The soup was interesting, tangy with peppers. Fleming enjoyed it, but wasn’t so impressed that he wanted to get the recipe for Cesar. The next course—the oysters—were delicious, and Fleming was glad he had ordered them. As he ate, he was aware that the woman with the widow’s wedding band was watching him, her expression all but blank. Fleming nodded to her, and did his best to look flattered by her attention. He poured out more wine and waited for the spinach soufflé. When it arrived, it was accompanied by rice with slivered almonds. The soufflé was light, risen magnificently, and Fleming ate it appreciatively; he left all but a couple forkfuls, anticipating the cheese.

  The rollicking attorneys paid and left, the men jostling one another as they made for the door.

  When the cheese tray was delivered, Fleming ordered coffee, thinking that at home in England, he would have had port instead. But he would be in the air again soon, and that required staying awake and remaining alert. He lit a cigarette to accompany his coffee.

  Just before his coffee was brought, another party arrived at the restaurant, an angular man, not quite six feet tall, of middle years, with a lean face that showed a mixed heritage, an unusual guest in such a place as this restaurant, although the French Quarter was more eclectic than much of the city, to say nothing of the American South. His hair was tight-waved, turning from mahogany to white, grey-green eyes, and a thin, straight mouth. He wore a tan tropical jacket over a white silk shirt, and cream-colored linen slacks. Simple his garments were, but they were also of top-quality cloth and expensive tailoring, which may have explained why the man was so welcomed by the maître d’, who apparently knew this patron of old; he was given a table near the front, and seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time looking over the other patrons, or so it seemed to Fleming. He ordered an appetizer but nothing more.

  Watching him, Fleming had the uneasy feeling that the man was surveilling the diners, for he took the time to look over the dining room with more than passing interest. For an instant their eyes met, and then the man’s passed on, leaving Fleming thinking he had looked into the eyes of a reptile. He drank his coffee and scalded his mouth. The cheese had little savor for him, and he knew his burnt lips were not the reason for the tastelessness.

  He paid the bill as soon as it was presented, adding a ten percent tip as Americans expected. Then he rose from his table and made for the door, aware that he was being covertly scrutinized by the lean man in the tropical jacket. As he reached the curb, he saw the cabbie waiting for him, leaning in his rolled-down window, on the other side of the street. Fleming lifted his hand and strode across to the cab, pausing for a horse-drawn carriage filled with men and women. One of them was singing the “Pineapple Rag” to the applause of the others.

  Reaching the taxi, Fleming saw the cabbie had slumped, his hand limp on the door handle. “Wake up, fellow,” he said as he pulled open the rear door.

  The cabbie remained inert.

  Fleming paused and stared at the man, leaning down to smell him to determine if he was drunk. Only then did he see the blood leaking from under his cap, and realized the man had been shot in the back of the head. His breath stopped in his throat and he swallowed hard against the sudden nausea that roiled in the back of his throat. He was at once aware of how exposed he was, and what questions and delays might come out of this. He could not remain here, though leaving seemed to be disloyal to the cabbie, who had been willing to call back for him, and now was dead—perhaps because he had gone to this trouble. After a long moment, Fleming stepped back from the cab and slammed the door, shouting, “You’re in no fit state to drive!” and then walked away, going down the street, half-expecting to feel a bullet tear into his back as he went.

  Two blocks later he flagged another cab and asked to be taken to the airport. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he said. “I’ve an eight o’clock flight.” He doubted the man would ever be questioned about him, but he wanted to make sure any information he provided was erroneous.

  “So you’re going to St. Louis,” said the cabbie, showing off how well he knew the airline schedules. “You got it.” With that, he swung his cab down the next narrow street and headed out of the French Quarter, back to the town of Kenner where the Moisant International Airport was located.

  At the airport, Fleming retrieved his luggage from the locker and looked about for an inconspicuous place to wait, finding it at the back of a bay of seats near the gate from which he would leave. He bought a paper and opened it wide, hardly caring what he read, but wanting the protection it provided. The death of the cabbie troubled him. How did it happen? More important, why did it happen? Had he anything to do with it, or was his presence of no significance? That last question ate at him as he ran his unreading eyes over the columns of type.

  The plane to Dallas left fifteen minutes late, and for Fleming, those minutes dragged unbearably. He got aboard the airplane with relief, saying to the stewardess, when she asked what he wanted to drink, that he would like a brandy. She brought it to him as soon as they were airborne, and he took a deep swig of it as he fished a cigarette from his pack.

  “Nervous flyer?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  “Better keep your seat belt fastened, then. We may have, perhaps, a bit of a storm,” said the stewardess with a broad smile. “There could be head winds, as well. You might as well expect to land a little late.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” said Fleming and took another sip of brandy, liking the way it warmed him all the way down. He checked his seat belt, although he knew it was secure. Then he lit his cigarette, enjoying the mingling of brandy and tobacco fumes.

  The flight went on into the night, becoming bouncy as the night deepened. The stewardess no longer patrolled the aisle, staying in the front of the cabin with the steward, buckled in against the weather.

