“I’m sorry, too,” said Fleming, mildly surprised that he meant it.

  “I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I’m really grateful. I’d be dead without you.” She held on to the steering wheel more tightly. The truck was moving more heavily than the previous night, for now the horse trailer with its four occupants gave weight and complexity to the load.

  “I might say the same for you. I might not have kept going, had I been alone.” He had said much the same to her earlier, but now she seemed to comprehend him.

  “That doesn’t change what you did,” she insisted. “You’re a prince of a guy, Ian Fleming, and I’ll never forget you, or what you did.” There was a wistful note in her voice now, but she remained unshaken.

  “I won’t forget you either, Myra,” he said, a bit too automatically.

  “You got my number and my address. You damn well better write to me,” she said, trying to maintain a bantering tone and almost succeeding.

  “I’ll do that, Myra,” he promised her. “I’ll let you know as soon as I get back to London, but that might not be for a week or two.” He hoped he would remember, and not consider it an imposition to send her a letter or two. Women could be such pesky creatures.

  “Your bags are behind the seats,” she said, controlling her emotions.

  “Yes. I know.” He noticed the houses were closer together and the streets were better-tended. They must be coming into Monroe.

  “We’ll go by the airport first, and then I’m off to the fair grounds. If anything happens, you give me a call there and I’ll come get you,” she said, a hopeful note creeping into her voice.

  “I will,” he said.

  “It’s in the phone book—the fair grounds office,” she went on, slowing for the first traffic light suspended above the center of the intersection. It was actually working, which gave Fleming hope for catching a flight out shortly.

  “I’ll look it up if I have to,” said Fleming, uncomfortable with his level of misrepresentation. He changed the subject. “Please thank Mister McShane for me again, if you will.”

  “I’ll do that, not that you didn’t thank him enough already,” said Myra. “He doesn’t need thanks. He’ll have it all over the South that he had an English guest during the storm. By the time he gets through telling it, you’ll be royalty on the run from the Commies. That man talks worse’n a coop full of hens.”

  “Will anyone believe him?” Fleming was horrified and fascinated.

  “Some will. Most’ll just chalk it up to Linus’s love of a good story,” said Myra, signaling for a left turn and easing out into the intersection.

  “That’s reassuring,” said Fleming, adding, “I don’t want the competition to get on my trail. So far, I’m ahead on the story.”

  “Okay,” said Myra, heading down the four-lane road. “The airport’s about five miles along this way.”

  “Fine,” said Fleming.

  “Thanks for buying the gas back there in Tallula. You didn’t have to do that,” Myra said, sounding as conscientious as a schoolgirl.

  “I’d have had to pay for one kind of transportation or another,” said Fleming lightly, although the nearly four dollars to fill the tank surprised him a little.

  “True,” she allowed. “Still, I didn’t expect it, and I thank you for it.”

  “As you Americans say, you’re welcome,” Fleming answered, hoping he could get some more change at the airport. He had telephone calls to make before he left Monroe.

  A low-flying airplane alerted Fleming and Myra to the nearness of the airport, and Myra blinked twice as she strove to contain her emotions. “I’ll drop you off at the curb, if you don’t mind. Finding a parking place for this rig isn’t easy, and I don’t like to leave the horses unguarded.”

  “You needn’t apologize. This will be just fine,” said Fleming, who preferred to be on his own again. “I hope your horses fetch a good price.”

  “So do I,” said Myra with feeling. “Look,” she went on more tentatively, “I don’t know if you’ll ever be back this way, but if you are, you be sure to come see me, okay, Ian?” She turned onto the road that led to the airport. Even at this distance they could see expansion was under way.

  “Okay,” he said deliberately, shifting around to grab his bags. “And let me know if you’re going to be in London, or Jamaica.”

  “I will,” she promised him as they approached the single-story building that was topped by a tall, bulbous tower. “This is where we say good-bye for now.” She pulled to the curb in front of the terminal building and stopped. “It’s been too short a time.”

