Chapter IV: Part 4

He hesitated, his gaze moving from Hayden to Marion and back again. “It’s useless to speculate at this point as to how Adler knew that Mr. Corbin escaped that fatal plane crash, but the only logical assumption is that he never boarded that plane. If Adler knew this much, he could also know that the insurance companies paid seventy-five thousand dollars to your wife on the death claim. He wanted some of that money and he was willing to keep silent for a price.

“Following this assumption, I suggest that you went to see Mr. Denham to get his advice. Whatever the outcome of that discussion, you went to the tavern and from there to room twelve in The Shady Maple Motel. You either entered that room and had an argument which resulted in Adler’s death or you went in and found him already dead.”

“You said the door was locked.”

“Either way,” Erickson said, as though he had not heard, “you found the two photographs Adler had brought and destroyed them. Had it not been for the alertness of the Mobile police, there would not be the slightest reason for us to assume that your wife’s first husband was still alive.”

“It’s a good hypothesis,” Hayden said, “but it doesn’t happen to be true.”

“Very well.” Erickson rose and the movement brought Garvey and Ball to their feet. “When we get word from Washington tomorrow about those fingerprints we’ll start looking for Ted Corbin. Because of his connection with that fatal plane crash we may get some help from the FBI.” He glanced at the insurance man who had been listening to all this attentively. “I have an idea Mr. Simpson’s company will utilize their resources as well.”

“They sure will, sir,” Simpson said.

Hayden watched the trio put on their coats and pick up their hats. He knew he was expected to say something but nothing came to mind. This silence seemed to increase the State’s Attorney’s frustration and his mouth was tight and his eyes grim as he delivered his final statement.

“We will need a statement from you as soon as we hear from Washington. A formal statement, Mr. Hayden. One that you will be expected to sign and which may be used against you.”

Hayden nodded. He said that he would do whatever Roger Denham told him to do and started for the front door. When he opened it the three filed out without further comment.

Back in the living room Denham and Simpson were on their feet and Denham said: “You’ve probably had your fill of questions for one afternoon, John, but I think you ought to hear what Mr. Simpson has to say.”

“I haven’t any hypothesis, Mr. Hayden,” Simpson said, “but I have to make an assumption.”

“That Ted Corbin is alive?”

Simpson nodded and gestured with one hand. “Naturally nothing can be done until we have the facts, but if it happens that we do locate Corbin, my company will expect to be reimbursed for the payment made to your wife.”

“In full?”

Simpson’s brows lifted. “How do you mean?”

“That seventy-five thousand was paid to my wife in good faith and she accepted it in good faith. She later turned that money over to me and I put it into my business. Suppose I couldn’t raise that amount all at once?”

“We could probably get a judgment.”

“That would be something for Mr. Denham to handle,” Hayden said. “But let me ask you a question.” He offered a small, humorless smile. “A hypothetical one again. Suppose that someone came to you and offered to prove that Corbin was alive. Suppose they offered to produce him for a price. To get a chance at recovering your seventy-five thousand you would pay pretty well for that information, wouldn’t you?”

“That would depend on a lot of things, but offhand I’d say yes, we would pay for that sort of information.” Simpson tipped his head slightly and one brow lifted. “Oh, I see what you mean. You think the seventy-five thousand dollars should be reduced by whatever amount we might have paid to get the information we need.”

“Something like that,” Hayden said. “Mr. Denham will have to do the negotiating, but if Corbin is located I’ll try to reimburse your company to the best of my ability. I’d simply like to get the best deal I can.”

“I have no authority to make deals,” Simpson said, “but I can give my superiors the picture. I could tell them that you would be willing to repay the amount less, say, ten per cent.”

“Let’s not get into figures yet,” Denham said. “You find Corbin and we’ll work something out.”

Simpson reached for his coat and hat. “Don’t think we won’t try. All I wanted to do today was to get some idea about Mr. Hayden’s attitude.”

“You’ve got it,” Denham said.