  Fleming tried to sleep, reminding himself that he had endured worse during the war, but found it impossible to quiet his mind. He found himself mentally circling over the events of the last two days, beginning with the disappearance of Sir William. Perhaps, he thought, Sir William’s arrival was as important as his vanishing. He had assumed that Sir William had only the one purpose—to see him—but what if that weren’t the case? What if Sir William had had other fish to fry? Then there was the death of Geoffrey Krandall, which might or might not be connected with Sir William. The two young men who had attacked Cesar—what was their part in this, or was it only happenstance? If that event was connected, how was it connected, and why? Had Cesar been the intended target? Had his house? Had he been the one the youths sought? What of the scorpions Cesar had found? Were they an accident, or was someone trying to eliminate him? If so, why? Was he, himself, presently in danger, or had he imagined the association? Was he becoming paranoid, looking for connections in a series of events that had nothing in common but time and locale? Had he allowed himself to be rattled enough not to be able to observe clearly? He was very much afraid the answer to that last question was yes. The whole thing was so tangled, and perhaps the tangle was only in his thoughts. But Krandall was dead, Sir William was missing, Cesar had been attacked, and the cabbie had been shot. Taken separately there was only a parade of misfortunes, but seen together, they suggested a pattern. He felt like a cat chasing its own tail.

  The airplane bucked, shaking him out of his unhappy reverie. He sat up straight in his seat, wishing he could get another brandy before they reached Dallas. He looked over the empty seat beside him toward the window, but could see nothing more than the misty texture of clouds.

  When the airplane finally began its descent, he was thoroughly rattled and jangled, longing for sleep and knowing he could not find it.

  Chapter 15

  AS THE airplane landed nearly an hour late, Hensley National Airport was wet, and a slow drizzle kept the tarmac shining. Walking into the air terminal Fleming felt the chill of the early, early morning magnified by the damp, and wished he had brought a proper overcoat. Dawn was nearly three hours away. He made his way to the front of the terminal, toward the information booth, presently manned by a young man who was drowsing over a calculus text. Most of the terminal was minimally staffed, with only one or two clerks on duty, and a few janitors busy cleaning the linoleum and ashtrays in anticipation of another busy day. Fleming came up to the information booth, saying just loudly enough to demand the clerk’s attention, “Excuse me, but I need to find an auto rental.”

  The young man almost jumped, but he recovered himself enough to say by rote, “What can I do to help you, sir?”

  “I need to rent an auto,” said Fleming.

  “Commercial or pleasure?” asked the young man, gathering his wits.

  “I am a journalist—I suppose that counts as commercial,” said Fleming. “I am here on business.”

  “Commercial, then,” said the young man. “That’ll be 66 Commercial Travelers’ Car Rental. It’s open at six. You’ll have time for breakfast at the Night Owl Café. Any cabdriver can take you there. There should be a couple left on duty at this hour.”

  “Thanks,” said Fleming, and went to claim his luggage, then hurried to the front of the terminal to hail a cab. “66 Commercial Travelers’ Car Rental,” he said as he climbed into the second taxi in line, his bags laid on the wide expanse of floor in front of the passenger seat.

  “You’re supposed to take the first in line,” said the cabbie in a broad Texas drawl. “I’m about to go off duty.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” said Fleming. “You’re driving a Checker.”

  The cabbie shrugged. “Whatever you say, pardner.” With a jolt of his gears he swung into traffic. “Where’re you from?” the cabbie asked a quarter of a mile on.

  “England,” said Fleming. “I’m British.”

  “Yep,” said the cabbie. “You sure enough talk that way.”

  Going through the nearly empty streets in the pre-dawn darkness, Fleming was careful to keep an eye on the rear-view mirror, just in case they were being followed. As they reached the offices of the 66 Commercial Travelers’ Car Rental, he was relieved to see a dozen late-model automobiles drawn up in the fenced lot beside the office. Across the street, a neon sign in the vague shape of a bird announced the Night Owl Café, open twenty-four hours.

  “That’ll be two seventy-five,” said the cabbie.

  “Fine,” said Fleming, and handed him three dollars with fifty cents for a tip; it was an extravagance, but Fleming had offered the cabbie a reward, and it was the least he could do.

  “Hey, thanks, pardner,” said the cabbie as Fleming got out of the car with his luggage. “Good luck,” he added before he sped off.

  Fleming crossed the street to the café, his bags feeling as if they contained anvils. He ordered coffee and flapjacks, the closest he could come to breakfast pastry in that establishment. Rubbing his chin, he decided he needed a shave, and asked the waitress where the men’s room might be.

  “All the way back, on the left,” she said. “Rough night?”

  “Bad weather in an airplane,” said Fleming, and took his luggage with him to the men’s room, where he took out his toiletry kit and retrieved his razor, shaving soap and mug.

  When he emerged from the men’s room ten minutes later he looked a bit more spruce than before. His hair was brushed, his face clear of stubble, and he had neatened his tie. As he sat down, the waitress returned with his breakfast. “I heated up your coffee.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and settled in for his meal.

