Schneider waved a placating hand.
‘You don’t have to sit with him. Lock him in his room if you like. I don’t give a damn, but see he doesn’t get into trouble.’
Muttering under his breath, Mitchell opened the off-side door of the Chevrolet.
‘Get in,’ he snarled at Cade. ‘If you want trouble, I’ll give it to you!’
Cade got into the car and rested his bag on his knees. Mitchell stamped down on the gas pedal and the car jolted off towards the deserted highway. By the time they reached the highway the car was travelling at seventy miles an hour.
Cade stared through the windshield. There was no traffic. They met only one police car during the seven miles drive into town. As he drove, Mitchell kept cursing under his breath.
As they approached the outskirts of the town, Mitchell reduced speed. They drove down the main street. The shops were shut. No one walked the sidewalks. As they passed the main intersection, Cade saw a number of powerfully-built men standing in a silent group at the street corner. They were all swinging clubs and they had guns strapped to their hips.
Mitchell drove down a side street and pulled up outside the hotel.
The Central Motor Hotel was a modern, ten-storey building with a small grassed forecourt and a fountain. Balconies to every room overlooked the street.
As the two men walked up the steps to the hotel’s entrance, the doorman nodded to Mitchell and then stared curiously at Cade. Passing through the swing doors, they walked to the reception desk.
The clerk handed a registration card and a pen to Cade. Cade’s hand was so unsteady he had trouble filling in the necessary particulars.
‘Your room is 458,’ the clerk said and put down a key. He had the embarrassed air of a man dealing with a beggar.
Mitchell picked up the key. Waving away a bellhop who was approaching, he led the way to the automatic elevator.
On the fourth floor, the two men walked down the long corridor until they arrived at Room 458. Mitchell unlocked the door and entered a well furnished, large room. He crossed to the french windows, opened them and stepped out onto the balcony. He looked down onto the street, then satisfied that Cade couldn’t escape that way, he came back into the room.
Cade had dropped his bag onto the bed. His legs ached and he was dreadfully tired. He wanted to sit down, but he couldn’t bring himself to do this until Mitchell had gone.
‘Okay,’ Mitchell said. ‘You stay right here until it’s time for you to leave. I’ll be around. Anything you want before I lock you in?’
Cade hesitated. He hadn’t eaten since the previous evening, but he wasn’t hungry. He ate very little.
‘A bottle of Scotch and some ice,’ he said, not looking at Mitchell.
‘Have you got the money to pay for it?’
‘Yes.’
Mitchell went out, slamming the door. Cade heard the key turn in the lock. He took off his jacket and sat down in the big, easy chair. He stared down at his shaking hands.
Some ten minutes later, a waiter brought him a bottle of Scotch, a glass and ice in an ice bucket. He didn’t look at the waiter nor did he tip him. Mitchell who had come with the waiter shut and locked the door again.
When he was sure they had gone, Cade poured himself a big drink. He drank a little of the Scotch, then he went to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
A girl’s voice answered.
He asked to be connected with the New York Sun, New York.
‘Hold a minute,’ the girl said.
He listened. He could hear the girl talking, but he couldn’t hear what she said. After some minutes, the girl said curtly, ‘No calls are being accepted today for New York.’
Cade replaced the receiver. He stared down at the carpet for a long moment, then he walked across the room to where his drink was waiting.
‘Mr. Cade! Please wake up, Mr. Cade! Mr. Cade!’
Cade groaned. Without opening his eyes, he put his hand to his aching head. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, but it couldn’t have been long. The sunlight coming through the french windows was strong and burned against his eyelids.
‘Mr. Cade. Please …’
Cade struggled upright, slowly swinging his legs to the floor. With his back now to the window, he risked opening his eyes. The room came mistily into focus. He became aware of a man standing near him and he covered his eyes with his hands.
‘Mr. Cade! We haven’t much time!’
Cade waited for a few seconds, then lowering his head, he peered at the man who was speaking. He turned suddenly cold when he saw the man was black.