“Fair enough.” Simpson nodded to Hayden and to Marion. “Thanks for your co-operation.... Good-by, Mrs. Hayden....”

When Simpson had gone Roger Denham put on his coat. Hayden, feeling the reaction in his muscles, watched his wife stand up, and now, with no need to maintain an outward display of composure, the strain was beginning to show on her face and her mouth was slack.

“What are we going to do, Roger?”

“Nothing for now, I’m afraid.”

“What about those statements the State’s Attorney spoke of?”

“Well”--Denham shrugged--“you’ll have to make them. Naturally, I’ll be there with you, but I think there’s one thing you might as well start getting used to.”

“What’s that?” Hayden said.

“I think Corbin is probably alive, and once the various law-enforcement agencies start looking for him, they’ll find him. It will just be a question of time. That’s what makes it bad. It could happen quickly. It might take years.”

“Meanwhile,” Marion said with undisguised bitterness, “we just go along as usual and pretend everything is all right.”

“You do the best you can,” Denham said as he started for the door, “and hope the police can find out who killed Adler. The sooner the better.”

_11_

John Hayden stood in the partly open door until the taillights on Denham’s car vanished down the road, and when he came back to the living room Marion was still standing. He could see that reaction had begun to relieve the tension which had been with her for so long, and this, he told himself, was a good sign. There was a little color in her cheeks now, and when she repeated the question she had asked Denham, her voice no longer sounded so disconsolate.

“Well,” she said, “at least they’ve gone. But what do we do now?”

“Get a drink.”

“All right. I’ll get the ice.”

He slid his arm around her waist as they went into the kitchen. He stopped her for a moment before she turned toward the refrigerator. He said he was proud of her.

“You were wonderful.”

“Was I, John?” She glanced up at him, the hazel eyes softly shining. “I tried awfully hard. But so were you, the way you talked to that State’s Attorney. He didn’t like it though, did he?... I think I’ll have a Scotch and soda.”

He made the drinks and they sat down in the kitchen alcove. When he had a cigarette going he took out the photograph of Ted Corbin, his mind busy now with an idea that until then had been nothing more than a vague and nebulous possibility. His frown deepened as the seconds passed, and presently she covered his hand with hers to claim his attention.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Him.” He touched the picture.

“What about him?”

“I’m going to look for him.”

“For Ted? Where?”

“In Mobile. That’s where Adler made his headquarters. I think it’s the best place to start.”

He could tell that she thought the suggestion was farfetched. A frown made little bunches in the smooth brow and her eyes were puzzled as they inspected him. But she did not belittle the thought and her reply was rational and intelligent.

“How big is Mobile?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been there. As a guess I’d say a couple hundred thousand.”

“And won’t the Mobile police be looking for Ted?”

“I should think so.”

“And the insurance people?”

“Sure.”

“Then what makes you think you could find him, even assuming that he’s there, before they do?”

“Maybe I can’t but I think it’s worth a try. See that?” He pointed at the photograph and her eyes followed his finger as he indicated the insignia on the coveralls Ted Corbin wore. “See that insignia? Suppose I can get this picture blown up--”

“Blown up?”

“I can get it copied. I can have an enlargement made from the new negative. I think there’s a good chance that we may be able to read the words on that insignia.”

“Oh--”

“It’s possible, isn’t it? If this picture was taken fairly recently, and according to Adler it was, Corbin must be working in some filling station. If he’s in that area, I’ve got an idea I can locate it. If I can do that, I can find him.”

She did not ask him how but the frown was still there and her eyes were thoughtful now. “And what would you do if you did find him, John?”

“Do? I’d try and talk him into coming back with me.”

“Why should he?”

“I don’t see that he has much choice. If he doesn’t want to do it that way, all I have to do is pick up the telephone and call the Mobile police.”

She was still watching him intently but concern had now replaced the thoughtfulness in her eyes and this was reflected in the cadence of her voice.

“You mean you’d go now?”

“Tonight, if I can get out.”

“But--what about the police? I mean the State’s Attorney and those two detectives? They’ll think you’ve run away. Won’t that make it look as if you were guilty?”

