Man On The Run Part 10

I reached the corner and cut left around it. There was no use trying to reach Suzy. They were too close behind me, and they'd get her too. Somewhere behind me the siren cut loose. One was still after me on foot while the other went around the block in the car to head me off. He'd use the car radio to call in, and the whole area would be surrounded in a few minutes. I heard the pounding footsteps come around the corner behind me. They stopped. He was going to shoot again. There were some trees along the sidewalk here, and I cut right and ran out into the street to put their trunks in the line of fire. He didn't shoot.

Directly opposite me was the mouth of an alley. I sped into it. I couldn't hear him any longer, but when I looked back he was still coming, about half a block away. Then I heard the siren up ahead? They had me bottled up. But the car went down the street past the mouth of the alley just before I came out. I crossed the street behind it and into a continuation of the alley in the next block. Just before I came out of it, I looked back again. He was no longer in sight. I emerged on the sidewalk. The street was deserted. But I could hear sirens. They were converging now from every direction.

My legs were weak and shaky now, and my side hurt badly. I fought to get my breath. It was useless; why not give myself up? They had me. They'd throw a ring of cars and men around an area eight or ten blocks square and search it inch-by-inch. They wanted me so badly now they could taste it. I'd been eluding them for a week, and now I'd killed a girl. Nothing could ever save me from that one. I'd gone to Randall Street looking for her. And when they finally found me I was in her apartment and she'd just been murdered.

I quit trying to think and started running again, operating on pure instinct. I turned left. In the next block there was another alley. I ducked into it. Rubber screamed behind me as a car made a turn into the street I'd just left. Up ahead there were more sirens. It was shadowy in the alley, with lights only at the ends, but there was no place to hide. I stopped and collapsed beside some garbage cans, sobbing for breath.

I was behind a two-story commercial building of some kind. Directly above me was a fire escape ladder that terminated about eight or nine feet from the ground. I stood up and leaped for it, and caught the bottom rung. I held on for a second, heaved up, and caught the next one. In a minute I was far enough up to get my feet on the lower rungs. I went on up, slid over the wall, and dropped onto the roof. I looked back. No one had come into the alley yet. I could stay out of sight up here until they gave up, until tomorrow night if necessary, and then get out. Then I looked around, and my heart sank.

Adjoining the building on the left was an apartment house some two stories higher, and there were windows on this side. When daybreak came, somebody would see me down here. I looked the other way. The building on the right was also two stories higher than this one, and going up the side of it near the front was a steel ladder. I pushed myself up and went over to it, took one more deep breath, and started to climb. When I was halfway up I looked down and saw that anyone in the street could see me if he happened to look up. A police car was stopped at the corner and two men in uniform were getting out. I tried to run up the ladder. My knees were shaky, and my arms felt like lead. I almost missed a rung with one hand, and held on, sobbing for breath. Then I was at the top. I tumbled over the wall and fell onto the gravel of the roof. I lay there, too spent even to move, and listened to the baffled snarls of sirens in the street four stories down.

Then a voice said, right above me, "Hey, move your head, will you? You're on my ephemeris."

Maybe I was beginning to crack up. It was very dark, because of the four-foot wall around the edge of the roof that shut out the light from the streets. Then a flashlight came on, squarely in front of my face. It had red paper tied across the lens and made nothing but a faint glow. A hand came down and pushed my head a little to one side and slid something from under it. It seemed to be a pamphlet of some kind.

I drew in another shaky breath. "I've got a gun," I said harshly. "You make one sound, and I'll shoot!"

"Good," the voice muttered absently. "That's fine. Hmmm-here we are. Declination thirty-two forty-seven." The light went out.

I rolled over and managed to push myself to a sitting position with my back against the wall. Then I could make out the three shadowy legs of a tripod. Above it was something like a section of stovepipe, slanted at an angle toward the sky, and sitting on a little bench to one side of it was the dark figure of a man. He was bundled up in a lot of clothes against the cold and was hunched over the lower end of the stovepipe with his eye against the side of it. I knew what it was then. It was a telescope, and he was an amateur astronomer.

"What are you watching?" I asked.

He made no reply. He made a slight adjustment to the mounting of the telescope and went on looking. "Fine," he muttered.

He wasn't going to call the police; it was doubtful he even knew I was here. He was out there among the light years. I took out a cigarette and lighted it.

"If you've got to flash lights, go somewhere else," he said irritably.