‘Mr. Cade! The march starts in half an hour. Are you all right?’ the man asked. He was tall and thin and young. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of neatly pressed black trousers.
‘What are you doing here?’ Cade demanded hoarsely. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Cade. I am Sonny Small. I am the Secretary of the Civil Rights Committee.’
Cade stared at him, feeling the blood leaving his face.
‘My girl works here, Mr. Cade,’ Small went on, speaking in a low, urgent whisper. ‘She called me. She told me you tried to get your paper and they wouldn’t connect you. She said you were locked in here. As soon as she called I came over right away. She gave me the pass-key. We can use the service elevator. No one’s watching that.’
Panic blanketed Cade’s mind. He couldn’t think; couldn’t speak. He just sat staring at Small.
‘We haven’t much time, Mr. Cade,’ Small said. ‘Here’s your camera. I got it ready for you.’ He thrust the Minolta into Cade’s shaking hands. ‘Is there anything I can carry for you?’
Cade drew in a long, whistling breath. The touch of the cold metal of the camera snapped him out of his paralysis.
‘Get out of here!’ he exclaimed, glaring at Small. ‘Leave me alone! Get out!’
‘Aren’t you well, Mr. Cade?’ Small was bewildered and startled.
‘Get out!’ Cade repeated, raising his voice.
‘But I don’t understand. You came here to help us, didn’t you? We had a telegram this morning saying you were coming. What’s the matter, Mr. Cade? We are all waiting for you. The march starts at three o’clock.’
Cade got to his feet. Holding the Minolta in his right hand, he waved with his left to the door.
‘Get out! I don’t give a damn when the march starts. Get out!’
Small stiffened.
‘You can’t mean this, Mr. Cade.’ He spoke gently. There was an understanding and a compassionate expression in his eyes that sickened Cade. ‘Please listen to me. You are the greatest photographer in the world. My friends and I have followed your work for years. We collect your photographs, Mr. Cade. Those wonderful shots of Hungary as the Russians moved in. Those pictures of the famine in India. That fire in Hong Kong. They were unique records of people suffering. Mr. Cade, you have something no other photographer has. You have a superb talent and a sensitive feeling for humanity. We are marching at three o’clock. There are more than five hundred men waiting for us with clubs, guns and tear gas. We know that, but we are going to march. By tonight, most of us will be bleeding, some of us in hospital, but we will have done this thing because we mean to survive in this town. A lot of us are frightened, but when we heard you would be with us to record this march in pictures, we were a lot less frightened. We knew then that whatever happens to us this afternoon, it will be recorded for the world to see in a way that will explain what we are trying to do. That’s our hope: to make people understand what we are trying to do, and you can do this thing for us.’ He paused and looked at Cade. ‘You are frightened? Of course you are. So am I. So are we all’ He paused again, then went on quickly, ‘But I don’t believe a man of your integrity and your talent will refuse to march with us this afternoon.’
Cade walked slowly to the writing desk. He put down his camera and then poured whisky into the glass.
‘You picked the
wrong hero,’ he said, his back to Small. ‘Now get out, and stay out.’
There was a long, pregnant silence, then Small said, ‘I am sorry, Mr. Cade … not for myself, but for you.’
After the door had closed gently and the lock had turned, Cade stared for some moments at the glass he was holding, then with a shudder of revulsion, he flung the glass at the opposite wall. The whisky spraying off the wall splashed his shirt. He walked stiffly to the bed and sat on it his hands in fists rested on his knees. He remained there for some time, staring down at the carpet refusing to think, forcing his mind to remain blank.
A woman’s scream, shrill and nerve-jangling came faintly through the closed window, bringing him to his feet. He listened, his heart racing. The scream came again.
Shaking, he jerked open the french windows and stepped out onto the balcony.
After the air-conditioned coolness of the room, the heat from the street rose up around him in a smothering, humid blanket. Gripping the balcony rail, he leaned forward and looked down into the street.
