cw.blackalibi-第48部分

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trest　creaked　as　she　mounted　it。　The　coachman　didn't　even　have　to　click　his　tongue　or　use　the　whip　to　start　the　horse；　Manning　could　tell。　At　the　first　slackening　of　the　reins　he　had　been　pulling　in　so　tightly　until　now；　the　terrified　horse　instantly　broke　into　a　rapid　trot　that　soon　became　a　headlong　gallop；　so　anxious　was　it　to　get　away　from　the　threatening　spot。
　　Manning　sidled　noiselessly　out　from　under　the　tree　and　stood　waiting　for　his　panion…in…hiding　to　break　cover　and　join　him。　The　reeds　failed　to　part　at　his　whistle。　When　he　had　repeated　it　a　second　time　and　still　no　sign　of　Belmonte；　he　made　his　way　over　to　them　himself；　a　strange　sort　of　foreboding　beginning　to　chill　him。
　　〃Raul！〃　he　whispered　urgently；　picking　his　way　into　their　midst　across　the　waterlogged　stones。　The　reeds　were　empty。　He　could　see　some　of　them　bent　flat；　around　where　his　panion　had　been　crouched；　but　there　was　no　one　in　them　any　more。
　　He　emerged；　went　back；　and　started　up　the　slope　alone。
　　The　road　was　empty　in　the　moonlight　when　he　reached　it。　He　had　hardly　taken　a　preliminary　step　or　two　along　it　than　he　became　aware　of　some　sort　of　disturbance；　offside　to　him。　On　the　side　away　from　the　lake；　that　is。　He　stood　rigid；　listening。　It　came　again；　a　muffled　scuffling　or　threshing　sound；　as　of　a　large　animal　caught　in　a　trap　or　incapacitated　in　some　way　and　trying　to　free　itself。
　　He　veered　toward　it；　moving　warily。　It　came　a　third　time；　unmistakable　now：　a　violent；　frantic　agitation　against　leaves　or　plants；　an　attempt　at　extrication。　He　drew　his　gun；　plunged　in　off　the　road　toward　it；　warding　off　branches　and　briars　as　he　went。
　　The　thrashing　accelerated；　as　though　driven　to　a　frenzy　of　haste　by　his　very　approach。
　　A　moment　later　he　went　down　flat　and　his　gun　crashed　deafeningly；　set　off　by　the　fall　itself。　Something　or　somebody　lying　tied　up　in　his　path　had　tripped　him。
　　He　groveled　around　rearward；　wiping　a　smarting　powder　smudge　off　his　cheek；　found　his　light；　and　thumbed　it　on。　It　revealed　a　huddled　human　form　lying　face　down；　hands　bound　behind　it　with　a　knitted　necktie　evidently　taken　from　its　own　attire。
　　Manning　turned　him　over　and　it　was　a　grizzled　man　of　fifty；　with　bedraggled　walrus　mustaches。　A　mass　of　rumpled　linen　had　been　pressed　into　his　mouth　to　gag　him。　Manning　pulled　it　out；　and　it　seemed　to　keep　ing　endlessly。　It　turned　pinkish　toward　the　end。　He'd　been　badly　bludgeoned　about　the　head；　thin　but　numerous　streams　of　blood　were　crisscrossed　all　down　his　face。
　　He　was　only　barely　conscious；　the　whites　of　his　eyes　rolled　expiringly　as　Manning　propped　him　up。　He　shook　him　urgently。
　　〃Who　are　you？　What　happened？　Who　did　this　to　you？〃
　　〃I　don't　know；〃　the　dying　man　said　faintly。　〃Somebody…from　behind…down　off　the　box…〃　He　went　limp；　with　a　sort　of　convulsive　spasm。
　　Manning　let　go　of　him；　jumped　to　his　feet　with　a　hoarse　cry　of　horror　that　went　crackling　through　the　trees。　This　must　be　Marjorie's　coachman；　who　had　brought　her　here。　And　if　he　had　been　struck　down；　left　trussed　up　here　like　this；　it　could　only　mean　one　thing…！
　　The　very　Thing　he　was　out　to　trap　had　hold　of　her　at　this　moment；　had　driven　oil　with　her　to　finish　her　at　his　leisure！
　　He　burst　out　through　the　underbrush；　sprinted　down　the　road；　pocketing　his　gun　as　he　went。　When　he　veered　offside　into　the　small　treesurrounded　clearing　in　which　Belmonte　had　left　his　car；　hoping　against　hope；　almost　praying…　he　found　what　he'd　dreaded　to　find　all　along；　the　place　was　empty；　the　car　was　gone。　And　no　one　could　have　taken　it　but　its　owner；　Manning　himself　had　seen　him　pocket　the　keys　when　they　both　got　out。
　　He　emerged　again；　went　staggering　down　the　long　desolate　tube　of　silver　and　black　that　was　the　road；　forced　to　go　on　afoot　now。　The　odds　were　hopeless　this　way；　he　could　never　hope　to　overtake　her　in　time。
