Driven

By Richard Gehman

Driven, first published in 1954, is a fast-paced noir novel centered on George Carpenter, an assistant manager of a bank. Desperate to get out of the rut his life is in, and beset by financial problems, Carpenter develops a scheme to rob the bank of a massive amount of money. Although he successfully manages the heist, he has no plan for what to do with either the money or his life following the robbery.

Why did he do it? George himself wasn’t sure. He knew only that, all at once, in every aspect of his life, pressures were building up: his immediate superior at the bank hated him; his wife, he was sure, was being unfaithful to him. Debts piled up, and George began hitting the bottle—hard. Suddenly, even this retreat was not enough, and George began to act mechanically, to take one step after another toward revenge and release.

During the dizzy, dreamlike weeks that followed, George embarked on a headlong flight into unreality. Under a series of assumed names he ran from drink to drink, from woman to woman, from city to city, and he learned what unlimited money can buy—and what it cannot. Saved finally from total self-destruction by his capture, and by a girl who shows him the futility of running any further, George pays his debt to society and comes to terms with himself; the moving story of his great rebellion comes to an end on a note of hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129281

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© Phocion Publishing 2019, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DRIVEN

A Novel by

RICHARD GEHMAN

Driven was originally published in 1954 by David McKay Company, Inc., New York.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

Note 5

Part I 6

ONE 6

TWO 21

THREE 27

FOUR 49

FIVE 56

SIX 66

SEVEN 67

EIGHT 76

NINE 79

TEN 102

ELEVEN 104

TWELVE 113

Part II 124

THIRTEEN 124

FOURTEEN 133

FIFTEEN 143

SIXTEEN 147

SEVENTEEN 156

EIGHTEEN 158

NINETEEN 169

TWENTY 173

TWENTY-ONE 184

TWENTY-TWO 195

TWENTY-THREE 201

TWENTY-FOUR 207

TWENTY-FIVE 219

TWENTY-SIX 230

TWENTY-SEVEN 232

TWENTY-EIGHT 241

TWENTY-NINE 243

THIRTY 250

THIRTY-ONE 251

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 259

Note

This is a work of fiction, and I hope it will be treated as such. The characters in it never lived, and the city of Buchanan is not real. In certain places I have used the names of existing cities, streets, hotels, restaurants, and people in order to give the book a documentary quality, but I have done so only when the places are so recognizable as to obviate disguise, and only when the people, such as Eddie Condon and Joe Costello and Nick the bartender, are more or less in the public domain, as all famous personages are.

I have gone to the extent of putting this down because when I last published a book, speculation over the identities of characters replaced gossip as the favorite indoor sport in my home town. People kept asking each other who So-and-so was; sometimes they even went so far as to ask me. When I said they were characters I had made up out of my head, they didn’t believe me. I hope they will believe me this time to the extent of not playing the game, or at least not playing it with such embarrassing recklessness.

While I am at this, I want to thank Max Wilkinson, William C. Lengel, and Richard Carroll for their encouragement.

R.G.

* * *

This one is for my father.

Part I

ONE

THE men from Nashville had been questioning the prisoner in the next room for nearly three hours. Outside, the two local officers who had arrested him were trying unsuccessfully to hear what was going on.

You ask me, he ain’t agoin’ talk, the stout man said. I guaran-damnteeya he ain’t. He had tilted the straight-backed chair against the wall on the left side of the door, and his great legs dangled over the edge of the seat like sausages swinging in a butcher shop.

Sumbitch, I’d make him toke, the other man said. Much thinner than his companion, he had the cheekbones of a Cherokee and a mouth so narrow it appeared lipless.

Anybody oughta make him talk, said the stout man. He don’t look like much.

They too easy, said the second, scornfully. They oughta treat him like they would a damn Nigra. I’d make the sumbitch toke, see’f I wouldn’t.

Hoo-ee, I guarandamnteeya you would! the stout man said enthusiastically.

