Part 9

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?”