Cade

One

As the aircraft circled Eastonville, Cade could see the pall of smoke covering the north end of the town. He had guessed it would be bad, but he hadn’t imagined it was going to be this bad. The fear that had been gnawing at him during the three-hours flight sharply increased, turning his hands clammy and slowing his heartbeats to painful thuds. He had an overpowering need for yet another drink.

The lighted sign above his head told him to fasten his seat belt and put out his cigarette. He knew without asking that the air hostess wouldn’t bring him another drink now: he had left it too late. He knew too that she was pretty bored with him. She had already brought him eight double whiskies during the flight, and she had made the journey to the top end of the aircraft where he was sitting with increasing reluctance. Although his tense, frightened nerves screamed for more alcohol, he knew he would now have to force himself to wait until they landed.

There were only two other passengers travelling on this flight. With things the way they were in Eastonville no one unless he had to was visiting this day.

The twenty-odd passengers travelling with Cade from New York had left the aircraft at Atlanta, and these two men had got on: tall, beefy, red-faced men, wearing wide-brimmed panama hats and dusty city suits. They had sat a couple of rows behind him. He had been uneasily aware of their muttered comments as the air hostess kept bringing him drinks. Now, as the aircraft was circling to land, one of them said, “Look, Jack, see that smoke? Looks like we’re back in time for the fun.”

“Nigger bastards,” the other man growled. “I hope they’re roasting in there.”

Cade flinched. He glanced furtively at the well-worn Pan-Am overnight bag on the seat beside him. It contained his camera and equipment. He had thought it wiser not to bring with him his fitted camera case. He would be crazy, he had told himself, to walk into a town as explosive as Eastonville advertising that he intended to take photographs.

“Think the Militia’s arrived?” the man called Jack asked.

His companion laughed.

“Not if I know Fred. He won’t let those schoolboys mess up our fun until he has to.”

“Maybe some nigger has put up a squawk.”

“Not with Fred checking all out-going calls, and that’s what he said he would do. No, this time, Brick, we are going to teach these niggers, and no sonofabitch from outside is stopping us.”

Cade took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He had known as soon as Mathison had sent for him he was in for trouble. He felt instinctively as he walked into Mathison’s small, untidy office that Mathison was going to give him the kiss of death. Not that he blamed him. There was no finer News Editor than Henry Mathison. He had leaned over backwards for three sordid weeks in Cade’s favour. He had given him chance after chance. He had accepted Ed Burdick’s assurance that Cade was still a genius and if given a chance, he was still the finest photographer in the world. He had had his chance, and what had he done with it?

Cade’s sweating, shaking fingers dug into the over-night bag in a spasm of shame.

Well, for five months, he had proved Burdick had been right. He had given Mathison real value for his money. There had been times when Mathison, a hard man to impress, had stared with delighted eyes as Cade had dropped his glossy prints on his desk. That phase had lasted just five months, then Cade began hitting the bottle again. He had a reason; a very good reason, but it wasn’t the kind of reason he could mention to a man like Mathison who was dedicated to his job. No excuse could ever upset this dedication. Cade knew he couldn’t explain about Juana. Women were very unimportant to Mathison.

During the following three weeks, Cade had fallen down on four important assignments. So when Mathison had sent for him, Cade expected to get the gate. He had no idea what he would do when he left the newspaper office. He was ill. He couldn’t sleep. He had to drink a pint of whisky a day. That was the minimum. He could drink a lot more, but he had to have that amount of alcohol each day to stay alive. He was short of money. He was being pressed for payments on his car. He was behind on his rent. The only thing of value that he owned was his camera equipment and he would have rather died than part with that.

“Sit down, Val,” Mathison had said, pushing back his chair. He was a small, bird-like man, some ten years older than Cade, which made him forty-seven. “You’re not doing so good, are you?”

Cade rested his shaking hands on the chair back. The effect of his last drink was dying on him. His face felt hot, his head ached, and there was a gnawing pain in his belly that frightened him.

“Let’s skip the lecture,” he said. “I am right with you. It’s been great knowing you, and I...”

“Sit down and shut up,” Mathison said mildly. He took out a bottle of Scotch from his desk drawer and two shot glasses. He filled the glasses and pushed one towards Cade. “Sit down, Val.”

