther back then and saw her—or rather, I saw an arm and a hand in back of the rear wheel on this side. She’d fallen between the rear of the car and the garage doors, and was lying right under the tailpipe.
I jumped down the two steps, opened the car door on this side, and shut off the ignition. Already beginning to choke on the fumes, I knelt, caught her by both arms, and pulled her out from under the overhang of the trunks. She was a big woman, and heavy, with the limp, dead weight of the unconscious. I was gasping by the time I got her across my shoulder. I hurried into the kitchen, kicked the door shut, and sped toward the bedroom with her. Rolling her off onto the bed, I turned her on her back just under the window and put a hand on her chest. She was still breathing. I parted the drape. The window was a casement type. I unlatched one side and cranked it open a few inches to catch the wind. Holding the bottom of the drape, I forced the blast of fresh air down across her face. She had on lipstick, so it was impossible to tell whether her lips were blue or not, but the color of the rest of her face seemed to be all right. A few drops of ram blew in on her, and she stirred faintly. She was going to come around, all right, but if I’d waited another five minutes before going out there she’d have been dead.
She’d probably been hit by that door when it slammed shut. Then I remembered the way she’d weaved as she got back in the car the first time, and bent down to sniff her breath. At least part of Suzy Patton’s trouble—if this was Suzy Patton—was that she was crocked to the teeth. I didn’t know how carbon monoxide and alcohol mixed in the human system, but I had a hunch she was going to be a very sick girl in a few minutes. I slipped off the high-heeled sling pumps and kicked open the bathroom door. She began to retch. I half-led and half-carried her and held her up. When she was through being sick, I wet a wash cloth at the basin and bathed her face while she leaned weakly against the bathroom wall with her eyes closed. She didn’t open them until she was back on the bed. She took one look at me and said, “Oh, good God!” and closed them again. She made a feeble attempt to pull her skirt down. I straightened it for her, and she lay still. I went out in the living room and lighted a cigarette. I could handle her all right, but if the police came by again and noticed those garage doors were unlocked, I was dead. I looked at my watch. It would be at least three more hours before it was dark.
I stood in the doorway and looked at her. She was a big girl and a striking one, with blonde hair almost as white as cotton. Close to five-nine, I thought. Probably thirty to thirty-three years old. She wore her hair in one of those short haircuts they used to call Italian; I didn’t know what they were called now. She was dressed in a dark skirt, soft dark sweater, and a rust-colored shorty coat. She wore gold earrings, and an expensive-looking watch, but no rings of any kind. It was a handsome face, and even as sick as she was now there was the stamp of vitality on it.
I went out and heated the coffee. When I came back with a cup of it she was sitting up on the edge of the bed holding her head. “Try a little of this,” I said.
She sighed. “Are you still here? I thought I’d died and gone to hell.”
She didn’t seem to be particularly scared. Probably the way she felt at the moment she considered that anything that could happen to her now would have to be for the better. I held out the coffee, and she took a sip of it. I lighted a cigarette and passed it over.
She took a drag on it and shuddered. “What happened?”
“I pulled you out from under the back of your car. One of the garage doors must have conked you.”
She felt the back of her head. She winced. “I remember now. And the engine was still running, wasn’t it? I tried to get up and passed out.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said.
She looked up at me and shook her head. “I think you’re out of focus. You look like Spartacus, and sound like Sergeant Friday. Who are you, and how’d you get in here?”
“My name’s Foley,” I said. “And I broke in.”
“Oh. Then you must be the one they’re looking for. Those roadblocks out on the highway.”
“Are they searching the cars?”
“Just slowing them down, I think, and looking in. I was too busy being sober to pay much attention.”
I held out the coffee again. She drank a little more of it. “Why are they looking for you?” she asked.
“They think I killed a policeman.”
She glanced up quickly. “Oh. I think that was in the paper this morning. Something about a fight.”
“That’s it,” I said. I set the coffee on the dresser. “How do you feel now?”
“Terrible. But thanks for pulling me out of there. You saved my life, such as it is.”
“Is anybody meeting you here?” I asked.
“No. Why?”
“I had to know. Is this your cottage?” She nodded.
“Then you’re Suzy Patton?”
“That’s right. Suzy Patton, the has-been. The written-out writer.”
I wondered if she were still drunk. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s something an ex-writer never attempts to explain to a non-writer. There’s no language, if you follow me.”
”I probably don’t,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. Just keep quiet, and don’t try to call the police or get out of here.”
“Are you trying to threaten me?” she asked.
“Don’t get tough,” I told her. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I’ll tie you up if I have to.”
“What do you expect to gain by that?”
“Time. If I can hide out long enough, they may think I’ve got away, and I can get out.”
She had clear gray eyes that didn’t seem to be afraid of much of anything. “That’s a stupid procedure. Why don’t you give yourself up?”
“I’d get life. Or the electric chair. Cut it out.”