crouched down. The car roared up the street: its headlights raking the wall, making me duck lower. I heard the car brake violently, then turn into Cannon Avenue.
I straightened, vaulted back on to the sidewalk and started to run again. I was breathing like an asthmatic by the time I reached the bottom of the street which led into the outskirts of the shopping centre. Here I knew was danger: this was the territory of the patrolling cop, and every one of them would have my description. Keeping to the back streets I made my way past the dark faces of small shops, dingy eating houses and apartment houses. This was the district, tucked away as if ashamed of itself, that housed the workers who were at the beck and call of the rich of Tampa City.
Ahead of me a shadow moved, bringing me to an abrupt stop. I silently stepped into a shop doorway as a bulky patrolman walked to the edge of the sidewalk and balanced himself on the kerb while he swung his nightstick and stared up at the grey-black canopy of the sky. He rested his feet for five minutes or so while I watched him, then he moved on, going away from me.
At the next intersection I turned right. Across the road a yellow light shining through a glass panelled door made a rectangle pattern on the greasy sidewalk. A neon sign above the door read: Good Eats. Open All Night.
I crossed the street, made sure no one was in sight before I stepped into the rectangle of light and looked through the glass panel of the door.
A fat man with black greasy hair, his chin bristly with black stubble, his hairy arms resting on the counter, stared vacantly at a newspaper spread out before him. There were no customers and most of the lights were off.
I pushed open the door and walked in.
The fat man glanced up, his eyes heavy with boredom.
‘May I use your phone, bud?’ I asked.
He jerked a dirty thumb to the end of the room.
‘Go ahead and help yourself,’ he said and yawned, showing big white teeth.
I shut myself in the pay booth and leafed through the telephone book. I found Sam Benn’s number and I dialled. While I waited, listening to the calling tone, I stared through the glass panel of the door at the fat man.
A voice heavy with sleep said, ‘Hello?’
‘Is Sam Benn there?’
‘You’re talking to him. What do you want?’
‘Captain Bradley told me to call you. I have a flock of buttons hunting for me and I’ve got to get under cover fast.’
The man at the other end of the line sighed.
‘Well, okay, if Cap Bradley said so, who am I to object? Where are you?’
‘At an eating house on Sherratt Street.’
‘Know where I am?’
‘No. I’m walking and dodging cops as I go.’
The man groaned.
‘That means I’ve got to come and fetch you, does it?’
‘It would be an idea.’
‘Yeah; an idea for you, but not for me. Well, okay. The things I do for Cap Bradley! Stick where you are. I’ll be along in half an hour; maybe sooner.’
‘Thanks.’
The line went dead. I replaced the receiver. As I turned to open the booth door I saw a shadow fall across the rectangle of light on the sidewalk. A moment later the door pushed open and two big men came in. They walked heavily over to the fat man who looked up. He slowly straightened and placed two big, hairy hands on the counter. His face was expressionless.
Faintly through the glass panel of the pay booth I heard one of the men say, ‘Police. We’re looking for a guy. Anyone been in?’
I felt a cold dampness on my face as I squeezed myself into the darkness of the booth.
‘No one’s been in for the past two hours,’ the fat man said woodenly.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m telling you, aren’t I?’ the fat man said curtly. He put a cigarette between his lips and began to search for a match.
The policeman who had spoken leaned forward and smacked the cigarette away, catching the fat man’s cheek with his thick fingers as he did so.
‘Don’t smoke, punk, when I’m talking to you,’ he snarled.
The fat man stiffened; his deepset eyes glittered, but he didn’t say anything nor did he move.
‘This guy’s tall, dark, around thirty-three or four,’ the policeman went on. ‘He’s wearing a dark grey suit and a matching slouch hat. If you spot him call headquarters - understand?’
‘Yes,’ the fat man said.
‘You’d better understand.’
The two policemen turned and walked out, leaving the door open. They went on down the street. The fat man came from behind the counter, crossed to the door and looked out, then he shut the door and went back to the counter. He didn’t look once in my direction.
I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face, then I opened the pay booth door and came out.
The fat man said, ‘They may be back. There’s a cop at the corner. Go in there,’ and he jerked his thumb to a door near the pay booth.
‘Thanks,’ I said, opened the door and walked into a comfortably but shabbily furnished sitting room. A big black cat lay sleeping in an armchair. It opened its eyes to examine me, decided I was harmless and went back to sleep. I took out my pack of cigarettes, lit one and drew in a lungful of smoke. My knees felt as if I had been running hard for a couple of miles and my breath was laboured.
The fat man came in with a cup of coffee which he put on the table. He opened a drawer in the table and took out a half pint bottle of Haig.
‘You got friends?’ he asked, pushing the bottle towards me.
‘Someone’s coming to pick me up. Thanks for what you did.’
‘That’s nothing. I wouldn’t help the cops in this town even if it cost me money.’ He moved back to the door. ‘You’ll be okay here. Stick around,’ and he went out.
I poured a slug of whisky into the coffee and drank it. I felt a lot better for it. Then I sat down. This was the first moment of quiet that I had had since I had found Hartley shot to death. Even now my mind was still too uneasy by my own predicament to give much thought to the reason why he had been murdered. I remembered his last words to me: ‘I have a theory that might interest you.’ He knew I was hunting for information about Fay Benson and it seemed
reasonable to assume that the theory he had mentioned had to do with Fay Benson. Had he been killed because of this theory?
Unless the killer had been with him when he had telephoned to me, how could the killer have known Hartley was going to talk? It looked as if the killer was someone Hartley knew. I took out the .38 automatic and examined it. It looked either new or else it had been well looked after. Its serial number was 3347890. I took out the clip. Only two shots had been fired from the gun. The killer was either a first class shot or else the killing had been done at close quarters.
No doubt Creed would be able to get some information from the gun. As soon as I could I would send the gun to him. I put the gun, carefully wrapped in my handkerchief, back in my jacket pocket.
What was my next move to be? The solution of Fay Benson’s kidnapping and murder was to be found in Tampa City: I was sure of that. But every hour I remained in the city increased the risk of my being arrested. I was now Suspect No.1 for Hartley’s killing and unless I found the killer, there would be no town in the country where I would be safe.
The thought made me sweat. It seemed to me whatever happened I had to stay in Tampa City. It looked as
