As he drove, he tried to recall everything that he had seen, so no clue to Judge’s identity would slip by. The guy owned a silencer-equipped pistol and a red Volkswagen. He was a bad shot, but a good driver. And that was about the sum of it.
What next? The police?
No. To hell with the cops. He had sought help from Fauvel and received nothing but bad advice. The cops had been even less help.
He would have to handle the whole business himself. Track Judge down before Judge killed him.
* * *
Mrs. Fielding met him at the door but stepped backward in surprise when she saw his condition. “What happened to you?”
“I fell down,” Chase said. “It’s nothing.”
“But there’s blood on your face. You’re all skinned up!”
“Really, Mrs. Fielding, I’m perfectly all right now. I had a little accident, but I’m on my feet and breathing.”
She looked him over more carefully. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Chase?” Her tone had gone swiftly from concern to disapproval.
“No drinks at all,” Chase said.
“You know I don’t approve.”
“I know.” He went past her, heading for the stairs. They appeared to be a long way off.
“You didn’t wreck your car?” she called after him.
“No.”
He climbed the stairs, looking anxiously ahead toward the turn at the landing-blessed escape. Strangely, he did not feel nearly as oppressed by Mrs. Fielding as usual.
“That’s good news,” she said. “As long as you have your car, you’ll be able to look for jobs better than before.”
After a glass of whiskey over ice, he drew a tub of water as hot as he could tolerate it, and he settled in as though he were an old man with arthritis. Water slopped over his open wounds and made him sigh with both pleasure and pain.
Later, he dressed the worst abrasions with Merthiolate, then put on lightweight slacks, a sports shirt, socks, and loafers. With a second glass of whiskey, he sat in the easy chair to contemplate his next move.
He looked forward to action with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
First, he should speak with Louise Allenby, the girl who had been with Michael Karnes the night he was killed. She and Chase had been questioned separately by the police, but brooding on the event together, they might be able to remember something useful.
The telephone book listed eighteen Allenbys, but Chase recalled Louise telling Detective Wallace that her father was dead and that her mother had not remarried. Only one of the Allenbys in the book was listed as a woman: Cleta Allenby on Pine Street, an address in the Ashside district.
He dialed the number and waited through ten rings before Louise answered. Her voice was recognizable, although more womanly than he remembered.
“This is Ben Chase, Louise. Do you remember me?”
“Of course,” she said. She sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him. “How are you?”
“Coping.”
“What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’d like to talk to you, if possible,” Chase said. “About what happened Monday night.”
“Well, sure, all right.”
“It won’t upset you?”
“Why should it?” Her hardness continued to amaze him. “Can you come over now?”
“If it’s convenient.”
“Fine,” she said. “It’s ten o’clock now – in half an hour, at ten-thirty? Will that be all right?”
“Just right,” Chase said.
“I’ll be expecting you.”
She put the phone down so gently that for seconds Chase did not realize that she had hung up.
He was beginning to stiffen from his injuries. He stood and stretched, found his car keys, and quickly finished his drink.
When it was time to go, he did not want to begin. Suddenly he realized how completely this assumption of responsibility would destroy the simple routines by which he had survived in the months since his discharge from the army and the hospital. He would have no more leisurely mornings in town, no more afternoons watching old movies on television, no more evenings reading and drinking until he could sleep – at least not until this mess was straightened out. If he just stayed here in his room, however, if he took his chances, he might remain alive until Judge was caught in a few weeks or, at most, in a few months.