Cade looked at the drink. He resisted it for one brief moment, then he lifted the glass and drank carefully. He sat down, holding the glass with half the whisky now in it, hesitating, but he had to finish the drink, so he finished it.

“Something has come up. You can handle it, Val,” Mathison said. He examined Cade sympathetically, then pushed the bottle across the desk. “Go ahead. You look like you can use another.”

Cade made a show of ignoring the bottle. He said, “What’s come up?”

“Ace Syndicate has a hot tip. They want you to cover it. It’ll be good for us, for them and for you.”

A syndicate job usually meant big money. It meant the photographer went after the pictures, the Syndicate arranged for world coverage, and there was a fifty-fifty split on the take.

“What’s the job?” Cade asked, thinking that if he could only stay sober, this could get him out of his financial hole. He refilled his glass.

“There’s a Civil Rights demonstration beginning tonight at Eastonville.” Mathison didn’t look at him. “The real trouble is expected to be in full swing by tomorrow afternoon. They want you to fly down there on the nine o’clock plane tomorrow morning.”

Cade slowly replaced the cap on the bottle. A chill crawled up his spine.

“Why not tonight?” he asked, staring hopelessly at the whisky in his glass.

“They don’t want you there too soon. It will be one of these quick in and quick out jobs.”

“If I get out,” Cade said.

Mathison sipped his drink. He didn’t say anything.

After a long pause, Cade said, “The last time photographers from New York tried to cover a caper like this three of them landed in hospital, five cameras were smashed and no one got any pictures.”

“That’s why Ace wants these pictures so badly.”

Cade finished his drink. He tried to focus Mathison as he asked, “You want them too?”

“Yes, I want them. Ace tells me they can fix a big deal with Life if the pictures are good.” Again a pause, then Mathison went on, “I had the G.M. agent on the telephone. He asked if we would carry your car payments. I had to tell him your car payments weren’t covered by your contract.” Again there was a pause. “It is up to you, Val. Alice will get your ticket. There’s a hundred dollars for expenses: more if you want it. What’s it to be?”

“This is a pretty rough assignment,” Cade said, feeling the clutch of fear at his heart. “Who else will be going?”

“No one. No one else knows about it. If you pull this one off you will be back in business.”

Cade rubbed his hand across his face.

“And if I don’t, I’m not?”

Mathison regarded him thoughtfully, then he picked up a blue pencil and began slashing at some copy lying on his desk. It was his well-known symbol of a finished conversation.

Cade sat thinking for a long moment. The Kiss of Death, he said to himself, but there was a small spark of self-respect still left in him and the whisky had fanned it alight.

“Okay. Get the ticket,” he said. “I’ll be ready to travel tomorrow,” and moving unsteadily, he walked with drunken dignity out of the office.

As Cade walked across the tarmac towards Eastonville’s Airport building he could see the distant column of smoke fanning out against the cloudless sky. The light over the Airport was strange and rather sinister, like that from an eclipse.

The other two passengers who had travelled with him were ahead of him. They walked briskly, men with a purpose, in step, their thick arms swinging.

Cade didn’t hurry. The day was hot and humid and the sling bag he carried over his shoulder was heavy. Besides, he had a fearful reluctance about leaving the airport. He knew he should go straight to the fire, but he flinched from this. He told himself that he would go to the hotel, and find out what was actually happening in the town. But first, he must have a drink.

He walked into the cool, dimly lit lobby of the Airport building. It was deserted but for the two passengers who now stood by the entrance across the lobby, talking to a tall, powerfully-built man in a short-sleeved, open-neck sports shirt and faded khaki slacks.

Cade briefly glanced at the three men, then walked into the bar to his left. This too was deserted. The barman, balding and middle-aged, was reading a newspaper.

Controlling the eagerness in his voice, Cade asked for a straight Scotch. The barman stared curiously at him, then poured a shot from a bottle with a White Horse label. He pushed the drink towards Cade.

Cade lowered his overnight bag to the floor. With an unsteady hand, he lit a cigarette. The effort he had to make not to pick up the drink brought him out in a heavy sweat. He compelled himself to smoke for a moment or so, to tap ash into the glass ashtray, then trying to be very casual, he picked up the drink and sipped it.

“You just got in?” the barman asked.

