“How come?” Max asked, raising his eyebrows.
“A mental patient escaped from Glenview Sanatorium,” the barman explained. “It’s only just leaked out she’s the heiress to six million bucks.”
“And where’s Glenview Sanatorium?” Max asked.
“Up the hill; five miles from here on the Oakville road,” the barman told him. “This dame got a ride in a truck as far as here. They found the wrecked truck a mile or so up the road. They reckon she killed the driver.”
“But did they find her?” Frank asked, sipped his lemonade, then blotted his lips with the back of his glove.
“I guess not. They’re still looking for her. We had the cops in here this morning. I’ve never seen so many cops.”
Max’s eyes flickered.
“How come a nut has all that dough?”
“She got it from John Blandish, the meat king. Maybe you remember the Blandish kidnapping? She’s his grand-daughter.”
“I remember,” Frank said. “Must be twenty years ago.”
“That’s right,” the barman said. “The kidnapper was the father. He was crazy in the head—so’s the daughter. If they don’t find her in fourteen days they won’t be able to take her back. That’s the law of the State. Then she’ll come into the dough and no one can control it. That’s why there’s all this uproar.”
The Sullivans finished their lemonade.
“She’s a real nut—dangerous?” Max asked.
The barman nodded his head vigorously.
“You bet . . . a killer.”
“Just in case we run into her, how does she look?”
“They say she’s a redhead and a peach to look at. She’s got a scar on her left wrist.”
“We’ll know her,” Frank said. He put down a dollar bill on the counter. “Would there be a fox farm around here some place?” he went on casually.
The barman gave him change.
“Sure; Larson’s Silver Fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit.”
“Far?”
“Best part of twenty miles.”
Max looked at his watch. It was 9.30 p.m.
“We’re interested in foxes,” he said carefully. “We thought we might look ‘em over. Is he in the market?”
“I guess so,” the barman said, surprised. These two didn’t look like fur men.
They nodded, turned to the door, turned back again.
“Is this fella up there alone?” Max asked softly.
“You mean does he run the farm alone? Sure, but there’s a guy staying with him now. I saw them go through a week ago.”
The Sullivans’ faces were wooden.
“So long,” Frank said, and together they walked out of the bar to the Packard Clipper.
Phil Magarth, lounging against a tree, watched them drive away. He pulled his long nose thoughtfully, tilted his hat further to the back of his head and wandered into the bar they had just left.
“Hi, Tom,” he said, dragging up a stool and folding himself down on it wearily. “Let’s start a famine in whisky.”
“Hello, Mr. Magarth,” the barman said, grinning. “Any more news of the nut?”
“Not a sound,” Magarth returned, helping himself from the black bottle the barman had set before him.
“I was telling those two guys about your story. Did you see them? Two guys in black.”
“Yeah.”
The barman hesitated, scratched his head.
“Nasty-looking couple; said they were ha furs.”
“Did they?” Magarth looked interested. “Don’t look like fur men, do they? I’ve seen ‘em before. In fact I’ve seen them three times over a period of a couple of years, and each time a guy died suddenly and violently. Make anything of that?”
The barman stared at him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Magarth?”
“I don’t know,” Magarth said truthfully. “Only you wouldn’t forget a couple of guys like those two, would you? Ever heard of the Sullivan brothers?”
“I guess not.”
“Maybe they don’t exist, but there’s a story going round that the Sullivans are professional killers. They call on a guy anywhere in the country and he turns his toes up quick. I wonder if those two are the Sullivans.” He was now talking his thoughts aloud. “What did they want?”
“They were asking for Steve Larson,” the barman said, worried. “Asked if he was alone.”
“The fox farmer?” Magarth asked. “Up on Blue Mountain Summit?”
“Yeah, that’s the fella. Nice guy. Buys his whisky from me. I see him once a month. Saw him a week ago, but he didn’t look in. He was going through with another guy.”
“He was ? And these two were asking for him ?”
The barman nodded.
“You don’t think—”
“I never think,” Magarth said. “I find out; and when I’ve found out I sit at my typewriter and hammer out a lot of crap that you read at breakfast. Hell of a life, isn’t it?” He turned to the door, turned back again. “Maybe you don’t read,” added, “Keep this under your bonnet, Tom. No talk,” and left the bar quickly.