Sonny Small was standing in the middle of the street his body tense, his hands clenched in ebony fists. In the glare of the afternoon sun, his shirt looked very white and his skin very black. He looked first to his right, then to his left. Then he waved to someone that Cade couldn’t see and he shouted in a thin, tight voice that floated up to Cade, ‘Keep away, Tessa! Keep away from me!’
Cade looked down the street to his right. Three white men were running down the street towards Small: big, powerful men with clubs in their hands. He looked to his left. Two other men, also with clubs, were converging on Small, but moving more slowly. It was a classic design of fugitive and hunters and there was no way of escape for Small.
Turning quickly, Cade blundered back into the room. He snatched up his camera. With a quick movement, he detached the 5.8 cm lens, snatching up his overnight bag, he spilt its contents out onto the bed. Then grabbing his 20 cm telephoto lens, he regained the balcony. Years of camera handling experience made his movements sure, fast and automatic. The lens mount snapped into the body of the camera. He set the shutter at 1/125 and the aperture at f 16. The converging men and the lone white-shirted black man made a pattern of sinister violence in the view finder.
Cade’s hands became miraculously steady. The focal plane shutter snapped across.
Down below, one of the running men shouted in a voice turned hoarse and vicious with triumph, ‘It’s that Nigger sonofabitch Small! Get him, boys!’
Small, crouching, crossed his arms and covered his head as the men reached him. A club smashed down on his crossed forearms, driving him to his knees. Another club flashed in the sunlight. The sharp crack of wood against bone came clearly to Cade as he pushed forward the film winder and released the shutter.
The five men crowded around the fallen man. A bright ribbon of blood made a diagonal pattern with ten dusty, heavy boots.
Small made a convulsive movement as a club thudded down on his ribs. One of the men shoved another out of his way so he could get at the fallen man. His boot crashed against Small’s cheekbone. Blood sprayed up, staining the man’s boot and trousers leg.
The shutter of the camera four storeys above snapped again and again.
Then a slim black girl came running from the hotel. She was tall and her frizzy hair was disarranged. She had on a white cover-all, no stockings nor shoes and she ran swiftly and silently.
Cade’s 20 cm lens picked her up. He could see through the view finder her stark look of terror, the determined set of her mouth and the glitter of sweat that framed her horror-wide eyes.
One of the men was getting set to kick Small in the face again as she arrived. Her finger nails like claws ripped at his face, sending him staggering back. Then she was standing over Small, facing the men.
The men drew back. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the man with the gashed face gave a yell and swung his club. The club smashed down on the girl’s forearm as she jerked up her arm to protect her head. Her arm dropped limply to her side, the white teeth of the splintered bone breaking through the dark flesh.
‘Kill the Nigger bitch!’ the man bawled and the club swung again, hitting the girl on the top of her frizzy head. She went down on top of Small, her cover-all riding up to her waist, her long, thin legs spread wide.
At the end of the street came the shrill blast of a police whistle. The five men jerked around. Two deputies, their stars glittering in the sun, were watching them, wide grins on their faces. Then they began a slow march down the street towards the men.
The man with the gashed face bent over the unconscious girl and drove the end of his club between her legs with brutal violence. One of his companions caught hold of him and dragged him away.
Then the five of them, their backs to the slowly approaching deputies, began to walk briskly away. By the time the deputies had reached the unconscious couple, the five men had disappeared.
Cade stepped away from the balcony and lowered his camera. He was trembling, but he knew he had a set of pictures that would speak far louder than any pictures he might have taken of the freedom march.
Now he wanted a drink.
He moved unsteadily back into the room, then he stopped short, a cold surge of shock flowing up his spine.
His eyes like wet stones, Mitchell stood in the open doorway. The two men stared at each other, then Mitchell moved into the room, shut and locked the door.
‘Give me that camera, you sonofabitch,’ he said.
Cade thought: Can it be possible that in twelve months, I could have so quickly and easily ruined my body and anaesthetised my mind so that now when I need my strength, it is certain to fail me? A year ago, this cheap thug would have been less than a joke to me. Now, he terrifies me. He’s going to be too strong and fast for me to handle. He’s going to beat me into a bloody, sodden rag, and he is going to get my pictures.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Mitchell snapped. ‘Give me that camera!’