"Sure," I said. I had my wind back now. I pushed to my feet and walked over to the rear of the roof to look down in the alley. A police car was crawling slowly through it. I sat down with my back against the wall, trying to think. I'd got soaked with sweat while I was running, and now I was beginning to be cold. I shivered.

How much longer could this nightmare go on? And what was the point of it now? There had been some hope at first, as long as there was a chance I might find out who had killed Stedman, but now everything was blown up. Frances Celaya had killed him, without a doubt, but I not only didn't know why or have the slightest bit of proof, but I was also wanted for killing her.

There was one other person involved in it, but I didn't have any lead to him at all except that he was as big as a horse and I thought he was a seaman. He'd taken care of that, all right. The only way to find out who he was had been through her, so he'd killed her and then made sure there was nothing in her apartment that could point to him in any way. He knew I had the purse with her identification in it and that I might eventually catch up with her. Or that sooner or later the police were going to catch up with me, and I just might sell them on the idea of at least investigating her. And there was always the possibility I might call the police. Then I stopped short.

That big drunk! The one who'd pushed open the door of the telephone booth! It was a thousand-to-one shot, but it would fit. Suppose he'd been following me, looking for a chance to kill me? But, wait. Where could he have picked up my trail? I'd lost him, along with the police, after I'd grabbed the purse. Then I saw it; it was absurdly simple. At her old Randall Street apartment house, of course.

He'd known there was a good chance I'd go for the address on the driver's license, and he'd driven over there and waited. I'd come out running, so he didn't have a chance to get me, but he'd followed us after I got in the car with Suzy. There'd been a car behind me in the street but I hadn't paid any attention to it because I could see it wasn't the police. He couldn't get me there at the phone booths because the place was right out in the open, well lighted, and populated with shoppers from the supermarket. All he had was a knife, and it might take several minutes to do the job. But he'd pretended to be drunk and opened the door to get a good look at me. And then he'd gone into the other booth to eavesdrop.

By G.o.d, that was it! I tried to remember the exact sequence of the conversation with Brannan. I'd told him about the big killer and my hunch he might be a seaman, but that was before the drunk had shown up. And after he had gone into the other booth I hadn't mentioned him at all. I'd simply said to Brannan, "How about spending a few minutes of your time trying to find the fugitive that did did kill Stedman?" I'd even spelled her name and told him where she worked. It would have been obvious to anybody listening that I was talking to the police. I broke off and shuddered. I might as well have strangled her myself. kill Stedman?" I'd even spelled her name and told him where she worked. It would have been obvious to anybody listening that I was talking to the police. I broke off and shuddered. I might as well have strangled her myself.

That was all right; I'd feel sorry about it some day when I had more time. She'd got me into this whole mess by killing Stedman and hanging it on me, and then she'd tried to butcher me too. From where I sat, she had it coming to her, and the only thing wrong with it was the fact that now I was hopelessly saddled with Stedman's murder. And hers. I wished she could have lived long enough to do a little talking.

I sat up suddenly. I had to warn Suzy! That gorilla knew where she lived, and he might try to get her too. If he'd followed us from Randall Street to those phone booths, he must have tailed us all the way to the apartment. She was with me, so he would figure she was after him too. G.o.d, maybe it was already too late. And just how was I going to warn her? They had me treed like a racc.o.o.n on top of this building.

But maybe there was a pay phone in the building. Sometimes in cheap apartment houses where a lot of the tenants didn't have phones of their own there were pay phones in the corridor on each floor. I sprang up and strode over to the big man with his telescope. He still had his eye glued to it.

My eyes were well accustomed to the darkness now, and I could see him somewhat better. He appeared to be about forty, rather moon-faced, heavy-set, and wide across the shoulders, but soft-looking. He wore a cap, a scarf around his neck, and one of those he-mannish coats that sports car fanatics went in for, a three-quarter length affair with wooden dowels for b.u.t.tons.

"Is there a pay phone anywhere in the building?" I asked.

He made no reply.

I reached down, caught him by the arms, and hauled him to his feet "Pay attention, friend," I said. "I'm talking to you."

He stared at me in surprise and outrage. "What's the matter with you? Can't you see I'm busy? If you want to look at Saturn, go bother somebody else. I'm studying the Cepheid variables."

I shook him. "Come back and join us for a minute. The planet I want to talk about is this one. Remember it? It has people on it. And they sometimes use things called telephones. Is there a pay phone down there in the corridors?"