“Of stabbing Adler?”

“Well--yes.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but I intend to leave word where I’ve gone and why--after I’ve gone.... Come on, drink up.”

She obeyed him and then, digressing, said: “I haven’t done anything about dinner.”

“We’ll eat out. I’ll find a place where we’re not known. All you have to do is put on a coat and you’ll be ready. I’ll call Johnson and see--”

“Who’s Johnson?”

“A photographer. He does most of our work down at the plant--you know, for advertising folders. He’s got a studio in South Norwalk, and if I can reach him I think he’ll make a copy of this print and then make the sort of enlargement I want. If I’m right and that picture can be blown up so that we can read what’s on that insignia I’m going to Mobile.

“But first I’m going into the study and get that portable typewriter of mine and write a note to State’s Attorney Erickson with a carbon to Roger Denham. I’ll simply tell them that I’m not running away. I’ll point out that I have an idea I can locate Corbin, that whether I do or whether I don’t, I’ll be back in a couple of days. Let them think what they want. I can mail those letters special delivery. I can drive to New York, leave the car in a garage, and get a taxi to the airport and--”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I don’t mean to Mobile. But why can’t I drive you into town?”

“No.”

“But I want to. Please, John. It will be much simpler that way and then you won’t have to worry about the car.... You go ahead,” she added quickly as though to forestall further argument. “You call your man Johnson and I’ll get your typewriter ready and some paper and carbon.”

* * * * *

Hayden had no trouble getting Johnson to take the after-hours assignment. He had a small studio in back of his house and Marion waited in the station wagon while the work was being done. It did not take long because Johnson made his enlargement from the wet negative on which he had copied the original snapshot. Hayden left this negative with the photographer, and when he came back to the car he had the original print and a second one that had been cropped to show only the upper part of Corbin’s coveralls. The insignia which had been sewn there was fuzzy but readable and showed a star with the word Quinn above it and Cannon below.

They stopped in town to mail the two letters Hayden had written and they had dinner at a small restaurant not far from the parkway. While Marion was having her coffee Hayden stepped into the phone booth and called the New York Airlines Terminal to find out what he could about flights to Mobile. When he came back to the table he said that there were two which would do.

“Both are out of Newark. One is at one-thirty--”

“In the morning? What time would you get there?”

“Around five-thirty.”

“What about the other one?”

“I’d have to stay in New York overnight. It leaves at nine-thirty in the morning, but it’s a jet with only one stop and puts me into Mobile a little after one in the afternoon.”

“Take that one,” Marion said with no hesitation. “The other way you sit up all night without any sleep and then when you get there you have to wait around until the middle of the morning before you can expect to find out anything.”

What she said made sense. He might waste a couple of hours that way, but he would be rested when he got to Mobile and ready to start looking for a service station that apparently was run by people named Quinn and Cannon. He said he had reservations on both flights and would confirm the morning flight when he got to New York, but as they got into the car he voiced his doubts about her determination to accompany him to the city.

“You really shouldn’t come at all,” he said.

“I’d like to know why not.”

“Furthermore,” he added, “I’m running out on you when things are toughest. That State’s Attorney is bound to question you tomorrow and you’ll have to take it alone.”

“What makes you think I can’t?” She pushed her chin out at him a fraction of an inch and her mouth was determined. “And anyway I won’t be alone. Roger will be there. All I have to do is repeat what I’ve already told those detectives.”

“And what about me?”

“I’ll say you packed a bag and made me drive you to the railroad station. I’ll say you said you’d be gone a couple of days and told me not to worry. You refused to tell me where you were going; you simply left. How can anyone prove otherwise?”

Her reply reassured him and helped to bolster his own determination to follow this one lead he had in the hope that it would take him to Ted Corbin. He knew how his disappearance would look; he had to admit his trip might be both ill-timed and futile. Even so it seemed worth the risk, and her spirit and co-operation reminded him again of how much he loved her.

“Okay,” he said. “Just stick to that.”

