The Patrolman - 20

 

 

20.

 

 

 

What the hell had he done? Mr. Slate drove as fast as he could. Without thinking, he'd tied the girl to Barclay and, in doing so, dug his own grave. Even if the cops hadn’t torn through Carmelita's apartment yet, Underwood’s story would seal the deal. The cops would have to come looking for her. And then for him.

How the hell could he stop them?

Speeding across Hollywood, he ran through what he knew. The cab there, Carmelita in that room with those animals, then leaving in another cab, headed for the city. He knew who had killed her. No, he wouldn't tip the police off. Not yet. Knowing didn't help him. He was in enough trouble and about to get in even more.

The apartment building reminded him of New York. Brown-bricked, four stories, and fire escapes running up and down the back of the building. At the back was a vacant lot with nothing but a dumpster. No cars. He circled the block twice and pulled into the lot. No cops - so far.

He entered the building and climbed eight flights of stairs. He reached the top just as a uniformed cop shut the stairwell door ahead of him. He was wrong. Mr. Slate flattened himself against a wall and held his breath.

'Mank said that Lacey and Carruthers are on their way over.'

'Who's Lacey?'

'The new kid. Hey, you might remember him. That robbery? The morning of Pearl Harbor?'

'What about it?'

'He's the one who tossed that guy off the roof.'

Their voices came from across the hall. Mr. Slate went down to the third floor to check the building's layout. There were six apartments per floor, A-F. Apartment D - Sabella's place - was second from left. He stepped back outside to the dumpster and looked up. The fire escape ran past her apartment window. That was his way in.

But first, he needed a distraction.

Back at his car, he popped the trunk and emptied his pockets. Coins, pocket knife, revolver. He thought about sticking bullets in a frying pan in the ground-floor kitchen. At a low heat, he could make it up the fire escape and wait for the shooting to start. Or ripping up his shirt, stuffing it in a gas cap, and setting it alight. Both would do the trick, but they’d also get people hurt. He needed another way.

Think, man. If you can't create an emergency, how do you get them out of the building? He closed his eyes and remembered what they said. The new guy. What was his name again? Lacey. Two minutes later, he was at a payphone, the operator connecting him to Apartment B. Nobody home in A. But a woman picked up in B.

'Hullo, ma'am. Who am I speaking to?'

'Uh, Ms. Warner.'

'Ms. Warner, this is Detective Lacey. There should be two police officers on your floor. Can you put one on the line?'

A pause, then: 'Lacey?'

Mr. Slate covered the mouthpiece, hoping the cop wouldn't know Lacey's voice. 'We got a tip,' he said, raising his voice. 'I need you down at the Interstate Bus Depot on Beverly.' He told him the killer was skipping town and gave a description of William Barclay Jr. 'No guns - we need him alive.'

The cop hesitated. 'Mighty bold of you, tellin' the lady you're a detective and all.'

His stomach tightened.

'Lacey?'

'Name, officer?'

‘Turner.'

'Get to it, Turner. Take your partner. I'll meet you there.'

He went to hang up.

'Where's Georgie?' the cop asked.

'What's with all the questions?'

'There ain't no problem.'

'Then get going.'

That was rough. How long before they figured it out? No matter. He was already moving, shoving the dumpster under the fire escape and climbing up. He listened at the apartment window. No voices now. He checked his watch, wedged his knife under the gap, and levered the window up.

The apartment was a good size. Two beds, one wardrobe, but a mess.

He found a bag and started loading it with the smallest clothes he could find - anything that might fit the girl. Every personal item, every trace of her, he took. Wardrobe, side tables, even an old shoebox under the bed. He took it all.

Inside the shoebox, he found a photograph. The girl - six or seven, standing between her parents. He flipped the box over. Nothing else.

He dragged the bag onto the fire escape and checked the time. Five minutes down. He was moving fast, but not fast enough. Running lights and sirens might get the cops to the bus depot in five minutes, and another five back here. How long would they wait there for Lacey to show? It didn't matter. He had to keep moving. He needed those pictures, but where were they hidden?

Mr. Slate tore books, flipped the mattresses, and ran his hands along the baseboards. He took out his knife and tore the boards away from the wall. Nothing. His chest pounded. Footsteps echoed outside the door. Keep it together, man. You've still got time. Sweat dripped from his brow. His eyes landed on the wall-mounted mirror. Yanking it off the wall, he saw a patch of old red paint behind it. His pulse spiked. He dropped to his knees, feeling along the floorboards. One felt different - he pried it up.

From inside the hole, he could see a pale pink sheet. A blanket of some kind. With dark red flowers in wild patterns. He fished it out. For a moment, he thought it was a drop cloth for painting. It was now a ruddy brown, splotches all over, gone to rust. He soon realized it wasn't paint. Mr. Slate dropped the blanket like it was on fire.

He blocked it out. He needed to concentrate. Panic crept in. He could almost hear the sirens. The cops coming to slap the cuffs on him. 24 minutes had passed. He was running out of time.

Where would he hide them? Somewhere close. Somewhere he could get them. Somewhere nobody would look. If they were his biggest payday, he'd want to have eyes on them. Mr. Slate sat on a bed and took a deep breath. Wiping his face. He stopped and looked out the window. The lot was vacant except for his Pontiac. Nothing had been out there except a dumpster, but he'd moved it. His gut twisted. No, she couldn't have. Why there?

Real sirens approached - they knew.

Knife between his teeth, he climbed out and dropped the bag over the railing. The clothes inside cushioned the blow. He pulled the window down halfway and saw a clutch purse on top of the wardrobe.

The sirens cut off.

He climbed through the gap. Clutch in hand. Opening it – clearly it was the girl's. Her name was Nora Valdez. He turned back and the door opened.

A young woman stood there. Warner.

'Thief! Thief!'

He clambered onto the fire escape, taking the stairs two at a time. No time. He made the jump. The dumpster quaked under his weight. He yanked the lid open, shoving his hands through the trash bags. He tapped the sides - nothing came loose. He ducked underneath.

There. Taped to the bottom. An envelope.

'He must've gone through the window.'

Mr. Slate ripped it free and rolled out. Voices above. He grabbed the bag and ran as hard as he could. Footsteps clanged on metal. He got halfway across the lot when the shooting started. Bullets kicked up dirt. He dove into the car. Started the engine. A shot whizzed clean through both open windows, just missing him.

He fishtailed out of the lot, tires screeching. He made a hard left onto Cahuenga Boulevard, then west on Sunset. He drove as far as the Chicago Confetti Club before he decided that it was safe to stop. Mr. Slate pulled over and took stock of himself. No injuries. He climbed out of the car and couldn't find any damage. No bullet holes. No blood. That was close. Too damn close. The Warner woman was the only person who could identify him. He'd been sloppy. But he got the pictures.

He got back in and opened Nora Valdez' clutch.

Now he knew how to stop the cops from looking for her.

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons