There had been a woman in the darkened quadrangle and that woman

could have come from Adler’s room. The smell of perfume in the

bathroom testified to the fact that a woman had been there for a

minute or two and possibly longer. Furthermore Adler had been stabbed

in the back by a kitchen knife, a woman’s weapon if there ever was

one. The combination of such thoughts was so unacceptable that he

tried to dismiss them by telling himself that even if Marion had gone

to see Adler for some reason he could not understand, she never would

have turned to murder. She could have been worked up to the point

of desperation and probably was; she never would have gone there

otherwise. Her condition had brought occasional moments of emotional

instability, but murder was something else. He shook his head to

dispel such thoughts, not knowing that he did so. Apparently she saw

the movement.

“What’s the matter?” she asked anxiously. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Certainly I believe you,” he said, an edge in his voice he had not

intended.

“The way you acted I wasn’t so sure.”

“And do you believe me?”

“If you mean that he was dead when you found him, of course I do.”

She frowned then as a new thought came to disturb her. “Do you think

Roger will tell them?”

The digression confused him momentarily and he had to concentrate to

remember his call on the lawyer and what he had said. Denham, alone,

knew that he intended to have it out with Sam Adler, and if the

police questioned him, and they probably would since he had already

told them of his appointment--The conclusion that came to him served

only to add to his uncertainty and discouragement, but he answered as

truthfully as he could.

“Probably.”

“Perhaps if we asked him--”

“No.” Hayden shook his head. “We’re not going to ask Denham to lie

for me. Being the kind of proper guy he is, I’m not sure he would

anyway.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Okay, I’m unfair.” He stood up. “But I’m not going to worry about

that now. If I have to admit that I went to the motel I will, but no

one can prove I actually went into the room. Let’s leave it at that

for tonight, hunh? Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. Will

you do something for me?”

She gave him a quick, suspicious glance before she said: “What?”

“Take a sleeping pill and get some rest. We both need it. Would you

like something first? Shall I make some coffee?”

“It would only keep me awake.”

“How about some orange juice or a glass of milk?”

“All right.” She came slowly to her feet, a sag in her shoulders now

and defeat written in the soft lines of her face. “Milk, I guess.”

“And a cooky?”

“No cooky.”

“I’ll bring it in to you,” he said and turned away.

In the kitchen he poured two glasses of milk and found a couple of

cookies for himself. He took his time and made sure the kitchen was

in order. He tried the back door again and then went into the living

room to turn off the lights. She was in bed when he entered the room,

the covers well up under her chin. He put her glass of milk on the

bedside table and looked down at her, trying not to let the worry he

felt show in his face.

He went over to the closet and got his pajamas and robe and slippers.

He piled them on his arm and put a clean shirt on top of them. Then,

not caring what she thought about the legality of their marriage, he

went to her and stooped down. He saw again the torment in her eyes

before she made that slight turn of her head. He brushed the soft

cool cheek with his lips, and as he straightened she reached out and

caught his arm. She gave it a hard spasmodic squeeze and then turned

quickly on her side, her back toward him.

_9_

Wednesday was a long hard day for John Hayden. The March weather

continued raw and windy, and the sky, which was overcast and

unpromising when he went to work, remained that way. He got his own

breakfast as he did on those mornings when Marion did not feel well,

leaving the percolator attached, so that the coffee would be hot when

she wanted it. The bedroom door had remained closed as he had left it

the night before, and because the thoughts he had taken to bed still

remained insidiously in his mind he was glad he did not have to face

her so early in the morning.

He made his usual telephone call around noon, but the conversation

was polite, stilted, and conventional. There was no reference

to their problems and he told her he would be home early. Two

conferences with out-of-town clients helped divert his thoughts, but

he could not concentrate on the routine of the business day. This was

partly due to telephone calls that never came. Each time his buzzer

sounded and his secretary spoke he expected some word from the police

or the State’s Attorney or Roger Denham. As the day dragged on, he

felt a mounting irritation that was directed not only at his own

dilemma but at those who ignored him.

But he did some constructive thinking and it had as its focus George

Freeman and Doris Lamar. For it occurred to him with increasing

frequency that little had been said the night before about Freeman by

Lieutenant Garvey and Detective Ball.

Last night when he had discovered the body there had been no thought

in his mind as to who might have done the killing. He had been too

concerned about his personal problems and the two pictures which had

become instruments of blackmail. He had made a decision then--to take

them and get out. He had taken the gamble and was aware of the risks,

but he had been prodded as much by the impulse and perhaps a touch of

panic as he had been by a sensible evaluation of the odds.

He had not known then that the station wagon had been used in his

absence. The telephone call the officers had mentioned both surprised

and shocked him, and although he had always trusted his wife he knew

now that she had lied to him.

But what about Freeman? Freeman was in love and he had already

demonstrated his jealousy and his hate for Sam Adler the previous

evening. Freeman had been brooding when he had seen him in the tavern

in the late afternoon. Such jealousy and resentment could have

exploded into violence and murder, not premeditated perhaps, but

murder nonetheless. From his point of vantage in the motel Freeman

could keep track of Adler. So where was he between eight and nine

o’clock? If he had an alibi none had been mentioned. And Doris Lamar?

He remembered that he had not seen her when he had ordered the double

brandy to steady his nerves. She might, he knew, have been in the

kitchen during those brief minutes. But if not, where exactly was

she and what had she been doing? Suppose she had sneaked over to the

motel to see Adler, and Freeman had known this? There had been this

momentary glimpse of some woman in the darkened courtyard. Until now

he had considered her shadowy presence something of a possible threat

to him, but he understood that it might be the other way round.

Such thoughts continued to plague him as the afternoon wore on, and

by four o’clock he knew what he wanted to do. In his present frame of

mind he was of no use to the company, and it seemed imperative that

he talk to the woman and find out where she had been and how much she

knew. It did not occur to him just how he could accomplish all this,

but he was aware that she did not go to work until five. When he

realized he had time to catch her at her cottage he made up his mind.