"No," he said.

"Have you got one in your apartment?"

"I have not," he said irritably. "Now, will you please get out."

"Not yet," I said. "Peel off that bird-watchers' coat and hand it here. And the cap."

For the first time he looked slightly nervous. "Are you going to rob me?"

"No. I'm just trading coats with you. And since mine's got a bullet hole in it I'll give you twenty dollars to boot."

"I never heard anything so ridiculous-"

"Get it off," I said. "Or I'll kick your telescope."

He'd decided by now I was crazy, so he took it off and handed it to me, along with the cap. I handed him two tens and felt in the pockets of the gabardine for anything I'd left in them. I came out with a small, folded piece of paper. What-? Then I remembered. It was that girl's name and telephone number I'd taken from Frances Celaya's purse. I shrugged and dropped it in the pocket of my suit coat. He put on the gabardine, muttering to himself. "Twelve straight days of either clouds or turbulence, and then when you get one hour of good viewing-"

I put on his. The cap was slightly too large, but I could keep it on my head. He had sat down again, glued his eye to the telescope, and forgotten I even existed. I wondered if he was married. Well, it probably didn't matter, I thought. The average wife might have a little trouble understanding how you could trade coats with somebody on the roof of a four-story building at two o'clock in the morning, but no doubt his had become accustomed to the fuzzier types of explanation. I didn't really think anything of it at the time, dear. I was just sitting there studying the Cepheid variables, and this man came by- I located the door and went down a flight of steps to the top floor. The corridors were poorly lighted and deserted. They were rather depressing with landlord-tan wallpaper and the smells of old cooking. I met no one at all. In the corridor on the ground floor, just inside the front door, there was a mirror hanging on the wall above a small table containing a potted plant of some kind. I stopped and checked myself. The coat and cap were fine, and I looked entirely different, but there was a scratch on my left cheek and a little streak of dried blood. I rubbed at it with a moistened forefinger and then my handkerchief, and got most of it off. I turned up the collar of the coat, tilted the cap at a careless angle, and sauntered out, feeling scared as h.e.l.l. It might work or it might not, but I had to get to a phone, even if they caught me.

The streets were almost completely deserted. That made it even worse; anybody moving at all was conspicuous. There wasn't a police car in sight at the moment, however. I went up to the corner and turned left. Straight ahead about fifteen or twenty blocks I could see the tall buildings of the downtown area. If I could make it, that would be the easiest place to find a phone at this time in the morning.

I was crossing the intersection when I saw a squad car turn into the street about three blocks up. It stopped, the men in it apparently talking to the uniformed cop on the corner. Then it shot ahead, coming toward me. They'd seen me. The only way to do it was play it very cool, no matter how scared I was. If they actually stopped and asked me for identification, of course, I was done for, but they might not if I didn't show any nervousness. I went on at the same pace, stepped up on the curb, and paused to light a cigarette. They slowed, made the turn, and crawled past me on the other side of the street. I could feel the eyes on me. I glanced briefly in their direction, took a puff on the cigarette, and kept on. They went on past. I felt weak all over. They turned right at the next corner and disappeared.

I made a full block before I had to go through it again. This one was coming, toward me, along this side of the street. They saw me, came on faster, and then slowed. They were going to stop. Then their radio said something in a staccato burst of sound, and they shot ahead, cutting in the siren. When they were a few blocks away I stopped and listened. I could hear three sirens closing in on some place back there. I sighed. Somebody had probably reported a prowler, and now some of the heat was off me. I started walking faster. I was three blocks away and then five. After ten I stopped counting. I was out of the area now.

I crossed Pemberton Avenue, in the edge of downtown. The Greyhound bus terminal was only a block away on my right. The bars were all closed now, and that would be the nearest place with phone booths. Should I risk it? They had men watching it. But they'd never take a second look at me in this crazy sport coat. I was safer in a crowd, anyway, and the bus station always had people in it. I turned and hurried toward it.

Fifteen or twenty people were boredly reading papers or trying to sleep sitting up on the benches, and some more were drinking coffee at the lunch counter further back. The phone booths were to the left of the lunch counter. I stepped into the first one, dropped in a dime, and dialed. The phone rang. And then again. After awhile I was conscious that I was counting the rings and that I was very scared. She'd helped me, and I may have got her killed.

