CARNAL PSYCHO, by Duane Rimel

Copyright © 1961 by Novel Books, Inc.

CHAPTER ONE

The telephone rang, and a familiar chill of apprehension, of accumulated hatred, flared inside me. Some things you can get used to, even unpleasant things—as long as they are known. It is the unknown that frightens and rasps your nerves, twisting emotions until you are ready to boil over.

Before the phone rang I had been having a better than usual afternoon—my coffee tasted right, my injured left leg had eased its infernal throbbing, and I had begun reading a new book my young friend Henry Dee had brought up. It was by Julian Huxley, that famous biologist. Sometimes the remote past is more fascinating than brush wars and mine cave-ins.

But the damn phone wouldn’t quit.

I swore and yanked the receiver out of its cradle, hoping the TT fanatic who had been pestering me for long weeks had got his fill. I growled hello.

A nicely-modulated feminine voice asked if this was Mark Jason. A voice that evoked rich fantasies, the kind a lonely man gets who has been out of circulation a while, like me.

I admitted that I was Mark Jason.

“I—I hope I’m not intruding, Mr. Jason. Henry’s told me so much about you—this is Louise Schmidt.”

“Oh—yes…” Henry Dee’s current ‘steady’ and my hunch about her voice had been correct. I hadn’t met her, but I’d seen a snapshot, and maybe the afternoon wasn’t going to be a bust, after all.

“I—shouldn’t bother you, I guess, but—”

“Try me, Louise.”

“I—got one of those—calls.”

I swallowed an oath. I’d told Henry about the spook calls I’d been receiving, and he’d evidently passed it on to her. It didn’t make much sense unless the TT artist was doing what he’d threatened to do—start in on my friends.

I heard her take a deep breath. “I—called Henry, and he’s coming up to see you…”

“Good enough, Louise. I’m really sorry. Well talk about it later.”

“Oh—thanks, Mark! I was so scared, I—”

“Take it easy, Louise.”

She thanked me again and cut the connection. I reached down and pulled the phone jack out of the wall. The telephone company had installed it after I’d reported getting anonymous pester calls. Telephone Tormenters they’re called, in company jargon. They usually pick on young, pretty girls, brides, just-marrieds. Sex-deviates, generally. In my case it wasn’t, however—I didn’t have the right kind of plumbing. And there was a definite, vicious purpose in those I had received…

Louise had got me edgy and impatient—now I’d have to wait for Henry to come up and give me the low-down.

Oh, I could have gotten out. My leg was much better than I let on, because I had been hatching up a little plan for this tormenter. Sure it ached and hurt, but I could use it, and I was much luckier than some hit-and-run victims. I was alive. The graveyards are full of a lot of them who aren’t, believe me.

For over a year I had lived in the same bungalow next door to a three-story frame monstrosity called an apartment house that was built shortly after the first steamboats hit Idaho, and hadn’t been changed much since. My bungalow appeared to be a kind of afterthought, the front door facing First Avenue, the back door connected by a covered ramp with its parent, the Hillview, and heated and watered and electrified through the parent. The landlord had hacked another unit into the side of the hill overlooking Layton and I got it.

Anyway, I had a good view of the wide valley and the juncture of the Snake and Clearwater rivers. Today the barren, dun-colored hills, rising two thousand feet above the city, were streaked with snow. A sharp, cold upriver wind had been whining around my castle, reminding me too vividly of my river home, fifteen miles up the Snake, the cabin and creek and sandbar I missed so much.

A year and a half before, I had come to the city, as I do occasionally, to earn enough money to buy necessities for my wilderness existence. I didn’t exactly hate the city, but I felt much more comfortable away from it. This time I had been trapped here much too long.

At the bottom of a steep and unusable incline on the West, and facing River Avenue, stood Henry’s small rented house. In summer it was nearly hidden by towering locust trees, but now I could almost count the shingles on the roof.

About five-thirty I heard Dee’s footfalls on the Hillview stair far below—he’d decided to come up here before driving home. My ears have always been good, and while I’d lain around recuperating, I’d practiced identifying different Hillview inhabitants from the way they walked. I knew most of them by sight, but I’d met very few of them.

Now he crossed the ramp. He burst into my cluttered living room, breathless and rather pale. “Mark—now I got a call!”

I felt a familiar twinge. “What’s that?”

“Yeah! Now he’s picking on me—Laughed and tittered. Said if he couldn’t get at you, he’d start in on me!”

I swallowed a curse and motioned him into a chair. “And take off your coat.”

He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. A shudder went through his lean frame. He threw his car coat over a chair, sat down gingerly.

“And that ain’t all, Mark. Louise got a call, too…”

“She phoned me.”

“Oh—” For an instant his agitation seemed less overt. He glanced out of my ‘view’ window, his hands not so unsteady. “Glad she did, Mark. It really got her upset.”

But why had she called me? Probably because Henry and I were friends, and I was older than he.

Henry stood up and began roaming around, a habit of his. How he found room among my stacks of books, magazines and other junk, I never could figure out. His long legs were admirable—he’d been outstanding in basketball and track. Right then I envied him his mobility very much.

“Now, what about this call,” I said.

“This—fiend threatened me, said I’d better watch out—”

“Calm down and sit down.”

He did neither. I sighed and waited. Finally he halted in front of me, staring down, dark brown eyes intense. “It went something like the stuff you been getting on the phone. ‘Well, the mighty athlete, Henry Dee! If I can’t get at Jason, I’ll start working on you. Ha-ha-ha-ha.’”

The imitation was quite good, except Henry’s voice had personality. The TT maniac had developed a high-pitched falsetto that reminded me of nothing except maybe Mickey Mouse. The telephone company said they had ways of tracing these tormenters, but it wasn’t easy. The dial system in Layton, with service into outlying small towns that did not go through their long distance switchboard, made it even more difficult. They said they were working on it.

So far I hadn’t called the police, and if the telephone company had, I wasn’t aware of it. Since the phone-jack installation I’d had less trouble, but what had gone on before, when I was in rough shape after my accident, I would never forget.

“What did the voice tell your girl, Louise?”

“I guess it was rough—and sexy. She wouldn’t say much—”

“Could be a different character.”

“No—she said it was high and squeaky, like your calls and mine.”

I turned and glanced out of the window. The wind had faded, and a pall of smog, politely called industrial fumes by the local daily newspaper, had settled over the valley, drifting in from the pulp mill east of town. Frosty, stinking air sneaked around the not-so-snug window frame.

“Will you talk to her, Mark?”

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. A snapshot isn’t like the real thing, and my curiosity had been tickled. And since there might be a connection here—

“Please, Mark.” And I got the idea that he was up here talking for her, as well as himself. What could I do? The guy was going with this girl, and he was my friend.

I said I would talk to her. Any kind of lead was better than nothing. I wanted this spook real bad. He’d threatened, bragged about what he’d done, ruined a lot of sleep, raised my blood pressure and built a fierce hatred inside me.

“Maybe the caller was one of your Jolly Poets,” I suggested.

He halted, suddenly. “Can’t you leave them alone?”

I managed a grin. The Jolly Verse Guild was one of Henry’s vagaries. The Jollies, as they were called, consisted of a group of amateur and semi-amateur ‘poets’ who, in my opinion, had attracted as members all the loose screwballs in Layton. Relly & Relly, Henry’s employers, printed their monthly ‘organ’ called Jasmine & Lace. Henry had the dubious job of steering it through the various ‘editors’ and subeditors’ until finally it saw the glorious light of print.

I’d kidded him off and on for months about the Jollies, and it always made him bristle. But, after all, business is business.

“Maybe you’d better cool off and get something to eat,” I said.

After more ranting and arm-waving, he went out, leaving me with a headache. Maybe I’d been too rough on him. Despite my cynicism and moodiness, and the memory of something ugly and monstrous, he’d been very understanding and congenial.

The memory I hadn’t been able to shake, what I call the first incident, which had landed me in this poor man’s penthouse in the beginning, had happened shortly after my most recent and longest visit to the city, eight months before.

I’d been driving home from a date along a winding country road, late at night. It was early June, and a bit of ground mist floated along the roadway. I’d driven this road before, maybe three or four times, and since I had seen no car lights between me and the highway nearly a mile away, the ground was slipping under the car at a good clip.

I came around this sharp corner not far from the highway and my headlights caught a slim gray figure poised in the haze. A young girl, I learned later. What do you do in a situation like this? I yanked the steering wheel to the left, toward the ditch, but the car’s momentum was too great. It skidded sharply in the gravel, I felt a grisly thud, then I spun…

I regained consciousness temporarily with a thin, high scream probing my ear drums. I hung upside down, pinned inside my car, something warm and wet running across my face, the reek of gasoline in my nostrils. No pain, at first. Numbness, dizziness, a sensation of panic boiling inside me. The terrible screaming faded, mercifully…

Somewhere above me lights flickered, I heard voices. Time seemed to pass too slowly.

When I came around again I was in the Layton General Hospital. I had been cut and bruised, but nothing had broken. They told me the girl I had struck, the one who had cried so pitifully, had died. Her name was Angela Stein, and she had lived at a small farmhouse near the scene of the accident. Her parents made a meager living raising produce and selling it at a roadside stand nearby.

Fortunately, I was well insured. The parents didn’t appear to blame me particularly, and accepted the insurance company settlement. They seemed very beaten down and upset, but they didn’t give me any trouble. Again I was fortunate. But what goes on inside you after a thing like that? Have you ever killed?

You are absolved by the law of any criminal intent, but still you are a murderer. You have destroyed a human being, ended its existence. This goes through your mind, again and again.

The nightmares began even before I was released from the hospital. A pinched white face rushing out of the gloom, horror in the eyes…while I kept fighting and clawing the wheel, trying to miss her…

About a month later the second incident occurred.

It was a dark rainy night in early August—very unusual weather for that time of year—and I’d been walking home from work after drinking some beer in a tavern, walking uphill on Fifth Street, below the park. Fifth at this point is very steep, built into a deep ravine that drops from what is known as the Hill down to Main Street at a very sharp angle. The early-day car salesmen used to test their rigs on this grade, but of course these new crates have no trouble at all.

I was on the east side of the street, and I had to cross Fifth to reach the concrete steps that climb up to Hill level, or First Avenue. White lines marked the pedestrian lane.

My head was down to keep the rain out of my eyes—I never wear a hat except in sub-zero weather—and no traffic in sight. I was halfway across when I was aware that a parked car above me had started. Its lights caught me full on. I kept walking, as I knew the driver had surely seen me. I had now reached the lane the driver wouldn’t use coming downhill toward me. I took my time.

Suddenly the car’s lights went out and the motor roared. I glanced up to see blearily that the hulk was coming right at me. My reflexes are good, and I moved—but not in time. I remember hearing the screech of tires and the motor’s whine. Then the car was on top of me.

I felt a horrible, jarring shock. I was twisting and rolling. Then my head seemed to explode.

The police didn’t find the driver. It was labeled hit-and-run.

My insurance company took it in the neck again, but they settled. They even paid for my medical and hospital expenses. During my long stay at the hospital the doctors threw a lot of long words at me—like paraplegia dolorosa and hysterical amnesia. They took a mess of X-rays.

But all I was interested in was whether I’d get on my feet again.

After the cast came off my left leg, they finally decided I would walk again—if I was lucky. At first my left leg was paralyzed from the hip down, the right from the knee down—but after a few months, I started coming out of it. Dr. Schiller gave me exercises to perform.

They talked for a while about braces, but I wanted it all the way or nothing. I had to get back up the river and live the way I was used to living.

I was lucky—or maybe just tough.

Even before I’d quit taking pain-killer the phone calls began. First it was just long silences. Ever pick up a phone and hear someone breathing at the other end, ask who is calling, then have the party hang up?

Then it got worse. ‘I didn’t get you this time, Jason—but I will the next! An eye for an eye, Jason. You killed with a car, and you’re gonna get killed by one—get it?’

Or strings of wild curses.

Apparently it was someone who had been close to Angela Stein, a relative of some sort. Or maybe just a crank who had read about it in the papers and was venting hatred on a careless driver.

I had met the Stein family at the funeral. The remaining children had all been younger than Angela, just kids. It couldn’t be one of them. Besides, the Steins has sold out and moved away to the Coast, near Portland. I didn’t have their address, but I had decided if the tormenting continued I’d have the police get in touch for possible leads. But I didn’t want to bother the Steins. I’d caused them enough grief already. They had seemed a deeply religious family—quiet, introverted.

The phone jack had worked for a while. Now the calls were starting on my friends. A real psycho. And, if it was the one who had run me down, a dangerous one.

Naturally the police had quizzed me about my own accident, incident number two. What kind of car was it? Did I see the driver? And so on. Lieutenant Angus Alonzo Riley made an honest attempt to locate the man or woman who had run me down. But nothing ever came of it. Traffic injuries are so commonplace, you know.

And one of these days I was going to get out and do a little injuring myself.

CHAPTER TWO

Waiting for Henry and Louise to show, I began to consider the Jollies in a different sort of way. Maybe my odd one was a ‘poet,’ a longhair. A few of them lived beneath me in the Hillview, and—with one or two exceptions—that was close enough, believe me.

One was Lewis Cable, who had the apartment directly across the ramp, and tampered with every radio and TV set he could get his grimy paws onto. During the last summer, when I’d had my window open to catch some air, the night would often be shattered with the screech of an overloaded speaker or enlivened with bursts of TV commercials. He had a panel truck and a little shop downtown where he repaired all kinds of electrical gadgets.

Another dandy was a Mrs. Teresa Snark, widow of a very wealthy gold-mine operator who had scraped off plenty of cream in the early days of expansion in northern Idaho. I’d never seen her, but Henry had given me some lowdown, and of course she was President of the ‘club.’ Her name in type on the masthead of Jasmine & Lace was no larger than the others, but it was first. Every member knew who ran the show; without her their ‘organ’ would have folded overnight, and they didn’t want this to happen, even when Mrs. Snark’s poems appeared in a box on page one. No, never!

The typography and presswork were above average, however—the whole thing was done offset—and it fostered the illusion of being rather important. Perhaps it was. But I had my doubts.

About seven-thirty I heard footfalls on the covered ramp between my cubicle and the Hillview. Henry’s and another pair—light, clicky and feminine.

I had cleaned up a little, as a man will who is expecting female company—even somebody else’s girl. In keeping up my disguise of being crippled I had denied myself a number of things, all pleasant. I had thought that if I stayed here long enough I’d lure my tormenter in close enough to beat his brains out, but it hadn’t worked.

Henry knocked and I said, come in. They did.

“Mark, this is Louise—”

He’d told me about her, and I’d seen her photo—which is much different than viewing the real thing. This girl had it a-plenty. Wide-set brown eyes, pale smooth skin, chestnut hair. An awkward and coltish manner that some men like, and I was one of them.

“I really—shouldn’t bother you, Mr. Jason,” she said faintly. The smile was tacked on, and it faded. She sat down in my best chair, throwing her coat back from her shoulders. I tore my eyes away.

Henry stood, as usual, smoking nervously.

“I’ll do what I can,” I said.

Another smile, not so forced. Her eyes became aware of me. I felt it and I think Henry did, too. He looked the other way.

“Henry—told me you—helped him out of a situation one time. He said I could—trust you…”

“Call me Mark,” I said. “When did you get this call?”

“This afternoon—just after I got home. We get through early at the bank sometimes, you know. About four-twenty, I guess.” She nibbled her ripe lower lip.

“You were scared—you called me, then Henry?”

She nodded, glancing at him the way they do. He smiled back jerkily. The poor guy was really shook up. And so was the gal. But scared or not, she was a bundle. Maybe a little young for my thirty-three years, but not too.

“I—was so upset, and worried…I hated to bother Henry—then he told me he got a call, too!”

“What’d this person say, exactly? Can you remember?”

She shivered, her eyes swinging to the floor. Her fingers intertwined restlessly. “It started with a sort of high-pitched giggle…”

Henry darted me a look, and I nodded.

“—then it said I’d better watch out or I’d get molested…”

She flushed.

I waited.

“—then it said I’d better get out of town if I didn’t want to get hurt!”

That was a new twist, but a psycho might say anything. Probably the same character who had been after me. But what could I tell her? That he was harmless, which he wasn’t—that it might mean nothing?

“I’ve had some calls, too, Louise. I haven’t reported them to the police—but I think it’s about time we did.”

Henry scowled.

“Would there be—any publicity?” she asked.

I shrugged. “We can sit around here jawing all night—but that’s the only answer I can think of.”

She looked appealingly up at Dee. He stopped pacing long enough to stand spraddle-legged in front of her.

“Maybe Mark’s right. After all, he’s laid up here, and—”

She didn’t like the idea. Her hope that I could wave some kind of magic wand and get this fear out of her mind had been dispelled—and rudely. I had no brainy solutions, no formulas. I knew fear myself—but then I wasn’t a woman threatened with ravishment. I’d just been threatened with death.

“The police department here isn’t so bad,” I said optimistically.

She sighed. The action under her blouse was amazing.

“Mark wouldn’t steer us wrong,” Henry said lamely.

I was uneasy. I turned in my chair to stare out of the north window. It was very dark now, the street lights and blazing neons along Main street had turned the thick fog a lambent crimson. The thermometer outside my window said it was below freezing.

They were getting ready to leave. I watched her snuggle into her coat, as gals do. I didn’t miss the sweet curve of her legs, either.

There was a certain reluctance in her manner—under different circumstances I think she would have stuck around a while—but Henry was restless, distracted. And she’d come up here with him…

“I’m sorry, kids,” I said.

Henry nodded, she smiled again, and off they went.

I heaved a sigh and reached for another smoke. I pulled the blinds and moved around gratefully, stretching my legs. Reading Huxley was out of the question. I was edgy, uncomfortable. I had lain around here much too long. Louise had brought into my lowly diggings a fresh breath of outside, a remembrance of things missed.

