Fear is the Key by Alistair MacLean Page A

if Ihad been in the sea. When I’d wound up theside-screens and looked in the mirror, I saw thatmy face was streaked with black lines from templeto chin – the mascara on my hair had almostwashed out. I scrubbed as clean as I could withmy handkerchief, then looked at my watch. Withthe dark cloud obscuring the sky from horizon tohorizon, evening had come before its time. Alreadythe cars swishing by on the highway had theirsidelights on, although it was still more day thannight. I started the engine.
    â€˜You were going to wait until it was dark.’ Thegirl sounded startled. Maybe she’d been expectingmore cops, smarter cops to come along.
    â€˜I was,’ I admitted. ‘But by this time Mr ChasBrooks is going to be doing a song and dance acta few miles back on the highway. His language willbe colourful.’
    â€˜Mr Chas Brooks?’ From her tone, I wonderedif she really thought I was crazy.
    â€˜Of Pittsburg, California.’ I tapped the licencetag on the steering column. ‘A long way to cometo have your car hijacked.’ I lifted my eyes tothe machine-gun symphony of the heavy raindrumming on the canvas roof. ‘You don’t thinkhe’ll still be grilling and barbecuing down on thebeach in this little lot, do you?’
    I pulled out through the makeshift archway andturned right on the highway. When she spoke thistime I knew she really did think I was crazy.
    â€˜Marble Springs.’ A pause, then: ‘You’re goingback there?’ It was a question and statement both.
    â€˜Right. To the motel – La Contessa. Where thecops picked me up. I left some stuff there and Iwant to collect it.’
    This time she said nothing. Maybe she thought‘crazy’ a completely inadequate word.
    I pulled off the bandanna – in the deepeningdusk that white gleam on my head was moreconspicuous than my red hair – and went on: ‘Lastplace they’ll ever think to find me. I’m going tospend the night there, maybe several nights untilI find me a boat out. So are you.’ I ignored theinvoluntary exclamation. ‘That’s the phone call Imade back at the drug store. I asked if Room 14was vacant, they said yes, so I said I’d take it,friends who’d passed through had recommendedit as having the nicest view in the motel. In pointof fact it has the nicest view. It’s also the mostprivate room, at the seaward end of a long block,it’s right beside the closet where they put my caseaway when the cops pinched me and it has a niceprivate little garage where I can stow this machineaway and no one will ever ask a question.’
    A mile passed, two miles, three and she saidnothing. She’d put her green blouse back on, butit was a lacy scrap of nothing, she’d got just as wetas I had when I was trying to fix the roof, and shewas having repeated bouts of shivering. The rainhad made the air cool. We were approaching theoutskirts of Marble Springs when she spoke.
    â€˜You can’t do it. How can you? You’ve got tocheck in or sign a book or pick up keys or have togo to the restaurant. You can’t just –’
    â€˜Yes, I can. I asked them to have the placeopened up ready for us, keys in the garage androom doors, and that we’d check in later: I saidwe’d come a long way since dawn, that we werebushed and that we’d appreciate room service formeals and a little privacy.’ I cleared my throat.‘I told the receptionist we were a honeymooncouple. She seemed to understand our request forprivacy.’
    We were there before she could find an answer.I turned in through an ornate lilac-painted gatewayand drew up near the reception hallway inthe central block, parking the car directly undera powerful floodlamp which threw such blackshadows that my red hair would be all but invisibleunder the car roof. Over by the entrancestood a negro dressed in a lilac, blue and gold-buttoned uniform that had been designed by