HE WATCHED THE BLOND girl slip the credit card and the sales voucher into the computer. Now she was attentively waiting, pen poised, while the machine began a series of preliminary clicks. The next seconds would be critical. If the card had been reported stolen—if Uncle Julian had betrayed him—he would probably first see it in her face: a flicker of the eye, a momentary tightening of the mouth as she glanced furtively toward him.
Another series of clicks. And, still, the girl’s broad, flat face registered nothing. It was a bovine face—a German peasant’s face, with its thick, flaxen hair and large, heavy jaw. Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder toward the nearest exit. Beyond the exit, an airport security guard stood beside a baggage rack, talking to a tall, stoop-shouldered skycap.
A final series of clicks, and the machine ejected the card and the voucher. The blond girl wrote on the voucher, smiled at him, and passed the voucher across the counter.
Uncle Julian had cooperated.
He signed the voucher, passed it back to her, then watched her eyes discreetly drop to the card and the voucher, comparing signatures. Now she smiled again, a trifle more cordially this time, and returned the credit card to him. The second copy of the voucher came next, for him to keep.
“You didn’t like the Datsun?” she asked.
“I like it, all right. But I need something a little bigger. Besides, I’ve always liked Fords.”
She nodded and gave him a set of keys. “If you’ll just go through there—” She pointed to a door marked Hertz—“they’ll get your car for you. I hope you like your Ford. And thank you for thinking of Hertz.”
He parked the Ford behind a white Volkswagen. With the engine still running, he moved across to the passenger’s seat and looked down the sidewalk toward the huge iron gate that marked the entrance to the Holloway estate. Yes, the angle was perfect. He could see the gates without being seen himself. He switched off the engine, turned off the lights and settled low in the passenger seat. The time was fifteen minutes after nine. Being careful to slide down in the seat when the sector car drove past, usually at thirty-minute intervals, he would wait until midnight, watching the entrance for any signs of unusual activity, especially police cars, with their telltale antennas and their grim, stolid passengers, always watchful. Tonight, he wouldn’t get out of the car, wouldn’t risk another brush with Holloway’s security men, some of them apparently posted on the outside perimeter of the eight-foot wall that surrounded the property.
Was Holloway inside? Or was he still at his office? Were they collecting the money, counting out the bills in neat stacks, then placing the stacks in the brown paper bag?
Or were they at police headquarters, making their plans for tomorrow? Were they—?
Behind him, headlights were coming, curving into the dark, deserted street. As the lights came closer, he lowered himself slowly in the seat. The car was abreast of him. Cautiously, he raised his head. It was a large, expensive car: a Cadillac, or a Lincoln. Not a police car. And, as he watched, the car swept past the gates without slowing down.
Once more, the darkness and the silence returned. The street was narrow and winding, lined on both sides with trees that grew down to the sidewalks. Only four gates interrupted the dark line of tall trees. In Beverly Hills, the rich valued their privacy—and paid for it handsomely.
Another car was coming from the opposite direction. Before he could shrink down in the seat, headlights shown suddenly in his windshield. Immobilized, he sat staring straight ahead. The car was slowing as it came closer. As the headlight glare passed, he could see lights and a siren mounted on the car’s roof. Directly opposite now, the police car was slowing, almost stopping. In the driver’s window, a small metallic tube gleamed. A flashlight flared, catching him full in the face. He started—blinked—then smiled into the blinding glare. For a long, breathless moment the flashlight beam held him helpless. Still smiling, he nodded—once, twice.
If Holloway had alerted the police, they would question him.
If they hadn’t been alerted, they would shine him and then move on.
Still smiling into the light, he unbuttoned his jacket and drew the .45 from his waistband. The pit of his stomach was clenching: a hollow knot of fear and trembling, suddenly nauseous. Behind the fixed smile, his throat suddenly clenched closed. With his right thumb, he drew back the pistol’s hammer: two clicks, incredibly loud in the silence. If they came for him, one on either side of the car, he would—
Darkness returned, as suddenly as the flashlight had flared. The patrol car was moving slowly forward, safely past him now. With trembling fingers, using both hands, he eased off the hammer and returned the .45 to his waistband, fumbling awkwardly as he buttoned his jacket.
In another half hour they would return. They would—
Behind him, more headlights appeared.
Was it the police car, returning from the opposite direction? Had they checked by radio with Holloway’s security men? Had they learned of the letter?
If it was the same car, he couldn’t slide down in the seat. He must sit as before, innocently turning his head toward the passing lights, pretending nothing more than casual curiosity.
The headlights were passing, revealing a Lincoln sedan. The car was slowing, turning toward the Holloway gate. Had the occupants seen him—recognized him? At the thought, he touched the ignition keys. If they got out of the car and came back toward him, he would start the engine and pull away. There would be enough time to do it safely, convincingly.
The gates were swinging ponderously open as a man emerged from the shadows inside the grounds. As the Lincoln moved through the gates, the man peered inside the car, nodded politely and stepped back.
The police didn’t drive Lincolns. And neither did the FBI, probably. And, besides, the driver was obviously known to the guard. Otherwise, plain clothesman or not, the driver would have been questioned.
Perhaps the son—Elton—drove this Lincoln. Perhaps the father and mother and son were inside the mansion now, conferring—deciding that, yes, they must pay the half million dollars.
After all, they might reason, it would all be in the family.
Smiling, he settled deeper in the seat.
By tomorrow at this time, he would be on an airplane to New York. He’d already bought the ticket—courtesy of Uncle Julian. At his feet, in a canvas bag he’d already bought—courtesy of Uncle Julian—he would be carrying a half million dollars in small, used bills, none larger than a fifty.
Tomorrow …
He’d memorized his schedule, hour by hour, minute by minute.
By seven A.M., he’d be at the airport, complaining to Hertz about the Ford. He’d get another car—a Chevrolet, or a Buick. Or, perhaps, he would rent a Cadillac, to blend better with Beverly Hills. At the thought, he smiled again. This time, a tittering sound escaped. He was nervous, then. It was understandable. Completely understandable.
An hour later, by eight o’clock, he’d be back at his post, watching the Holloway gate for any sign that the police had been called. His appearance would be different. For the first time since arriving in Los Angeles, he would be wearing a business suit—courtesy of Uncle Julian—and even an establishment hat. As insurance, tonight he would dye his hair a darker brown. He already had the dye, purchased two days ago.
He would wait until Holloway left in the chauffeur-driven Cadillac, bound for the Temple of Today. Still watching the mansion, he would allow a half hour to pass. Then he would drive to a nearby shopping center. Using a pay phone—one of several at the shopping center—he would call the Temple of Today, and ask for Holloway. Of course, the one that answered—Flournoy—would try to stall, possibly so the call could be traced. If—when—that happened, he would be ready with a reply. If Holloway didn’t talk to him, he’d say, then all bets were off. A half million dollars couldn’t square the debt, he’d say, if Holloway wouldn’t talk to him.
If Holloway wouldn’t talk to him—wouldn’t agree to his conditions for delivery of the money—then nothing could save him. Mere money wouldn’t be enough, after that.
Only death would be enough—Holloway’s death: a public sacrifice, on nationwide TV.