12
Flight 303 out of Newark departed on time on Thursday morning and made its scheduled stop at Atlanta shortly after noon. The trip was high, smooth, and surprisingly quiet, and John Hayden, who had brought two morning papers aboard with him, had occupied himself with a careful reading of both of them. Nowhere could he find any reference to a follow-up story on Sam Adler’s death, and he felt sure that if a search was to be made for him, it had not started the night before.
Lunch was served as soon as the aircraft was again airborne, and by the time he had finished—he had a window seat now on the starboard side—he could tell that the pilot had already begun to lose altitude in his approach to Mobile. The land beneath the wingtip seemed gently rolling now, with cultivated areas interspersed with stands of pine. For the past few minutes they had flown over one river after another, each seemingly flowing southward toward the gulf or bay, but he was hazy about his geography in that area and he could only identify those which were shown on the airline map—the Alabama first, the Tensaw, the Mobile.
The position of the sun and his long-forgotten Boy Scout training told him that they were flying more west than southwest now. He thought they were down to probably four or five thousand feet when the pilot banked gently and the starboard wing lifted. When they were again in level flight they were lower and the direction had been reversed and he understood that they were about to approach Bates Field from the west. He could see no signs of the city, but the flaps were down now and they came down over the low plateau to touch the concrete runway with a moderate bump and a small squeal of rubber as the tires took their weight.
The sky was bright and cloudless as he walked toward the small but modern-looking terminal building, and the sun brought a welcome warmth to the air. He thought the temperature was in the middle seventies, perhaps more, and as he waited at the baggage counter he slipped off his topcoat and draped it over his arm.
There were fifteen or twenty passengers in all and it did not take long to claim his overnight bag. This required no porter and he went past the glass doors to the interior, scanning the waiting room, the newsstand and souvenir shop, the air-conditioned restaurant. There were two car-rental agencies on opposite sides of the hall, one with some newly arrived customers and one without. Since he had no preference he headed for the latter and stated his needs.
“Yes, sir,” the agent said. “May I see your driver’s license and some identification? Do you want to handle this with a credit card?”
Hayden, who had been listed on the passenger manifest as John Hastings, Hartford, Connecticut, produced two credit cards and the agent took his pick. Hayden said that a small sedan would do, that he probably would not need it for more than a couple of days. A form was filled out, the rates explained, and while Hayden signed it the agent picked up the telephone and spoke briefly. When he hung up he glanced again at the application form, removed the carbons, and gave Hayden a copy.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayden,” he said. “Now all you have to do is drive.”
“Do you happen to have any kind of map of the city?”
The man said he had. He said it was not too detailed but it would give Hayden the main streets and the principal points of interest. He reached under the counter, handed over the map, and pointed toward the opposite end of the terminal.
“If you just wait out there at the ramp your car will be right along.”
Hayden saw the small green sedan coming as he stopped outside under the covered driveway, and as he waited a young Negro negotiated the curve with a flourish, stopped smoothly, and jumped out to get the bags.
“Put them in the rear deck, sir?”
“The back seat will do.”
“Right.” The youth got rid of the bags, took the topcoat, folded it neatly. “There you are, sir.”
“How do I get out of here?” Hayden said and reached for a coin.
“To Mobile? Just follow that.” He pointed to a road that ran along the plateau between two high wire fences. “You come to the end, you turn left.”
“How far?”
“Maybe ten miles, straight in.”
When Hayden turned left at the intersection on the perimeter of the field he found himself on a narrow, two-lane highway that stretched straight ahead over gently rolling country. Tall pine trees bordered the road here, and beyond were fields and an occasional house. Traffic was moderate, but as he continued, filling stations began to appear with increasing frequency. Roadside stands and small stores soon gave way to larger ones. Traffic increased and the rolling terrain made passing more difficult as the area began to take on a suburban look. Here and there were real estate developments which optimists had laid out with an eye to the future, but after he had passed a large shopping center the section had a more permanent look and the pines gave way to oaks and magnolias and camphor trees.
