The Brink of Murder by Helen Nielsen Page A

communication. That hope was becoming as wilted as the lettuce on Wabash’s hamburger.
    He switched on the radio and listened to news reports that still made no mention of Barney Amling. He twisted the dial to a music station and was caught in a web of loneliness as Wanda’s voice came to him on one of her recent ballads.
    Tell me lies, tell me lies
    Like forever.
    Say that you, dear, will tire of me never …
    Was that the truth about Barney? Had he driven himself so far and so fast that he lost perspective and Carole’s face became only a blur in the crowd like the faces of the pedestrians in the street?
    Tell me wonderful things
    Through autumns, through springs
    Till the stars in my eyes light the stars in the skies.
    Simon wanted his wife. He looked at his wrist-watch and realized that she must still be sleeping—getting the rest so needed after the all-night recording session. He wanted to find her fresh and alert and able to think through this new development with him, because only an idiot does anything alone if there’s an alternative.
    It was then that he became aware that he was being tailgated by a black LTD sedan. He picked up speed and the LTD accelerated accordingly. Simon then slowed down so the car could pass but the driver slackened speed. A tail. If this was one of Wabash’s ideas he would have to learn a lesson. Simon watched for the first freeway entrance and made a sharp turn. Brakes screeched behind as the LTD followed. Simon manoeuvred his way into the freeway traffic stream and tried to lose the tail by crossing lanes. It didn’t work. He let the sedan follow him to the inside lane and watched the overhead signs for the next off-ramp. Picking up speed he waited until the last possible moment before cutting sharply across traffic, through a chorus of outraged auto horns, to plunge into the off-ramp a hairsbreadth short of collision. While several dozen motorists back on the freeway cussed him out and then went home to tell their families about the lunatics who were driving these days, Simon waited at the stop sign at the end of the off-ramp and looked back. His small contribution to the rise in the sale of headache powders had succeeded. The LTD was nowhere in sight. Simon was all alone except for Wanda’s voice on the radio concluding the second chorus of her ballad.
    Hold my hand while we stand
    And endeavour
    To conceive of a land called forever
    Tell me lies—if you do
    I’ll tell lies back to you
    Till they’re true, till they’re true, till they’re true.
    Lieutentant Wabash’s ardour notwithstanding, the picture was still out of focus. Barney Amling had too much to lose. He wasn’t an underpaid clerk grabbing for one chance at the good life. He had the good life: Carole and his sons. It was hard to conceive of so powerful a passion for some other woman that would drive him away from that. There must have been some other pressure. Simon switched off the radio and made a right turn. He drove for a few blocks trying to get his bearings and then, perhaps a mile ahead, he glimpsed the soaring tower of the Pacific Guaranty building and picked up speed. It was as good a time as any to verify Wabash’s count on the missing funds.
    In due time Simon reached the tower and approached the garage ramp with the intention of entering when the sudden emergence of a bronze Cougar changed his plans. The tail game could be played by more than one. He shifted gears and started to pull back into traffic when a second car nosed its way out of the garage—a Mustang. Mary Sutton was driving the first car—Paul Corman following in the second. Simon joined the parade. The trail led back to the freeway he had quitted a short time ago. It was still daylight. He dropped far enough behind to keep Mary Sutton’s car in view. When she veered off at the Robertson off-ramp he could follow without disturbing the equilibrium of other motorists. Corman made the turn just ahead of him and seemed unaware that he was