* * *
Roy’s eyelids were so swollen that it was impossible to tell yet whether or not serious damage had been done. Steve had stopped the bleeding, and working quickly he made his brother as comfortable as he could.
“I’m going after Carol,” he said when he had finished. “I can’t—”
But Roy’s wail of protest cut him short.
“No!” Roy cried, starting up. “You can’t leave me like this. She may be hiding out there, waiting for you to come after her. That’s what she wants . . . she wants to finish me!”
“Oh, shut up!” Steve exclaimed savagely. “I’m going; so stop whining.”
“Don’t be a fool, Steve,” Roy gasped, reached out blindly. “She’s dangerous . . . she’ll kill you . . . claw you up the way she clawed me.”
Steve looked out into the moonlit night. He didn’t want to go out there in the dark, but he couldn’t let Carol roam around without making an effort to find her. He thought of the truck-driver’s lacerated eyes, remembered the sly animal cunning he had seen in Carol’s face as she paced the verandah the previous night, looked down at the sobbing wreck who whined not to be left alone, and a chill ran through him. Suppose she was dangerous . . . a lunatic? Suppose that bang on the head had done something to her? But that wasn’t possible. You were born a lunatic. Bangs on the head didn’t make you homicidal. She had been scared silly. That was the explanation. First the truck-driver had tried to assault her; then Roy. Well, they had got what was coming to them. She wouldn’t do that to him. So long as he didn’t frighten her it’d be all right.
“I’m going, Roy,” Steve said, and shoved the gun into his brother’s hand. “Hang on to that. If she does comes back, fire into the ceiling. I’m not going far.”
He struggled into his clothes, deaf to Roy’s protests.
“You won’t come back,” Roy moaned. “I know you won’t. She’ll lie in wait for you. You don’t know how strong she is. She’ll kill you, Steve, and then what’ll happen to me? I’m helpless! I can’t see!” His voice rose and he sat up in bed. “I’m blind ! Stay with me, Steve ! Don’t leave me!”
“Will you shut up?” Steve exclaimed, exasperated. “You asked for it and you damn well got it. So stop squealing.”
He snatched up his electric torch, went out into the yard. All was quiet. The moon rode high above the pine trees, casting deep shadows.
There was no sign of Spot, and Steve felt unpleasantly alone. He walked down to the lake, stood at the water’s edge, listening, his eyes trying to pierce the thick darkness of the woods. “That’s the way she went,” he thought uneasily. Was she hiding there, watching him?
He began to walk along the path by the lake. A sudden flurry in a near-by tree brought him to an abrupt stop. His heart began to thud against his ribs. A bird crashed through the branches of the pines, flew away across the lake. Steve drew in a sharp breath. He hadn’t realized how strung up he was.
Ahead the path curved away from the lake and wound into the wood. It was dark there and he stopped again, hesitating to leave the moonlit path and enter the blackness that yawned before him.
“Carol!” he called sharply. “It’s Steve. Where are you, Carol?”
The faint echo of his voice floated across the lake.
Where are you, Carol?
It had a spooky sound, like a voice without a body, jeering at him.
He moved on and darkness closed in on him. He could see nothing now and he turned on his electric torch. The powerful beam lit up the narrow path. Overhead the branches of the pines seemed to be reaching down, threatening him. He kept on, pausing every now and then to listen. He became suddenly aware that he was not alone, that he was being watched, and turning quickly, he flashed the beam of the torch around, lighting up bushes and trees, but he could see no one.
“Are you there, Carol?” he called. His voice was a little shaky, “It’s Steve. I want you, Carol.”
Behind him a shadowy figure rose out of the bushes, crept silently upon him.
In front of him a dead branch snapped loudly. He swung the beam of his torch in that direction, caught his breath sharply. A man stood in the bright light of the torch: a man dressed in black; a heavy .45 revolver in his hand.
“Reach up, Larson,” Max said softly.
Two hands patted his pockets from behind. He glanced round, a chill crawling up his spine, saw a second man in black: Frank.
“The two black crows: the Sullivans!” Steve thought, and his mouth went dry.
“Who are you?” he demanded, keeping his voice steady with an effort.
