Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton Read Free Book Online

was parked in front of the building, along with an empty police car and a white Thunderbird convertible with the top up. There were people in the Thunderbird. The engine was turning over quietly.
    Under other circumstances, seeing a car waiting like that, ready to go, I might have looked for a murderous blast from an automatic weapon and a tire-ripping getaway, but this seemed hardly the time and place for such goings-on. Anyway, the only man with a current reason to wish me dead, as far as I was aware, was waiting in Washington to cut me into small, squirming strips with his tongue. Mac doesn’t like having his operations fouled up and his people killed.
    I got the keys out of the Falcon’s ignition and opened the trunk and threw my suitcase in. Coming back around the car, I almost stepped on the little blonde, who’d come over from the Thunderbird.
    â€œSo your name is Petroni,” she said, looking up at me. “Jim Petroni.”
    â€œThere’s no law against it,” I said.
    She laughed softly. “Those policemen certainly wished there was, didn’t they?” She continued to speak in the same light tone of voice. “Teddy Michaelis,” she said. “The Tidewater Motel. Room seventeen. You know where it is.”
    â€œI know the motel,” I said. “I can find the room.”
    â€œDon’t be long,” she said.
    The college type behind the wheel tapped the horn impatiently. She stared at me for a moment longer, as if fixing my face in her memory to brighten the long, dark, lonely winter nights to come. At least that was the most flattering explanation of her scrutiny; I don’t claim it was the right one. Then she ran lightly to the convertible and slid across the seat, reaching back to slam the big door shut. The window was down. I heard her voice clearly.
    â€œSorry to keep you all waiting; I wanted to be absolutely sure. But you’re wrong, Mrs. Rosten; he isn’t the one, I’d swear it. And I saw him lots closer than you did.”
    I heard Mrs. Rosten say from the rear seat, “I still think—”
    That was no surprise. She’d keep right on thinking it, too. But her word didn’t carry the weight of that of the girl who’d actually spoken to the murderer, which was just as well for me.
    I watched them drive away. Then I got into the Falcon and drove in the other direction. It would have been poor technique to appear to be following; and I needed some information and advice before I accepted the little lady’s invitation, anyway. Things were looking up. At least I had something with which to draw Mac’s attention from my many and serious shortcomings.
    It took me a while to get my bearings on the country roads on which I found myself, and a little longer to decide I was being followed. I didn’t think it was the police. They’d have managed it less obviously. This was a one-man tailing job, and the guy was damn well not going to lose me whether I spotted him or not.
    I sighed, and led him out on a sandy back road, and stopped to see if he wanted to talk. He didn’t want to talk. He drove past without slacking speed, as if I was nothing to him but an obstruction by the roadside. I got out and opened up the hood of the Ford. The compact six-cylinder engine looked as if it would have been easy to fix, had there been anything wrong with it. I went back to the trunk and opened that, and fussed around in there for a while. I might have been looking for tools. The guy out in the dark could make up his own story.
    He was out there, all right. He wasn’t just interested in learning where I was going. He’d parked up ahead and circled back on foot, stalking me. I took a chance on a gun and let him come in. He made the last ten yards in a rush. I pressed the button of the instrument with which I had provided myself, ducked as I turned, and put out my arm.
    It worked very nicely. He ran right onto the long, thin