“Come on,” he said.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Leave her alone.”
The shot gun barrel slammed into my chest, sending me staggering back.
The fat guy lifted Veda by her shirt and walked off with her into the bushes. She didn’t struggle or cry out. The others turned to watch. The weasel-faced man began to shiver. He glared at me murderously, then suddenly as Veda gave a choking little scream he looked over his shoulder. That gave me the chance I’d been waiting for. I took a leap to one side, jumped forward as the shotgun exploded, smashed my fist into the thin, vicious face. I had the hand grenade out now and I drew the pin.
One of the men took a pot-shot at me with his rifle. I felt the slug fan my face. I lobbed the grenade into the darkness away from them and threw myself down behind the car. The night was split open by a violent explosion. The car rocked in the blast and the darkness was lit by a blinding white flash. I was up on my feet again and running towards where Veda had screamed. The grenade had scared the daylights out of that bunch of toughs. They went rushing into the darkness, yelling at each other, and falling over themselves to get away.
I found Veda and the fat guy in the bushes. He was holding her against him, staring towards the car, his face blank with surprise. He was so startled by the noise of the grenade that he let me pull Veda out of his grip.
“What was that?” he mouthed at me. “Did you do that?”
I hit him in the middle of his fat face and as he staggered back I snatched up his rifle and smashed it down across his shoulders, beating him to the ground.
“Nor Veda screamed and caught my arm. “You mustn’t!”
I tried to push her away, but she clung to me. I struggled to free myself, a red curtain of rage before my eyes, but she wouldn’t let go. After a moment or so I got a grip on myself.
“All right, kid,” I said, and she let go of me.
The fat guy lay flat on his back. He was breathing, but that was about all.
“Come on,” Veda gasped. “Quickly, Floyd! Please . . .”
She had her clothes in a bundle that she hugged to her. I snatched her up and carried her to the car. The whole business hadn’t taken ten minutes.
“Are you all right?” I asked as I sent the car flying forward.
“Don’t talk to me for a bit,” she said. “Just let me get over it. What beasts men are!”
She was crying to herself. I didn’t look at her but kept driving, and I cursed softly. She shrugged into her clothes, and after a while she lit a cigarette.
“I’m all right now, Floyd. Why didn’t you keep your head? What did it matter? We can’t go through Pasadena now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The bomb . . . they’ll telephone to Pasadena to stop us. The police will want to have a look at a guy who carries bombs in his car.”
I thought for a moment. She was right, of course.
“All right, it was a mistake to use it, but what else could I have done?”
“You could have kept your head. He wouldn’t have killed me.”
I knew she didn’t mean it.
“All right, I should have kept my head. So we don’t go through Pasadena.”
She opened the map and studied it. Her hands were trembling.
“We’ll have to take the long way round by Altadena and down into Monrovia.”
“We’ll do that.” I put my arm round her and held her close.
“I’m glad you lost your head,” she said in a small voice.
After driving the best part of a mile I said suddenly: “Put on the radio. Tune it to ten: that’s K.G.P.L., police reports to radio cars. I want to hear how the boys are getting on.”
Her hand was steady enough as she switched on and spun the tuning dial. The radio hummed, then buzzed into life.
We drove along as we listened to a lot of stuff about a street accident on Sunset Boulevard. A few minutes later we got another flash about a car bandit holding up a gas station.
“Nothing in it for us,” I said. “That’s Altadena right ahead. No reception committee waiting by the look of things. We won’t stop, though.”
The mechanical voice coming from the radio suddenly barked: “K.G.P.L. — Los Angeles Police Department. Attention all cars. Repeat as of nine-ten Brett killing. Look out for black Roadmaster Buick believed to be Floyd Jackson’s get-away car.” Here followed the licence number and a detailed description. “The driver of this car may be Jackson, wanted for the murder of Lindsay Brett. With him is a slim, dark girl, wearing slacks and shirt. The car, when last seen, was heading for Pasadena. Stand by for more information now coming in.”
