Cade rubbed his hand across his face.
“And if I don’t, I’m not?”
Mathison regarded him thoughtfully, then he picked up a blue pencil and began slashing at some copy lying on his desk. It was his well-known symbol of a finished conversation.
Cade sat thinking for a long moment. The Kiss of Death, he said to himself, but there was a small spark of self-respect still left in him and the whisky had fanned it alight.
“Okay. Get the ticket,” he said. “I’ll be ready to travel tomorrow,” and moving unsteadily, he walked with drunken dignity out of the office.
As Cade walked across the tarmac towards Eastonville’s Airport building he could see the distant column of smoke fanning out against the cloudless sky. The light over the Airport was strange and rather sinister, like that from an eclipse.
The other two passengers who had travelled with him were ahead of him. They walked briskly, men with a purpose, in step, their thick arms swinging.
Cade didn’t hurry. The day was hot and humid and the sling bag he carried over his shoulder was heavy. Besides, he had a fearful reluctance about leaving the airport. He knew he should go straight to the fire, but he flinched from this. He told himself that he would go to the hotel, and find out what was actually happening in the town. But first, he must have a drink.
He walked into the cool, dimly lit lobby of the Airport building. It was deserted but for the two passengers who now stood by the entrance across the lobby, talking to a tall, powerfully-built man in a short-sleeved, open-neck sports shirt and faded khaki slacks.
Cade briefly glanced at the three men, then walked into the bar to his left. This too was deserted. The barman, balding and middle-aged, was reading a newspaper.
Controlling the eagerness in his voice, Cade asked for a straight Scotch. The barman stared curiously at him, then poured a shot from a bottle with a White Horse label. He pushed the drink towards Cade.
Cade lowered his overnight bag to the floor. With an unsteady hand, he lit a cigarette. The effort he had to make not to pick up the drink brought him out in a heavy sweat. He compelled himself to smoke for a moment or so, to tap ash into the glass ashtray, then trying to be very casual, he picked up the drink and sipped it.
“You just got in?” the barman asked.
Cade looked at him, feeling himself cringe, then he looked away. He finished his drink before saying, “That’s right.”
“I reckon folks should have more sense than to come to this town today when they ain’t wanted,” the barman said.
Cade needed another drink badly, but he sensed this bald barman was itching to make trouble. Reluctantly, he put money on the bar counter, picked up his bag and started down the long room towards the exit. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the man in the sports shirt and faded khaki slacks standing in the doorway as if waiting for him.
This man was around Cade’s age. His face was hard, red and fleshy. His eyes were steel grey, his nose chunky and his mouth thin. Clipped to the pocket of his shirt was a five-pointed, silver star.
When Cade finally reached him, the man made no move to get out of the way. Cade stopped, his mouth turning dry.
The man said quietly, “I am Deputy Sheriff Joe Schneider. Is your name Cade?”
Cade tried to force himself to meet the steel-grey eyes, but he had immediately to look away.
“That’s right,” he said and was horrified to see he was shuffling his feet.
“When a guy like you talks to me, he usually calls me Deputy,” Schneider said. “That’s the way I like it.”
Cade didn’t say anything. He was thinking now only of himself. A year ago he could have handled a situation like this with ease. In this moment of thought, he realised how far down the scale he had sunk. He was now so frightened that he couldn’t think of anything to say. The realisation of this fact sickened him.
“Val Cade, the so-called ace photographer of the New York Sun,” Schneider said in an offensive, sneering voice. “That right?”
“That’s my name, deputy,” Cade said.
“What’s your business in Eastonville, Cade?”
Cade thought: Tell him to drop dead. He can’t do a thing to you. He’s an official in this town. Even if he dared to start something, you could get him thrown out of his job. He’s bluffing. He’s trying to scare the hell out of you. Tell him...
He was horrified to hear himself say, “I’m here because I was told to be here, deputy. That doesn’t mean a thing. I’m not looking for trouble.”
Schneider cocked his head on one side.
“Is that right? I heard the Sun looked for trouble.”
“Maybe, but you won’t have trouble from me,” Cade said.
Schneider regarded him, his thumbs hooked in his belt.
“Tell me something, Cade. Why did they send a gutless lush like you down here? Tell me... it interests me.”
Cade wished he had had the courage to have ordered another drink. He now really needed that other drink.
“Tell me, Cade,” Schneider said and reaching forward, he gave Cade a slight shove on his chest, sending him staggering back a couple of feet.
Cade recovered his balance. He ran the back of his hand across his dry lips.
“I guess they picked the wrong man.” Then before he could stop himself, he went on, “I’m not taking any pictures, deputy, if that’s what is worrying you.”
Schneider looked him slowly up and down.
“Don’t you worry about what might worry me.
Where are you staying?”
“Central Motor Hotel.”
“When are you leaving?”
“The next plane out... 11:00 hrs. tomorrow morning.”
Schneider brooded for a long moment, his eyes contemptuous, then he shrugged.
“What are we waiting for? Come on, Cade. I’ll see you fixed up.”
As they walked together across the lobby, Schneider said suddenly, “What is in the bag, Cade?”
“My things.”
“Got a camera in there?”
Cade came to an abrupt standstill. A flash of madness came into his eyes as he faced Schneider who, startled, took a quick step away from him.
“You touch my camera,” Cade said in a soft, hysterical scream, “and you’ll have a goddamn war in your goddamn lap!”
“Who said anything about touching your camera?” Schneider said, his hand dropping on the butt of his gun. “I didn’t. So what are you yelling about?”
“Don’t just touch it... that’s all,” Cade said in a more controlled voice.
Schneider recovered from his surprise.
“Come on. What are we hanging around here for?”
Cade started unsteadily again towards the entrance doors. He felt suddenly sick and faint. This outburst of his had been so spontaneous that it frightened and shocked him.
Out in the smoky, humid air, Schneider signalled towards a dusty Chevrolet, parked across the way in the shade. The car was driven over by a young, alert looking man wearing a similar getup as Schneider’s and a similar silver star pinned to his shirt pocket. His narrow face was deeply tanned by the sun. His dark little eyes were as expressionless as wet stones.
“Ron, this is Cade, one time ace photographer. Maybe you have heard of him. He isn’t looking for trouble,” Schneider said. “Take him to his hotel. He’s leaving on the eleven o’clock plane tomorrow morning. Keep him company until he leaves.” To Cade, he went on, “This is Ron Mitchell. He hates nigger-lovers. He hates trouble-makers. He hates lushes... particularly lushes.” He grinned. “Don’t irritate him. He hates being irritated.”
Mitchell leaned forward and peered through the open window at Cade, then he glared at Schneider.
“If you think I’m going to sit with this stinking drunk until tomorrow morning, Joe,” he said viciously, “you need your head examined.”