  “But we both have things to do,” said Fleming, opening the door.

  “Oh, what the hell,” she said, and reached over, grabbed him by the shoulders, and kissed him with more enthusiasm than expertise. When she let go of him, she was breathless. “I’ve been wanting to do that since halfway to Linus’s place last night.”

  Fleming shook his head, startled. “Myra—”

  She touched his mouth. “Don’t say anything. You’ll ruin it.” She moved back into the driving position. “Have a safe trip, wherever you’re going.”

  Still somewhat nonplussed Fleming got out of the truck and closed the door, waiting until Myra pulled away from the terminal. Then he turned and entered the building and looked about for the schedule board and the reservations desk. He studied the various flights coming and going, and at last settled on getting a reservation to Houston on a flight leaving at four-forty, almost two hours from now.

  “Passport?” the clerk asked when he had finished making out the ticket. “Gotta make a record of the number for aliens.”

  Fleming handed his over. “All current and correct,” he said lightly.

  “We don’t joke about things like that in this country,” the clerk said stiffly. “You never know who’s gonna be sneaking into America to do mischief.” He handed the passport back with a snap.

  Fleming wanted to ask what mischief he could do in Monroe, Louisiana, but thought better of it and asked for five dollars’ worth of quarters. “I have to make a couple telephone calls.”

  The clerk was instantly suspicious, though he handed over two paper rolls. “You’ll need a couple dollars’ worth of dimes, too,” he said. “Lucky you weren’t traveling tomorrow. We shut down for most of Sunday.”

  “Then I am lucky,” said Fleming, adding two dollars for the dimes, then went in search of a telephone booth. He found a line of them outside the men’s loo, and chose the middle one. His first call was to the Pecos Vista Hotel, and to FBI Agent Lemmuel Hotchkiss. “Tell him it’s Ian Fleming calling,” he added.

  The registration clerk—and hotel owner—said, “I know who this is. Just you hold on a minute. I’ll see if I can find him.” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped away from the PBX—Fleming could hear his footsteps retreating and, a minute or two later, approaching again, a second, heavier tread accompanying his.

  “Hotchkiss here,” he said as he picked up the receiver. “That you, Fleming?”

  “Yes,” said Fleming. “I was wondering if you could check out a name for me—a Cathcart, initial J. He may have something to do with James Hendley and Theodore Robertson, if what I have discovered is in any way significant.”

  “Spell the last name,” said Hotchkiss, all business.

  “C-a-t-h-c-a-r-t,” Fleming obliged. “Anything you can tell me about him.”

  “Will do. Where can I reach you?” He waited for an answer.

  “I don’t know,” said Fleming. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll call you again when I get to Houston this evening.”

  “Houston?” Hotchkiss sounded startled.

  “It’s complicated,” said Fleming. “Anything you have on Cathcart, and any associates of his—especially one called Geoffrey Krandall—G and K—I should be aware of, let me know.” He paused. “If there is any connection of any of them with Sir William Potter, I’d like to know that, too. If that isn’t too much of a favor.”

  “The material may be classified,” Hotchkiss warned.

  “If you need to check my security clearance, do. MI5 can supply the particulars. I got this from information given me by the press liaison at Los Alamos, so it can’t be completely under wraps.” Fleming wanted to show Hotchkiss the photostatic prints he had been given; it was frustrating not to be able to. “If you doubt me, check with the press office at Los Alamos. Ask them what they supplied me.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Hotchkiss. “About what time do you think you’ll be calling back?”

  “Probably about nine. I’ll have to find a place to stay for the night. I’ll call you from there.” He considered. “Is that eight in New Mexico?”

  “That it is. I’ll be here, and I’ll tell Bert to expect your call,” said Hotchkiss. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so.” He was about to ring off when something else did occur to him. “You wouldn’t have happened to attach a tracking device to my auto, would you?” He was taking a chance asking.

  “Me? Hell, no. Why would I?” Hotchkiss sounded more puzzled than indignant.

