The Getaway

6

Doc McCoy's greatest vice and major virtue was his sureness. He had been right so often and so long that he could not conceive the possibility of being anything else. Genially, he might charge himself with error, good-naturedly accept the blame for another's mistake. But that was just Doc-part of his masquerade. In his heart he was never wrong-never, that is, about anything that really mattered. And to have a doubt raised as to whether he had actually killed Rudy-a thing at once simple yet vital-made him as near to angry as he ever came.

"I'll tell you, Carol," he said, a trace of fiddle-string tightness in his voice. "I don't know who shot those two cops. I don't care. All I know is that it was not done by Rudy Torrento."

"Well-if you say so, Doc. But…"

"Look at it this way. I wasn't a great deal farther from Rudy than I am from you. Suppose I decided to plug you right now. Do you think I'd kill you or not?"

Carol laughed uneasily. He was smiling at her; joking, of course. No one knew better than she how much Doc thought of her, the lengths he was willing to go to for her sake. But if she hadn't known-if she hadn't been sure that Doc wanted and needed her just as much after the bank robbery as before…

The thought nettled her. She spoke in a tone, a manner, that was almost an identical match for his. "Suppose I decided to plug you right now," she said, smiling, playful-steady-eyed. "Do you think I'd kill you or not?"

"I'm sorry," Doc said warmly. "To answer your question-I wouldn't blame you if you did exactly like that."

"I don't like being shut up, Doc. I don't intend to be."

"And you're quite right, my dear."

"So don't talk to me that way again. Never, ever, understand? I know you didn't mean it like it sounded, but…"

Doc turned the car off onto a country road. Stopping just over the crest of a little hill, he turned silently and took his wife into his arms. He kissed her, drew her more and more tightly to him. He kissed her again, his sure hands pressing and caressing her small hard-soft body.

And afterward, as they drove on, they were again one with each other; each an extension of the other.

Their brief flare-up was forgotten. There was no more mention of Rudy. Carol was glad to be convinced, to be sure that Rudy was dead.

Mostly they were silent, happy and content merely to be together. But as the sun sank lower in the sky, there was more talk of Beynon. The man-his motives, rather-still bothered Doc. It was difficult to believe that the parole chief meant to grab all the bank loot, instead of the relatively small share he had agreed to accept. To think that such a man would commit murder-as he would have to-for any amount of money was nothing short of ridiculous. On the other hand, was it any more ridiculous than his ostensible sellout-at the risk of his career and reputation-for a mere pittance?

Carol was of little help with the riddle. She seemed indifferent to its answer; a little bored, dully withdrawn. Then, a few miles from Beynon's place she brightened, turned almost gaily to her husband. "I've got an idea, Doc. Let me take Beynon his fifteen grand."

"You?" Doc gave her a quick glance. "Without me, you mean?"

"Yes. You take the money satchel, and…"

"And just where would I take it to? Where would I wait? At the side of the road, or at one of these little inland villages-some wide place in the road where every stranger gets the big-eye and maybe an interview by the town clown?"

"We can work it out. Please, Doc. What do you say?"

"That I can't believe you're serious," said Doc evenly. "I appreciate your concern for me, of course, but-" he shook his head. "It just wouldn't do, lamb. As I mentioned before, if Beynon is planning something, we've got to know about it now. We've got to get it settled now."

"I could settle it."

"But he wouldn't bring things to a showdown if you were by yourself. In any event, the kind of settlement-if one is necessary-is something I'd want to decide on myself."

Carol started to say something else, then shrugged and lapsed into silence. Doc lighted a cigarette and extended the package, and she shook her head wordlessly.

They skirted a small village, its church spires poking up through a grove of trees. Doc slowed the car to make a quick study of the road map, then resumed his former speed. A few miles farther on, he turned into a narrow dirt road which stretched ribbonlike up through the hills.

It was less than an hour before sunset now, and a chill southwesterly wind was stirring. Back in the hills, Doc got an occasional glimpse of a ranch house or an outbuilding. He didn't like that. In this isolated area their car could be seen for a very long ways, and one as conspicuous as theirs was certain to be remembered.

The trail met with another. At the rutted intersection, two mailboxes stood catercornered to each other. On one of them, crudely printed in black paint, was the name Beynon. Doc stopped the car and looked carefully around the lonely, rolling terrain.

