The driver switched on the radio to dance music. As he was approaching Bay Shore Drive, the music faded and the announcer said, “We interrupt this programme for a police message. The police are anxious to question Moe Lincoln, a Jamaican, who they believe can help them with their inquiries concerning the murder of Toey Marsh who was stabbed to death half an hour ago after answering a mysterious telephone call. Lincoln, twenty-three, is tall and thin with a scar from his right ear to his chin. When last seen, he was wearing white and blue sweat shirt and dark blue jeans. Anyone see this man should contact Police Headquarters. Lincoln is known to be dangerous. In no circumstances should anyone attempt to apprehend him. We now return to Pete Jackson and his Music, playing for you from the Florida Club.”
The driver snapped off his radio.
“Cops!” he sneered. “They live to make trouble.”
Moe slid his knife from its sheath. His heart was hammering. How had the police got on to him so fast? Had someone seen him? He stared intently at the back of the driver’s head. He had seen the man stiffen. He was sure he had recognized him from the radio description. So what would he do now?
The driver said scornfully, “Toey Marsh... well out of the way! He got me into trouble last month. The guy who slit him did a public service.”
Moe relaxed a little.
“Yeah,” he said. “I knew him too.”
“You want to change your mind about where you want to go?” the driver asked without looking around. “I could run you out of town... to Key West. You might fancy getting on a boat. Key West is good for boats.”
Moe put his knife away.
“No... drop me off here, pal,” he said. “This will do fine.”
The driver swung to the kerb and Moe paused to look up and dawn the long road before getting out. He shoved a ten dollar bill at the driver who still didn’t look at him, then he walked fast to the nearest alley and disappeared into the darkness.
The driver wiped sweat from his face, then engaging gear, he sent the cab shooting down the road. It took him three minutes to find a patrol officer. Pulling up, he reported where he had dropped Moe.
“You sure it was Lincoln?” the cop demanded.
“I know Lincoln,” the driver said, his eyes glittering. “He cut my father once. Man I thought he was going to cut me but I played it smart.”
The cop climbed into the cab.
“Get me to a telephone.”
Five minutes later, two patrol cars pulled up near the alley down which Moe had disappeared. Police spilled out, guns in hand, but they were too late. Although they searched the district, they found no trace of Moe.
The gentle scratching on Lee Hardy’s front door alerted Jacko that Moe had arrived. He nodded to Hardy.
“Let him in,” he said, lifting the gun so it pointed at Hardy who got to his feet and went into the lobby. As soon as Hardy was out of sight, Jacko went over to the desk and took Hardy’s gun from the drawer. He shoved the gun into his hip pocket and then returned to the chair as Moe came into the room, followed by Hardy.
“This caper’s turned sour,” Moe said and crossing to the cocktail bar, he poured himself a stiff whisky and soda. “It’s on the radio. They even know I knocked off Toey.”
Hardy said huskily, “You two better get out of here. This is the first place they’ll think of to check.”
“Shut up!” Jacko snarled. He looked uneasily at Moe. “What do we do, baby?”
“If we can get to Key West, we can get a boat,” Moe said, “but we want money.”
“He’s got money,” Jacko said, waving to Hardy. “How much have you got right here?”
“A hundred and fifty,” Hardy said. “You can have that.”
Moe sneered at him.
“We’ll need five grand. We don’t stand a prayer without that kind of money.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“You’ll find it if you don’t want to take the short walk.”
Hardy hesitated, then said, “I could get it from the bank tomorrow morning.”
Jacko and Moe looked at each other.
“We could stay here for the night,” Jacko said.
Moe nodded.
“Yeah, but it’s risky.”
“We’ve got to take the risk,” Jacko said. To Hardy, he went on, “You get the dough tomorrow morning... We’ll take care of your girlfriend until you get back. You try anything smart and Moe’ll slit her.”
Listening, her ear against a door panel, Gina flinched, then she silently turned the key in the lock.
Val lay in bed. The moonlight came through the open window and made a square pattern of silver on the carpet.
For the past three hours she had been wrestling with this problem of her husband. What he had said to her during the afternoon had terrified her. She could not believe he had been responsible for this woman’s death. This was something she refused to believe. On the floor by her bed lay a mass of newspapers carrying the story of Sue Parnell’s murder. She had read everything printed about the murder. On the bedside table lay a writing pad on which she had written the names of the few people connected with the murder and mentioned by the Press.
There was this damning evidence of the blood-stained jacket and the cigarette lighter. There was this dreadful thing Chris had said: One should never pay blackmail. I’ll tell the police I did it, and that will be that. Then he had said: Last night, I dreamed I killed a woman.
Val couldn’t bear the darkness any longer and sitting up, her face pale, her hands cold and clammy, she turned on the bedside light.
She thought: He didn’t do it! I know he didn’t. He must have heard about the murder somehow while he was wandering around. Somehow he must have got it into his head that he killed this woman, but I know he didn’t! Chris could never do such a thing! Even with those injuries to his brain, he wouldn’t do such a thing! It isn’t in his nature to stab a woman the way that woman was stabbed!
Then she again thought of the blood-stained jacket. But was it really blood? Was this awful old man getting money out of her by a clever trick? How did she know the stains were from this woman’s blood? What to do? She didn’t dare go to the police in case... She pulled herself together.
She thought: If you really believe Chris didn’t do it, then you should go to the police. If you really and truly believe he isn’t capable of doing such a terrible thing, then go to Terrell (is that his name?) tell him about this man Hare and let him deal with him.
Then a small, disturbing voice sounded in her mind: But suppose Chris did do it? Just suppose in a moment of mad violence he did kill this woman? Are you going to betray him to the police? Suppose, through you, they were able to prove he did it? Suppose they put him away for life in some awful asylum?
But he didn’t do it! Val said, half aloud, her fists clenched, her breath rapid. I know he didn’t! This is some trick! I have to find out how this trick was worked! I’m sure it is a trick, but how do I find out? What can I do? She beat her fists together in her agony. I must do something!
Throwing aside the bedclothes, she slid out of bed and began to move restlessly about the room.
It wasn’t for nothing that she was the daughter of Charles Travers. She had the same determination, the same fighting spirit as her father. As she moved around the room she became more calm. If she was to help Chris, she must handle this problem herself, she finally decided. Tomorrow, she would pay Hare the money. That would keep him quiet for two weeks. During that time she must somehow try to find out what Chris had been doing while he had lost his memory. If she could find this woman he had met... this woman who had made him think of elephants (why elephants?)... she might be able to prove he was nowhere near this Motel where Sue Parnell had died. If she could do that, then Chris would be safe, but how to find this woman?