“I intend to.... Where will you stay tonight?”

He said he would pick some hotel not too far from the West Side Terminal and she accepted this as they came up on the parkway and headed toward the city. For a few minutes then nothing more was said and he gave his attention to his driving. This soon became automatic, and with his mind free to think again, he reluctantly examined a thought that had lodged there the night before and continued to fester ever since. He was not sure this was the time to bring the thought out into the open. He was worried about how she might take it, but he knew he would worry even more if he left without knowing the truth. He reached out with his right hand until he found her knee. He squeezed it gently and she put her hand on top of his. He took a deep breath and decided he was as ready as he ever would be.

“I have to ask you something before you drop me off,” he said. “I don’t want to but I haven’t any choice, baby. Where did you go last night after I went to see Roger?”

The silence that followed alarmed him. At first he wondered if she had heard him and then, when she removed her hand from the back of his own, he knew she had. She moved her knee and he put his hand back on the steering wheel. When she finally spoke her voice was small and uncertain.

“I--I’m not sure what you mean. What makes you think I went anywhere?”

He told her how he had come into the garage the night before and stumbled in the darkness when he started for the light switch.

“I put my hand on the hood of the station wagon to get my balance,” he said. “It was warm. The radiator shell was even warmer. It was a fairly cold night.”

“I see,” she said in the same small voice. “And all this time you’ve been thinking I went to see Adler.”

“I didn’t know what to think. I guess I was afraid to ask. Look, sweetheart, I’m not the State’s Attorney, I’m your husband. This is something we have to work out together.”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I wasn’t going to say anything about it.”

“You told me Adler called you. So what, exactly, did he want?”

“Just about what I told you before. He said he wanted to see me. I told him that you were probably on your way there and he said that was all right too. He said maybe it would be better if the three of us talked things over together. I guess that’s why I decided to go.”

Hayden did not understand what she meant. He said so.

“I was afraid,” she said in an effort to explain. “Not for myself, for you.”

“For me?” he said in slow astonishment.

“Because I was afraid of what might happen. You have to try to understand--”

“I _am_ trying.”

“You don’t know how you looked when you left the house to see Roger. You don’t get angry very often. Hardly ever. But what I saw was something more than anger. If you could have got your hands on Adler then I don’t know what you would have done. I didn’t think talking to Roger would help much and you had never seen Adler; you didn’t know what he was like. He could be arrogant and insulting and impossible. I thought if I was there when you came, at least there wouldn’t be any violence.”

“All right,” he said, accepting the explanation and trying to bring some order to his thoughts. “I’m not criticizing. I’m not blaming you. I just want to find out what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” she said, her voice forlorn. “I wasn’t there long enough. I knew the minute I walked in that it had been a mistake to come.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing much. He offered me a drink. He said that women always liked Tom Collinses and he was about to make one. He started to squeeze a lemon--”

Hayden interrupted as a new thought came to him. “Did you see him cut that lemon?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he get the knife?”

“I think he took it from a cabinet drawer.”

“What did he do with it after he finished?”

“Well, I guess he put it back.”

“All right,” he said, not wanting her to think too much about his questions. “He offered you a drink. Then what?”

“I told him I didn’t want one. He came over to help me off with my coat. I told him I’d leave it on, but he must have thought I wanted to be coaxed.... Oh, why do I have to explain all the details?” she cried, a break in her voice. “I simply couldn’t stand him. I knew I’d been a fool to come at all. I pushed him away and got out of there as fast as I could.”

“That’s all?”

“I think it’s more than enough.”

“Okay, okay. It’s over now. You went there because you thought you could be of some help to me. When you realized it was a bad idea you got out. Now did anyone see you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Where did you park?”

“Around the corner.”

“Good. Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about?” she said in quick exasperation. “How can you say that?”

“I mean, if no one saw you how can anyone suspect you?”

“They suspect you, don’t they?”

“Yes, I guess they do.”

“Then unless the police find out who _did_ kill Adler they’ll keep right on suspecting both of us.”