Cade backed still further away. With shaking fingers, he removed the long 20 cm lens from the camera and dropped the lens onto the bed while he continued to back away until he reached the wall.
Mitchell advanced slowly towards him.
‘I saw you taking pictures,’ he said. ‘Okay: now you’re in trouble. I warned you, didn’t I? Give me that camera!’
‘You can have it,’ Cade said breathlessly. ‘Just don’t touch me.’ He lifted the camera strap from his neck.
Mitchell paused, watching him, a sneering grin on his face.
The camera hung at the end of the strap which Cade held in his right hand. Cade’s face was bloodless. His breath came through his half-open mouth in uneven gasps. His expression was of abject terror. He looked such a creature for contempt that Mitchell made a fatal mistake. He relaxed, sadistically anticipating the moment when his sharp knuckles would cut into the face of this man, trembling before him.
He snapped his fingers.
‘Give,’ he said.
Then something happened to Cade. He had always had this extraordinary protective feeling towards his camera. During the years as a photographer he had never had a camera smashed, although many had attempted it. Now, as he was about to hand the camera to Mitchell, this instinct asserted itself. Before he knew what he was doing, his right arm stiffened and swung in a lightning arc. The camera, hanging at the end of the strap flew like a sling-shot towards Mitchell’s grinning face.
Mitchell had no chance to avoid it. The edge of the heavy metal camera smashed against his temple, splitting the skin and dropping him on his knees.
Blood poured down his face and into his eyes. Half-conscious, blinded, he knelt before Cade, his hands flat on the carpet, his arms stiff, his chin resting on his chest.
Cade stared in horror at the kneeling man. The camera swung back, hitting Cade hard on his knee, but he didn’t feel the blow. He let the strap slip out of his fingers and the camera dropped to the floor.
Mitchell shook h
is head and groaned. Slowly, he transferred his weight to his left arm, then his right hand groped upwards for the butt of the .45 on his hip.
Shuddering, Cade picked up the 20 cm lens. As Mitchell began to draw the gun, Cade stepped up to him and slammed the long lens down on the top of his head. Mitchell heaved up, then went limp, flattening out on the carpet.
Cade felt suddenly so ill he had to sit on the bed. He thought for one horrible moment that he was going to faint. His slow, irregular heart beats and his quick, rasping breathing frightened him. He sat for several minutes with his head in his hands, willing the faintness to leave him. Finally, he forced himself to his feet. He picked up the camera and began to wind off the film. This took him sometime because his hands were so unsteady and his fingers clumsy, but finally he got the film cartridge out of the camera.
Mitchell moved slightly. Cade went unsteadily across the room, picked up his jacket and slipped into it. He dropped the cartridge into the right hand pocket. He hesitated only for a moment about taking his equipment with him, but he knew he couldn’t walk the streets of Eastonville carrying such a deadly give-away. He stepped out into the long, deserted corridor. For a moment he hesitated, then remembering what Small had said about the service elevator not being watched, he walked fast down the corridor until he came to a swing door marked Service. As he stepped into the big lobby, he wished he had brought the half-empty bottle of whisky. He really needed a drink now and he was tempted to return to the bedroom, but he resisted the temptation.
He pressed the button by the elevator doors. While he waited, he tried to control his breathing. He wished he could think clearly. He had no idea how he was to get out of Eastonville. There were no more planes leaving today. His best bet would be to rent a car, but by the time he had done this, Mitchell would have alerted the police. They wouldn’t let him escape if they could help it. They would set up road blocks. Perhaps he could get out by train.
The elevator doors swung open and he entered the elevator, pressed the button for the ground floor. He looked at his watch. It was 15.10 hours. The freedom march had begun. That might give him a chance. The police and their deputies would be so occupied breaking up the march, they might have no time to come after him.
Cade Page 2