to kill Parker, and approved. So the double appearance of Parker’s face was simply an oversensitive reaction of having eliminated such a formidable opponent.
Next, the ship with the white sails. He had to think about that for a few minutes, pacing back and forth in front of the bed, and at last it came to him. Jenny’s song, from Dreigo-schenoper.The pirate ship. He had been in mortal danger from the pirates first the Outfit, and later Parker and McKay and this was simply a recording of that fact. And the same was true of Spannick’s appearance, saying exactly what he had said in the cellar that night.
He understood the dream now, and its terror was washed away. He went over to the nightstand, picked up his watch, and saw that it was ten minutes to four. He had slept six hours, having fallen deeply asleep immediately after returning here from Kapor’s house, feeling after the high-pitched excitement of the robbery and killings a lethargy unlike any drowsiness or exhaustion he had ever known before. So he had slept, purging his mind of all residual terrors through this nightmare, and now he was rested and calm.
It was time to be going. According to the getaway theory explained to him by McKay, now was the time to get started.
He showered, calm and relaxed, taking his time. He dressed in fresh clothing from the skin out, packed his suitcase, gathered up the other suitcase, with all the money in it, and tiptoed out of the motel room.
The Pontiac was there, waiting. He stowed both suitcases on the back seat, got behind the wheel, and took the road map from the glove compartment.
He wanted to travel south from here, but he was north of the city. Northeast. Was there any way to skirt the city to the east? He studied the unfamiliar map, following thin lines on roads with the tip of one stubby finger, and finally found a way to get over to the Capital Beltway. That would take him south into Virginia, where he could pick up a route numbered 350 which would take him to a route numbered 1, which ran all the way down the coast to Miami.
He laid the map on the seat beside him, and started the engine. He was not used to so large and soft an automobile, and he drove cautiously at first, barely touching the accelerator as he brought the car up the slope to the street. He underestimated and made far too wide a right turn, but Wisconsin Avenue at this point was four lanes wide, and at this hour in the morning there was no other car in sight anyway.
His progress at first was agonizingly slow. The automobile was unfamiliar to him, as were the street signs. The standard pictographic signs common throughout Europe were not used here. Instead of the usual white background and red frame and black pictorial silhouette, there were dull yellow diamonds, some bearing words and some deformed arrows. Stop signs were red hexagons with the word STOP in white, unless they were yellow hexagons with the word STOP in black. It was confusing, and a little frightening. He couldn’t afford to have an accident now, not with one hundred thousand dollars in a suitcase on the back seat.
By the time he finally got to the Capital Beltway he was perspiring freely, despite the November chill, and there was pain in his head from creasing his brow and squinting through the windshield.
But the Capital Beltway was a superhighway, like the German Autobahn. Menlo relaxed at once, sat back more comfortably, held the steering wheel less tightly. He also pressed more firmly on the accelerator. The car, bulky and soft as a heavyweight boxer out of condition, was nevertheless an eager sprinter. The car roared down the empty highway, as dawn slowly spread over the sky to his left. He was on his way.
3
HE DIDN’T hear the siren at first. He was trying to decide whether or not to stop in this little town for something to eat, and though the wailing filled his ears, at first he didn’t connect it with himself at all.
He was just across the border between North and South Carolina, and it was one o’clock in the afternoon. He had been driving steadily for eight hours. This automobile was the most comfortable he’d ever driven, but eight hours’ driving in any car has to be tiring. All the way across North Carolina he’d been telling himself to stop, but the desire to increase the distance between himself and Washington had up till now been stronger than his need for food and rest. He had stopped only once, to fill the automobile’s gas tank and empty his bladder. That had been over three hours ago.
It seemed like a pleasant little town, this one, small and somnolent. Except for the sunshine and the warmth, it could be a sleepy valley town in Klastrava. Sunshine and warmth. He had never in his life till now had enough sunshine and warmth. Klastrava was a mountainous country, in the heart of the Carpathians, and in mountainous lands the human settlements are always in the valleys. In mountainous lands the rain falls always in the valleys and mists and fogs lay there always. The summers are hazy, humid, muggy, the winters heavy with bronchial dampness.
Sunshine and warmth. And beautiful women. And one hundred thousand dollars.
He was far enough away from Washington. It was safe to stop in this little town. Ahead on the right, a sign hung out from a building that looked like a railroad car. It read DINER. He had decided to stop here, and that was when he heard the siren.
He looked in his rear-view mirror. The road was straight all the way through the little town, and almost empty. Behind him, two blocks away and coming on fast, was an automobile with a revolving red light on top.
Police.
He thought they’d caught up with him. He thought, for one panic-stricken instant, that somehow they had traced him. The police authorities had learned about the robbery and the killings, and they had traced him in some inexplicable fashion. They had caught up with him.
The problem was, he didn’t have the background to understand what was happening. In all of Klastrava there isn’t one single solitary speed trap. There isn’t enough tourism to support one.
He thought: Run? Outrace him?
No good. The police car would be even faster than the one Menlo was driving. Besides, his reading of crime fiction had told him what to expect ahead. Roadblocks. Parker and McKay had talked about roadblocks too, so they were not entirely fictional. In his own work, at home, he had occasionally found the need to order roadblocks set up and trains searched, even the borders closed.
Could they, in this country, close the borders between states?
The police car had caught up with him, was now beside him. An angry-looking, wrinkle-faced old man in a cowboy hat waved to him to pull over to the kerb and stop.
One man? One wrinkle-faced old man? This couldn’t be connected with what had happened in Washington.