They fell silent. Whatever wind there was in that vicinity had evidently decided to remain in the peaks of the Great Smokies, and even the gusts in the trees along the Black Oak Ridge were reluctant to venture down into the valley and the little town. The Tennessee night was still. At around ten-thirty, most of the lights in the village had winked out, and now only the old frame courthouse, in which the two officers were sitting, and a gas station a half block down the street showed any sign of activity. The room of the officers’ vigil had a personality that was defined by its lack of it: The walls were dull bluish gray, the woodwork was covered with a cheap oak stain, and the dark wooden floor smelled of innumerable coatings of oil, which had softened and rotted it. From time to time the sleepy winter flies on the ceiling aroused themselves and attacked the naked fifty-watt bulb that hung in the center of the room, and, after burning themselves against the white glare, swirled about crazily for two or three seconds before subsiding on one wall. Except for their small noises and the intermittent creaking of the stout man’s chair, the room was silent. The humming of the interrogators in the next room was almost inaudible. The officers had not been able to catch a single phrase.

Ben, said the stout one suddenly, how long, you figger, afore they give us the money?

Man, you know how long the gov’ment takes.

You don’t figger they’s a chance we don’t git it?

"We git it. That’s fo’ damn sure."

You figger they aimin’ leave him heah tonight?

Can’t tell whut they’ll do.

The stout man’s voice dropped. He leaned toward his friend. They leave him heah, maybe we could...he’p.

Ben’s head snapped toward his friend. He regarded him admiringly. Before he could speak, the door to the street opened and two men came in briskly. They were out of breath. The taller was carrying a Speed Graphic camera and had a worn leather duffel bag slung over one bony shoulder. The smaller man, wearing a wrinkled green tweed suit, had a wad of copy paper bulging from one pocket. He pulled out a wallet and dropped it open, revealing a press card. "Scarborough, Nashville Banner."

The officers stared. Neither moved nor acknowledged the greeting. Carpenter still here with them? the reporter asked.

Wait outside, Ben said shortly.

They still questioning him?

Wait outside.

"We’re from the Banner, the reporter said patiently. We got tipped off and came down to—"

Ben moved the left side of his dirty buckskin vest and exposed his badge. You wait outside, or I’ll plumb lock you up, the botha you. The door to the next room opened, and a man in his early thirties, a clean-shaven man who might have been a physical-education instructor in a high school, came out. He stopped short when he saw the reporter and photographer. What’s going—Oh. Hello, Scarborough. What brings you all the way down here?

Let’s cut the pleasantries, the reporter said. What’re you doing here, Perloo?

Routine check of all county police installations, the young man said smoothly.

We know you’ve got George Carpenter here, the reporter persisted. George Carpenter? said the young man. Who is that?

Wait outside, Ben said.

Are you taking him back to Nashville? the reporter asked.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, really, said the young man. If there is anything, you’ll be notified.

Sure, said the reporter bitterly. When everybody else is. With another of your goddamned handouts.

Watch that toke, Ben said.

You must know our procedure by now, since you know so much about our activities, the young man said. No statements until the proper time.

We’ll wait.

As you wish.

You got a phone in here?

They’s one in the gas station down the street, if they ain’t closed, Ben said. Now git.

The essence of years of frustration at official hands showed in the reporter’s eyes for one second of impatient hatred. Take your statements and handouts and shove them, he said, and walked out, the silent photographer following him.

The young man turned to the officers. We may finish soon. We’ll leave you watching him tonight—you’d better get extra help—and take him up to the city in the morning, early.

He tokin’? Ben asked.

Without answering, the young man went back into the room and closed the door.

Inside, four men were sitting around a table that was bare except for three overflowing ash trays. The light from the wall fixtures clearly outlined the fatigue on their faces.

Reporters, said the young man to the men at the table. He sat down.

The man who appeared to be leader was sitting in the chair nearest the door. He was thickset, about fifty years old, with a flattened nose, graying kinky black hair, and long lashes over hard blue eyes. There was an air of fastidiousness about him that was evident even in the way he held the pencil with which he was making notes in a small black book. His two underlings were duplicates of the young man who had come in, uniformly well shaven and soft-spoken and mannerly.