Besides, my insurance pay-off money was running low. I’d put a nest-egg in savings for a year of peace and quiet up the river—but the remainder was nearly gone. My plan to lure the maniac up close enough for a body-blow had failed. I had to get out.

Sure, I could run off to my home, into the wilds, and admit defeat. No telephones up there. But I wanted this spook, this blabber of evil words—I wanted the feel of his throat under my thumbs, his tongue that wagged so much sticking out, black and bloated. I wanted to silence that fiendish giggle and rid my mind of it, once and for all.

Maybe Henry and Louise had asked for trouble, getting tangled up with me. I knew what some of the city people called me, the Snake River Savage, the half-wild man. Because I had chosen to live alone in the primitive area along the river, and came to the city only when I had to, some smart aleck newspaper reporter had dubbed me the moniker, and the name had stuck.

I had worked long and hard over the years to clear the title to my chunk of river land, clerking, picking fruit, pitching hay and tending bar—and I didn’t give much of a damn what they said about me.

But I didn’t want others to suffer for something I’d done, some vicious wheel I’d started spinning and couldn’t stop.

Subconsciously I’d been listening for footfalls on the ramp (perhaps Louise coming back?), and here they came. But they didn’t fulfill my secret wish. I sat down quickly. And why was I still keeping up my pretense of being crippled?

The back door rattled, and I said come in.

Lewis Cable, shambling instead of walking, grinning his loose-mouthed grin.

“Hey, Mark—did I hear a girl go by just now?”

“Shut the door,” I said. The redhead obliged.

“Good lookin’?”

“Could be. I just laid her.”

He blinked, then the silly grin came back. He had a gold-covered incisor that drew the eye. He ran dirty fingers through his dirty thatch, wiped them on his baggy trousers. I’d made the mistake of asking him to fix my little radio, and he’d been coming around ever since.

“Good, good!” he cackled. “Wasn’t Henry with her?”

This guy didn’t miss much. His apartment was the last one you passed before getting on the ramp.

“He was,” I said, pulling out another smoke. Cable didn’t use them. He wandered around, peering at books and magazines. His long, dirty neck irritated me. Everything about him did, including his curiosity. But my radio worked like a charm. The guy was a natural with wires and tubes. To me they’re gobbledygook.

“I’m tired,” I said. It took a strong hint to move him.

“Ah—sorry, Mark. Thought if there was a gab-fest, I’d get a word in edgewise. Ha, ha!”

“Nope.”

He opened the door. “Was she good?”

“Frantic,” I said. “She did a strip for us.”

He grinned his sickly grin and went out. A character, and I had to have him for a neighbor. But not for long, I swore. Not for long…

When his footfalls had died away, I locked the back and front doors and began my exercises. A little stiffness in my left knee began going away. I felt better physically than I had for many long months. I worked until I got up a good healthy sweat and ducked into the bathroom, showered, and put on my pajamas and robe.

I got settled finally with my Huxley, still remembering Louise Schmidt’s firm young body. I hadn’t read over a page when I heard someone approaching my front door. This was unusual—although it shouldn’t have been. The bungalow faces south, First Avenue is well-paved, and anyone on the Hill will tell you First is a real good address. But my callers weren’t First Avenue people, so they came in the door that faced the ramp and the Hillview.

I sat quite still, a dribble of fear trickling along my spine. Was my tormenter going to quit talking and start doing? I had the beginning of an idea.

The tapping came again, lightly insistent.

“Just a minute,” I said. I pulled the wheelchair out of its corner and pushed it ahead of me into the parlor. If this character came bolting in, I’d ram the chair into his legs and give him an upriver welcome.

“Who is it?”

“Fay—let me in, Mark.”

I grinned stupidly to myself, the tension going out of me. Fay Simmons, a lovely exception to the Hillview tradition, a waitress with whom I’d carried on a purely platonic relationship—not by choice, I can assure you. I’d gotten acquainted with her at Si’s Steak House, where she worked, before my confinement. Since then we’d done some light flirting over the phone, and had exchanged Christmas cards.

Before I opened the door, I sat down in the wheelchair, so she’d see me the way she’d seen me before.

“Just a minute, my favorite chick…”

I unlocked the door.

She slipped in, smelling of provocative perfume, wearing black toreadors, sweater and shorty jacket. Her long, dark hair glistened. In one hand she held a brown paper sack.

“Look at you,” she said. “Ready for bed?”

“Ready, but not willing.”

She laughed, smiling the smile that drew so much business into the Steak House—with a little added something for me alone. My pulse took on speed.

I rolled along behind her as she strolled into the living room. The view was good.

She sniffed the air, raising one eyebrow. “Do I smell perfume? Is some gal beating my time—?”

“Oh—Henry and his girl were up a while ago. You know Louise Schmidt?”

“Sure. I’ve seen her at Jolly meetings.” She didn’t sound enthused.

I’d almost forgotten that Fay was a Jolly, too. It was one thing I couldn’t quite reconcile with her temperament—but who was I to judge?

“Take off your coat, Fay. Share my abode. You know you’re my only passion.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Now, what could I do in this blasted chair?”

She looked mischievous. “A clever girl…”

I shook my head, grinning.

“Look,” she said, suddenly, slipping out of her jacket. “I almost forgot. I brought a bottle of wine!”

“Ho-ho! I was wondering…”

“You don’t have to drool.”

“It’s you, chick—not the wine.”

“You know, you’re acting awful strange tonight…”

She found two glasses in my kitchenette, and returned to the living room. She cleared away some books, set the glasses down and opened the bottle of wine. It was good California sherry.

“This is in return for some of your favors,” she said, handing me a glass.

“Not necessary at all, but I like it.”

She sat down in my good chair. Those tights showed every line of her trim legs and softly rounded hips. The sweater was devilish. She had mannerisms that reminded me of the screen version of Elizabeth Taylor.

“My night off,” she said, sipping, glancing about my room.

“Good. I’m flattered.”

She smiled. We weren’t talking as easily as usual. Her movements were more calculated, as if she were trying hard to act natural and couldn’t quite. I offered her a smoke. When she leaned forward to take it, I watched her sweater again. She was aware of it.

“You’re looking chipper,” she said.

“Fay—don’t kid. You’ve got something on your mind—”

She looked up intently, her brown eyes wide. “How did you know?”

I felt a little stab of disappointment. But, she thought I was still crippled—so what could I expect? I said, “I’m your friend.”

She hesitated. She worried the cigarette. “I’ve got a problem, all right. Not exactly what you might think.”

“Let me guess, Fay. A phone call?”

She dropped the cigarette. She picked it up quickly, biting her lip. She mashed it out in a tray.

That cold crawling in my guts began again. The tormenter, doing what he’d promised, threatening my friends.

“When?” I asked.

“Last night, after I got home. It was—awful!”

“Take it easy, Fay…”

“But—how did you—know?”

“I’ve been getting them, too.”

She shivered. “It was real—dirty.”

I explained as best I could what a telephone tormenter was, trying to ease the shock of it.

“But—why me?”

That was the kicker, and I didn’t want to tell her. That as far as I knew, being a friend of mine had caused it. But I did, and it hurt.

“That’s crazy, Mark!”

“Sure it is. The guy’s a psycho. They like to pick on young girls, especially single good-looking ones. There are different grades, but most of them are sex deviates.”

She finished her wine in a gulp and poured more. “Well, Mark, I’ll tell you one thing. I wouldn’t want to lose you as a friend, regardless.”

“Those are kind words, chick. But don’t take any risks—for me.”

“Look, Mark. A telephone call won’t—kill me. Here, have another sip of this stuff…”

I did. Her color was coming back, and I felt better, too.

“Should I tell the police?”

“I think I would, Fay. That’s what I told Henry and Louise—”

“Now I don’t feel so bad! I knew you could snap me out of it.” She giggled, suddenly. “I’m glad I had a real good excuse for coming up here, anyway.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

She smiled slyly. “I’m careful, too. Notice I used your front door?”

I grinned.

She laughed, rising lithely. She looked down at me. “Mark, I wish you weren’t—laid up.”

The way she said it, the invitation in her dark brown eyes, made the decision for me.

“I’ve got a little surprise, Fay.”

I threw the blanket away from my legs. I stood up. She gasped, backing away. Not in fright—just amazement.

“But—I thought—”

“So do a lot of people, Fay. But I’m getting out of here soon—going back up the river where I belong. And you might as well be the first to know.”

She giggled, her hand over her luscious mouth. She looked up at me. “Wow—I didn’t know you were so tall! Or I forgot—it’s been so long…”

“Six feet one.”

“Look—can you walk around, too?”

I showed her, moving toward her. She smiled impishly, retreating.

“Mark—stop! Let me catch my breath—I can’t get used to it!”

I took the glass out of her hand. I pushed the disgusting wheelchair back in a corner and led her over to my daveno. She shook her head, wonderingly.

“Why, Mark—why?”

“Might as well tell you, Fay. I’ve been getting spook calls for a long time. I was hoping that by pretending to be up here helpless, I could get this character to make a move—then I’d bust his head in.”

“I—see. Anyway, I’m so glad—I could jump up and down!”

“Let’s drink a toast—to my liberation.”

“Wow!” She slithered over and got the bottle. She poured. We drank again, our eyes meeting over the rims of the glasses. She reached over and flicked on my little table-model radio. When she had some jazz going she turned to me again.

“You said something a while ago about a clever girl—”

“Did I?”

Her lips were winey soft, clinging.

“Did you lock the door, Mark?” she whispered.

“No. I thought maybe another girl might wander in.”

“Hog!”

I nuzzled around. “I’ll teach you to bring wine up here to a savage…”

A small silence. Except for the music.

“God—you’re strong,” she murmured.

“Chick, you’re a lot of woman.”

Her lips opened for me and the music seemed a long way off. So did my worries and fears. Her sweater opened for me, too. Inside it were two hard-tipped mounds of passion. She lifted her body until those warm peaks brushed my face.

“Be—good to me, Mark…” Her two breasts were moving fiercely back and forth against my lips.

My throat was so thick I couldn’t answer. She didn’t talk any more, either. Then I couldn’t.

I was good to her.

CHAPTER THREE

The nightmare of Angela Stein s pale, horrified face hurtling at me out of the mist was more vivid than usual. Although I was half awake, the terror of it wouldn’t leave. I heard again the tortured scream as she died—slowly…

I cursed and fought my way out of bed. The phantoms of the night finally dissolved, leaving me weak and shaken.

Would I ever stop thinking about the girl I had killed? I was remembering now the small headstone I had insisted on buying, the flowers Goofy Joe had placed on her grave at my request not two months before.

“There was unuther boo-kay on ’er grave, Mark. Wonder who put that there?”

I could have guessed, but I didn’t tell Joe. Her parents had moved away long ago—so it meant someone in or near Layton hadn’t waited for Memorial Day any more than I had.

I shook myself like a sleepy dog and moved into the living room. The daveno where Fay and I had lain was still unhinged. The empty wine bottle stood on the table. The room had a close, musky odor.

I lifted one window a couple of inches, shivering as the cold, stinking air moved the still-drawn blind. I cursed the wheelchair where I had been trapped so long. I cursed the tormenter. Then I thought about Fay, and some of the wild hatred leaked out of me.

When I heard the paper boy on the ramp I knew it was time to get around. I closed the window. The old steam radiators began popping, but it would take time for any real heat to get up here.

I pulled the paper from under the door, sat down, and glanced at the back page where the local news is featured. I passed over a bold headline, then swung back to it.

A name hit me. Schmidt. Louise Schmidt. Killed by a hit-and-run driver. Henry Dee, her companion, injured and in the Layton General Hospital. A picture with the story showed a crowd around an ambulance, two white-coated attendants shoving something sheeted and stained into the rear of their Caddy.

Damn, damn! The tormenter wasn’t fooling—

She’d been up here, not two hours before her death, living and breathing. Beautiful, afraid. Another of the 37,000 club. My stomach churned, I was glad I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. A dirty, lousy car. A thing on four wheels with a lunatic behind the fifth wheel…

When the nausea went away, when I quit tasting stale sherry wine, I began cursing. It had nearly happened to me. The grinding, chilling memory now repeated itself in my brain, again and again. It wouldn’t quit. I threw the paper down and lunged into the bathroom.

When I came out I felt better. Nothing I could say or do would bring her back any more than it would lift Angela out of her tomb.

Henry—I snatched the paper up again, reading swiftly. The subhead had said injured. In a few seconds I exhaled a sigh. Bruised, some ribs cracked. It appeared he had been between the car and Miss Schmidt—he had leaped away from the thrust of the vehicle in time to save himself. Louise’s head had been fatally fractured on the pavement. Henry was knocked unconscious.

It had happened in a heavy fog at the intersection of Fifth and C Streets, almost in front of Louise’s apartment, the Terrace Arms. A quiet corner, two blocks from Main. No one seemed to know which direction the car had been moving.

The only witness police had uncovered so far was a wino who really hadn’t witnessed anything. He’d wandered onto the two figures crumpled up at the intersection, and had passed the word onto another pedestrian, who called the police.

The story seemed rather vague, perhaps due to a lack of information at press time. I wondered if Henry and Louise had been returning from the police station.

I was still reading when I heard unfamiliar footfalls on the stair, far below. Two pairs, heavy male tread. I could have looked out the window, but the blind was still drawn, and maybe they weren’t coming up to see me, anyway.

I guessed wrong.

They came across the ramp and knocked on the door.

I got into my chair and pulled a robe over my legs. I said to come on in.

The door opened, and I should have known. A uniformed policeman and an Irishman in plain clothes I knew to be Lieutenant Angus Riley. His nose was red. He extended his big freckled paw and I shook it.

“Sorry to bust in, Jason,” Riley said, glancing around the room. He didn’t miss the empty wine bottle. “This is Sergeant Wilson.”

“Have a seat,” I said. “Little messy—”

They made no comment, found chairs, and Riley removed his hat. He appeared to have his best big foot forward.

“I suppose you’re wondering, Jason. But I see you read the paper, and we wouldn’t be here, except this girl and Dee came down to the station last night and reported some threatening calls. They said you said for them to.”

Typically bad Irish grammar.

I nodded, having a smoke. Maybe it would help settle my queasy stomach. Or maybe it would taste like ragweed.

“They were up here last night,” I said. “Young Dee’s a friend of mine. I think the phone company told you I’d been getting anonymous calls, too. I told them I thought they ought to report to the station.”

Riley nodded, turning his hat around in his big paws. “You understand, we’d like to get a lead on this thing. I wasn’t on duty when they came in—but I read the statements. You got any ideas?”

“No. I wish I did.”

He glanced at my phone, with the cord dangling loose. I explained the jack the phone company had suggested.

“Have you talked to Dee?”

He smiled patronizingly. “We been up there. He’s in pretty good shape, considering.”

“Which way was the car moving?—the paper didn’t seem to know.”

“You better leave the police details to us, Jason.”

“You want information, but you’re not giving any—that the general idea?”

His smile was cool.

“They go down and report, like good citizens, and get no protection on the way home.”

He started to shoot back and thought better of it. Wilson cleared his throat.

“Get this, upriver man. We don’t want no amateurs messing around.”

“I could sure do a lot, sitting around here on my pratt, now couldn’t I?”

“Cut it,” Riley broke in. Wilson reddened.

The Lieutenant stood up and put on his hat. They walked to the back door. I had to get in one more shot.

“I trust this one won’t wind up on the shelf, too, Riley.”

He smiled thinly. “As a taxpayer, you have a right to shoot your mouth off, Jason. But don’t overdo it.”

“My best wishes and an unpleasant good day to you both.”

They left without another word. I hadn’t made any friends or influenced anybody at all.

CHAPTER FOUR

“It was one hell of an experience,” Henry said, drinking his coffee too fast. He’d lost color and weight both. A patch of adhesive on his right cheekbone, right eye black. I was surprised they’d let him out of the hospital.

“No looks at the driver—?”

“Like I said—like I told this Riley. The car was coming along like it was going on down C Street, heading west. We were crossing the intersection there, and hell, you know—cars are cars. The fog was kind of thick, and all of a sudden the car turned toward us—that would be south on Fifth—and the lights went out. I heard Louise gasp. I guess she saw it before I did, and she grabbed my arm…The motor revved up.

“I happened to make a lucky move. The old basketball reflexes, I guess. But the bumper grazed me and flipped me. I tried to grab her—but things happened too fast! Christ! That crunching sound when it hit her…”

He swallowed convulsively, glaring at the floor. I waited for him to get his bearings.

“—the next thing I know I’m looking up at the street light, with a fog circle around it, the fog is wet on my face, or something is, and an old guy bending over me, looking down…”

His hands trembled. I shook my head, indicating I’d heard enough. Henry had been through the wringer.

When I had a cigarette, I found my own fingers shaky. I had thought that a night’s rest—not much sleep, I’ll admit—would cool me down, but it hadn’t. The thing was too near.

“I’m gonna find out who did this if it takes ten years,” he growled.

“The police are working on it.”

“Yeah!”

“Naturally it occurred to you that the driver might have been aiming for you and got her by mistake—”

“I guess! Or maybe both of us. It nearly worked, too.”

I let him alone for a while, had more coffee, smoked my cigarette and rolled my chair over so I could look out of the north-facing window. During the night the snow-line on the far hills had drifted lower.

And why hadn’t I told Henry about how strong I was getting? When I’d heard him on the stair earlier it had seemed natural to get into my chair and pull a robe over my legs.

I’d saved it for a surprise. I didn’t think Fay would tell—she’d promised. I found myself wondering idly when she’d come up again, or even maybe when I’d go down and see her!

“How do you propose to go about catching this spook?” I asked, finally.

His eyes came up to meet mine. “I guess I don’t know, yet. You’ll help me, won’t you, Mark?”

“If I can. I was getting calls long before he started in on you and Louise. I’m as anxious to catch this character as you are—but I’m rather limited.”

Perhaps at the right moment my secret would be advantageous.

