But they didn’t offer a reward, so the clerk and Maddux weren’t interested. They were only
interested in my welfare and my dollars.
I remained in the hotel bedroom for two weeks: time for my hair to grow over the scar and
for me to raise a moustache. A moustache and a pair of horn spectacles changed my
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appearance considerably. Only a trained observer like Riskin could have spotted me. I was
sure I had nothing to fear from the man in the street who might have read the police
description.
I told Maddux I wanted a car and a gun. He got me a secondhand black Plymouth: just the
car for the job I had on hand. He produced also a .38 automatic and a .22 in case I wanted
something smaller, and a box of slugs to go with both guns. He made a big profit out of the
purchases, but I didn’t care. I had all the money in the world, and I was buying secrecy.
After sixteen days in the bedroom, I decided the heat had cooled off enough for me to
leave. I drove away from the hotel on a moonless night a little after ten o’clock. On the bench
seat beside me was the .38. I had the .22 in my hip pocket. I was ready for trouble. If anyone
shot at me, I was going to shoot at them. I was in that kind of mood.
I drove along Bay Shore Drive, up the long, crowded Biscayne Boulevard towards the State
Highway. I drove carefully, stopping at every red light, taking care no speed-cop could find
an excuse to bawl me out. I saw a number of prowl cars and a number of speed-cops, but
none of them took any notice of me.
After a six-hour drive I spotted the bright lights of Lincoln Beach. The town was laid out in
a semicircle, facing the sea and sheltered by rising ground. It seemed to be a blaze of lights
even at three o’clock in the morning. I had no intention of driving through the town. My first
call was to be the scene of the accident where the Bentley had crashed. I’d be coming back to
Lincoln Beach later on.
I remembered where the car had hit us. There was a hill and palmetto thickets on either
side. Fifty miles past Lincoln Beach I reduced speed. Somewhere here, I told myself. There
was a hill ahead of me, and I could see the shadowy outlines of the palmetto thickets. I
slowed to a crawl. By now it was close on five o’clock, and the sun was coming up
reluctantly above the skyline. In another ten minutes it would be daylight.
I switched off the headlights and cruised to a standstill, drawing to the side of the road. I lit
a cigarette, aware of the feeling of rising excitement, but I waited. I wanted plenty of light to
do what I had come to do.
After a while I decided it was light enough, and I drove on. A mile farther up the road I
came to the place. I knew it was the place by the uprooted tree, the torn grass and the skid
marks that even sixty days hadn’t yet blotted out.
I kept on driving until I was a quarter of a mile past the scene of the smash, then I ran the
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car off the road and into the shrubbery. I wasn’t taking any risks. A parked car at the actual
place of the smash might arouse the curiosity of any passing cop.
I walked back, my gun shoved down the waistband of my trousers, my eyes and ears alert
for trouble. I saw no one and heard nothing.
After examining the ground for half an hour, I gave up. Apart from the skid marks, the
churned»up grass and the uprooted tree, I found nothing. I knew the police had been here. If
there had been anything to find they would have found it. I didn’t expect to find anything. I
hoped if I returned to the scene of the smash something there might jog my memory to life,
but it didn’t.
During those sixteen days at the hotel I had groped into the past, trying to push aside the
blanket of fog that hid the happenings of those forty-five days. Every now and then I felt I