“Button up,” Max said, shoving the barrel of the .45 into Steve’s ribs. “We’ll do the talking. Who’s Carol? And what are you doing out here?”
“She’s a friend, staying with me,” Steve said shortly. “I was looking for her.”
Max and Frank exchanged glances.
“Roy up at the cabin?” Max asked softly.
Steve hesitated. There was no point in lying. They had only to go up there and see for themselves.
“Yes,” he said.
“You watch this guy, Frank,” Max said. “I’ll handle Roy.”
“And the girl?”
“If she doesn’t show up, it don’t matter. If she does, we’ll fix her,” Max said. “Better bring him along.”
He walked away towards the cabin.
Frank pushed his gun into Steve.
“Get moving,” he said, “and don’t try any tricks. I know ‘em all. And don’t shout when you get near the cabin. You’ll only be throwing your life away.”
Steve walked after Max. He was pretty sure that when these two had killed Roy, they’d kill him too. But he wasn’t worrying about himself. He was thinking of Carol. What would happen to her? He was surprised to find that he had a sudden tightness in his throat when he thought of her. Whatever happened, he decided, she mustn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of these two.
“Can’t you fellows leave us alone?” he said. “We’re not doing you any harm.”
“Skip it,” Frank said. “You don’t want to make it any harder for yourself. We ain’t worrying about you: it’s Roy we’re after.”
“But what’s he done to you?” Steve asked. “If it’s money you want, I’ve enough. You don’t have to kill him.”
“We’ve got our dough,” Frank returned. “Once we take a guy’s dough we give him satisfaction. That’s the way we do our business.”
There was a note of flat finality in his voice that told Steve it would be useless to plead for his brother. He walked on, a sick feeling in his stomach. It was like living through a realistic nightmare.
At the head of the road leading to the cabin he saw the big black Packard. It had been reversed up the road; its long hood pointing to the valley.
“If I could reach that,” he thought, “I might ditch these two, but there’s nothing I can do for Roy.”
There was nothing he could do for Roy. Max was already looking through the open french windows at Roy, who lay on the bed, his hand grasping the gun.
Max came up the verandah steps like a shadow, his rubber-soled shoes soundless on the wooden boards.
Roy had been listening all the time, his nerves tight, fear gripping his throat. He listened with an intentness that made his head ache, expecting any moment for Carol to come in out of the night and finish him. He didn’t think of the Sullivans. He was now sure he was safe from them, believed because they always worked so quickly that, as they hadn’t found him before, they would never find him.
He wondered how long Steve would be: whether he would return. The pain in his eyes had turned to a dull ache. He was sick with self-pity and fear.
Max moved silently into the room, saw the gun in Roy’s hand and grinned sourly. He crept across the room until he was by the bed. It would have been easy to have finished Roy now: too easy. Max was bored with easy death.
Roy groaned to himself, let go of the gun to hold his aching head between his hands. Max picked up the gun, shoved it into his hip-pocket. He waited, watching the blind man, wondering how he would react when he had found the gun gone.
After a moment or so Roy put his hand down on the exact spot where the gun had been. His fingers moved to the right and then to the left. Then he muttered under his breath, moved his hand further along the bed. His movements were at first controlled. He thought the gun had slipped along the blanket. But as he touched nothing but the bed-clothes he began to scrabble feverishly, then sat up, using both hands, sweat starting out on his face.
Max lifted a chair very gently, set it down soundlessly by the bed, lowered himself into it. It amused him to see Roy’s growing panic, to be so close to his victim knowing he was unaware of his presence.
“Must have fallen on the floor,” Roy muttered to himself, leaned over the side of the bed and groped blindly on the strip of carpet.
Max still sat, his gloved hands folded in his lap, his chin sunk into his black scarf, and he didn’t move, but waited, an interested, bland expression in his eyes.
Roy’s groping fingers touched Max’s pointed toe-cap, passed on, then paused. Back came the fingers, slowly now, hesitant. Again they touched the toe-cap, moved up, touched the frayed trouser-end. Then Roy shivered. His breath came through his clenched teeth like an escape of compressed steam.
Someone was sitting by his bed!
He snatched his hand away, wedged himself back against the wall.
“Who’s there?” he croaked. His voice sounded less human than a parrot’s.
“The Sullivans,” Max said softly.