“Okay—” He leaned forward eagerly. “I’ll go out and nose around and do what I can, and come back and report to you. How would that work?”

“Damn it, Henry, I’m no detective. Riley’s warned me against it.”

He grinned. “I knew you would!”

These young people are so enthusiastic, so confident. What did we have to go on? A voice, a high-pitched, almost mechanical giggle. Perhaps a way of talking—but that could be faked, too. A clever psycho, unbalanced, unpredictable—and dangerous. “Where do we start, Mark?”

“Maybe a few questions about Louise. Any guy been hanging around her lately, acting funny?”

He frowned. “Not that I know of.”

“Maybe some guy she had known before—”

He shook his head, rubbing his hands along his trousered thighs. “Mark…”

“Now listen, my young friend. A gal that good looking has had men around since she was fourteen, and you know it. Where’d she come from?”

“Spokane.”

“No relatives here, then?”

He shook his head. “That’s why she got this apartment at the Arms.”

“I hear the rents at this joint are a little steep.”

“So what? Louise had a good job!”

“Henry, banks aren’t notorious for high wages.”

He reared out of his chair. “Mark, that’s one hell of a suggestion—”

“Hold it—”

“You think some guy has been—slipping around, and paying some rent?” He was flushed, angry.

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“Okay, okay…” He stood up, pacing around, but not so lively this time. A thickness under his shirt had to indicate taped ribs. “They’re having the funeral at Spokane tomorrow. I’m going up.”

I nodded.

“It’ll give me a chance to meet her folks…”

I had another smoke, watching him. I felt sorry for him, but I wasn’t through yet. “I suppose you took her to meetings of the Jollies.”

Fay had mentioned this, but it was a good opener. He halted, beginning to stiffen. His brown eyes hardened. “Sure, a few times. Not with that Outies bunch, you understand—regular meetings. But I don’t see…”

“I don’t either, but that collection of oddballs might be a good place to start. I could give you a definite lead, too. Look for a relative or friend of Angela Stein, the girl I—ran over and killed. You may not have any luck, but if this caller is the same one, he started on me first—and made no bones about why he was after me. Or there could be no connection with Angela at all. Maybe just the fact that I did it, it got in the papers—and they never found the one who ran me down, either.”

He stared at me intently. More pacing, then. Faster than usual. “Yeah—I see what you mean. The same one!”

I hadn’t told Henry or any one too much about my spook calls. If he wanted to do some footwork, maybe he’d come up with something.

“When do the jolly Jollies meet again?”

“Mark, you shouldn’t make fun of them all the time.”

“Poetry simply fascinates me…”

He groaned.

“My question?”

“Oh—tomorrow night, Friday.”

“Why don’t you go and look ’em over?”

He sat down, finally. “Mark, I already know them!”

“If you want to detect, you got to move around.”

He hesitated. “Mark, I don’t think I could—so soon.”

I could have said a lot of things, but I saved them. Like you grow up just so fast, and when you’re young you get hurt. It takes time to grow a thick hide.

I poured more coffee and we sat quietly a while. Henry seemed overly preoccupied, not as alert as usual. But he had plenty of reasons, and I wondered if maybe he hadn’t ought to be back in the hospital—sometimes people are in light shock for several days after an accident.

I said: “Just for kicks, fill me in on this Outies business.”

“Oh—” He seemed to come out of his own private fog. I’d kidded him so much about those jolly dingbats he wasn’t sure I meant it.

“For real,” I said.

“You know how Mrs. Snark and Cecilia Swatch run the show, on account of the money—some of the young members have been holding ‘side’ meetings, and there’s some talk about forming a new club. The old members are calling this new branch ‘Outies,’ for Outsiders, naturally. I don’t think it’ll amount to much. Some of the Outies live over in Hillview. There’s Jerri and John Sproot and—”

“Hold it.” I didn’t want to get enmeshed in this poetry jazz any deeper than necessary. But I had to dig around if I wanted to uncover anything. “Did Louise really go for the poetry bit?”

“Oh—I guess. She liked meeting people…”

Men people, I said to myself. Aloud, I said: “How well did you really know her?”

“That’s one hell of a question!”

“Take it easy. She came down from Spokane when?”

“About six months ago.”

“And you met her when?”

“September, I guess. Yeah. It was at the bank. I was making a deposit, and—”

“Been up to her apartment?”

“Yeah—so what?”

“When did it happen?”

He flushed. “Mark, what’s that got to do with it?”

“Probably nothing…”

He squirmed in his chair. “Okay! Maybe she was after me, but I…Nothing happened, you understand? She was a nice girl. A man should respect—Oh, hell! I see you don’t understand, so we’ll skip it.”

I waved my arm.

“I don’t like these questions,” he said.

“The police may get around to them.”

He stared. “You mean the cops might think I had something to do with it?”

“They think lots of things, Henry, especially when there’s a young, attractive gal involved. There will probably be an autopsy. Was she knocked up?”

He came out of his chair. For a second I thought he was going to try me.

“Hell, no, she wasn’t preg! I told you—”

I said nothing.

His eyes swung around again, surprisingly cold. “I see now what you’re thinking.” He’d got control of himself, but he was pale and rigid. “You’re pushing me pretty hard, Mark. We don’t seem to have the same ideas about girls.”

“Now listen, my young friend. You wanted to pry around. I can’t help you or me or anybody if I don’t know something about the people involved. This isn’t a kid game, this is cold-blooded mayhem. I’m right in the middle of it, and so are you—so let’s be sensible.”

He lit a cigarette slowly, carefully.

“I’m sorry, Mark.”

“So am I. We’re both raspy. Go home and get some rest—you look like you needed it.”

He stood up, wincing; “Kind of stiff in the ribs—”

“And me in the brain,” I said.

He grinned and got ready to leave.

CHAPTER FIVE

The following morning Henry said he was still too sore to go to the Jolly meeting, and I began putting together a little plan. I’d had my phone plugged in since breakfast, and no calls. An ominous silence had followed Louise’s death.

About one-thirty I called Fay down at the Steak House.

“Mark—is that you?”

“Could be. It’s getting mighty lonesome up here.”

She laughed, real friendly. “I have tonight off—”

I felt strong and masculine. “How’d you like to invite me to your Jolly meeting?”

“Oh-that—”

“Were you going?”

“Sure—if you want to—”

“You’re a nice, agreeable kitten.”

“Stop! You’re getting mushy—”

“Just for kicks, Fay. I’ve got some ideas about this spook. You been getting any more calls?”

“No—and I’m glad!” She giggled softly. “I’m tickled that you called.”

“Take it easy, there. This ‘meeting’ will probably give me fits, but I want to look some of them over.”

“I see. Sure, Mark.”

“Don’t give away my secret.”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“Why not drop by when you’re ready. I’ll get the old Chevy operating. It’s been sitting out in front here for too long.” I suggested what she should wear, that I’d be dressed appropriately too. She laughed again.

“Mark, you’re a card, you know that?”

“Ho-ho!”

“There’s another bottle of wine at my apartment—”

I made hungry noises of appreciation, and we rang off. Nice chick. She kept it light and pleasant.

Later in the afternoon I called a service station where I was known, and told them to come up and get my car operating again—then I called a costume store along Main and told them to bring up a few things, for rental purposes only. The package came in plenty of time.

At 7:15 I was ready. And the damn phone rang. I lifted the receiver, that nagging fear still inside me. The last twelve hours I’d felt better than I had for a long, long time—and now the bottom dropped out.

That weird, scratchy giggle again. I gulped a curse and hung on. Maybe some inflection or placement of words…many times before I had merely dropped the receiver. And if the call repeated, I’d unplug the jack.

Now—“…well, how is our murderer tonight? Killed any more young girls lately? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…I warned you, Jason! If I can’t get you, I get your friends, see? I got one of ’em. Messy, but justified. She won’t go twitching her rear end around any more in that evil way, or showing off her legs! Ha, ha, ha, ha, he, he, he, he…” The line went dead.

I cursed and cursed, my hands clenching and unclenching, hoping for a chance at that throat. And someday they’d get it. Someday they’d still that vicious cackle, squeeze until its owner flopped and squirmed in agony…

I snapped the phone cord out of the wall. I stormed into the kitchenette and dug out a fifth of bourbon I’d stashed away. I uncorked it, tipped the bottle and gulped it down, raw and biting. It helped, but not enough. I shouldn’t have listened to the whole rotten thing.

I thought about calling Riley and reporting. What good would it do? Probably from some remote phone booth, and there were scores of them all over town. An impossible situation.

A dangerous, sex-crazed maniac, and I had to have him (or maybe her) for a playmate. To trap this boy would take brains and cunning—and a pile of luck. If he didn’t get me first.

Someone knocked on the front door. I hid the fifth, got into my chair, adjusted the robe and rolled into the small parlor.

“Who is it?”

“Me—Fay—”

I began to relax. I unlocked the door. She came in breezily, smiling. She saw me in the chair and the smile faded.

“Hold it!” I said, standing up, tossing the robe aside.

Her full red lips thanked me. Then I grinned, looking her up and down. Her snug sweater was black with white polka dots, and two of the polkas were placed most provocatively. Her tights were coal black velvety stuff, fitting every buoyant, youthful curve. Her small, black slippers had sparklers on the toes. A tiny black hat with a rakish feather topped it off. Really gone.

Meanwhile she had been staring at me, and finally started laughing.

I said: “You are now observing the poetic rage of Walla Walla, Percival Keets. How about it?”

She shook her head. “Wow—you’ll slay ’em!”

“Wait’ll I finish—”

I moved into the bathroom and completed my getup. I put on heavy black horn-rimmed glasses, darkly tinted. I wound a yellow scarf around my throat, like I’d seen in the movies, and fitted a wad of cotton in each cheek. I hardly knew myself. Not that I’d want to, either—

I made an entrance, and Fay burst out laughing. Finally she got her breath and sat down. “Those tight pants are the most, Mark. But why?”

“Now, listen, chick. Most of those spooks have never seen me. I’ve been hid away up here for quite a while. I sent Cable on a fake service call, out of town, Henry isn’t going, and outside of you, none of these Jollies I’ve heard so much about have seen me for a year, maybe never. Besides, I have an element of surprise—”

She quit giggling. “I’ll bet you can get away with it. Ben Cook, the retired farmer, is pretty sharp. You know him?”

“Nope.”

“Chester’s fairly new, and so is Rita Snell. What about the Sproots?”

“I’ve seen them leaving their apartment often enough, but they’ve never been up here. Anyway, if somebody spots me, we’ll call it an observation test or something else ridiculous. I’m not out to embezzle anybody. I just want to gander around…”

“They’ll do plenty of gandering at you, especially some of the unattached gals.”

“Forsooth! This eve you are mine and mine alone!”

“Ass!”

“‘And like an ass, as he did pass, between the lass and I…’”

“Stop, Percy! You’re killing me!”

“Now. Where’s the meeting?”

“Oh—At the Jolly clubhouse. You wouldn’t know about that, I bet.”

“No, and I couldn’t care less. But I’ll try it for one time.”

She giggled. “I’m ready, Percy.”

I kinked my elbow at her and she slid her arm through it. She smiled. “You’re a lot of fun, Mark. This could be a wow of an evening.”

I pinched her and she squirmed away. As we were going out the front door, she said: “Your face, Mark. It’s different.”

I showed her the wads of cotton.

“I see—I’ll have to watch a guy as tricky as you.”

“I read it in a book,” I said.

Now we were outside, and even the cold wind whipping around the hill, the darkness that might conceal my tormenter, couldn’t keep me from enjoying this moment of liberation.

I was outside, away from the disgusting wheelchair imprisonment. I was on my feet, a girl on my arm and a belt of whiskey warming my blood. I was lucky.

The kid who had serviced my car had cleaned it all out, and the motor caught on the first spin of the starter. The old Chevy wasn’t much, but it had taken me up the river road plenty of times, and—maybe it would again.

I let Fay hold the fifth while I got the car turned around, the lights on, and headed in the right direction. She took a nip straight, and I admired her courage. I had one, too. She lit cigarettes for us, and that way I got a sample of what her lipstick tasted like. Fragrant, smooth. The old bus handled like a pickup, as usual.

Away out at the end of River Avenue, beyond all the houses and bulk plants, and even past several sharp turns in the narrowed road, she pointed at a kind of level bench not twenty feet above the water, where several cars were parked. In front of the cars was something I first decided was a broken down barn.

It turned out to be their ‘clubhouse.’ Fay told me the members had had a chance to get the building and this remote chunk of waterfront several years before at a very reasonable figure, and Mrs. Snark had financed the deal. She thought the location very picturesque. No doubt.

I found a place to park, we had another nip—and I was beginning to feel it. A nice slick chick, my first day out of that hole for many months, and maybe I should be celebrating. Of course I might get run over and mashed up a little one of these days, but in the meantime—

We piled out—and a sweet nostalgia hit me. The river. I couldn’t see it, but I could smell it and hear it, and it was a wonderful combination. It made me think of my home, my upriver cabin and the thousand things I’d missed rotting here in town. When I got this thing off my back, I’d go up there and stay a solid year—away from the artificial, neoned city with its phonies, perverts and queers.

“Look, Percy—let’s go!”

I snapped out of my reverie, shivering. It was cold. I’d worn a jacket, but it wasn’t enough. My blood was thin. As we breathed, little puffs of fog came from our nostrils.

We walked toward the lights, and now I heard longhair music. What could I expect in such an atmosphere? Fay took my arm, and her slim hip reminded me that the rest of the evening I belonged to her. My legs felt better already.

A single yellow light burned over the entrance to the clubhouse. We walked through frost-whitened grass and up a ramp where cattle had once trod. “This is it, Percy,” Fay murmured.

I nudged her playfully. Then we were greeted with:

“Oh—Fay! So glad you could come!” An old gal of some fifty summers, rakishly dressed, stood just inside the door, passing out leaflets. Her makeup was gaudy.

“I brought a guest,” Fay said. “Percy, this is Miss Cecilia Swatch, our hostess for tonight.”

“Oh—wonderful!” she gushed, examining me with favor. I felt like a dim-wit, and I could tell Fay was getting a big charge out of my ‘suit.’

“—and this is Percy Keets, from Walla Walla. Loves poetry…”

Fay kept pouring it on, while I tried to act half-interested, half aloof.

“Delicious setting,” I ventured, producing my previously borrowed long-stemmed cigarette holder, fitting a smoke into it.

Miss Swatch quivered, she and Fay exchanged more mush, and finally we were inside with mimeographed sheets in our hands.

“She’s really not a ‘miss,’ Percy,” Fay murmured. “Her husband left her a lot of nice real estate. She’s a real pillar of the Jollies.”

I nodded. The interior had been remodeled considerably, and it didn’t smell like cow manure, either. Lighting was very subdued, the ceiling low, a small stage or platform at the south end. About a dozen tables were covered with red and white checkered cloths, the centerpieces were wine-bottle candle holders. A little clean straw scattered here and there for ‘atmosphere.’

Delicious wasn’t the right word. I needed another drink, and I hadn’t brought the whiskey. A few beer bottles shone in the uneasy light, so maybe I’d make out.

A little mousy-looking girl took our coats, she smiled me an awed smile, and we were on our way. Heads turned. A murmur of conversation from several tables faded away. I was getting the treatment.

Then the chatter went up into a higher pitch, the droning music seemed to take on added volume, and several of the acolytes waved at Fay, and presumably at me, too. As she began showing me around, I tinkered with my cigarette holder and tried to look bored.

“Fay—dahling! You look simply too-too…”

This, I discovered later, was none other than Teresa Snark, President. Buxom and well-preserved, she was accompanied by a hawk-nosed individual introduced as Chester Ventley, author of a simply marvelous book of poems called Drifting Leaves. A real daisy, that one.

“Fay, you’re—” He seemed to grope for the right ecstatic word, and settled on “—heavenly!”

I felt an urge to spit in his eye. The way his beady eyes moved over Fay, he really believed it. She did a little sexy wiggle for his benefit and Chester nearly swooned.

Teresa gave him a sharp glance, moving the conversation or whatever you called it around to me. Chester calmed down immediately.

Fay introduced me again, and Mrs. Snark grinned all over herself. “Wonderful you could come—Percy.” But she wasn’t so completely taken in as Miss Swatch.

“Delighted,” I murmured. “Delicious setting…”

“That’s the word I’ve been after!” Chester whinnied. “Delicious!”

I felt like throwing up.

“Chester is so sensitive to words,” Teresa murmured in her throaty voice, which sounded like it was put on for the occasion, like the flamboyant dress she wore. For a woman of her age she had good legs, but they usually go last.

“Chester’s going to recite,” she added admiringly.

“I’ll bet Percy would like to, too,” Fay exclaimed. I nudged her, but she ignored it. She was enjoying this. “He has such—unusual approaches…”

“Wonderful!” Teresa said. “Isn’t that nice, Chester?”

“Divine!”

I really needed a drink, believe me.

Finally they pulled out, leaving us more or less alone. We found an empty table and I sat down thankfully. My legs needed a rest, and so did my ears.

Someone put two bottles of beer on our table, and Fay smiled at me impishly. The candle light softened and enhanced her youthful good looks. She was easily the best looking doll in the place, although a few glances about the room said there were at least two serious competitors.

Fay caught my wandering stare and sighed. “You’ll get to meet them, Percy.”

“Uh—sorry.”

“I’ll bet! Anyway, it’ll do you no good with the one talking to Ben Cook. That’s Rita Snell—rich as all get out, and a man-hater.”

“She isn’t dressed like one.”

“Draw your fangs back, lover. She’s got a sharp tongue.”

Other things about her were sharp, too. Maybe a bit athletic and wind-blown, maybe a bit tall, too—but there was plenty of zoom.

My eyes swung back to Fay. I said, “Neither one can touch you for looks.”

Fay gave me a pixie smile. “True, perhaps. But did you look real close at Marie Goddard? She’s over there with the Sproots.”