Apparently the intersection was not visible from either of the two houses which must be nearby. He considered this fact, murmuring absently that Beynon's place should be just over the next hill to their right.

Carol responded with a murmur of agreement. Doc scratched his cheek thoughtfully, then reached into the back of the car and lifted the money satchel into the front seat.

He opened it, sorted out fifteen thousand dollars and put it in the inside pocket of his coat. Then, as long as it was something that needed to be done anyway, he gave Carol a few hundred dollars in small bills, stuffed his wallet with a few hundred more, and assembled a third sheaf totaling perhaps a thousand. This was scat money-dough to be kept readily available. Doc fastened it together with two of the bank's paper money bands, laid it in right at the top of the suitcase and closed and locked it again.

Then he got out, unlocked the trunk and put the suitcase inside. He did not lower the trunk lid immediately; instead, catching Carol's eye in the rearview mirror, he gave her a grin and a wink.

"That idea of yours," he smiled. "If you don't mind a variation of it, along with a little cramping."

Carol's face lit up. She hopped out of the car and came around to the rear; pulling the gun from her belt, she checked its chamber with two crisp metallic clicks before shoving it back into place. The action sent a frown flickering through Doc's eyes. He laid a hand on her arm as she started to climb into the trunk.

She was to take it very easy, he cautioned. To do nothing without his lead. Beynon was not a killer. He was a very prominent man. And they-she and Doc- had a long way to travel.

Carol nodded that she understood. She climbed into the trunk, and Doc lowered the lid, leaving the lock off the latch.

As he had supposed, Beynon's place was only a few hundred yards away, just over the crest of the nearest hill. The house was one of those old-fashioned ranch dwellings, two-storied and painted white, with a long veranda or «gallery» extending across the front.

Down the slope to the rear of the house was a large red barn, now partitioned down one side to provide a garage for Beynon's car. Adjoining it was a plank corral, which opened at the far end into a lushly grassed pasture. Grazing in it were a couple of riding horses and a few head of white-faced cattle. Beynon kept no employees; the ranch, if it could be called that, was merely a hobby with him. When business affairs took him away, a neighbor looked after his small amount of livestock.

Doc parked the car in the yard beneath a gnarled cottonwood tree. He got out, casually brushing at his clothes, and looked around. It was very quiet. The big old house, with its shadow-black windows, seemed never to have been occupied. Beynon's car-a threeyear-old model-was in the garage, but there was no sign of him.

Doc strolled across the yard, whistling tunelessly, softly. He stepped up on the porch. The front door was open. Through the screen he called, "Beynon," and stood waiting, listening. There was no answer-no sound. But that in itself, the no-sound, the complete silence, was an answer.

Doc opened the screen. He slammed it again-from the outside. Then he stepped down from the porch and strode silently around the house to the back door. It also stood open, and the screen was unlatched. He peered in, eyes squinting against the shadows. With a soft sigh, he walked in.

Beynon sat at the long kitchen table, his head pillowed in his arms. On the checkered oilcloth in front of him was a tipped-over glass, and a half-empty quart bottle of whiskey.

Drunk, Doc thought, with less tolerance than was customary to him. The great man had troubles, so he got drunk.

Picking up a glass from the sink, he walked around the table and sat down opposite the parole chief. He poured himself a drink, took a sip of it, and lighted a cigarette. Deliberately he spewed smoke at the man across from him-it was probably the least startling way of any to wake him up. Beynon's head, with its wild mass of black hair, jerked irritably; then, abruptly, he sat up.

Except for a very faint thickness of speech, he seemed quite sober. Either he had spilled much more of the whiskey than he had drunk, or he had slept it off. His burning, black eyes were clear. They were as contemptuous, as knowing of Doc as they had been back at the prison.

Doc smiled, made a small gesture with his glass. "I hope you don't mind? It's been a rather trying day."

"Where's your wife?" Beynon said.

"We're traveling in different cars. She'll be along in an hour or so."

"How nice of her," Beynon said in his rich, musical voice. "How very, very nice of her to come to see me." He poured himself a drink, threw it down at a gulp. "Or perhaps she isn't," he said. "Perhaps her comings and goings have ceased for all time."

