Soon, he was in the midst of the countryside. It was, of course,
filled with country. It spread around him in the shape of hills,
birds, trees, flowers, grass, billboards and other distractions to the
passing motorist.
It took Malone better than two hours more to find the place he was
looking for. Long before he found it, he had come to the conclusion
that finding country estates in Pennsylvania was only a shade easier
than finding private homes in the Borough of Brooklyn. In both cases,
he had found himself saddled with the same frantic search down what
seemed likely routes which turned out to lead nowhere. He had found,
in both cases, complete ignorance of the place on the part of local
citizens, and even strong doubts that the place could possibly have
any sort of existence.
The fact that is was growing dark didn't help much, either.
But he found it at last. Rounding a curve in a narrow, blacktop road,
he saw the home behind a grove of trees.
He recognized it instantly.
He had seen it so often that he felt as if he knew it intimately.
[Illustration]
It was a big, rambling, Colonial-type mansion, painted a blinding and
beautiful white, with a broad, pillared porch and a great carved front
door. The front windows were curtained in rich purples, and before the
house was a great front garden, and tall old trees. Malone
half-expected Scarlett O'Hara to come tripping out of the house at any
minute shouting: "Rhett! The children's mush is on fire!" or something
equally inappropriate.
Inside it, however, if Malone were right, was not the magnetic
Scarlett. Inside the house were some of the most important members of
the PRS--and one person who was not a member.
But it was impossible to tell from the outside. Nothing moved on the
well-kept grounds, and the windows didn't show so much as the flutter
of a purple curtain. There was no sound. No cars were parked around
the house--nor, Malone realized, thinking of "Gone With the Wind,"
were there any horses or carriages.
The place looked deserted.
Malone thought he knew better, but it took a few minutes for him to
get up enough courage to go up the long driveway. He stared at the
house. It was an old one, he knew, built long before the Civil War and
originally commanding a huge tract of land. Now, all that remained of
the vast acreage was the small portion that surrounded the house.
But the original family still inhabited it, proud of the house and of
their part in its past. Over the years, Malone knew, they had kept it
up scrupulously, and the place had been both restored and modernized
on the inside without harming the classic outlines of the
hundred-and-fifty-year-old structure.
A fence surrounded the estate, but the front gate was swinging open.
Malone saw it and took a deep breath. Now, he told himself, or never.
He drove the Lincoln through the opening slowly, alert for almost
anything.
There was no disturbance. Thirty yards from the front door he pulled
the car to a cautious stop and got out. He started to walk toward the
building. Each step seemed to take whole minutes, and everything he
had thought raced through his mind again. Nothing seemed to move
anywhere, except Malone himself.
Was he right? Were the people he'd been beaming to really here? Or had
he been led astray by them? Had he been manipulated, in spite of his
shield, as easily as they had manipulated so many others?
That was possible. But it wasn't the only possibility.
Suppose, he thought, that he was perfectly right, and that the group
was waiting inside. And suppose, too, that he'd misunderstood their
motives.
Suppose they were just waiting for him to get a little closer.
Malone kept walking. In just a few steps, he could be close enough so
that a bullet aimed at him from the house hadn't a real chance of
missing him.
And it didn't have to be bullets, either. They might have set a trap,
he thought, and were waiting for him to walk into it. Then they would
hold him prisoner while they devised ways to....
To what?
He didn't know. And that was even worse; it called up horrible terrors
from the darkest depths of Malone's mind. He continued to walk
forward.
Finally he reached the steps that led up to the porch, and took them
one at a time.
He stood on the porch. A long second passed.
He took a step toward the high, wide and handsome oaken door. Then he
took another step, and another.
What was waiting for him inside?
He took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell button.
The door swung open immediately, and Malone involuntarily stepped
back.
The owner of the house smiled at him from the doorway. Malone let out
his breath in one long sigh of relief.
"I was hoping it would be you," he said weakly. "May I come in?"
"Why, certainly, Malone. Come on in. We've been expecting you, you
know," said Andrew J. Burris, Director of the FBI.