words.
Twice, while he waited, a girl walked past and momentarily captured his attention. So long as they did not mount the steps to the house, he made no attempt to identify them mentally. He merely watched those girls until they had gone beyond the house, out of sight.
A bus pulled up at the stop, discharged four passengers and rolled away. One of them, a tall, sallow man, eyed him curiously.
"It'll be half an hour before there's another. "
" Yes, I know," Harper said.
The other shrugged, crossed the road, entered the house facing the stop. Harper moved some distance down the road, where he could keep watch without being snooped upon from the windows by the sallow man.
At five to six a girl entered the road from the end nearest his former post, walked hurriedly along with a sharp click-click of high heels. She was of medium height, fresh-featured, plump and about twenty. Without glancing around, or noticing Harper, she climbed the steps to the house and felt in her handbag for a key.
From seventy yards away Harper probed at her, seeking confirmation of her identity. The result was shocking. The precise instant his mind touched, hers, she became aware of the contact; he, in his turn, knew that she was aware. She dropped the handbag in her flurry, bent and grabbed for it as he started to run toward her.
Getting the bag, she fumbled inside it with frantic haste while his feet pounded heavily along the sidewalk. Her eyes' held a luminous glare as she found the key, stabbed it at the door. Perspiration beaded the running Harper's broad features, while his right hand pawed under his left arm and his legs continued to race.
The key slid in and turned. Harper stopped at ten yards' distance, levelled his gun and squeezed its butt. The thing went spat-spat-spat with such swiftness that it sounded like somebody tearing a foot of canvas. The noise was not loud. A stream of matchhead sized steel balls hit the target dead center.
Miss Jocelyn Whittingham let go the key, sank to her knees without a sound and Keeled over, her head against the door. Harper stood sweating, watched the blood run out of her hair and listened to her brain packing up for keeps.
He stared around, saw no onlookers, no witnesses. The gunfire had attracted nobody's attention. He left her lying there and paced swiftly up the road. His face was strained and wet as he retrieved his car and raced out of town.
-
5. Not of the World
The police must have moved fast, and skillfully. Harper had covered a mere three hundred miles before he was advertised on the air and in the newspapers. He was having supper in a cheap hashery when he got an evening paper carrying the news. WANTED FOR MURDER, it said. There followed a fairly accurate description of himself and of his car, complete with tag number; he cursed under his breath as he read it. There were twenty customers in the place, most of them long-distance truckers. Half of them had read, or were reading, the same sheet. Some were unaware of his existence; the others glanced at him casually. He knew their lack of suspicion with absolute certainty, and that was about the only advantage he possessed.
Outside, in plain view, stood the car. Its numbers seemed to swell and grow enormous, even as he looked at them. Three big men in denims lumbered past its rear end, without giving it so much as a second look, got into an adjacent machine and pulled away. His luck might hold out like that for some time, but it just couldn't last forever.
He could leave the car whe r e it was and help
Twice, while he waited, a girl walked past and momentarily captured his attention. So long as they did not mount the steps to the house, he made no attempt to identify them mentally. He merely watched those girls until they had gone beyond the house, out of sight.
A bus pulled up at the stop, discharged four passengers and rolled away. One of them, a tall, sallow man, eyed him curiously.
"It'll be half an hour before there's another. "
" Yes, I know," Harper said.
The other shrugged, crossed the road, entered the house facing the stop. Harper moved some distance down the road, where he could keep watch without being snooped upon from the windows by the sallow man.
At five to six a girl entered the road from the end nearest his former post, walked hurriedly along with a sharp click-click of high heels. She was of medium height, fresh-featured, plump and about twenty. Without glancing around, or noticing Harper, she climbed the steps to the house and felt in her handbag for a key.
From seventy yards away Harper probed at her, seeking confirmation of her identity. The result was shocking. The precise instant his mind touched, hers, she became aware of the contact; he, in his turn, knew that she was aware. She dropped the handbag in her flurry, bent and grabbed for it as he started to run toward her.
Getting the bag, she fumbled inside it with frantic haste while his feet pounded heavily along the sidewalk. Her eyes' held a luminous glare as she found the key, stabbed it at the door. Perspiration beaded the running Harper's broad features, while his right hand pawed under his left arm and his legs continued to race.
The key slid in and turned. Harper stopped at ten yards' distance, levelled his gun and squeezed its butt. The thing went spat-spat-spat with such swiftness that it sounded like somebody tearing a foot of canvas. The noise was not loud. A stream of matchhead sized steel balls hit the target dead center.
Miss Jocelyn Whittingham let go the key, sank to her knees without a sound and Keeled over, her head against the door. Harper stood sweating, watched the blood run out of her hair and listened to her brain packing up for keeps.
He stared around, saw no onlookers, no witnesses. The gunfire had attracted nobody's attention. He left her lying there and paced swiftly up the road. His face was strained and wet as he retrieved his car and raced out of town.
-
5. Not of the World
The police must have moved fast, and skillfully. Harper had covered a mere three hundred miles before he was advertised on the air and in the newspapers. He was having supper in a cheap hashery when he got an evening paper carrying the news. WANTED FOR MURDER, it said. There followed a fairly accurate description of himself and of his car, complete with tag number; he cursed under his breath as he read it. There were twenty customers in the place, most of them long-distance truckers. Half of them had read, or were reading, the same sheet. Some were unaware of his existence; the others glanced at him casually. He knew their lack of suspicion with absolute certainty, and that was about the only advantage he possessed.
Outside, in plain view, stood the car. Its numbers seemed to swell and grow enormous, even as he looked at them. Three big men in denims lumbered past its rear end, without giving it so much as a second look, got into an adjacent machine and pulled away. His luck might hold out like that for some time, but it just couldn't last forever.
He could leave the car whe r e it was and help
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