The sailcloth shroud - By Charles Williams Page 0,28

car. “Airport,” I told the driver, and we pulled out.

I watched out the rear window, and just before we reached the end of the block I saw a car pull out from the curb behind us. It had its lights on, so it was impossible to get an idea of what make it was, or what color. Two blocks ahead we turned to the left. The car—or another one—was still behind us. I kept watching. For a time there were two, and then three, and then we were back to one again. There was no way to tell if it was the same one, but it always stayed the same distance back, about a full city block. We made another turn, picking up the highway leading out of town, and it was still there.

I began to worry. The airport was pretty far out, and there were no doubt plenty of deserted stretches of road where they could force us off if they were after me. My only chance—if I had any—would be to jump and run for it. I’d have to warn the driver, though. If he tried to outrun them, they’d probably kill him. The minute I saw them start to close in, I’d tell him to stop.

Then, suddenly, they turned off and we were alone. After another mile with the pavement completely empty behind us I heaved a sigh of relief. False alarm. I was too jittery.

Hell, they didn’t even know I was at the hotel; nobody had followed us when I came uptown from the boatyard.

Then I realized I was a baby at this sort of thing and that I was up against professionals. Maybe they had been following us. By the time we’d reached the place where they had turned off it was obvious where I was headed so they no longer had to stay in sight. It could have been the same thing when I came up from the yard. They’d merely called the hotels until they located me; there probably weren’t over half a dozen. I felt ridiculous and stupid, and a little scared.

If they were after me, what was the best plan? I remembered what Willetts had said—they’re all afraid of witnesses. Then stay in the open, surrounded by plenty of people, I thought. We left the city behind, rolling through the outlying housing developments, and crossed a bayou overhung with dark liveoaks and dangling pennants of Spanish moss. The sun was just rising when we pulled up in front of the airport passenger terminal. I paid off the driver and went inside with my bag.

It was a good-sized terminal, busy even at this hour in the morning. Long windows in front looked out toward the runways, and at either end were the concourses leading to the gates. To the left were some shops and the newsstand and restaurant, while all the airline counters were strung out along the right. I went over, checked in, and paid for my ticket.

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers,” the girl said. She clipped my luggage check to the boarding pass and gave me my change. “Concourse B, Gate Seven. The flight will be called in approximately ten minutes.”

I bought a newspaper, moved back to a leather-cushioned bench, and sat down to sweat out the ten minutes. If they were following me, they’d try to get on this flight, or at least get one man on it. I was just in back of the two lines checking in. I looked them over cautiously while pretending to read the paper. There was a slight, graying man with a flyrod case. Two young girls, who might be teachers on vacation. An elderly woman. A fat man carrying a briefcase. A Marine. Two sailors in whites. A squat, heavy-shouldered man carrying his coat over his arm. My eyes stopped, and came back to him.

He was at the head of the line now, in the row in which I’d checked in. He would have been about two places behind me, I thought. The girl was shaking her head at him. I strained to hear what she was saying.

“. . . sold out. We’d be glad to put you on stand-by, though; there are still about four who haven’t checked in.”

He nodded. I could see nothing but his back.

“Your name, please?” the girl asked.

“J. R. Bonner.”

The voice was a gravelly baritone, but there was none of the rasp and menace there’d been in the other. Well, why should there be, under the circumstances? You