I got up without saying anything and went to the wall phone and dropped in a dime. I gave the operator Velda's number. The manager of the motel said she hadn't returned to her room, but if I was to call to tell me that the answer was in Bradbury and she was going inside to get her fifteen dollars back. She'd be at G-14. The guy sounded puzzled.
The phone almost fell from my fingers. I wanted to yell, "No, don't try it alone,"--but nobody would have heard me.
I didn't bother to pick up my coat. George didn't question me, but just gave me the keys to his car when I asked for them and I went out the front way leaving Pat and Walker still sitting there waiting for me, got the car out of the garage and headed out of the city.
Saturday was just another night in Bradbury. Two hours from New York put it another world away in another dimension. I stopped at a gas station on the edge of town, filled the tank and had the attendant point out the direction of the former Gerald Ute estate. In twenty minutes I reached the edge of the area he described to me, a rise in the road that gave a panoramic view of the landscape below.
Here and there in the distance lights winked between the trees, and when I had them located, drove past them. Every so often another car would pass going in the opposite direction, and once one drew abreast of me while the occupant scrutinized my face, then sped ahead and cut off at a side road.
Our people, I was thinking. The whole place was under constant surveillance. They'd keep up a running conversation on their car radios to keep me spotted until they were sure I had left their section. George's car didn't have DPL plates. There would be other security if I could get inside their compounds that would be even tighter. How did Velda think she could make it?
I circled the whole region until I came back to the outskirts of the city. There wasn't one way of telling just where the hell she was! Those buildings were scattered in haphazard fashion behind their towering walls and if I tried them one at a time I could be too late.
But what was it the guy had said on the phone? Velda would be at G-14. She'd expect me to know what that was. She had more sense than to try and hit a target like that by herself. The message wouldn't be too cryptic. It would be something I should recognize.
It was. It took me long enough to get it. I found a service station that I generally used, went in and got one of their standard road maps of the local area and looked at the grid markings on the side. The point where the vertical G and horizontal 14 intersected was two miles from my present position. I thanked the guy, got behind the wheel and turned around.
There were no lights showing in the building at all, but there was the barest reflection from the chrome trim of the cars that were parked in front of it to tell me it was far from deserted. I had run George's car into the brush beside the wall, nosing it in far enough so as to be practically invisible from the side road I had turned onto. From the roof I was able to reach the top of the wall and pull myself up. I flattened out, getting my eyes adjusted to the darkness, then swung over and dropped to the ground. Now I was thankful for the rain we had had. The bush I hit crumpled wetly, rather than crackling under the impact. I stood there fighting the urge to run, the .45 in my hand, the hammer back.
It was almost too quiet and that eerie stillness saved my neck. I heard the whispering thud of feet, the breath and the guttural snarl the same second I ducked to one side and felt something brush my arm and heard the wicked snap of teeth closing on air. The dog's leap took him into the same bush I had landed on, but to him it was more of an obstacle. I could see him then, clawing to break loose from the entangling branches, a sleek muscular killer, attack-trained to kill silently and quickly in the dark.
I whipped the .45 down across his head, saw him sag, recover, then go down again the second time when the muzzle of the gun smashed his skull. There would be more than one dog on the premises. They'd be like sentinels making their rounds. The others hadn't gotten the smell of me yet, and when they did, would come in almost silently and unseen like the other one.
I stayed close to the tree line, ran across the open lawn to the parking area and lost myself in the dozen or so cars parked beside the house for a few minutes, trying to figure a way in. As near as I was I could see the vague outlines of the windows and the lights that filtered past drawn curtains.
The main entrance was to my left, but I didn't want to hit the doors. Those would be well guarded. The larger windows that opened on the main rooms wouldn't be any good either. I didn't know what I was going into and had to feel my way there.
I could see the place now. It was built in a Victorian style of native brick and looked like a great stone fortress. But all fortresses had chinks and this one was in its style of architecture. The gingerbread ornaments that littered its face made perfect handholds. I shoved the .45 back in the sling, edged to the side of the building and began climbing.
Twenty feet up I had almost reached the second level. Down below I heard a snarl of impatience, then a door opened and a shaft of light illuminated the front of the building. Another dog, a huge Doberman, padded by, stood in the light a moment sniffing the air, then a voice said, "What is it?"
Another one answered with, "Nothing. They are always like that."
The door closed and the night took back its own. The dog snarled again, but from another point this time.
I didn't take any chances with the windows. The odds were that they had alarms rigged to them. I kept climbing until I felt the cornice of the roof under my hands and wiggled myself over the top. I lay there and looked at the ground a long way below, and when I was satisfied no one had seen me, picked my way to the cupola that sat like a silly little hat right in the middle of the building.
They hadn't bothered to wire these windows. I leaned my elbow against one until it gave, shattered gently and fell inside with a noisy tinkle, then picked out the larger pieces, opened the catch and swung it in on its rusted hinges.
No practical purpose was served by the cupola. It was dirty and empty, just the remnant of an era long past. I found the stairwell leading down, cupped a lit match in my hand and went down to the door. It had a large, old-fashioned latch that moved easily when I lifted it, and when I pushed against the door it swung out without a sound.
I was on the third level of the building in a corridor dimly lit from the light that rose from an open staircase at the far end. A series of rooms led off the hall, four on each side. I tried a couple of the doors, smelled the mustiness and dust that oozed out of the rooms and knew they weren't used. At one time they were probably designed for servants' quarters and had been vacant a long time.
From below I could hear the sound of voices and I followed the hall to the staircase and looked around it. There was a landing below, a ninety degree bend in the stairs and nothing was visible. I started down the first step, saw the small movement of a shadow on the wall beneath me and drew my foot back. They had that area covered by a guard.
Several times when I was a kid I had been in old houses like these and I remembered that they generally had a service exit to the other floors for the servants. I went back down the hall, around the bend and found what I was looking for. The steps were old and dry and creaked under my feet, so I stayed as close to the wall as I could get. I made it to the second level and pushed the door open.
This time I almost wasn't lucky at all. The man sitting there with his chair tilted back against the wall tried to come to his feet and reach for the gun in his belt at the same time. The movement was too sudden and the chair slid out from under him. Even then he almost had time. He rolled, pulled the gun and was bringing it up when my toe caught him under the chin and almost took his head off. His jaw was tilted at a wild angle, his bottom teeth cutting into his cheek. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn't seeing anything. I took the gun from his hand, spun the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, then dragged him back into the shadows under the stairs and put the chair back where he had it. If anyone came checking on him they might think he only left his post for a minute and wouldn't be too worried.