Page 117 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

His target collapsed with a heavy, very final-sounding thud. The cane clattered on the floor.

Julian did not waste any time making certain of the kill. He trusted his own skill and talent. If Ward wasn’t dead already, he would bleed out as soon as someone removed the knife.

He raced outside into the night. He had the notebook, but now there was a dead man, and that was a problem. Escape was his first priority. Ward’s car was parked in front of the villa. The fastest car in California.

He ran across the street and opened the car door. He could start a car without a key if necessary, but he wasn’t worried about having to waste time doing so. It was not uncommon for people to leave the key in the ignition. That went double in crime-free small towns like Burning Cove. Besides, who would dare to steal Oliver Ward’s car? Everyone in town probably recognized it on sight. But it was unlikely that anyone in L.A. would know it. He would be in the city by dawn.

He was not disappointed. The key was in the ignition. His luck was holding.

He got behind the wheel and started the vehicle. The big engine purred to life.

He had a hundred miles to drive on a foggy, twisty road but he was a very skilled driver. The light mist would serve him well, because it would keep other drivers from venturing out.

Julian piloted the sleek vehicle quietly away from the villa, found Cliff Road, and settled down to drive.

He’d been forced to leave some good clothes and a few personal items behind in his hotel room, but they could easily be replaced. He had to get the notebook to New York as soon as possible. He would catch a plane in L.A. Once Atherton’s notes were safely in the old man’s hands, he would return to California to take his time with Irene Glasson.

Chapter 53

Julian had been driving for half an hour or so when the lights of another car sparked briefly in his rearview mirror.

Just another motorist braving the fog. No need to be alarmed.

He eased his foot down on the throttle and accelerated out of a tight curve.

The lights vanished from his mirror.

Five minutes went by. Ten. The lights from the other vehicle flashed again, briefly, in the mirror. Again he accelerated. Again the lights disappeared.

He sped up but almost immediately had to brake for a sharp curve in the road. The tires squealed in protest. There was no barrier at the edge of the pavement. If he miscalculated, he risked going off the high cliffs. He would plunge straight down onto the rocks at the water’s edge.

He came out of the next curve a little too fast and immediately had to stomp on the brakes again. He glanced at the mirror. The lights were gone.

There was no wailing siren. The other car didn’t seem to be trying to overtake him. Not the cops, he told himself. Just another late-night driver trying to make it to L.A. by dawn.

But the fog was growing thicker now. He could not risk driving any faster.

The thrill of his escape from Burning Cove faded.

He started to sweat but he reminded himself that he was driving the fastest car in California. So much power under the hood. He could outrun any other vehicle on the road.

Chapter 54

“Faster,” Luther said. “We can’t risk losing him in this fog.”

“If he makes it to New York,” Irene said, “the police and the FBI won’t be able to touch him.”

“We won’t lose him,” Oliver said.

The Oldsmobile belonged to Chester, who had done some work on it, but it wasn’t nearly as fast as the modified Cord. Speed wasn’t necessary, Oliver thought. The only thing that mattered was that they didn’t lose the Cord. But that was unlikely. On a twisting ribbon of pavement like Cliff Road, what mattered most was the driver’s skill and his knowledge of the curves.

Oliver was behind the wheel because they had all agreed that he was the best driver. Luther was in the front passenger seat. In the dim glow of the instrument panel, he looked intense. Irene was in the back, draped over the front seat, peering through the windshield.

“If he turns off on a side road—” Luther began.

“He won’t,” Oliver said. “I know that bastard. He thinks he won.”

The first part of the act had gone off without a hitch, which wassomewhat amazing given the very short span of time they’d had to put it together, Oliver thought. There had been no practical way to rehearse. He and Luther had done several walk-throughs at the villa, trying to anticipate Enright’s every move. Chester had pulled a couple of the old props out of the storage locker and reworked them. He had padded a figure with material that he claimed would sound a lot like human flesh when a knife or bullet struck it.