black hair, well-built and an Indian. She stresses this . . . he isn’t a negro, but an Indian and he was wearing a yellow and white flowered pattern shirt and dark blue hipsters.”
Hedley slapped his hand down on his desk.
“This is really something at last! Did you get his prints from the gun?”
“No. He knows what he is doing. He doesn’t leave prints.”
“Have you given the description to the press?”
“No.” Terrell regarded Hedley. “We’ll have to, of course, but I thought I’d better talk to you first. I don’t have to remind you we have over a hundred Seminole Indians working in various jobs in this City. The bulk of them are young: most of them wear flowered pattern shirts and hipsters . . . it’s a uniform. To most people an Indian looks like any other Indian. This description helps us, but it could cause trouble.”
“Yes.” Hedley thought, frowning. “I see what you’re getting at, but we have no alternative, Frank. You and this office are being criticised for not coming up with anything. I’ll call a press conference right away. This is news we can’t sit on.”
Terrell nodded.
“My men are out already, concentrating on the Indian district. This man is local. I’m sure of that.” He got to his feet. “I wish the girl had said he was a white man.”
Well, at least we have something,” Hedley said and reached for his telephone.
As Terrell left, he heard Hedley calling for his Press officer.
***
Meg lay on the bed and watched the blue-bottle fly walk across the ceiling. Her watch told her it was around midday. It could be later. Her watch usually lost ten minutes in the hour and if she didn’t remember to push it on, after a while, its hands didn’t make sense, but she didn’t care.
She was not only bored, but worried.
Chuck had gone out while she had been sleeping and now there was still no sign of him. She couldn’t be bothered to get off the bed to get herself a cup of coffee. She wanted a cup of coffee, but the effort involved was too much for her. It was so much easier to lie there watching the fly than to do anything else.
After a while, the fly flew away and she envied it. That’s what she would like to be able to do: fly away. It must be marvellous, she thought, just to take off, to have no thoughts, to drop on a bit of meat for food, then to fly away again . . . lucky fly!
She shut her eyes and slid into a doze. That was one thing she could do without effort. That was the only thing she was any good at, she thought.
She woke to find the fly back on the ceiling. She felt uncomfortably hot and sticky. Languidly, she looked at her watch. The time according to the watch was 14.35. It couldn’t be as late as that, she thought, watching the fly as it walked around the ceiling. Marvellous to be able to do that, she thought. I’d like to do it . . . just walk around on the ceiling, upside down.
Then sudden cold fear gripped her. Where was Chuck? She sat up and threw off the sheet. He had been gone for hours! Had he walked out on her?
With a flurry, she was off the bed and to the window and opened it. She peered out, looking across at the hut that served as the Motel’s office. She caught sight of Mrs. Bertha Harris moving about. There were no cars in the parking lot. Where was Chuck? Again she looked at her watch. It couldn’t be so late! She held the watch to her ear. The damn thing had stopped! It could be even later! In panic, she scrambled into her stretch pants, dragged a dirty sweater over her head, thrust her feet into sandals and started for the door.
As she passed the small wall mirror, she caught sight of herself and she paused.
God! She looked a mess!
She darted into the shower room and threw water on her face. Then drying her face, she dragged a comb through her long, tangled hair. As she came out of the shower room, she saw Chuck standing in the open doorway.
“Where have you been?” she demanded shrilly. “I’ve been waiting and
Hedley slapped his hand down on his desk.
“This is really something at last! Did you get his prints from the gun?”
“No. He knows what he is doing. He doesn’t leave prints.”
“Have you given the description to the press?”
“No.” Terrell regarded Hedley. “We’ll have to, of course, but I thought I’d better talk to you first. I don’t have to remind you we have over a hundred Seminole Indians working in various jobs in this City. The bulk of them are young: most of them wear flowered pattern shirts and hipsters . . . it’s a uniform. To most people an Indian looks like any other Indian. This description helps us, but it could cause trouble.”
“Yes.” Hedley thought, frowning. “I see what you’re getting at, but we have no alternative, Frank. You and this office are being criticised for not coming up with anything. I’ll call a press conference right away. This is news we can’t sit on.”
Terrell nodded.
“My men are out already, concentrating on the Indian district. This man is local. I’m sure of that.” He got to his feet. “I wish the girl had said he was a white man.”
Well, at least we have something,” Hedley said and reached for his telephone.
As Terrell left, he heard Hedley calling for his Press officer.
***
Meg lay on the bed and watched the blue-bottle fly walk across the ceiling. Her watch told her it was around midday. It could be later. Her watch usually lost ten minutes in the hour and if she didn’t remember to push it on, after a while, its hands didn’t make sense, but she didn’t care.
She was not only bored, but worried.
Chuck had gone out while she had been sleeping and now there was still no sign of him. She couldn’t be bothered to get off the bed to get herself a cup of coffee. She wanted a cup of coffee, but the effort involved was too much for her. It was so much easier to lie there watching the fly than to do anything else.
After a while, the fly flew away and she envied it. That’s what she would like to be able to do: fly away. It must be marvellous, she thought, just to take off, to have no thoughts, to drop on a bit of meat for food, then to fly away again . . . lucky fly!
She shut her eyes and slid into a doze. That was one thing she could do without effort. That was the only thing she was any good at, she thought.
She woke to find the fly back on the ceiling. She felt uncomfortably hot and sticky. Languidly, she looked at her watch. The time according to the watch was 14.35. It couldn’t be as late as that, she thought, watching the fly as it walked around the ceiling. Marvellous to be able to do that, she thought. I’d like to do it . . . just walk around on the ceiling, upside down.
Then sudden cold fear gripped her. Where was Chuck? She sat up and threw off the sheet. He had been gone for hours! Had he walked out on her?
With a flurry, she was off the bed and to the window and opened it. She peered out, looking across at the hut that served as the Motel’s office. She caught sight of Mrs. Bertha Harris moving about. There were no cars in the parking lot. Where was Chuck? Again she looked at her watch. It couldn’t be so late! She held the watch to her ear. The damn thing had stopped! It could be even later! In panic, she scrambled into her stretch pants, dragged a dirty sweater over her head, thrust her feet into sandals and started for the door.
As she passed the small wall mirror, she caught sight of herself and she paused.
God! She looked a mess!
She darted into the shower room and threw water on her face. Then drying her face, she dragged a comb through her long, tangled hair. As she came out of the shower room, she saw Chuck standing in the open doorway.
“Where have you been?” she demanded shrilly. “I’ve been waiting and
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