They dumped everything into the bubble. Space remained.
“Water,” Guffy said, “from the bathroom.”
They rolled the bubble to the bathroom and managed to get it near enough to a faucet to fill the remaining space with water. Gushing and dribbling, the bubble rolled about the bathroom; water spurted from Thisbe’s breathing holes.
“Hurry!” Guffy ordered.
The optometrists, perspiring and grunting, rolled the bubble from the room, to the stairs. There they hoisted it up and lugged it, step by step, to the top floor of the hotel. The door to the roof was unlocked and they rolled the bubble out onto the asphalt surface and to the edge.
Below them was the street, the cars and neon signs and pedestrians.
His hands slippery with water and egg and milk, Guffy said, “Here we go, boys!”
They lifted the ponderous, rubbish-filled bubble over the railing and let it go.
“Scatter!” Guffy shouted, and the optometrists, without waiting for the results, ran back down the stairs. In a moment they were scrambling from the back door of the hotel, to the parking lot and their cars.
Ludwig Grimmelman, within his third-floor loft, felt the stir of the night and knew that he could not evade the elements around him. He could not escape reality.
In his heart he knew that they got everyone sooner or later and they would get him; they would have him and there was nothing he could do to save himself. He put his eye to the slot and saw out onto the dark evening street; he saw the shapes and shadows, the objects in motion. He saw the figure across the street, and he knew that Mr. Brown of the FBI had him; Mr. Brown was there, in the obscurity, waiting. Mr. Brown had caught him and he was going to destroy him. There was no mercy for the Ludwig Grimmelman.
He thought to himself that his mistake had been to believe that by putting it off a short while, by delaying and protracting, he had got away with something. But he had got away with nothing, because now they had him even more completely than ever. They would not settle for anything less than the disposition of Grimmelman and his hopes and fears. And he was not prepared to give that; he had withheld himself, and he would not now give up; he would not surrender merely because his situation was hopeless.
The people who had met him and watched him thought that he was a kind of nut, but he was not a nut and Mr. Brown knew that. Mr. Brown had looked for him and found him, and he had spent a great deal of time in this job. There was not that much time to waste on nuts. But, he thought, Mr. Brown was not going to tell anyone, and that was part of the situation.
He put on his black wool overcoat and his paratrooper’s boots, and then he activated the emergency alarm hidden under the corner of his work desk. An Army Signal Corps transmitter, bought from a surplus supply store, put out a coded message in response to his act; Joe Mantila, in his room at the back of his family’s house, received the message and knew that the time had arrived.
Now nothing remained but the escape itself. He had already destroyed the vital papers, documents, maps, and clippings. Leaving the loft light on—so as not to tip off Mr. Brownie opened a side window and tossed out a descent cable. A moment later he was going down hand over hand. His feet touched the ground and he released the cable; it was drawn back up into the loft by a spring.
The night was dark, and he felt the invisible motion; he was aware of the comings and goings, the messages alive in the air.
Climbing a fence, he dropped into a yard. He went up a driveway, hunched over and running, looking back to see if Mr. Brown had followed.
Nobody had seen him. He sneaked over fences; he ran by houses, across lawns, in and out of yards, creeping and hurrying and climbing and gradually making his way across town toward the flat industrial section. Pausing for breath, he looked back; he studied the darkness behind him. Then he went on, his black coat billowing and his boots slapping the pavement. A car rolled by, its headlights blinding him, and he hid behind a parked truck. Was it them? Had they seen him? He ran on, down a driveway and over a fence.
When he reached the corrugated iron shack, the motor of the Horch was already on. Noise and fumes filled the shack as he slid the door open. Joe Mantila stepped out and said, “All ready.”
“You have the transmission disconnected from the relay?” Grimmelman said, snorting.
“It’s all finished. Ferde’s out in the Plymouth. Who goes with you in the Horch?”
Grimmelman said, “Take the Plymouth and go on back.” He got into the Horch, behind the wheel. “This is a negative situation. If I manage to break through the police apparatus, I’ll contact you. Otherwise assume that the Organization has ceased to exist.”
Joe Mantila stared at him.
“Did you think we had a chance?” Gnmmelman said.
“Sure,” Mantila said, nodding.
Shifting into gear, he drove the Horch from the shed and out onto the street. Joe Mantila raced past him and across to the Plymouth. The Horch turned right, and he was going in the direction of the freeway leading out of San Francisco.
Wind rushed at him as he drove. From his coat pocket he took out his goggles and fitted them over his eyes.
On Van Ness Avenue he made a right turn.
Two blocks later a San Francisco police car fell in behind him.
Grimmelman saw the police car, and he realized that he was not going to get away. But he had realized that already. He put his foot down on the gas, and the Horch moved ahead; he got down in the seat as low as possible and gave the engine more and more gas. The police car continued to follow.
The siren, softly at first, began to wail. The red light behind him blinked on; he saw it blinking, blinking. The light peered at him.
Along Van Ness the other cars pulled to a stop, and he was the only object in motion. He drove faster.
How cold the night air was. He tugged his coat around him and held onto the wheel with one hand. Wind whipped at him and for a moment he could not see; he put his hand up to straighten his goggles. Ahead of him a second police car appeared from a side street, and Grimmelman drove across the double line to avoid hitting it. The police car disappeared behind him, and he drove back into his own lane.
In that instant the Horch sideswiped a car that had halted for the siren. A fender tore away, and Grimmelman spun the wheel. Again the Horch veered to the left. A shape, its headlights white and immense, grew directly in the path of the Horch. Grimmelman threw up his hands and the massive Horch crashed into the lights.
Behind him the police sirens whined to silence. The two police cars appeared to his right.
Grimmelman clambered from the wrecked Horch. His coat was torn, and a gash across his neck dripped blood. He ran a few steps and stumbled on the curb. Then he was up on the sidewalk, and one of the police cars had started after him. Still he ran. He did not slow down or stop.
The signs along Van Ness Avenue were off, and he hid in the darkness of a used car lot. Before him was a tower, and he crept past it; he slid behind a car as two policemen hurried by with flashlights. As soon as they were gone, he crawled to the front of the car. From his coat he took a jumble of wires and keys; he fiddled with the lock of the car door. The door opened, and he crept inside the car. Closing the door after him, he lay on the scat with his head down beneath the dashboard; he opened a knife and sawed through the insulation of the ignition cable.
Down the street at Hermann’s Garage, Nat Emmanual and Hermann were working together, pulling the head off a 1947 Dodge that belonged to Nat’s Auto Sales.