I hung up. Now what? If I could get out there, I couldn't get in. If she were still out somewhere, there was no way I could warn her. But maybe she'd got bored and started on that vodka again. I'd wait a few minutes and try again.

Then I remembered that phone number I'd got from Frances Celaya's purse. I hauled it out of my pocket and looked at it. GL 2-4378 Marilyn GL 2-4378 Marilyn. From the way the paper was creased, it had been in her purse for months, and I didn't see how it could have anything to do with Stedman, but this was all we had left so I might as well try it I dropped in a dime, and dialed a number. A man answered.

"Is Marilyn there?" I asked. "Yeah, she's here," he replied.

I came alert; this might be something after all. "Could I speak to her, please?"

"What're you, a d.a.m.n wise guy?" he snarled, and hung up.

I stared blankly at the receiver, and put it back on the hook. Maybe this was the way you cracked up; things just quit making any sense. No doubt it was perfectly logical- I stopped, wondering how I could have been so stupid. I should have known it all the time. Ducking around to the side of the booth I grabbed the directory. I flipped to the yellow pages, found what I was looking for, and ran my finger down the telephone numbers of the watchmen's shacks on the Munic.i.p.al docks.

Pier Five was GLenwood 2-4378. And Marilyn was a boat.

A shrimper or commercial fisherman, I thought. Pier Five was where they tied up. Now we were getting somewhere. Then I thought of Suzy again, with that cold uneasiness inside me. Before I went out I had to try once more. I dropped the book, and when I turned to go back in the booth I was looking directly at a man at this end of the lunch counter. He had a cup of coffee and a newspaper in front of him, but his eyes were on my face. Then he looked away and picked up his paper. His face was vaguely familiar, and a little whisper of warning ran along my nerves. But, h.e.l.l, n.o.body would recognize me in this sporty outfit. I entered the booth and dialed Suzy's number. The phone rang and went on ringing, but there was no answer. The fear grew worse. I turned my head, and the man at the counter was looking toward the booth with a thoughtful expression on his face. I recognized him now. He was a detective, one of Stedman's friends I'd seen several times at Red Lanigan's bar.

Twelve

I turned back and went on listening to the futile ringing of the phone in the apartment while I tried to think. I just couldn't take much more of it; pretty soon I was going to crack and start gibbering.

Maybe he still hadn't recognized me, and I might make it. There was a cab stand at the Pemberton Avenue entrance. I hung up, reached for a cigarette, and was putting it in my mouth as I came out of the booth. I didn't look toward him. Turning, I sauntered casually toward the entrance, pausing for a moment to look over the rack of paperback books at the newsstand as I lighted the cigarette. There was no way to tell whether he'd got up or not; looking back would be like waving a sign. I went on, waiting for the voice behind me. I reached the door. There was one cab in the taxi zone, and the driver was behind the wheel. Just as I turned and started up toward it, I glanced back through the window. He had got up, and he was coming. He signaled to somebody on one of the benches and began to walk faster.

I yanked open the door of the cab and leaped in. "Pier Nineteen," I said.

"Yes, sir," he said. He pushed the flag down and hit the starter. We pulled away from the curb. The two detectives emerged from the doorway, running now, and turned up the sidewalk after us. They shouted at the driver. He saw them in the mirror.

"Friends of yours?" he asked.

"No," I said. "Probably a couple of drunks. Keep going."

We were a block ahead of them and gathering speed. I saw them turn and start back to the station, still running. There was no police car in sight, but the cab's number would be on the air within seconds now. In the deserted streets at three a.m. we weren't going to get far before they picked us up. I took two dollar bills from my wallet and held them in my hand.

We turned right on Walker and headed downtown. We pa.s.sed a patrol car going in the other direction. It paid no attention to us. The lights were all blinking amber along Walker and we didn't have, to stop. Ten blocks ahead we swung left into Western Avenue and were headed for the ship channel and waterfront, less than twp miles away now. We met another cruising patrol car. It went on past. I watched it. We were about eight blocks away when I saw it suddenly make a U-turn in the middle of the block. It came toward us, gathering speed.

"Turn right at the next corner," I told the driver.

"But-"

"I said turn right."

There was no siren yet, but they were closing on us fast. We made the turn. "Stop!" I told him. He knew something was wrong and slammed on the brakes. I dropped the two dollar bills on his lap and was out before the car stopped moving. "Get going!" I told him. He went on.

