Page 80 of Close Up

Lyra started to ask another question but she stopped and smiled at the familiar figure making his way toward the booth.

“Look,” she said, “here comes Ripley Fleming.”

Chapter 40

The storm was a complication they could have done without, Nick thought. He was behind the wheel of the Packard, making his way along Cliff Road, a narrow, winding, two-lane strip of pavement that followed the bluffs above the ocean. The rain was coming down hard now, severely limiting visibility, even for someone with his excellent night vision.

He was alone in the sedan. Luther and the others were waiting at the old pier. The trap had been set. It remained to be seen if the killer would take the bait.

How badly do you want that journal, Mr. X? How desperately do you want to complete the commission?

The first hint of engine trouble came when he tried to accelerate out of a sharp turn. The car did not respond with its usual surge of power. The steam appeared when he went into the next curve. It wafted up from the front of the vehicle.

The engine was overheating. That should not be happening. Hetook very, very good care of the Packard. The radiator hose was in excellent shape.

He eased the car to the side of the road before the big eight-cylinder engine died and he sat quietly for a moment, running through possibilities and probabilities.

He left the headlights on to warn other motorists there was a vehicle parked on the edge of the pavement although it was unlikely there would be much traffic on such a stormy night.

He found the flashlight in the glove box, opened the door, and got out from behind the wheel. He left his hat behind. He was going to get drenched. There was no point ruining the fedora as well as his jacket and trousers.

He walked around to the front of the car and raised the hood. Hot steam hissed from the nearly empty radiator. He crouched and aimed the flashlight under the car. The perfectly good radiator hose had burst in at least three places. The water meant to cool the engine had drained out somewhere along Cliff Road.

He straightened and used the flashlight to check his watch. It was going to be a long walk to the pier where Luther and the cops were waiting. The deal for the journal was due to take place in an hour.

The low growl of a car engine rumbled in the distance. He looked back down the road and saw the twin beams of a pair of headlights. They flashed briefly and then disappeared when the vehicle went into a curve.

He opened the driver’s side door, reached inside, and doused the headlights. Then he closed the door again. The rainy darkness closed in hard and fast. He switched on the flashlight and surveyed the rocky, weather-beaten landscape on the far side of the road, away from the bluff. It offered few places of concealment. He decided his best option was a cluster of boulders.

He crossed the pavement, moved behind the largest rock, and turned off the flashlight. Moments later a car cruised slowly out of acurve, windshield wipers slashing. The headlights picked up the darkened Packard.

The driver pulled to the side and came to a halt directly behind the Packard. The headlights illuminated the vehicle but the rain reduced visibility. The motorist could probably tell there was no one sitting behind the wheel but that was about all that he would be able to see.

After a moment the driver got out of the front seat. He left the lights on and the engine running. A familiar cap was pulled down low over his eyes in an attempt to ward off some of the rain. He held a flashlight in his left hand but his right arm was stiff and straight at his side.

Nick could not see the gun but he was sure it was in the driver’s right hand.

“Hello,” the driver shouted. “Anyone around? Looks like you had some car trouble. I’d be happy to give you a lift into town.”

Nick waited.

After a moment the driver walked to the passenger side window of the Packard and aimed the flashlight into the front and rear seats. Satisfied that there was no one inside he immediately moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk.

“So you’re the Poet,” Nick said.

The driver gave a violent start of surprise and dove for the shadows on the far side of the Packard, putting the vehicle between himself and Nick.

“Who the fuckareyou?” the Poet shouted. “How did you get hold of my journal? How did you break the code?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s just say breaking the code was the easy part.”

“You’re not law enforcement.”

“No. Just someone who knows your poems are records of your so-called commissions. Names, dates, clients. The techniques you used to make the murders look like natural causes, suicides, or accidents.”

“Did you really think I was dumb enough to walk into the trap you set up at that old pier tonight?” the Poet said.

“The possibility occurred to me, yes. I know you’re desperate to recover the journal.”

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