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ed human form lying face down； hands bound behind it with a knitted necktie evidently taken from its own attire。
Manning turned him over and it was a grizzled man of fifty； with bedraggled walrus mustaches。 A mass of rumpled linen had been pressed into his mouth to gag him。 Manning pulled it out； and it seemed to keep ing endlessly。 It turned pinkish toward the end。 He'd been badly bludgeoned about the head； thin but numerous streams of blood were crisscrossed all down his face。
He was only barely conscious； the whites of his eyes rolled expiringly as Manning propped him up。 He shook him urgently。
〃Who are you？ What happened？ Who did this to you？〃
〃I don't know；〃 the dying man said faintly。 〃Somebody…from behind…down off the box…〃 He went limp； with a sort of convulsive spasm。
Manning let go of him； jumped to his feet with a hoarse cry of horror that went crackling through the trees。 This must be Marjorie's coachman； who had brought her here。 And if he had been struck down； left trussed up here like this； it could only mean one thing…！
The very Thing he was out to trap had hold of her at this moment； had driven oil with her to finish her at his leisure！
He burst out through the underbrush； sprinted down the road； pocketing his gun as he went。 When he veered offside into the small treesurrounded clearing in which Belmonte had left his car； hoping against hope； almost praying… he found what he'd dreaded to find all along； the place was empty； the car was gone。 And no one could have taken it but its owner； Manning himself had seen him pocket the keys when they both got out。
He emerged again； went staggering down the long desolate tube of silver and black that was the road； forced to go on afoot now。 The odds were hopeless this way； he could never hope to overtake her in time。
Just before the desolate road turned in to unite with the main driveway once more； something came sidling toward him along its surface。 Something that glinted as he approached。 He recognized it as he stooped to pick it up。 It was the revolver that he himself had handed her at the Inglaterra only a few hours earlier。 He put it to his face。 Odorless。 She'd never had a chance to use it。 His chin was puckered into a weazened expression as he went trotting on。
Didn't this road ever end？ And while he asked himself that； it did。 The main driveway was empty under its lights。 No one was leaving the Bosque now any more； they all had； long ago。 He padded on。 Ahead a wan glow began to brighten； fan out。 The Puerta Mayor； the entrance to the city。
Suddenly lights gushed up like illuminated oil seeping out of the ground； and the periphery of the city lay spread before him。 He stopped with sudden hopelessness； partly because of his pounding lungs； mostly because he didn't know where to go any more from here on。 He was confronted by six radiating avenues that branched Out from the Puerta Mayor like spokes of a half wheel。 To follow one through to the end was to slight the other five。 She was lost for good now； buried alive somewhere in that wilderness of stones and buildings that stretched before him as far as the eye could reach。
The expression on his face was that of someone trying to retch。 The third largest city of South America。 Three quarters of a million people。 Minutes to find her。
Finally； still breathing heavily； he cut across the glorieta。 Sweat was running down his forehead。 He was still unable to make up his mind which street to choose。 The odds were too heavy； the stake was too high。 Six to one； a girl's life。 He felt as helpless as when he had first e here； in the days when he didn't know his way around town yet。 When it was just a blur of strange streets with strange names； all leading in strange directions。
He passed one of those direction finders that he used to have to rely on。 He hadn't paid any attention to them in years。 City maps with an adjustable indicator； that you found at some of the busier corners。 Copied from Europe； they weren't known up in the States。 He remembered how they used to straighten him out each time he got balled up。 You set the indicator for where you wanted to go； and also for where you were； and it would show the straightest line between the two points。
Suddenly he flung around； went back to the one he had just passed； as a thought struck him。 It was set at chest level for the convenience of passers…by。 He reared one leg up and rammed into it。 The glass protecting the map trickled off。 He wanted。 it to be able to take pencil marks for what he had in mind； the indicator wasn't enough。
He poised his pencil over the denuded chart； began marking off the locations of the attacks； mumbling to himself as he did so。
〃One； Teresa Delgado…Pasaje del Diablo。〃 He ground Out a black sworl of penciling to mark it clearly。 〃Two； Conchita Contreras…All Saints。 Three； Clo…Clo…at the corner of San Marco and the Calle de Justicia。〃 He moistened the pencil tip。 〃Four； Sally O'Keefe…beside the lagoon in the Bosque。〃 Tonight's didn't count； it was simply a repetition at the same spot as the one before。
He had four black marks on the map now。 He drew a line from each across to its opposite。 They made a slightly irregular X； one arm a little longer than the other。
He peered closely at the finely printed diagram； to see where the two axes crossed； to determine where the focus was。 He drew an arbitrary circle around it； to identify it still more plainly。 It enpassed the Alameda district； roughly the section between there and the Plaza de los Mбrtires。 And dead center through this ran an almost indistinguishable thread； marked minutely on the map…Callejуn de las Sombras。
In other words； the place where it had originally disappeared was still the one locale in the city equidistant from all four of the attacks。 Somewhere around in there was the base of operations。 Somewhere around in there was the lair。
True； that alley had been thoroughly searched once already。 True； there was no guarantee that he necessarily covered an equal distance away from his starting point each time。 But it was all Manning had； it was the best he could do。 And it was still a whole lot better and quicker than having the whole sprawling city to b over。 At least he knew which one of those six radiating avenues to take from here； now。 The stake was still as high as ever； but the odds had e down a lot。
He sighted a cab in the distance and bayed to it at the top of his lungs。 Five minutes later he had alighted at the mouth of the Callejуn。 The cab drove off； left him there alone。 It was black as the mouth of hell； not a light showed along its entire tortuous length； from where he was through to the other end。
He plunged in； to begin a one…man search from doorway to doorway。
Half an hour later he had dead…ended in the roofless chapel。 His torch moved up and down the walls in a series of scallops as he clambered up and down the varying mounds of debris。 His face looked gray in the pallid reflection of its small glow； and there was the shine of sweat； the sweat of failure； in the pinched indentations at the corners of his eyes and mouth。 After his third time arou