Schneider waved a placating hand.
“You don’t have to sit with him. Lock him in his room if you like. I don’t give a damn, but see he doesn’t get into trouble.”
Muttering under his breath, Mitchell opened the off-side door of the Chevrolet.
“Get in,” he snarled at Cade. “If you want trouble, I’ll give it to you!”
Cade got into the car and rested his bag on his knees. Mitchell stamped down on the gas pedal and the car jolted off towards the deserted highway. By the time they reached the highway the car was travelling at seventy miles an hour.
Cade stared through the windshield. There was no traffic. They met only one police car during the seven miles drive into town. As he drove, Mitchell kept cursing under his breath.
As they approached the outskirts of the town, Mitchell reduced speed. They drove down the main street. The shops were shut. No one walked the sidewalks. As they passed the main intersection, Cade saw a number of powerfully-built men standing in a silent group at the street corner. They were all swinging clubs and they had guns strapped to their hips.
Mitchell drove down a side street and pulled up outside the hotel.
The Central Motor Hotel was a modern, ten-storey building with a small grassed forecourt and a fountain. Balconies to every room overlooked the street.
As the two men walked up the steps to the hotel’s entrance, the doorman nodded to Mitchell and then stared curiously at Cade. Passing through the swing doors, they walked to the reception desk.
The clerk handed a registration card and a pen to Cade. Cade’s hand was so unsteady he had trouble filling in the necessary particulars.
“Your room is 458,” the clerk said and put down a key. He had the embarrassed air of a man dealing with a beggar.
Mitchell picked up the key. Waving away a bellhop who was approaching, he led the way to the automatic elevator.
On the fourth floor, the two men walked down the long corridor until they arrived at Room 458. Mitchell unlocked the door and entered a well furnished, large room. He crossed to the french windows, opened them and stepped out onto the balcony. He looked down onto the street, then satisfied that Cade couldn’t escape that way, he came back into the room.
Cade had dropped his bag onto the bed. His legs ached and he was dreadfully tired. He wanted to sit down, but he couldn’t bring himself to do this until Mitchell had gone.
“Okay,” Mitchell said. “You stay right here until it’s time for you to leave. I’ll be around. Anything you want before I lock you in?”
Cade hesitated. He hadn’t eaten since the previous evening, but he wasn’t hungry. He ate very little.
“A bottle of Scotch and some ice,” he said, not looking at Mitchell.
“Have you got the money to pay for it?”
“Yes.”
Mitchell went out, slamming the door. Cade heard the key turn in the lock. He took off his jacket and sat down in the big, easy chair. He stared down at his shaking hands.
Some ten minutes later, a waiter brought him a bottle of Scotch, a glass and ice in an ice bucket. He didn’t look at the waiter nor did he tip him. Mitchell who had come with the waiter shut and locked the door again.
When he was sure they had gone, Cade poured himself a big drink. He drank a little of the Scotch, then he went to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
A girl’s voice answered.
He asked to be connected with the New York Sun, New York.
“Hold a minute,” the girl said.
He listened. He could hear the girl talking, but he couldn’t hear what she said. After some minutes, the girl said curtly, “No calls are being accepted today for New York.”
Cade replaced the receiver. He stared down at the carpet for a long moment, then he walked across the room to where his drink was waiting.
“Mr. Cade! Please wake up, Mr. Cade! Mr. Cade!”
Cade groaned. Without opening his eyes, he put his hand to his aching head. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, but it couldn’t have been long. The sunlight coming through the french windows was strong and burned against his eyelids.
“Mr. Cade. Please...”
Cade struggled upright, slowly swinging his legs to the floor. With his back now to the window, he risked opening his eyes. The room came mistily into focus. He became aware of a man standing near him and he covered his eyes with his hands.
“Mr. Cade! We haven’t much time!”
Cade waited for a few seconds, then lowering his head, he peered at the man who was speaking. He turned suddenly cold when he saw the man was a Negro.
“Mr. Cade! The march starts in half an hour. Are you all right?” the Negro asked. He was tall and thin and young. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of neatly pressed black trousers.
“What are you doing here?” Cade demanded hoarsely. “How did you get in?”
“I didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Cade. I am Sonny Small. I am the Secretary of the Civil Rights Committee.”
Cade stared at him, feeling the blood leaving his face.
“My girl works here, Mr. Cade,” Small went on, speaking in a low, urgent whisper. “She called me. She told me you tried to get your paper and they wouldn’t connect you. She said you were locked in here. As soon as she called I came over right away. She gave me the pass-key. We can use the service elevator. No one’s watching that.”
Panic blanketed Cade’s mind. He couldn’t think; couldn’t speak. He just sat staring at Small.
“We haven’t much time, Mr. Cade,” Small said. “Here’s your camera. I got it ready for you.” He thrust the Minolta into Cade’s shaking hands. “Is there anything I can carry for you?”
Cade drew in a long, whistling breath. The touch of the cold metal of the camera snapped him out of his paralysis.
“Get out of here!” he exclaimed, glaring at Small. “Leave me alone! Get out!”
“Aren’t you well, Mr. Cade?” Small was bewildered and startled.
“Get out!” Cade repeated, raising his voice.
“But I don’t understand. You came here to help us, didn’t you? We had a telegram this morning saying you were coming. What’s the matter, Mr. Cade? We are all waiting for you. The march starts at three o’clock.”
Cade got to his feet. Holding the Minolta in his right hand, he waved with his left to the door.
“Get out! I don’t give a damn when the march starts. Get out!”
Small stiffened.
“You can’t mean this, Mr. Cade.” He spoke gently. There was an understanding and a compassionate expression in his eyes that sickened Cade. “Please listen to me. You are the greatest photographer in the world. My friends and I have followed your work for years. We collect your photographs, Mr. Cade. Those wonderful shots of Hungary as the Russians moved in. Those pictures of the famine in India. That fire in Hong Kong. They were unique records of people suffering. Mr. Cade, you have something no other photographer has. You have a superb talent and a sensitive feeling for humanity. We are marching at three o’clock. There are more than five hundred men waiting for us with clubs, guns and tear gas. We know that, but we are going to march. By tonight, most of us will be bleeding, some of us in hospital, but we will have done this thing because we mean to survive in this town. A lot of us are frightened, but when we heard you would be with us to record this march in pictures, we were a lot less frightened. We knew then that whatever happens to us this afternoon, it will be recorded for the world to see in a way that will explain what we are trying to do. That’s our hope: to make people understand what we are trying to do, and you can do this thing for us.” He paused and looked at Cade. “You are frightened? Of course you are. So am I. So are we all” He paused again, then went on quickly, “But I don’t believe a man of your integrity and your talent will refuse to march with us this afternoon.”