By now both sides of the road were built up, and he came finally to a broad thoroughfare, angling into it at a traffic light. After that the highway was divided and thick with cars. Ancient and enormous live oaks sent out branches that nearly met above the traffic, and as he stopped for a signal light he saw that he was on Government Street. When, a few blocks farther on, he noticed the new-looking, two-story motel on his right, he pulled in and coasted to a stop opposite the office.
At this hour he had no trouble getting accommodations, and once again he used a fictitious name and address as he registered and paid in advance for his room. A uniformed bellboy took the key and showed him where to park his car. He carried the bags to a second-floor unit that overlooked the swimming pool and asked if Hayden would like some ice. Hayden said no and tipped him, and when the door closed he took off his hat and sat down to do some thinking.
He did not bother to unpack but took out the snapshot of Ted Corbin. The familiar star in the background told him that this was a Texaco filling station and it had been his intention to find the local sales agency and start his quest from there. Now, realizing that he might be able to get the necessary information by telephone, he reached for the directory and gave the number to the motel operator.
A glance at his watch told him it was three o’clock, but he remembered that there was an hour’s difference in time between Mobile and Newark. This made it two o’clock here, and he told himself hopefully that most of the office help should be back from lunch by now. When, a moment later, a woman answered, he asked to be connected to someone in the sales department.
Not until he had stated his request and heard the brief silence while the operator transferred his call did it occur to him that he ought to have a story to tell. For to come right out and ask directly for his information might result in some suspicion or a flat refusal, depending on company policy. The thought jarred him and he felt a moment of simple panic before he could make his mind work constructively. He was still grappling with the problem when a man’s voice said: “Sales. McCann speaking.”
With that he took a quick breath and knew that he could only make up a story as he went along and hope it sounded convincing.
“This is Mr. Hastings,” he said. “The name won’t mean anything to you but I’d like to get some information about one of your stations.”
“What sort of information, Mr. Hastings?”
“My wife was here a couple of months ago and when she pulled into a station to get some gas one of the attendants found out that her motor was overheating. It was nothing serious—something about the fan belt, I think—but he fixed it for her and wouldn’t take any payment for the favor. I don’t know if it’s one of your company stations or an independent, but since I’m going to be in town a couple of days I thought I’d like to stop at that station and get a tankful of gas and thank the man who helped her out that time.”
“I’m glad we could be of service, Mr. Hastings,” McCann said. “It’s always nice to hear and I appreciate your thought about thanking the man personally. Does your wife remember the name of the station or where it was located?”
“She doesn’t know where it was. She’s not even sure it was in the city proper but she knows it was in the area. She didn’t think to see who owned the place but she remembers the insignia on the man’s coveralls. There was this star you use with the name Quinn above it and Cannon below. I thought maybe you’d have a station listed that was run by someone of that name.”
He was perspiring freely when he finished and the back of his throat was dry. But his fabrication had sounded reasonable enough to his ears, and he felt a moment of exultation when the man said he would see what he could find. With that he crossed his fingers both mentally and physically and in the end his effort was rewarded.
“Mr. Hastings? There’s no station in the city listed under those two names but there is one in Fairview.”
“Fairview?”
“It’s across the bay.”
“I think it’s worth a try,” Hayden said. “How do I get there?”
“Where are you now?”
“In a motel on Government Street.”
“That makes it easy. Stay right on Government. It’ll take you through the Bankhead Tunnel and bring you out on the causeway. Bear right and follow the signs. Our station is right on Route 98 as you get into Fairview. I hope it’s the one you want.”
Hayden thanked the man and hung up, his spirits high and a sense of satisfaction taking charge of him that was hard to control. He clapped his hands absently and rubbed the palms. He uttered a happy curse, and when he caught sight of himself in the mirror he saw that his angular face had been warped into one huge grin. Taking only enough time to wash his hands and face and comb his hair, he charged out of the room, pocketing his key and slamming the door behind him.