Don't Cry For Long (Mac #11). Thomas B. Dewey
you,” I said. “I’ll see you get the proper change.”
She stooped, got hold of the coat, dragged it up over her shoulder and walked away toward the rear exit. I had to walk fast to catch up with her. She had a long, rangy stride.
At the end of the corridor she stopped, waiting for me to open the door. Weaver caught up with us.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“Just west of the alley,” I said, “headed east.”
“I’ll have to check out my men,” he said. “I’ll swing in behind you and give you a blinker.”
I nodded and went to the door where Miss Farnum waited, tapping one foot. I pushed open one of the panels and held it while she went through. Donovan and the sergeant were climbing the stairs toward the landing where Flannery had got hit. Two men were loading Flannery’s body onto a stretcher, while the technical guys stood around, watching. The stretcher bearers and Miss Farnum reached the ramp at the same time. They had the plastic sheet over Flannery, but it had slipped here and there. One of his shoes was exposed, angling awkwardly skyward.
She glanced at the stretcher and tried to push on past it. The stretcher men paused. I grabbed her arm and held her back. She waited with one shoulder against the wall while they passed. Then she jerked away from me and went on down the ramp into the alley.
“Stop,” I said.
She stopped with her back to me. The stretcher bearers were loading Flannery into a police ambulance. Close against the concrete wall beyond the ambulance, I could see the high hulk of the van truck. There was nobody near it.
“Listen,” I said to Miss Farnum. “You can have me or you can have your money back and find someone else. One man has been shot and I’ve had a tussle with a couple of others, and as far as I know, they’re around every corner. If you want me, you’ll have to do it my way.”
Behind me the ambulance doors slammed, the engine sputtered and the lights brightened. The ambulance drove past us slowly, gained speed at the mouth of the alley and turned into the street. Miss Farnum stood at attention till it was gone.
“All right,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
“First,” I said, “it’s dangerous walking along with your coat dangling. Either put it on or carry it over your arm.”
She thought that over, started to put it on. I helped her.
“Do you want me to button it?” she said.
“I don’t care. The next thing—we’re going to walk at a good clip, you on the inside, me on the outside, till we get to the sidewalk. When I say stop, you will stop. Then we will walk down to the car the same way, you on the inside, close to the building, me on the outside. You will stay close to the building while I unlock and open the car. When I give the word, you will go quickly to the car and get in.”
“All right,” she said. “Is that all?”
“One more thing. If anything should happen that I get busy with, you will turn around at once and run back here as fast as you can and put yourself under the protection of the police. No yelling, no trying to help me, no running the other way. Just straight back here. All clear?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Good. Then here we go.”
We started off and I jostled her some to force her close to the walls of the buildings that lined the alley. There were no vehicles blocking our way. Above, I could see no lighted windows nor any that seemed to be open. On the far side of the alley, on our left, were occasional trash cans, some debris. It was after midnight now, and quiet. Once in a while a car would pass the alley on the side street ahead of us. Our heels clacked on the pavement, out of step. She stopped suddenly, drawing in her breath. A large rat ran out of a doorway in front of us, crossed the alley and disappeared. I took her arm.
“All right,” I said, “steady. Not long now.”
“Don’t think I’m afraid,” she said.
“Not for a minute,” I said.
Ten paces short of the mouth of the alley I stopped her. She didn’t protest, but stood silently, waiting, while I went ahead and checked both ways along the street. I beckoned to her and she joined me and we walked down to where I had left the car. There were no loiterers on the walk and the car was in the clear. I left her in an alcove where two buildings joined and crossed to the car, unlocked the door, opened it and went back for her.
She was pressed into the deepest corner of the alcove, as if she would make herself part of the building. Her hands were thrust into the pockets of her coat and her eyes looked at me without blinking, dark in the halo of her hair.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s go.”
She didn’t move.
“I don’t know anything about you,” she said. “How do I know—?”
Footsteps sounded, crackling on the street, approaching from my right. I turned, putting my back to the alcove, covering her. Two men in leather jackets and boots approached, reached and passed us with no more than a glance. As their steps faded, she whispered, “Please, let me go—I’ll get a taxi.”
“You have any idea what would happen to me,” I said, “if I just let you go off alone now?”
“What could happen?”
“I would be unable to make a living in this state. Everybody in the police business, private and public, known or unknown to me, would be embarrassed in my presence. I would be destroyed.”
She mouthed an uncouth phrase. “…give me that crock about duty and self-sacrifice,” she said.
I looked at her.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“What difference does that make?”
“Maybe I can explain it this way,” I said. “I’m stuck with you, with responsibility for you. Who you are doesn’t make any difference. One way or another, I’ve got to get you to a safe place. That is all. That is it. That is as far as I go.”
She said nothing.
“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “Where is it you want to go?”
Silence.
“You would rather have gone with those two fellows who came busting in back there?”
Silence.
“You knew Flannery was going to get it?”
“No!”
“Did you send him up the stairs?”
“No—I did not—you—!”
In the street, sudden lights flared, swung in a tight U-turn, as Weaver brought his car into position, a little to the rear of mine, in the first driving lane.
“You don’t have to be stuck with me,” I said. “Mr. Weaver is out there with his car, if you prefer.”
Silence.
She’s at least eighteen, I thought. She’s acting like three. Why? What does she want?
There were steps in the street. Weaver came over the curb and approached us, scanning the street as he came. Miss Farnum’s eyes were unblinking, but I couldn’t tell what they were looking at.
“Ready?” Weaver said.
“She don’t want to go,” I said.
Weaver thought it over for about three seconds, then turned away.
“Okay,” he said. “You stay here with her. I’ll call her papa and leave it up to him.”
She let him get almost to the curb, then shouted, “No—wait!”
Weaver