The sheriff hadn’t understood what Kelly was talking about but he was reluctant to ask for explanations. Finally irritation at himself overcame his dignity. “How the devil can they start working in Washington before the prints get there from Philly?” he said.
“Well, they know where to start looking,” Kelly said. “They’ll pull the cards on one category — high-arch, in this case — and sift out the impossibles. Deceased and women and children. When the prints arrive they’ll check them against the ones left — and they might have the field narrowed down to just a few hundred by then. It’s not my specialty, but the experts in Washington read prints the way we’d read a newspaper.”
Morgan came in a bit later and reported that the crowds had thinned out, and that traffic was flowing smoothly through Main Street.
The sheriff swiveled around in his chair and looked up at the circle he had penciled around the area southwest of Crossroads. Nothing to do but wait. The rain made any tracking impossible. But time was on their side now. They could sit tight: the hunted men would have to make the first move...
After a few minutes he glanced at Kelly. “You had dinner yet?”
“I was about to ask if any restaurants are open.”
“How about coming home with me? There’s a roast waiting on the stove. With all the trimmings.”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. In fact it might be a big help. Morgan, keep your ear on that radio. We’ll be back in half an hour or so.”
Chapter Thirteen
When Ingram returned to the living room of the farmhouse, he was shivering uncontrollably, his legs plastered with mud and slime to the knees. He pulled on his clothes quickly, then crouched beside the meager heap of charred wood in the fireplace.
“You put it away okay?” Earl asked without looking at him.
Ingram nodded, too exhausted to speak; his bare flesh had been whipped by the wind, and the cold had driven into him like frozen needles. “Nobody will find it,” he muttered at last. The words came awkwardly through his stiff lips. “If they do they’ll need a crane to get it out.”
“So we’re stuck here now,” Earl said, but he knew his anger was illogical; the car was no good to them. But now they were completely helpless. “Couldn’t you park it on the side of the pit?”
“I wasn’t worrying about the car,” Ingram said. “I was trying to keep from freezing.”
The old man laughed softly. “I told you it was a bad night. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“You’re quite a weatherman,” Ingram said. “You hear rain on the roof and you know it’s raining. You ought to go on the radio.”
“Don’t talk to me that way,” the old man said shrilly. “You hear me?”
“Sure I hear you,” Ingram said with heavy sarcasm. “You wouldn’t need a radio. You could just open the window and scream the news. Right from your filthy bed.”
“Don’t talk to me that way.”
“Both of you shut up, for Christ’s sake,” Earl said.
“Tell him to speak respectfully to me. I won’t have a nigger talking down to me in my own home.” The old man’s hands were trembling with impotent fury. “Tell him, you hear?”
Crazybone came hurrying into the room, an expression of furtive dismay on her tiny wrinkled face. “What you shouting for, Pop? Dinner’s on the way. Oatmeal, you hear? It sticks to your ribs all night long.”
The old man lay back on the pillows, turning his face away from Ingram and Earl. “You got anything to go with it?” he asked her.
“You bet your boots,” she cried in a crowing, triumphant voice. “I got a jar of home-made apricot preserves.”
Earl felt his stomach turn; a spasm of nausea racked him, and the wound in his shoulder began to pound with turbulent pain. “We got to do something,” he said to Ingram. “We got to make plans.”
Ingram shrugged. “Go ahead. Make plans.”
Crazybone glanced at them with a puzzled smile, as if she had never seen them before. Then she skipped clumsily from the room, singing a wordless song in a high, sweet voice.
“We need money and another car,” Earl said, pressing both hands against his roiling stomach.
Ingram smiled bitterly. “We tried to get some money tonight, remember?”
“You have any friends, Sambo?”
“Sure I got friends. They’d love to have me drop in on them. Can’t you imagine how happy they’d be? I got three brothers, too. You think I should try them maybe?”
“We got to do something. Listen to me.” Earl felt a rush of excitement go through him; Lorraine would help. She would stick. “I got a friend in Philly,” he said, edging forward on the sofa. “She’s got a car, and she can get hold of money.” He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t much after nine. Lorraine would still be at the store. “She’ll help us, Sambo.”
“You’re dreaming.” Ingram shook his head slowly. “You can’t travel. Even if you could the cops would grab us the minute we showed our face. We’re hot stuff.”
“I’m hot, but you’re not,” Earl cried; the words slipped out of him in the excitement generated of hope — but it didn’t matter. “I heard a broadcast while you were putting the car away. They’re just looking for me. Nobody saw you. You hear me? You’re free as the air.”
Ingram looked thoughtfully at him. “And you weren’t going to tell me about it, eh?
“I just told you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, sure. When you thought about the car in Philly, and how nice it would be for me to get it.”
“Don’t take my word for it.” Earl struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily across to the old man’s bed. “Tell him what you heard,” he said. “Tell him the police just want me. Tell him the truth.”
The old man’s eyes were bright with malice. “I ain’t doing any favors for neither of you. Him sassing me, and you standing by. That’s a fine way to treat a man.”
“Tell him what you heard!” Earl shouted. “Tell him, goddam you.”
“It’s the truth.” The old man’s voice trembled with senile fear and indignation. He glared at Ingram. “They didn’t say anything on the radio about you. It’s just him they’re after.”
“Now you believe it, I guess.” Earl limped up and down the cold, hard floor, trying to control his excitement and bring his thoughts into orderly focus. “There’s a belt highway of some kind that crosses the main road and goes into Philly. I saw it this morning.” He came to the bed and shook the old man’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Pop? What’s the name of it?”
“The Unionville Pike. It’s two miles from here.”
“And it’s got a bus line, right?”
“They go in every half hour nights. Takes in factory hands.”
“Sambo, we’re going to lick this deal,” Earl said in a savage, exulting voice. “We’re going to lick it, hear? I’ll write you a note. If she’s not at the store, she’ll be home. She’ll give you her car, Sambo. And money. Where’s some paper and a pencil?” He limped to the mantelpiece and picked up one of the old, yellowing newspapers. “Now a pencil.” He saw a cardboard box full of buttons, bits of string and dusty spools of thread. Emptying it he laughed triumphantly: there was a stubby pencil in the bottom of the box. He shook the paper open and found a page of advertising with wide margins surrounding the copy. “This is perfect,” he said, carefully tearing out a square of paper. Moistening the pencil, he sat down and began to write slowly and laboriously, his lips moving in a rhythm with the point of the pencil.