Cade looked at him, feeling himself cringe, then he looked away. He finished his drink before saying, “That’s right.”

“I reckon folks should have more sense than to come to this town today when they ain’t wanted,” the barman said.

Cade needed another drink badly, but he sensed this bald barman was itching to make trouble. Reluctantly, he put money on the bar counter, picked up his bag and started down the long room towards the exit. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the man in the sports shirt and faded khaki slacks standing in the doorway as if waiting for him.

This man was around Cade’s age. His face was hard, red and fleshy. His eyes were steel grey, his nose chunky and his mouth thin. Clipped to the pocket of his shirt was a five-pointed, silver star.

When Cade finally reached him, the man made no move to get out of the way. Cade stopped, his mouth turning dry.

The man said quietly, “I am Deputy Sheriff Joe Schneider. Is your name Cade?”

Cade tried to force himself to meet the steel-grey eyes, but he had immediately to look away.

“That’s right,” he said and was horrified to see he was shuffling his feet.

“When a guy like you talks to me, he usually calls me Deputy,” Schneider said. “That’s the way I like it.”

Cade didn’t say anything. He was thinking now only of himself. A year ago he could have handled a situation like this with ease. In this moment of thought, he realised how far down the scale he had sunk. He was now so frightened that he couldn’t think of anything to say. The realisation of this fact sickened him.

“Val Cade, the so-called ace photographer of the New York Sun,” Schneider said in an offensive, sneering voice. “That right?”

“That’s my name, deputy,” Cade said.

“What’s your business in Eastonville, Cade?”

Cade thought: Tell him to drop dead. He can’t do a thing to you. He’s an official in this town. Even if he dared to start something, you could get him thrown out of his job. He’s bluffing. He’s trying to scare the hell out of you. Tell him...

He was horrified to hear himself say, “I’m here because I was told to be here, deputy. That doesn’t mean a thing. I’m not looking for trouble.”

Schneider cocked his head on one side.

“Is that right? I heard the Sun looked for trouble.”

“Maybe, but you won’t have trouble from me,” Cade said.

Schneider regarded him, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

“Tell me something, Cade. Why did they send a gutless lush like you down here? Tell me... it interests me.”

Cade wished he had had the courage to have ordered another drink. He now really needed that other drink.

“Tell me, Cade,” Schneider said and reaching forward, he gave Cade a slight shove on his chest, sending him staggering back a couple of feet.

Cade recovered his balance. He ran the back of his hand across his dry lips.

“I guess they picked the wrong man.” Then before he could stop himself, he went on, “I’m not taking any pictures, deputy, if that’s what is worrying you.”

Schneider looked him slowly up and down.

“Don’t you worry about what might worry me.

Where are you staying?”

“Central Motor Hotel.”

“When are you leaving?”

“The next plane out... 11:00 hrs. tomorrow morning.”

Schneider brooded for a long moment, his eyes contemptuous, then he shrugged.

“What are we waiting for? Come on, Cade. I’ll see you fixed up.”

As they walked together across the lobby, Schneider said suddenly, “What is in the bag, Cade?”

“My things.”

“Got a camera in there?”

Cade came to an abrupt standstill. A flash of madness came into his eyes as he faced Schneider who, startled, took a quick step away from him.

“You touch my camera,” Cade said in a soft, hysterical scream, “and you’ll have a goddamn war in your goddamn lap!”

“Who said anything about touching your camera?” Schneider said, his hand dropping on the butt of his gun. “I didn’t. So what are you yelling about?”

“Don’t just touch it... that’s all,” Cade said in a more controlled voice.

Schneider recovered from his surprise.

“Come on. What are we hanging around here for?”

Cade started unsteadily again towards the entrance doors. He felt suddenly sick and faint. This outburst of his had been so spontaneous that it frightened and shocked him.

Out in the smoky, humid air, Schneider signalled towards a dusty Chevrolet, parked across the way in the shade. The car was driven over by a young, alert looking man wearing a similar getup as Schneider’s and a similar silver star pinned to his shirt pocket. His narrow face was deeply tanned by the sun. His dark little eyes were as expressionless as wet stones.

