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— “
“How about Johnny?” I asked.
“Young guy. About twenty-five. Ships as Ordinary. He’s at sea now. We shipped him out on a Victory last week, for Rio and B.A.”
“No-o,” I said. “The one I’m looking for was in some kind of trouble here a few years back, during a strike.”
“Oh, you mean that fink bastard! Well, look, friend—he’s not a member of this union, and never was. But I’ll you what. If he ever shows up around here, you can come get him. Just bring a blotter.”
“You got any idea where he is?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Let’s just say I’d like to get in touch with him. I might have the blotter ready now. What do you know about him?”
‘His name’s Ryan Bullard. And except for being a rat, a fink, a scab, a thug, and a goon, he’s one of the sweetest guys you’ll ever meet. And, oh yes, he’s also an ex-con, I understand. And he beat a seaman to death with a baseball bat.”
“When?” I asked.
“About five years ago. During the Inland Boatmen’s strike. Bullard was scabbing, and he killed a picket. He was arrested and charged with murder, but before the trial both the witnesses disappeared. Later on, they found one of ‘em in the bay.”
“Murdered?”
”Yeah, unless he always went swimming with a Ford transmission tied to his leg. Anyway, Bullard got a hung jury the first time and beat it on the second trial. But he hasn’t been around here for years. Right after the trial he shipped out on some pot under the Panamanian flag. I think I did hear a couple of years ago that he was doing time in a Cuban pen for working over one of Batista’s strong boys. And somebody else says he’s been shrimping out of Pensacola or Tampa. I don’t know; you always hear stories.”
”Okay, thanks a million,” I said.
We were as far out in left field as ever, I thought. Where could there be any connection between Frances Celaya and Ryan Bullard and Stedman? Bullard had been gone from here for years. Frances Celaya worked for a machine tool company. And Stedman was just a detective who thought he was God’s gift to women. I shook my head and went back outside. My stomach and