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 Municipal 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, hell, nobody 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 passed 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