He had been there but once, on that rainy night when he offered her a

ride, but he had seen the place before, a small three-room-and-bath

cottage which stood back of a large, ornate, and run-down mansion

that had long been for sale. It had been unoccupied for many months

and he saw the signs of decay as he rolled along the driveway and

took the fork at the end. He parked under the trees and saw the light

in the cottage living room as he climbed two wooden steps to the tiny

porch.

There may have been a moment as she opened the door when Doris

Lamar’s green eyes showed surprise, but experience with men had

taught her many things and the reaction was swiftly controlled. She

was wearing a figured kimono and her face had a naked look without

its make-up. But if she was disconcerted it did not show and her

voice was casual and matter-of-fact.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Hayden.”

“Hello, Doris,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Well”--she hesitated, pursed her lips, and shrugged

indifferently--“I was getting dressed. I have to be at work at five.”

“It’s important, Doris. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“All right.” She turned away and let him enter and close the door. “I

can finish my fingernails while you’re talking. Take off your coat if

you want to. Throw it over there on the couch.”

He slipped off his coat, put it on the couch, and placed his hat on

top of it. When he sat down the springs sagged protestingly under his

weight and a glance about the squarish room told him that Doris had

probably rented it as it stood.

The furniture had neither style nor quality. The carpet had been worn

down to the nap in places, the occasional tables needed refinishing,

and the slipcovers on two of the chairs were threadbare at the arms;

a third chair was a wicker affair with a padded seat. From where he

sat he could look into the bedroom and he could also see a corner of

the kitchen with its old-fashioned sink and a stove that stood high

on spindly metal legs.

The light that he had seen from outside came from a wooden floor lamp

with a parchment shade. A circular shelf, which clung to the pedestal

like a doughnut, served as a table of sorts and on it was a bottle of

nail-polish remover, some cotton, tissues, and a bottle of dark red

polish. Doris had pulled her chair close and her head was bent now as

she daintily decorated the nails of her left hand.

“When you knocked,” she said, “I was afraid it would be another cop

or a reporter.”

“Did the police question you?”

“Hah!” she said. “For three hours last night. Then they practically

got me out of bed this morning and we had another two-hour session.”

“Have you seen George Freeman?”

“They were bringing him into Lieutenant Garvey’s office at the State

Police barracks when I left this morning.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“No.”

“What about last night?”

“I saw him when you did. When he had those dark glasses on and was

sulking at the bar.”

“You didn’t see him after he left?”

“No ... Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“That’s part of it, Doris. Freeman was in love with you, wasn’t he?”

“I guess he thought he was.”

“I understand that jealousy makes a good motive for murder. If he

thought Adler was cutting him out”--he hesitated and decided to

guess--“if he thought you were going away with him, for instance, he

could have gone to Adler’s room and--”

“I doubt it,” she said flatly. “I doubt if George would have guts

enough to kill anyone.”

“How much guts does it take to stab a man in the back?”

She considered the question before she said: “I see what you mean.

But I don’t believe it.”

Hayden rose and reached for a cigarette. He went over to offer the

woman one and waited while she put the little brush back into the

nail-polish bottle. She blew on the fingers of the hand she had

just painted and took the cigarette with the other. When she leaned

forward to accept a light he could see the dark roots in the blond

hair. The front of the kimono had opened slightly and he saw that she

had a slip on underneath but no stockings.

“It’s Adler that worries me,” he said and decided to demonstrate what

he meant. He had no intention of telling her the truth but he needed

all the help he could get and he was prepared to confide in her up

to a point in order to see what sort of reaction he could get. “The

police came to see us last night too.”

“You mean you and your wife? But why?”

“I thought you might know. Adler came into town a couple of days ago

and asked a lot of questions about me. The police found it out and

they wanted to know why he was so interested. I told them I never saw

the man but I can’t seem to get the idea across.”

He had been moving idly about the room as he spoke, and now, stopping

at the bedroom door, he glanced in and saw the two suitcases which

stood against the wall beyond the double bed. For some reason they

seemed strangely out of place, and because he found himself wondering

if they had any particular significance he spoke of them now.

“Were you going somewhere, Doris?”

He was aware that she was looking at him. And she must have known

what had prompted the question because there was no suggestion of

reluctance in her reply.

“I may have been.”

“With Adler?”

“Does it make any difference?” she said, still watching him. “I’m not

going now and that’s for sure.”

He came back and sat down on the couch. The green eyes were regarding

him openly, but he could not tell whether the small gleam he saw in

them came from speculation or amusement.

“Are you surprised?” she said. “I mean that Sam Adler could make a

proposition I would accept? If you are, don’t be. Let me give you the

case history of Doris Lamar in capsule form.”

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her knees. When she saw the

exposed length of calf and thigh she flipped the kimono expertly to

cover them. She sucked smoke into her lungs, blew it out, and watched

it evaporate above her. Without make-up her face seemed younger

somehow, but the lines of weariness remained at the corners of her

mouth even though it twisted now into a half-smile.

“The name is really Doris Lasowitz and I grew up, if you could

call it that, in a small town in West Virginia. Seven kids. A

hard-working, worn-out mother, a father who never seemed able to

earn quite enough money to take care of his own thirst and the food

we needed. I was in my last year of high school when I got a chance

to get out and I took it. I ran away with a boy who was three years

older than I was. We got married.”

She made a small, throaty sound in deprecation of the mental picture

she had drawn and her mouth twisted.

“Some marriage. It lasted a year. At seventeen I was a bride and at

eighteen-and-a-half I was a pregnant widow. My husband was killed by

a cop in Pennsylvania when he tried to hold up a liquor store, and I

suppose I got a break in a way because I wasn’t with him. If I had

been sitting in the car just then I probably would have done a few

years in the penitentiary.”

She put out her cigarette and continued in the same sardonic tone. “I

tried marriage again at twenty-three, this time to a musician of all

people. This one lasted three years, and while I got the divorce, the

reason we couldn’t work it out was probably more my fault than his.

You see there were a lot of things wrong with Doris Lamar. I guess I

never learned that in order to get anything worthwhile you have to

give out. No one had bothered to teach me the fundamentals. I was

lazy, selfish, greedy, and always looking for the easy way. When I

discovered there wasn’t any easy way there was nothing to do but keep

working. I didn’t have enough education to be much of a success in an

office, so what was I? Waitress, barmaid, shill, hostess. You name

it, Mr. Hayden.