  “Would you tell me if you did?” Fleming pursued.

  Hotchkiss gave a single chuckle. “Probably not,” he allowed. “But in this instance, it would be the truth. If there was a tracking bug on your car, I didn’t have it put there.”

  “I suppose I have to take your word for it,” said Fleming, not at all satisfied with this response.

  “’Fraid so,” said Hotchkiss. “If anyone did something like that, it wasn’t the FBI. You might want to keep an eye out, if you’ve got someone on your tail.”

  “Right you are,” said Fleming.

  “I’ll be here in the lobby around eight tonight,” Hotchkiss said. “I hope I have something to tell you.”

  “So do I,” Fleming said, adding “Ta,” before he hung up. He was about to try to reach the overseas operator when a headline on the paper in the newsrack across the corridor caught his eye: Fourteen Dead in Jackson Hotel Fire.

  Chapter 26

  “WHERE THE bloody hell are you?” Merlin Powell bellowed as soon as he answered the telephone.

  “Where’s Miss Butterly?” Fleming asked lightly.

  “It’s Saturday, in case you had forgot it,” Powell said sarcastically. “And that ploy won’t fadge, Mister Fleming. I won’t be fobbed off. Where are you? Lord Broxton’s secretary has been calling. I hardly knew what to tell him. His lordship is displeased. I am displeased. I trust you have an adequate explanation for your absence?”

  “I have,” said Fleming stiffly.

  Powell snorted. “Err on the side of plausibility.” He paused. “So tell me where you are and when you will be returning to us?”

  “I should be back tomorrow, or Monday at the latest. I may have to lay over one extra day, because of reduced travel on Sunday.” He sighed. “I am presently in Monroe, Louisiana, and I’m bound for Houston, Texas, in ninety minutes or so. I have been in Los Alamos in New Mexico, in Colorado, and in Jackson, Mississippi, when the airplane in which I was flying was diverted from Memphis, Tennessee, due to bad weather. I will call and leave the information of my plans with the night desk.”

  Somewhat mollified, Powell said, “Well, it sounds as if you’ve been moving, at least.”

  “That I have,” said Fleming. “And it isn’t over yet.”

  “Not if you’re in Louisiana. You have been junketing around, haven’t you?” Powell took a deep breath. “I’ll call Lord Broxton and try to explain. I hope he isn’t too offended. You know how touchy he can be.”

  “None better,” said Fleming.

  “And you should be prepared to get the rough edge of his tongue for failing to keep your appointment, no matter where you were when it was scheduled, or why you failed to appear.” Powell struggled to calm himself. “You’re putting yourself in a most difficult position, Fleming; I don’t have to remind you that you’re out on a limb on this one.”

  “I was delayed by a storm,” said Fleming calmly, deciding not to mention the fire; he would tell Powell about it later. “I was off-course and there was nothing I could do about it. Had there been no storm, I should have returned in time to keep my appointment—I had no choice, and no other means of reaching Kingston in the storm. If that is enough to earn me such condemnation, then so be it.” He was in no mood to fight, but he was prepared to defend himself if necessary—as it now seemed to be. “If you would explain that: that had there been no storm, I should have been able to keep my appointment, as well as hand over a story to you.” His repetition was emphatic, as if repeating it made it more persuasive.

  “A story? You mean you found something?” Powell’s whole manner changed. He was now eager and ready to hear more.

  “I may have,” said Fleming carefully. “I’m hoping to get confirmation this evening. I won’t file without confirmation.”

  “Quite right, of course; it would be irresponsible to do otherwise,” said Powell promptly, but with a note of disappointment creeping into his tone.

  “Naturally,” said Fleming, and knew he would have to tell Powell some of what he had found no matter what Hotchkiss had for him. He waited a second or two, then said, “I’ll let you know when I’ll arrive.”

  “Do, please. Merriwell will be here tomorrow and he’ll relay any messages to me at once.” Powell cleared his throat. “I don’t doubt that you’ve been diligent, Fleming, I only hope that your diligence has produced results.”

