'We are in a hurry,' he said in English. 'Is your car badly damaged?'
'I don't give a damn if you are in a hurry,' Don said, exasperated. 'You have no business to drive like that on this road.'
'I asked if your car...' the man in the trench coat began when his companion got out of the car and came into the circle of light made by the flashlight.
'I seem to recognize your voice,' he said and lifted the .45 he held in his hand so the barrel pointed at Don. 'Surely it is Mr Micklem?'
The man in the trench coat turned the beam of the flashlight on Don's face.
'So we meet again,' Alsconi said. 'You appear a difficult man to get rid of. Stay where you are.' The gun moved threateningly. To Crantor he went on, 'See if there is anyone with him in the car.'
Crantor walked over to the Bentley. Lorelli saw him coming, opened the car door and slid out. The gun in Crantor's hand brought her to an abrupt stop.
She stifled a scream as she recognized him.
It was only when Alsconi went down to where Menotto had left the car that he had sudden doubts whether he could drive the big Cadillac, and he had immediate regrets that he had wiped Menotto out without considering that he was depriving himself of the services of a chauffeur.
He hadn't handled a car for five or six years, and even then he had been a poor driver.
Crantor was due to land at midnight. It was essential to be there when he arrived. Alsconi had less than an hour and a half to reach the airstrip. Ahead of him lay forty miles of difficult driving.
He got into the car, and spent three or four exasperating minutes trying to find out how the headlights operated. Having finally turned them on and then turned on the ignition, he started the engine. He was thankful for the automatic gear box; at least he wouldn't have to cope with a clutch or a gear change. He drove down the drive to the gates, and he found that fifteen miles an hour was as fast as he could drive without having difficulty in keeping the car to the narrow tarmac. The guard at the lodge opened the gates for him and stared curiously at him as he edged the car through the gateway. Alsconi was far too busy getting the big car on to the road to notice the curious stare. With more space to manoeuvre, he increased his speed, but he found twenty-five miles an hour was all he could safely drive at.
The hill road with its sharp bends bothered him, and he was sweating freely and cursing himself for getting rid of Menotto by the time he got to the crest. The clock on the dashboard warned him he was well behind.time. It was essential that he should reach the airstrip before the aircraft landed. The aircraft would take off immediately Crantor disembarked, and Alsconi wanted to be on it when it did take off. He knew his best chance of escape was to fly to Palermo and get aboard his yacht before the police were alerted. He edged the speed of the car up to thirty-five miles an hour and almost ran off the road. If he hadn't slammed on the brakes, he would have gone over the overhang.
Cursing under his breath, he continued up the road at a greatly reduced speed.
An hour later, still crawling at twenty miles an hour, he reached the broad, straight road that led to the narrow road to the airstrip, and he pushed the speed of the car up to thirty-five miles an hour. Wrestling with the wheel, he managed to maintain this speed until he reached the right hand turn which would bring him after a mile drive to the airstrip.
As he drove down the narrow, bumpy road, he saw, in the distance, the flares were alight, and he heard the roar of the aircraft's engine. He pushed down the accelerator, nearly swerving on to the grass. Then he saw the lights of the aircraft and he cursed. The aircraft was taking off, and as he drove on to the landing ground, the lights of the aircraft went out and the machine disappeared into the darkness.
He pulled up, sweating and furious. Now he had the long run down to Villa San Giovanni ahead of him. It would mean the loss of at least twenty-four hours before he could board the Nettuno. It was infuriating, but not a disaster. Felix and Lorelli were the only two who knew about the yacht, and they were dead by now. But he would have to be careful.
Although the police would have no idea which way he would be heading, they would be on the lookout for him.
Crantor, carrying a large suitcase, came out of the shadows and approached the car.
'Signor Alsconi?' he asked softly.
'Don't mention my name, you fool!' Alsconi snarled. 'Have you the money?'
'Yes.' Crantor paused by the car, trying to see Alsconi's face. This was a big moment for him.
'We're going to Palermo,' Alsconi said. 'I'll tell you the way as we go. You drive.' He moved his bulk across the bench seat.
'Palermo?' Crantor said, startled. He opened the car door and slid under the steering wheel. 'That's in Sicily, isn't it?'
'Where else, fool, could it be?' Alsconi snapped. 'I wish to get there quickly. Will you stop making obvious remarks and get me there as quickly as you can?'
Crantor flushed. His own vicious temper stirred. He started the engine and drove down the bumpy road at a speed that made Alsconi's small eyes widen.
'Turn left at the bottom of this road,' he said. 'Then straight on.'
He huddled down in the comfortably padded seat and stared bleakly through the windshield as the car swayed and banged down the road and swung on to the main road with a squeal of tortured tyres.
Crantor felt the car's great surge of power. He liked to drive fast, and he sent the car roaring down the road with the speedometer needle touching 98 miles an hour.
What did this mean? he asked himself. Why Palermo? What was inside the wooden boxes that were stacked on the back seat? Why this urgency to get to Sicily? Had something gone wrong? Was Alsconi pulling out?
He glanced at the fat, huddled form at his side. The light from the dashboard showed up the slack, worried