“Ron, this is Cade, one time ace photographer. Maybe you have heard of him. He isn’t looking for trouble,” Schneider said. “Take him to his hotel. He’s leaving on the eleven o’clock plane tomorrow morning. Keep him company until he leaves.” To Cade, he went on, “This is Ron Mitchell. He hates nigger-lovers. He hates trouble-makers. He hates lushes... particularly lushes.” He grinned. “Don’t irritate him. He hates being irritated.”

Mitchell leaned forward and peered through the open window at Cade, then he glared at Schneider.

“If you think I’m going to sit with this stinking drunk until tomorrow morning, Joe,” he said viciously, “you need your head examined.”

Schneider waved a placating hand.

“You don’t have to sit with him. Lock him in his room if you like. I don’t give a damn, but see he doesn’t get into trouble.”

Muttering under his breath, Mitchell opened the off-side door of the Chevrolet.

“Get in,” he snarled at Cade. “If you want trouble, I’ll give it to you!”

Cade got into the car and rested his bag on his knees. Mitchell stamped down on the gas pedal and the car jolted off towards the deserted highway. By the time they reached the highway the car was travelling at seventy miles an hour.

Cade stared through the windshield. There was no traffic. They met only one police car during the seven miles drive into town. As he drove, Mitchell kept cursing under his breath.

As they approached the outskirts of the town, Mitchell reduced speed. They drove down the main street. The shops were shut. No one walked the sidewalks. As they passed the main intersection, Cade saw a number of powerfully-built men standing in a silent group at the street corner. They were all swinging clubs and they had guns strapped to their hips.

Mitchell drove down a side street and pulled up outside the hotel.

The Central Motor Hotel was a modern, ten-storey building with a small grassed forecourt and a fountain. Balconies to every room overlooked the street.

As the two men walked up the steps to the hotel’s entrance, the doorman nodded to Mitchell and then stared curiously at Cade. Passing through the swing doors, they walked to the reception desk.

The clerk handed a registration card and a pen to Cade. Cade’s hand was so unsteady he had trouble filling in the necessary particulars.

“Your room is 458,” the clerk said and put down a key. He had the embarrassed air of a man dealing with a beggar.

Mitchell picked up the key. Waving away a bellhop who was approaching, he led the way to the automatic elevator.

On the fourth floor, the two men walked down the long corridor until they arrived at Room 458. Mitchell unlocked the door and entered a well furnished, large room. He crossed to the french windows, opened them and stepped out onto the balcony. He looked down onto the street, then satisfied that Cade couldn’t escape that way, he came back into the room.

Cade had dropped his bag onto the bed. His legs ached and he was dreadfully tired. He wanted to sit down, but he couldn’t bring himself to do this until Mitchell had gone.

“Okay,” Mitchell said. “You stay right here until it’s time for you to leave. I’ll be around. Anything you want before I lock you in?”

Cade hesitated. He hadn’t eaten since the previous evening, but he wasn’t hungry. He ate very little.

“A bottle of Scotch and some ice,” he said, not looking at Mitchell.

“Have you got the money to pay for it?”

“Yes.”

Mitchell went out, slamming the door. Cade heard the key turn in the lock. He took off his jacket and sat down in the big, easy chair. He stared down at his shaking hands.

Some ten minutes later, a waiter brought him a bottle of Scotch, a glass and ice in an ice bucket. He didn’t look at the waiter nor did he tip him. Mitchell who had come with the waiter shut and locked the door again.

When he was sure they had gone, Cade poured himself a big drink. He drank a little of the Scotch, then he went to the telephone and lifted the receiver.

A girl’s voice answered.

He asked to be connected with the New York Sun, New York.

“Hold a minute,” the girl said.

He listened. He could hear the girl talking, but he couldn’t hear what she said. After some minutes, the girl said curtly, “No calls are being accepted today for New York.”

Cade replaced the receiver. He stared down at the carpet for a long moment, then he walked across the room to where his drink was waiting.

“Mr. Cade! Please wake up, Mr. Cade! Mr. Cade!”

Cade groaned. Without opening his eyes, he put his hand to his aching head. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, but it couldn’t have been long. The sunlight coming through the french windows was strong and burned against his eyelids.

“Mr. Cade. Please...”

Cade struggled upright, slowly swinging his legs to the floor. With his back now to the window, he risked opening his eyes. The room came mistily into focus. He became aware of a man standing near him and he covered his eyes with his hands.

