There was no sign now of the others car’s tail lights. A mile or so up the road, Baird spot ed a side turning.
‘Maybe he’s turned off,’ he said. ‘I’l get moving again.’
He increased his speed and continued along the broad Highway.
‘Keep a look-out behind,’ he told Rico. ‘Just in case he’s foxing.’
Rico couldn’t see any light, and he remained, screwed around, watching the darkness through the rear window. After several miles, he said sharply, ‘A car behind.’
‘Same one?’
‘I don’t know. It’s about a quarter of a mile back.’
Swearing softly, Baird trod on the gas pedal. The Packard surged forward. He held it steady at seventy miles an hour, but they didn’t lose the fol owing car. Another couple of miles took them across the State line. Ahead of them lay the little town of Brentwood; beyond Brentwood, another thirty miles along the highway, was Lincoln Falls.
Brentwood was in darkness as Baird drove along the main street. It was now a little after two o’clock.
At the far end of the street he saw the lights of a solitary all-night café.