“I’ll be thirty-one my next birthday. I have a twelve-year-old son

who’s been living with foster parents in upstate New York for a long

time. No charity, you understand. I’ve been sending a monthly check

and that’s another reason why I never seem to get a stake. But this

winter I did some thinking because, except for George, there wasn’t

much else to do in a place like this. I started going to school

in Bridgeport four mornings a week. English and typing. That was

the extent of my ambition, and those bus trips were a real drag. I

dropped out a month or so ago when I saw how George felt about me and

guessed what he had in mind.”

“What about Adler?” He paused and watched the half-smile fade. “You

weren’t in love with him, were you?”

“No.”

“Then there must have been some money involved.”

“There was.”

“How much?” he said, still probing.

“He said he had a deal on that would bring him a minimum of ten

thousand dollars and probably twenty. When he collected he was

going to take off for Florida and he wanted me to go with him.” She

stopped, glanced at her wrist watch, and then jumped to her feet.

“I’ve got to dress,” she said. “You can talk from the doorway if you

want to.”

She went into the bedroom and he sat for a minute or two, seeing

her toss the kimono onto the bed as she stepped out of sight.

He could hear a closet door open and the clatter of metal coat

hangers. When she reappeared again she had on a simple black dress,

which was her costume at Jerry’s Tavern, and now she sat down on

the edge of the bed and drew on her stockings. There was no hint

of self-consciousness in the act and her movements were swift

and practiced. When she stood again and shook her dress down he

started toward the doorway. She was sitting on a bench and facing a

rickety-looking vanity as he leaned against the doorframe. She began

to work on her face and he said:

“Did Adler say where he was going to get this money?”

“No, but--I’m only guessing about this--I got the idea that maybe you

had something to do with it.”

“You would have gone with him?”

“I think so. I’ve known a lot of men like Sam Adler. I could have

handled him all right. Maybe to someone like you this doesn’t make

much sense. Maybe you think I should have stayed here and married

George Freeman, and maybe you’re right. The way things turned out I’m

sure you’re right, but I saw this chance to get my hand on some money

and maybe a new start in Florida. Adler didn’t talk me into anything;

I talked myself into it. George is forty years old but he acts like a

kid about a lot of things--”

“You could probably change that.”

She looked up at him then and the lipstick she had been working with

remained poised in mid-air. “Do you really think so?”

Hayden said he did, then added: “Adler asked you a lot of questions

about me, didn’t he?”

“Well, a few anyway.”

“He asked you if you knew me, and where I lived, and what I was

doing, and how was I making out.”

“That’s right.”

“He gave you the idea that he expected to make some deal with me but

he didn’t tell you what it was.”

“No.”

“Did he mention my wife?”

“I don’t think so.”

As he considered her reply he had an idea that he had learned all he

was going to learn about this particular subject, so he mentioned the

other thing that had been bothering him.

“You weren’t at Jerry’s when I went in there for a drink around a

quarter of nine, were you?”

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“I’ve told the police a half a dozen times, so I might as well tell

you,” she said dryly. “I had a splitting headache. I get them every

so often and I have some prescription pills a doctor gave me. Last

night I forgot them and I stood it as long as I could, and then I

asked Jerry if I could come over here and get them. He said sure and

I came. I was gone maybe twenty-five minutes or so.”

She stood up as she finished, collected the soiled tissues, and

dropped them into the wastebasket. She examined herself in the mirror

and gave a final pat to her blond hair and then, as though all this

had been nothing more than a polite social conversation, she changed

the subject.

“Could you give me a lift to the tavern, please? I’d rather be a few

minutes early than walk.”

This told Hayden that he had gone about as far as he could. He said

he would be glad to give her a ride, and not until they were in the

car and he had started the motor did he make his final proposition.

He did not believe he had heard all the truth. This was a woman who

had learned a lot about life and was experienced in its ways. She

had learned to be devious as a matter of self-protection, but she

could not be expected to involve herself in unrewarding situations,

particularly when they might involve her personally. On the other

hand she had proved that she could be tempted by money, and it was

with this thought in mind that he made his proposition.

“Sam Adler made you a proposition which you accepted because you

thought it was going to pay off. Now I’ll make one. I think you know

more about this murder than you’ll admit--”

“Now, wait a minute,” she said, resentment showing for the first time

in her voice.

“Hear me out,” Hayden said. “If you’ve told all you know I can’t very

well make a proposition, but if you can help me find out who killed

Adler I’d be willing to pay you for your help.”

“You mean some kind of a deal just between you and me?”

“Yes.”

“Like a reward?”

“Something like that.”

“Have you got any special figure in mind?”

“I was thinking of something between one and five thousand dollars,

depending on how much good your help does. You could keep it in mind.”

“I will. I can tell you now I don’t know who killed Sam, but if I

think of anything that seems important I’ll let you know.”

Hayden wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to know who killed

Adler. All she had to do was come up with something that would

clear Marion and, if possible, himself. Since he could not put such

thoughts into words he simply told her to keep thinking.

_10_

Driving home after dropping Doris Lamar at the tavern, John Hayden

reviewed what had been said and what he had accomplished. The

results, as he saw them, were discouraging.

The admission that Adler had come here to collect a large sum of

money and that she might have been willing to leave town with him in

the hope of getting some of that money only confirmed what he already

knew. He did not think she was telling the whole truth and he had

wanted to put more pressure on her, to speak of the woman he had seen

in the darkened quadrangle and to accuse her of being that woman.

Yet, even as the thought had come to him, he knew that he could not

carry out the threat because to do so would be to admit that he had

also been there at the time.

The thought continued to disturb him, and when he turned his car into

the driveway and saw the three cars parked in front of the house he

found a new source of concern. For the plain black sedan with its

buggy-whip antenna told him this was probably an unmarked police car.

The convertible, he knew, belonged to Roger Denham. The third car,

a two-toned sedan, was not familiar and he wondered about it as he

walked through the breezeway and kitchen to the living room.

