The waiter came and Otto gave him two dollar bills and waved away change and got out of the place and back to his car as quickly as he could without running.
He sat in the car without turning on the lights. The quiet and the darkness helped him to think. And, as he thought, the worst of his fear subsided, to be replaced by a great thankfulness that he had happened to overhear the idle words which had shown him the danger in time.
Because it was in time. Altinger could not yet be free; the Machine was not yet in motion—and what he must do was to warn Waldemar and make certain that Clare’s safety was sure and then return to the prepared steps of his plan.
How should he warn Waldemar? Over the telephone? He could, because Waldemar would understand the guarded sort of talk he would have to use. Or should he—better, far better!—make swift alteration in the campaign and carry out the business with the two cars as planned but then drive north-west instead of south and go by Los Robles and deliver the warning in person and . . . and see Clare again as he did so?
Yes: that was it. It was safe and right—and he would see Clare.
He started the car and switched on his lights and drove away, uptown, towards the
His nearest way would take him right across the busy intersection of which the office building was the north-east cornerstone. He used this way now, though earlier he had not intended to do so. The light was green, and he shot across the main road and then slackened as he entered the familiar block of June Street and leaned across the seat and peered up, just to check, at Altinger’s window.
It was shaded still—but there was bright light behind the shade!
The car lurched—and he pulled it straight as he sat up with panic wrapping cold fingers around his entrails. Out of the corner of his eye, he tried to see the doorway to the office building, but the car was too far past by now and he dared not check nor stop. He drove on, slowly increasing speed. His mind raced, trying against deadly fear to be cold and direct and certain.
Altinger could neither have worked himself loose nor attracted attention: someone, by some frightful mischance, had gone to the office, and now Altinger was free! How long had he been free?
The clock on the dashboard said eight-thirty. He had left Altinger and the office building at twenty-five minutes past six and looked back from the corner and seen the lank, unlighted window. So that, conceivably, Altinger could have been free for over two hours! And an hour for Altinger, working at pressure, was half a day for other men!
He must find a telephone. At once he must find a telephone—as soon as he had made sure and doubly sure that he was not followed. He began, driving as fast as he dared, to weave a maze about the hilly streets. He turned left three times and right a couple; then four times right and one left and then straight ahead and around a block and back upon his own tracks. And then he found a narrow street which rose more steeply than the others and turned into it and drove uphill and then stopped and pulled in to the curb and watched in his rear mirror for pursuers.
But there were none. There were no cars at all—and very soon he slipped in his gear and climbed the hill and turned west and reached a more populous district and put the car into a park beside a petrol station and ran to a chemist’s upon the other side of the street and shut himself into the telephone booth and put through a long-distance call to Los Robles.
He waited for age-long minutes.
“Hehlo!” said the operator. “Hehlo: on your call to Palitos three-one, sir, there seems to be trrouble on that line! We cannot make a connection. . . .”
Otto put the receiver back upon its hook. His stomach felt like water and it seemed, difficult to breathe. He slammed open the door of the booth and ran out of it and across the road for his car.
He reached the highway crossroads outside the little rural town of Palitos in something over two hours. He drove with a coldly maniac precision of speed—and his self, it seemed to him, was always ahead of the flying wheels.
But he still thought. He did not drive into the village, but turned off before he reached it, along the narrow but well-paved branch road to Hudson. He was not followed: he made sure of that.
He was heading for the entry to Los Robles’ acres which Clare had shown him only a week ago. It was a hidden one—and only she and Waldemar used it. There was no gate, but a section of seemingly immovable fencing which one could lift and swing aside when one knew the trick. There was no track which was visible from the road, but as soon as one had bumped over the slight rise in the rolling pasture-land there was—and it stretched, narrow and winding but in good weather easily navigable, up and down over the waves of the foothills and thus into the oaks and through them to the house.