The fourth man, sitting opposite the leader, was naked. His teeth chattered from time to time.

At the word Reporters, annoyance flashed on and off the thickset man’s face. He turned to the young man on his left. There is a leak in the Nashville office.

We know who it is, said the young man nervously. We’ve only been waiting for something like this to happen.

Get rid of it, said the leader quietly. Get rid of it tomorrow.

Right, sir.

I mean tomorrow, said the leader. If you have to roll every head on the staff. Tomorrow. Not the day after. Tomorrow. Is that clear?

Right, sir.

Perhaps a tour in Alaska or the Canal Zone is what you need, the leader said. Tomorrow.

Right, sir

The leader switched his gaze to the naked man. You’ll save us all a lot of time, you know, if you talk now. His tone was indulgent, like that of an adult trying to persuade a child to go to bed.

The naked man looked down at his hands. He was about six feet tall, with good shoulders and a muscular torso, although his stomach was beginning to bulge slightly. His reddish-blond hair was cut short and parted at the left. His face was not particularly memorable. It was composed of a pair of heavy brows over brown eyes, a nose like an impudent schoolboy’s, and a mouth that turned up at the corners. There were a few freckles over the nose, which added to the boyishness of his countenance, but a bristling mustache offset the apparent youth. There was nothing whatever in the face to indicate that its owner was a criminal; the man who was questioning him, in fact, looked more like one.

After a pause, the naked man said the same thing he had been saying since his arrest. I don’t know what I should tell you until I’ve seen a lawyer.

It would be good business for you to tell us everything now, said the leader imperturbably. If you help us, we’ll help you later. We’ve got no personal interest in this case. It’s part of our routine. We’ve nothing to gain except time. On the other hand, you’ve absolutely nothing to lose, now that we’ve got you, and everything to gain. Once more, Carpenter, I’m asking you.

I’m sorry, sir, said George Carpenter.

Very well, said the other quietly.

Have you, Carpenter began, notified Kitty? My wife?

He indicated that this was the only matter in his mind that was giving him concern. Actually, he had not thought of his wife, except in passing, and then with curious reactions, for nearly two weeks. His sole worry, at the moment, was a girl sleeping in a motor court some forty miles away, awaiting his return.

She will be notified in time, the leader said. Klemmer, give him his shirt and pants.

Sitting as in a trance, Carpenter did not immediately perceive that one of the young men had handed him his clothing. He now had an image in his mind of the girl as she looked while asleep, the long brown hair outflung on the pillow beside her face, the soft colors of her cheeks, and the way her mouth was gently closed. He remembered how one morning, awakening, he had raised himself and stared at her sleeping beside him, how his hand had touched her soft back and awakened her, and the words she had whispered as she had come into his arms; and how he had been half convinced then that he was still asleep himself, that his deed and his flight had been parts of a nightmare. As from afar he heard the agent’s voice commanding him to put on his clothes, and as he obeyed, the picture of her slipped out of the grasp of his memory. He could not quite understand the fact of his having been arrested at last, and now he half anticipated that in time, perhaps in the next second, he would awaken with her next to him, for now the voice and these men and the room and the two ruffians outside had become a dream that his conscience had invented to torture him, and only the girl was real.

He fumbled with the buttons of the spread-collar shirt and finally got them fastened. His fingers fitted his belt into its buckle.

One of the young men had called into the next room, and the two local officers plodded in. They had buckled on their guns and looked eager to use them in the line of duty. They led him to the door at the rear of the room and down a darkened corridor to the building’s four cells.

At the door to one cell, the leader put his hand on Carpenter’s arm lightly. I trust you’ll be comfortable here tonight, he said. The words were spoken caressingly.

Carpenter moved away from the touch. A moment later the stout man locked him in the cell, and the group departed without further comment.