Doc shrugged idly. "If you're inferring that I killed her…"

"Where's Rudy, McCoy? Where's your friend Torrento? He's in another car, too?"

"Yes. And neither he nor the car is moving, in case you're interested. I thought you'd be primarily interested in knowing that I have the bank money in my car."

This was bait. Beynon didn't rise to it. Doc waved it at him again.

"You've received five thousand dollars from me, from my wife rather. I agreed to pay fifteen thousand more. Frankly-" Doc turned on his sincerest look, "frankly, I don't think that's enough, Mr. Beynon. We didn't get as much out of this job as we hoped to, but that's no fault of yours. And…"

"Three people have been killed so far, McCoy. Whose fault would you say that was?"

"Oh, now-" Doc spread his hands. "You mustn't feel…"

"Car-your wife told me that no one would be killed. She swore to it."

"I'm sorry. I imagine she was simply trying to spare your feelings. But getting back to the subject…"

"It's still murder, McCoy. How many more will there be before all this is over? If it is ever all over. How many more lives will I have on my hands?"

Doc hesitated, started to attempt some soothing comment. Then he leaned forward a little, spoke with abrupt bluntness. Beynon, he said, had best stop fretting about others. He had,or would have, plenty to worry about on his own account. "It's just a matter of time until the Beacon City job is pinned on me. When it is, the man responsible for my pardon-you, in other words-will have some very tough questions to answer."

"And there's just one answer for them. That I'm a murderer and a thief." Beynon looked at him strangely; a dully wondering look. "So you did anticipate it. You knew exactly what it would cost me. My career, disgrace, disbarment. Maybe a long stretch in prison myself. You knew all that, and yet-yet…"

"Now, you're exaggerating the situation," Doc cut in smoothly. "You'll have an uncomfortable time of it, but it won't be nearly as bad as that. You've got a lot of friends, a simon-pure reputation. It's an accepted fact that you've never taken a dishonest dime in your life. Under the…"

"Never a dime, McCoy?" Beynon laughed thickly. "You wouldn't say I'd taken about thirty of them?"

"I was saying," Doc said, "that under the circumstances you should come through this fine. About the worst you can be charged with is gross bad judgment."

He paused, frowning slightly as Beynon laughed again. Faintly, almost lost in the night breeze, he heard a metallic squeak. The opening-or perhaps the closing-of the car's trunk.

"Bad judgment," he repeated, his eyes holding the parole chief's. "Now, that's not so terrible, is it? It shouldn't be so hard to face considering that instead of fifteen thousand more, you'regetting-well-twentyseven and a half?"

"Twenty-seven and a half, eh?" Beynon nodded gravely. "Twenty-seven thousand, five hundred just for facing that. And how much do you think I should have McCoy, for facing myself?"

"Nothing," Doc said. "Not a damn penny."

He was tired, weary of coddling Beynon. He saw no reason to. The man wasn't going to do anything rash; he wasn't going to do anything period. He simply wanted to whine-make a big display of the conscience which had been conveniently asleep at the time he had sold out his office.

"You're a crook," Doc went on. "A particularly rotten kind. Now, stop fighting the fact.Just accept it, and make the most of it. Believe me, you won't find it so bad."

"I see." A skull's grin wreathed Beynon's haggard face. "You see us as two of a kind, is that it?"

"No," Doc said equably, "you're much worse than I am. You knew the kind of man I was-and I've never pretended to be any other kind. You knew, if you're not a complete idiot, that I play rough when I think it's necessary. You didn't have to give me a pardon; no one twisted your arm. You did it for money, and damned little of it at that. The kind of money that-yes?"

Beynon's grin had widened. He said softly, "Now, aren't you mistaken about that, McCoy? Wasn't there another factor involved, and did I have a choice?"

"I don't know what it would be."

"No," Beynon nodded slowly. "No, you really don't, do you? I was certain that you did, that it was a put-up job. I was convinced of it, despite some very wishful thinking to the contrary. But now-a small drink, Mr. McCoy? Or, no, I think the circumstances call for a large one."

With grave courtesy, he slopped whiskey into Doc's glass. Then he filled his own, pursing his lips sympathetically as Doc brushed the drink aside. "I don't blame you a bit, sir. Oh, believe me, I understand your feelings. You might say they were identical with my own at one time."

