it,” I said. “But go on for another block, and I’ll walk back.”
She crossed the next intersection and parked under some trees at the curb. She switched off the lights. I got out, softly closed the door, and walked back. When I reached the mouth of the alley there was no one in sight anywhere. I ducked in. It was on the left, about halfway to the other end, I thought. When I was almost there I could make out the gate, still open.
It was pitch dark inside the yard, but I could see the blacker mass of the oleanders in the corner. I slipped toward them and bumped into something. It was a garbage can. It fell over, the lid clattering. I froze, crouching beside the high board fence. A minute passed, and then two, but no lights came on in the house. I eased past the fallen can and reached into the oleanders. Kneeling, I pushed into them, groping with my hand. In a moment my fingers touched it. I slid it out, clamped it under my arm, and hurried to the car.
“Well, that was fast,” she said softly, as she pulled away from the curb. She turned, went back to Stacy Avenue, and swung left, toward the arterial.
I set the purse on the floor between my feet, and bent over it, flicking the cigarette lighter. Taking out the little bag containing the nylons, I extracted the sales slip. The imprint of the charge-a-plate was inked on it. Frances. Celaya, it said. 1910 Keller Street. Apt. 207.
“Keller Street,” I said. “You know that one?”
“No,” she replied. “We’ll have to look it up on the map.”
I pulled it from the glove compartment and unfolded it. At that moment she made a turn into the arterial and pulled to the curb under a street light. We both bent over the map.
“Here we are,” she said quickly. “K-3.” She ran a finger out along the line and found it. “That’s in the same area as Randall Street. Only five or six blocks over.”
“Maybe we’ve got her this time,” I said. “But, God, I hope she’s lost that gorilla.” I put the map away.
She had lifted the purse onto the seat and was taking everything out of it. I checked the wallet. There were five or six dollar bills in it, but no other identification except a Social Security number. I was about to drop it back into the purse when I noticed it had a zippered compartment in the back. I, opened it. At first glance it appeared to be empty, but then I saw a folded scrap of paper down in one corner. I fished it out and unfolded it. There was a telephone number penciled on it, and a girl’s name. GL 2-4378 Marilyn.
“What is it?” she asked.
I showed it to her. It looked as if it had been in the wallet a long time. “Odd way to write it,” she remarked. “With the number first.”
It probably wasn’t important, but I shrugged and dropped it in my coat pocket. “Nothing else?” I asked.
She shook her head and began replacing everything in the purse. “That seems to be it.” She turned and dropped the purse in the back, and we pulled away from the curb.
I glanced at my watch. It was after one a.m. now. I was probably already too late. If I’d got the correct address the first time I might have made it to the apartment before they did, but now there was no telling what I’d run into. Would she have left town, or would she be waiting for me with that cold-blooded killer? I gave up. There was no way to guess what she would do.
It was a little nearer the downtown area than the Randall Street address, a run-down district of grimy apartment buildings and small stores, shadowy and empty at this time of night. 1910 was an old three-story brick. She drove slowly past. Only two or three of the windows showed any light.
“Go on around the corner,” I said. She turned. We had to go on to the second block before we found a place to park. Apparently the tenants of the apartment buildings had to leave their cars out. She backed in and cut the lights.
“I shouldn’t be over fifteen minutes,” I said. “Be careful.”
I got out and turned the coat collar up around my face. If I met a prowl car on these deserted streets I was almost certain to be