17
Ted Corbin made a good suggestion as they came out of the tunnel into downtown Mobile. The half-hour drive from Fairview had been uneventful and silent, but now Corbin stirred in his corner of the seat and Hayden could feel the shadowed gaze inspecting him.
“Did you rent this car in your own name?”
“I had to,” Hayden said. “Had to use my credit card.”
“Well, we know they’re looking for me. From what you say there could be a fugitive warrant out for you.”
“There probably is.”
“I don’t know about flights out of here at this time of night. I do know that an airport is one of the first places a cop would check, and now that I’ve decided to go back I’d rather make the trip with you than with the law.”
“What have you got in mind?”
“New Orleans. They’ve probably got twenty times as many flights a day out of there as they have out of here and it’s a hell of a lot bigger terminal. We can stop and pick up your bag at the motel and keep moving.”
“How far?”
“Maybe three hours.”
“Okay,” Hayden said, “just keep me on the right road.”
“Stay on 90—all the way.”
At the motel Hayden did not bother to turn off the motor while he went to his room and got his hat and coat and bag he had not yet unpacked. When he started up again, Corbin settled back in his seat and Hayden gave his attention to the traffic lights on Government Street. He took no chances, then or later, and with the city behind him and the divided highway joining finally to make a two-way road, he got comfortable and settled down to his work. The highway signs told him that the state speed laws were sixty miles per hour in daylight and fifty at night, so he split the difference.
For a while the countryside was as he remembered it from his morning drive from the airport except that it was flatter here and more level. The headlights picked out oaks and pines, with here and there a pecan orchard. Later there was a marshy area for a few miles and presently a sign announced the city limits of Pascagoula. He took care going through the town. He had to stop for a toll bridge which carried them across a wide inlet or river, and then they rode inland again until they came to Ocean Springs. Here a long bridge carried them over a wide arm of Mississippi Sound, and then he was again watching the traffic lights as they went through Biloxi.
For the next thirty miles or so the scene was unchanging. Through Gulfport, Long Beach, and Pass Christian the divided road was straight, the scene unvarying. On the left the beach was broad and gently sloping; on the right, and stretching mile after mile as one town gave way to another, the highway was bordered by homes and spacious lawns, with only an occasional motel or restaurant or filling station to break the residential continuity.
The beach ended in another toll bridge, and Corbin, who had been dozing for the past hour, sat up and produced a quarter to make the payment. Beyond the bridge was the town of Bay St. Louis, and Corbin announced that in another twenty miles they would be in Louisiana. It was some distance beyond—Hayden was never quite sure just where they were—when the highway patrol car sped up behind them.
It happened suddenly and without warning. Hayden had been watching the speedometer regularly, with an eye for the rear-view mirror from time to time, but the patrol car was coming so fast that it was almost on top of them before he saw the flashing red light and heard the first wail of the siren.
His first reaction was one of sudden alarm and his foot eased instinctively on the accelerator. There was guilt and despair in his thoughts too until he saw that the speedometer said sixty, and then he could only wait, the sweat breaking out on him and his voice sinking as he said:
“Oh-oh.”
“What’s the matter?” Corbin said, and then he too heard the siren. “A cop?” he said. “Oh, Jesus!”
“What’s the speed limit?”
“Sixty, I guess.”
“That’s all I’m doing.”
“Hold it that way. If we get picked up now were dead.”
The driver behind touched the siren again briefly as Corbin finished. The lights were huge now in the rear-view mirror, so close that Hayden had to concentrate to keep a steady course. An instant later there was a quick wssshhing sound and then there was nothing but the fading throb of the sedan’s motor and twin taillights that were quickly reduced to pinpoints before a slight curve blotted them from sight.
Hayden felt his heartbeat start to slow down and the back of his throat was dry. He swallowed, hearing Corbin’s soft curse. He let out his breath and made an effort to steady his nerves, a new exultancy working on him now that they were safe.
“What the hell was that?” he asked. “The guy must have been going ninety.”
“I don’t know,” Corbin said. “All I know is I’m glad he kept going.”
The road had been straight for a long time and they had gone over three small concrete bridges spaced two or three miles apart. Now, coming around the curve, they saw in the distance the larger bridge. Beyond it were flares, and as they drew close Hayden saw that it was a swing bridge with three spans. He would have slowed down here anyway, but the flares in the distance made him even more cautious. He was doing no more than thirty when he saw the uniformed man with a flashlight making sweeping gestures that ordered him to keep to the left.
By that time he saw the car on its side in the ditch and the white-painted wrecker. There were two highway patrol cars parked on the shoulder; another car with its front end bashed in had slewed around perpendicular to the road.
