Free Ride a Pale Horse by Helen MacInnes Page A

get the sandwiches and something to drink? It would save time.”
    He hesitated for a moment, looked at his watch. It would take them at least half an hour to reach the place he had decided to tape her story: a secluded spot, no one to wonder at them—or intrude—and a spreading tree for cool shade. Time wasn’t for wasting this afternoon. “Okay. Beer for me—doesn’t matter what kind. Anything liquid. Here’s your expense account.” He found a ten-dollar bill in his pocket, tucked it under the strap of her handbag. “Better leave now. And stay inside the café until I pick you up. Okay?”
    She nodded, and then broke into a laugh as he pulled up his shirt and flattened the envelope against his diaphragm, anchored it there by tucking his shirt back into his trousers.
    “All set,” he said as calmly as if he did this every day before breakfast. “Let’s go.”
    She glanced back when she reached the corner of the gas station: he was locking the car’s trunk, presumably with his book bag stowed inside. Why not use the Washington Post, lying beside two candy bars, to cover the envelope? Ah, yes, she realised suddenly as she saw a station wagon at one of the gas pumps: man enters washroom, newspaper under arm, second man follows; first man exits with no newspaper, second man comes out holding it. That old bromide, she thought; too obvious. But she was wondering, as she took a short-cut behind the gas pumps to reach the circular driveway in front of the café, why so much security? Then she smiled at herself. After all the precautions she had taken, who was she to cavil at his? And it was proof, perhaps, that he was taking her seriously. Or the envelope. Or the Farrago name.
    Unexpectedly, a brown Honda left its parking space in front of the café and—taking its own short-cut—skimmed past her to reach the gas station. She flashed the driver and his companion an angry glare, but it had little effect. Manners, she thought bitterly, whatever became of good manners? Or perhaps some men just liked to see the ladies jump, an old tradition—hadn’t Papa Haydn used that phrase with glee when he inserted a loud bang in the middle of a placid sonata? But before the driver glanced away as if nothing had happened, he had a damned good look at me. Somehow, that troubled her.
    Bristow was later than she expected. It was with relief that Karen saw him driving up to the café. She was out of its door, a bundle in each arm, as he halted the car.
    “Sorry,” he said, his face tight, his dark eyes angry. “Ten minutes wasted.” He lifted the packages into the car as she climbed on board. She was barely settled before they had reached the highway and swung round to follow the direction they had taken earlier.
    “Your friend was late?” she asked.
    “No. My fault.” And blast me for an idiot. There I was, leaning against the Plymouth’s trunk, congratulating myself that I’d have a clear view of Fairbairn’s Buick tooling along the highway, then suddenly wondering if he had misheard me over the ’phone and chosen another route to reach the gas station. And when I walked to the corner of the building just to check, there he was, gas already pumping into his car. Not the Buick. He had been given a lift in Shaw’s little number when his own car developed a flat tyre, and Shaw was there, too. Shaw, the perpetually curious.
    “Your fault?” she asked disbelievingly.
    “He arrived on time, but he took another road—one I hadn’t expected. Just a misunderstanding. No harm done. Envelope safely transferred and now about to be stashed in the safest of safes.” But not in our file room. I made that clear. It raised a smile from Fairbairn, as if my supercaution was a touch comical, but he said nothing. Nothing, too, when I specified its destination—in Blau’s special security vault, but accessible for immediate consultation. Which meant a record of delivery, time of deposit indicated. Miriam Blau was meticulous about