A soft beam, presumably from a street light, came into the cell from a high barred window, but it was not strong enough to enable Carpenter to assess his chamber. He took a step forward, blinking to accustom his eyes to the darkness, stretching his arms out ahead of him, and cracked his shin against a bunk. Simultaneously he stumbled, bumping his forehead against the upper one. There was a rustling sound and a sleepy sigh. Carpenter was startled; it had not occurred to him that he might have a cellmate. Cautiously he put out his hand and groped along the surface of the top bunk, satisfying himself that it was empty, after which he took both hands and pulled downward to test its strength. Then he pulled himself up and sat on the edge for several minutes, wishing he had thought to ask for cigarettes.

Below, the heavy breathing changed to snoring.

Carpenter was very tired. During the questioning he had held himself in a state of suspension, listening to the leader and his men without paying close attention, fearful that if he should become absorbed he might tell them something he did not wish them to know. It had seemed to him it would be better if he revealed nothing until he worked out some sort of plan to guarantee the safety of the girl in the motor court. He had heard somewhere that it was sometimes possible to bargain. Perhaps this night he would be able to think of something. As this thought brought him a momentary peace, he was also aware that he no longer cared about what they might do to him. He had ceased to care the day he left Buchanan. Meeting the girl had awakened his will to survive, but even as it had stirred, he had known well enough that there could be no hope for anything permanent as long as he was a fugitive, and it had seemed, then, that he would remain a fugitive for the rest of his life. He had begun to exist, then, only for her and for their time together. He had not even been able to tell her the truth about himself, fearing that if she knew she would become frightened and leave him. Now, thinking of how he had been caught, he cursed his unpardonable carelessness. If he had not been in such haste to return to her, he might never have been picked up, for in the past month he had successfully eluded virtually every law-enforcement officer in the nation. Time and again he had told himself that if police everywhere were as stupid as he believed them, criminals everywhere must be getting away with murder and thievery every day. He had gone to no elaborate lengths to disguise himself, to cover his trail, to keep out of the way of the authorities; if they had been at all assiduous, they might well have picked him up on any given day—all of which made the circumstance of his capture by two illiterate cracker cops in this tiny Tennessee town the more ironic. Yet the irony brought no noticeable sense of disappointment. He had fully expected to be arrested, and now that it had happened he was relieved. Except, he thought, for her.

He got to his knees on the bunk and, with one hand, reached up to attempt to shake the bars at the window. They would not give; none of them even rattled. Finally he lay back on the bunk, grateful for the thin, unevenly tufted mattress, heedless of its odor of urine and foul breath. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the light coming through the window, wishing again he had asked for a cigarette but too weary to want one badly....

He heard her voice. In his ear she said softly, Darling, and then he felt his body twitch violently and knew he had dozed off. He heard a rattling, and thought it was at the window; his first thought was that she had somehow found where he had been taken. It became louder, and he realized it was the door. Now the cell reeked of alcohol, and as he listened to the heavy breathing below, he decided that his mate was sleeping off a moonshine bender.

As the cell door opened, Carpenter sat up, reasoning that they had probably decided to take him to Nashville, after all.

Hey, a voice said.

It belonged to the taller of the two officers, Carpenter instantly knew; the cruel-looking one called Ben. You want me? Carpenter asked.

Ben came into the cell and threw the beam from a flashlight into his face. Git down.

As Carpenter’s feet hit the floor, a gun was jammed into his stomach. He gasped, as much from surprise as from pain.

Don’ try anythin’, hear? Turn aroun’.

Carpenter obeyed, and the gun hit him in the kidneys.

Move. On out—go

Still half asleep, he stumbled along the dark hall toward the lighted doorway at the end. As they reached it, he was suddenly shoved from behind. He stumbled through, sensing what was about to happen.