“They’ll find out,” he said with a confidence he did not feel. “They usually do.”

“I don’t even see how finding Ted is going to help. He might even have sent Adler.”

“Whoa!” He again reached out and found her knee. He squeezed it. “Take it easy. Let the police worry about the murder. Just hope I get to Corbin and bring him back. You and he and I have some things to straighten out, remember?”

There was no reply to this, and as he turned off the West Side highway at Fifty-seventh Street he could feel her shoulder relax against his. A corner street light cast its rays momentarily on her face and he saw that she was watching him. He could not read her eyes but her mouth looked soft and he thought she was trying to smile.

“I’m sorry I got so worked up, darling,” she said. “I’ve been worried sick. I wanted to tell you before but I was afraid to.”

“I’m glad you did.” He made the turn on Ninth Avenue and started slowly south, his glance inspecting the lighted rooftop signs until he saw a hotel he had heard of but never patronized. He pointed it out to her as he made a left turn and started crosstown toward Seventh Avenue. He said he guessed he’d try it and she said why not, and was he sure he had everything he needed?

The question prompted him to review his hurried preparations. He was purposely traveling light because he felt he would succeed quickly or not at all. The overnight case contained clean linen, an extra pair of shoes, a robe, neckties, handkerchiefs. The blue-fabric flight bag held his toilet kit, pajamas, and a clean shirt.

He did not have as much cash as he wanted, but what he had in his wallet and what Marion had in the house came to just under two hundred dollars. Credit cards would take care of most everything, but to use them meant to give his right name, and since he did not know how long it would be before the police started looking for him, he intended to use a fictitious name at the hotel and at the airport and pay cash.

He told her he thought he was all set. He said she was not to worry about him. He said he would telephone her when he could and the sound of his words seemed to give him new confidence. Somehow he was no longer disturbed by what he was about to do; instead his concern was directed at his wife.

The thought of her driving home alone did not bother him greatly because she was both skillful and experienced behind the wheel of a car. But the thought of her spending the night alone in an empty house, and of the questioning and suspicion that was sure to follow tomorrow, depressed him and he said so as he pulled the station wagon into the curb opposite the hotel marquee.

“You’re sure you’re going to be all right?”

“Quite sure.”

“Do you know what you’re going to say tomorrow?”

“Of course I do.”

“Promise me you’ll drive home carefully.”

“I promise.”

He opened the door and stepped to the sidewalk, pointing out the two bags to the doorman who hurried up to help. He closed the door and leaned in the open window as she slid over on the seat, and before he realized it she had her arms around his neck and was kissing him soundly. She seemed, for the moment, to have forgotten her compunctions about the legality of their marriage, and as she pressed her cheek hard against his her words fell softly in his ear.

“Good-by, my darling. I wish I was staying with you tonight.”

“Yeah,” he said, so surprised and moved by her reaction that his voice came out husky. He had to swallow to clear his throat before he could repeat the word. “Yeah. Me too.... Drive carefully,” he said and stepped back as she put the car in gear and angled out into the moving traffic stream.

_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.

_13_

The ride to Fairview took no more than a half hour and in his frame of mind he found it enjoyable. The traffic down Government Street and through the tunnel did not bother him, and then he was on the divided causeway which cut across the top of Mobile Bay. Here there was a sixty-mile-an-hour speed limit and he looked with interest upon the low-lying borders and the fishermen, most of them Negroes, who dotted the shoreline a few feet from the road and tried their luck with long bamboo poles.

On the far shore the road curved right, and from then on he drove through wooded and somewhat hilly country, following the general line of the Bay but never actually catching sight of it. A high-standing, silvery water tower marked the town of Fairview before he saw it, and as he topped the last rise and saw the traffic lights ahead, he began to look for the filling station. The familiar star identified it almost at once. It stood on the left, but some impulse born of a caution he did not understand made him pull over to the right and stop while he considered his next step.

