look at me and said, “Oh, good God!” and closed them again. She made a feeble attempt to pull her skirt down. I straightened it for her, and she lay still. I went out in the living room and lighted a cigarette. I could handle her all right, but if the police came by again and noticed those garage doors were unlocked, I was dead. I looked at my watch. It would be at least three more hours before it was dark.
I stood in the doorway and looked at her. She was a big girl and a striking one, with blonde hair almost as white as cotton. Close to five-nine, I thought. Probably thirty to thirty-three years old. She wore her hair in one of those short haircuts they used to call Italian; I didn’t know what they were called now. She was dressed in a dark skirt, soft dark sweater, and a rust-colored shorty coat. She wore gold earrings, and an expensive-looking watch, but no rings of any kind. It was a handsome face, and even as sick as she was now there was the stamp of vitality on it.
I went out and heated the coffee. When I came back with a cup of it she was sitting up on the edge of the bed holding her head. “Try a little of this,” I said.
She sighed. “Are you still here? I thought I’d died and gone to hell.”
She didn’t seem to be particularly scared. Probably the way she felt at the moment she considered that anything that could happen to her now would have to be for the better. I held out the coffee, and she took a sip of it. I lighted a cigarette and passed it over.
She took a drag on it and shuddered. “What happened?”
“I pulled you out from under the back of your car. One of the garage doors must have conked you.”
She felt the back of her head. She winced. “I remember now. And the engine was still running, wasn’t it? I tried to get up and passed out.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said.
She looked up at me and shook her head. “I think you’re out of focus. You look like Spartacus, and sound like Sergeant Friday. Who are you, and how’d you get in here?”
“My name’s Foley,” I said. “And I broke in.”
“Oh. Then you must be the one they’re looking for. Those roadblocks out on the highway.”
“Are they searching the cars?”
“Just slowing them down, I think, and looking in. I was too busy being sober to pay much attention.”
I held out the coffee again. She drank a little more of it. “Why are they looking for you?” she asked.
“They think I killed a policeman.”
She glanced up quickly. “Oh. I think that was in the paper this morning. Something about a fight.”
“That’s it,” I said. I set the coffee on the dresser. “How do you feel now?”
“Terrible. But thanks for pulling me out of there. You saved my life, such as it is.”
“Is anybody meeting you here?” I asked.
“No. Why?”
“I had to know. Is this your cottage?” She nodded.
“Then you’re Suzy Patton?”
“That’s right. Suzy Patton, the has-been. The written-out writer.”
I wondered if she were still drunk. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s something an ex-writer never attempts to explain to a non-writer. There’s no language, if you follow me.”
”I probably don’t,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. Just keep quiet, and don’t try to call the police or get out of here.”
“Are you trying to threaten me?” she asked.
“Don’t get tough,” I told her. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I’ll tie you up if I have to.”
“What do you expect to gain by that?”
“Time. If I can hide out long enough, they may think I’ve got away, and I can get out.”
She had clear gray eyes that didn’t seem to be afraid of much of anything. “That’s a stupid procedure. Why don’t you give yourself up?”
“I’d get life. Or the electric chair. Cut it out.”
“They’ll catch you sooner or later. You know that.”
“I’m not trying to make any long-range plans,” I said coldly. “They’re after me, and if they get me it’s going to be rugged. I’m operating one minute at a time. When I’ve used up this minute, I’ll start on the next one.”
“And in the meantime you’re going to add a charge of kidnaping to make it worse?”
“It doesn’t get any worse,’ ‘I said.
“So you intend to stay here?”
“That’s right.”
She sighed. “Well, could I get