The cop reeled back, his hands pressing his belly. He fell slowly on his knees, then straightened out in the road.
In saving himself from falling, Baird dropped the Colt on to the grass verge. He had only a vague idea he had lost something that was important to him, but he couldn’t remember what it was. He managed to slam the door shut, and somehow start the engine going again. With a clash of gears he sent the Packard lurching forward once more.
After he had been driving a few minutes, he completely forgot about the cop. It was as if the accident had never happened, and his fever-ridden mind returned to thinking about Anita.
He was on more familiar ground now. He turned off the Paseo on to Armour Boulevard, through to Broadway, up Summit Street, and across the Essex Avenue Bridge.
He was driving better now, although twice, without knowing it, he ran through a red traffic signal.
The traffic was light at that hour, and no car crossed his path.
He began to slow down as he reached the shabby, darkened street where Anita’s apartment was.
The street was deserted. Only a few lights showed at the upper storey windows. As he pulled up opposite Anita’s apartment house, rain began to fall from the heavy black clouds that had been piling up for the past hour.
He sat for some minutes looking up at the dark building. It was now twenty minutes to nine o’clock.
Anita’s window on the top floor was in darkness. It would be another hour and a half before she came home, he thought. Could he last out that time?