Cain put the sedan in gear, switched on the headlights, and drove out of the lot, crossing the double yellow lines illegally to turn west on Mission. He picked up Bayshore Freeway South at Tenth and Bryant, eight blocks away. Traffic was light at this hour, but Cain remained in the center of the three lanes, maintaining a moderate speed.
Some twenty minutes later, he left the freeway at the Poplar Street exit in San Mateo. He drove through the dark, quiet, deserted streets, crossed El Camino Real, and entered the prosperous, well-landscaped community of Hillsborough. On Devaney Way, Cain made a left turn and went three blocks. In the middle of the fourth, he eased the sedan to the curb in front of a sprawling, two-story red-brick home with ornate grillwork balconies. On the left side of the house, just ahead of where Cain had parked, was a crushed, white-gravel drive, bordered on both sides by a six-foot hedge. He could not see the front door of the home because the hedge extended down to parallel the street in front, broken only by a grillwork gate to the rear of where he was parked. But he could see the open, empty garage clearly; a pale, hooded light burned over the door.
Cain shut off the headlights, but left the engine running. It was an extremely quiet engine, and he had to strain to hear it himself; he was sure no one in the red-brick house — or in any of the adjacent or facing houses — could hear it. He set the parking brake, and then slid across the seat to the passenger side. He wound down the window there, then lifted the blue overnight bag onto his lap and zippered it open and took the .45-caliber automatic from inside.
He held the automatic on his right thigh and looked at the luminescent dial of his wristwatch. One-ten. Cain slid down in the seat until his eyes were on a level with the sill of the open window.
At twenty-seven minutes past one, headlights appeared on Devaney Way, coming toward him. Cain drifted lower on the seat. A red directional signal, indicating a left turn, came on below the headlights as the car — a cream-colored Cadillac — approached. Cain nodded once in the darkness, his fingers tightening around the butt of the automatic on his thigh.
The Cadillac turned smoothly onto the white-gravel drive, red stop lights winking. Cain watched as the driver — the lone occupant — maneuvered the car into the open garage. Cain, ears straining, heard the faint slam of a car door moments later.
He raised up on the seat, placing his arm on the window sill, the automatic extended toward the garage. A shadowed figure emerged from inside, stopped, and there was a faint whirring sound as the automatic garage door began to slide down. Then the man turned and Cain could see him clearly in the pale light from above the door.
He squeezed the trigger on the automatic three times, sighting along the barrel. Each of the three shots went exactly where Cain had intended them to go: into the garage wall above and slightly to the left of the man there.
The man threw himself to the white-gravel drive, rolling swiftly toward the green hedge on his right. Cain dropped the automatic into the overnight bag, slid over under the wheel; with his left hand he released the parking brake, with his right he dropped the automatic transmission into Drive. The rear tires on the sedan screamed against the pavement, as Cain’s foot bore down on the accelerator. He had time for one quick glance in the direction of the garage; the man lay partially hidden in the shadow of the hedge, head raised slightly, looking toward him. And then the sedan was moving away, gathering speed. In his rearview mirror, Cain could see lights being flicked on in neighboring houses. He took the first corner, left, and when he had cleared the intersection he switched on his headlights. Two more blocks and a right turn, and Cain reduced his speed to the legal limit of twenty-five.
Just short of half an hour later, he reentered the San Francisco city and county limits. He exited the Bayshore Freeway at Army Street, turning right off there on Harrison, and parked the sedan in front of a warehouse driveway. He got out then, taking the overnight bag, and walked quickly up three blocks to Mission Street; he caught, almost immediately, a Municipal Railway Bus downtown.
He left the Muni at Sixth and walked up to cross Market. On the corner of Taylor and Geary, he entered the Graceling Hotel, registered under the name of Philip Storm, and was given a room on the third floor. Inside the room, he removed the gun from the bag, oiled and cleaned it, and reloaded the clip from a box of shells. When he finished, he replaced the automatic in the bag, put it under the bed, and lay down on top of the sheets.
It was almost dawn before he finally slept.
The man who had been shot at in Hillsborough was named James Agenrood.
Following the shooting, he sat in his mahogany-paneled, book-lined study. He was alone; his wife, who had been badly frightened, had taken several sleeping pills and gone to bed.
Agenrood poured brandy from a crystal decanter into an expensive snifter and tasted it without his usual enjoyment of the imported liquor. He had regained his composure, but his nerves were still agitated.
He tasted the brandy again, and then slid the telephone toward him across the desk, dialed a number. It rang several times; finally, a sleepy voice said, “Hello?”
“Len?”
“Yes?”
“Jim.”
“This is a hell of a time of night to be calling anybody, Jim,” the sleepy voice said irritably.
Agenrood took a measured breath. “Somebody tried to kill me tonight,” he said.
“What!”
“Yes. About an hour ago.”
There was silence for a moment, and then the voice, which was no longer sleepy, said, “Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No.”
“Professional?”
“I’d say so. He seemed to know my habits, that I always go to the Club on Wednesday nights, and that I usually get home around one-thirty. He was waiting out on the street.”
“Just one man?”
“I think so.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“It was too dark.”
“How about the car?”
“Dark sedan, maybe last year’s,” Agenrood said. “I saw part of the license plate. DRD.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I made sure the neighbors didn’t either.”
“I’ll get somebody on it right away.”
“I’d appreciate it, Len.”
“Listen, Jim, whoever it was isn’t affiliated with us. You know your standing with the National Office.”
“I didn’t think he was.”
“Just so you know.”
“Thanks, Len.”
“I’ll drop by your office tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“And Jim... be careful, will you?”
Agenrood laughed, but there was no trace of humor in his gray eyes. “I’ll do that, don’t worry.”
He cradled the receiver, lifted the decanter of brandy again; he poured another drink — his fifth since the shooting. He sat staring into the snifter. His face, in the pale light from his desk lamp, was an inscrutable mask etched of solid stone.
Cain awoke at eleven the next morning, dressed leisurely, and then called room service and ordered a pot of coffee and some buttered toast. When it arrived, he carried it to the small writing desk. In one of its drawers he found notepaper and plain white envelopes and several soft-lead pencils.