The wall lights had been extinguished, and now the room was lit only by an oil lamp on the table where the leader and his young men had been sitting. The stout officer was seated comfortably by the table, a half-pint jar of clear fluid and two stained, greasy glasses at his elbow. On the other side of the table was a second chair, where Ben had been sitting. The two of them apparently had been drinking for some time, and Carpenter now realized that the odor of alcohol in the cell had come not from the sleeping man but from Ben. At first he did not know what to make of the scene, but when he saw the fat man’s face, he did not have to speculate. Touched by the lamplight, the stout, blotched face might have been a primitive representation of evil. The eyes were narrowed, the mouth sagged; the nostrils were broadened menacingly, moving in and out.

The two men said nothing.

Keeping his head motionless, Carpenter tried to peer beyond the arc of light thrown by the lamp, into the anteroom. The door was half open. He wondered if the federal men had gone off for the night—and then, with a small shock, he realized that he actually was estimating his chances of making a break.

We-all agoin’ talk, the stout man said, jes’ you’n us.

Ben was still standing behind Carpenter. He withdrew his gun, and Carpenter could hear the faint scraping of metal against leather as he shoved it into its holster.

Accustomed as he was to examining all aspects of any given problem, Carpenter speculated upon his chances of overpowering them. Both were a little drunk, but surely both were stronger than he. This, he thought, might be the last chance; in the morning, he would be handcuffed and guarded by the leader and his three young men. There would be no chance whatever of getting away from them.

Carpenter took a step nearer the table.

Hey! Ben cried from behind him, hitting him hard on the shoulder.

You stay theah, the stout man said threateningly.

Ben approached the table, turned his back to Carpenter for a second, and bent to pour himself a drink from the jar. At the same time the stout man tilted his chair back, locking his fat feet at the rungs, balancing himself with one hand on the table. One short, thick finger pointed at the jar. In the space of that sullen gesture, Carpenter moved.

His foot came out and hit the stout man’s chair, pushing him backward, and at the same time he dived for Ben, knocking over the table and smashing the lamp. Ben lunged for him in the darkness, yelling, but Carpenter hit him in the groin with all his strength, then ducked to one side and snatched up the empty chair. He swung it upward in a vicious half circle, and he could hear wood and bone splintering as it smashed Ben’s face. The big man sobbed childishly and collapsed. The stout man, puffing and shouting, had got to his feet. Carpenter groped for the chair, found a piece of it that might have been a leg, and threw it hard. He jumped feet first in the same direction, but missed; a flailing arm slapped into his face and a fingernail raked a deep, half-inch swath of flesh off his cheek. Carpenter half turned and grabbed him by the throat, and they fell together. Carpenter pressed his thumbs into the fleshy neck, then lifted up the head and cracked it against the floor three times. The body went limp. There was no sound from the other.

Carpenter got to his feet, stepped over to where the body lay tangled in the overturned table and the broken chair, and kicked. Ben did not move. Carpenter bent down cautiously, found the handle of the revolver, and snatched it out of the holster. Then he went to the fat man’s unconscious body and took his gun. He stood erect, glancing toward the door to the anteroom, half expecting one of the young men to come through it. He was shaking, the blood was streaming from his clawed face, and now that he was in control he was very close to panic. He tried to decide what he would do, but his mind was barren, and it remained that way until the breath forced its way into his straining lungs. His first clear thought was that his shirt front was wet, and then he knew it was the blood. He crouched down beside Ben to grope in the pockets for a handkerchief. The body moved a trifle. Carpenter struck the head twice with the barrel of the revolver in his right hand. He put the other gun in the left hip pocket of his pants, found a handkerchief in one of Ben’s pockets, and pulled it out. Holding it to his face, he started toward the door, releasing the safety catch on the revolver.

Hey, theah, he said, trying to imitate the stout man’s voice.

There was no sound from the anteroom.

The revolver ready, he stepped through the door. The room was empty. Walking stealthily, he crossed to one of the windows that faced the street, pressed himself to the wall at one side, and looked out. As much as he could see of the street was deserted. He scanned the shadowy buildings but could discern no lurking forms in the darkness.

A low voice said something under the window.

Carpenter drew back. After a short while he ventured another look. Two men were sitting on the steps. Now he knew he could not waste any more time. He stepped to the door and flung it open.