Neither of us said anything. I kept driving. No one seemed to have heard of Floyd Jackson in Altadena. No one seemed to care. We went through the main street at a steady twenty-five miles an hour. The time was a little after ten-twenty, and only a few cars and a few men loitered under the street lights. None of the men had guns. None of them even looked at us.
We sat very stiff and still while we waited. The radio crack-led and hummed. I thought of all the dozens of prowl cops in their fast cars waiting, as we were waiting, for further information before they swung into action and converged on us. My hands ached as I gripped the steering-wheel. I could see Veda’s profile as we drove past the street lamps. She was white and tense.
“Attention all cars . . . attention all cars. Brett killing. Persons wanted for questioning are: number one; John Rux, thought to be Floyd Jackson. Description: six foot one, a hundred and eighty pounds, about thirty-three, dark hair, believed dyed, tanned complexion, powerfully built; wearing light suit, soft grey hat. Number two; Veda Rux. Description: five foot six, a hundred and twenty pounds, about twenty-four, dark hair, blue eyes, wearing black slacks and a dark-red shirt. These people were heading for Pasadena, but are believed to have changed their route. Particular attention to all cars on High-ways 2, 66, 70 and 99. Don’t take any chances. When last stopped Rux broke through the cordon by using what is believed to be a hand grenade. Intercepting cars should arrest Rux for questioning. That is all.”
I slammed on the brakes, threw out the gear and stopped the car.
“Well, that’s it, Veda. That puts you right in the middle of this jam too.”
“They’re clever, aren’t they?” she said in a small, strained voice. “I didn’t think they’d ever get on to us, did you? If only you hadn’t dropped that bomb.”
I was so rattled I couldn’t keep my voice steady.
“We’re going into the foothills. There’s nothing else we can do.” I put my hand on hers. “Don’t get scared. I won’t let them do anything to you.”
They were empty words and they couldn’t mean anything, but they seemed to please her.
“I’m not scared. Let’s go into the foothills. They’ll never think to look for us there.”
I started the car again and we drove off the tarmac road on to a dirt road.
It was dark and silent and lonely when we reached the foothills, and as black as a Homburg hat. I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do: no idea at all. I kept thinking of all those prowl cars converging on us, packed with tough coppers with guns. If they caught me, no amount of talking would get me out of this jam. It would be done legally, and it would take time, but they’d kill me in the end. If they caught me . . .
I put my arm around Veda.
“We’ll beat them, kid,” I said. “Maybe they are smart but we’re smarter. You’ll see; we’ll beat them.”
More empty words.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE SMELL of coffee woke me. It was still dark, and as I sat up I felt the wind cold against my face.
Veda was squatting over the primus stove. The bluish flame showed a hard, bleak expression on her face, and she looked remote and withdrawn into herself. She was very neat in her canary-coloured slacks and thick sweater. Her hair was looped back with a red ribbon.
“That smells good,” I said, yawned and threw off the blanket. I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes after five. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
She looked up and smiled. The hardness went away.
“I was cold. Want some coffee?”
“You bet.”
While she poured the coffee into mugs, she said: “I’ve been listening to the radio. They think we’re heading for the Mexican border.”
“Do they? Well, that’s smart of them.”
She was smiling as she handed me a mug, but her eyes were alert and uneasy.
“They have barricades on all the main roads. They say we can’t get away.”
“Maybe we’d better give up the idea of Tijuana.”
“Yes.”
I drank the coffee slowly. I didn’t know where we could go.
“We’ll have to head north,” she said as if reading my thoughts. “We can’t have another night in the open.”
“Maybe that’s what they expect us to do. They may be bluffing about Mexico. Redfern’s no fool.” I stood up. “Let me bend my brains on this. I’m going to have a shave and wash. Give me a little time to work it out.”
I collected my shaving kit and wandered away to the stream by which we had camped. The water was very cold and hard, and I had the worst shave in years. When I got back, she was cooking bacon on the primus stove.
