He showed Gloria the drawing. She giggled. That was a good sign. Maybe the drawing would dispell any doubts Grydon might have given her.
“You did it so quickly!” she said. “I’d hate to have you do that to me. You’ve made him look like — I don’t know what. Just awful!”
He began to relax a little. He smiled to himself as he realized that part of his horror at being found out was based on a childish desire to have her think well of him.
The plane rumbled and lifted off the runway and made a long swing and headed south once more.
His fears were sufficiently allayed so that when, at Atlanta, she went off by herself, he did not worry. The early afternoon sun was pleasantly warm. The stop-over was short and he looked for Gloria in the crowd as, piecemeal, they strolled back to the ship. Her folded coat was on the seat. He saw her luggage stacked and tied with the others.
She still did not arrive. The stewardess was at the open door, looking worriedly across the apron. He could hear the metallic voice of the P. A. system in the terminal proper paging, “Miss Quinn, please! Miss Quinn! Your flight is ready for takeoff. Miss Quinn!”
He knew, then, that she wouldn’t return. The stewardess said, “She had us untie the load so that she could get at one of her bags. I wonder what could have happened to her.”
Steve didn’t answer. He was wondering whether or not to get off himself and take a chance on tracking her down in Atlanta. The odds on missing her were too great. Besides, he knew her ultimate destination. She had not mentioned Daytona in her conversation, had not given herself away when he had mentioned it.
He felt chagrin, and yet a certain admiration for her. Grydon’s words had tipped her off, and she had not shown her suspicion. Leaving the bags and coat on the plane had been a good touch.
The big door was swung shut, the steps pushed away. He went back to the seat and fastened his safety belt. At Jax he could check the different modes of transportation from Atlanta to Daytona and arrange to intercept her...
From her vantage point Gloria watched the big plane, and when at last it took off, taking Steve Harris with it, she heaved a great sigh. Carefully she searched her memory, decided that she had given him no indication that Daytona was her destination.
Harris would undoubtedly wait at Jacksonville, expecting her to arrive there by some other means. She went into the terminal and inspected the huge map on the wall. She carried her purse in one hand, and under her arm was the shoe box of currency.
She thought for a moment with despair of the pretty clothes and nice luggage winging their way south. No matter. The Atlanta shops were open and she had plenty of money.
Steve Harris had come so close to deceiving her. He had seemed so nice. It was faintly disloyal to Al to have found Steve so attractive. Maybe, under different circumstances, if she had met Steve...
Chapter Three
That Killer Man
Steve Harris spent three fruitless days in Jacksonville, made a discouraged phone call to New York, and went down to Daytona. His jaw was set in a grim line, because he saw eighteen thousand dollars slipping away.
At Daytona he got a room in a relatively inexpensive hotel. He set about finding Gloria Gerald-Quinn. After three days in Daytona, he began to wonder if Gloria had ever arrived there. No rental office claimed any knowledge of renting a cottage or apartment or even a room to anyone answering her description.
Yet he had a hunch that she was there. He sat in his room on the edge of his bed and slammed his fist into his palm, trying to think of some better way of tracking her down.
Gloria liked the high wooden windbreak that jutted from the corner of the cottage toward the blue ocean. Behind it she could sun bathe with no fear of being seen by the people that seemed to spend so much time walking aimlessly up and down the broad expanse of Daytona Beach.
She had been exhausted when she had arrived, her mind filled with cluttered memories of winding narrow roads, the drone of bus motors, the midnight streets of Tampa.
By all odds, Harris should still be up in Jacksonville. And yet she knew that she had to proceed on the basis that Harris knew that she would be in Daytona. She had checked the new suitcase in the Daytona bus terminal, had walked out into the morning sunshine.
Three hours later she had walked out of the beauty shop, her pale face achieving a new fragility under the blue-black of her hair. As she walked back to the bus station, she kept repeating the new name she had selected. Glenna Quarles.
The ad in the paper for the beach cottage had been the easiest part. She had found the right sort of man in the bus station. She approached him, saying:
“Could I talk to you for a moment?”
The man had looked startled and cautious. “What do you want?”
She had selected him because he looked clean and decent, but not flush. He followed her over to the bench and sat cautiously beside her.
In a quick, flat tone she said, “A man is trying to make trouble for me. He will follow me here. I want you to go and rent this cottage and pay three months’ rent in advance. Rent it under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Quarles. Charles Quarles. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for your trouble.”
He had hesitated and she had looked directly into his uneasy eyes, and, with lips parted, had said, “Please help me!”
“I won’t get in any trouble?”
“No trouble at all.”
Two hours later he returned with the receipt, the door key and the address. She gave him five worn twenties and he had put them away quickly as though it shamed him to take money for helping her.
Yes, the cottage was perfect. She had found a store which would deliver groceries, and the delivery boy was willing to pick up magazines and books for her. There was a small radio in the cottage, and she had had it repaired.
Each evening the Times was delivered, and each evening, pulses thudding, she opened it and looked eagerly at the help-wanted column.
The shoe box, sewed in oilcloth, was buried in the sand near the windbreak. The money she had allotted herself she kept on her person. The sun gradually tanned her delicate skin, and, except for the constant, biting worry, she was almost content.
Wesley Gibb, his tiny brown eyes set into the pads of gray sweating flesh like currants in an unbaked cookie, sat alone on one side of the booth. On the other side, Steve Harris was against the wall. Gibb’s ‘assistant’ was sitting on the outside edge.
The waitress had brought a wicker basket of large pieces of greasy chicken, wrapped in a starched napkin. Wesley’s fingers were shiny with grease, as were his ripe lips. The ‘assistant’ was a completely bald young man named Harry. His melting blue eyes stared upward in a half trance and he beat his knuckles against the edge of the table in time to the music, ignoring the conversation between Steve and Wesley Gibb.
Steve took a deep drag at his cigarette, mashed it out in the chipped glass ashtray. “So this is a checkup on me?” he said.
“Don’t be difficult, Stevie,” Wesley said in a gentle and oily manner. “You know how these things are. Fourteen days and no report and I guaranteed your expenses. You can’t blame me for thinking maybe you have cleaned it up down here and you’re letting the expenses ride.”