Mitchell had no chance to avoid it. The edge of the heavy metal camera smashed against his temple, splitting the skin and dropping him on his knees.
Blood poured down his face and into his eyes. Half-conscious, blinded, he knelt before Cade, his hands flat on the carpet, his arms stiff, his chin resting on his chest.
Cade stared in horror at the kneeling man. The camera swung back, hitting Cade hard on his knee, but he didn’t feel the blow. He let the strap slip out of his fingers and the camera dropped to the floor.
Mitchell shook his head and groaned. Slowly, he transferred his weight to his left arm, then his right hand groped upwards for the butt of the .45 on his hip.
Shuddering, Cade picked up the 20 cm lens. As Mitchell began to draw the gun, Cade stepped up to him and slammed the long lens down on the top of his head. Mitchell heaved up, then went limp, flattening out on the carpet.
Cade felt suddenly so ill he had to sit on the bed. He thought for one horrible moment that he was going to faint. His slow, irregular heart beats and his quick, rasping breathing frightened him. He sat for several minutes with his head in his hands, willing the faintness to leave him. Finally, he forced himself to his feet. He picked up the camera and began to wind off the film. This took him sometime because his hands were so unsteady and his fingers clumsy, but finally he got the film cartridge out of the camera.
Mitchell moved slightly. Cade went unsteadily across the room, picked up his jacket and slipped into it. He dropped the cartridge into the right hand pocket. He hesitated only for a moment about taking his equipment with him, but he knew he couldn’t walk the streets of Eastonville carrying such a deadly give-away. He stepped out into the long, deserted corridor. For a moment he hesitated, then remembering what Small had said about the service elevator not being watched, he walked fast down the corridor until he came to a swing door marked Service. As he stepped into the big lobby, he wished he had brought the half-empty bottle of whisky. He really needed a drink now and he was tempted to return to the bedroom, but he resisted the temptation.
He pressed the button by the elevator doors. While he waited, he tried to control his breathing. He wished he could think clearly. He had no idea how he was to get out of Eastonville. There were no more planes leaving today. His best bet would be to rent a car, but by the time he had done this, Mitchell would have alerted the police. They wouldn’t let him escape if they could help it. They would set up road blocks. Perhaps he could get out by train.
The elevator doors swung open and he entered the elevator, pressed the button for the ground floor. He looked at his watch. It was 15.10 hours. The freedom march had begun. That might give him a chance. The police and their deputies would be so occupied breaking up the march, they might have no time to come after him.
The elevator came to rest and he stepped into a dimly-lit passage that led to an open door and sunshine. He walked quickly down the passage and peered out into a narrow street that ran the length of the back of the hotel. The street was deserted.
He walked down the street as quickly as his shaking legs could carry him, keeping in the shade. Before reaching the end of the street that led to the main road, he crossed and began walking down another narrow street, running parallel with the main road.
The word Garage picked out in neon lighting caught his eye. He increased his stride, arriving at the open garage, breathless and sweating.
A fat man was resting his body on the wing of a Pontiac, sunning himself and smoking a cigar. He straightened up as Cade came up to him.
“I want to hire a car,” Cade said, trying to steady his voice.
“Benson,” the fat man said, offering a moist hand.
Cade shook hands reluctantly.
“You want to hire a car?” the fat man said. “Nothing easier. I’ve got plenty of cars. For how long?”
Cade suddenly remembered he had only eighty dollars and a few cents left of the hundred dollars Mathison had given him. He now regretted all the drinks he had paid for, and yet, he longed for just one more drink.
“Only for a couple of hours,” he said, not looking at the fat man. “Just a short trip. It’s too hot to walk.”
“Twenty bucks,” Benson said promptly. “Mileage on top. Ninety bucks for deposit and insurance, but that’s returnable.”
Because his mind had long ceased to be alert, Cade made his mistake.
“I have a Credit Card on Hertz,” he said, taking out his wallet. “I’ll pay twenty bucks, but no deposit,” and he handed the card to Benson.
As soon as the fat man started to examine the card, Cade realised his mistake, but it was too late. Benson’s face hardened into a fat, ugly mask. He shoved the card back to Cade.
“I don’t rent my cars to nigger lovers,” he said.
“Beat it!”
Cade turned and began walking down the street. He wanted to run, but forced down his rising panic. He turned left at the end of the street into a shabby alley that he could see led once again to the main road. Half-way down the alley he saw a sign that read: Jack’s Bar. He forced himself to pass the bar, but a few yards further on, he stopped. He turned and looked back down the alley. There was no one watching him. He hesitated. He knew he hadn’t a moment to lose, but he had to have a drink. Without a drink he wouldn’t be able to walk much further, already his muscles were aching and twitching. He walked back, pushed open the swing door and entered a small, shabby bar.
There was no one in the bar except an old Negro barman who stood very still, staring at Cade with panic showing in his bloodshot eyes.
“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Cade said quietly. “White Horse and ice.”
The old Negro put a bottle, a glass and a bowl of ice in front of Cade, then he moved away to the end of the bar and stood with his back half turned to Cade.
After a second drink, Cade got his breathing under control. He listened to the unnatural silence of the alley and he wondered about the freedom march.
“Would you know how I can get hold of a car?” he said suddenly. “I have to get out of town.”
The old Negro hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow.
“I know nothing about cars,” he said without looking around.
“Two of your people were attacked and badly hurt in front of the Central Motor Hotel,” Cade said. “Did you hear about it?”
“I don’t listen to anything I am told in this town,” the old Negro said.
“Don’t talk that way about your own people! I am a New York newspaperman! I want your help.”
There was a long pause as the old Negro turned to stare at Cade. Then cautiously, he said, “You could be lying.”
Cade took out his billfold and put his press card on the bar.
“I’m not lying.”
The old Negro came down the bar, took from his vest pocket a pair of bent steel spectacles and put them on. He peered at the card, then at Cade.
“I heard about you,” he said suddenly. “They were expecting you to march with them.”
“Yes. They locked me in a hotel bedroom. I’ve just got out.”
“Those two they caught outside the hotel... they’re dead.”
Cade drew in a long, whistling breath.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. You’d better get out of here. If they found you with me, they’d kill me too.”
“I took photographs,” Cade said. “My photographs could hang the five men who did it. Can you lend me a car?”
“They don’t hang white men in this town.”
“They’ll hang them when they see these pictures.
Can you lend me a car?”
“I don’t have a car.”
The shrill blast of a police whistle cut the air outside making both men stiffen. Cade poured another drink. His mind was suddenly very alert. He tossed the drink down his throat, took from his billfold a five dollar bill and one of his business cards. He took the film cartridge from his pocket.