His first impression was that the room was crowded, and his glance

moved to his wife, who was sitting in her accustomed chair at one

side of the fireplace. He saw at once that the high-cheekboned face

was composed but the hazel eyes were veiled and he could not read

them as he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. He was aware

that the five men in the room had come to their feet, and when he

understood that Marion did not seem unduly disturbed, he turned to

face them, his resentment mounting. He was about to give voice to it

when Roger Denham spoke up to interrupt him.

“John--this is Fred Erickson, the State’s Attorney.” He indicated the

stocky, square-faced man in his middle forties who had a crew-cut and

dark-rimmed glasses. “And Paul Simpson.” He nodded to a younger man

who had been sitting off to one side, a slender, black-haired fellow

who was casually clad in flannel slacks and a checked sport jacket

that was a little on the loud side. “Mr. Simpson is with the Allied

Insurance Company.”

Hayden made no attempt to shake hands nor did the others. He looked

at Denham with his conservative but expensive-looking business suit,

at the lean, competent figure of Lieutenant Garvey, at the round,

impassive, and steady-eyed face of County Detective Ball.

“Well,” he said, with no trace of cordiality, “since you’re here you

might as well sit down. I don’t know what you have in mind, but it

seems to me that instead of coming here and ganging up on my wife you

could have waited--”

Marion cut in before he could finish. “That’s not the way it

happened, darling,” she said. “When I talked to you this noon you

said you’d be home early. Roger called and said these men would like

to talk to us and I told him it would be all right. I thought you’d

be here before they came.”

“We thought it would be more convenient for both of you,” Erickson

added, “to talk here instead of in my office.”

The simple explanation should have mollified Hayden but his initial

annoyance remained and his voice was still curt.

“Okay, so what do you want from us?”

Before Erickson could reply, Simpson spoke up. “I’m here on my own,

Mr. Hayden. If you don’t mind my waiting I’d like to talk to you a

few minutes when these gentlemen have finished.”

Hayden made no reply. He was still watching the State’s Attorney,

who studied him for a silent moment before he said: “We’ve had some

information that leads us to believe that Mrs. Hayden’s first husband

may still be alive.”

_So that’s how it is_, Hayden thought bitterly.

He was not yet prepared to grapple with the problem, and the top of

his mind suggested an answer and he grabbed it. Aside from Adler

only he, Marion, and Denham knew of Adler’s contention that Ted

Corbin was still alive. He was positive that Marion would never speak

of this knowledge to anyone. That left Denham, and in the momentary

silence that followed the State’s Attorney’s remark, his sudden

dislike for the lawyer was a corrosive force that influenced his

thinking. Little things that had bothered him before, over the past

year or so, came quickly to mind and he tabulated them swiftly.

Denham, it seemed, had never liked him. Denham, with his top

social background and inherited money and his fine education. The

bespectacled eyes that met his seemed calm and unconcerned, and he

was reminded again of Denham’s ascetic looks and manner of living,

his abstinence, the credo of physical fitness, with strenuous squash

in the winter and even more strenuous tennis in the summer.

In fairness, he had to admit that Denham was no pantywaist. He had

proved that in Korea when he was a member of a Ranger unit. He

had been decorated for bravery because of something he had done

while leading a night patrol, and this was something Hayden could

not minimize even now. But Denham had been a suitor of sorts, an

unsuccessful one where Marion was concerned. He had not liked Ted

Corbin; he did not like John Hayden, and this was his way of paying

them back and....

He heard the State’s Attorney clear his throat, and as he shifted his

gaze and saw what the man had in his hand he could only stare while

a feeling of shame came over him and he understood how unfair he had

been in his thoughts of Denham. For he saw now that Erickson had a

small photograph in his hand. Even from where he sat, and without

moving closer, he seemed to understand that this was a copy of the

one he now had in his pocket. Denham had not given the show away,

but he still could not imagine how Erickson could have got such a

picture, and he sat silently until the explanation came.

“Lieutenant Garvey got Adler’s address from a driving license,” he

said. “He got in touch with the Mobile police--it was an Alabama

license with a Mobile address--last night and they got right on it.”

He held the picture with extended fingers and Hayden understood that

he was to take it. He did so; he looked at it. He glanced at Marion,

but she was busy drawing an imaginary line on the arm of the chair

with her index finger.

“Has my wife seen this?” he said, returning the picture.

“She says it’s a picture of her first husband.” Erickson slipped the

photograph back into his pocket. “Adler was a small-time gambler and

con man who followed the horses. He moved about a lot, but he kept

this apartment in Mobile as his headquarters. The Mobile police had a

file on him--nothing impressive--gambling, disorderly conduct, things

like that. Naturally they searched his apartment and apparently they

searched it well. They found this envelope. It had two negatives and

two prints. They didn’t know what they meant but Garvey thought they

might be important. The other photograph showed the fingerprints of a

man’s right hand.”

He leaned back on the divan and said: “To save time the Mobile people

put the two pictures in an envelope and gave it to a steward on a

morning flight out of Mobile. They figured this would be quicker than

using the mails. We sent a man down to Idlewild and he picked up the

envelope. We don’t know about the fingerprints yet--they’re being

checked in Washington and we’ll probably know by tomorrow--but it’s a

reasonable assumption that those prints will belong to Mrs. Hayden’s

first husband.”

“What did my wife say about the picture you just showed me?” Hayden

asked evenly.

“She says she doesn’t know when it was taken. She implies that it

might have been done several years ago.”

Hayden’s immediate reply was a grunt that was audible, disparaging,

and slightly contemptuous.

“Ted Corbin was killed in a plane crash more than two years ago,” he

said. “There was no doubt about his death at the time and I don’t

think there’s any doubt now. The fact that Mr. Simpson’s company paid

off the insurance claim should be proof enough.”

“I’m aware of that,” Erickson said calmly, “but stranger things than

that have happened. You understand I’m making no accusation, nor am I

asking for a definite statement from you at this time. But I’d like

to draw you a hypothetical picture that seems to me to have some

merit.”

“Before you do,” Hayden said, “tell me a little about George Freeman.

