and hot coffee, and my own room and the rows of books, and the poker games in the steam-heated messroom.
I tore my mind away from the picture, and then I was thinking of Suzy’s apartment, and of warmth and safety, and of Suzy herself. I swore wearily. Jesus, I’d been so near. Then I sprang up. What the hell was the matter with me? I could still get there. All I had to do was find another telephone booth and look up her address. I didn’t have to call her. The whole night was ahead of me—it couldn’t be much after eight—and I could-make it on foot. I wouldn’t be able to ask directions, but I knew the city fairly well, and the chances were it would be on a street I’d recognize. And if it weren’t, maybe the directory would have a map in it. I’d forgotten, but some of them did.
The first thing to do was get clear of this area—get miles away. They’d be searching it block by block. I walked westward along the beach. Now and then a car went past on the roadway to the right and above me. I stayed out of the range of their headlights. After a long time I crossed the road and struck inland. I found a shell-surfaced country road following a sluggish creek. Rain kept falling. The topcoat was soaked now and heavy. I was seized with uncontrollable fits of shaking that lasted for minutes at a time. Whenever I saw a car coming, I dived off the road and hid.
Far off to the left I could see beacons flashing. That would be the International Airport. Then there were more lights up ahead. I was approaching the highway that came into Sanport from the west, from the direction of Carlisle. I began to pass more houses, and then I was in a suburban housing development. Few cars were moving, and there were no pedestrians. Some of the houses were dark. That seemed strange, until I had to pass another unavoidable street light and looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty-five. I’d been walking for at least three hours. In another seven, or a little more, it would be daybreak. I wondered if I could keep going that long, or if I could even get to her place in that length of time. It might be clear across town, ten or twelve miles from here. I saw a police car up ahead, and ducked down a shadowy side street. A dog barked at me. My teeth chattered again, and I clenched my jaws to stop them. I turned again, still going toward the highway. I had to find a telephone booth, and there wouldn’t be one in this area.
Then I located one, in the edge of a suburban shopping center. A service station on the corner was closed, with only a single bulb burning in back of the glass front wall of the office, and around at the side of it was a booth standing invitingly open. The streets were deserted except for a few cars near the movie house still open down in the next block. I took another quick look around and crossed to the station driveway. When I stepped inside the booth and closed the door, its light came on. I felt as if I were standing naked on a large stage before an audience of thousands. I grabbed for the directory, dangling from its chain, and fumbled through it with hands that shook uncontrollably. Water ran off my hat onto the pages.
Parker . . . Parkhurst . . . Patterson . . .
Patton . . . Here we were.
Patton, Robert . . . Patton, R.H . . . Patton, Stewart . . . Patton, Stephen R. . . . Patton, Victor E. . . . There was no Suzy Patton listed.
Of course there was. There had to be! I ran a trembling finger down the column again. I shook my head. Then, for some insane reason I couldn’t fathom, I was counting them. There were thirty-seven Pattons, but there was no Suzy Patton, and there wasn’t even an S. Patton or an S. Anything Patton. I dropped the phone book and rubbed a hand harshly across my face.
Suzy Patton was a pen name, or she had an unlisted number. In a city of six hundred thousand— I started to laugh. My head felt queer. I chopped off the laugh and pushed out of the booth, and when the rain hit me in the face my
I tore my mind away from the picture, and then I was thinking of Suzy’s apartment, and of warmth and safety, and of Suzy herself. I swore wearily. Jesus, I’d been so near. Then I sprang up. What the hell was the matter with me? I could still get there. All I had to do was find another telephone booth and look up her address. I didn’t have to call her. The whole night was ahead of me—it couldn’t be much after eight—and I could-make it on foot. I wouldn’t be able to ask directions, but I knew the city fairly well, and the chances were it would be on a street I’d recognize. And if it weren’t, maybe the directory would have a map in it. I’d forgotten, but some of them did.
The first thing to do was get clear of this area—get miles away. They’d be searching it block by block. I walked westward along the beach. Now and then a car went past on the roadway to the right and above me. I stayed out of the range of their headlights. After a long time I crossed the road and struck inland. I found a shell-surfaced country road following a sluggish creek. Rain kept falling. The topcoat was soaked now and heavy. I was seized with uncontrollable fits of shaking that lasted for minutes at a time. Whenever I saw a car coming, I dived off the road and hid.
Far off to the left I could see beacons flashing. That would be the International Airport. Then there were more lights up ahead. I was approaching the highway that came into Sanport from the west, from the direction of Carlisle. I began to pass more houses, and then I was in a suburban housing development. Few cars were moving, and there were no pedestrians. Some of the houses were dark. That seemed strange, until I had to pass another unavoidable street light and looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty-five. I’d been walking for at least three hours. In another seven, or a little more, it would be daybreak. I wondered if I could keep going that long, or if I could even get to her place in that length of time. It might be clear across town, ten or twelve miles from here. I saw a police car up ahead, and ducked down a shadowy side street. A dog barked at me. My teeth chattered again, and I clenched my jaws to stop them. I turned again, still going toward the highway. I had to find a telephone booth, and there wouldn’t be one in this area.
Then I located one, in the edge of a suburban shopping center. A service station on the corner was closed, with only a single bulb burning in back of the glass front wall of the office, and around at the side of it was a booth standing invitingly open. The streets were deserted except for a few cars near the movie house still open down in the next block. I took another quick look around and crossed to the station driveway. When I stepped inside the booth and closed the door, its light came on. I felt as if I were standing naked on a large stage before an audience of thousands. I grabbed for the directory, dangling from its chain, and fumbled through it with hands that shook uncontrollably. Water ran off my hat onto the pages.
Parker . . . Parkhurst . . . Patterson . . .
Patton . . . Here we were.
Patton, Robert . . . Patton, R.H . . . Patton, Stewart . . . Patton, Stephen R. . . . Patton, Victor E. . . . There was no Suzy Patton listed.
Of course there was. There had to be! I ran a trembling finger down the column again. I shook my head. Then, for some insane reason I couldn’t fathom, I was counting them. There were thirty-seven Pattons, but there was no Suzy Patton, and there wasn’t even an S. Patton or an S. Anything Patton. I dropped the phone book and rubbed a hand harshly across my face.
Suzy Patton was a pen name, or she had an unlisted number. In a city of six hundred thousand— I started to laugh. My head felt queer. I chopped off the laugh and pushed out of the booth, and when the rain hit me in the face my
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