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 semi-circle, 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 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 was getting somewhere. I remembered a few things, but they were so disjointed they didn't make sense.
An enormous fat woman with blonde hair floated into my mind, and then before I could concentrate on her she turned into a sleek, ferocious lion that came rushing towards me with a coughing, snarling roar. That mind picture brought me out of an uneasy doze, sweating and scared. Had I been dreaming or had this fat woman and the lion actually played a part in those missing days?
Then later I had a very clear mind picture of myself on the verandah of a beach cabin. I was sitting in an armchair listening to the radio. I could hear the music distinctly, and although I never listened to classical music, I somehow knew this was a symphony concert, and it was by Beethoven.
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 semi-circle, 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 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 was getting somewhere. I remembered a few things, but they were so disjointed they didn't make sense.
An enormous fat woman with blonde hair floated into my mind, and then before I could concentrate on her she turned into a sleek, ferocious lion that came rushing towards me with a coughing, snarling roar. That mind picture brought me out of an uneasy doze, sweating and scared. Had I been dreaming or had this fat woman and the lion actually played a part in those missing days?
Then later I had a very clear mind picture of myself on the verandah of a beach cabin. I was sitting in an armchair listening to the radio. I could hear the music distinctly, and although I never listened to classical music, I somehow knew this was a symphony concert, and it was by Beethoven.
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