I lunged across the sidewalk and jumped into a shadowy area between two buildings, out of range of the street light. The police car made the turn on screaming rubber and went past. The taxi was about three blocks away. I cut across the street directly behind the police car, headed diagonally up toward the next corner and ran as fast as I could. Just as I reached the corner and turned down the intersecting street I heard the siren cut loose. They'd been chasing it so far merely because it was the same type of cab as that on the broadcast and they wanted to check the number, but now they'd got that in their headlights. They'd be back here in less than a minute. I reached the next corner and turned right. I was one block over now and parallel to the street they were on.

It was an industrial area, not far from Denton Street, and probably half a mile or less from the railroad yards. It was deserted this time of morning, and shadowy between the widely s.p.a.ced street lamps. I reached a big warehouse on the next corner and stopped to look up the intersecting street. The patrol car shot past up in the next block, running without the siren. I ran straight ahead, across the intersection, and went on, driving hard. My only chance lay in getting as far from that place as possible before the other cars began pouring into the area. Two blocks further on, I turned left again, toward the railroad yards and the ship channel. I could hear the sirens now. They were something that would haunt my dreams for years-if I lived that long.

Two more blocks and I knew I couldn't run any further without rest. Across the street was a vacant lot piled high with big sections of sewer pipe. I ran over, ducked in between two stacks, and lay down in the weeds behind them. It was very dark. I rolled over on my left side, because of the pain in my right, pillowed my head on my arm, and struggled for breath. I heard a car go past the corner on whining tires, but paid no attention. There'd been too much of it, and I didn't even feel anything any more; I just avoided them mechanically, like an animal that has been trained to perform a trick at the correct signal. I wanted to reach the Marilyn, Marilyn, but after that I didn't care. If I found out nothing there, I was going to quit running. but after that I didn't care. If I found out nothing there, I was going to quit running.

I started thinking about Suzy and kept seeing her lying on the floor beside the door in the living room, killed by that cold-blooded thug. It would be so easy for him; all he'd have to do was knock, and she'd open because she would think it was me. I tried to shake it off. She was probably all right. There must be plenty of reasons she hadn't answered the phone. I couldn't think of any then, though.

But worrying about it now wasn't going to do any good. And I had a long way to go to get to Pier Five. I tried to orient myself. Pier Nineteen was at the end of Walker Avenue, but I was considerably south of Walker now and should be somewhere opposite Pier Ten or Twelve. If I turned right when I hit the railroad yards and went on another half a mile or mile it would put me pretty close to Pier Five. It was going to be hazardous all the way. They would probably reason that the address I'd given the driver was phony, but they'd search the whole waterfront, since we'd been headed that way. I flicked on the cigarette lighter briefly and looked at my watch. It was three-twenty. In another fifteen minutes I got up and went on. I was very tired. In the seven blocks to the rail-yards I had two close calls. Once a police car turned to the street less than a block behind me, and I barely made it under a warehouse loading platform before its lights could hit me.

It was four-ten. I snapped the lighter off and was in darkness again between the two rows of freight cars. Somewhere behind me a switch engine was working. I knelt and peered beneath the trucks of one of the cars. Beyond me was the quiet street, and the dark shed of a pier still slightly to the right of where I was, and in back of the shed a shadowy jungle of masts and drying shrimp nets. I couldn't see the pier entrance or the number, but it should be the one. I walked down another dozen cars and climbed up on the coupling between two of them.

It was Pier Five. I could see the pool of light at the entrance to the shed, and the watchman leaning back in a chair reading a magazine in front of his little office just inside the doorway. There was no way to get on or off the pier without going past him, but they didn't require a pa.s.s on most of them. I searched the street in both directions and was about to hop down from between the cars when I saw a police car coming from the right. It stopped at the watchman's office of the boat repair yard that was the next pier beyond Five. The men in it were talking to the watchman. Then it came on up to Pier Five. They called the watchman out and talked to him. I began to catch on. They were looking for me, probably, and giving my description to the watchmen at all the piers. They pa.s.sed the next one, which was not in use, and went on to Pier Seven where they did the same thing.

It could be something else, of course, but I couldn't take a chance on it. I had to stop and tell the watchman what I wanted and what boat I wanted to board, and if he had my description the police would be there before I could even get to the outer end. I cursed wearily. Now what?