Freeman had a very good motive for murder--you must know about

that--and he also had the opportunity. I suppose you questioned him?”

“Until two o’clock last night,” Ball said.

“And for three hours again this morning,” Garvey added.

“Does he have an alibi?”

“No,” Erickson said. “He maintains that he was in the motel office

from shortly after seven until he found Adler at around nine-thirty.”

“Did he just happen to find him?”

“He admits he was jealous. He was afraid Doris Lamar might be

thinking about running off with Adler. He’d been brooding the night

before and all that day, and he finally decided to go down to Adler’s

room and have it out with him. He got no answer when he knocked but

the lights were on and he could hear the radio playing and Adler’s

rented car was there. When he could get no reply to his knock he

was too upset to give up, so he used his passkey and unlocked the

door. He found Adler on the floor and called the State Police....

Now if you don’t mind, Mr. Hayden,” he added, “let me get back to my

hypothesis.”

He paused to be sure there would be no interruption and said: “Adler,

who was a known gambler and confidence man, comes to Morrisville

the day before yesterday. He makes inquiries at the gas station and

Jerry’s Tavern about John Hayden. He wants to know where you live,

what you do, and how you’re doing. Why?”

“It’s your hypothesis,” Hayden said coldly.

“On the basis of these two pictures which came from Mobile, it

suggests that your wife’s first husband is still alive. Otherwise

there would be no point in Adler coming here since he had nothing

to sell. We know that he _did_ come to this house and he _did_ talk

to your wife. She maintains that he represented himself as a book

salesman and yet there was no physical evidence on Adler’s person,

the motel room, or his car to support any such contention. Book

salesmen simply don’t go around without samples, or at least without

some advertising literature describing the books.”

Marion stirred in her chair and Hayden was a little amazed that she

could make her rebuttal sound so calm and disinterested. “I saw no

books and no literature,” she said. “I only know what he said.”

“Freeman says that Adler made a call to this number,” Erickson

continued. “You deny you received such a call.” He turned his

attention to Hayden. “You went to Mr. Denham’s house at eight o’clock

for a meeting of some kind. Mr. Denham, as your attorney, has refused

to discuss the substance of your conversation and he cannot be forced

to do so at this time. He says you left around eight-thirty and that

he understood you were going to stop at the tavern and get a drink

before you went home.”

Hayden gave Denham another good mark for his loyalty and

circumspection as he said: “And that’s exactly what I did.”

“You were seen to leave the tavern and walk in the direction of the

motel but you say your car was parked there. You got in and drove

directly here.”

“That’s right.”

“My hypothesis suggests another possibility. It indicates that Adler

came to Morrisville with blackmail on his mind. He came to see Mrs.

Hayden, not to sell books but to offer proof that her first husband

was still alive. Since we know that there were two negatives and two

prints in his Mobile apartment it seems reasonable to assume that he

brought an extra set of prints with him to substantiate his claim.”

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.

It may have been the abrupt violence of his move that brought the

reaction from the man who had so silently opened the door and stood

upon the threshold. It may have been a simple act of self-defense

that had been motivated by some new suspicion. Whatever the reason,

the man’s hand had moved as Hayden completed his turn, and now he

found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver that looked very

large and very threatening. Only when he could bring his eyes up to

inspect the tanned, good-looking face did recognition come to him;

only then did he understand that he had found Ted Corbin at last.

_14_

In those first silent seconds when no one moved and no one could

find anything to say, Hayden offered silent thanks for the luck,

coincidence, or good fortune that had finally paid off for his gamble

and his persistence. He did not know what would happen now, but he

felt a confidence that had not been there before, and he understood

at once why Marion had been attracted to Corbin.

He seemed now to realize that Hayden presented no great threat and he

let the gun swing down. He reached behind him to close the door, a

big man, standing a good six feet two and weighing two-twenty or so,

most of it bone and muscle. His blond hair was thick and worn fairly

short, his mouth was wide, the jaw solidly shaped. His nose was a

little off line, as though bent permanently in some football combat

long ago, but the eyes were blue and well spaced and the tan gave

him a look of strength and vitality. Waiting there in slacks, sport

shirt, and flannel jacket, he had a puzzled look until Hayden spoke.

“Hello, Corbin.”

The big man did not do very well with the question. The eyes widened

slowly and the mouth opened. For five seconds he simply stared and

beneath the tan the muscles were suddenly slack. Then recovery came

and he had himself in hand. The eyes wrinkled at the corners as a

slow smile that had little warmth but was effective because of his

white and even teeth took over.

“Corbin?” he said as though finding the word unfamiliar. “Un-unh.

Cannon’s the name,” he added, a trace of southern accent coming

through. “Ted Cannon.”

“Marion used to have a good picture of you,” Hayden said. “I saw it

many times.”

“Marion?” The word was touched with wonderment. “Marion?” he said

again, and then, as the message got through, acceptance came. “Oh, I

see. And who the hell are you?”

“Her husband. I’m John Hayden.”

Corbin’s shoulders seemed to sag beneath the jacket as he took a

labored breath. As though becoming aware of the gun in his hand, he

tucked it somewhere inside his waistband. He seemed to be searching

for words, but Flo, who had been taking all this with increasing

annoyance, spoke first.

“What is this?” she demanded querulously. “If you’re going to have a

conference take it outside, will you?”

Corbin looked at her curiously. He looked at Hayden.

“Who’s this?”

“I’ll tell you who I am,” Flo said and proceeded to do so.

Corbin’s smile came back, crooked now but tolerant. “So you’re

picking up the pieces, hunh?”

“Who’s got a better right? Why don’t you two beat it and get off my

back?”

“We will,” Hayden said, “if you’ll tell us about Adler.”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t know if the police know you’re cleaning out the place,” he

added, “but we could ask them.”

She seemed about to argue but thought better of it. “All right.” She

sat down, her tired face sullen. “What do you want to know?”

“You were Sam’s girl friend--”

“One of them.”

“So you must have some idea why he went North.”

“He said he had a deal on.”

“When did he first say so?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a month ago. I didn’t think much about it at

first. He always had some kind of a deal cooking but nothing much

ever happened.”

