bottles and everything, and a guy died. I couldn’t say they were wrong in tying it on me.” He opened the door, made his automatic pretense of looking out, shut the door, and moved back toward her.
“It was manslaughter that time. They’ll make it murder if this guy dies. See? I’m on record as a killer.” He put a hand up to his chin. “It’s airtight.”
“No, no.” She stood close to him and took one of his hands. “It was an accident that his head struck the fireplace. I can tell them that. I can tell them what brought it all about. They cannot—”
He laughed with bitter amusement, and quoted Grant: “‘The strumpet’s word confirms the convict’s.”’
She winced.
“That’s what they’ll do to me,” he said, less monotonously now. “If he dies I haven’t got a chance. If he doesn’t they’ll hold me without bail till they see how it’s coming out—assault with intent to kill or murder. What good’ll your word be? Robson’s mistress leaving him with me? Tell the truth and it’ll only make it worse. They’ve got me”—his voice rose—“and I can’t live in a cell again!” His eyes jerked around toward the door. Then he raised his head with a rasping noise in his throat that might have been a laugh. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll go screwy indoors tonight.”
“Yes,” she said eagerly, putting a hand on his shoulder, watching his face with eyes half frightened, half pitying. “We will go.”
“You’ll need a coat.” He went into the bedroom.
She found her slippers, put on the right one, and held the left one out to him when he returned. “Will you break off the heel?”
He draped the rough brown overcoat he carried over her shoulders, took the slipper from her, and wrenched off the heel with a turn of his wrist. He was at the front door by the time she had her foot in the slipper.
She glanced swiftly once around the room and followed him out…
***
She opened her eyes and saw daylight had come. Rain no longer dabbled the coupe‘s windows and windshield, and the automatic wiper was still. Without moving, she looked at Brazil. He was sitting low and lax on the seat beside her, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding a cigarette on his knee. His sallow face was placid and there was no weariness in it. His eyes were steady on the road ahead.
“Have I slept long?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “An hour this time. Feel better?” He raised the hand holding the cigarette to switch off the headlights.
“Yes.” She sat up a little, yawning. “Will we be much longer?”
“An hour or so.” He put a hand in his pocket and offered her cigarettes.
She took one and leaned forward to use the electric lighter in the dashboard. “What will you do?” she asked when the cigarette was burning.
“Hide out till I see what’s what.”
She glanced sidewise at his placid face, said: “You too feel better.”
He grinned somewhat shamefacedly. “I lost my head back there, all right.”
She patted the back of his hand once, gently, and they rode in silence for a while. Then she asked: “We are going to those friends of whom you spoke?”
“Yes.”
A dark coupe with two uniformed policemen in it came toward them, went past. The woman looked sharply at Brazil. His face was expressionless.
She touched his hand again, approvingly.
“I’m all right outdoors,” he explained. “It’s walls that get me.”
She screwed her head around to look back. The policemen’s car had passed out of sight.
Brazil said: “They didn’t mean anything.” He lowered the window on his side and dropped his cigarette out. Air blew in, fresh and damp. “Want to stop for coffee?”
“Had we better?”
An automobile overtook them, crowded them to the edge of the road in passing, and quickly shot ahead. It was a black sedan traveling at the rate of sixty-five or more miles an hour. There were four men in it, one of whom looked back at Brazil’s car.
Brazil said: “Maybe it’d be safer to get under cover as soon as we can; but if you’re hungry—”
“No; I too think we should hurry.”
The black sedan disappeared around a bend in the road.
“If the police should find you, would”—she hesitated—“would you fight?”
“I don’t know,” he said gloomily. “That’s what’s the matter with me. I never know ahead of time what I’ll do.” He lost some of his gloominess. “There’s no use worrying. I’ll be all right.”
They rode through a crossroads settlement of a dozen houses, bumped over railroad tracks, and turned into a long straight stretch of road paralleling the tracks. Halfway down the level stretch, the sedan that had passed them was stationary on the edge of the road. A policeman stood beside it—between it and his motorcycle—and stolidly wrote on a leaf of a small book while the man at the sedan’s wheel talked and gestured excitedly.
Luise Fischer blew breath out and said: “Well, they were not police.”
Brazil grinned.
Neither of them spoke again until they were riding down a suburban street. Then she said: “They—your friends—will not dislike our coming to them like this?”
“No,” he replied carelessly; “they’ve been through things themselves.”
The houses along the suburban street became cheaper and meaner, and presently they were in a shabby city street where grimy buildings with cards saying “Flats to Let” in their windows stood among equally grimy factories and warehouses. The street into which Brazil after a little while steered the car was only slightly less dingy, and the rental signs were almost as many.
He stopped the car in front of a four-story red brick building with broken brownstone steps. “This is it,” he said, opening the door.
She sat looking at the building’s unlovely face until he came around and opened the door on her side. Her face was inscrutable. Three dirty children stopped playing with the skeleton of an umbrella to stare at her as she went with him up the broken steps.
The street door opened when he turned the knob, letting them into a stuffy hallway where a dim light illuminated stained wallpaper of a once-vivid design, ragged carpet, and a worn brassbound staircase.
“Next floor,” he said, and went up the stairs behind her.
Facing the head of the stairs was a door shiny with new paint of a brown peculiarly unlike any known wood. Brazil went to this door and pushed the bell button four times—long, short, long, short. The bell rang noisily just inside the door.
After a moment of silence, vague rustling noises came through the door, followed by a cautious masculine voice: “Who’s there?”
Brazil put his head close to the door and kept his voice low: “Brazil.”
The fastenings of the door rattled, and it was opened by a small, wiry blond man of about forty in crumpled green cotton pajamas. His feet were bare. His hollow-cheeked and sharp-featured face wore a cordial smile, and his voice was cordial. “Come in, kid,” he said. “Come in.” His small, pale eyes appraised Luise Fischer from head to foot while he was stepping back to make way for them.
Brazil put a hand on the woman’s arm and urged her forward, saying: “Miss Fischer, this is Mr. Link.”
Link said, “Pleased to meet you,” and shut the door behind them.
Luise Fischer bowed.
Link slapped Brazil on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, kid. We were wondering what had happened to you. Come on in.”
He led them into a living room that needed airing. There were articles of clothing lying around, sheets of newspaper here and there, a few not quite empty glasses and coffee cups, and a great many cigarette stubs. Link took a vest off a chair, threw it across the back of another, and said: “Take off your things and set down, Miss Fischer.”
A very blonde full-bodied woman in her late twenties said, “My God, look who’s here!” from the doorway and ran to Brazil with wide arms, hugged him violently, kissed him on the mouth. She had on a pink wrapper over a pink