  “And I,” said Fleming with feeling.

  “I should jolly well think so.” Powell faltered a moment, then said, “Well, until tomorrow then, old chap. So this won’t cost you a fortune.”

  “Until tomorrow,” said Fleming, and hung up, waiting for the operator to tell him how much more he had to deposit for the call. He counted out the remaining quarters and dimes, knowing he would have to give up a number of them. The ringing jarred him so that he nearly dropped the dimes. When the operator asked for another three dollars and sixty cents, Fleming deposited the money as quickly as possible, then got out of the phone booth, took up the bag he hadn’t checked, and went to the departure area and read the paper he bought as soon as he reached the newsstand.

  The account of the fire was somewhat confused, but the gist of it said that arson was suspected, and pending a formal investigation, there would be nothing done to clear away the rubble, although some complained that this might cause a public nuisance. The report revealed that preliminary accounts indicated that the fire had broken out on the second floor near the elevator shaft. It also stated that thirty-nine persons had been taken to hospital to be treated for injuries and smoke inhalation. Two firemen had been injured, one of them severely, when a stairwell collapsed. Among the dead was the co-pilot and steward of Central South Airlines. Survivors had been sent to a number of Jackson hotels.

  Fleming scowled at the paper, trying to decide what to make of it. If the fire had been set, what had been its purpose? If it had not been set, what was its cause? It was easy to think that the fire had somehow been his fault, but that was impossible, and he was well-aware of it. Sternly he reminded himself that no one knew he was on that airplane, or that it would not reach Memphis. That didn’t entirely quiet the distress he felt, but it gave him a moment of wry amusement. “Not everything is your fault, old boy,” he murmured to himself.

  A half-dozen men were among those waiting, most reading magazines or newspapers. An airline employee stood at the desk, doing paperwork. The afternoon seemed suspended, lassitude overwhelming all other sensations. Fleming browsed through the rest of the paper, wishing he had something more entertaining or substantial to occupy his thoughts. Finally, as he was about to doze off, the steady drone of propellers announced that the airplane was pulling up and the employee at the gate announced that boarding would begin in ten minutes. More passengers came into the waiting area, and the air of stultification vanished. Fleming joined those forming a line at the gate, handed over his ticket, and was given a stamped receipt with a seat number on it: 10C. He took his bag and made his way across the tarmac to the stairs, climbing quickly up and into the airplane.

  “Do you need any help finding your seat, sir?” asked the smiling stewardess.

  “No, thank you,” said Fleming, making his way to the tenth row and shoving his bag under the seat in front of him. He wondered who would occupy the window seat, and was not entirely displeased when no one claimed it. The airplane took off on time, and Fleming decided to nap. Much as he disliked admitting it, he was growing tired. It had been a long couple of days, he realized, and it was catching up with him. He tilted his seat back the half-dozen inches it would go, tried to find a comfortable position without unfastening his seat belt, and closed his eyes.

  He opened them again an hour later, a fragment of a dream fading from his mind. It had something to do with Sir William, Fleming could recall that much. He could not retrieve the images more clearly than that, though he had the disquieting feeling that there was something important in the dream. He told himself that this was nothing new: dreams often felt most significant when they were their most incoherent.

  “You’re awake,” the perky stewardess said as she came down the aisle, a pot of coffee in one hand, a stack of paper cups in the other. “Would you like some coffee?”

  It smelled dreadful, but Fleming said, “Yes, if you would. And milk and sugar.” He was certain he would have to do something to disguise the burnt taste.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, handing him a cup and filling it two-thirds full. On the way up the aisle she stopped at three other rows and handed out cups.

  Watching her, Fleming thought her dark-grey uniform didn’t become her; she would look far better in a flared skirt and shirtwaist blouse. He was still enjoying imagining her in a variety of costumes when she brought him two little packets of sugar and a small tin container of cream. “Thank you,” he said to her, amused by his thoughts. If only women weren’t so demanding, he thought, they would be so much more enjoyable.