I glanced around, not wanting to disappoint my escort, and the glance held. The Goddard gal wore slacks, bright orange and black in a wild pattern, and a loose woolly pullover sweater. She wasn’t beautiful according to popular standards, but she had plenty to make a man’s mouth water. Especially under the sweater.

Fay giggled. I turned to her again. I said:

“You know men pretty well—”

“I’m not blind, Percy. Maybe it’s the way she wiggles around in her clothes, or something.”

It was something, all right.

“She goes to Idaho College,” Fay added. “Got a little Lark, and gets around.”

“No doubt. Fill me in on this Ben Cook.” This would give me a chance to look at the Snell babe again, and wonder why she hated men when she had so much to attract them.

“Sure. He’s a retired farmer, widowed. Real friendly sort and pretty well-educated.”

I nodded. I wanted to meet them all, eventually. Most of all, I wanted to hear their voices. I was hoping some trick of expression, some odd tone would give me a lead. And I wasn’t sure just why I was so hipped on this Jolly business, except that several of those threatened and one dead had this in common. The ‘club.’

Cook was a pipe-smoker, rather heavy-set and jovial. But who wouldn’t be jovial with a big lush doll like Rita cooing in your ears?

Their conversation ended, and Rita stood up, looking around. Her slacks weren’t as snug as Marie’s, and didn’t have to be. She was class.

She moved lithely toward us and Fay nudged me under the table.

“Hi, Fay,” she said pleasantly.

Fay hi’d back and the tall gal didn’t even look at me. She stood by the table, though.

“This is Percy—” Fay began.

“Men bore me,” she said coolly, disdainfully.

I took the bait. “Well, goody for us! Women certainly don’t bore me.”

“That’s obvious. Sorry, Fay—”

I stood up, and her wide-set bluish eyes flicked over me. Like maybe I had just oozed out from under a rock. I said, “Who do you think you’re kidding, Rita? Not me.”

She blinked.

I continued, “It’s a good act. I think men scare you.”

She flushed.

“Look, you two,” Fay said, “Don’t fight!”

“I ought to slap his face,” she said, keeping her voice down, talking to Fay.

“Go ahead,” I said, grinning. “Maybe it would release some of your inhibitions.”

She emitted a lady-like snort and walked away. I enjoyed the rear view nearly as much as the front. I sat down, and Fay giggled. “I think you won, Percy.”

“Let’s drink to it!”

We did.

Before we could go into man-hating any further, Fay nudged me again. Marie Goddard was approaching, beer bottle in hand, looking sultry and provocative.

Fay whispered, “I knew she wouldn’t miss a new male. Don’t let your eyeballs pop out.”

I put down the silly cigarette holder and had a strong impulse to take my dark glasses off—eyeballs or no.

“Well—Fay,” she breathed, swaying over, standing so she was directly in front of me, one lush hip extended, left hand on it. She looked lazy, indolent and—sexy. No other word for it.

“Hi, Marie,” Fay said. “This is Percy Keets—my guest.”

I didn’t miss the emphasis on ‘my.’

I stood up and her eyes followed my ascent as I unfolded. She held out a soft, plump, small-fingered hand. I took it, feeling a definite pressure. A charge of voltage slid up my arm.

“Fay—you’ve been holding out. I mean really.”

Fay giggled. “Brawny, isn’t he?”

“Mmmmmm. Somehow he doesn’t fit the get-up, though. You really gone, chum?”

“Oh, I’m real poetic,” I said.

She sat down, squirming around in her chair like it was hot. She had conveyed a definite message when I’d held her hand—the little job, in that brief encounter, had managed to deftly tickle my palm with her finger!

Now she managed to convey a message with her sweater, too. She sipped her beer, those thick red lips making me envy the snout of the bottle.

“What—what’re you majoring in at school?” I asked, just for kicks.

She caressed the bottle-neck with a restless tongue. “Well, dad thinks I’m taking a business course. Ha, ha!”

“Well, are you?” Fay asked.

“Fay, you know me better than that, kid. Why not be honest, huh? I’m majoring in men.”

Fay shook her head. I had a gulp of beer and grinned.

“No kiddin’, kids. What could be more interesting?”

“No poetry?” I asked.

“I dig this guy, Fay. I mean really. I like TV jingles. Sometimes I wonder why I come to these busts.”

This girl wasn’t dumb. Beneath that silky chestnut mane was a sharp brain. And her ha-ha had no more resemblance to the one I’d heard on the phone than she resembled an old maid.

“When do things start?” I ventured.

“Real impromptu, these cats,” Marie said, her slumberous eyes caressing me. I had a feeling she’d seen through my ‘disguise’ immediately, and it was making her curious. If I’d seen any of these people previously, I didn’t remember them. They moved in a different world. Cook appeared to be the kind of a guy you would like to know, but he was a stranger, too. Cable would have given me away immediately—I was glad I’d lured him out of town.

I noticed Jerry and John Sproot, fellow-residents of Hillview. They seemed to be all wound up with several other members over some papers. Real togetherness there—they wore identical sweaters.

Fay noticed my scrutiny. “They’re on the entertainment committee.”

“Goody. I’m ready to be entertained.”

“I could try, Percy,” Marie said.

“Look, you two…” Fay said.

“Sorry, Fay. Really. Can I sit here with you kids?”

I decided to let Fay answer. I was the guest. Fay nodded, smiling. I think she wanted to see me get the treatment.

“This cat of yours interests me,” Marie said casually. “In a purely sexual way, of course.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Fay said, lightly. No claws showing, either.

“Well, who wants a cat nobody else wants?”

“You’re so poetic, darling.”

“Really, Fay—I think you’ve got something here.”

“I know it. He recites such nice poems.”

“Ha, ha!”

It might have gone on quite a while if Mrs. Snark hadn’t got up on the platform and spoken into a little mike. I listened, but didn’t hear much. As far as I was concerned, it was all a lot of little bits of nothing in particular.

I’d drawn a blank. Of course it was nice to be out with Fay and hear her spar around verbally with a plum like Marie, but I hadn’t got anywhere at all with my project. Somehow Henry and I had got off on the wrong trolley.

These oddballs looked harmless enough—but then many infamous killers down through history had looked angelic, as did many young widows who managed to let their elderly and heavily insured husbands slip down a stair or fall off a cliff. Murder could be so subtle. And what was one more traffic death after an annual 37,000? Nothing. I had contributed one myself.

My lovely introspection was shattered by words from Mrs. Snark that struck nearer home.

“—and now it is with great pleasure that I introduce a guest from out of town, Percival Keets!”

CHAPTER SIX

Fay nudged me emphatically. Marie said, “It’s all yours, kiddo.”

A ripple of applause, and I rose awkwardly. I felt like a donkey’s south end, and probably looked it. However, in order to get ‘attuned’ to this shindig, I had that same afternoon dug out a booklet about real poetry, so I could maybe give with the right lingo—

A small, colored spotlight swung around on me.

“Thank you, thank you,” I said, as somebody else shoved a mike in my paw. The room quieted, suddenly.

“I have something rawther new, poetic friends…” I heard Fay choke back a gasp.

“—and if I may I’d like to try it—”

Scattered applause. Somebody said, “Bravo!” Another said, “Hear, hear!”

I tried to looked dignified and aloof. But still interested. It wasn’t easy. I said, “First of all, it’s real gone to be heah. A really delicious setting!”

Chester applauded.

“I tried this approach in Wallah Wallah—with really slashing effect…”

A hush, spoiled only by the rustle of a few papers. “It is called,” I said dramatically, “Silent Recitation!”

A questioning, interested murmur ran through the small gathering. Fay looked flabbergasted.

“It is performed like this,” I continued. I was glad I’d finished the beer. “I will suggest one word. Then we must have absolute quiet. My lips will move, I may make motions with my hands, and I will utter words silently. They will be in ottava rima, so attune your thinking thusly. The idea is to set a mood—and let your own imagination and ingenuity complete the thought…Now! The word I utter will be—”

Someone had turned off the music. The quiet was astonishing.

“Wind!” I said.

I moved my lips, waving my arms as though I were being buffeted by a breeze, then held my arms outstretched, as if in complete rapture. It wasn’t difficult with the two best looking dolls in the room at my table.

The acolytes were spellbound. I held it for about a minute, which is a long time, really. I lowered my arms slowly, and backed out of the spotlight.

The tight silence was followed by a crash of applause. Even Fay, still puzzled, joined in the accolade. It had gone over so well I found myself blushing. The applause continued. I sat down and Marie looked at me in wonderment.

“Percy, you really slayed ’em!”

“’Twas nothing,” I said.

“Look, they want some more,” Fay said.

I heard Chester’s reedy, effeminate voice. “Marvelous, wonderful!”

I felt like going through the floor. I’d read in the papers about a ‘silent’ piano recital, and I’d cooked this up. A whiskey-and-liberation silliness.

The spotlight found me again. As it did so, I found an idea.

“Well, go on, Percy—please,” Marie urged.

I bowed and got up again. The racket faded quickly. I had their attention again, and maybe I could use it.

“This time, my friends, the word will be of an entirely different nature. Think now in terms of blank verse, commonly called iambic pentameter, though not necessarily so…are you ready?”

I went through the hocus-pocus again. The wait. The word.

“Murder!” I said loudly.

Several gasps, then stillness. I let my lips move, made motions with my hands to indicate a man driving a car. Then, the sudden awareness of something ahead, in front of the vehicle, a twist of the facial muscles to indicate fear, apprehension—a jolt as contact was made, a quick look back, indecision, the birth of a sudden horrible idea, gazing all around—then shifting quickly and driving wildly away from the scene of death…

When I stepped away, the room was almost too quiet.

Several gasps of protest, only scattered applause.

“That was—awful!” Marie breathed.

“God! It sure was,” Fay agreed.

I rose again, into the spotlight. “Friends, please excuse me. It was just poetry—I’m sorry if some are disagreeably upset…”

More applause this time. But I’d lost. The mike was taken away. I sat at the table, hating myself.

A bad thing, perhaps—but it might do the trick…

“Well, that was a gasser,” Marie said, gurgling beer. Another bottle had appeared in front of me, and I gulped, too. I glanced at Fay. She looked rather chilly and withdrawn. She stood up, excused herself and pointed at a spot where the rest rooms were.

“One of our—members was just killed the other day by a hit-and-runner,” Marie said. “Of course, you couldn’t have known that—”

“Oh, hell! I’m sorry…”

“I think they dig you, but it’s a shock for ’em.”

Chester moved onto the platform, and the spotlight followed him. He cleared his throat, craning his long neck.

“Folks—Percy was wonderful. He didn’t know about—Louise Schmidt…”

He climbed down, looking and sounding rather inadequate. The atmosphere had chilled considerably. If my psycho was actually in the room, this might develop into something very foolish indeed.

At that moment Rita Snell appeared. She didn’t sit down. Her eyes were full of fire.

“I think you’re disgusting,” she said.

I shrugged.

“And you call yourself a man! Revolting…” She wiggled off, her buttocks swinging angrily.

“Well—” Marie said.

“She got the last word, after all,” I said.

“Oh, forget her, and look at me, Percy.”

I shook myself and did as I was told. I forgot Rita entirely.

“Percy, you going to be in town long?”

“A few days.”

“Tomorrow night’s Saturday—but big one. You dig me?”

“Could be.”

“Well, we’re the only Goddard in the phone book—do you still read me?”

“The type is a foot high, and looks good.”

She giggled. Her tongue flirted over those lush, red lips. “I mean, Fay hasn’t got you roped, has she?”

I shook my head. Her knee contacted mine under the table. I contacted in return, as the skin along the back of my neck got goose-pimpled.

We were calmly drinking our beer as Fay sat down.

“Kid, you look beat,” Marie said.

“I’m—all right, now. This lug is so full of surprises…”

“Mmmmmm,” Marie murmured.

“Want to go?” I asked Fay.

“Percy, you don’t have to—”

Fay and I stood up, and so did Marie. She held her hand out again, that soft little hand so full of surprises, and she didn’t disappoint me. Not at all.

“If I had my car I’d drive you both in,” she said, pleasantly.

“Don’t you have any transportation?” Fay asked.

“Go ahead, kids. I’ll call a cab. No other interesting males around.”

Fay glanced at me, and I said it. “You can ride with us, Marie.”

“Well? I mean, if it’s all right, I’d like to.”

It was settled, and that little nipping along my spine indicated I was riding my luck. We picked up our jackets and strolled outside. I hadn’t gotten any fond goodbyes from the Jollies, and right then it was mutual.

The temperature had skidded. The grass underfoot was slick with frost. One car was already moving out of the parking area. I’d broken up their precious meeting.

Moving toward my crate, we were all quiet, for a change. I worked the wads of cotton from my cheeks, and in the near darkness bent over and spit them out. I took off the idiotic glasses. Neither of the gals seemed to notice I had put the silly beret in my hip pocket. Enough is enough.

I fiddled with the throttle, choke and starter, and coaxed the old car into life. Fay sat in the middle, snuggled up against me, ostensibly for warmth. I didn’t mind at all.

We were doing fine until I hit those sharp curves where the road ran along near a cliff, above the river. On the last sharp point, I turned the wheel, the way you do, and nothing happened. My right foot poked frantically at the brake pedal—and again, nothing happened. We were headed straight for the edge of the embankment.

“God!” Fay cried, stiffening.

No time to answer. Marie screamed as we shot out and crunchingly down. Someone’s fingers knifed into my right arm as I pushed my left one in front of my face.

A crash of metal on rock, a rush of cold air as the door on Marie’s side appeared to crumple—we tilted crazily, another hard jolt, then water on the windshield, cold, icy water gushing inside, rising swiftly. I sucked in air.

I remember having a hold on Fay’s arm. Marie seemed to be out already. Time didn’t exist. Black water all about us. I fought and struggled outward, still holding Fay’s arm…

Free of the car, feeling the grip of the current, my chest throbbing, I fought upward. Up through the inky coldness—my one desperate thought on survival.

At last I reached the surface. I sucked in ozone, gulped it, gasping like a fish. I got Fay up too, somehow. Treading water, I raised her head above the surface. She looked very cold and small and pale—and very limp.

Then I saw headlights shining over the water, a flashlight caught us full on. Shouts. Someone scrambling down the rocky shore…

I swam, feeling an awful weakness in my legs…The shore seemed a mile away. My strokes slowed, the lights wavered, the water had a thousand fingers pulling me downward…

CHAPTER SEVEN

Awareness came swiftly, throbbingly. I was on my back, and part of my lower anatomy felt numb. The rest of me ached. Voices, far away. An odor of ether. Warmth, a weight of blankets over me.

I opened my eyes, seeing only a white ceiling, then bedposts, then a round-faced man I’d known for a long time, Dr. Amos Schiller. A nurse.

I knew the odor and surroundings only too well. I was in Layton General Hospital, again.

Remembrance came swiftly, too. I tried to jerk upright, and the nurse pushed me back, gently. “Easy, Mark—” Schiller said.

“Fay—” I said, my voice creaky. “And Marie!”

“Marie is all right, Mark.”

“Damn it all, I pulled Fay out—”

The nurse cleared her throat and left the room. Schiller looked down at me rather warmly, as he had before. “You tried, Mark. Everybody on the river-bank said so. But she was dead.”

I cursed and raved.

“Mark! It won’t do any good. A piece of metal or something sharp pierced her throat—she lost too much blood…”

I shut my eyes, my fists knotting. I swore quietly to myself. A great big brave poet. I was poison and I’d poisoned her. Another auto fatality. But this one wasn’t accidental. The steering gear had failed, so had the brakes. My car had been checked out that morning—

While I’d been inside spouting poetry and ogling girls, someone had tinkered with my car. Some fiend trying to get me…

I heard Schiller’s voice again. “—the other girl, Marie Goddard, must have fallen out or was thrown out just before your car hit the water. She was very lucky—and so are you.”

How lucky was Fay?

“But you shouldn’t have been out driving. I told you about your legs.” The lecture tone had returned. I was going to get chewed out.

I shook my head as the dizziness returned. I was too weak and sick to explain, as much as I wanted to.

“Your legs—” he began.

“To hell with my legs! I want the guy that…”

And that took just about everything I had. The room teetered. I grabbed the edge of the bed, trying to hang on. It didn’t work. And just before I rode out I remembered how slim and pretty Fay had looked in her black, snug tights…

When I came around again, things weren’t so fuzzy. I tried to wiggle my toes—and they wiggled. I moved my right leg. I moved my left leg. Sore and stiff, but I was going to—

Then I gagged, remembering. Fay’s limpness in my arms—the rush of water. Fay’s bright cheeriness, her smile, her ambitions. It rushed back to me now like a nightmare, flooding me with venom. And the hateful voice bleating—‘if I can’t get you, Jason, I’ll get your friends…’

I shouted a curse and punched the bell that would bring a nurse. The room was empty. A double window let me see the bare branches of a maple tree, a patch of sky. The sky was overcast and stormy, like my brain.

A nurse came in. “Oh—you’re awake. How do you feel, Mr. Jason?”

“Like the lower end of a sewer.”

She didn’t think it was funny. “Can you move your legs?”

I showed her.

“Fine! We were afraid—”

“Was it in the paper—this morning?”

“Of course.”

I blasted out with more profanity.

“You’re not to get upset—”

“I’ve got to get out of here!”

“I’ll—call the doctor.”

I had an answer ready when I heard voices in the hallway. Someone was protesting vehemently. Pretty soon the blabbing cooled down, and Schiller came in with Lieutenant Riley in tow.

“You can have five minutes,” Schiller said curtly. Riley grunted, his freckles standing out like red buck-shot. He was so flustered he hadn’t removed his hat. Schiller looked me over, feeling here and there with practiced hands. He checked my pulse. He backed away, nodded at Riley, and took a chair by the door. Riley scowled, then glared at me.

“What’s the big idea, Jason? Going out there and posing as Percy something-or-other, and then—I thought you was crippled!”

“So I fooled you, too.”

“No comic relief, please!”

“I was crippled for a long time. I got better. A little ruse I had in mind didn’t work, that’s all.”

“Ruse! It worked well enough to get somebody else killed.”

I felt the sick nausea rising inside me. I didn’t answer, because I didn’t have one.

“Somebody rigged the steering apparatus so it would work for maybe a few minutes, then let the brake fluid out—and bingo!”

I nodded. What could I say?

Riley leaned over me, glaring. “What do you know about it, Jason? And you better tell me or I’ll book you, so help me God!”

Schiller cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Doc. But this is the second traffic fatality this guy’s been connected with, and—”

“Shut up!” I said. “I was out trying to find your boy. It could have been me or Marie on the slab—instead of Fay.”

He snorted, cooling. He took his hat off. “I told you to stay outa this, Jason.”

Schiller stood up.

“Okay, Doc. I’m outa line. Look, Jason, this Marie isn’t able to see anybody yet. You’re the only one I can talk to. What happened?”

I told him, as simply as possible. I was getting tired. He listened alertly, asking a question now and then. There was only one logical conclusion to draw. While I’d been inside the clubhouse, someone had doctored my car. There had been plenty of time. Perhaps some one inside the building had done it, I couldn’t say for sure. I hadn’t kept a time-table on comings and goings. He said he’d look into that angle.

Finally they went out, and I closed my eyes. The sap had run clear out of me. I floated away.

* * * *

I was still there on Monday. Henry had been up and Goofy Joe had sent a get-well card, obviously addressed by someone else. That afternoon, something else happened.

The door was standing open, as they are so much in hospitals, and suddenly Marie stood there, smiling. I threw the newspaper down and managed a grin. “Well—you look okay to me, Percy!”

“Cut the Percy bit. You read the paper.”

She seemed to have recovered very well—no scars showed. She ambled up to the bed. She wore a knit wool jersey outfit, and what it clung to was enough to make any sick man feel better. Her chestnut hair was caught in a pony-tail.

“I’m beating you out of this place, chum.”

“Goody.”

“I’m real sorry it was Fay,” she said simply.

I nodded.

Her full, fleshy lips trembled. She bit the lower one with strong, white teeth. She looked out of the window as a tremor passed through her. Then those large brown eyes swung back to me.

“What I really came for was to cheer you up—”

“You have.”

“Well—I’m glad.”

“You’re quite a gal, you know that?”

“Huh?”

“I said it. You used your head, getting to shore. I read all about it in the papers.”

She shrugged. She came nearer. The corridor was quiet.

“Mark, can you use your arms? I mean, are they okay?”

“Try me, plushy.”

“Percy the poet,” she whispered, “with shoulders so wide…”

A nurse stepped into the room, and I heard her breath draw in. Marie smiled at the nurse in a sisterly way, as gals do, winked at me and swayed out. She had been close, but not quite close enough.

“Thanks,” I said to the nurse.

“Oh, you’re quite welcome.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Here I was back at the apartment, sitting on my pratt, nursing my wounds and hating the killer who still ran loose in the city. A dirty, sneaking psycho, with no more compassion than a rattlesnake in August.

I wouldn’t be fooling anybody any more about not being able to walk, either. Or about who I was. The papers, radio and TV newscasters had taken care of that. Percy the Poet. Would I ever live it down?

* * * *

“The meeting was a bust, while it lasted,” I told Henry. He’d come up about seven-thirty, and I was glad to have company.

“You shouldn’t have done it, Mark.”

“Listen, my young friend, they ate it up—till I came to the murder bit.”

He slid around in the chair. He still looked peaked, and bulky under the shirt where they’d taped his ribs.

“Why didn’t you let me know you could walk around?”

I sighed. “I don’t have to go through all that jazz, do I? I wanted to catch this laddy, this killer. If I pretended to be real helpless, I figured I could lure him up here. It didn’t work, so I tried something else—and it didn’t work, either.”

He had a smoke. “Did you learn anything at all?”

“No. A gang of dingbats, all putting on a front. What could you expect?”

He smiled wryly. “You’re always spouting off about people not using their eyes, not really seeing. What did you see?”

“I was a damned idiot,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve rotted in the city too long, my young friend. I’m just like all the others.”

He snorted.

“Now listen. What can we do besides bandy words and guess? What’ve we got? If it all fits, and it may not, it started some time back when I ran over this girl, Angela Stein. Her death evidently triggered some character into action. We don’t know exactly why just yet, and may never know. He had a go at me, and missed. Later, he began using the telephone. He spooked me half out of my wits. He’s hipped on this automobile business, probably could have killed me easily when I first got out of the hospital and was out of action. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be so neat here, with people living close by.

“I’m playing by ear, of course, but plans changed. My friends were threatened, he had a go at you and Louise. This time he scored. I got cagey and he nearly got me. He scored again. Riley may have something definite, but we haven’t got a single clue I know of that’s worth a damn.”

Henry finished his cigarette. “You’re bright and cheerful this evening.”

“You make something out of it, then.”

His restlessness exploded into another pacing spree. “I’ve found out a few things, Mark. Kind of upsetting.”

“Let me in on it.”

“Louise was married—before.”

I wasn’t surprised. “You find that out when you went up to Spokane?”

He nodded. “I guess she came down here into Idaho for a divorce, that’s what Riley said. Her ex-husband was here in Layton the night she—got killed.”

“Ho-ho! I can see Riley landing on that information.”

“Yeah, he did. But the ex was drinking it up at a local joint, and the way it looks, he couldn’t have done it, anyway.”

I could picture the fierce lieutenant badgering witnesses, bartenders and waitresses. And if he’d uncovered anything, the Spokanite would be in jail. I’d seen nothing in the papers.

“Was this ex-husband seeing Louise?”

“So what if he was? It wouldn’t matter now—”

“Easy—”

He halted in front of me. “Okay, I was dumb. I guess I always have been, about girls.”

“It’s a common failing. You’re young.”

The pacing continued. Sometimes it got on my nerves. However, it might be better than letting it boil around in your guts, like it was doing in mine. “One thing we can do,” I said. “If you’re willing.”

“Oh?”

“Check out a few people, as we planned before.”

He stopped walking. “Like who?”

“Vently and Ben Cook, perchance.”

“And Marie Goddard?”

“Damn it, she was in the car with Fay and me.”

“That would kind of eliminate her, all right.”

Maybe I was talking around him. As upset as he obviously was, this observation would come as no shock.

“Okay,” he said. “Who first?”

“Chester Vently might do.”

He considered. “Mark, until you get better, maybe we better skip it.”

“Damn it, you said you’d find the guy that killed Louise if it took ten years. Remember?”

“Okay! But it’s dangerous—”

“So is just plain living. Our remote ancestors were used to it—we’re not.”

He shrugged.

“What about this Vently creep? You’ve been going to meetings and so on.”

Henry snorted. “He’s afraid of his own shadow!”

“Could be. Where does he work? What does he do?”

“Oh, nothing much that I know of. He sold a book of poems—”

“Goody for him. Henry, you’ve been around the printing business for several years. Be practical.”

“Okay—” His loyalty to the Jollies persisted, amazingly.

“Where does he live?”

“Exham Apartments.”

“Fancy layout. Rents around a hundred a month.”

“You mean he might be in something shady?”

I sighed. “I’m just curious. In our own weak and amateurish way, we might, as they say, uncover something. When did he hit the scene poetic?”

“Oh—over a year ago. From back east someplace.”

“That’s his story, probably. What else you know about him?”

“He exercises a lot, takes vitamin pills.”

“Naturally. This Snark gal is pretty possessive around him. Anything there?”

“Oh—that’s just club stuff—”

“Could be. She’d make quite a catch. Some of these arty old gals aren’t immune to a little romance…”

Henry shook his head. “Maybe he’s got a rich aunt or something. Or some shares of stock.”

“Perchance. Has he got a car?”

“Yeah. A Corvette.”

“They don’t give those things away, either.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Now—maybe we ought to look Chester’s place over.”

“You mean—break in?”

“Call it slip or sneak. Sounds better. Doesn’t malfeasance ring better on the ear than stealing?”

“You’re really sharp tonight—” He squirmed. “How?”

“You can find out when he’s not at home—I think you mentioned he gads a lot. Maybe a window open or something. If I remember right, those Exham Apartments are spread out over a hillside south of town, what they call ranch style.”

He had a cigarette. He didn’t like the idea. He had a good job, a good reputation around town. His employers were known to be fussy about their help, and Henry had been spread out in the paper considerably already. But his girl had been run over and killed—and maybe I’d planted the idea firmly enough.

“Oh—I got it,” he said. “Some of next month’s Jasmine proofs are ready. I could drive out there with them—he’s one of the associate editors…”

“Now you’re perking.”

He felt better. A bit of candy coating on an enter-and-search violation.

“When I get on my feet again, I’ll help you.”

“Yeah. When’ll that be?”

“Schiller isn’t sure. He’s coming by in the morning. I can walk, but he told me to stay put for a while.”

He shook his head. “You sure surprised everybody—including me!”

“I’m Percy the poet, and don’t know it—”

He started to answer when we heard footfalls on the ramp between my hideout and the Hillview. It was Cable. I think Henry recognized the stride, too. The knock came loudly.

“It’s open,” I said. Henry had come in that way. My front door was locked and so were the windows. I’m a light sleeper, but one mistake and I might be sleeping for a long time.

“Heard old Hen go by a while ago,” he said, smirking, closing the door against the stink of smog. It didn’t help much, because Cable had an odor all his own. It reminded me of creosote. He wore his work coveralls.

“You can drop the ‘Hen’ business,” Dee said bristling.

The mousy redhead grinned his silly grin and sat down, crossing his legs. “Sorry, Hen-ry! Hey, what’re we all so edgy about?”

“What the hell do you suppose?”

The gold tooth vanished. “I was just going to try to inject a slice of humor. I know it’s bad. Real bad. Two good Jolly members, gone—just like that.” He snapped his fingers. His nails were dirty, too. But that was probably an occupational hazard.

And why in hell had I ever asked him to repair my radio? He’d taken that as an open invitation to come by any old time.

“You weren’t at the meeting,” I said casually.

He slapped his knee. “Hey, that reminds me! Old Mark holding out on us—walking and driving…”

“Yeah,” Henry said.

“Ah—sorry! I got a service call up at Austin.”

I knew all about that, naturally. Austin was seven miles up the Snake River, on the Washington shore.

“I couldn’t find the address up there,” he went on. “But I got regular customers out that way, so it turned out all right.”

I felt a little cheap. After all, this was the guy’s living. I’d wanted a look at the Jollies with their poetic pants down, and I’d got it. Had Cable come back in time to loosen a nut or two, pull a cotter pin?

I’d have to find out—but not from him. There’d been a wide, wide river and nine or ten miles of road between him and the clubhouse, but how far is that nowadays? Everything but the brakes could have been done earlier in the evening, possibly before Fay and I had driven off.

I decided he’d do as well as the next on our list of probables. And maybe we were barking at the wrong moon entirely. Obviously, we had to get something more definite. But just where and how to get it escaped me at the moment. Evidently it had been escaping Riley, too.

“Hey—I got some beer over at the diggin’s,” Cable suggested.

“Not tonight, Lewis,” I said.

“I don’t feel so hot, either,” Henry said.

Cable stood up, grinning. “Maybe some other time.”

I nodded and he turned to Henry. “Sorry, old buddy. About Louise, and everything.”

“Oh—thanks, Cable.”

“You got any radios or things that need fixing—”

“No!”

Cable backed off, his grin turning cold. I was surprised at Henry’s abruptness.

“Hey—I meant it friendly, Henry. No charge—”

Henry flushed. “I’m—upset, Lewis. Skip it.”

The redhead shot me an inquiring look, shrugged and went out the door.

“You didn’t have to be rude,” I said.

Henry lunged to his feet. “I don’t feel good, Mark. I’m sorry! Christ! I wish this damned mess was over with—”

“We’re all riding thin,” I said.

When Henry was gone I locked the back door and had another smoke. I, too, was tired and disgusted. My legs ached. 37,002 now. Another traffic fatality, another slab in the cemetery, which should bear this epitaph:

Planted here through

the Heroic Efforts of

MARK JASON,

alias Percy the Poet, who is still living.

Cozy thoughts on a miserable foggy night.

I decided it was time to go to bed.

CHAPTER NINE

I got as far as pajamas and robe and decided to have another smoke before turning in. I needed one of the pain-killers Schiller had left on his last visit, but I’d got by so far without them. Anyway, I wanted to sleep with one eye open, ready to move. This fiend might quit using automobiles.

My phone hadn’t been plugged in since I’d returned from the hospital, denying him the chance to gloat. He’d missed me twice. Third time and all that old superstition, you know…

I was considering a cold beer then I heard a car pull up out front. This was unusual, because as I explained before, most of my visitors came from down below.

All thoughts of a cold beer vanished as something else cold inched along my spine. I had no rifles or pistols handy, no bombs or bayonets, either.

A car door slammed, feet scuffed the gravel at the edge of the road. Now the feet moved onto my front porch.

I eased out of my wheelchair and ambled stiffly into the parlor. I hadn’t made up my mind what to do about this invader when knuckles touched the door.

“Who is it?” My voice was raspy.

“Me—Marie…”

I exhaled, stood there numbly a few seconds, getting used to the idea.

“Hold it,” I said.

I unlatched the door and in she came, all bundled up in a shorty coat, smelling wintry and wonderful. “Well,” she said, looking around. “This is cozy.”

“My etchings are in the living room.”

She giggled, giving me one of those high-voltage smiles. Those lips I had come so near tasting at the hospital were now even more pouty and alluring.

We moved into my lair, and I was glad I’d cleaned it out. A subconscious wish this would happen?

“Mark, I called several times.” She eased onto my daveno, fluffing her hair. She wore a plaid skirt and another one of those loose, long-sleeved sweaters. The skin along the nape of my neck began crawling—not from fear. I took her coat and hung it up.

“My phone’s been unplugged,” I said, showing her the outlet in the wall.

“How do you expect girls to call with that kind of a gadget, huh?”

“I don’t. I expect them to come and see me.”

“Mmmmmm. I didn’t think you were so egotistical.”

“It’s a front. I’m really damn flattered you took the trouble.”

“Well, now. I dig that.”

“Good. How about a beer?”

“I dig that, too.”

I went out in the kitchenette, opened the refrigerator.

“How are the legs?” she called.

“Usable, but weak. How’re you feeling?”

“Lonesome, and—sexy.”

I nearly dropped the can I was puncturing. Finally I brought two of them out, handing her one. I sat down on the daveno, not too close. She smiled, her tongue flirty with the beer can.

“You’re really kind of shy, aren’t you, Percy?”

I grinned. “You could try me.”

She giggled. “Well, I will! I mean, if you don’t get skittish. Silent recitation! What a gasser…”

“Not too bad for spur of the moment.”

She drank daintily. “Mark, is it too awful to kid—so soon after Fay died?”

“Nope. I don’t think she’d be wanting us to wear black arm-bands.”

“Well, I feel better, really.”

“Did you get banged up any? I mean it doesn’t show, but—”

“I was lucky, Mark. I guess the way the car turned it snapped the door open—and I just fell out. I got a bruise on my head, that’s all.”

“What happened to the jive talk?”

She put the beer can down. “Gets kind of old after while, doesn’t it? Mark—I’ve got a confession. I came to see you because I wanted to, but there’s something else. I’m a little scared.”

A trickle of the old fear and hatred ran through me. “Did you get a phone call?”

Her large eyes widened. “Huh? How did you—”

“Listen, Marie. Something bad has been going on. Nothing in the papers, so far. Was the call—rough?”

She made a face. “Disgusting—but what is all this?”

I told her briefly what had been cooking. About the anonymous TT artist, about Henry and Fay and myself getting calls. She was sharp enough to figure out that the calls had spelled murder—and might again.

“Should I tell the police, Mark?”

“Yes. Everything about it. The time, and so on.” I had a smoke, and she didn’t. “It’s hard to catch a fiend like that, Marie. The phone company traced a few to phone booths—and that’s about all.”

She nodded, biting her lower lip.

“Have you told your family?”

“Well, not yet. I wanted to see you—”

I growled out a curse. “When did the call come in?”

“This morning, at home. Mom was downstairs.”

Madness and frustration began building inside me again. “Now, listen, Marie. This guy’s dangerous. He’s tried for me twice. Then he tried Henry and Louise Schmidt, and got her. It’s obvious he got Fay trying for me the second time. So you see, I’m poison. You shouldn’t even be here. This character hates me so bad he’ll do anything to tear me to pieces, and he doesn’t care who gets chewed up in the process. He’s got a car fixation, but it might not hold. Obviously a real gone and clever psycho. He’s found out we’re friendly, so he’s after you.”

She shivered, reaching for her can of beer. It was empty, so I went out and brought back two more. She took hers with a murmur of thanks.

“You really think I’m in danger—just being here?”

“I’m afraid so. What’d this character say?—if you want to repeat it.”

She flushed. “Well, some I’d rather not. But the voice did make a threat. Said I’d get messed up if I hung around you. Something about the devil claiming his own—”

“That’s a little different—I hope you can forgive me for causing all this…”

“Mark, you didn’t cause anything! I wanted to come over—and I did.”

“You’re a brave girl. You said ‘the voice.’ Did it sound like anyone you know?”

She shivered. “No—too mechanical, I guess. Really.”

“It laughed?”

She nodded. We drank more beer, as my thoughts jumped like three jackrabbits going over a hill. Her eyes swung around on me. “Do we have to be scary all evening? I feel safe enough around you.”

“I could go into my Percy routine—” The beer was reaching me. “We could tell stories, read poems or work crossword puzzles.”

She giggled. “I know a better parlor game, Mark. More interesting—”

“Do I dig you?” I asked.

Her eyes said I did. I moved over beside her.

“Are you really dangerous, Percy?”

“I throw a mean couplet, I’m gone on the Spenserian Stanza…”

“Throw me something poetic, then.”

“Her lips so ripe and red and moist, I did so want to taste them while I lay abed—”

She laughed, moving them within striking range. “Methinks we were so rudely interrupted…”

“Not now, fair lass—not now!”

Warm, scented, eager. They enveloped me, giving even more than they’d promised. Shy retreat, then bold invitation. I had dreamed about those lips, and now I had them.

I had something else, too. Beneath her sweater.

Her tongue begged.

Pretty soon the scented sweater and black, lacy bra were on the floor. I turned out one lamp. Her tanned and untanned flesh contrasted delightfully. “You’re a nice, soft doll, Marie.”

“Oh, Mark! I’m not afraid, now.”

I played with her softness until it grew hard and hungry in several important places. Then I made love to those places in every way I could think of.

CHAPTER TEN

My plan to attend Fay’s funeral the next day was sidetracked by my doctor, who said I’d have to stay put a while or wind up in the hospital again. I phoned a florist and ordered a wreath.

I phoned Riley at the police station.

“Did Marie Goddard contact you?” I asked.

“Look, wise guy. Let well enough alone.”

“Hate me all you want to, but I think you better keep an eye on her.”

“Jason, we don’t need no Percy the Poets telling us our business. Keep outa this. I got enough troubles.”

“I’m just trying to be a good citizen. How did you make out with Louise Schmidt’s ex-husband, whatever his name is—”

He muttered something Irish and unprintable and cut the connection.

He was in a tight spot. The Herald had been giving him and his department and the Commissioner an editorial raking over. And several angry letters had been printed in the Forum, wondering what the police were doing about traffic fatalities.

So far Riley had kept the TT information out of his reports to the press, which maybe was a mistake, because other people in Layton, not known by him or me or our friends, might also be getting spook calls. It seemed to me the more calls reported the easier it would be to pinpoint the source. But that was his business. Anyway, I had offered to help. And I didn’t envy him at all.

I called Henry and asked him how he’d made out with Chester Vently.

“Mark, I had my ribs re-taped today—I ain’t feeling so hot. Maybe in a day or two.”

I made sympathetic noises.

“Oh—I found out one thing. His neighbor’s got a mean German shepherd. Going out there at night might be kind of risky.”

“No doubt. Take it easy—I’ll be in touch.”

That evening I looked up Chester’s number, plugged in, and gave it a buzz. It rang seven times before I gave up. I waited a while and dialed again. No answer.

During the day, against Schiller’s orders, I had tried my legs out, found them not so bad. I could get around. Sometimes I think these docs pour it on a little just to be on the safe side. Basically, it’s good psychology. But I had things to do, and maybe the nerves would come around better if I gave them something to chew on.

Next I called a cab driver I knew, and prepared to embark, not this time as Percy the Poet. My only weapons were a pocket knife and a small flashlight, ordinary enough to be carrying, in case I got stopped.

During the day I had also made inquiries by phone about a certain stew-bum named Eli Markham, ‘witness’ to the fog-shrouded death of Louise Schmidt. I learned that his hangout was Jumpy’s Tavern on lower Main, not far from my own diggings.

When the cabbie arrived, I told him where to go. And don’t get the wrong idea—I went along with him.

I hadn’t been downtown for a long time—but nothing important had changed. Just as much expensive neon tubing as ever, a few more vacant storefronts. The city was moving west and south into the suburbs, and lower Main had become skid-row.

Jumpy’s place reeked with beer and something like unwashed socks. The usual line-up at the bar, heads turning, bleary eyes focusing on each newcomer, hoping for a live one. I sidled up the bar, not so much out of place because I had dressed accordingly. I hadn’t shaved. The hospital and city pallor was still with me.

“Hi, tall and rugged.”

The voice belonged to a bottle-blonde with a sagging face behind the bar.

“Hi, yourself. Eli been around?”

She lifted her large bosom and let it drop. “He’s sittin’ right over there.” She squinted at me. “You a cop?”

I grinned and put a dollar bill on the plank. “No, honey. Do I look like one?”

She snorted, glancing at the money. “No, you sure don’t—but we don’t want no stoolies around here—”

“All I want to do is buy old Eli a drink.”

“You won’t have no trouble. He likes dark port.”

I pulled out another skin. “Give him a double and keep the change.”

She nodded. I didn’t know Eli from the next one, so I followed her and homed in on my target.

He sat at a table by the window, staring out at Main street. I sat down across from him as the wine was delivered. The blonde winked at me and waddled back to the bar. I wondered if she was Jumpy.

Markham appeared to have had a slow day—he was fairly sober. His eyes didn’t track too well, and I’d noticed before I arrived that he had a tendency many older men have of talking to themselves, letting their lips move, their head nod occasionally. As though they were reliving past glories, reminiscing. “You buy this, mister?”

I nodded.

He squinted at me. “Now, that’s right kind! I ever seen you before?”

“I don’t think so, Eli. Just say I’m a friend of a friend.”

He nodded jerkily, lifting the glass. His gnarled hand was quite steady. Maybe he wasn’t as far gone as some people thought.

“I wanted to ask you about the night this girl got run over,” I said. The juke box began to moan, and I had to raise my voice a little.

He frowned, his lips moving silently again. I had a smoke and offered him one. He took it. I lit them, watching his eyes. They didn’t hold on mine.

“You some insurance guy?”

“Nope. Just a friend, remember.”

“Sure. A real purty girl—too bad…”

“Yes, it was bad,” I said. “The police ask you questions?”

“Some. They think old Eli don’t know nothin’.”

I dragged hard on my cigarette raised my arm and waved it toward the blonde. I held up two fingers. In a minute she brought another double, and I paid her. Eli gripped the fresh glass, his eyes brightening. “But you do know something,” I suggested.

“I just know what I saw. I told ’em. They didn’t pay much attention—”

“I get it. What did you tell them?”

He squinted, blinking down at the dark port. “It ain’t no secret. I was walkin’ along in the fog, mindin’ my own business. Some cars goin’ by, but I didn’t pay no attention. Then I heard this groan out in the street. There’s a street light there on the corner, and I could see somebody lyin’ there—”

I waited. He gulped more wine.

“I—walked over there, an’ I see two of them, all stretched out on the pavement. Jesus! The girl was bleedin’ something awful—I touched the guy, and he let out a groan. He kinda turned and looked up—”

I sighed. I fiddled with my cigarette trying to get an idea. “When you were walking along, did you hear the car—hit them?”

He shook his head. “Musta been before I got there. The cars make a lotta noise. Not many that night, though. Most of ’em comin’ along D—”

“A block south of where they were hit,” I said. “Yah.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

His off-track eyes raised, and one of them looked at me. “I did hear somethin’—kind of a curse, a bad one. Somebody in pain, before I went over there.”

My stomach curled. Henry, half conscious, or crying out involuntarily at the driver who had knocked them there…

I stood up, feeling queasy. “Thanks, old timer”

He shrugged, staring down into his empty glass. I took a powder out the front door. Even the smog was a welcome change. I had another quick smoke, wishing I’d had a beer myself.

I walked up the street to a cab stand and took the first one in line. I was tired and disgusted. I told the driver to take me home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Back at the apartment, I was still restless. I had planned to visit Chester, and had decided to go down to Jumpy’s, where I hadn’t learned enough to fill a thimble. A rehash of what had been in the paper, and what Henry had told me—

I still wanted to look Vently’s place over. Barely nine o’clock, and maybe—

The phone rang. I’d forgotten to unplug it after I’d called a cab. I glared at the black thing and spit out a curse. It kept ringing.

“Hello!” I yelled.

I heard a faint gasp. “Is that the way you greet all your callers?”

The voice was feminine and vaguely familiar.

“Not the ladies,” I said. “Not if they sound young and promising.”

“Disgusting!” she answered, and then I had it.

“You’re slipping, Rita. Calling a man—”

“Is that what you call yourself?”

“Some gals think so. Why are you spooking me? Slumming, just for kicks?”

“Oh—!” She cut the connection.

I shrugged and had myself a grin. Miss Ice Water had thawed enough to buzz me, anyway. I felt so much better, I gave Vently’s number a ring. All quiet on Exham hill.

I had the cab driver let me out on a street behind the spread where Vently lived, gave him a tip and told him to come back to the same spot in half an hour.

“That’s not very long, buddy,” he said.

“Her husband’s due home early,” I answered.

He snickered and drove off through the fog. I silently thanked the weatherman for providing this bit of cover for my nefarious doings. Provided I could find number seven, where he lived, and escape a certain demon on four legs. However, my exposed position between one street lamp and a row of bare locust trees rising in the misty blackness reminded me that I ought to be much more afraid of another demon on two legs.

Houses out here were scattered, far back from the road. A few lights struggled through the fog, but not enough to give me any peace of mind. My legs protested the chilly dampness.

I found a sidewalk that looked like it would take me to the Exham, but didn’t use it. I stayed on the grass. The click of heels might arouse our German. As soon as buildings loomed ahead, I circled through a weedy field and reached the rear area without incident.

Henry had given me an idea about where to look, and sure enough, I found it. Lights burned in the apartment next door, but number seven was separated from it by a carport, empty.

Now the fog didn’t seem quite so ominous—and it had certain advantages for anyone planning to break and enter. I saw the shine of glass, located a rear double window and quietly fiddled around with it. No screens. Maybe taken down for the winter.

Neither window would budge. I slipped through frosty grass to another. A screen here. I found the release and undid it. A metallic snap as it unfolded didn’t do my nerves any good.

I waited and listened. No human or canine barking. The faint groan of a TV set from next door. A car went by slowly, fighting the smog. I fooled with this window and it gave.

I slid it up, feeling nice warm air. Slick curtains, the drip of a faucet. Probably a bathroom. I had no trouble getting in—my arms and shoulders were always good, and once upon a time, my legs had been good, too.

I nearly fell in the bathtub.

Once over it, I closed the window, my keen hearing unable to detect an adversary. I turned off the dripping faucet. The hot one, too. The power company would love me for that. Then, like a regular sneak-thief, I wiped the faucet handle with my handkerchief.

I opened the bathroom door, sniffed, and moved into what my outstretched hands told me was a hallway. I used my flashlight sparingly. Hardwood floors, a carpet runner leading into a nice-sized living room. The drapes were drawn.

Bypassing the large room, I slipped down the hall, searching for Vently’s ‘study.’ He was sure to have one. At the end of the hallway I found it. Also the door to his bedroom. His retreat seemed more promising, so I moved inside. Double windows, the ones I had tried first, looked out on the weedy lot. I drew the heavy drapes. No other windows, so I risked turning the light on.

When my eyes quit hurting, I discovered his den was decorated in a way that some people would call ‘cute.’ A yellow studio couch, red chairs, solid black floor. Olive drapes and walls and a white ceiling. The switch at the door had turned on a carmine-shaded lamp over his desk. The whole thing was too too.

A classy portable typewriter sat on a swing-out stand. Neatly covered, of course. A black file cabinet with feminine bric-a-brac on top drew my eyes. I eased over there and found it locked.

Temporarily stymied, I ran an eye over his desk. No ashtrays. Everything spic and span, even the wastebasket. A few books sat carelessly on the back of his desk between onyx bookends. Roget’s latest, a Webster dictionary, several books on how to write poetry, a few copies of Jasmine & Lace. A pink telephone.

Had any of my spook calls originated here?

No writing pads in sight, and the desk drawers were locked. Very careful, our Chester.

And what had I expected to find? A synopsis of how all the murders had been committed?

I wandered over to the inside wall, where a large bookshelf held more promise. A pile of book-club novels, volumes of verse, a set of Shakespeare that looked untouched, Currier & Ives reproductions. No psychological stuff, all very normal—except maybe copies of his own book, Drifting Leaves, printed as I had expected, by a vanity publisher.

Then I made a definite find. Hidden between the covers of an ordinary Atlas, neatly bound into it, was some fancy erotica. Pictures and texts. European and some Japanese, with no holds-barred.

While thus engrossed, I heard the purr of a sports car. Coming too close to be out in the road. I made a dive for the light switch.

I got it, all right, but I fell on my side, one foot slipping on his damned black floor, and when I straightened out it hurt so bad I nearly fainted.

I cursed between clenched teeth, hearing car doors slam. I got on my feet, heading for the bathroom, and nearly went down again.

Now they were on the front porch. Sweat dribbled down my back. I couldn’t make it. Cursing and gasping, both quietly, I limped quickly back into Chester’s study just as the front door opened. A light came on in the living room.

I eased behind the study door, leaning against the wall, breathing so hard I was sure they’d hear it over their conversation. My left leg throbbed like it had knives stuck in it. The kicks had gone clear out of this adventure.

When the pain eased I figured I would have to get out a study window. If I couldn’t walk over to them, maybe I could crawl…

Meanwhile my ears caught two recognizable voices—Chester’s, of course, and Mrs. Snark’s. Their conversation didn’t sound very bookish.

“—after all,” she was saying, “You didn’t have to stare at her all evening!”

“Now, Teresa—I didn’t.”

She came out with a very unladylike snort. “Wiggling around like a trollop—showing herself off to that nasty impostor…”

I had a grin. They were rehashing the ‘meeting.’

“—and that little snip of a Fay—not much better, if you ask me!”

Her voice wasn’t moving, so it must be Chester out in the kitchen, making glasses clink, ice cubes rattle. Then the pulse of recorded music, an odor of cigarette smoke. Chester didn’t use them. Everything indicated that the President of the Jollies was preparing to let her hair down.

The conversation sagged along a while, the music trilled and throbbed. I was on my knees, moving toward my goal, when a few words stopped me.

“—you know that Jason’s background…”

“You’ve lived here longer than I, Teresa…”

“He’s a snoop! Kind of a trashy amateur detective—”

“No!” he gasped.

“Oh, I’ve done some checking. He could be dangerous, honey—”

“You’re imagining things!”

“Well, if it ever came out…”

“Shhh. Have another drink, darling. He looked like a clown to me.”

“You were sure whooping it up for him!”

He cleared his throat. “And so were you, my dear, until you read the paper the next morning.”

“All right!”

That stopped him for a while. Finally: “Oh, Teresa, why don’t you get dressed and stop worrying about such a simpleton. Really! ‘Silent Recitation…’”

And why was she dressing? I was used to having women do it the other way.

I was making progress toward the double windows when I heard a throaty giggle. Chester’s neigh. Glasses with ice in them tinkled. The lights in the living room dimmed.

I made it to the draperies, leaned against the desk and got up on my one good leg. I pulled the heavy cloth aside, found the latch and turned it, carefully. I figured they were having too much to drink and do to bother me—unless Chester happened to come hunting for a book of poems. I didn’t think he would.

The window slid up easily. I could use my arms now, and there was no pain until I got my bad leg over the sill and swung it downward. I nearly screamed. I dangled there, sweating, as the opened study door framed a section of the living room.

Now my good leg was on the ground, and the cold air seemed to revive me. I inched the window down. It would be unlatched, but perhaps Chester wouldn’t notice.

I moved away through the fog and darkness like a defeated, wounded beast. My stomach curled with disgust.

Just before skinning out of the window, my new position had put me in line with the living room. And I had paused, even in pain, to gawk at the two occupants—Chester all made up like a woman, down to negligee and nylons, and Mrs. Snark in masculine shirt and trousers, her hair combed severely back, like a man’s.

It takes all kinds.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When I finally got home I was completely dogged out. My cab driver had been late, and I’d got a chill standing out there in the cold. He’d asked me if I’d had any luck, and I said no, she’d tossed me out.

I took some pain-killers Schiller had left, had a can of beer, and the ache in my left leg began to ease off. But the pain in my head hadn’t. I’d learned very little, if anything. Mrs. Snark and Chester had something they didn’t want exposed, but I wouldn’t want it known I was cutting queer capers, either. Especially in a burg the size of Layton. It would ruin President Snark’s social standing, and might possibly get them in legal tangles, too.

It seemed improbable they would be collaborating on a mess like this one.

I was thinking about beddy-bye when a familiar stride on the ramp moved me, cursing and hurting, back into my chair and under the old lap-robe. I rolled over to the back door, waiting.

A knock, the usual remarks, and I unlocked. Goofy Joe came in. To strangers, Joe is something of a shock. Small and stooped, with a tiny monkey-shaped head, beetling brows and too-dark skin, he was probably very near to being what is unpopularly known as a mongolian throwback, and what in reality is living proof that heredity can play mean tricks in any family.

The story was that his parents, before moving away, had been quite prominent in Layton, he’d grown up in a children’s home, and a kind social worker had found him a job tending furnace and doing yard work at the Hillview. He had learned these menial tasks at the orphanage. He lived in the basement with his comic books and tiny radio and never bothered anybody. I’d done Joe a few favors, and I’d made a real friend.

His dog-like loyalty, unswerving and true, became one of the very few bright spots during my long stay in the city.

“Have a chair, Joe,” I said, grinning.

He nodded and sat down, hiding his short leg behind the other one. His overalls and old denim shirt were faded but clean. The jacket was one I’d taken down to him.

“Anythin’ I can get y’u, Mark?”

“Nope. How’re you getting along?”

“Purty good.”

But something was on his mind—he’d never been up here so late at night. It was nearly eleven.

“Anything wrong, Joe?”

“I been hearin’ funny noises in the plumbin’, Mark.”

This needs explaining, too. Joe spent so much time in the basement, he’d developed a habit of ‘listin’ to the plumbin’ ’, as he called it. All the water, steam, gas and sewage pipes passed through his lair, the Hillview had been hodge-podged and added onto so many times—as for instance my own dwelling, perched on the edge of a hill, connected by a ramp with the rest of the structure, and Cable’s lean-to ‘penthouse’ tacked on top—that Joe could tell with some accuracy what was going on in the building, who got in late, who had a hangover and, sometimes, who had visitors.

During the time I’d been off my feet, Joe and I had worked out a signal code. He had no telephone. I could rap on my kitchen sink or one of the old steam radiators with something metallic, and Joe would come right on up. As an errand-runner, he was invaluable.