I'd never find a way to do it from here. I went back to the left for another fifty yards to where the watchman couldn't see me crossing the street, and hurried over when there were no cars in sight. I stood in the shadows in front of Pier Six and stared across the slip. Pier Five ran out for some two-hundred feet, with a long T-head at the outer end. There were perhaps a dozen boats moored to it. They were nearly all shrimp boats. But there was no way around the big packing and icing shed at the landward end.

A car went past in the street. I moved back up against the wall to merge with the shadows. A derrick barge was mooring in the end of the slip, its deck about six feet below where I was standing. I looked down. The light was poor, but I thought I saw a small work boat in the water beside it. I eased along the edge of the slip until I found a ladder going down. In a moment I was standing on the deck. Apparently there was no one on board. I slipped around to the outboard side of the deck house. There was the work boat. I pulled it alongside with its painter. There was one oar in it.

Stepping down in it, I cast off the painter and sculled it over to the shadows alongside Pier Six, turned, and headed outward, keeping near the piling. When I reached the end of the pier, I was beyond the outer limits of the illumination from the street lights. The tide was ebbing slowly, and I let it carry me down toward the T-head of Pier Five. There was one light-standard in the center of it, and the outer ends were in semi-darkness. None of the boats carried any lights at all. As I neared them I began trying to make out the names. I was in luck. Marilyn Marilyn was the first boat along the inner side of the T-head. She was moored port-side to, with her stern toward me. I could just make out the lettering in the shadows: MARILYN OF SANPORT. I drifted in under her quarter, caught her rudder post, and handed myself along her starboard side in the work boat. She wasn't a shrimper; they all look approximately alike, no matter where you meet them. was the first boat along the inner side of the T-head. She was moored port-side to, with her stern toward me. I could just make out the lettering in the shadows: MARILYN OF SANPORT. I drifted in under her quarter, caught her rudder post, and handed myself along her starboard side in the work boat. She wasn't a shrimper; they all look approximately alike, no matter where you meet them. Marilyn Marilyn was a sea-going monstrosity, an old two-masted schooner that had apparently been converted to power. Her masts were cut off and they'd added a midships house that looked like a chicken coop. Probably a snapper fisherman, I thought. Even in the semi-darkness out here at the end of the pier you could tell she was dirty and sloppily kept up. She reeked of fish, and apparently she hadn't been scrubbed down since discharging her catch. I pa.s.sed a cardboard carton of rotting garbage lying on deck. She showed no lights anywhere, and I couldn't hear anyone aboard. I made the painter fast, and stepped lightly up onto her deck. was a sea-going monstrosity, an old two-masted schooner that had apparently been converted to power. Her masts were cut off and they'd added a midships house that looked like a chicken coop. Probably a snapper fisherman, I thought. Even in the semi-darkness out here at the end of the pier you could tell she was dirty and sloppily kept up. She reeked of fish, and apparently she hadn't been scrubbed down since discharging her catch. I pa.s.sed a cardboard carton of rotting garbage lying on deck. She showed no lights anywhere, and I couldn't hear anyone aboard. I made the painter fast, and stepped lightly up onto her deck.

I was just forward of the midships house. Opposite me a plank led up onto the shadowy bulk of the pier. It was intensely silent. Somewhere beyond the railroad yards a siren wailed, and it made me shiver. I started aft, feeling my way cautiously along the starboard side. Just as I came into the darker shadows of the midships house I stepped on a body. The body stirred, scattering empty beer cans that rolled along the deck, muttered a drunken curse, and went back to sleep.

I ducked down in the shadows and crouched, absolutely motionless, until the beer cans stopped their clatter. No one called out. He must be the only one aboard, unless they were all pa.s.sed out. He had the watch, I thought sardonically, tossing six or eight beer cans over the side so I wouldn't start them rolling again. I waited another minute, stepped over him, and went on aft. The crew's quarters should be back here.

There was a companion ladder going below. I stepped softly onto it and groped my way down. I reached the bottom, and stood perfectly still, listening for the sound of breathing. There was utter silence. It was as dark as the inside of a coal mine, and the air was stale and foul with the odor of dirty clothes and old damp wood. I flicked on the cigarette lighter and looked swiftly around. The place was deserted. It was a small and dirty fo'c'sle with bunks on each side and some steel lockers against the forward bulkhead. I looked around for a light of some kind. On the forward bulkhead near the lockers was a kerosene lamp mounted in gimbals. I stepped over and lighted it. It cast a very weak yellow glow across the room.