“When did he leave?”

“Saturday. He said he’d be back by the end of this week. He wouldn’t

give any details. He said he was going to make a big score and when

he collected we were going to Florida for a while.”

Hayden considered the statement and found it acceptable. It was

the same line Adler had given to Doris Lamar, apparently with some

success.

“He didn’t tell you how he was going to make that score?”

“No.”

He glanced at Corbin, who had been watching the woman, a sardonic

expression working in his blue eyes.

“I guess you knew Adler.”

Corbin nodded. “I knew him.”

“And what happened to him?”

“There were a couple of paragraphs in the paper.”

“I think we have some talking to do.”

“About what?”

Hayden paused reflectively, his mind working smoothly. He was ready

to accept Flo’s presence here for what it was, and he doubted if she

could be of any help to him now. What happened here, or what she took

from the apartment, was no concern of his.

“About why you’re here, what you expected to find. I have an idea

about that and I can tell you about the deal Adler had in mind when

he came to Connecticut.”

“What makes you think I’d be interested?”

“You’d better be.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“The police are looking for you and so are the insurance people;

maybe even the FBI.” That the police were probably looking for

him too was something that Corbin could not yet know, and Hayden

continued with confidence: “All I have to do to prove it is pick up

the telephone. I think my way is better. Is there a bar around where

we can get a drink while I make a proposition?”

“I could use a drink, but we don’t have bars in this state,” Corbin

said, “not the way you think of them. You can get a drink at most

hotels and some restaurants. But you sit down, like in a cocktail

lounge, and somebody mixes your drink, using a miniature bottle like

you get in Pullman cars. Otherwise you get your own bottle at a State

Store and drink it at home. Where are you staying?”

Hayden told him and Corbin said: “We’ve got to eat anyway and the

food’s okay there. We’ll get our drink at the same place.... You

through here?”

Hayden said that he was. He had come here like a man grabbing at

straws in the hope of learning something that would help him. Now

that he had found his man, he had no further interest in this

apartment or the woman who called herself Flo. There was much he had

to know about Corbin, but that, he felt, would come if he played his

cards right.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this.”

“Me too,” Corbin said and glanced at the woman. “Take it easy, doll.”

“Oh, sure.” The woman opened the suitcase and began to rearrange the

things she had collected. “If it’s all right with you let’s forget

we ever saw each other.” She turned her weary, disillusioned eyes to

Hayden. “That goes for you too, Buster.”

* * * * *

When they had settled in a dimly lighted corner of the motel lounge

with drinks before them, Corbin said: “How’s Marion? How long have

you two been married?”

“Fourteen months,” Hayden said, “and right now she’s four months

pregnant. That should give you some idea how she felt when we found

out you were probably still alive.”

“Yeah.” Corbin lit a cigarette and frowned at it, his expression

genuinely concerned. “I never thought it could happen. How did you

find out? Adler?”

“You knew him. You had to know him, otherwise you wouldn’t have come

to his place. What were you looking for?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ve been away. I saw this piece in the paper.

I thought I’d take a look at the apartment, just in case.”

“Maybe you were looking for these.”

Hayden took out the photographs he had originally taken from Adler’s

wallet and spread them on the table. It seemed to him then that

Corbin knew a lot about Adler, just as Adler must have known much

about Corbin. How all this had come about was something he hoped to

find out in time, but it could wait. He indicated the two pictures.

“He came to Marion with these. He asked for twenty thousand dollars.”

Corbin looked at the pictures, the frown still there, the concern

still showing in the tanned face. “The miserable little bastard,”

he said softly and then listened as Hayden explained why he had the

enlargement made of the insignia on the coveralls, and how he had

come finally to the filling station in Fairview.

“The fellow I talked with--”

“That was Joe Quinn.”

“--gave you a lot of protection. A real suspicious character.”

Corbin grunted softly. “The natives around here don’t always open up

with Yankees, especially curious ones.... Who killed Adler?”

“Did you know he was coming to Connecticut to collect on what he

knew?”

For the first time there was a moment of hesitancy in Corbin’s

manner. His blue gaze, which until that instant had been direct, slid

to the glass in his hand and he drained it before he replied.

“No.” He put the glass down. “The papers said he was stabbed.”

“In the back,” Hayden said, “with a kitchen knife.”

“The police haven’t made any arrests?”

“Not yet.”

“What do they think?”

“They think maybe I did it, maybe even Marion.”

“You mean they know about those pictures of me? How?”

“The Connecticut police found a Conti Street address for Adler. The

Mobile people got right on it. They found the two prints and two

negatives. They sent the snapshot of you up by plane and they were

checking the fingerprints with Washington when I left.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want you to come back.”

“With you?”

“Yes.”

Apparently the thought had not occurred to Corbin. He looked at

Hayden with one eye, and then with both. The grin that came to warp

his mouth was tight and twisted.

“Why?”

“Because it’s going to be a lot easier that way.”

“For whom?”

“For everybody.” Hayden put his elbows on the table and leaned on

them. When he continued, his tone was direct and forceful. “The

police are probably looking for me too,” he said. “If you go back

with me I can justify this trip. What difference can it make to you?

If I found you, so will the police. It’s just a question of time, and

believe me they’re looking for you. Somebody’s got to get a divorce

and in a hurry. Marion’s worried about the baby and so am I.”

“I could get a divorce in this state in no time,” Corbin said. “Or

Marion could duck down here and get it.”

“But there’s also a little matter of seventy-five thousand dollars in

insurance.”

“Yeah,” Corbin said and this time the grin, while reluctant, was

genuine. “But I didn’t get it. I had amnesia. Marion collected in

good faith--”

“It has to be paid back.”

“I can’t help you much there.... How about you?”

“I can’t make it all at once.” Hayden digressed to explain how the

money had been used and the benefit he derived from it. “I’ll have to

pay it back--most of it anyway--but I’m willing to work something out

with the insurance company if I can clear up the rest of this.”