  Twenty minutes later he was back at the 66 Commercial Travelers’ Car Rental just as the door was opened. He explained to the yawning clerk in the silverbelly Stetson who he was and where he wanted to go, adding, “I have proof of all this, if you need it.”

  “I gotta see your passport, you being a Limey and all,” said the clerk, adding, “I spent some time in England during the War. Flew out of an airfield in Sussex. Quite a place.”

  “Thanks.” Fleming took out his wallet from his inner breast pocket and removed his passport.

  “Ian Fleming,” said the clerk, pronouncing the first name Eye-ahn. Fleming didn’t bother to correct him. “Newpaperman, eh?”

  “Journalist,” Fleming said testily.

  “I got to ask you to fill out this form,” the clerk said, shoving a clip-board toward Fleming, and a pencil. “You gotta press hard. There’s a carbon.”

  Fleming began to fill in the blanks on the sheet, reading each line carefully. When he was done he handed the clip-board back to the clerk. “There you are.”

  “Going to New Mexico.” He considered. “It’s quite a drive, you know. Not like driving from Bath to London.”

  “I’ve seen the map,” said Fleming, keenly aware that he was tired and that was making him brusque.

  “I’ll need a fifty-dollar deposit and ten more for insurance,” said the clerk. “When you leave the state we have to get a fifty-dollar deposit.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Fleming, taking the appropriate bills from his wallet. “Do I have to bring the auto back here, or is there an office in New Mexico where I can turn it in, if my business concludes there?”

  “66 Commercial Travelers’ has offices all along Route 66, from California to St. Louis. We’ve got an office in Albuquerque, on Central,” said the clerk proudly. “Course, Dallas is south of 66. You go north to Gainesville and then take 82 over to Amarillo and pick up 66 there. If you have any trouble, you stop off at the 66 Commercial Travelers’ in Amarillo. The company’s got an office in Denver, too, north of 66.” He beamed. “From Amarillo, it’s a straight shot to Albuquerque. You’ll have to call here and tell us that’s what you’re planning to do about the car, that is if you decide to leave it in Albuquerque. There’ll be a surcharge for dropping it off. Twelve bucks.” He pulled the carbon copy off the form and handed it to Fleming, who folded it and put it into his wallet. “You pay it at that end.”

  “All right,” said Fleming, wondering what Eccles would make of these charges.

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  “How long a drive is it?” Fleming asked, making a mental note of the names and numbers the clerk had reeled off.

  “Well, now, it’s sixty plus miles to Gainesville, then about three fifty to Amarillo, and another three hundred or so to Albuquerque. If you don’t want to go that way, you can take 180 out of Dallas, go west to Hobbs, then turn north at Carlsbad and head up through Roswell on 285. It goes up to Santa Fe, but there’s an easy turnoff for Albuquerque. The Amarillo drive is easier, not so away from things. You being a stranger here, I’d go Gainesville-Amarillo.” The clerk was enjoying his display of knowledge, wanting to impress Fleming.

  “Do you have a map I could buy?” Fleming asked, feeling a trifle pulled.

  “Yessiree. I got Rand McNally’s latest. You can’t go wrong with Rand McNally.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a multi-folded map: Road Map: Southwestern United States, it read. “Fifty cents,” he announced. “A bit high, but worth every penny.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Fleming, finding the appropriate coin in his pocket and handing it to the clerk. He secured the map and vowed to study it once he was in the car.

  “Now, we got Packards, deSotos, Dodges, and Hudsons. I kind of like the Hudson, myself.” The clerk tipped his Stetson back on his head, a gesture Fleming had only seen in Western films.

  Fleming considered. “Which is the smallest?”

  “Smallest?” the clerk repeated incredulously. “Well, I guess the Packard coupe.”

  “I’m not used to autos of the size you make them in America,” said Fleming, doing his best to sound apologetic.

  “Well, then, the Packard. Think about it, though. It’s a long drive. You’d be more comfortable in something a bit bigger. Rides easier.”

  “I’ll take the Packard, if you don’t mind,” said Fleming, smiling. “Thanks for the recommendation, though.”

  “Sure thing,” said the clerk, reaching around to a display of pigeon-holes and fished out a key-ring with three keys on it. “Square top is the trunk, the round one the ignition, and the diamond one is the door. You’ll figure it out in time. It’s the coupe, the only one on the lot, in the corner, maroon with tan upholstery. The license plate number’s on the key-ring. You got your self-sealing Goodyears on that car. That’s a plus. Be careful how you use the choke.” He handed the keys to Fleming. “We recommend you getting your gas at Texaco stations.”

  Fleming realized the man meant petrol, and so he said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Our cars get a ten percent discount at Texaco stations, and it adds up. Twenty-two cents a gallon instead of twenty-four makes a difference on a long drive like you’re going to make,” the clerk said by way of explanation. “All you have to do is tell the kid who pumps the gas. Mind you tell him to check the oil and water, too.”