There were eight bunks, but only five of them held mattresses. The deck was littered with cigarette b.u.t.ts and two or three pairs of sea-boots kicked partly out of the way under the lower bunks. Oil-skins dangled from the after bulkhead. Over most of the bunks were pin-ups clipped from girlie magazines. Two of the uppers which didn't have mattresses were loaded with seabags and beat-up old suitcases. There was a new plastic suitcase in one of the lower bunks.

I grabbed down one of the seabags, dumped its contents on the mattress of one of the bunks, and pawed through the stuff. It was all clothing. I repacked it and searched another, with the same negative results. Next I hauled down one of the old suitcases and opened it. It held more clothing, some shaving gear, a few old magazines, some contraceptives, and a deck of cards, but no letters or photographs or identification of any kind.

The next one was no more profitable, except that it did contain a savings account pa.s.sbook made out to a Raoul Sanchez. In the third I found a packet of letters in a girl's handwriting addressed to Karl Bjornsen. I sighed wearily and replaced them all on the upper bunk. There was nothing left now except the new plastic job, and I had a hunch it would be locked. It was.

I cast about for something with which to jimmy it open. I saw nothing that would do, but then remembered I still hadn't searched the lockers. I went over and began pulling them open. They held more foul-weather gear-shoes, stacks of magazines and paperback books, and a couple of half-empty bottles of rum. But lying in the bottom of one of them was a large screwdriver and a marlinespike.

I grabbed up the marlinespike and attached the lock on the suitcase, inserting the point and prying upward. It was tough, but after a couple of minutes it gave up and flew open. I felt a little flutter of excitement as I looked in; this one seemed more promising. Right on top, wrapped in a silk scarf, was a German Luger. Beside it was a whole deck of filthy pictures, held together by a rubber band, and three letters postmarked Havana, Cuba, and addressed in a feminine hand to Sr. Ernie Boyle. Under them was a photograph of a man and a girl at a table in a sidewalk cafe. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. I was just lifting it out for a closer look when I tensed up, listening. Somebody had come aboard. I heard his footsteps as he walked aft along the deck above me. I crossed to the lamp in two quick strides, and blew it out.

The beam of a flashlight probed downward from the deck, splashing against the steps of the companion ladder. I leaned back against the bunks on the starboard side. He came on down the ladder. I could see nothing but the big black shoes and the light, pointed downward. He stopped at the bottom, some twelve feet from where I was standing and started to raise the light. It swept along the bunks on the port side and then came abruptly to a stop when it hit the jimmied suitcase. I could hear his breath suck in. "Ladrones!" "Ladrones!" he said, and began to curse in Spanish. The light swung and splashed against my face. he said, and began to curse in Spanish. The light swung and splashed against my face.

I dived for him, but the light blinded me, and he was too far away. When I got there I met nothing but a fist, which crashed just under my ear, and the railing of the companion ladder. I plowed into the railing with my left shoulder and for a moment my whole arm went numb. I fell back against the bulkhead, straightened, and reached out for him. The light splashed against my face again, and at the same time the fist smashed against my jaw. I fell forward this time, grappling wildly with my arms, and caught him by the shirt. It tore. I swung and managed to hit him on the side of the face, but I was off balance and there was no power behind it. Then the light swung in a short, chopping arc, something smashed against my head, and I fell.

A whole ocean of pain was sloshing around in my head, and when I tried to move, something was holding me and somebody was tugging at my feet. I opened my eyes. There was light in the room now; the kerosene lamp was burning again. I was lying on my right side in one of the bunks with my arms twisted behind me. My hands were tied. I looked down at my feet.

He was a big Mexican or Cuban kid of twenty-two or so, dressed in a leather jacket and dungarees. He was muttering to himself in Spanish and tying my feet to the stanchion of the bunk. He had broad shoulders and a square and rather pleasant face, but when he looked at me his eyes were filled with nothing but anger and contempt.

"Ladron!" he spat at me. he spat at me.

"You speak English?" I asked.

He checked the knots in the line, and straightened. "Sure, I speak English, Jack. And how low can you get? Coming on a pot like this to steal from the crew."

"I didn't come here to steal," I said.

"Of course not," he said contemptuously, and turned away. He started up the companionway: "Where are you going?" I asked.

"Where else?" he said. "Out to the phone to call the cops."