Man On The Run by Charles Williams Page B

matter?” I asked.
    ”Matter?” She regarded me owlishly, and poured some more vodka. “Nothing at all.” She held out the bottle to me. “Have some of the opium of the futile, friend, and let’s revel in the pleasures of the flesh.” She paused, hiccupped, and solemnly appraised her naked torso and the swelling, dark-nippled breasts. “And speaking of flesh, did you ever see so much of it to revel in? One hundred and sixty pounds of futility—”
    “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
    She paid no attention. “No vodka? Then Benzedrine? Marijuana? Sex, anybody?”
    She swayed. I caught her and somehow managed to get her in my arms and stand up. Carrying her into the other room, I put her on the bed and covered her. “Save six for pallbearers,” she said, and passed out cold. I stood looking down at her. It was a rotten shame, I thought.
    In the morning when I awoke it was after nine and she was up and already dressed to go out. She was at the dressing table putting on her lipstick, and when she saw in the mirror that I was awake she turned and smiled, apparently without a trace of a hangover, as handsomely blonde and clear-eyed as ever.
    She came over and sat on the side of the bed. “Sorry about last night.”
    “It’s all right,” I said. “I wish there was something I could do. Where are you going?”
    She went over to the closet and put on the gray fur coat “Denton Street.” She smiled. “Fitting, don’t you think? The brunette being stalked by her only natural enemy?”
    “Leave that to me,” I said. “It’s my pigeon.”
    She paid no attention and went on out. Her only natural enemy was boredom; she had to do something or go crazy. She came back shortly before eleven. In the industrial area around Denton Street everything was closed on Saturday. She had been shopping, however, and carried two packages that contained a gabardine topcoat and a new hat.
    * * *
    “All right, let’s see how you look,” she said. I turned and she studied me critically. It was seven a.m. Monday.
    She nodded. “The suit is a little snug across the chest and the sleeves are half an inch too short, but it’ll never show when you have the topcoat on.”
    I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The last trace of the black eye was gone now, and with the hat on there wasn’t enough of the red hair showing to attract attention. My shoes were shined. I wore a white shirt with button-down collar and a conservative tie, and a folded handkerchief and fountain pen peeped over the edge of the breast pocket of the jacket. I put on the topcoat.
    “And now the clincher,” she said. She handed me the briefcase. It was a slender one, of the type with no handles, zipper-closed, and rather old and beat-up. There were a couple of magazines in it, and some advertising circulars and two or three meaningless letters she had typed out. As she had pointed out, it was the perfect piece of camouflage.
    She grinned. “Darling, I just know you’re going to land that Ficklefinger account today and get the raise.”
    “I think I’ll get by,” I said, “if they don’t look too closely at my face.”
    “Who ever looks closely at men’s faces?”
    “Professional cops,” I said. “The very people we’re trying to fool.”
    She shook her head. “They don’t have a photograph, as far as we know. You could walk right up and borrow a light from any policeman in town—as long as you don’t do anything that looks suspicious. Don’t act nervous. And above all, don’t run when nobody’s chasing you. Maybe he just wants to borrow a match himself. Don’t worry about entering of leaving the building. There are thirty-three apartments in it, and not one of the tenants knows ten per cent of the others, even by sight? Ready?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “You go first. And you know where to meet me.”
    “I wish you’d let me go alone. If I’m picked up and you’re with me, they can make it really rough. You could go to