I Found Him Dead!. Gale Gallegher
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on. I was just beyond the friendly lights of the store when the steps resumed. Heavy . . . light . . . heavy. It could be a cop but they don’t have lame cops.
The blocks are short. I was near the corner. I walked faster. The steps speeded effortlessly as though, limping or not, they were easily geared to a change of pace. The next block was bright—a drugstore, a bar. My foot touched the curb. The traffic light changed. A stream of westbound traffic rolled slowly by. The steps had not stopped. They were on my heels.
Behind a limousine and a truck came a cab. I darted out toward it, saw two heads close together in the back before I caught the driver’s negative signal. Reluctantly I returned to the curb. Those steps were louder and louder and then they stopped. He was standing too close to me, too close for strangers on a street corner.
I glanced down, saw the gray trousers, the edge of the blue raincoat. The coat moved nearer. The man was tall, very tall; the top of my head was level with his shoulder. I couldn’t plunge ahead into that swishing traffic. I might have turned east at that corner, but I seemed frozen to the sidewalk as the man’s sleeve brushed my cheek. Then he spoke, his words low and distinct, the tone commanding.
“I must talk to you,” he said, “about your recent call—on a corpse.”
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