Put your hands up.

The men jumped. One looked around fearfully.

Make a move, Carpenter said, and I swear to God I’ll kill you, both of you. He was vaguely conscious of the B-movie tenor of the words, but somewhat to his own surprise, he knew that he meant them.

The smaller man was shaking. Mister, we’re not law. We’re reporters, from Nashville.

If they were reporters from Nashville, they probably had come by automobile. There was a gray Ford four-door sedan parked at the curb.

Walk toward your car. Move!

They started toward the curb. Now Carpenter had difficulty keeping his hand from shaking. He fully expected either of them to make a break, or one of the young men to emerge suddenly from some nearby hiding place.

Get into the front seat—both of you from this side. Wait. Open the back door first.

The tall man obeyed, then got in the front seat behind the wheel. The other followed him. In the rear seat, Carpenter took the second gun out of his pocket.

I’ve got two guns, he said. One is pointed at your head, and one at yours. He tapped each on the shoulder. "You try any funny stuff, any kind, like smashing up or running off the road, I’ll shoot you. Head out toward Route Eleven—fast."

The small man had begun to weep. Mister, I got a wife and—

As the other started the Ford, Carpenter said, Nobody’ll get hurt if you do what I say.

Are you George Carpenter? the tall man asked, shifting gears. The Ford moved away from the curb.

Who’s that? Carpenter asked.

"You never heard o’ him? the tall man asked, shifting into second. They caught him here today—got him there in that courthouse. He’s wanted all over the country. We got a tip from the feds up in Nashv’le."

Never heard of him, Carpenter said.

You look like him, the tall man said. You must of heard of him. He’s the one—

Drive, Carpenter said. Take Eleven.

His hands clenched tightly on the guns. He now had only one thought. He would be with her soon. Now that he had come this far, nobody could stop him from seeing her one more time, not even if he had to kill. He turned and looked through the rear window. They were not being pursued; the street was as lifeless as it had been when they left the courthouse. He addressed the driver. You wearing a watch? What time is it?

The man held his wrist to the dash and bent his head briefly. It’s two, about.

Drive faster, Carpenter commanded.

Later, when he thought about it, Carpenter never knew how he hit upon the idea of disposing of the men. The thought took shape in his mind, and he recognized it as the only thing he could do.

As soon as the idea came to him, he acted on it. He rapped the shorter man, who was still weeping, with the barrel of the revolver in his right hand. Take off your coat, he said, and throw it out the window.

But—

Do as I say. Then you steer while the other guy throws his out.

The man hastily shrugged out of his coat, rolled it into a ball, turned down the window, and was about to hurl it out when Carpenter spoke again.

Into the gutter.

The man began a protest, thought better of it, and obeyed. He then held the wheel while the other followed suit. The car swerved toward the left side of the road.

Hold it steady, Carpenter said. Now, you. He tapped the small man a second time. Your pants, shoes, socks—everything, including your underwear.

What’ll we do with our wallets? You ain’t going to make us throw them away, are you?

Keep your belts. Strap your wallets to you.

Mister, said the short man, my one kid is only five.

You ain’t the only one that’s got a family, the driver said.

Both of you shut up, Carpenter said.

For the next five or six miles they discarded one item of clothing after another until both were completely stripped. The driver even jettisoned his photographic gear. Both were shaking from the cold.

Mister, if you got any mercy—we’ll do anything you say. Anything. We’ll even give a wrong description of you if you let us go. The short man was weeping again, unashamedly.

If you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot you, Carpenter said.

A few minutes later, he told them to strap on their wallets and belts.

Ahead, a trailer truck appeared over a rise and rushed toward them, its headlights momentarily illuminating the interior of the Ford. Carpenter knew that he would have to get rid of his prisoners soon; it was possible that someone in just such a passing vehicle would see the naked men, wonder about them, and notify the state police. Yet leaving them by the side of the road would be foolish; it would be too easy for them to hail a car and sound the alarm.