"I'm in a hurry," Doc snapped. "What are you talking about?"

"You still don't see it? Well, perhaps it will help if I mention the word blackmail."

"Blackmail? What…"

"A highly original kind, Mr. McCoy. Almost an attractive kind. To elaborate, one is forced to go along with the wishes of the blackmailer, whether or no. But the mailed fist-or should I say the muddy fist? — also contains a prize; something delectable indeed. One is even allowed to sample it generously, by way of making sure that it is worth the cooperation which one is forced to extend…"

He let his voice trail away. He waited deliberately, prolonging the delicate torture, deepening the sickish heart-tightening suspense. Then, although nothing more needed to be said, he resumed talking. He spelled the thing out, speaking with a false sympathy that was worse than any hatred. Speaking with lewdly gleaming eyes, his wide mouth salaciously wet.

He's drunk, Doc thought. He's lying. He's sore, so he's striking back, digging at the one spot where it will hurt.

In the whispering twilight there was a minutely exploratory movement of the screen door. His attention riveted on Beynon, Doc didn't hear it.

"Take it a little at a time," Beynon was saying. "Approach the matter from all sides. One-" he held up a finger, waggled it in pseudo-courtroom fashion. "One, we have an extremely attractive woman, one who has thoroughly demonstrated her desirability. Two-" he put up a second finger, "we have the woman's husband, probably the most skillful bank robber in the country, who is serving a long prison sentence. Three-" another finger, "we have a powerful politician, a man who is in a position to free the robber husband. Why should he be freed? Well, naturally, to rob a bank, thus leaving the woman and the politicion comfortably fixed for life, the ill winds peculiar to public office notwithstanding. Secondly- would you care to guess at a second-but by no means the lesser-motive, Mr. McCoy? No? Very well, then…"

His voice purred on, pushing and twisting the knife; moving Doc McCoy off balance, hacking away at the one thing he had trusted and believed in.

"Consider, Mr. McCoy. Our robber is notoriously ingenious and deadly. He is also devoted to his wife. If he lost her to another man, he would quite likely kill both of them at the soonest opportunity-at the end of his prison sentence, that is. This didn't appeal to them at all, of course. Yet unless they gave each other up and resigned themselves to a life of modest or no comforts, there was only one alternative. To free the bank robber, let him make them wealthy, and then, having lured him to an isolated spot such as this…"

Beynon leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh conspiratorial whisper. "Then, Mr. McCoy, when he is off guard, when he is no longer sure of where he stands, whether he is captured or captor, when, being sure, he still would not dare to move; then, Mr. McCoy-_kill him!_

Doc heard the screen at last. Heard it close-firmly, with no attempt at silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carol move out of the shadows. And he saw the gun, held very steady, in her hand.

Was it pointed at him? If he moved, would it be pointed at him-blasting him into oblivion before his move could be completed?

It would, he was sure. Carol was practical. She could be as merciless as he. Undoubtedly she had heard much if not all that Beynon had said. If she thought that he, Doc, believed the man-and was he so hard to believe? mustn't there be a great deal of truth in what he said-if she thought that he believed Beynon, and was about to act accordingly…

He didn't know what to do. With extreme cleverness-or with drunken, conscience-stricken truthfulness-Beynon had so fixed things that any move or no move could be fatal.

"This-this is stupid," he said, his voice amused but deeply sincere; making the words at once a statement and a plea. "Did you really think I'd fall for a sucker pitch like that?"

"A trick question," Beynon pointed out promptly. "You don't know whether it is or isn't a sucker pitch. To be fair, neither do I. Obviously, I believed little Carol-our Carol, shall I say? — at one time. But with three men killed in spite of her promise that there would be none-well, was just that one promise of hers a lie or were all of them? Another thing…"

"That's enough," Doc broke in. "It was a good try, Beynon but…"

"Another thing-" Beynon raised his voice. "She may have been entirely sincere and truthful with me. It may be that she just didn't know there would be three murders-in addition, of course, to your own. But seeing my dismay at the killings, and fearful that I might be a frail reed to tie to…"

It was wicked, cruel. And still he wasn't through. Beaming falsely, he drove home the final nail in Doc's cross of doubt.

