I waited for my bill and paid it, went and had a cup of coffee and a hot pastrami sandwich at the casino snack counter, and then went up to my room. I hesitated before going in but when I finally summoned up the courage it was empty. There weren't any message lights on the phone either. Presumably they thought I'd have got the message now, loud and clear. And so I had.
When I'd showered and put on some clean clothes, I sat on the bed and tried to phone Alsa, but there was an hour and a half's delay on calls to Gothenburg. I then tried to telephone Spinetti but he was out. His girl didn't know when he'd be back. She knew nothing about me, nothing about the arrangements and sure wasn't interested. Nor, by that time,
was I. I used my cable card to send a message to London. There was no point in phoning because I was telling not asking, and not even Scown would change my mind for me. After that I slung my goods in a bag, and winced as I remembered the tape recorder I'd left in the boat. Not that Scown would mind; it wasn't his machine. But my possessions were certainly getting scattered.
I waited out front until a cab arrived, my suitcase ostentatiously at my feet to proclaim to the world at large and watching eyes in particular that I was in fact departing, then rode out to the airport.
At the United Airlines desk, I inquired whether any seats• remained on the three o'clock flight for Chicago.
Ì'll see, sir. What name?'
`Sellers.'
Òne moment, please.' The clerk looked at his list. 'Sellers is the name?'
`Yes.'
Àlready a reservation for you, sir.' He wore that patient look given to idiots by people paid to be polite. •
`Thanks.' I handed him my ticket and my credit card and waited while the new ticket was made out. Then I handed over my suitcase, went along to the departure gate waiting room, and sat watching the other intending passengers in a furtive kind of way to see if I could discover which of them was doing the same to me.
I suppose somebody must have been there, but I didn't spot him. I didn't spot him in Chicago, either, which was hardly surprising because O'Hare International Airport's a big place and by that time three restorative Scotches were cutting down my powers of concentration a little. I added a fourth in the soothing coolth of the Four Seasons bar while I waited for the British Airways Chicago-Montreal-London flight to be called. There was still an hour's delay for Gothenburg and I hadn't an hour. I've taken that flight before. At Montreal it fills up with parcel-laden, misty-eyed grandmothers heading back to Bristol or Bury St Edmunds, but the Chicago-Montreal leg isn't exactly jammed. This time there were six of us scattered thinly around the cabin of the VC10. The captain, as captains will with an almost empty aircraft, gave a performance demonstration, taking it up like an express lift then levelling off to hot-rod through the airways, while the cabin staff kept the passengers amused. There were three stewardesses and a steward between the six of us, so the service was excellent and less starchy than usual. While I sipped my Bell's and water, a pretty blonde girl with shiny, much-brushed hair, chatted me up a bit, went away and came back.
`There's another journalist aboard,' she announced, all helpful. I responded. politely. 'Oh?' He could be one of the drunks from El Vino's and I'd be back in El Vino's soon enough, thank you. It's a bar in Fleet Street. In El Vino's nil veritas. Not much, anyway, and not often.
`Would you like to meet him, sir?' They maintain certain standards, these girls; people must be properly introduced. When there's time, anyway.
`What's his name?' I asked cautiously.
`Mr Elliot, sir. He's American.'
I said, 'I'm sorry to be finicky, but does he look the reminiscent type? I don't want ten hours of past triumphs.'
She smiled. A nice smile. 'He seems rather quiet, sir. He works for the National Geographic.'
She nodded towards the back of a head six rows nearer the nose. Another girl was talking to him. Presumably sounding him out about me.
`Well . .
I hesitated.
She giggled. 'We're picking up a hundred and thirty war brides' mothers in Montreal. Not one much under seventy-five.'
`That settles it. I'll join him. Will you bring a pair of Bells, please.'
We were properly introduced, hand-shaking, smiling politely and sizing one another up in the usual kind of way. He was pleasant enough, a tall, rangy, bespectacled man, fogyish, lantern-jawed, with dark thinning hair and a worry line or two on his forehead. We didn't talk a great deal, just the usual mild arguments about who'd pay as glasses were replenished; the kind of argument that amounts really to keeping score. We had dinner after take-off from Dorval, Montreal, not talking much because it would have been difficult to make ourselves heard above all the grandmotherly pride and the negotiations about exchanging seats and who was to look at whose snapshots first. Then, smiling at the noise and each other, we tilted the seats back and slept until we flew out of. darkness into brilliant dawn sunlight above the clouds. When we woke up, we looked at each other sympathetically, both dry-mouthed from the whisky and I persuaded the shiny-haired girl to bring orange juice.
`Where are you going?' I asked after a while. The long day stretched ahead and he must be going somewhere. `Lapland.'
Ìf I recall,' I said, 'National Geographic has done Lapland before.'
He grinned. 'Three hundred and eighty-two times. But it's a lot of territory. You?'
`Back to base.'
`Where've you been?'
I hesitated, then told him about Las Vegas. Not all of it; just that I'd been threatened and decided safety lay in flight.
He raised his eyebrows. 'You must have crossed. somebody. The Mob's pretty sensitive.'
Tut you're not surprised?'
`Not any more. Times have changed. You know, we've got a thing called Trick or Treat. The kids play jokes on people, knock on doors and run away. Kind of a sacred custom,'
right? People hand out candy and apples. Well, a little girl I know got an apple 'with a razor blade inside. Nothing surprises me any more. You were right to leave. Tell your boss I said so.'
`Hope he'll believe it.'
He laughed. 'Yeah. They never do. Who d'you work for?'
So we talked shop, gently and companionably, as the VC10 started its slow run in from somewhere over Northern Ireland, then shared a cab into London from Heathrow. I went direct to the News building and up to Scown's office. Neither of his secretaries was there, but their coats were and voices could be heard faintly through the teak door. I put my suitcase down and sat down to wait. About ten minutes later the editor, Rowlands, came out looking worried, with the shreds of that day's paper in mournful hands. Not that that was in any way remarkable. Three hundred people sweated sixteen hours to put it together; Scown tore it apart in ten minutes of choice phraseology. Then the operation began again, six days a week. Rowlands glanced at me, shrugged, and gave a thin grin as he went by. But Scown must have seen me through the doorway, because a moment later Secretary Two appeared. 'Mr Scown would like to see you now, Mr Sellers.
'
I swallowed and rose. Just a few hours earlier I'd been cringing, exhausted and terrified, in the Valley of Fire. My emotions, as I entered Scown's office were not dissimilar. The two secretaries exited slickly past me, getting out of range. The stiff quiff of white hair with the wave in it bristled up from his forehead and the cold blue eyes looked me over. `Well?'
I told him. Briefly. He likes short sentences, Scown does. Then I waited for the blast. He said, 'Money up the spout. Good story lost.'
I blinked. It was like being tapped with a feather when you're expecting to be hit by a bus. There'd be more to come.
Surprisingly there wasn't. He said, 'Silly cow!" `Susannah. Yes, she is.'
`Not her, you bloody idiot. Alison Hay.'