“What kind of noises?”

He fidgeted. “Come from up here—”

You had to be patient with Joe. His mind wandered sometimes.

His black too-close-together eyes caught me full on. “You in trubble, Mark?”

I felt I owed him some kind of explanation. “I’m afraid so, Joe. Somebody’s after me.”

He nodded, as though I’d confirmed a suspicion. “If anybody hurt you, Mark, I’d kill ’em.”

“Now, listen, Joe. Take it easy—”

“I would.” His jaw muscles ridged. I didn’t doubt him in the least, and it made me feel warm and not quite so lonely.

“The police are working on it, Joe. They’ll turn something up.”

He nodded again, but I hadn’t convinced him. I wanted to guide the conversation back to the beginning.

“You said you heard noises up here, Joe—do you know what kind? What they meant?”

He squirmed. “It was some time back—the first night you got out—” He’d known that, too, of course. “I didn’t think much about it till later on, an’ Fay got killed—”

It was a long speech for him, but we were getting warm. I waited.

“Sort of a scratchin’ noise, Mark. Never heard nothin’ like it before.”

I felt a little chill. Somebody in here that Friday night? Doing what? I have a good memory for detail. But then I’d been fuzzy when I’d come home from the hospital the last time—and maybe I’d missed something.

“Somethin’ to do with the steam pipe,” Joe added emphatically. “I checked ’em all out up to here—I didn’t find nothin’.”

“Want to look around?”

He rubbed his hands along the legs of his overalls. “If it’s all right, Mark—”

I nodded. He ambled first into the kitchenette, then out and into my bedroom, tapping with a pair of pliers. He examined every radiator.

Finally he returned to the living room, shaking his head. Anybody can make a mistake. What would some fool be doing with the steam pipes, or any others, for that matter? All were heavily insulated, running beneath the rampway between Hillview and my cottage, perfectly innocent pipes.

Joe returned to his chair, but he wasn’t satisfied. “If I find out what it is, I’ll sure tell you, Mark.”

“Thanks, Joe.” I was getting tired, real tired.

He sensed it and stood up. “Gotta be goin’, Mark.” Then he did an odd and strangely touching thing. Passing my chair, he gripped my arm in a friendly gesture—I felt his wiry strength. Then he was gone.

I listened to the peck-peck of his thread across the ramp, then it faded away down the stair. I had a small lump in my throat. Jason, I said, maybe you are human, after all.

I took another pill and had another smoke. A scratchy noise on a steam pipe, something he’d never heard before. Not ominous, surely. I had no gas up here—I cooked and heated water with electricity. And someone could get in here with no trouble at all. My back door key was an old-fashioned thing like a pass-key, and the front door was no better.

Joe had heard the noise late at night, evidently, and had gone back to sleep. It had troubled him. In his own way he was apologizing for not having come up in the middle of the night to investigate. I didn’t see how he could pin-point sounds in individual apartments. Maybe some gal in one of the other cubicles dragging a fingernail across a radiator to irritate her boy friend or husband.

I gave it up and creaked my way out of the chair, into my bedroom. It looked mighty good.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next morning, after strong coffee, good food and a few exercises, I felt much more like living. I still hurt, but nothing like I had out at Chester’s.

I plugged in the telephone and called Henry, who was now back on the job. We chewed things around a while and I came to the point.

“You know where the Ben Cook lives? I don’t see him in the phone book.”

“I think it’s unlisted. Just a minute—he had some stationery printed here a while back. Wait’ll I find the job ticket—”

I waited. I had a smoke. The fog had cleared and I could see cars crawling down the spiral highway that twists like a snake for seven miles into the Hole, as the valley is sometimes called. Cars. They reminded me of too many ugly things, and I looked away.

“—here it is. Three-one-four Fourth street. That’s on the Hill, not far from you.”

I jotted the number down.

“You gonna go out and see him?”

“Perchance.”

“Okay, Mark—but I think you’re on the wrong track.”

“No doubt, but I may find the right one if I keep kicking around. Any suggestions?”

He hesitated. “Oh, you know who I mean.”

“Could be. Use a name.”

“He’s your neighbor.”

“I get it. You don’t like him.”

“So what? A lot of other people don’t either.”

I glanced over at Cable’s ‘penthouse,’ considering the idea. It wasn’t entirely new.

“Just for kicks, I’ll think about it,” I said. “And watch yourself. That place of yours is not surrounded by a moat and high walls.”

“Yeah, I know, Mark. You do the same.”

And that was enough of that.

I left the phone jack in and looked around for another number. While I battled the directory, the damn thing rang.

I cursed fluently, hating the crazy black instrument that had caused me so much misery. However, it could be Marie, or even Rita…

I let it jangle five times and picked it up. I shouldn’t have.

“…ha, ha, ha, ha…” came the screechy giggle. I hung on, my jaws clamped hard, hoping for a lead, but it ended suddenly on a high, piercing note. A click.

I smashed the receiver down, my palms sticky. I had a quick smoke, hating so fiercely my guts cramped. I jerked the cord out of the wall so hard it slapped the end-table leg.

The phone hadn’t been plugged in for—how long? Thirty-six hours or so. And he’d caught me. Got in another dig, another reminder of what had been said before, the grisly promise…

I stormed and fumed and cursed telephones clear back to Alexander Graham Bell, and cars all the way to Henry Ford. It didn’t do any good at all.

After I cooled off a little I rang police headquarters and dutifully reported it. Somebody named Sergeant Hill said he’d take care of it, Riley wasn’t in.

Right then the thought of my up-river sanctuary seemed sweeter than ever. I had to get out of this cage of madness or go mad myself. I had to get back to the peace and comfort of my river valley, which even in midwinter would be a thousand times better than this neoned fog and pack of chattering maniacs.

But first I had a job to do. I hate to run from a fight. But how could I fight a sneaking bastard who was afraid to show himself, who was slowly tearing me apart?—this sly loosener of bolts, this driver of cars, this deadly amanita…

After awhile I had more coffee and went through the phone book again. I found the number I wanted, plugged in and dialed quickly.

She got it on the second ring.

“Percy here,” I said.

“Hey—crazy, man! I mean, really—”

“You should be spanked and sent back to school.”

“Ha, ha! I was told to take some time off. Would you spank me?”

“I’d do more than that.”

“Mmmmmmm,” she giggled cozily.

“Any more spook calls, Marie?”

The brightness went out of her voice. “One, Mark. About like the—first. I cut the connection and called Mister Riley—”

“Good enough. How’re you feeling?”

She giggled again. “Is that nice? It’s too soon to tell, chum.”

“Now listen—what’re you getting at?”

“Don’t be coy, Mark.”

I caught the drift and felt my face getting hot.

“Well—” she went on, at my stunned silence, “What if I was preg?”

“Damn it all, let me explain…”

She laughed. “Mark, I’m sorry, I mean really! I shouldn’t tease you about something so solemn, should I? Don’t worry—” she lowered her voice “I’m kind of dumb in some subjects, Mark—but bright in others.”

I sighed. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Ha, ha! Like what?”

“Like wine and candle light…”

“I dig that. Am I being propositioned?”

This gal made things plain enough—and if it pleased her to talk this way, was I going to object? Was I any shining example of morality?

“Could be,” I said.

“Well, lovely. I mean I’d like to, Mark. You see, I can talk like a lady when I want to.”

“I could pick you up in a cab and we could go out to dinner.”

“Chum, I’ve got a nice Lark, raring to go.” She giggled. “And the front seats let down, too.”

“Tempting, but it could be dangerous. You know how this character operates. I’d feel safer with a third party, while we’re on wheels, anyway.”

“Well, you’re the master.”

“Would your parents object?”

“Mark, you underestimate me! I told them I met a most fascinating and fierce-looking savage with big shoulders and long legs who would protect me with his life, life, life…”

“Marie—damn it…”

“Sorry, really. What time? I’m all goose-pimpley.”

“Eight?”

“Well, good. What shall I wear? Something slinky and plunging?”

“Now listen, your savage hasn’t got any fancy duds.”

She giggled again. “Well, okay, Mark. I’ll be ready—and willing…”

I sighed and cut the connection. I unjacked the phone. I also grinned. It would do me good to get out of this hole, danger or no.

* * * *

Sitting across from Marie in this night club, in a darkened corner away from the bandstand, the table lighted only by a couple of candles in fancy holders, I was beginning to feel human again.

“You’re quiet, Percy—”

“I’m counting my errors,” I said.

“Well, we are serious. I didn’t know Louise, really, but Fay was a nice gal. It hurts, Mark. But don’t blame yourself.”

“It started with me, Marie. It may end with me, too—and some more people I care for might get hurt or killed in the process.”

She put a hand over one of mine and squeezed. “I’m not afraid—not with you.”

This gal had several facets, and I liked them all except the real gone stuff. None of us are perfect. She had worn a simple black evening dress, but on her a dress wasn’t simple at all. It became a temptation and a work of art, and if her soft bare shoulders were a might fuller than most men prefer, it didn’t alter the general impact of health, youth and liveliness.

I thanked her with a look. She sipped her after-dinner drink, her eyes slumberous. The trio of piano, drums and tenor sax began a nice beaty drag. She winked at me, swaying her shoulders invitingly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a guy across the room begin to drool.

We were moving out of the booth to dance, when we were interrupted. A heavy thickset individual with freckled hands and face stepped in front of the table. Riley, naturally.

“What’re you two doin’ out here?”

I eased back into my chair. “Is it any of your business?”

He scowled, shuffling his heavy legs. “Look, I’m sorry—”

For him that was quite a concession. Was his attitude changing?

“Rest your feet,” I said.

He glanced at Marie, who smiled winningly, then moved a chair over to the end of the table. He sipped a glass of water I had ignored.

“Don’t you think you might be asking for it—a couple a miles outa town?”

“Perchance, but we can’t quit living.”

He grunted. I knew what he was going to ask, so I beat him to it. “We came in a cab, Riley. I don’t think this character would risk tinkering with a car so exposed.”

He nodded, staring at the water glass. “It’s still risky, Jason. You know how this guy operates.”

“We’re so aware of that,” Marie said.

He growled something under his breath. A random thought struck me. Was the good Lieutenant up a tree and feeling around for help?

“I’ve called,” I said. “But you were always out.”

“I’m busy.”

“Anything you’d like to tell us?”

He hesitated. Marie giggled. “Gentlemen, I can take a hint. Besides, it’s time I took a stroll.”

She moved lithely out of the booth, graceful as a fawn, and Riley couldn’t help himself. I couldn’t either. She was meant to be looked at. She winked at me and swayed across the floor, evading dancers. The hangers-on at the bar looked, too. They were well rewarded.

Riley cleared his throat, sipping more water. He was definitely uneasy.

“Something stronger?” I suggested.

“Uh—maybe later.”

Real cordial.

“Fill me in, Riley. Get it off your mind.”

He squirmed. I had an idea he was going to ask a favor, and it hurt his pride. “Look—how’d you like to set a trap for this—nut?”

I considered my glass of anisette. I had a smoke. He watched me coolly.

“Just for kicks, I might. How will it work?”

He glanced around. Our booth was isolated in a dark corner. No one could possibly overhear, especially with all the din of music and chatter.

“I got this idea, and it might be outa line…see what you think.”

I felt a puff of pride. Were my amazing talents going to be used?—or was this just a buildup for a nasty letdown.

“Were not getting anywhere on this tracing deal. The guy’s smart—he won’t stay hooked up long enough. I’d be outa line if I went into all the details—the phone company is a little touchy on methods.”

I smoked and waited. His hands clenched on the table-top. “You able to drive, Jason?”

“Naturally—” A little chill wiggled along my spine.

“This nut is after you—so…”

“I’ve been under that impression.”

“How’d you like to get another car, with our help?”

“Try me. The Chevy was insured—I was going to get a replacement, anyway. I have to get back and forth to my cabin somehow.”

“Okay. The department will help you pick one if you’ll try something.”

I finished my drink. A nut-trap with Jason for bait. Jason in a car. Not too bad, if the bait didn’t get swallowed before the trap-jaws closed.

“Let’s hear it.”

He leaned forward. “This is far as I got. We could have it in the paper you were driving out of town to see somebody, and…”

When he had finished I sucked hard on a new cigarette. “Good enough,” I said. “What day?”

He sighed. “I figured you would. Look, most of the roads around here are bare and dry now—Tomorrow night?”

I nodded, feeling a gathering tension. I saw Marie chatting with a couple across the floor, glancing our way now and then. Riley saw it, too. He stood up, giving me a straight, hard look.

“You know it’s risky.”

“Naturally. So is living.”

He shrugged and took off, walking very light on his feet for a man so big. The story was he’d once played professional football back east. I believed it.

Marie slipped into the booth, all freshly made up and looking almost too good to be true. Not pretty, but striking. Like you get struck with a bat.

“Your chick is back,” she murmured.

“Your rooster is crowing, too.”

She smiled. “I’d like to dance, but I can think of something more interesting.”

“No doubt.”

For some vague reason the suggestion to return to my bungalow, as pleasant and provocative as it sounded, bothered me. Perhaps a lingering memory of Fay…of too many dreary hours spent there…

“Well, heck! Did this Riley get you all dislocated?”

“Nope. Nothing you couldn’t remedy.”

“Mmmmmm. Let’s just be gay and frivolous—and forget our troubles, huh?”

I didn’t waste any more time about calling a cab. On the way out, her arm through mine, she whispered: “I’ve got a surprise, Mark.”

“A new poem?”

“A new nightie.” She patted her handbag.

We reached my place safely enough. No front ends came loose, no brakes failed. I tipped the cabbie, we moved up to the front door and I unlocked it with the silly, out-dated key. I turned on lights. We stepped inside.

I stiffened—a different odor in my rooms. Or was it imagination?

“What is it, Mark?”

“Probably nothing. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She was sticking close beside me. I moved into the living room, looked around carefully. No muddy footprints, no cigarette butts, no handkerchiefs. I went through the other rooms, poked in closets. Nothing. Maybe I was getting spooky.

The back door was locked, as I’d left it. Blinds down.

“Mark, has somebody been here—while we were gone?”

“I wish I knew, cutie. But everything looks shipshape, so let us relax.”

She eased onto the daveno, crossing her legs.

“Are you afraid, Marie?”

“Not now, really. But I was, for a minute—” She flicked on my radio. She turned out one lamp. “Come here, Mark. We were going to be frivolous—”

I sat down and we were frivolous.

For several minutes all I could hear was music on the radio and the old radiators popping.

“—honey, it unzips here…”

I unzipped. She slithered out of the dress, posing for me. Her slip was bright red, so were the bra and panties. Then she removed the bra and began running her hands over her breasts. When the nipples were erect and pulsing, she cupped her hands under them and offered them to me.

“Wild,” I said.

She laughed. “I think the nightie’ll be more wild, Mark…”

She never made it into the nightie.

* * * *

By the time the cab driver had returned me to the bungalow, it was 2:30 in the morning. I had seen her safely home. I should have felt elated and lightheaded, but it was time to quit kidding myself. I was getting the shakes.

Something had happened to take the glow out of what should have been a perfect evening. An odor, a suspicion, a feeling.

Marie had been sweet and understanding, eager to please. And I had pleased her, tempted her, awakened her and given her what we both needed—but for me it had gone unshared. I think she knew it and understood. These young gals nowadays are very grown up, you know.

This bastard of a tormenter had notched another victory.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning at nine I plugged in and called Riley. He was waiting.

“It’s all set up, Jason.”

“Good.”

He told me which used car lot to visit, the license number of the chosen vehicle. I said I’d call a cab and be down to take care of it.

I dressed for the weather, which was a dirty overcast. I remembered his mention of an item in the paper, so I went through my copy of the Herald. It was a news brief on the back page, nice and prominent.

It said I was driving to Grangemont this evening to visit a friend who was very ill. It looked so neat in type I nearly believed it myself. Grangemont was ninety miles away, in the heart of a big sawmill and farming community, and one section of the only road leading to it from Layton was a tricky six-mile grade climbing steeply for over fifteen hundred feet. No guard rails.

At the used car lot I wandered around like a regular tire-kicker. A salesman came along and got some practice. He had trouble repeating my name, so I figured he wasn’t in on the plan.

Finally I returned to the right car, a nice little 1950 Ford V-8, four-door, light cream color. I got in and started the motor, liking the sound of it. The guy made his pitch. I tried the gears and clutch, was assured that everything worked, a young mechanic had just traded it in, it had just been overhauled and they’d give me a 30-day warranty. I said it looked okay and we went in the office.

I asked for the sales manager and gave him the slip of paper Riley had passed to me at the supper club. He nodded agreeably, papers were signed, keys handed over. Altogether it had taken about an hour.

Driving back to the apartment, I discovered the Ford had plenty of go, the overdrive worked and the brakes had been touched up. I liked the feel of it right away. New seat covers, new floor mats. When I got my insurance dough from the last one I decided I’d try to make a deal for it.

I parked it in front of my abode, went inside and called Riley.

“Okay. The car’ll be watched until you’re ready to pull out. I figure you ought to wait till about six or so, when it’s good and dark. If this nut tries anything, it’ll probably be before you get too far out of town.”

I nodded vocally.

“Stop for gas at Mel’s Service—you know where that is?”

“Yes”

“Leave the rest to me.” He gave me a few more things to do.

“Little melodramatic, isn’t it?”

“So help me, this is no laughing matter, Jason.”

“The sound you hear is not laughter.”

He cut the connection and I unjacked the telephone. I had a smoke and wandered about aimlessly. Finally I went back outside, like any owner of a ‘new’ car, and looked it over again. Maybe I was a little suspicious, too.

Pretty soon I knew why it had been so jazzy. Two double-barrel carbs, a Mallory coil, new plugs and ignition wiring. And twin pipes. This thing would take off like a shot if I needed to.