Corbin shrugged and pushed his chair back. “I guess maybe you’ve got

a point,” he said slowly in that faint southern accent. “I don’t want

to see Marion hurt. I thought I was doing her a favor in the first

place two years ago. I thought I had it made.... Let’s eat,” he said

abruptly. “We’ll work something out.”

_15_

The interior of Ted Corbin’s cottage was an improvement over the

jerry-built look of the exterior. The front room bore no sign of a

woman’s touch and the furniture had been selected with an eye to

comfort rather than style. Photographs on the walls testified to the

owner’s interest in the outdoor life--Corbin with a dead deer, Corbin

and friends with a day’s bag of quail, Corbin posing proudly with a

sizable tarpon--but the chairs, the couch, the television set were in

good condition and the room had an over-all look of bachelor neatness.

Hayden had followed Corbin across the causeway in his rented car

because, while Corbin had given the impression that he was ready to

fly back and straighten out the situation he had created, Hayden

wanted to stay with the big man until they were actually on the

plane. Now, coming in from the kitchen with a bottle of bourbon and

glasses and a pitcher of water, he sat down opposite Hayden and

stretched his legs out, the ankles crossed.

“I told you I’d tell you what happened two years ago,” he said,

“and try to explain the series of stupid incidents that kept me from

getting on the plane that night in Capitol City. It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Hayden said.

“And it’s in two parts. The first concerns me. The second has to do

with Adler. It’ll show you what a conniving little bastard he was and

how he got things ready to collect on what he knew.”

He waved a hand as an invitation to pour a drink but Hayden said he’d

wait. Corbin nodded and took time to light a cigarette. When he had

inhaled, his gaze moved to the opposite wall and a small frown began

to work on the tanned, handsome face.

“I guess it starts with Marion and me,” he said. “I mean the fact

that our marriage hadn’t worked out and was about to bust up. I don’t

know how much she told you about me--where I was brought up and where

I went to school and what I was doing when she met me.”

He paused while Hayden related the few things Marion had told him. He

nodded absently.

“That’s about right,” he said. “I liked football and I played a

couple of years of the pro game but I couldn’t quite cut it. I mean,

I could see I’d never be a first-string regular, but I always liked

to hunt and fish, and those were things Marion had no interest in

whatsoever. Oh, I guess we were in love all right when we were

married, but, after six months or so, everything seemed to start

going downhill and it was probably a lot more my fault than it was

hers.

“I mean, we just weren’t interested in the same things. It was hard

to talk to each other. She liked to read; I didn’t. She liked to go

to the theater, sometimes to a concert. She liked music--Dixie, the

classics, anything that was good. I just couldn’t seem to get with

that sort of stuff, but I think it was the friends we had that made

things worse. A man and woman just can’t get along by themselves.

They have to have friends and outside contacts and mutual interests,

don’t they?

“My friends,” he added, expecting no answer, “were basically guys

like me. I knew some guys on the Giants and the Eagles, a couple

in baseball. In football season I’d look them up or they’d look me

up. They’d come to the apartment or maybe we’d go out somewhere for

dinner. Real good guys, some of them with nice wives, but Marion

simply couldn’t tune in on that kind of talk. It was even worse for

me. She had her friends and we’d be out with them at parties and I

had a hard time finding anything to say that anybody would listen to.

“I don’t mean they were snooty. They liked Marion and they wanted to

like me, but about half the conversation was chitchat that didn’t

mean anything and was about people I didn’t even know. The rest of

it, the men I mean, was talk about stocks and investments and taxes

and politics and golf handicaps and trips they had made.” He stopped

and looked at Hayden. “Does any of this make any sense?”

“It makes a lot of sense,” Hayden said.

“So the marriage wasn’t working out and we both knew it. We both

tried too, I think. But somehow I started to drink a little more than

I should and I’d get to brooding and wondering what I could do to

fix things up. Instead of getting out and trying to sell, I’d duck

into an afternoon movie and brood some more. So I lost a job and then

another and another. I was about to lose again when I went out to

Kansas City to see if I could swing one more deal.

“I was working for a paper box company at the time, and I thought

maybe if I could get a big order I could hang on a while longer, not

that it probably would have done any good because we were already

talking about separation and divorce. Marion had started to look for

a job and I guess we both understood there wasn’t any future in it

for us the way things were.”

He stopped again and, as though just becoming aware of the bottle of

whisky, reached for it. He pulled his legs in and sat up; he made

two drinks, not asking Hayden if he wanted one. He passed it over

silently and Hayden accepted. Corbin took a big swallow, put the

glass down, and again his gaze moved away and distance grew in it.

“This was right after New Year’s,” he said, “and on New Year’s they

have all those college bowl games and I hit three out of four. I

had six hundred dollars in my kick when I got the plane that day. I

went out to Kansas City. I made my pitch. No dice. So I had one more

chance, a job I’d heard about that was opening up for an outfit in

Capitol City. So I went there. Same thing. I said what I had to say

and they listened. They didn’t say no but I didn’t think I was going

to get the job either.

“Well, this is late Friday afternoon and I’m feeling too sorry for

myself to go home yet. But the next day, Saturday, they’re having the

play-off of the two runner-up teams in the National Football League.

The Bisons are five-to-nine underdogs but I like ’em. I have this

six hundred bucks, so I lay five of it on the Bisons and they win by

one point in the last forty seconds. So now I’ve got around fifteen

hundred bucks--more than I’ve had since I can remember--and it’s late

Saturday afternoon, so now we come to the trench coat.”

Hayden remembered the trench coat. That coat, and what had been in

its pockets, had been all-important in establishing Corbin’s death,

and now he put his glass aside and waited, his dark eyes somber and

intent.

“I’d had that trench coat since before I married,” Corbin said, “and

Marion hated it. Maybe not at first, but I always wore it when I

could, and I guess it got to be looking pretty disreputable. Anyway

she said it was. About once a week she’d make some crack about it.

Why couldn’t I get a neat cloth coat like other men? She didn’t say I

looked like a bum but that’s what she thought.”

He grunted softly and an absent smile was reflected in his eyes. “I

guess it did get to be pretty crummy-looking, and for some reason I

remembered how she felt about it that Saturday afternoon. So I walked

into this store with all that fresh money in my pocket and bought a

new one.