“Mr. Cade! We haven’t much time!”

Cade waited for a few seconds, then lowering his head, he peered at the man who was speaking. He turned suddenly cold when he saw the man was a Negro.

“Mr. Cade! The march starts in half an hour. Are you all right?” the Negro asked. He was tall and thin and young. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of neatly pressed black trousers.

“What are you doing here?” Cade demanded hoarsely. “How did you get in?”

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Cade. I am Sonny Small. I am the Secretary of the Civil Rights Committee.”

Cade stared at him, feeling the blood leaving his face.

“My girl works here, Mr. Cade,” Small went on, speaking in a low, urgent whisper. “She called me. She told me you tried to get your paper and they wouldn’t connect you. She said you were locked in here. As soon as she called I came over right away. She gave me the pass-key. We can use the service elevator. No one’s watching that.”

Panic blanketed Cade’s mind. He couldn’t think; couldn’t speak. He just sat staring at Small.

“We haven’t much time, Mr. Cade,” Small said. “Here’s your camera. I got it ready for you.” He thrust the Minolta into Cade’s shaking hands. “Is there anything I can carry for you?”

Cade drew in a long, whistling breath. The touch of the cold metal of the camera snapped him out of his paralysis.

“Get out of here!” he exclaimed, glaring at Small. “Leave me alone! Get out!”

“Aren’t you well, Mr. Cade?” Small was bewildered and startled.

“Get out!” Cade repeated, raising his voice.

“But I don’t understand. You came here to help us, didn’t you? We had a telegram this morning saying you were coming. What’s the matter, Mr. Cade? We are all waiting for you. The march starts at three o’clock.”

Cade got to his feet. Holding the Minolta in his right hand, he waved with his left to the door.

“Get out! I don’t give a damn when the march starts. Get out!”

Small stiffened.

“You can’t mean this, Mr. Cade.” He spoke gently. There was an understanding and a compassionate expression in his eyes that sickened Cade. “Please listen to me. You are the greatest photographer in the world. My friends and I have followed your work for years. We collect your photographs, Mr. Cade. Those wonderful shots of Hungary as the Russians moved in. Those pictures of the famine in India. That fire in Hong Kong. They were unique records of people suffering. Mr. Cade, you have something no other photographer has. You have a superb talent and a sensitive feeling for humanity. We are marching at three o’clock. There are more than five hundred men waiting for us with clubs, guns and tear gas. We know that, but we are going to march. By tonight, most of us will be bleeding, some of us in hospital, but we will have done this thing because we mean to survive in this town. A lot of us are frightened, but when we heard you would be with us to record this march in pictures, we were a lot less frightened. We knew then that whatever happens to us this afternoon, it will be recorded for the world to see in a way that will explain what we are trying to do. That’s our hope: to make people understand what we are trying to do, and you can do this thing for us.” He paused and looked at Cade. “You are frightened? Of course you are. So am I. So are we all” He paused again, then went on quickly, “But I don’t believe a man of your integrity and your talent will refuse to march with us this afternoon.”

Cade walked slowly to the writing desk. He put down his camera and then poured whisky into the glass.

“You picked the wrong hero,” he said, his back to Small. “Now get out, and stay out.”

There was a long, pregnant silence, then Small said, “I am sorry, Mr. Cade... not for myself, but for you.”

After the door had closed gently and the lock had turned, Cade stared for some moments at the glass he was holding, then with a shudder of revulsion, he flung the glass at the opposite wall. The whisky spraying off the wall splashed his shirt. He walked stiffly to the bed and sat on it his hands in fists rested on his knees. He remained there for some time, staring down at the carpet refusing to think, forcing his mind to remain blank.

A woman’s scream, shrill and nerve-jangling came faintly through the closed window, bringing him to his feet. He listened, his heart racing. The scream came again.

Shaking, he jerked open the french windows and stepped out onto the balcony.

After the air-conditioned coolness of the room, the heat from the street rose up around him in a smothering, humid blanket. Gripping the balcony rail, he leaned forward and looked down into the street.

Sonny Small was standing in the middle of the street his body tense, his hands clenched in ebony fists. In the glare of the afternoon sun, his shirt looked very white and his skin very black. He looked first to his right, then to his left. Then he waved to someone that Cade couldn’t see and he shouted in a thin, tight voice that floated up to Cade, “Keep away, Tessa! Keep away from me!”

