me a picture would help. The only photograph I’d ever been able to persuade her to have made was the wedding picture; it would have to do. I swung around to the dresser to pick it up, and stared blankly. It was gone.
It was impossible. It’d been there just— I stopped, aware I couldn’t remember when I had seen it last. I was so accustomed to its being there, it might have been a week since I’d actually noticed it. Maybe Malvina had moved it. I yanked open drawers, and looked on the dressing table in the bath. It had vanished. She’d never liked it, so maybe she destroyed it, though I was certain I must have seen it since she left. I swore nervously. This was wasting precious time; I couldn’t stand here doddering like an old man. I had a small copy of the same photograph in my wallet; it would have to do. I slammed the suitcase shut, hit the light switch, and went down the hall. Grabbing the topcoat and a hat, I killed the rest of the lights, and slipped out the kitchen door into the garage.
I tossed the bag into the Chevrolet, and eased up the big overhead door. The street was deserted and dark beyond the driveway. I backed out and closed the door. The only way to do it was as naturally as possible, I thought. This time of night it would be very easy to tell whether I was being followed, and especially by the police. The County cars and the two owned by the city police were all marked. I turned left one block before Clebourne, drove west on Taylor for three blocks, turned right on Fulton to come out into Clebourne just west of the office, the way I always drove to work. Clebourne Street is quite wide, and still has angle parking. I slid into a space in front of the office and got out. Three cars were parked in front of Fuller’s, just to my left, but none of them was a police car. The tinsel made a scaly, rustling sound in the wind as I stepped across the sidewalk and unlocked the door. There was nobody in sight along the sidewalk.
The big fireproof safe was against the back wall, between the door leading into my office and the one going back to the washroom and the rear entrance on the alley, but a light was always left on it so it was in full view of the street. I walked straight back to it, fighting an impulse to look over my shoulder at the windows, knelt, and began turning the knob through the combination. The last tumbler fell in place. I pulled the door open, took out my keys, unlocked the steel door inside, and slid out the brown Manila folder I wanted. It contained something over $18,000 in matured Series E bonds, mostly 500-and 1000-dollar denominations. I closed the safe, spun the knob, and before I turned around I took out a cigarette and lit it. There was nobody in sight beyond the windows. I went out and locked the door.
I was just backing the Chevrolet away from the curb when a police car came around the corner from Fulton behind me. For an instant I felt a quick stab of fear; then I saw it was only Cap Deets, the night patrolman, in one of the city cars. He waved, and went on past. My only danger at the moment was Scanlon, in case he was having me watched to see if I tried to leave town. Or Mulholland, I thought grimly, if he were the one who’d killed her. I drove on down Clebourne at a casual pace and turned right into Montrose as if I were going home. There was nobody behind me. Two blocks over I turned right again and was headed back parallel to Clebourne. When I reached the west end of town I cut back to Clebourne and the highway, checked the mirror once more, and breathed softly in release of tension as I bore down on the accelerator. When I passed the service-club signs at the city limits I was doing 70.
It was six-twenty and just growing light when I parked the car in a lot at the New Orleans airport. I was hollow-eyed with fatigue and the nervous strain of sustained highspeed driving with one eye cocked on the mirror for the Highway Patrol, but still keyed up mentally as I put the
It was impossible. It’d been there just— I stopped, aware I couldn’t remember when I had seen it last. I was so accustomed to its being there, it might have been a week since I’d actually noticed it. Maybe Malvina had moved it. I yanked open drawers, and looked on the dressing table in the bath. It had vanished. She’d never liked it, so maybe she destroyed it, though I was certain I must have seen it since she left. I swore nervously. This was wasting precious time; I couldn’t stand here doddering like an old man. I had a small copy of the same photograph in my wallet; it would have to do. I slammed the suitcase shut, hit the light switch, and went down the hall. Grabbing the topcoat and a hat, I killed the rest of the lights, and slipped out the kitchen door into the garage.
I tossed the bag into the Chevrolet, and eased up the big overhead door. The street was deserted and dark beyond the driveway. I backed out and closed the door. The only way to do it was as naturally as possible, I thought. This time of night it would be very easy to tell whether I was being followed, and especially by the police. The County cars and the two owned by the city police were all marked. I turned left one block before Clebourne, drove west on Taylor for three blocks, turned right on Fulton to come out into Clebourne just west of the office, the way I always drove to work. Clebourne Street is quite wide, and still has angle parking. I slid into a space in front of the office and got out. Three cars were parked in front of Fuller’s, just to my left, but none of them was a police car. The tinsel made a scaly, rustling sound in the wind as I stepped across the sidewalk and unlocked the door. There was nobody in sight along the sidewalk.
The big fireproof safe was against the back wall, between the door leading into my office and the one going back to the washroom and the rear entrance on the alley, but a light was always left on it so it was in full view of the street. I walked straight back to it, fighting an impulse to look over my shoulder at the windows, knelt, and began turning the knob through the combination. The last tumbler fell in place. I pulled the door open, took out my keys, unlocked the steel door inside, and slid out the brown Manila folder I wanted. It contained something over $18,000 in matured Series E bonds, mostly 500-and 1000-dollar denominations. I closed the safe, spun the knob, and before I turned around I took out a cigarette and lit it. There was nobody in sight beyond the windows. I went out and locked the door.
I was just backing the Chevrolet away from the curb when a police car came around the corner from Fulton behind me. For an instant I felt a quick stab of fear; then I saw it was only Cap Deets, the night patrolman, in one of the city cars. He waved, and went on past. My only danger at the moment was Scanlon, in case he was having me watched to see if I tried to leave town. Or Mulholland, I thought grimly, if he were the one who’d killed her. I drove on down Clebourne at a casual pace and turned right into Montrose as if I were going home. There was nobody behind me. Two blocks over I turned right again and was headed back parallel to Clebourne. When I reached the west end of town I cut back to Clebourne and the highway, checked the mirror once more, and breathed softly in release of tension as I bore down on the accelerator. When I passed the service-club signs at the city limits I was doing 70.
It was six-twenty and just growing light when I parked the car in a lot at the New Orleans airport. I was hollow-eyed with fatigue and the nervous strain of sustained highspeed driving with one eye cocked on the mirror for the Highway Patrol, but still keyed up mentally as I put the
Similar Books
