She dropped down on her knees beside me, her hand on my arm. I could feel her trembling.
“He’s dead,” I told her. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers closed on my arm, her nails
digging into my flesh.
“Stay here,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll see if I can get someone to help us.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?” Her voice sounded hard and cold. “He’s dead all right. His
neck’s broken.”
She stood up and moved away from me and leaned against a twisted palmetto tree. Her
sleek black hair was dishevelled; there was a six-inch rip in her skirt, and one stocking was
down to her ankle. The moonlight, coming through the tangle of overhead branches, fell on
her face. There was a smear of blood down the side of her nose. Her eyes seemed to have
sunk deep into her head, and she was staring sightlessly at me as if her mind were furiously
preoccupied with some urgent decision.
“The other car’s across the road, Johnny,” she said. “See what’s happened to the driver.”
“And Pepi’s car?”
“No sign of it. Maybe they thought we were killed. But go and find out what’s happened to
the other car.”
Moving slowly, still dazed, I made my way on to the highway. Away from the palmetto
thicket the moonlight lit up the white road brilliantly, but even in that light it took me several
minutes before I found the car. It had crashed into the thicket on the other side of the road,
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and lay on its side: a big Packard, now fit only for the scrap-heap.
I peered through the shattered window. The driver still sat behind the wheel: a young
fellow with a set, fixed grin on his face and horror in his wide, staring eyes. The steering-column had been driven into his body like a grotesque spear: from his neck to his waist he
was pulp.
I stepped back. There was no one else in the car, and there was nothing I could do for him. I
crossed the road again and went back to the thicket where she was waiting.
“Well?” she asked, her eyes searching my face.
“He’s dead.”
“Anyone else in the car?”
“No.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
She gave a funny little strangled gulp.
“What a marvellously lucky break!”
I stared at her. It suddenly occurred to me that the smash, the death of her husband and the
death of the other driver were utterly remote to her. She wasn’t thinking of them at all. There
was something else occupying her mind: something so urgent and important to her that even
the shock of being thrown out of a car at over sixty miles an hour had made no impression on
her.
“What’s the matter with you?” I demanded.
“I want my handbag, Johnny.”
“To hell with your handbag! Are yon all right?”
“Yes.” She moved unsteadily towards the smashed Bentley. “Help me find my handbag.”
“There are more important things to do than look for your bag,” I said sharply. “I’ve got to
fetch the police.”
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“The police?” She paused, turned and stared at me. “What good will they do?”
“We’ve got to get them here,” I said impatiently. “What’s the matter with you?” My head
was pounding, my nerves were flayed and I was shouting at her. “We’ve got two bodies on