Cade looked down the street to his right. Three white men were running down the street towards Small: big, powerful men with clubs in their hands. He looked to his left. Two other men, also with clubs, were converging on Small, but moving more slowly. It was a classic design of fugitive and hunters and there was no way of escape for Small.

Turning quickly, Cade blundered back into the room. He snatched up his camera. With a quick movement, he detached the 5.8 cm lens, snatching up his overnight bag, he spilt its contents out onto the bed. Then grabbing his 20 cm telephoto lens, he regained the balcony. Years of camera handling experience made his movements sure, fast and automatic. The lens mount snapped into the body of the camera. He set the shutter at 1/125 and the aperture at f16. The converging men and the lone white-shirted negro made a pattern of sinister violence in the view finder.

Cade’s hands became miraculously steady. The focal plane shutter snapped across.

Down below, one of the running men shouted in a voice turned hoarse and vicious with triumph, “It’s that Nigger sonofabitch Small! Get him, boys!”

Small, crouching, crossed his arms and covered his head as the men reached him. A club smashed down on his crossed forearms, driving him to his knees. Another club flashed in the sunlight. The sharp crack of wood against bone came clearly to Cade as he pushed forward the film winder and released the shutter.

The five men crowded around the fallen Negro. A bright ribbon of blood made a diagonal pattern with ten dusty, heavy boots.

Small made a convulsive movement as a club thudded down on his ribs. One of the men shoved another out of his way so he could get at the fallen Negro. His boot crashed against Small’s cheekbone. Blood sprayed up, staining the man’s boot and trousers leg.

The shutter of the camera four storeys above snapped again and again.

Then a slim Negro girl came running from the hotel. She was tall and her frizzy hair was disarranged. She had on a white cover-all, no stockings nor shoes and she ran swiftly and silently.

Cade’s 20 cm lens picked her up. He could see through the view finder her stark look of terror, the determined set of her mouth and the glitter of sweat that framed her horror-wide eyes.

One of the men was getting set to kick Small in the face again as she arrived. Her finger nails like claws ripped at his face, sending him staggering back. Then she was standing over Small, facing the men.

The men drew back. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the man with the gashed face gave a yell and swung his club. The club smashed down on the girl’s forearm as she jerked up her arm to protect her head. Her arm dropped limply to her side, the white teeth of the splintered bone breaking through the dark flesh.

“Kill the Nigger bitch!” the man bawled and the club swung again, hitting the girl on the top of her frizzy head. She went down on top of Small, her cover-all riding up to her waist, her long, thin legs spread wide.

At the end of the street came the shrill blast of a police whistle. The five men jerked around. Two deputies, their stars glittering in the sun, were watching them, wide grins on their faces. Then they began a slow march down the street towards the men.

The man with the gashed face bent over the unconscious girl and drove the end of his club between her legs with brutal violence. One of his companions caught hold of him and dragged him away.

Then the five of them, their backs to the slowly approaching deputies, began to walk briskly away. By the time the deputies had reached the unconscious negroes, the five men had disappeared.

Cade stepped away from the balcony and lowered his camera. He was trembling, but he knew he had a set of pictures that would speak far louder than any pictures he might have taken of the freedom march.

Now he wanted a drink.

He moved unsteadily back into the room, then he stopped short, a cold surge of shock flowing up his spine.

His eyes like wet stones, Mitchell stood in the open doorway. The two men stared at each other, then Mitchell moved into the room, shut and locked the door.

“Give me that camera, you sonofabitch,” he said.

Cade thought: Can it be possible that in twelve months, I could have so quickly and easily ruined my body and anaesthetised my mind so that now when I need my strength, it is certain to fail me? A year ago, this cheap thug would have been less than a joke to me. Now, he terrifies me. He’s going to be too strong and fast for me to handle. He’s going to beat me into a bloody, sodden rag, and he is going to get my pictures.

“Did you hear what I said?” Mitchell snapped. “Give me that camera!”

Cade backed still further away. With shaking fingers, he removed the long 20 cm lens from the camera and dropped the lens onto the bed while he continued to back away until he reached the wall.

