Man on the run - By Charles Williams Page 0,60

named Ryan Bullard.”

“And you thought he might be in that suitcase?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“You wouldn’t be short a few of your marbles, would you?”

“No. I mean it,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I think he is in there. There’s a photograph—but never mind. There’s nobody on here named Bullard?”

“No.”

“Then he may be using another name. Or the guy I’m looking for may not be Bullard at all, but I still want him. Is there a big joker about six-three or six-four, heavy all the way up and down, black eyes, flat nose, mostly bald, with a fringe of black hair?”

He nodded. “That’s Ernie Boyle.”

I felt the stirrings of excitement. Maybe I was getting somewhere at last. “He’s the one I’m after.”

“Then you must be crazy, Jack. I mean like crazy crazy. You better let me call those cops. If I’d broke open his suitcase, I’d be screamin’ for ‘em.”

“I know what he’s like,” I said. “I’ve already run into him once tonight. But with the trouble I’m in, anything Boyle does to me is just a short-cut.”

“Who are you, anyway? And why did you come out here in a boat?”

“I’m Foley,” I said.

His eyes widened. “Oh. That tanker third mate that killed the cop.”

“I didn’t kill the cop.” I explained about the fight and how I’d left Stedman’s apartment. It was impossible to tell what he thought of it.

“And you think it was Boyle?”

“I think he had something to do with it.”

“Wait a minute, Foley. When was this cop killed? It was about a week ago, wasn’t it?”

“Last Tuesday.”

“Uh-uh. That’s what I thought. We didn’t even get in port till Friday.”

I’d been afraid of that. “And he was aboard last trip?”

“Yeah. And Tuesday we’d still be on the Campeche Bank, about four hundred miles from here.”

“I didn’t say he did it,” I said. “I know who that was. But I think he had something to do with it. Did you ever hear him mention the name Frances Celaya?”

“No-o. It’s new to me.”

“How about the name Danny?”

“No dice.”

“What’s yours?” I asked. “Raoul Sanchez.”

“All right, listen, Raoul—” I told him about the ambush by the playground and about Frances Celaya’s being killed. “This guy Boyle is mixed up in it some way and I’ve got to find out how. There may be something in that suitcase. So how about untying me?”

“Sure. That’d be great. And when he gets back I’m sitting here watching while you go through his gear? So he’ll kill both of us instead of just you? Try again.”

“Cut it out,” I said. “When he starts down the ladder, jump me and fake a fight. Say you just got here and caught me.”

He thought about it for a moment. Then he shrugged and began loosening the knots. “All right, but don’t try anything, Foley. I can take you, any day in the week. I was a pro for a couple of years.”

“Thanks,” I said. I sat up and moved my arms. “Then you must figure this Boyle is a wrong one yourself?”

He sat down in one of the bunks and crushed out his cigarette in a sardine can ashtray. “Maybe. But I don’t bother him.”

I strode over to the suitcase in the opposite bunk. Picking up the Luger, I checked to see if it was loaded. It wasn’t. I started to turn, still holding it in my hand, but paused when I saw the expression on his face.

There was anger in it and chagrin. “Pretty cute trick, ladron. And I went for it like a sucker, huh?”

I caught on then. “Here,” I said, and grinned. I tossed the Luger to him. He caught it, staring at me unbelievingly.

“It’s not loaded,” I said. “But if you hear Boyle coming, point it at me. Say you just got here and took it away from me.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “I guess you’re really telling the truth, Foley. But you’d better see if you can find some ammunition and load this thing, and keep it yourself. That’s the only thing that’ll save you if he comes back.”

“I don’t want to have to shoot him,” I said. “He may be the only person in the world who knows I didn’t kill that cop. As long as he’s alive there’s one chance in a million he might talk. But if he’s dead—” I turned back to the suitcase again.

The photograph was first. The man in it was definitely familiar, but the girl was somebody I’d never seen before. She was Latin and very pretty, but