The Ford was approaching a bridge, and there was his answer. Stop the car in the middle. I hope you both can swim.

I can’t, the short man whimpered.

You’re going to have to, tonight. Slow down...All right, stop.

Both of them were trembling like men with galloping fever.

Don’t turn off the motor, Carpenter said.

The Ford came to a stop.

Get out, walk over to that cement guard wall, climb up, and dive in, Carpenter said.

Suppose it ain’t deep enough? the driver protested.

He had not dared to consider this, and he spoke before the question took significance in his mind. It’s deep enough. Get going.

No! the short man cried. No, no! Please, mister, we— Carpenter rapped him with the pistol barrel. "Get going."

The driver turned his head defiantly. What’ll you do if— Carpenter halted him by whipping the barrel across his face, cutting him deeply. Get going!

They opened their doors and got out. He followed, covering them as they walked to the wall and climbed it. Their bare bodies shone white in the dim lamps on the bridge posts.

Go on, Carpenter said.

The taller man put out his hands and leaped. It seemed to Carpenter that an unbearable amount of time passed before he heard the splash.

The short man put out his hands as though to dive, then lost his nerve and began running along the wall toward the opposite end of the bridge.

Jump or I shoot! Carpenter shouted.

The man did not stop. Carpenter fired the pistol in his right hand and heard the bullet ricochet off the cement wall. He saw the body stiffen and fly into the air. For one breath, as he watched the man’s flailing arms and legs, he thought that his low shot had hit. Then the man’s body disappeared and to his relief he heard the faint splash from below, and a second later the man’s scream for help.

Carpenter ran back to the Ford, slammed the doors on the right side, then threw himself behind the wheel, putting the guns under the seat. As his car left the bridge he pressed the accelerator to the floor and kept it there.

For the next twenty minutes he drove as fast as he could along the unfamiliar, twisting Tennessee road, gunning it on the corners as he once had driven his MG roadster on the country roads around Buchanan. The speedometer needle went to seventy but would go no higher. Fortunately, there was little traffic; he shot by two trucks and passed one farmer’s pickup going in the same direction.

When he had gone about fifteen miles the hunger for a cigarette overtook him again, and he reached for the glove compartment and rummaged in it with one hand. There were none there, but the movement brought the radio on the dashboard to his attention, and he snapped it on. He spun the dial until he found a disk-jockey program coming through strongly, hoping it would be interrupted for a news summary. There was a long succession of hillbilly records by Tennessee Ernie, Red Foley, Spade Cooley, and others beloved in the district, each introduced fondly by the whining announcer with a list of syrupy dedications: Joe, down at Harry’s Diner near Athens; Eddie and Alma, of Nashv’le; the boys at Tolliver’s Truckin’ Service; Sweet Patootie and all the gang; Sam and Fran. Somewhere there were untroubled people, lying in bed or working in all-night restaurants and garages and filling stations, who derived some thin comfort from these simple laments. The soft drawl of the announcer wove them all together into an enormous fraternity; listening, Carpenter felt a loneliness more profound than any he had experienced since leaving Buchanan. ...latest neuws, another announcer was saying, in the tired voice characteristic of that area. He droned on for five minutes, reiterating from time to time that the news was the very latest, but he made no mention of Carpenter. The reporters, then, had been telling the truth. They had been tipped off; the federal men had not yet made a public announcement.

The road was becoming familiar. He recognized a right-angle turn, a tunnel under a railroad bridge, and a long, straight stretch flanked by white-painted poles linked with cable fencing. Soon he would be at the motor court, and he would have to decide definitely what he was going to do. He would be picked up, he knew, within hours. The reporters, if they had survived (and he could not countenance even in passing the possibility that they had not), would be giving the alarm at least within the hour, and the police would get after him immediately. They would check all stops along Route n, and unless he hid himself, he would be taken before dawn.

It was unlikely, Carpenter thought, that the proprietor of the court would be awake at this hour, but he could take no chances. He drove past it, noting that all lights were out, and did not slacken speed