Mitchell advanced slowly towards him.

“I saw you taking pictures,” he said. “Okay: now you’re in trouble. I warned you, didn’t I? Give me that camera!”

“You can have it,” Cade said breathlessly. “Just don’t touch me.” He lifted the camera strap from his neck.

Mitchell paused, watching him, a sneering grin on his face.

The camera hung at the end of the strap which Cade held in his right hand. Cade’s face was bloodless. His breath came through his half-open mouth in uneven gasps. His expression was of abject terror. He looked such a creature for contempt that Mitchell made a fatal mistake. He relaxed, sadistically anticipating the moment when his sharp knuckles would cut into the face of this man, trembling before him.

He snapped his fingers.

“Give,” he said.

Then something happened to Cade. He had always had this extraordinary protective feeling towards his camera. During the years as a photographer he had never had a camera smashed, although many had attempted it. Now, as he was about to hand the camera to Mitchell, this instinct asserted itself. Before he knew what he was doing, his right arm stiffened and swung in a lightning arc. The camera, hanging at the end of the strap flew like a sling-shot towards Mitchell’s grinning face.

Mitchell had no chance to avoid it. The edge of the heavy metal camera smashed against his temple, splitting the skin and dropping him on his knees.

Blood poured down his face and into his eyes. Half-conscious, blinded, he knelt before Cade, his hands flat on the carpet, his arms stiff, his chin resting on his chest.

Cade stared in horror at the kneeling man. The camera swung back, hitting Cade hard on his knee, but he didn’t feel the blow. He let the strap slip out of his fingers and the camera dropped to the floor.

Mitchell shook his head and groaned. Slowly, he transferred his weight to his left arm, then his right hand groped upwards for the butt of the .45 on his hip.

Shuddering, Cade picked up the 20 cm lens. As Mitchell began to draw the gun, Cade stepped up to him and slammed the long lens down on the top of his head. Mitchell heaved up, then went limp, flattening out on the carpet.

Cade felt suddenly so ill he had to sit on the bed. He thought for one horrible moment that he was going to faint. His slow, irregular heart beats and his quick, rasping breathing frightened him. He sat for several minutes with his head in his hands, willing the faintness to leave him. Finally, he forced himself to his feet. He picked up the camera and began to wind off the film. This took him sometime because his hands were so unsteady and his fingers clumsy, but finally he got the film cartridge out of the camera.

Mitchell moved slightly. Cade went unsteadily across the room, picked up his jacket and slipped into it. He dropped the cartridge into the right hand pocket. He hesitated only for a moment about taking his equipment with him, but he knew he couldn’t walk the streets of Eastonville carrying such a deadly give-away. He stepped out into the long, deserted corridor. For a moment he hesitated, then remembering what Small had said about the service elevator not being watched, he walked fast down the corridor until he came to a swing door marked Service. As he stepped into the big lobby, he wished he had brought the half-empty bottle of whisky. He really needed a drink now and he was tempted to return to the bedroom, but he resisted the temptation.

He pressed the button by the elevator doors. While he waited, he tried to control his breathing. He wished he could think clearly. He had no idea how he was to get out of Eastonville. There were no more planes leaving today. His best bet would be to rent a car, but by the time he had done this, Mitchell would have alerted the police. They wouldn’t let him escape if they could help it. They would set up road blocks. Perhaps he could get out by train.

The elevator doors swung open and he entered the elevator, pressed the button for the ground floor. He looked at his watch. It was 15.10 hours. The freedom march had begun. That might give him a chance. The police and their deputies would be so occupied breaking up the march, they might have no time to come after him.

The elevator came to rest and he stepped into a dimly-lit passage that led to an open door and sunshine. He walked quickly down the passage and peered out into a narrow street that ran the length of the back of the hotel. The street was deserted.

He walked down the street as quickly as his shaking legs could carry him, keeping in the shade. Before reaching the end of the street that led to the main road, he crossed and began walking down another narrow street, running parallel with the main road.

The word Garage picked out in neon lighting caught his eye. He increased his stride, arriving at the open garage, breathless and sweating.

A fat man was resting his body on the wing of a Pontiac, sunning himself and smoking a cigar. He straightened up as Cade came up to him.

“I want to hire a car,” Cade said, trying to steady his voice.