As it turned out, the enthusiasm which had brought him here proved to be short-lived. Because of his earlier success he had pictured himself as driving into the filling station, finding Ted Corbin, showing him the snapshot, and then playing the rest of it by ear. It had all seemed simple enough in concept, but as he sat there watching the filling station he began to have some doubts.

The physical layout of the station was of average size, with four pumps, rest rooms, twin grease racks adjacent to the office, and a parking area out back. The place was moderately busy, but a ten-minute inspection told him Corbin was not here.

Of the three men on duty, two were Negroes, one manning the gasoline pumps and the other busy greasing the car on one of the elevated racks. The third man was white, a stocky individual with a sunburned, weathered face who, when not busy, stood in the shade of the doorway and surveyed the passing scene.

There was a public telephone booth at one corner of the lot near the sidewalk, and Hayden left his car where it was and crossed diagonally to it. It did not seem likely that Corbin would still use the same name, but because he intended to overlook no possibilities, he stepped into the booth and consulted the telephone directory. When he found no Corbin listed either in Fairview or in the small nearby villages he knew that he would have to take his chances with the man in the doorway.

The man watched him approach, his dark gaze observant but noncommittal. He made no move to get out of the doorway until Hayden stopped in front of him and said: “Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon, sir,” came the reply in a voice that was deep and thick with accent.

“Do you have a cigarette machine?”

“In here.” The man jerked his thumb and stepped aside.

“What do you put in?” Hayden asked, pleased to see that the insignia on the coveralls was identical with the one in the snapshot.

“Thirty cents for regulars.”

Hayden looked for change and found he did not have the proper coins. He offered a dollar bill and the man punched the cash register, making change without comment. Hayden made his selection, dropped his coins, and pushed the release. The machine rattled and churned and a pack of cigarettes slid down on the shelf. By the time he had extracted one and put a light to it he knew that he might as well face up to his problem and get on with it. He found the snapshot, glanced at it. When he saw that he had the man’s attention he passed it over.

“I think that was taken here,” he said.

The man examined the picture, then turned it over as if he expected to find something on the back. When he was sure there was nothing to be seen he returned it, his weathered face impassive, the eyes inscrutable.

“Could be.”

“Do you know him?”

“I might.”

“Does he still work here?”

The man turned and spat on the ground. He gave a hitch to his coveralls and examined Hayden deliberately, his gaze steady but openly suspicious.

“What’s your interest in him, friend?”

“Nothing very important,” Hayden said. Then because he could think of no better story he repeated the one he had told earlier over the telephone.

He concentrated on keeping his tone casual, offhand, and friendly, but the reaction he got was disconcerting. There was, in fact, no reaction at all--just the same fixed expression and the uncompromising stare. In the face of this he found the going hard. The story that had seemed so reasonable before had a phony ring now and lacked conviction. Even so, the man heard him out.

“So your wife took his picture because he did her a favor. Well, I’m glad we could be of service.” He held out his hand. “I’ll give him the picture if you want.”

Hayden put the snapshot back into his pocket but found some encouragement in the reply.

“Then he does work here?”

“Not right now. He’s been North. I don’t think he’s back yet.”

“Can you tell me where he lives?”

“I don’t think so, mister.”

With that Hayden gave up, but not without comment. Looking right at the man he said, a tight smile on his mouth and none at all in his eyes:

“You’re a real trusting guy, aren’t you--friend?”

For the first time the sunburned face cracked with a reluctant grin.

“Yes, sir--to my friends. Strangers have to prove themselves.”

“Amen.”

“What?”

“I said, thank you for your co-operation.”

“You’re welcome, friend.... Excuse me,” he added and started for a car that had pulled up next to one of the gasoline pumps.

Hayden took a breath and expelled it with noisy exasperation. He knew he had gone as far as he could for the moment, but as he walked away his mind kept probing and he came up with another thought that seemed worth a try. It had been apparent that the filling station was run by two men named Quinn and Cannon. If his uncommunicative friend happened to be Quinn, then Cannon might be the name Ted Corbin had assumed. The initials were in themselves encouraging, and when he again examined the telephone directory in the public booth and found a T. J. Cannon listed, he went back to his car.

