mystery than ever. Police refused to speculate as to whether or not Baxter might even still be alive. Lieutenant Boyd parried the question by saying, “There is obviously only one person who knows the answer to that, and we’re looking for him.”
Local agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had no comment other than a statement that Captain Rogers was being sought for further questioning.
I pushed the paper aside and tried the cigarette again. This time I got it going. The letter itself wasn’t bad enough I thought; I had to make it worse by running. That’s the way it would look; the minute I read it I took off like a goosed gazelle. By this time they would have traced me to the Bolton and then to the airport. And I’d rented the car in Tampa under my own name, and then turned it in here. As soon as the man in the Hertz agency read the paper he’d call them; the taxi driver would remember bringing me to the hotel. Then it occurred to me I was already thinking like a fugitive. Well, I was one, wasn’t I? There was a light knock on the door.
I went over. “Who is it?”
“Bill.”
I let him in and closed the door. He sighed and shook his head. “Pal, when you get in a jam, you’re no shoestring operator.”
We’re the same age and about the same height, and we’ve known each other since we were in the third grade. He’s thin, restless, blazingly intelligent, somewhat cynical, and one of the world’s worst hypochondriacs. Women consider him handsome, and he probably is. He has a slender reckless face, ironic blue eyes, and dark hair that’s prematurely graying. He smokes three packs of cigarettes a day, and quits every other week. He never drinks. He’s an AA.
“All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”
I told him.
He whistled softly. Then he said, “Well, the first thing is to get you out of here before they pick you up.”
“Why?” I asked. “If the FBI is looking for me, maybe I’d better turn myself in. At least they won’t kill me. The others will.”
“It can wait till morning, if that’s what you decide. In the meantime I’ve got to talk to you. About Baxter.”
“Have you got any lead on him at all?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “That’s the reason I’ve got to talk to you. What I’ve come up with is so goofy if I tried to tell the police they might have me committed. Let’s go”
“Where?” I asked.
“Home, you goof. Lorraine’s scrambling some eggs and making coffee.”
“Sure. Harboring a fugitive’s just a harmless prank. Be our guest in charming, gracious Atlanta.”
“Oh, cut it out, Scarface. How would I know you’re a fugitive? I never read anything but the Wall Street Journal.”
I gave in, but insisted we leave the hotel separately. He told me where the car was, and left. I waited five minutes before following. The streets were deserted. I climbed in, and he swung onto Biscayne Boulevard, headed south. They lived close to downtown, in a small apartment house on Brickell Avenue. From habit, I looked out the rear window. As far as I could tell, nobody was following us.
“The Stafford woman’s still alive, the last we got,” he said, “but they haven’t been able to question her yet.”
“I’ve got a sad hunch she doesn’t know too much about him, anyway,” I said. “She told me she didn’t know who those men were, or what they wanted, and I think she was telling the truth. I’m beginning to doubt Baxter even existed; I think he’s an hallucination people start seeing just before they crack up.”
“You haven’t heard anything yet,” he said. “When I tell you what I’ve come up with you’ll think we’re both around the bend.”
“Well, be mysterious about it,” I said sourly. “That’s just what I need.”
“Wait’ll we get inside.” He swung into a driveway between shadowy palms and parked beside the building. It had only four apartments, each with its own entrance. Theirs was the lower left. We
Local agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had no comment other than a statement that Captain Rogers was being sought for further questioning.
I pushed the paper aside and tried the cigarette again. This time I got it going. The letter itself wasn’t bad enough I thought; I had to make it worse by running. That’s the way it would look; the minute I read it I took off like a goosed gazelle. By this time they would have traced me to the Bolton and then to the airport. And I’d rented the car in Tampa under my own name, and then turned it in here. As soon as the man in the Hertz agency read the paper he’d call them; the taxi driver would remember bringing me to the hotel. Then it occurred to me I was already thinking like a fugitive. Well, I was one, wasn’t I? There was a light knock on the door.
I went over. “Who is it?”
“Bill.”
I let him in and closed the door. He sighed and shook his head. “Pal, when you get in a jam, you’re no shoestring operator.”
We’re the same age and about the same height, and we’ve known each other since we were in the third grade. He’s thin, restless, blazingly intelligent, somewhat cynical, and one of the world’s worst hypochondriacs. Women consider him handsome, and he probably is. He has a slender reckless face, ironic blue eyes, and dark hair that’s prematurely graying. He smokes three packs of cigarettes a day, and quits every other week. He never drinks. He’s an AA.
“All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”
I told him.
He whistled softly. Then he said, “Well, the first thing is to get you out of here before they pick you up.”
“Why?” I asked. “If the FBI is looking for me, maybe I’d better turn myself in. At least they won’t kill me. The others will.”
“It can wait till morning, if that’s what you decide. In the meantime I’ve got to talk to you. About Baxter.”
“Have you got any lead on him at all?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “That’s the reason I’ve got to talk to you. What I’ve come up with is so goofy if I tried to tell the police they might have me committed. Let’s go”
“Where?” I asked.
“Home, you goof. Lorraine’s scrambling some eggs and making coffee.”
“Sure. Harboring a fugitive’s just a harmless prank. Be our guest in charming, gracious Atlanta.”
“Oh, cut it out, Scarface. How would I know you’re a fugitive? I never read anything but the Wall Street Journal.”
I gave in, but insisted we leave the hotel separately. He told me where the car was, and left. I waited five minutes before following. The streets were deserted. I climbed in, and he swung onto Biscayne Boulevard, headed south. They lived close to downtown, in a small apartment house on Brickell Avenue. From habit, I looked out the rear window. As far as I could tell, nobody was following us.
“The Stafford woman’s still alive, the last we got,” he said, “but they haven’t been able to question her yet.”
“I’ve got a sad hunch she doesn’t know too much about him, anyway,” I said. “She told me she didn’t know who those men were, or what they wanted, and I think she was telling the truth. I’m beginning to doubt Baxter even existed; I think he’s an hallucination people start seeing just before they crack up.”
“You haven’t heard anything yet,” he said. “When I tell you what I’ve come up with you’ll think we’re both around the bend.”
“Well, be mysterious about it,” I said sourly. “That’s just what I need.”
“Wait’ll we get inside.” He swung into a driveway between shadowy palms and parked beside the building. It had only four apartments, each with its own entrance. Theirs was the lower left. We
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