“Benson,” the fat man said, offering a moist hand.

Cade shook hands reluctantly.

“You want to hire a car?” the fat man said. “Nothing easier. I’ve got plenty of cars. For how long?”

Cade suddenly remembered he had only eighty dollars and a few cents left of the hundred dollars Mathison had given him. He now regretted all the drinks he had paid for, and yet, he longed for just one more drink.

“Only for a couple of hours,” he said, not looking at the fat man. “Just a short trip. It’s too hot to walk.”

“Twenty bucks,” Benson said promptly. “Mileage on top. Ninety bucks for deposit and insurance, but that’s returnable.”

Because his mind had long ceased to be alert, Cade made his mistake.

“I have a Credit Card on Hertz,” he said, taking out his wallet. “I’ll pay twenty bucks, but no deposit,” and he handed the card to Benson.

As soon as the fat man started to examine the card, Cade realised his mistake, but it was too late. Benson’s face hardened into a fat, ugly mask. He shoved the card back to Cade.

“I don’t rent my cars to nigger lovers,” he said.

“Beat it!”

Cade turned and began walking down the street. He wanted to run, but forced down his rising panic. He turned left at the end of the street into a shabby alley that he could see led once again to the main road. Half-way down the alley he saw a sign that read: Jack’s Bar. He forced himself to pass the bar, but a few yards further on, he stopped. He turned and looked back down the alley. There was no one watching him. He hesitated. He knew he hadn’t a moment to lose, but he had to have a drink. Without a drink he wouldn’t be able to walk much further, already his muscles were aching and twitching. He walked back, pushed open the swing door and entered a small, shabby bar.

There was no one in the bar except an old Negro barman who stood very still, staring at Cade with panic showing in his bloodshot eyes.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Cade said quietly. “White Horse and ice.”

The old Negro put a bottle, a glass and a bowl of ice in front of Cade, then he moved away to the end of the bar and stood with his back half turned to Cade.

After a second drink, Cade got his breathing under control. He listened to the unnatural silence of the alley and he wondered about the freedom march.

“Would you know how I can get hold of a car?” he said suddenly. “I have to get out of town.”

The old Negro hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow.

“I know nothing about cars,” he said without looking around.

“Two of your people were attacked and badly hurt in front of the Central Motor Hotel,” Cade said. “Did you hear about it?”

“I don’t listen to anything I am told in this town,” the old Negro said.

“Don’t talk that way about your own people! I am a New York newspaperman! I want your help.”

There was a long pause as the old Negro turned to stare at Cade. Then cautiously, he said, “You could be lying.”

Cade took out his billfold and put his press card on the bar.

“I’m not lying.”

The old Negro came down the bar, took from his vest pocket a pair of bent steel spectacles and put them on. He peered at the card, then at Cade.

“I heard about you,” he said suddenly. “They were expecting you to march with them.”

“Yes. They locked me in a hotel bedroom. I’ve just got out.”

“Those two they caught outside the hotel... they’re dead.”

Cade drew in a long, whistling breath.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You’d better get out of here. If they found you with me, they’d kill me too.”

“I took photographs,” Cade said. “My photographs could hang the five men who did it. Can you lend me a car?”

“They don’t hang white men in this town.”

“They’ll hang them when they see these pictures.

Can you lend me a car?”

“I don’t have a car.”

The shrill blast of a police whistle cut the air outside making both men stiffen. Cade poured another drink. His mind was suddenly very alert. He tossed the drink down his throat, took from his billfold a five dollar bill and one of his business cards. He took the film cartridge from his pocket.

“They could catch me,” he said. “They mustn’t get these pictures. You’ve got to get them to the New York Sun. Do you understand? You may be old and poor and frightened, but it is the least you can do for those two kids they murdered. Send the film and my card to the New York Sun.”

He turned and walked to the entrance of the bar, pushed open the swing door and stepped cautiously into the alley.

The police whistle sounded again. The alley was still deserted. Cade began to walk towards the intersection. His heart was slamming against his ribs, but he felt strangely excited and elated. He was sure the old Negro would somehow get the pictures to Mathison. It didn’t now matter what happened to him. He had done his job. He felt vindicated.

He didn’t even break his stride when three men came running around the corner, clubs in hand and converged on him.