«Tremayne. Sixteen Peachtree. Be there in five minutes, ma’am.» He hung up and saw Tanner watching him. «How d’you like that? She wants to go to a motel at Kennedy. Who do you suppose she’s shacking up with out there?»
Tanner was bewildered. The Tremaynes had two cars of their own… Had Tremayne intended to ignore the command to meet at the Lassiter depot? Or, by making sure the single Saturday night taxi was away, was Tremayne hoping to isolate him in the Village?
Either was possible.
Tanner hobbled toward an alley running alongside of the Pub, used primarily for deliveries. From there, since it led to a municipal parking lot, he could escape undetected if it were necessary. He stood in the alley and massaged his leg. He’d have a huge welt in an hour or so. He looked at his watch. It was twelve-forty-nine. Another hour before he would drive to the depot. Perhaps the black car would return. Perhaps others would come.
He wanted a cigarette, but did not want to strike a match near the street. He could cup the glow of a cigarette, not the flame of a match. He walked ten yards into the alley and lit up. He heard something. Footsteps?
He inched his way back toward the Valley Road entrance. The Village was deserted. The only sounds were muted, coming from the Pub. Then the Pub’s door opened and three people came out. Jim and Nancy Loomis with a man he didn’t recognize. He laughed sadly to himself.
Here he was, John Tanner, the respected Director of News for Standard Mutual, hiding in a darkened alley—filthy, soaked, a bullet crease in his shoulder and a swelling bruise on his leg from a driver intent on murder—silently watching Jim and Nancy come out of the Pub. Jim Loomis. He had been touched by Omega and he’d never know it.
From the west end of Valley Road—the direction of Route Five—came an automobile traveling quietly at no more than ten miles an hour. The driver seemed to be looking for someone or something on Valley Road.
It was Joe.
He hadn’t gone to Philadelphia. There was no dying father in Philadelphia. The Cardones had lied.
It was no surprise to Tanner.
He pressed his back against the alley wall and made himself as inconspicuous as he could, but he was a large man. For no other reason than that it gave him security, Tanner withdrew the pistol from his belt. He’d kill Cardone if he had to.
When the car was within forty feet of him, two short blasts from a second automobile, coming from the other direction, made Cardone stop.
The second car approached rapidly.
It was Tremayne. As he passed the alley, Tanner could see the look of panic on his face.
The lawyer pulled up beside Cardone and the two men spoke quickly, softly. Tanner couldn’t make out the words, but he could tell they were spoken rapidly and with great agitation. Tremayne made a U-turn, and the automobiles raced off in the same direction.
Tanner relaxed and stretched his pained body. All were accounted for now. All he knew about and one more he didn’t. Omega plus one, he considered. Who was in the black automobile? Who had tried to run him down?
There was no point in putting it off any longer. He’d seen what he had to see. He’d drive to within a few hundred yards of the Lassiter depot and wait for Omega to declare themselves.
He walked out of the alley and started for the car. And then he stopped.
There was something wrong with the car. In the subdued light of the gas lamps he could see that the automobile’s rear end had settled down to the surface of the street. The chrome bumper was inches above the pavement.
He ran to the car and unclipped his pencil light. Both back tires were flat, the metal rims supporting the weight of the automobile. He crouched down and saw two knives protruding from the deflated rubber.
How? When? He was within twenty yards every second! The street was deserted! No one! No one could have crept behind the Mercedes without being seen!
Except, perhaps, those few moments in the alley. Those moments when he lit a cigarette and crouched by the wall watching Tremayne and Cardone. Those seconds when he’d thought he’d heard footsteps.
The tires had been slashed not five minutes ago!
Oh Christ! thought Tanner. The manipulation hadn’t stopped at all! Omega was at his heels. Knowing. Knowing every move he made. Every second!
What had Ali started to say on the phone? Bernie had … what? He started toward the booth, taking the last dime out of his pocket. He pulled the pistol out of his belt and looked around as he crossed the street. Whoever punctured the tires might be waiting, watching.
«Ali?»
«Darling, for God’s sake come home!»
«In a little while, hon. Honest, no problems. No problems at all… I just want to ask you a question. It’s important.»
«It’s just as important that you get home!»
«You said before that Bernie had decided something. What was it?»
«Oh … when you called the first time. Leila went out after you; Bernie didn’t want to leave us alone. But he was worried that you might not listen to her and since the police were here, he decided to go find you himself.»
«Did he take the Triumph?»
«No. He borrowed a car from one of the police.»
«Oh, Christ!» Tanner didn’t mean to explode into the phone but he couldn’t help it. The black automobile out of nowhere! The plus-one was really part of the three! «Is he back?»
«No. Leila is, though. She thinks he may have gotten lost.»
«I’ll call you.» Tanner hung up. Of course Bernie was «lost.» There hadn’t been time for him to get back. Not since Tanner had been in the alley, not since the tires were slashed.
And now he realized that somehow he had to reach the Lassiter depot. Reach it and position himself before any part of Omega could stop him, or know where he was.
Lassiter Road was diagonally northwest, about three miles from the center of the Village. The depot perhaps another mile or two beyond. He’d walk. It was all he could do.
He started as quickly as he could, his limp diminishing with movement, then ducked into a doorway. No one followed him.
He kept up a zigzag pattern northwest until he reached the outskirts of town—where there were no sidewalks, only large expanses of lawn. Lassiter wasn’t far away now. Twice he lay on the ground while automobiles raced past him, drivers oblivious to anything but the road in front of them.
Finally, through a back stretch of woods behind a well-trimmed lawn, neither unlike his own, he reached Lassiter Road.
On the rough tarred surface he turned left and started the final part of his journey. It wasn’t any farther than a mile or a mile and a half by his calculations. He could reach the deserted depot in fifteen minutes if his leg held out. If it didn’t, he’d simply slow down, but he’d get there. His watch read one-forty-one. There was time.
Omega wouldn’t arrive early. It couldn’t afford to. It—or they—didn’t know what was waiting for them.
Tanner limped along the road and found he felt better—more secure—holding Scanlan’s pistol in his hand. He saw a flicker of light behind him. Headlights, three or four hundred yards away. He crossed into the woods bordering on the road and lay flat on the muddy ground.
The car passed him traveling slowly. It was the same black car that had run him down on Valley Road. He couldn’t see the driver; the absence of street lights made any identification impossible.
When it was out of sight, Tanner went back to the road. He had considered walking in the woods but it wasn’t feasible. He could make better time on the cleared surface. He went on, hobbling now, wondering whether the black automobile belonged to a policeman currently stationed at 22 Orchard Drive. Whether the driver was a writer named Osterman.
He had gone nearly half a mile when the lights appeared again, only now in front of him. He dove into the brush, hoping to God he hadn’t been seen, unlatching the safety of his pistol as he lay there.