"See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old battered
suitcase?"
"Bag? Suitcase?" he mumbled. Then he became excited. "Why, a man just
stepped out of here--" He turned to look down the street. "That's him."
The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,
mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.
"Hey!" I shouted, starting toward him.
The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He came
abreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the door
and threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.
The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time I
reached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, then
walked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with the
redcap, who said, "That man steal them suitcases?"
"That he did," I said.
Just then the airport policeman started across the street from the
parking lot. Redcap said, "Better tell him about it."
The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, "We'd better get
over to the office."
But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distant
shattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.
"Jets," the redcap said, eying the sky.
"I don't know," the policeman said. "Didn't sound much like a jet to
me."
We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupe
in the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. That
was all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia was
thinking.
She said, "About those bags," and looked at me.