“I didn’t have too much time and the sleeves had to be lengthened

about an inch but that salesman wanted the sale. I told him I

couldn’t wait, that I had things to do. He said he could send it to

the airport but I thought of something else. I said if he’d have it

wrapped up and ready, I’d have my taxi come by that way and pick it

up. I told him if it wasn’t ready for me by the front door there’d be

no sale and he promised it would be there.... It was,” he said, and

took another swallow of his drink.

“So I rode out to the airport and got a quick double bourbon and

water. I was feeling pretty good then and I’d never taken any flight

insurance before, but I got to thinking that now that I had some real

money this would be the time the damn plane would crash, so I stopped

and got this policy for Marion. I’d already wired her I’d be on that

flight, so I went over to the counter, handed over my suitcase and

ticket.”

He grunted softly again, an introspective sound. “The fellow stapled

the baggage check to that part of the ticket they give you back--you

know, the carbon part. The clerk handed me a landing pass and then

I took off for the men’s room to try on my new coat. The room was

empty except for two guys who were sitting on a bench and two

sadder-looking characters you never saw. One was on the small side,

with an old felt hat and a topcoat on. The other fellow was nearly as

tall as I am but not as big around. He wore a wrinkled suit with a

sweater on underneath it but no coat.

“What I didn’t know was that they were pals and were actually

together. Because they weren’t sitting that way. I mean, the tall guy

was hunched over reading a newspaper; the little guy was sitting by

himself at the other side of the room, slumped back, his hat over his

eyes like he was half asleep. I probably gave him a quick look when I

walked in but I never really saw his face.

“I undid the package and chucked the paper into a trash can. I tried

the coat on and liked it and was about to throw the old coat on top

of the wrapping paper too when I thought about this guy who didn’t

have a coat. I turned around and asked him if he could use it. I

said it was pretty dirty but it might not be too bad once he got it

cleaned and he was welcome to it if he wanted it. He did. He thanked

me, and as I started out I could hear the flight being called over

the loud-speaker.”

He paused again, the blue eyes full of thought as his mind went back.

“But I was a little juiced by that time and feeling pretty good. I

knew that the first call for a flight--and lots of times the second

call--didn’t mean a thing, and since I was all cleared away I decided

I had time for another drink. I heard the second call but I was just

mulled enough to think I had plenty of time. Anyway I finished my

drink, paid the check, and started for the gate.”

He took a breath and let it out slowly. He looked again at Hayden and

that small smile was still there.

“I guess you know how it must have been and what happened after that.”

“I guess so,” Hayden said.

“It was a lot longer walk than I thought. This particular gate was

way-the-hell-and-gone at the end of the corridor, and when I got

there the attendant who had been checking off the passengers was

just turning away. The gate was closed. I could see the passenger

ramp being wheeled away from the plane and the door was shut. Two of

the motors had already started. I knew I didn’t have a chance but

I thought I’d try. I stuck my hand into my new coat pocket to get

my boarding pass and the carbon to my ticket and my baggage check

and--you guessed it--I’d forgotten to take them out of the old coat.”

“Ahh--” said Hayden as he visualized the picture. “By then it was too

late--”

“Hell yes. I asked the attendant if everybody was checked aboard. He

said yes, and by that time I was too disgusted with myself to put up

a beef. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. It was my own damn fault,

and I knew that skinny guy was sitting there in my seat, that he not

only would get a free ride to New York but probably claim my suitcase.

“I was so damn mad I didn’t even go back to the counter and tell them

what had happened. I wasn’t even sure I could make them believe it or

prove what I said. I just stood there and watched the plane take off

and then I went back to the bar, not thinking that I ought to call

Marion and tell her I missed the flight. I tied on a pretty good one

for the next hour or so and then I walked out of the terminal and

across the road to this motel, paid for a room, and went to bed to

sleep it off.”

He stood up, the tanned face grave as remembered thoughts came back

to haunt him.

“If I’d hung around the airport a few more minutes I’d have known

about the crash. But I didn’t. I got the word from a newspaper I

bought when I went into the motel restaurant for breakfast the next

morning, and I guess for a while after that I was in a state of

shock. I still wake up scared some nights when I think of it. You

can’t believe what a thing like that can do to you.”

He walked the length of the room and came back. “I should have been

dead but I wasn’t. I kept thinking of that plane and how I’d seen it

take off and the crazy twist of luck that kept me off it. I couldn’t

get it out of my mind. I read my name on the list of victims. I knew

that Marion already had the word that she was a widow.”

He stopped pacing to look at Hayden. “The idea that there was my

chance to make the break that was long overdue didn’t come all at

once. It grew a thought at a time as that feeling of shock and

unreality began to wear off. I didn’t have any plan then. I only

knew that here was a chance I’d never get again to start a new life

not only for myself but for Marion. There was no love for us any

more, no future together. She wouldn’t grieve much. She’d already

had the shock of knowing I was gone for good, and now she’d have

seventy-five thousand bucks, more than I could ever have left her any

other way.”

He paused again and said in slow accents: “Only one guy on earth

besides myself knew that I hadn’t gone down with that plane. The

little guy in the men’s room.”

“Adler.”

“Right. I thought about him before the day was out, but in my mind he

was only some itinerant bum, and the odds that he could foul up my

scheme were a million to one.” He stepped to an open doorway, reached

in, and snapped on a light. “But that’s the second part of my story

and it can wait.”

He disappeared inside the room and Hayden could see enough of the

interior to know that this was a bedroom. Presently he heard a

telephone being dialed and then Corbin’s voice.

“Connie? I’m coming over for a few minutes.... Yeah.... No, I can’t

tonight but I have to see you. Yeah, right away.”

He came back to the living room and headed for the outside door.

“I told you I’d probably go back with you,” he said. “You can count

on it. Not just for you and Marion either.”

“For Connie?” Hayden said, hazarding a guess.

“Yeah.” The grin came slowly, the teeth white against the tanned

muscular face. “I guess I’ve been kidding myself too long.... I’ll be

back in a half hour,” he added. “Stick around.”