“It might be an idea to stick right where we are,” I said, squatting by her side. “In the old days, moonshiners used these hills. We might find a cabin or a shed or something if we look around. They may get tired of hunting us if we hole-up here. Give them a week and they’ll get careless. We could pick our time and make a break for it when things have cooled off. Besides, I want a little time to raise a moustache. I think we should stick here if we can.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
Now we had some kind of plan, she relaxed and the uneasy expression went out of her eyes. While we breakfasted I told her about the moonshiners and how they used to hide their stills out in these hills, and bring their rot-gut down to the towns in horse-drawn carts.
“There are dozens of stills hidden around here. We’re certain to find a place where we can hide up.”
While we were washing the dishes in the stream I said: woke in the night and got thinking. It was the first chance I had of thinking about this business. I was too rattled to use my head before: I’ve never been so rattled in my life.”
“What did you think?”
“I got to wondering who shot Brett.”
“Why you did, didn’t you?” The words seemed to jump out of her before she could stop them. The moment she said them she put her hand to her mouth and went white.
“What do you mean?” I demanded, staring at her. “You don’t think I shot him, do you? I told you what happened.”
“Yes. I know. I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Floyd.”
“What is this? What are you getting at?”
“Nothing. I said I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Floyd. Please forget it.”
She wouldn’t look at me; and I suddenly went cold.
“So you do think I killed him! Out with it! That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
She caught my arms and clung to me.
“I don’t care if you did!” she cried. “I don’t care. I only want to be with you. Nothing else matters!”
“This is crazy, Veda. So you thought all along I shot him?”
“I don’t care.” She drew away. “All right then, you didn’t shoot him. I tell you I don’t care.”
I held her at arm’s length. She was crying.
“Now look, kid, you’ve got to believe me. He was shot as I was looking for the compact. I was on the pedestal when I heard the shot. I went up there. He was sitting at his desk. The gun was right there in front of him. That’s how it happened. You’ve got to believe it!”
“Of course, darling.” She bit back her tears. “Of course.” It was as if she were speaking to a child who had said he’d seen a spook.
“This is madness. If you don’t believe me — that shows the kind of jam I’m in.”
“But I do believe you. Don’t look like that, darling. Please . . . it’s getting light. We must be moving.”
“If you think I killed Brett, why the hell have you come with me?” I shouted at her.
“Nothing you do or have done will make any difference to me. I can’t help it. I don’t care. You’re everything to me.”
I ran my fingers through my hair.
“Okay, so I’m everything to you. That’s fine. But I didn’t kill Brett.”
“All right, darling.”
I watched her take the dishes to the car and begin to pack. The crazy thing was I knew she still didn’t believe me. She thought I had gone up there and shot Brett, and that I lied to her when I told her how it happened. Maybe Mick thought I had lied too.
I went over to her as she was getting into the car.
“Look, Veda, I’ll give you one sound reason why I didn’t kill him. I went up there to collect twenty-five thousand dollars — remember? Well, I didn’t get it. Do you think I’d gyp myself out of all that dough just for the joy of shooting him?”
“He must have had the money there for you. No one has mentioned it. Don’t you think it was stolen?”
I took a quick step back. It was like running into a punch in the face.
“That’s it!” I exclaimed. “That’s why he was shot! Someone knew he was going to give me the money, and laid for him!”
“Yes,” she said, but she still didn’t look at me.
For a moment I didn’t get it, then I grabbed and shook her.
“So you think I took it? You think I went up there and shot Brett so I could have the dagger and the money? Is that it?”
“Please, darling . . . you’re hurting me.”
Then it came to me.
“Gorman!” I exclaimed. “He knew. I told him! He knew I was going out there. He knew Brett was going to pay me twenty-five grand. I told him, like the dope I am. He could have fixed it. He could have gone out there and shot Brett, knowing I’d be around to take the rap. It was Gorman!”
She suddenly became as excited as I, and caught hold of me.
“Oh, darling, tell me you didn’t do it. No, don’t! I can see now you didn’t. What a fool I’ve been! I thought — but never mind what I thought. I’ve been so worried. Forgive me, darling. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I said and pulled her to me. “It was Gorman. It must have been Gorman.”
“We’ll talk as we go. We must get on, Floyd. Look, it’s nearly light.”