Part V
Chapter XXI
On to El Paso
Traffic was heavy on the Houston highway. Long lines of automobiles were moving toward the Mardi Gras in New Orleans. But there was little traffic going west from the Mississippi ferry, where the highway for miles skirted the high grassy levee bank and then struck off to the left through the low bayou country.
Gradually Savage was able to drive faster. Briggs was back in the trailer with his short-wave set. Over the telephone Briggs had managed to wring a promise from one of the local short-wave “ham” operators to remain at home and keep a wireless channel open between Clancy’s office and the speeding trailer.
An hour passed... and then two hours. Clancy had not returned to his office.
Sixteen cylinders under the broad gray hood of the car poured out their power with deceptive smoothness. Tony Savage fixed his eyes on the unreeling ribbon of highway, let his thoughts race over the problem of young Jack Goddard and Anne Teasdale.
Savage had confessed to Clancy and Hanson, the detective, that finding those two together had stumped him. He was still groping for an explanation of that amazing rendezvous in the New Orleans French Quarter.
True enough, New York had relayed information that Goddard had boarded a train for New Orleans. Goddard had caught the Jacksonville plane in the middle of the night, changed at Atlanta for New Orleans, saved a day — and gone straight to Anne Teasdale!
The two had known each other well. They had been living for weeks at the same Palm Beach hotel. Anne Teasdale had introduced Goddard to his fiancée, Joan Bellamy. But nullifying all that, Anne Teasdale had tried to place the blame for Bellamy’s murder on Goddard!
Her story this morning about hastening to New Orleans to view the Mardi Gras was a lie. Plainly a lie, after the gunman had been traced from Larnigan’s house to her house.
Jack Goddard’s surprising visit to that same house was important. But how? Was Goddard behind Bellamy’s murder after all, for the heavy insurance Joan Bellamy would inherit?
The idea had possibilities.
Grant that — and what about James Larnigan, who had just stripped Bellamy of his wealth before the murder? Would Larnigan, wealthy, successful, triumphant in his personal feud with Bellamy over the Hollywood actress, Lorette Armond, let himself be involved in a cold-blooded murder plot backed by young Goddard?
“He wouldn’t. He’d be a fool!” decided Savage. All the facts were at odds. Cool reasoning couldn’t bring them together.
“One hell of a mess if I ever saw one!”
He put a cigarette between his lips, held the glowing lighter to it, and lifted the telephone off the bracket at the corner of the windshield.
“Any luck, Briggs?” Savage spoke back to the trailer.
“Half a minute, chief,” Briggs replied. “Mr. Clancy’s in his office. Jordan’s catching something off the telephone to pass along.”
Savage continued to drive, holding the receiver to his ear. In a moment Briggs said:
“Mr. Clancy has been at Headquarters. His brother-in-law, the Lieutenant, was called to question the two prisoners. Neither prisoner would amplify their first statements. They’ll be held — but there’s apparently nothing against them. Two headquarters men are in the house. Fingerprints are being taken in the house for a checkup. Houston hasn’t reported yet. Mr. Clancy wants to know what you’re going to do?”
“Drive and try to keep awake,” said Savage. “Keep open to New Orleans, Briggs. That Houston plane is in by now. I want the report as quickly as possible. Tell Clancy that report will determine what I’ll do.”
Savage yawned as he hung up the receiver. The long wakeful night was pulling leadenly at his eyelids. The distance to Houston was better than three hundred miles — and hard to tell what he’d have to do on arrival.
Savage passed a trailer... Shortly another trailer. He scanned both closely. Neither trailer was red. Neither was drawn by a small dark car. Neither had New York tags or a visible man with a broken nose.
The telephone buzzer sounded.
Clancy had another report.
“Houston’s reported, Chief. The subject left the plane alone. Checked bags at the airport, taxied into town and is shopping. Bought an air ticket to Ft. Worth and made inquiries about the Ft. Worth air connections for El Paso. Is apparently going to El Paso. The Houston plane leaves at 2:25 for Ft. Worth. Makes a connection there with another airline — and gets to El Paso at 4:30 in the morning.”
Savage whistled sharply with surprise.
“She’s going that far west, eh? Larnigan’s making a long jump before he stops. Tell Clancy we’ll go on through to El Paso. Sometime tomorrow will be the best we can do. We’ll go by Del Rio, Texas. Ask Clancy if his agency has an El Paso office.”
“No,” said Briggs a moment later. “But Clancy says he can get you service at El Paso.”
“Good,” said Savage. “Someone had better ride that plane from Houston to Fort Worth, in case the lady changes her itinerary. Ask Clancy what Miss Carstairs is doing.”
Clancy’s reply was succinct.
“Telephoned Miss Carstairs at her hotel. She came to Headquarters, talked unofficially with the prisoners. Told them she was in New Orleans writing up Larnigan’s death. Prisoners professed surprise at Larnigan’s death. Denied previous knowledge. Miss Carstairs left Headquarters, saying she’d telephone the agency office later. But no call has come through from Miss Carstairs.”
“Tell Clancy you’ll contact him again in two hours.”
Briggs took the wheel. Back in the trailer Savage was asleep in his narrow springy bed within five minutes after they rolled on.
Two hours later Briggs shook him awake. The short-wave generator was whining. The trailer quivered as another automobile flashed past a few feet away. Briggs was excited.
He said breathlessly:
“I’m working New Orleans again, Chief. Here’s news for you. A second-hand automobile dealer telephoned that Bourbon Street house to see if the trailer purchased yesterday was satisfactory.”
“What’s that? Trailer? Yesterday?” Savage came to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Who bought a trailer yesterday?”
“A man. A second-hand trailer. He took delivery at once. Said he had a license tag. Gave that house as his address.”
“What else?”
Briggs returned to his set. Clancy’s relayed message came out of the loudspeaker.
“The buyer was tall, clean-shaven, wearing a single-breasted blue suit. He paid cash. The trailer was on a second-hand auto lot. The fellow came back in about an hour with a Ford equipped with a trailer hook-up, and hauled the trailer away. He was alone. Said he was going to Georgia. The trailer was covered with aluminum paint.”
“That’s something,” said Savage. “I don’t want those two prisoners at Headquarters to know we’re aware of this second trailer. Has Miss Carstairs telephoned in?”
Miss Carstairs had not.
Briggs ended the contact with New Orleans, and in ten minutes had soup and sandwiches set out. In fifteen minutes more Briggs was driving again and Savage once more was drifting off to sleep.
Sometime after 3 P.M. Savage waked, vastly refreshed. The trailer was in city traffic. Savage used the telephone.
“Where are we, Briggs?”
“Beaumont, Texas,” said Briggs.
“I’ll take the wheel as soon as we’re out of town. I want you to pick — up the report on that Fort Worth plane. How about an aluminum-painted trailer pulled by a Ford — or that red trailer, Briggs?”