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