‘I’m not going to pass up that job. If I do, it’l be the last I’l get. What are you going to do then?’
‘I’m leaving town. Have you forgot en you kil ed a man last night or is it just one of those things you can brush off?’
She smiled.
‘They think you did it.’
That brought me bolt upright in bed.
‘Me? What do you mean?’
‘Relax. No one kil ed anyone. He’s not dead.’
I threw off the sheet and swung my feet to the floor.
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s in the paper.’
‘Where is it?’
‘It was outside one of the rooms.’
‘Wel , don’t stand there! Get it!’
‘It’s gone now.’
I felt like strangling her.
‘They real y say he isn’t dead?’
She nodded, her eyes bored.
‘Yes.’
I reached for a cigarette and lit it with a shaking hand. The surge of relief that ran through me left me breathless.
‘Where do you get that line about me kil ing him?’ I demanded.
‘He’s given the cops a description of you. They’re looking for a man with a scarred face.’
‘Don’t give me that! It was you who shot him!’
‘He didn’t see me! He saw you!’
‘He knows I didn’t shoot him,’ I said, trying to keep my voice down. ‘He knows I was facing the wall when you shot at him! He must know I didn’t do it!’
She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
‘Al I know is the police are looking for a man with a scar. You’d bet er watch out.’
By now I was ready to hit the ceiling.
‘Get me a paper! Do you hear? Get me a paper!’
‘Stop shouting. Do you want everyone to hear you? I’ve got to catch the bus to the Studio. Maybe you’d bet er stay here and not show yourself.’
I grabbed hold of her arm.
‘Where did you get the gun from?’
‘It belonged to Wilbur. Let go of me!’ She jerked free. ‘Don’t lose your nerve. I’ve been in worse jams than this. If you keep under cover for a couple of days, you’l be al right. Then you can get out of town, but don’t try to go before.’
‘Once they get a lead on me, this wil be the first place they’l come to!’
‘Oh, quiet down!’ Her tone of contempt maddened me. ‘You’re yel ow. Keep your nerve and you’ll be all right. Just relax, can’t you? You’re boring me.’
I caught her by the throat and slammed her against the wall. Then I slapped her face: bang!... bang!...
bang! I wasn’t proud of myself for hitting her, but I had to. She was so rotten I had no answer to her attitude but to hit her.
I let go of her and stood away from her, panting.
‘I’m scared!’ I said. ‘I’m scared because I have some decency left in me. You! You have nothing.
You’re rot en through and through! I wish I never had anything to do with you! Get out!’
She leaned against the wall, her face where I had hit her red as fire, her eyes glowing with hate.
‘I won’t forget that, you skunk,’ she said. ‘I’ve a lot to remember you by. One of these days, I’l even the score. I hope he dies and I hope you go to the gas chamber!’
I threw the bedroom door open.
‘Get out!’ I yel ed at her.
She went out and I slammed the door after her.
For a long moment I stood motionless, trying to control my breathing. Then I went over to the mirror and stared at my white, frightened face. I looked at the thin scar that ran down the side of my jaw. If the guard had described that to the police I was cooked.
I was stiff with panic. My one thought now was to get away and go home, but if the police were already looking for me, it would be asking for trouble to show myself on the streets in daylight.
I heard Carrie come thumping up the stairs. I opened the door.
‘Do me a favour,’ I said. ‘I’m staying in today. Get me a paper, wil you?’
She looked sharply at me.
‘I ain’t got time, Mr. Jeff. I’ve got work to do.’
‘It’s important. Can’t you borrow one for me?’ I had to make an effort to keep calm. ‘Try and get me one, Carrie.’
‘I’ll see. Are you sick?’
‘I’m not feeling too bright. Get that paper for me.’
She nodded and went off downstairs.
I got back into bed, lit another cigarette and waited. I had to wait half an hour, and by then I was in a terrible state of nerves. Then I heard her lumbering up the stairs again. I jumped out of bed and went to the door.
She pushed a paper at me and a cup of coffee.
‘Thanks, Carrie.’
‘The missus was reading it.’
‘That’s okay. Thanks.’
I shut the door, set down the coffee and looked at the front page of the paper.
The usual war headlines took priority. The date was August 5th, 1945. Super Fortresses, so the headlines told me, had been continually flying over Japan, plastering eleven Japanese cities with leaflets, warning the people of intensive bombing to come.
The threat to Japan didn’t interest me. What I was hunting for was a threat to myself.
I found it finally on the back page.
A guard at the Pacific Studios had surprised an intruder and been shot, the report said. The guard, an ex- policeman, well liked when on the force, was now in the Los Angeles State hospital. He had given the police a description of the gunman before lapsing into a coma. The police were hunting for a man with a scar on his face.
That was all, but it was bad enough.
I felt so bad, I had to sit on the bed, my legs refusing to support me.
Maybe this guard was going to die after all.
After a while, I got dressed. I had a feeling that I might have to make a bolt for it, and I had the urge to be ready. I packed my suitcase, and I checked my money. I had only ten dollars and fifty cents left in the world.
Then I sat by the window, watching the street below.
A little after midday, I saw a police car pull up at the far end of the street and four plain clothes men spill out. The sight of them set my heart hammering so violently I could scarcely breathe.
In this street were four rooming-houses. The detectives split up and walked rapidly towards the various houses.
The one who headed for mine was a big man with a pork pie hat on the back of his head and a dead cigar butt gripped between his teeth.