"Carol, sweetheart-" Beynon pushed back his chair and stood up, extended one arm in an embracing gesture. "I hope you won't think ill of her, Mr. McCoy. After all, you were locked up for a long time-your first separation since your marriage, wasn't it? — and she's a healthy, vigorous young woman with perhaps more than her share of…"

Carol let out a low moan. She came at him with a rush, and jammed the gun into his stomach. And the room rocked with its stuttering explosions.

Beynon shrieked wildly; it sounded strangely like laughter. He doubled at the waist, in the attitude of a man slapping his knees; then collapsed, dead, riddled with bullets, before his body completed its somersault.

The gun dropped from Carol's fingers. She stood very straight, eyes squeezed shut, and wept helplessly.

"He-he was lying, Doc. The mean, h-hateful, dirty-! I wish I could kill him again…"

"There, there now. Don't let it throw you." Doc held her in his arms, caressed her with hands that were still damp with sweat. "I'll get you a drink of the booze here, and…"

"He was lying, Doc! Y-you believe me, don't you? There wasn't anything at all like-like he said."

"Of course there wasn't," Doc said warmly. "I never thought for a moment that there was."

"I–I was just friendly, i-just pretended to be. I couldn't help it. I had to be nice, make him want to know me, or he wouldn't have…"

It was a moment before Doc realized that she was talking about only the one facet of Beynon 's story: her supposed or actual infidelity. That was all that bothered her, all that she was denying. Which must mean there was nothing else to deny.

It was a comforting thought, and he hugged her to him fiercely with a kind of shamed ardor. Then he realized that if the undisputed part of the story was false, the other must be true. And he had to fight to keep from shoving her away.

"T-that's why I didn't want to come here, Doc. I–I was afraid he'd say something-rn-make up a lot of lies, just to get even with me, and

Doc sat down on a chair and pulled her onto his lap. Smiling lovingly, he got her to take a drink, gently dried her tears with his handkerchief.

"Now, let's look at it this way," he said. "You wanted to get me out. The only way you could do it was to compromise him, so-wait, now! There had to be something between you. After all, if you didn't have a club to swing over his head, how — .

He broke off. The look in her eyes stopped him. He forced a laugh which sounded reasonably genuine, then stood up, lifting her in his arms.

"A very clever man," he smiled. "It's hard not to admire him. But I think we've let his gag bother us enough, so suppose we forget it?"

Carol brightened a little. "Then you do believe me, Doc?"

"Believe you?" Doc said warmly. "Now, why wouldn't I believe you, my dear?"

He carried her upstairs and laid her down on a bed. She clung to his hand when he started to straighten, made him sit down at her side while she told him how she had compromised Beynon. It sounded reasonable. Doc seemed satisfied. Urging Carol to try to rest, he went back downstairs and lugged Beynon's body down into the basement.

It was the work of a few minutes to bury the corpse in the coal bin. Afterward he stood at the corner sink, scrubbing his hands and arms with gritty mechanics' soap, drying them on a handful of waste cloth. Then, lost in thought, he remained where he was, a brooding shadow in the near blackness of the basement.

Carol. Why couldn't he accept her explanation? Beynon was a hard drinker at times. Carol had had to call at his apartment to talk to him. So, playing upon his weakness, she had got him so drunk that he passed out. And he was still dead to the world early the next morning when she slipped out of the place. That was all she had had to do, except, of course, to make sure that she was seen coming and going by the elevator operator and desk clerk. That was all-more than enough. For a man of Beynon's prominence-the head of the state's pardon and parole board-to have the wife of a notorious criminal in his apartment for an all-night stay…

Nothing else was necessary, so doubtless nothing else had taken place. As for the bribe money-well, as long as Beynon was stuck, there was no point in refusing a bit of salve.

It all fitted, Doc thought. Yet piece by piece, item by item, he could knock it apart. His mind moved around and around in a circle, disbelieving each time it was on the point of believing.

He was ready to admit that his shaky faith was a personal thing. As a professional criminal, he had schooled himself against placing complete trust in anyone. And as a criminal, he had learned to link infidelity with treachery. It revealed either a dangerous flaw in character, or an equally dangerous shift in loyalties. In any case, the woman was a bad risk in a game where no risk could be tolerated.

