He went on to the next car.
Harry slid under the wheel, shifted into gear and drove slowly past the crash barrier. The other four cops ignored him. They stood in a group, talking.
Harry accelerated as soon as he was clear of the barrier. He sent his car shooting past the other cars, got ahead of them and on to the clear road.
He knew the cops had been looking for a fat-faced, middle-aged man with a scar on his face. He thought of Glorie: she was smart; there was no doubt about that. If she hadn't dreamed up that disguise, he would either be under arrest by now or lying by the side of the road, riddled by police bullets. He felt a wave of affection for her run through him. He would square his debt with her, he told himself. They would go to Europe and have the time of their lives. Money would be no object. She could have all the clothes she wanted—any damn thing she wanted. He would wait just long enough to make a deal with Takamori, then they'd go. If he got a million and a half out of Takamori, he could finance his own air-taxi service. He could run two kites at first, then later he'd get two more. He'd be his own boss, and that's what he had always wanted. He knew it was largely due to Glorie and her bright idea that he was in the clear. It had been tough going, but he was now getting the breaks. He squeezed a little more speed out of the car. He grinned as he imagined Borg's face while he waited at the airport. By now the news would be on the air. The chances were Borg was listening to the story of the hijack right at this moment. As the minutes ticked by, Borg would realize he had been double-crossed.
Harry's grin widened. Borg, like the police, would hunt for Harry Green. Well, let them hunt. Harry Green was buried in the sand, thirty miles away, and he would stay buried.
Twenty minutes later, driving at a reduced speed, Harry drove down Lone Pine's main street.
Lone Pine was a small, nondescript town; the houses were of wood, and there were only a few shops. The clock on the dashboard showed ten minutes after eleven. Most of the houses were in darkness as he drove past. A big hoarding with an arrow painted on it showed him the way to the motel. Another five minutes brought him to the gates. He slowed down, drove through the gateway and up a dirt road until he came to the cabins. They were huddled together in a semi-circle; only three showed lights, the rest were in darkness. Five cars were parked under some trees.
The cabin furthest to the right of the others had an illuminated sign above its door that read: OFFICE.
Harry parked his car alongside a 1930 Ford, got out and walked over to the office. He pushed open the door and stepped into a small room, lighted by a naked electric light bulb that hung from the ceiling and cast sharp etched shadows.
A fat, elderly man, in shirtsleeves, stared at him as if he were someone from Mars.
“You want a cabin?” he said. “It's late.”
“I'm Harrison. My wife booked in this afternoon. What's the number of her cabin?”
“Harrison?” The fat man heaved himself out of his chair. He wandered over to a board, propped up on the mantelpiece, and stared at it. “Yeah, that's right. Mrs. Harrison. She said she was expecting you. Cabin No. 20. That's the last one on the left.”
“Thanks,” Harry said and turned to go.
“Hear about this robbery?” the fat man asked. “Been listening to it on the radio. Jaysus! These bastards will try anything once.”
Harry paused. He had to make an effort to restrain his hand creeping into his pocket for his gun.
“I haven't heard anything.”
“You'll read about it in the paper tomorrow. It'll hit the headlines all right. Hijacked an aeroplane and got away with three million bucks worth of diamonds! Killed the guard and two of the punks got killed themselves. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Hijacked an aeroplane!”
“Is that a fact?” Harry said, backing towards the door.
“I guess that guard had guts. Fought it out with them. The police are looking for a fat guy with a scar on his face and another punk who was wounded. They reckon they're heading this way.”
Harry stiffened.
“This way?”
“Yeah. They took off in a car, coming this way. They didn’t take the Sky Ranch road. There was a prowl cop out in that area and he reports no car passed him so they must be coming this way.”
“I'd better get over to my wife. She may be scared.”
The fat man nodded.
“They won't get far. One of them's badly wounded.
Harry went out into the dark night He walked quickly over to the car, took the steel box from the glove compartment and fished out Franks' gun from between the seats. He shoved the gun into his hip pocket, then walked across the grass to the last cabin on the left. A light showed in the window. He knocked on the door.
Glorie said sharply, “Who is it?”
“Harry.”
He heard her run across the room, the door was flung open, then arms were around him, hugging him.
“Hey! Let me come in,” he said. He lifted her off her feet and carried her into the small room and kicked the door shut.
“Oh, Harry!” she said breathlessly. “I've been frantic. I heard what happened. It's on the radio. Are you hurt?”
“I'm fine.” He tossed the steel box on to the bed. “It was tough going, kid, but I got away with it.”
“They killed the guard.”
“Yeah. It was our bad luck to have a brave fool in our hair. He killed . . .”
“Yes . . . I heard. I've been so worried.” She was clenching and unclenching her hands. “If they catch you . . .”
“For God's sate, don't start that,” Harry said sharply. “I know what they'd do to me if they caught me, but they're not going to catch me.”
He looked at her white, frightened face, the dark smudges under her eyes, the dark untidy hair, the unsmart, travel-creased costume she had on, and a little of his affection for her died.
“I'm sorry, Harry. It—it was a shock. I hoped and prayed nothing like this would happen.”
“I didn't kill the fool,” Harry said, his voice hostile. “If Franks hadn't got him, he would have got me. He was gunning for me when Franks put the blast on him.”
“They said you and another man got away. Where is he?”
Harry ran his tongue over his lips. This could be tricky, he told himself, and was suddenly irritated that he had to explain to her.
“Look, I could do with a drink. Got anything?”
“Yes. I brought some whisky. I thought . . .”
“Well, get it!”
She looked quickly at him, flinching at his tone, but she went into the inner room, came out a moment or so later with a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and a pitcher of water. Harry poured himself a four-finger shot, splashed a little water in the glass and drank half of it. He added more whisky and went over and sat on the bed. He lit a cigarette while he watched Glorie make herself a drink.
“I ditched Franks,” he said. “I had to.”
He saw her stiffen, then she turned slowly and stared at him.
He looked up, then looked away.
“You—you ditched him? He was wounded, wasn't he?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you ditch him?”
“For the love of mike, don't look at me like that!” he said violently. “I ditched him on the road. I had to. Not far from here, I ran into a roadblock. The cops were holding up all traffic and searching the cars. I'd have looked good, wouldn't I, if they had found Franks with me, bleeding all over the seat. I had to ditch him!”
“I see.” She sat down abruptly as if her legs wouldn't support her. “What's that, Harry?” She pointed to the steel box on the bed.
He braced himself. He knew instinctively that he was going to have trouble with her.
“Now look, Glorie, let it lie. I'm tired. I've had a hell of a night . . .”
“What is it, Harry?”