third floor. I turned slightly, and stood with my back toward the stairs as if waiting for someone inside to answer my knock.
The footsteps came up behind me, and a man’s voice asked, “You looking for somebody?”
I had to turn around. He was a tall, bony-faced man wearing a bus driver’s cap and whipcord jacket. “I guess there’s nobody home,” I said.
He regarded me stonily. “I’m here. Whatta you want?”
Before I could think of anything to say, he caught sight of the key that was still in my hand. He grabbed the front of my topcoat. “Why, you dirty sneak-thief!”
I jerked down on his wrists and broke the hold on my coat, and tried to get past him. He reached for me again. I hit him in the face. He rocked back on his heels, but didn’t fall. “Thief!” he yelled at the top of his voice. “Burglar!” He lunged at me, flailing his arms. He seemed to have six or seven. I hit him in the stomach. He doubled over, but managed to fall into me and get his arms around my legs. We both fell. Doors were opening along the corridor now, and people were spilling into it. I tried to get up, but he was all over me like four cocker spaniels.
“Call the police!” he was yelling now. I rolled out from under him once more, peeled his arms loose, and got to my feet. He scrambled up. I swung, connected with his jaw, and this time I dropped him. I wheeled and ran toward the stairs. A man shot out of 201 and tried to tackle me. I stiff-armed him and slipped past, but somebody got me from behind. We crashed to the floor. I rolled up and over him, and swung at his face. He grunted. I pushed to my feet once more in pandemonium that was like a fire in a madhouse and lunged toward the stairs.
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.