So…

Abruptly, Doc broke the agonizing circle of his thoughts. He stood off from himself, standing this fretful, teetering creature that he was now alongside the suave, sure and unshakable Doc McCoy; and the comparison made him squirm.

Now, no more of this, he lectured himself; he smiled softly. No more, either now or later.

Carol had mopped up the kitchen. Now she was at the oil stove, measuring coffee into an enamel pot. Doc walked over to her and put his arms around her. She turned hesitantly, a little fearfully, and looked up into his face.

Doc kissed her enthusiastically. He said mockseriously, "Madam, were you aware that you had a damn fool for a husband?"

"Oh, Doc! Doc, honey!" She clung to him, burying her face against his chest. "It's my fault. I wanted to tell you the truth right back in the beginning but…"

"But you were afraid I'd react exactly the way I did," Doc said. "That coffee smells good. How about some sandwiches to go with it?"

"All right. But shouldn't we be beating it out of here, Doc?"

"Well," Doc grinned wryly, "of course, I wouldn't recommend an indefinite stay. But there's no great rush that I can see." He sauntered over to the refrigerator, peered inside and lifted out a butt of baked ham. "Beynon wouldn't have known exactly when we'd show up. Therefore, he'd have made sure that no one else dropped in on him tonight."

"I guess I shouldn't have killed him, should I, Doc? It's going to make things tough for us."

Doc laid plates and silver on the table. He set out butter and bread. He said that Beynon's death was regrettable but unavoidable; when an accessory to a crime collapsed so completely, there was nothing to do but kill him. "I don't know just how tough it'll make things for us. Maybe not at all. But it certainly forces us to change our plans."

Carol nodded, and lifted the coffee from the stove. "Want to put the cream on for me, honey?" she said; then, "Just how will it change them?"

"Well, here's the way I add it up." Doc sat down at the table, and carved meat onto their plates. "Our car must have been spotted on the way up here. At least we have to assume that it was. Still playing it safe, we can't rule out the possibility that someone got a look at us. Maybe some kid stalking a rabbit near the road, or a nosy housewife with time on her hands and a pair of binoculars…"

"It could happen," Carol agreed. "We change out of these duds, then. Leave our car here and take Beynon's."

"Right. We try to make it appear that the three of us have gone off somewhere together, and that we'll be coming back. But-" Doc took a sip of his coffee. "Here's where the rub comes in. We don't know what Beynon's plans were, his appointments. For all we know he may have been due to see or call someone tomorrow morning, or someone may have been scheduled to see or call him here. Then there's the livestock- that's the real tip-off. When Beynon shows up missing, without having notified his part-time hired hand-" Doc shook his head. "We'll have to get off the road. We can't risk it a moment longer than we absolutely have to."

"No, we can't, can we?" Carol frowned. "We hole up with someone, then?"

"What gave you that idea? Who would we hole up with?"

"Well, Ijust thought that if-weren't you supposed to have a good friend out this way? Somewhere near Mexico, I mean? You know, that old woman-Ma Santis."

Doc said, regretfully, that he didn't have. Ma Santis was on the other side of Mexico, the Southern California side. At least, it had been rumored that she was there, although no one seemed to know where. "I don't know that she's even alive, but it's my guess that she probably isn't. When you get as well known as Ma Santis and her boys, people have you cropping up around the country for years after you're dead."

"Well. If there's no place for us to hole up…"

"I think we'd better be moving." Doc pushed back his plate and stood up. "We can talk about it while we're getting ready."

They cleared up the dishes and put them away. They changed into conservative clothes. As for talk- a discussion of their plans-there was very little. The decision was made for them. One saw it as readily as the other. They had to travel far faster than they had planned, and it was unsafe to use the highways. So there was only one thing they could do.

Aside from putting the kitchen to rights and smoothing out the upstairs bed, they did nothing to expunge the signs of their brief presence in the house. Doc did suggest that they wipe everything off to remove their fingerprints, but that was a joke and Carol grinned dutifully. Criminals are not nearly so cautious about fingerprints as is popularly supposed. Not, at least, the big-time operators who treat crime as a highly skilled profession. They know that an expert fingerprint man might work all day in his own home without picking up an identifiable set of his own prints. They also know that fingerprints are normally only corroborative evidence; that they will probably be tabbed for a certain crime, and the alarm set to ringing for them,long before they are tied to the job by fingerprints-if they ever are.