　　Just　before　the　desolate　road　turned　in　to　unite　with　the　main　driveway　once　more；　something　came　sidling　toward　him　along　its　surface。　Something　that　glinted　as　he　approached。　He　recognized　it　as　he　stooped　to　pick　it　up。　It　was　the　revolver　that　he　himself　had　handed　her　at　the　Inglaterra　only　a　few　hours　earlier。　He　put　it　to　his　face。　Odorless。　She'd　never　had　a　chance　to　use　it。　His　chin　was　puckered　into　a　weazened　expression　as　he　went　trotting　on。
　　Didn't　this　road　ever　end？　And　while　he　asked　himself　that；　it　did。　The　main　driveway　was　empty　under　its　lights。　No　one　was　leaving　the　Bosque　now　any　more；　they　all　had；　long　ago。　He　padded　on。　Ahead　a　wan　glow　began　to　brighten；　fan　out。　The　Puerta　Mayor；　the　entrance　to　the　city。
　　Suddenly　lights　gushed　up　like　illuminated　oil　seeping　out　of　the　ground；　and　the　periphery　of　the　city　lay　spread　before　him。　He　stopped　with　sudden　hopelessness；　partly　because　of　his　pounding　lungs；　mostly　because　he　didn't　know　where　to　go　any　more　from　here　on。　He　was　confronted　by　six　radiating　avenues　that　branched　Out　from　the　Puerta　Mayor　like　spokes　of　a　half　wheel。　To　follow　one　through　to　the　end　was　to　slight　the　other　five。　She　was　lost　for　good　now；　buried　alive　somewhere　in　that　wilderness　of　stones　and　buildings　that　stretched　before　him　as　far　as　the　eye　could　reach。
　　The　expression　on　his　face　was　that　of　someone　trying　to　retch。　The　third　largest　city　of　South　America。　Three　quarters　of　a　million　people。　Minutes　to　find　her。
　　Finally；　still　breathing　heavily；　he　cut　across　the　glorieta。　Sweat　was　running　down　his　forehead。　He　was　still　unable　to　make　up　his　mind　which　street　to　choose。　The　odds　were　too　heavy；　the　stake　was　too　high。　Six　to　one；　a　girl's　life。　He　felt　as　helpless　as　when　he　had　first　e　here；　in　the　days　when　he　didn't　know　his　way　around　town　yet。　When　it　was　just　a　blur　of　strange　streets　with　strange　names；　all　leading　in　strange　directions。
　　He　passed　one　of　those　direction　finders　that　he　used　to　have　to　rely　on。　He　hadn't　paid　any　attention　to　them　in　years。　City　maps　with　an　adjustable　indicator；　that　you　found　at　some　of　the　busier　corners。　Copied　from　Europe；　they　weren't　known　up　in　the　States。　He　remembered　how　they　used　to　straighten　him　out　each　time　he　got　balled　up。　You　set　the　indicator　for　where　you　wanted　to　go；　and　also　for　where　you　were；　and　it　would　show　the　straightest　line　between　the　two　points。
　　Suddenly　he　flung　around；　went　back　to　the　one　he　had　just　passed；　as　a　thought　struck　him。　It　was　set　at　chest　level　for　the　convenience　of　passers…by。　He　reared　one　leg　up　and　rammed　into　it。　The　glass　protecting　the　map　trickled　off。　He　wanted。　it　to　be　able　to　take　pencil　marks　for　what　he　had　in　mind；　the　indicator　wasn't　enough。
　　He　poised　his　pencil　over　the　denuded　chart；　began　marking　off　the　locations　of　the　attacks；　mumbling　to　himself　as　he　did　so。
　　〃One；　Teresa　Delgado…Pasaje　del　Diablo。〃　He　ground　Out　a　black　sworl　of　penciling　to　mark　it　clearly。　〃Two；　Conchita　Contreras…All　Saints。　Three；　Clo…Clo…at　the　corner　of　San　Marco　and　the　Calle　de　Justicia。〃　He　moistened　the　pencil　tip。　〃Four；　Sally　O'Keefe…beside　the　lagoon　in　the　Bosque。〃　Tonight's　didn't　count；　it　was　simply　a　repetition　at　the　same　spot　as　the　one　before。
　　He　had　four　black　marks　on　the　map　now。　He　drew　a　line　from　each　across　to　its　opposite。　They　made　a　slightly　irregular　X；　one　arm　a　little　longer　than　the　other。
　　He　peered　closely　at　the　finely　printed　diagram；　to　see　where　the　two　axes　crossed；　to　determine　where　the　focus　was。　He　drew　an　arbitrary　circle　around　it；　to　identify　it　still　more　plainly。　It　enpassed　the　Alameda　district；　roughly　the　section　between　there　and　the　Plaza　de　los　Mбrtires。　And　dead　center　through　this　ran　an　almost　indistinguishable　thread；　marked　minutely　on　the　map…Callejуn　de　las　Sombras。
　　In　other　words；　the　place　where　it　had　originally　disappeared　was　still　the　one　locale　in　the　city　equidistant　from　all　four　of　the　attacks。　Somewhere　around　in　there　was　the　base　of　operations。　Somewhere　around　in　there　was　the　lair。
　　True；　that　alley　had　been　thoroughly　searched　once　already。　True；　there　was　no　guarantee　that　he　necessarily　covered　an　equal　distance　away　from　his　starting　point　each　time。　But　it　was　all　Manning　had；　it　was　the　best　he　could　do。　And　it　was　still　a　wh