The question was quickly answered. As he turned into Crocker at the far end from number 117, be saw that the street further on was blocked by police cars. A moment later he heard the sound of gunfire-a fusillade of shots, a pause, then a second fusillade as if fire was being returned.
Georgos knew that Wayde, Ute and Felix, who had elected to stay in the house tonight, were trapped; be wished desperately be was with them, if necessary to die nobly. But there was no way now that he could fight his way in-or out.
As quickly as he could, hoping not to attract attention, be turned the truck around and returned the way be had come. There was only one place left to go: the apartment in North Castle, intended for a crisis such as this.
While he drove, Georgos' mind worked quickly. If his identity was known, the police would be searching for him. Even at this moment they might be spreading a dragnet, so he must hurry to get underground. Something else: In all probability, the pigs knew about the "Fire Protection Service" truck and would be on the lookout for it; therefore the truck must be abandoned. But not until he was nearer the North Castle hideaway. Taking a chance, Georgos increased his speed.
One chance must not be taken, he reasoned. The truck could not be left too close to the apartment; otherwise it would betray his whereabouts, He, was approaching- North Castle. How near to- his destination dare be drive? He decided: Within one mile. When Georgos estimated he was that distance away, he pulled to the curb, switched off the engine and got out, not bothering to lock the truck or take the ignition key. He reasoned further: the police might well assume be had had a parked car waiting and changed vehicles, or he had boarded a late night bus or taxi, any of which assumptions would leave his general whereabouts in doubt.
What Georges did not know was that a drunk, recovering from a quart of cheap wine consumed earlier, was propped up in a doorway opposite where the "Fire Protection Service" truck had stopped. The drunk was sufficiently lucid to observe the truck's arrival and Georgos' departure on foot.
For his part, Georgos began walking briskly. The streets were silent, almost deserted, and he was aware of being conspicuous. But no one accosted or appeared to notice him and, in a quarter of an hour, he was unlocking the apartment door. With relief he went inside.
At about the same time, a cruising police patrol spotted the red pickup for which an alert had gone out a short time earlier. The patrolman who transmitted a radio report noted that the radiator was still warm.
Moments later, the same officer noticed the drunk in the doorway opposite and elicited the information that the driver of the truck had left on foot, and in which direction. The police car sped away, but failed to locate Georgos.
The police patrol did return, however, and-with base ingratitude took their informant into custody, charging him with being drunk in public.
* * *
Davey Birdsong was arrested, shortly after 5:30 am, outside the apartment building where he lived.
He had just returned there by car after the lecture and study group session which kept him outside the city through the night.
Birdsong was shocked. He protested heatedly to the two plainclothes detectives who made the arrest, one of whom promptly informed him of his legal right to remain silent. Despite the warning, Birdsong declared, "Listen, you guys, whatever this is about, I want to tell you I've been away since yesterday. I left my apartment at six o'clock last night and haven't been back since. I have plenty of witnesses to that."
The detective who had cautioned Birdsong wrote the statement down, and-ironically-the "alibi" proved Birdsong's undoing.
When Birdsong was searched at police headquarters, the p & lfp press statement deploring "the bombing at the Christopher Columbus Hotel last night" was found in a jacket pocket. The statement was later proved to have been typed on a machine kept in Birdsong's apartment -the apartment he claimed he had not entered since six o'clock the previous evening, nearly nine hours before the bombing became public knowledge. As if this were not enough, two torn-up, earlier drafts of the statement, in Birdsong's handwriting, were also discovered in the apartment.
Other evidence proved equally damning. The cassette tape recordings of conversations between Georgos Archambault and Davey Birdsong matched a voiceprint of Birdsong, made after his arrest. The young black taxi driver, Vickery, whom Nancy Molineaux employed, made a statement confirming Birdsong's devious journey to the house at 117 Crocker Street. Birdsong's purchase of fire extinguishers, which had been converted to bombs, was also attested to.
He was charged with six counts of first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit a felony, and a "shopping list" of other charges. Bail was set at one million dollars, a sum which Birdsong could not raise and no one else seemed inclined to. Hence, he remained in custody, pending his trial.
* * *
Of the remaining Friends of Freedom, Wayde, the young Marxist intellectual, and Felix, from Detroit's inner city, were killed in the gun battle with police at 117 Crocker Street. Ute, the embittered Indian, turned a gun on himself and died as police stormed the house.
The evidence of revolutionary activity at number 117 was captured intact, including the journal of Georgos Winslow Archambault.
7
Around the California Examiner newsroom and the Press Club bar, they were already saying that Nancy Molineaux was a shoo-in for a Pulitzer.
She had it all.
As the managing editor was heard to tell the publisher: "That classy broad has come through with the whole goddam, zipped-up, total Erector set of the hottest story this side of the second coming."
After leaving the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and going to the paper, Nancy wrote continuously right up to the Examiner's 6:30 am first deadline. Through the remainder of the morning and early afternoon, she updated and amplified the earlier material for the later three editions. And, as reports of new developments came in, they were funneled through her.
In case of any query about Friends of Freedom, Georgos Archambault, Davey Birdsong, p&lfp, the Sequoia Club's money, the hotel bombing, the life and death of Yvette, the password was, "Ask Nancy."
Just as in a reporter's dream, almost the entire front page under a banner headline, was Nancy Molineaux's.
The newspaper put a copyright slug over her story, which meant that any TV or radio station or other newspaper using her exclusive coverage was obliged to quote the Examiner as its source.
Because Nancy was an integral part of the story herself-her discovery of 117 Crocker Street, the meetings with Yvette, and her possession of the only copy of the tapes established that-she achieved personal celebrity status.
The day the story broke she was interviewed, at her newsroom desk, for TV. That night the film appeared on the national network news of NBC, ABC and CBS.
Even so, the Examiner management made the TV crews wait, fuming, until Nancy had finished her own reporting and was good and ready.
Newsweek and Time, following the TV crowd, got the same treatment.
Over at the Chronicle-West, the city's morning, competitive paper, there was unconcealed ewy and much scurrying to catch up. The Chronicle's editor, however, was big enough to send Nancy a half dozen roses next day (a dozen, be thought, would be overdoing it) with a congratulatory note, delivered to her Examiner desk.
The effects of the news story spread outward, not in ripples, but in waves.
To many who read Nancy Molineaux's report, the most shocking revelation was that the Sequoia Club, even if indirectly, had financed the Christopher Columbus bombing.