HE pointed. “It’s just beyond the next curve. You’d better slow down.” Calloway, the third man from Los Angeles, took his foot from the accelerator as he eased the car smoothly into the curve. He was a good, steady driver. Snatches of conversation during the past hours had suggested that Calloway was Holloway’s driver cum bodyguard. And a chance remark from Granbeck had revealed that, years ago, Calloway had been in prison. Not once, but twice. “Right there. See those three mailboxes, set back from the road? That’s the turnoff.” Nodding, Calloway braked, swung the big car deftly into the narrow access road. Perhaps Calloway had been a wheelman: the one who waited in the high-powered car outside the bank, engine purring. “You’ll see a big redwood stump on the right side of the road,” he said. “My driveway is just on the other side of the stump, about three hundred feet farther up the road. So, when you see the stump, you’d better switch off the lights.” “And let it idle,”