Doc filled Beynon's car with gasoline from a drum in the garage, also filling two five-gallon cans which he put in the rear of the car. He drove the car out into the yard, and Carol drove the convertible inside; and then they were on their way.

A couple of hours driving got them off of the country roads and back onto the highway. They paused there briefly to consult their road maps, picking out the most practical route to Kansas City. The town was far to the north, farther rather than nearer their ultimate destination. But that, of course, was its advantage. It was the last place they would be expected to go. As a jumping-off place, it offered no clue as to what their destination might be.

Their plan was to abandon the car at Kansas City and take a train westward. It was not, they knew, an ideal one. You are confined on a train. You are part of a relatively small group, and thus more easily singled out. Still, there was only one alternative-to go by plane-and a train was by far the best bet.

The night was chill, and speeding north it grew colder. In the heaterless car Carol shivered and snuggled close to her husband. He patted her protectively, remarked that it was a shame they had had to give up the convertible. "It was a nice car. I imagine you put a lot of thought into picking it out, didn't you?"

"Oh, well-" Carol's small shoulder shrugged against his. "It was nice of you to say that, Doc," she added. "Even to think about me being disappointed or uncomfortable at a time like this."

Doc said it was nothing at all; it came perfectly natural to anyone as generally splendid as he. Carol reproved him with a delicate pinch.

They rode cozily shoulder to shoulder, and somehow, despite the dropping temperature, the car seemed to grow warmer. Carol was comfortably pert. Doc was Doc; tender, amusing, restful-exuding the contagious good humor of complete self-confidence.

So it had been on nights past. The good nights (the good seems always to be in the past) before Doc's prison stretch. Just what broke the spell Carol could not have said. But gradually she found herself withdrawing; moving over to her own side of the seat. Gradually she began to study Doc's words, the tone of his voice, the play of expression over his homelyhandsome face.

Doc may or may not have noticed the change-may or may not have without knowing which was the case. Characteristically, and up to a point, he did not always allow himself to know what he thought or what he felt. He had come to a decision, decided on a certain course of conduct. If an obstacle could not be circumvented, ignore it. As long as it could be. Or until a better course suggested itself.

A couple of hours before dawn, he refueled the car from the two gas cans. Driving on again, he at last asked Carol if something was troubling her. "If I've done or said anything…"

"You haven't," she said."! suppose that that's- well, never mind. Don't pay any attention to me, Doc."

"Now, of course, I'll pay attention to you," Doc said genially. "Now and at all other times. So let's get this thing straightened out, whatever it is."

"Well, it's really nothing, but-" she hesitated, laughed with nervous apology. "I guess it just occurred to me that if you-if you felt a certain way, I probably wouldn't know it."

"Yes?" His voice tilted upward. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I'm talking about Beynon!"

"Beynon?" He gave her a curious look. "But what's there to say about him? You explained everything. I believed you. It's all settled."

Silence closed over the car again. They raced through the headlight-tunneled night, and the black walls slapped shut behind them. Time and space were the immediate moment. Behind and beyond it there was only the darkness.

Doc shifted in the seat and got cigarettes out of his pocket. He lighted two of them and passed one to her. And after a time, after it was finished, she drew close to him again.

He drew her a trifle closer. He pulled the tail of his topcoat from beneath him and tucked it over her knees.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Better," she nodded. Because it was. It was warmer. Friend or foe, there was at least someone with her, and anything was better than the utter loneliness.

"I understood what you were talking about," he went on quietly. "I simply didn't know how to reply to it. Or what to do about it."

"I know, Doc."

"It leaves me without a corner to go to. If I'm agreeable, it's pretense. If I'm not, that also is cause for alarm. You see, my dear? You just can't think that way. It's foolish and it's dangerous, and-you do see that don't you?"

"I see it," she nodded; and then desperately, with what was almost a cry, "Then it is all right, Doc? Honestly? You're not sore or suspicious about- anything? Everything's just like it always was?"

"I said so. I've done everything I could to show you."

"But you might do that anyway! You might act just as sweet as pie, and all the time you'd be planning t-to-to…"

"Carol," said Doc soothingly. "My poor darling little girl."

And she sobbed harshly, sighed, and fell asleep against his shoulder.