Build My Gallows High by Geoffrey Homes

to the door. When Red got in he slammed the cab gear as though taking out on the aged mechanism his anger against his fare.
    The night clerk dozed behind the desk. Red’s glance embraced the lobby. No one waiting for him but he mustn’t take chances. He crossed to the bank of house phones, gave the girl the number of his room, waited a little. When there was no answer he took an up elevator. Caution made him wary. He unlocked the door, kicked it open then stood aside with his right hand gripping the gun in the pocket of his raincoat. He reached in and flipped on the lights. Empty. His bag stood open on the stand as he had left it. Quickly he closed and locked the door, took a quick look in the closet and bathroom, then picked up the phone and told the night clerk to get his bill ready and send a bellboy up.
    There was nothing much to pack—his razor, toothbrush, a few toilet articles. Before he closed the bag he tried to remember how things had been arranged, but could not. If someone had searched his room it had been done carefully. Yet he mustn’t take chances, mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating Whit Sterling. From now on there would be someone forever at his heels. Momentarily he considered sitting down and waiting for them. Get it over with. Call up the cops and say, ‘I’m the guy you’ll be looking for presently.’ Call Baylord, stir things up and take a chance that you’d come out of the mess with a second-degree murder rap.
    He thought of Ann and put the idea aside. Too much to lose. Knuckles beat a sharp tattoo on the door. Still cautious, he opened it. A sleepy bellhop pushed past him, picked up his bag and, unsmilingly as though annoyed at life, led the way to the elevators.
    ‘You didn’t stay long,’ the night clerk said as he took Red’s money and stamped the bill. ’Leaving town?’
    Red nodded. ‘Under the desk there’s a brief case.’
    The night clerk found it, put it on the desk. Now it no longer bore Lloyd Eels’ name. A knife blade had scarred the leather deeply. Red thanked him, tucked it under one arm and followed the bellhop out to the waiting cab.
    A quiet emptiness filled the street yet a threatening undercurrent seemed flowing through the silence.
    ‘Now where?’ the driver asked, as Red got in.
    Red’s voice was low. ‘La Guardia Field.’
    The bellhop chose that moment to stick his head inside the cab and thank Red for his tip. Maybe he heard the order, maybe he didn’t. Anyway it couldn’t be helped.
    The cab rattled through the empty canyons, the driver bending over the wheel as though the trip required tremendous concentration—not speaking, apparently still hating wakefulness. The tunnel swallowed them. Red thought of the dirty river swirling above them and the depression that settled on him was not lifted when he felt clean wind and saw the city again. Occasionally he glanced back. Sometimes headlights showed behind then fell away. Safe for a little while but not for long. They would pick up his trail and follow him. All he could do until he was ready to move in on Sterling was cover up his tracks as best he could. Well, he knew a place they wouldn’t think of looking and that’s where he was headed.
    Few people were in the waiting room. He sought a familiar face but found none, crossed to the ticket window and asked an overly genial clerk about planes. No flights for the coast until morning. But there was a plane for Cleveland in ten minutes. That, Red said, would do. He handed over his grip and brief case, casting nervous glances toward the entrance. Pocketing his ticket he went outside and found a bit of darkness near the gate. Three cheerful drunks were telling a fourth how sorry they were to have him leave. A man and woman stood close together whispering gravely. Out on the field lights bloomed around a moth-like silver plane and monkey-figures clambered over it.
    Two men came along the walk and took their places near the gate. Momentarily Red pressed