Eve hurriedly began to dial the janitor’s number. Gil is reached her and wrenched the phone out of her hand. She gave him a violent and heavy slap across his face.
Not knowing quite what he was doing, but too viciously furious to think or care, Gillis snatched up the whisky bottle and smashed it down on top of her head.
II
Baird sat at the wheel of the Packard, driving with one hand. His left arm hung uselessly at his side. It was swollen now to twice its normal size, and the forearm was black and green.
Sweat ran off him as if he had had a sponge of water squeezed over him. His body shook with extreme rigor, and every muscle ached. He drove the car automatically along the broad highway. Only his will-power kept him upright at the wheel.
At that hour – it was three o’clock in the morning – there was no traffic on the road, and he could keep the car moving without having to slow down or manipulate the gears.
He had long lost all sense of time. He knew he was dangerously ill. He knew, too, his arm was so badly infected that he would probably lose it. He had decided to die rather than stop and seek help.
Somehow he had managed to carry Hater from the police launch to where he and Rico had hidden the car. He had dumped Hater on the floor of the car, behind the driving seat, and had covered him with a blanket. Then he had changed his wet camouflage suit, taking a change of dry clothes from the suitcase.
He now wore his jacket slung cape-wise over his shoulders, as he had found it impossible to get his coat sleeve over his swollen arm.
He had set out for the long drive to the shooting-lodge. It was during the drive the fever that had taken hold of him became worse. He felt hot and cold in turns, and he began to shiver violently. When it came to the time to turn off the highway to the back roads that would take him to the shooting-lodge, his mind couldn’t cope with the change of direction. The broad highway out of Louisiana seemed now so uncomplicated and easy to drive on that he gave up the idea of going to the shooting-lodge.
It suddenly occurred to him that he was dying, and he was seized by an obsession to see Anita Jackson before he died. The attraction he had felt for the girl now dominated his mind, and it was this obsession to see her again that gave him the strength to stay at the wheel.
Hour after hour passed. He stopped only for gas, pulling up at isolated service stations, and getting away again as soon as the tank was filled, without leaving the car.
He was beyond noticing the curious looks the service station attendants gave him. Those who were able to get a good look at him were startled by his ravaged face and sickened by the putrefying stench that came from his arm. They stared after the car, wondering if they should report what they had seen to the police, but finally deciding it wasn’t their business.
Baird had forgotten Hater. His mind was confused by his raging fever, and he couldn’t remember what he was doing on this broad highway, or even how he had injured his arm. Anita’s face floated before his eyes as he drove and sustained him, giving him the will to keep the car moving.
Seventeen hours of non-stop driving brought him to the City limits of Essex City. He was driving more slowly now, as he had difficulty in keeping his eyes properly focused.
Heavy rain clouds had brought darkness early. Although it was only just after eight o’clock, Baird had turned on his headlights. The highway seemed to him to be rising and falling in the beams of the headlights, and he had a crazy idea that the road must be floating on a rough sea. Every so often he was startled to find the car was wandering on to the wrong side of the road, and he hurriedly twisted the wheel to bring it straight. He only just averted an accident when a car overtook him and passed him with a furious blast of its horn.
He slowed down almost to a crawl. Sweat ran into his eyes, making them smart, and he was aware now of the smell from his arm, and it frightened him.
He kept going somehow. A few miles farther on, he vaguely remembered he had to turn right into the Paseo. Even at fifteen miles an hour he was having difficulty in keeping the car straight.
Behind him he suddenly heard the sharp note of a police siren. Immediately his confused and tired brain galvanised itself into life. This was the one sound that could jerk him out of his coma back to comparatively rational thinking. He looked quickly into his driving mirror. Behind him, coming up fast, was the large, glaring headlamp of a motor-cycle. A moment later a prowl cop drew level and signalled him to stop.
Baird pulled over to the grass verge. He braked, forgetting to throw out his clutch, and the car engine stalled. The car came to a wobbly stop, its off-side wheels bumping up on to the grass.
The cop pulled up beside him.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded in a loud, bul ying voice. ‘Been drinking?’
Baird groped down by his side. His fingers closed around the butt of the Colt. He leaned against the car door, peering up at the cop’s red, angry face.
The cop flashed a fight on Baird. He caught his breath sharply.
‘Jeepers! What the hel ’s the mat er with you? You ill?’
‘Yeah,’ Baird gasped. ‘But I’l be al right. Just leave me alone, wil you? I’m going to see a friend of mine. She’l take care of me.’
‘You ain’t fit to drive,’ the cop said. ‘What’s happened to you to get into this state?’
‘Infected arm,’ Baird told him. ‘I’l be okay if you’l leave me alone.’
‘You’re not going to drive another yard. Move over. I’m going to take you to hospital,’ the cop said, and pulled open the car door.
Baird, who was leaning against the door, nearly fell into the road, but the cop caught hold of him and lifted him upright. Baird pushed the Colt into the cop’s stomach and pul ed the trigger twice.
The roar of the gun hit Baird like a physical blow. He had to grab hold of the door to save himself from falling
