Chapter 10

Roger sprinted back up the apartment stairs to his quarters. Flo was just getting into her clothes as he came in. She started to smile but the look on his face stopped her. "What is it, Roger?"

"Suzanne's gone. I think Walter took her away."

"Gone? You sure?"

"Yes. I went into her apartment after Walter told me he'd seen her leave and that he didn't have a key. There were signs that she had been taken forcibly from her bathtub. When I went back, Walter was gone." As he talked, Roger changed rapidly into black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. He exchanged his tennis shoes for a pair of soft black loafers and threw on a gray sports coat.

Flo hurriedly finished buttoning her clothes. "Do you think he'll hurt her?"

"He's a psychopath, Flo. Not to mention being an addict. He's liable to do anything."

Flo stopped short. "Walter's on drugs?"

"Yes. That's why he looks the way he does. I've been treating him for almost a year now, hoping to wean him off the stuff. In fact, that's how I came to set up our... club in this place. Walter offered the use of the building in payment for the drugs and help I gave him."

Flo shook her head. "Man, that explains why he looks so much like a corpse."

"He is a corpse, Flo. He's just not a dead one."

Flo knelt and straightened Roger's cuffs. "What are we going to do, pretty man?"

"You go round up Phyllis and Tom Baumler. Tell them to meet me here in half an hour."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to get ready for when we find Craft." His tone was cold and deadly. Flo nodded and hurried out of the room.

Roger went to his closet and took out a black medical bag. Inside the bag were a number of small packages. He took out two. The first contained a flat metal case. Watlington opened it and inspected its contents; a hypodermic and a small vial of greenish liquid. The other package contained an object wrapped in soft chamois. Watlington unwrapped the chamois to reveal a gleaming, snub-nosed revolver. He spun the cylinder on the gun, snapped it shut again and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket. The flat hypodermic case he stuck in the hip pocket of his slacks.

He checked his watch. He walked to his dresser and opened it. Out of the drawer he took a half-empty pack of cigarettes and withdrew one. He lit it and sat on his bed, smoking slowly and glancing at his watch every now and again.

Shortly, the doorbell rang. He heard Flo answer it and Phyllis' worried voice. The two of them came into the room. Roger gave her a brief rundown on the situation. Then they all three waited. Moments later the bell rang again. Flo and Phyllis both went to answer it. Roger rose and followed them into the front of the apartment. The crippled little hunchback stood there, looking worried.

"Hello, Tom," Roger said.

"Hello, Roger. What's this I hear that Walt has gone berserk?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But I think we'd better find out."

Watlington ran things down for Baumler. The hunchback sat on the side of the sofa and toyed with the head of his cane through the recitation. When Roger was finished, Baumler nodded gravely. "Yes, I think it is serious. Whatever that fool's done, it isn't likely to be good for us-or the girl." He glanced around. "And speaking professionally, as a lawyer, I'd say that none of us would stand a chance if any of this came out in court. This society is not ready for our type of liberation." He looked to Roger. "What do you propose we do, Doctor?"

"I think we should examine all that we know about Walter and attempt to guess what he has done. Then I think we should intercept him and stop him." He looked grim. "However it is necessary."

They nodded gravely, then sat down and talked together intensely for almost half an hour. Finally they rose as a group and hurried downstairs. Each went to a separate automobile, and drove off into the night in different directions.

Walter Craft woke to the smell of stale blood and an ache in his head. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was or what had happened to him. Then memory and pain flooded in together. Suzanne! She had hit him with the jam jar!

Blind rage swept over him and he flung himself violently off the floor. A wave of searing pain blinded him when he moved his head. He sat dizzily on the floor again and felt his head. Blood still seeped from the gash in his scalp, but he didn't feel anything broken.

Gingerly he sat up again, holding the table for support. Still dizzy, partially blinded and swept by nausea, Craft pulled himself upright. His face and chest were smeared with blood and jam, and straw from the floor clung to him. He looked at his watch, having some trouble focusing. Ten-thirty. He'd not been out more than ten minutes. The girl couldn't be far!

Staggering slightly, he lurched to the door. It was open. She hadn't even had sense enough to lock it behind her! Craft stepped out into the chilly evening. He thought swiftly, with an almost animal cunning. Which way would she have gone? She'd be running, that much was sure. Since he didn't have his tee shirt, she was probably wearing it. And a woman on the street in nothing but a tee shirt - especially in this part of town-would stop the first car that drove along.

Moving more on instinct than conscious thought, Craft headed down the alley toward the better lighted of the two streets that it ended in. His little hideaway was stuck in the back of a building which had once been a manor house and was now used for storage. The street it fronted on was seedy business and low-rent industry. It was a long way from home for Suzanne.

At the corner, Craft peered swiftly in both directions. There were few lights and no traffic. He hesitated a moment, then turned right and trotted to the corner. Again a swift look, a moment of indecision, and he turned left and ran down the street. A car came along and he ducked between two buildings. It passed and he resumed his chase. He ran several more blocks, sometimes left, sometimes right. He dodged a couple of cars and one police patrol. He had a moment's panic that they were looking for him, but it fled with the passing of the patrol car. If she'd reached the police, there would be dozens of cars in the area.

At last, sick and dizzy - and feeling the need for a fix - Craft came to a halt, breathing heavily. He'd lost her. Sooner or later she was going to tell her story. And soon after that, they'd come for him. Come to put him away as they had done years before when he had strangled his sister. She'd deserved it. He had tried to show them that all he had wanted to do was fuck her. That he hadn't meant to kill her. That he'd only been trying to keep her quiet, so that his mother wouldn't hear. But they'd put him in the bad place, with all the doctors prying and poking and sticking him with needles.

Needles. Suddenly the need for heroin was urgent. He was having trouble thinking. He had to get a fix. And he had to get out of this place. Leave Los Angeles. Go where they would never find him again. Somehow, he had to get back and get his things before they got wise to him. Get his clothes and his frog. And get into the room in Watlington's apartment. The room with the throne and the whips. And the medical cabinet full of heroin.

Desperately, Craft began to retrace his steps, back to his hideaway and his car.