An inquiry at a corner drugstore gave him street directions, and he drove for five blocks to a small bungalow that stood back from the street and was shaded by oaks and magnolias. It had no distinction of any kind, a white stucco affair with the look of cheapness about it that seemed always to have been there. Over the years successive owners had provided a minimum of upkeep, the yard was scraggly and unkempt, but an air-conditioning unit poked its enclosed mechanism from a side window and there was a television antenna attached to the chimney.

There was no garage, but worn tracks spoke of a car that had been driven for some time to a resting place alongside the porch. There was no car now, but Hayden went up the path and knocked anyway. When he was sure no one was home, he drove back toward the center of town and parked diagonally across the street from the filling station, so that he could sit in comfort while he observed its operation.

As the afternoon wore on without any sign of the man he sought, his restlessness increased and his mood disintegrated with disheartening momentum. He realized then that he had been so encouraged by his original idea and his earlier success that he had expected too much too soon. Now he could only console himself with the thought that the original premise had been right: Corbin was alive. Corbin was here. With a proper show of patience he felt that all he had to do was wait long enough and Corbin would turn up.

But such idleness rankled. To combat it he let his thoughts move on until a new possibility suggested itself. Then, delaying no longer, he started the motor, drove around the block, and headed back toward Mobile.

For there was another man involved. Sam Adler had lived in Mobile and he remembered the Conti Street address he had copied down from the driving license that first night. Just what he might learn by having a look at Adler’s local quarters he did not know, but as long as there was a chance that Cannon could be involved in the blackmail attempt there was also the possibility that he might learn something that would help shorten his search. He had no plans, nor did he bother to speculate. He would first locate the proper address, and after that he would see what developed.

He was in no hurry now, and the sun was almost down as he came out on the causeway and headed directly into its golden rays. Traffic was heavy on the other side of the highway as the city workers hurried home, but there was no congestion in his direction, and he had a chance to note the dry docks and shipyards on his left and the two freighters tied up at the Municipal Docks on his right beyond the Mobile River. Sunlight burnished two tall smokestacks in the distance. Their great height and the gray-white smoke that came from them to melt into the sky suggested that they might mark paper factories that had been built here to take advantage of the timber and the shipping facilities. Then he was turning off the causeway and paying his quarter and rolling through the relatively short and convenient tunnel that brought him into the heart of the city.

Once again on Government Street, he took the first right turn he could, aware from an earlier glance at the map that Conti Street was the next intersection, a one-way street that branched left. He saw as he made the turn that it was a narrow, unprepossessing street, the buildings that lined either side giving evidence that this was one of the older parts of town. After the first block or two, he found mostly small apartment houses and he slowed down, so that he could check the numbers.

He found the one he wanted two blocks farther on, a three-storied brick apartment with a discouraging outlook and a run-down appearance. He had to continue for nearly another block before he could pull into a parking place, and when he had locked the car he walked back to the entrance and stood a moment, wondering just how he should proceed. As he considered his problem a noise in the foyer beyond the open door attracted his attention and then he got a break.

A thin, wispy-haired man dressed in unpressed khaki slacks and a sweat-stained army shirt was wielding a broom in the foyer. When he came to the outer step and Hayden saw the carpet slippers on the bare feet he asked if the man was the superintendent and the fellow said he was.

“Only that ain’t the word for it down here, mister,” he added. “Here, in this building anyway, I’m the janitor.”

Hayden knew the police had been here and that the man probably was aware of what had happened to Adler. With little hope that he could find anything useful in Adler’s apartment, he nevertheless wanted to take a look. Now he took a ten-dollar bill from his cash reserve and folded it, so that the janitor could see it.

“Sam Adler lived here, didn’t he?”

“That’s right. In 2-B.” The man stepped out on the sidewalk and jabbed a thumb upward at the right-hand corner of the building. “But you ain’t about to find him. He got himself killed a couple of days ago up North.”