“So that’s why he was in such a hurry,” Corbin said with unmistakable relief. “Keep going.”
“I am,” Hayden said and was very careful indeed until the lights in the rear-view mirror were gone. As he pulled his speed back up to sixty he said: “Whew! That guy scared hell out of me. How much farther?”
“Maybe thirty miles,” Corbin said, “all of it easy. It just goes to show what a guilty conscience can do to a guy.”
The highway cut flatly through lowlands and marshes now, with water showing here and there in the marginal area outside the bright beam of the headlights. Cheap cottages and fishing camps on stilts flanked the road with increasing frequency, and once Corbin pointed to a finger of water on the right and said it was part of Lake Pontchartrain. Then they were moving into the outskirts of the city, and Corbin, wide awake since the brush with the highway patrol, gave Hayden directions until they came finally to Moisant International Airport, with its spacious and modern terminal building.
“What do you want to do?” he said as Hayden moved past the approaches and found a parking place.
“Find out when’s the best time to get out of here.”
“What about the car?”
“I don’t want to turn it over to the agent here, not while there’s a chance they might already be looking for us. I can leave it parked anywhere around here and phone the office just before we take off. That way they can pick it up when they get around to it and bill me for the difference.”
He paused to light a cigarette. “I don’t even want to drive it up to the loading areas now. Too much light.... Why don’t you stay here and keep an eye on our bags until I can check things and find out what the score is?”
Corbin accepted the suggestion and Hayden started off, picking his way through parked cars and coming to the lighted entrance where an overhead clock told him it was five minutes of two. A policeman, who was talking with a taxi driver, gave him no more than a passing glance as he went on into the main waiting room, which seemed strangely quiet and empty at this hour.
He slowed down here to inspect the unfamiliar area, noting signs and directional arrows as he tried to orient himself. There was a little movement on the floor, but mostly people huddled on benches in couples and family groups, silent, sleepy-eyed, and half-comatose as they waited for early-morning departures or friends who were coming in on flights from South and Central American countries that terminated here. No one paid him any attention as he continued on his way, and he was grateful for this when he came finally to the information counter.
What he learned from the lone attendant was not encouraging; neither was it unexpected. There would be no more flights to New York until morning. The first and best of these left at nine o’clock, but to find out about space he had to continue on to the airline counter, where a clerk, who had been working on a carton of coffee, put it aside long enough to give him his attention. He consulted his charts when Hayden asked his question and shook his head.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. “That flight is sold out. We already have two stand-bys and I’d be glad to add your name if you would like to take a chance on some cancellations.”
“What’s my next-best bet?”
“We have a conventional flight at nine-twenty that makes two stops and puts you into Newark.” He hesitated in order to consult another sheet. “Also one at nine-forty with one stop that terminates at Idlewild.”
“Which one gets there first?”
“The nine-forty flight.”
“Have you got two seats?”
“Yes, we have.”
“Can I pay for them in the morning?”
“Yes, but they must be picked up an hour before takeoff.” He picked up a pencil. “The names?”
“J. Hastings and T. Cannon.”
Hayden thanked him, and as he turned away and his mind moved on, a thought which had been submerged in his consciousness suddenly demanded attention. Once considered, it took on a new urgency, and he walked to the newsstand near the main entrance and bought a pack of cigarettes, offering a five-dollar bill and asking for as many quarters as the clerk could spare.
For he knew now that he had to talk to Marion. He had to know how she was and what had happened; he had to tell her about Corbin. It was, he knew, a hell of an hour for a man to call his wife, especially a pregnant one—the difference in time meant that it was after three o’clock in Connecticut—but he had to let her know that things were going to be all right. He wanted to do it at once, but the thought of Corbin took him through the doors and across the parking area. He saw again the sign of the Hilton Motel he had noticed earlier and decided this would be the place to spend the night....
The thought dissolved as he came to a stop beside the sedan. Without actually moving he could feel his nerves recoil as he glanced quickly about and the first thrust of panic hit him. He knew then that he had the right car, just as he knew both seats were empty. Not understanding this, not daring to speculate, he stood where he was, shocked and incredulous, and this was long enough for the seed of suspicion he had felt earlier to send out new roots. He started to curse as the anger grew swiftly inside him, but even as he felt the impact of his discovery he heard the soft whistle that came from one side.
He spun about at the sound, peering into the shadows until he found the pale outline of a face. It took shape as Corbin moved down from behind another car, and suddenly he felt all weak inside as relief provided a swift and certain antidote to his fears. When he was sure he expelled his breath and his voice was rough and uneven.
