Chapter Seven

SHERIFF Joe Bankhead raced, for all his bulk, into the office of Doctor Pellman. His mustaches were waving in the wind he made and so did the paper in his hand.

“doc! I just got …” he puffed for a moment. “I just got a long-distance telephone call from the chief of police of new york city!”

“Well,” said Pellman, leaning back in his swivel chair. “So you’re gettin’ famous, eh, Joe?”

“No. Listen. Y’know that Doughface that left here three months ago?”

“I ought to,” smiled Pellman.

“Now look, Doc, you got to go to New York or somethin’. It’s awful.”

“New York. Why? Miss Finch and I were thinking of getting married tomorrow—or hadn’t you heard by some strange coincidence?”

“Yeah, sure. But listen, Doc, that Doughface has gone crazy. He killed some cops and a truck driver and …”

“Whoa,” said Pellman. “Take it easy.”

“Well,” said Joe, taking a long breath, “the Chief of Police of New York told me that Doughface Jack got loose and the first thing he done was murder a desk sergeant. And then a flock of cops trailed him and tried to take him and he killed all of them. And then a detective tried to pot-shoot him from a window but Doughface seen the gun and looked up and the detective fell out the window, stone dead. And then Doughface walked into a restaurant—the Waldorf, I think it was—and when they wouldn’t serve him without some clothes on—I dunno if he’s goin’ naked or not—why, the headwaiter fell down dead and so did another guy behind him. And then this Doughface walked out and the hotel dick drew his gun and Doughface killed him. The whole town’s on its ear, Doc. Nobody knows what to do. Doughface Jack is walkin’ around and killin’ people just by lookin’ at them and the place is in an uproar! The chief remembered the case and he called me to see if I could make you grab a plane or train and get the hell to New York and stop this Doughface. But … but … Gosh, I never thought of that!”

“What?” said Pellman.

“Why, he’d probably kill you too!”

Pellman got up and lighted a cigarette. Musingly he looked into the sunlit street. “Poor fellow,” he said feelingly.

“Poor feller, be damned!” said Joe. “He’s killin’ guys right and left. First thing you know, he’ll get the idea of robbin’ banks and then maybe he’ll decide to run the country. And nobody can stand up to him. The governor ordered out the National Guard with machine guns but they won’t arrive until tonight!”

“what?”

“The governor …”

“I heard you! Miss Finch!”

She came swiftly.

“Pack a grip. Anything, you understand! Call the Cincinnati airport and tell them to send a ship, any ship, over here to land in that pasture south of town. I’ve got to get to New York. They’re going to kill Doughface.”

“But,” said the sheriff, “they’ll have to kill him! He’s …”

“I did that to him. I’m responsible. Quick, Miss Finch.”