“I’d like to take a look at his apartment anyway.”

The man examined him with half-closed eyes, his hands capping the top of the broom handle and his chin propped on his hands.

“The cops already shook it down pretty good. You ain’t another one, are you?”

Hayden shook his head and tried to look bored. “Insurance,” he said, accepting the first thought that came to him. “Just wanted to check some things.” He crackled the ten-dollar bill suggestively between his thumb and index finger. “You got a key?”

The gesture got the man’s attention. A dirty-nailed hand reached out to snatch the bill and palm it.

“Help yourself,” he said and then he laughed, a cackling triumphant sound. “Door ain’t locked.”

It was nearly dark on the sidewalk now and it was even darker inside until Hayden came in range of the electric ceiling light on the second-floor landing. When he reached it he doubled back toward the front of the building and came to this door on the left. Habit made him knock and he paused for several seconds until he realized the gesture had been unnecessary.

He opened the door and left it that way, so that the reflected light from the hall gave him a look at the shadowy interior. When he saw the lamp on the table directly ahead, he reached for it, and the instant he turned the switch he was aware of some faint warmth under the shade.

The knowledge that someone was here, or had been a few minutes earlier, stirred up a quick excitement and put new pressure on his nerve ends. A slow inspection of the disordered living room gave him the impression that this was a fitting habitat for the picture his mind had conjured up of Sam Adler. Even when new, the furniture could have had neither charm nor distinction, but after his first glance his interest centered on the suitcase which lay on the floor opposite the oblong table where he stood.

He could see that the catches had not been fastened and wondered why. Then, his glance noting the empty but darkened inner hallway, he considered the two closed doors, one apparently leading to an adjoining room, the other one just inside the hall door, which still stood open.

He went to this now, feeling some tension in his back and neck but no alarm. As he closed it he remembered a phrase he had used as a kid: “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” This was what he had in mind now but he phrased it differently.

“Come on out,” he called, his voice sounding loud in the quiet room. “Come on,” he said again, a little surprised at his new-found boldness. “I don’t want to have to drag you.”

The second command brought results. He heard a doorknob turn, the click of a latch. As he glanced around, a door opened and a woman emerged from the adjoining bedroom. She did not advance but stood in the opening, and in those first moments she seemed enough like Doris Lamar to be her sister.

The tinted blond hair looked much the same and so did her over-all appearance. From that distance, and in the half-light of the room, the resemblance seemed remarkable, but it was, he knew at once, only an impression and a product of his imagination. For this woman was a little older, a little thinner, a little shabbier somehow. The eyes seemed dark and suspicious in the pointed face, and now when she spoke her voice sounded harsh and direct.

“Who are you?”

“I was about to ask the same question,” Hayden said. “If you have to have a name, John will do.”

“What do you want?”

“I came to have a look around. How about you?”

“I’ve got a right to be here.”

“You wouldn’t be Mrs. Adler, would you?”

“No, I’m not Mrs. Adler,” she said, biting off the words. “But I stayed here sometimes. Sam was away a lot. He let me use the place.”

She came slowly forward then in a nondescript blue print dress, apparently no longer worried about him, and now, in the circle of the light, he knew that she had never been as attractive as Doris Lamar. There may have been at one time a superficial prettiness about her face, but it looked tired, worn, and discouraged now, the dark brown eyes mirroring disillusionment and defeat.

“The name is Flo,” she said flatly. “You a friend of Sam’s?” she added with some suspicion.

“No,” Hayden said, “but I know what happened to him.”

“So do I. The cops rousted me around a bit yesterday and I know Sam’s not coming back.”

“Is that why you were packing the suitcase?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I’ve got some things here. So did Sam. If I don’t take ’em, who will? The rent’s paid till the first of the month and the janitor said I could stay here and why not?”

Hayden was about to agree with her but he had no chance. Even as he opened his mouth he saw her glance dart beyond him and then widen instantly. He understood at once that she was staring at the hall door, and something in her manner so disturbed him that he spun quickly to face the new threat she had seen.