“What the hell have you been doing?”
“Ducking a cop,” Corbin said calmly. “Just to make sure.” He pointed. “I saw him start down the line of cars, heading this way. I thought he was casing them. I didn’t want to take a chance. I got out and ducked.”
Hayden took another breath as he regained his composure. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I guess he was looking for his own car. He walked on by just before you came, got into this Ford, and drove off.... What did you find out?”
Hayden told him, and while the suspicion that had become rooted in his mind still remained, he could find no fault with Corbin’s defensive measures. It was the same way with him. Until the last couple of days the law and its enforcers had been necessary adjuncts to society, designed to keep people in line. His own experience had been limited to a warning for a traffic violation. Now he not only was a prime suspect in a murder case but he had been forced to consider such things as bigamy and fraud. It was no wonder that he felt continually jumpy and on edge, and he was a little amazed that he could still carry on and do the things that had to be done. Even Corbin, whose character suggested that he was not an unduly imaginative man, felt the pressure, but now it was Hayden who had to do the thinking and take charge. He was at once aware of this as the big man said:
“Do we check in at that motel?”
“We can’t sit up all night in the terminal.”
“That’s what I mean. Do you want to drive over there and leave the car?”
“We’ve got this far with it,” Hayden said. “Let’s leave it right here.” He glanced over at the loading area and saw the three taxis parked there. “Get your bag and take a cab,” he said. “Register for both of us. I’m traveling as John Hastings—and tell the clerk I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
Corbin did not argue. He pulled his suitcase off the back seat and started through the cars without a word. Hayden stayed where he was until he saw the other get into the taxi and drive off; then he got his own things, rolled up the windows, and put the ignition key over the sun visor, reminding himself that he must telephone the rental company before he boarded the plane in the morning.
It was cool enough now to wear the topcoat, and when he had put on his hat, he walked over to the lead taxi and put his bag in the back. He told the driver to put down his flag and wait while he made a phone call, and then he was inside and stepping into the booth. He knew that it was possible that his own telephone might be tapped, but he intended to give away nothing that would help locate him. All the odds were in his favor now. He kept the thought in mind as he deposited a coin and gave the local operator his home number.
He heard the number being relayed to a second operator, apparently in New York, and with it came a request for payment. He listened to the bong of the quarters as they registered, the more metallic sounds of the smaller coins as he made the exact change. Then he could hear the distant ringing of the telephone, and he counted six times before a voice that was sleepy and remote and familiar answered.
Marion came awake at once when she heard his voice and the words were hurried and urgent as she asked how he was and where he was and what he had been doing.
“Did you find him?” she asked finally.
“He’s with me now,” he said. “Never mind where. Let’s just say we’re still in the deep South.”
“Will he come?”
“Tomorrow. What about you? Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Has the baby—?”
“It’s not the baby, it’s the police.”
He could hear her catch her breath and knew she was fighting her tears. The sound of it made his heart turn over, but before he could speak she said:
“Oh, darling, don’t you understand? They’re looking for you.”
“I know that.”
“They think you killed that man. Or I did. They say it was our knife—”
“What?” Hayden heard the word distinctly but in the shock of his surprise he could not accept it. “How can they think that?”
“They say it belongs to that set we have in the kitchen.... They could be right,” she added, her voice rough with emotion. “One of ours is missing. I can’t find it anywhere.”
She said other things along the same line, but he was too stunned to absorb them until she said: “And there’s something else, John. That girl at the tavern, Doris Lamar—”
“What about her?”
“She came to see me this evening. She said she knew something that would help us.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“She says if I tell the police she’ll deny everything. She—she wants money,” she added. “She doesn’t know who killed Adler but she says she can help us.”
“All right.” He stopped and made a desperate effort to evaluate what he had heard. He did not understand how this could be nor know just what to say but he wanted to offer some words of comfort and encouragement until he could get home. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her she’d have to wait until you came home.”
“Good girl,” he said.
“She warned me again not to go to the police—”
“That’s all right too. Sit tight, baby. You’re wonderful. I’ll call you from New York sometime tomorrow afternoon, maybe late. Stick to your story. And call on Roger Denham if you need him.”
“But suppose the police find you first.”
“They’re not going to find me. I’ll be back and so will Corbin. We’ll work things out. Now please go back to bed and go to sleep. I’m going to do the same.”
Some odd reaction born of strain and tension and uncertainty made her giggle softly. “I’m already in bed.”
“Then go to sleep.”
“I’ll try.”
“Try hard.... I love you.”