“Yes,” Wolfe said.
They strode off and we rolled forward. When we reached the entrance to the Pitcairn grounds and stopped, the accomplice Noonan had stationed there flashed a light at us but said nothing.
I told Wolfe over my shoulder, “I’ll turn right and go north. It’s only ten miles to Brewster, and that’s in Putnam County. He only said to leave the county, he didn’t say which way.”
“Turn left and go to New York.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue.”
So when their lights showed behind I rolled on into the highway and turned left. When we had covered a couple of miles Wolfe spoke again.
“Don’t try to be witty. No side roads, no sudden changes of pace, and no speeding. It would be foolhardy. That man is an irresponsible maniac and capable of anything.”
I had no comment because I had to agree. We were flat on our faces. So I took the best route to Hawthorne Circle and there, with the enemy right behind, swung into the Sawmill River Parkway. The dashboard clock said a quarter to seven. My biggest trouble was that I couldn’t see Wolfe’s face. If he was holding on and working, fine. If he was merely nervous and tense against the terrific extra hazards of driving after dark, maybe okay. But if he had settled for getting back home and that was all, I should be talking fast and I wanted to. I couldn’t tell. I had never realized how much I depended on the sight of his big creased face.
We made the first traffic light in eleven minutes from Hawthorne Circle, which was par. It was green and we sailed through. Four minutes farther on, at the second light, we were stopped by red, and Noonan’s car practically bumped our behind. Off again, we climbed the hills over Yonkers, wound down into the valley and the stretch approaching the toll gates, parted with a dime, and in another mile were passing the sign that announces New York City.