I went back inside, fixed something to eat, made more coffee and waited. I looked out of my windows. The valley was clear of smog and it could stay that way if it liked. Henry’s little house under the hill was dark.

Did you ever try to kill five nervous hours? I’d been told to stay inside, and ordinarily I’d have found a good book and settled right down. There was a dandy around somewhere on the Pleistocene era that I wanted to digest—but I couldn’t get interested.

Small unpleasant segments of the more recent past kept crawling around in my dome—like Angela Stein, Louise Schmidt and Fay Simmons. All cold in the ground.

At six o’clock I turned out the lights, picked up a small overnight case, empty, locked the doors and sauntered out to the pride of Detroit. The street lamp marking the end of the street seemed much too dim and too far away. The usual hum of traffic from down on Main, the usual cold wind kiting around the hill.

I shivered and climbed in. I turned the key and punched the starter button. It kicked right over, emitting a steady roar. The mufflers sounded like glass-packs. I swung it around, the headlights good and strong. It handled like a breeze.

I crossed the Hill, dropping down Ninth. I watched the rear-view mirror, seeing nothing suspicious. But it was good to be moving, to be doing something. I’d been brooding on my backside long enough.

I located Mel’s Service on a side street. A small station and a big garage out back. Probably more service work here than gasoline sales.

A young guy in overalls came out of the station. I killed the motor, rolled down a window. I told him to fill it with ethyl.

“Sure, mister.”

I waited. The gas pump whirred. He completed the fill, went around in front. I pulled the hood lock handle. He looked underneath, fussed around. He left me that way and walked back to the station, inside.

He appeared to be looking for something under the counter. Little ordinary things that happen around service stations hundreds of times a day—but now they had me on edge. I pulled out a smoke to kill time—and the lights went out.

I’d been expecting it, but it jerked me.

“Hey—!” I yelled.

“Just a minute,” he yelled back. It was as dark as sin. Suddenly I heard the rear door of the Ford—on my side—open gently, the car sagged a bit from added weight, and the door closed, quietly. I kept my head pointed straight ahead.

“I got it,” the attendant called.

The station lights came on again, nearly blinding me.

“Sorry, Mister—”

“It’s all right,” I managed. I heard him check the oil, battery, anti-freeze. The hood dropped.

“She’s okay under there. Nice rebuild!”

It went on like that, as you do, and all the while the back of my neck felt cold and exposed, and what if something had gone haywire and the wrong character was crouched in the rear?

The attendant and I got all the signatures and credit slips taken care of, he grinned and didn’t even glance in the rear seat area.

I slid the car out of the station, my nerves ragged. I hit the first stop sign. A car had nudged up behind me.

“Don’t look around, Jason—”

I heaved a sigh. The voice belonged to Riley. I moved ahead, and the car at my tail turned the other way. I felt just a little bit let down.

I made time toward Main, then swung eastward. Traffic moving at a good clip. Roads still bare.

“I thought you might send somebody else,” I said, keeping my eyes up front.

“Turn on the heater, will you?”

I obliged, feeling relief from the tension of the day. Riley would be a good man to have around, almost anywhere.

We were getting across the Clearwater bridge now, doing forty. I had a smoke, keeping alert. Normal flow of traffic for a cold February evening—not very heavy. I heard him moving around, trying to get comfortable. I grinned.

We reached the sixty mile an hour zone, and I pushed down a little. It came alive neatly. I let up, felt the overdrive shift, and we were doing fine.

“Whatta you think now, Jason?”

“I don’t feel scared yet.”

He growled something and slid into a different position. The heater was blasting now.

“Where do you think he’ll try me?”

“Look—how would I know? Keep the speed about fifty-five. See a car away back with one fog light?”

I saw it in the rear-view mirror, and said so.

“That’s two of my men. One under-cover car ahead, too.”

“Goody for us.”

“Don’t get cocky, Jason.”

The four-lane highway squeezed down to two. Traffic thinned. We’d passed most of the joints and outlying houses. The road here ran along by the mill pond. Acres of logs scattered out under lights. The Ford purred in the moist air. It seemed to beg for a real let-out.

Riley lapsed into silence. I drove and smoked. I watched the oncoming traffic. Nobody tried to crawl up behind or pass. Finally we reached a junction ten miles out of town. Another bridge, an overpass. Going up a wide valley now, toward the foothills. We passed the Nez Perce Indian agency.

Nothing happened.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In his office at police headquarters, Riley still muttered darkly under his breath. His jaw poked out stiffly. I’d parked the Ford in back, and we’d come in through a rear entrance.

We had driven clear to the top of Winchester grade, the bad one mentioned earlier. On the return trip we’d done it alone, Riley having told his men to get back to town. A dry run. It was now ten o’clock.

“If anybody wants to know, this friend of yours suddenly got better,” he said. “You stopped along the road and called Grangemont.”

I nodded, looking around with interest. I’d never been in a police official’s sanctum. On the wall behind his chair hung a map of Layton and surrounding area, a few colored pins stuck in it. A pile of official looking papers on his desk, several books between severe book-ends. Nothing fancy in the whole place.

“I figured it would work, Jason.”

“The opportunity was there.”

He cursed fluently.

“Could be a leak.”

“Not a chance. It was set up too fast. Only four men and the Commissioner were in on it.”

“What about the car—the used car lot?”

“Nobody there knew anything. The department buys their squad cars there—they all know what an authorization looks like. One of my boys in on the deal checked the lot over yesterday and picked the Ford.”

“I get it. I’d like to own the car for keeps.”

“We can fix it up.” He fiddled with papers on his desk, not seeing them. Through an open transom could be heard reports coming in on their police radio. I glanced at the map again.

He noticed my stare and grimaced. He turned around in his swivel chair. “Those pins are where some of the TT calls originated, Jason. Care to gander?

“Naturally—”

He leaned back, looking pale under his freckles. “The red pins are your calls. The blue one belongs to Goddards.”

I saw a total of three red pins. “Is that all?”

“Look—I explained that…”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Don’t ruffle me, Jason. I’m not in the mood. The phone company says they’re doing all they can. It’s tricky, because some lines carry several conversations, they say. Different frequencies. And in case you’re interested, they’re all from pay phones in busy places.” He stood up. “This one was made from a booth in the Clark Hotel—three booths there in a hallway at the entrance to the clubroom. It was the middle booth. Hundreds of people in and outa there all day—”

I agreed. Miss Swatch lived at the hotel.

“This one,” he said, pointing with a stubby forefinger, “same deal. Sid’s pool hall, one of the busiest phone booths in town, but a single.”

“And not far from my diggings.”

He grunted. Old stuff for him.

“The other one originated in the Ray Hotel, another live spot. Bus depot and restaurant. It was made the day after Fay got killed.”

I remembered that call vividly. But none of this meant anything I could think of.

“This guy is real cagey,” Riley said, finally. “Someone who would know the calls might be traced. And all three booths are accessible to both men and women.”

I sat down and so did he. I had a smoke. “If it’s any of my business, have you singled out any particular persons?”

He scowled. I had no official capacity whatever. But I’d served as a lure for our big fish, and he was obligated to give me some kind of an answer.

“Look—if I tell you anything here, Jason, I might deny it later.”

“Goody, goody.”

He snorted. He waved his hand at a row of books on top of his desk. “See those, Jason? In them are laws that keep people out of jails, not put them in. Suspicion isn’t always grounds for arrest, especially with people with some drag. Don’t ask me to go into that! It works up into politics, money and influence.

“Major crimes we can prosecute, no matter who it hits, if we got the proof. This city is better than most, I can tell you that. The Commissioner is a square guy—I saw him force a case into the open that involved an old buddy and neighbor. He’s with me on anything within reason. But we haven’t got a smell, so help me!”

“Have you found the car that killed Louise?”

He hesitated.

“I’ll quit any time…”

“Okay. We found it—back on the used car lot where it was lifted.”

I sat forward in my chair.

“There was fabric from her coat caught in the grill. No fingerprints that did any good. The switch had been ‘hot-wired’—these kids nowadays do it with no trouble at all. Some of ’em use a tinfoil gum wrapper. It was a ’49 Ford with a push-button starter.”

Something away back in my head stirred—then quieted. I had no answer.

“The river took care of any prints we mighta got underneath your car. We figure it could have been jimmied while it was parked in front of your apartment, or out at this ‘poet’s’ barn.”

“The brakes—”

“As near as we could tell, the oil line was loosened, making a slow leak.”

I nodded.

“We got one little bit to work on. If we could pin down any kind of reasonable suspect, we could maybe find out where they were during the time Schmidt was run over. The whole thing probably didn’t take over half an hour.”

I had another smoke. “How did this character know when to connect with Henry and Louise on a little-used part of Fifth Street?”

He shook his head. “How did he know your run out of town tonight was faked?”

I stared at the wall a while. It seemed obvious, but I said it anyway. “Somebody close to those killed, somebody close to me and the people I know.”

“Not necessarily, Jason. I’ve been over that. I’ve checked out quite a few of them—as much as possible without breaking any laws.”

“No doubt.”

He let that pass, so I added: “Such as—?”

“One was this Vently, who says he was up on First Avenue talking business with Mrs. Snark. She verified it.”

I opened my trap, then shut it. He didn’t have to know about my little adventure—and what had I learned?

“—which we can’t argue with right now. Fay Simmons, who was home alone—”

That didn’t need any delineation.

“—this Sproot couple, also home. Lewis Cable, who was doing a repair job on a juke box at a tavern on Main, partly verified. I got to check it again.” He paused, watching me.

“You ended on a note of indecision.”

“We also checked you out.”

Said quietly and simply, those blue eyes hardening.

“Just one wild moment, Riley—”

He smiled. “We didn’t go overboard on that wheelchair routine, Jason. I contacted Doc Schiller. He admitted you might have been able to move around enough, and you were home, alone.”

Several nasty words caught in my throat. I waited. “It was working your way—you could easily have pretended to get anonymous phone calls, and called Louise and Henry. But when you nearly got it yourself, it seemed a little outa line.”

“Thanks!”

He didn’t smile.

“But you did escape. Anyway, we found out the steering breakdown couldn’t have been controlled from inside the car, and we couldn’t see you risking that much to get somebody else.”

“Goody for you.”

“Jason, in this business, you don’t overlook nobody.”

“Naturally. What about Ben Cook?”

“At home, alone. And also out at that ‘meeting.’ He’s no dummy, and well-heeled. And no evidence. Ditto for Mrs. Snark, and if she got riled up she could raise a real stink.”

“I get that. Heavy money and high-priced attorneys.”

He frowned at the floor. “We even checked this Goddard girl. She was away at school when Schmidt got it.”

I was tired but I had one more for him.

“Were you in my bungalow last night, early?”

He smiled thinly. “I told you, Jason. When we leave here you can figure I never said a word.”

“You were looking around, maybe for a dirty pair of shoes I could have worn the night Louise was killed…”

He looked at me innocently.

I squeezed out a grin. “And where was everybody when these four calls were made—if you know the time?”

“You re outa line now, Jason. But believe me, it’s the same as nothing.”

I stood up. He looked the way I felt.

“Thanks, Riley.”

“Thanks, yourself. It mighta worked.”

“But it didn’t.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The next morning I exercised again, happy to find the wooden feeling was leaving my leg faster than I’d hoped. The old Jason vim and vigor wasn’t going to let me down.

After breakfast I felt so good I decided to walk where I had planned to go. The temperature had eased, a breeze from the west had scared away most of the smog, and the sun was trying to work through an overcast.

Before leaving the bungalow I hung a very fine black thread across the back door, on the inside, took an unhurried look around the living room, fixing objects in my mind. If I was being visited, I wanted to know about it. Going out the front door I hung a string there, too. It was almost invisible.

Every poor bachelor has to have a needle and thread and a bent pin around somewhere. Maybe I’d catch a fish.

The Ford looked just as nice as when I’d seen it last. Somebody had spent a lot of money working it over—and it was possible I couldn’t afford it.

I saw no patrol cars around. Was Riley keeping an eye on it, or was I going to continue being the hunk of cheese for his trap? Comforting thought. I looked it over carefully, including the trunk. Good spare and bumper jack. Rubber mat freshly painted with black stuff all car dealers use. I checked the steering mechanism, kicked the tires. It was obvious, however, that all four were up.

And what was I looking for? Your mind does queer things when you’re in a bind, when your next move may be your last. And what I didn’t know about even old cars would fill a large book. I closed everything up, and locked all four doors. I left it there and walked.

I was glad I had. Cook lived only three blocks away, and why not get some fresh air? I found his house number tacked onto the east half of a modern duplex.

He must have seen me coming. When I went up to his front door he opened it immediately.

“Come in, Jason.” He held out his hand and we shook. A good solid feel to him. Nearly bald, maybe sixty. His bluish eyes were very alert.

“Glad we could meet, finally,” I said.

He waved me into a big chair and plunked himself down on a davenport. The living room was mostly brown panel, mahogany furniture, a big TV set in one corner. He got his pipe going.

“You gave the Jollies quite a jolt,” he said, smiling. False teeth, but hardly noticeable. He pronounced his words correctly.

“It was a mistake. And Fay’s last meeting.”

He looked out of his front window. “I always kind of liked Fay—”

“I liked her, too,” I said. “And that’s part of why I’m here, as you have no doubt guessed.”

“It shows.”

I had a cigarette, feeling uncomfortable. “The police are working on this thing, and I’ve got no business poking around—so I hope you won’t think I came out here ready to accuse you or anybody else…I just thought you might know something that would give me a lead…”

He nodded, puffing away.

“In fact, Riley—the local police lieutenant—told me to keep my nose out of it.”

“I wouldn’t mind knowing who caused her death,” he said evenly.

“I’d give quite a lot, believe me.”

“I rather think you would, Jason.”

I sucked on my cigarette. “And naturally, I’m not very adept at it. I came out to see if you might know something in her past, or something about Louise Schmidt, or anything else. I understand you’ve lived around here quite a few years, and keep your eyes open—”

“I used to visit with Fay—she didn’t mind talking to an old geezer. A lot of young girls never bother. She was a good listener—maybe that’s why she was such a good waitress.” He paused, studying his pipe. “Louise was a stranger, to me and nearly everyone in the club.”

“You think I’m out of line?”

“No, not at all. I wish there was some way I could help. Once in a while I used to go down and eat at Si’s when Fay was on shift. I might have influenced her to join the Jollies—” He smirked. “Funny what vanity’ll do for a guy my age. A chance to get a few worthless poems printed in a journal, and pretty soon you’re going overboard!”

I shook my head. “Nobody should criticize another man’s hobby, unless it might involve his woman or his money—”

He grinned. “Well, it has rather involved some of my own money—but at least I knew where it was going. I’m on the auditing committee.”

“Good enough, Mr. Cook.”

“Call me Ben—everybody does.”

I nodded.

“Like a touch of bourbon—or some coffee?”

“Coffee, please.”

So we had what I had asked for, and chewed things around a while. Since he knew something about Fay’s background, I didn’t object when he started in—but some of it hurt. Her father had been a shack-town drunk and bootlegger and a few other things. Her mother had died when she was quite young, and as soon as she could Fay had pulled out. An only child.

“She grew up along the river, a pretty tough neighborhood. But she made out, worked for her room and board and got through high school. Then she got this job. She told me you had suggested a secretarial or business course…”

I nodded. I was bleeding inside.

“I offered to help her,” he went on. “But Fay was pretty independent. She always thanked me for offering, anyway.”

I’d asked for this, and I was getting it. Every kind word he said about her was sticking in my craw, writhing and cutting.

“Any other relatives around Layton?”

“Not that I know of, Mark. I suppose it occurred to you that somebody could have been after you—it was your car.”

“Oh, they were, believe me.”

He squirmed, limbering his legs. “Then perhaps Fay was just an innocent victim—”

He must have noticed the expression on my face.

“Sorry, Jason. Marie Goddard was in the car, too.”

I swallowed bitter words. “That’s what makes it so damned wild. The fiend didn’t care how many lives were at stake. Not as bad as planting a bomb in a plane, but the same idea. No counting the means to reach an end. I’ve been threatened, but Fay had been too.”

He shook his head. “Is Miss Goddard in danger, too?”

“Yes. I don’t think she realizes how much.”

“I didn’t know. I read the papers—”

“Riley isn’t letting everything out.”

He seemed to understand. I stood up. “Sorry to have butted in, Ben.”

“Oh, I’m not through, yet, Jason. Sit down.”

I did.

He looked at me with those bland eyes and smiled. “I know why you came out, Jason. To look me over. Riley did, too.”

I felt like a sap.

“What do you really think, Jason? Theoretically, I could have gone out and worked on your car. Worn gloves, as the guilty one apparently did.”

“That could be a loaded question.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Jason. However, I think at your age I’d have been much less diplomatic. I might have even got a little rough. I could see Fay was crazy about you, and Marie was really interested, too. You know what Rita was talking about at my table, after you came in? ‘Who’s that guy, Ben,’ and so on.”

“Goody for you!”

He smiled that thin smile. “I was a little jealous, but I got around when I was young myself. I made my share of mistakes—however, you were much more clever than Riley.”

“Thanks. Do I rate a lollipop?”

“Well, what’s your opinion?”

I shook my head, feeling deflated and no doubt looking the part. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

“Quite all right. Relax.”

I tried to, now that I’d had my wrists slapped. “Where was your farm, Ben?”

“East of here, not far out. Lot of it’s subdivided.” I was getting something of another idea. “Did you know Angela Stein or her family?”

He frowned. “That’s rather an odd question.”

“How about it?”

“What’ve they got to do with anything?”

I had another cigarette. “I’m the one who ran her over and killed her…”

His eyebrows went up. “That’s—quite a jolt. I remember now—but it wasn’t your fault.”

“I was cleared, but there is some indication her death is related to this present situation.”

“Odd. Riley didn’t mention it.”

“He wouldn’t. He thinks I’m playing the wrong tune, and maybe he’s right. But if you think back, you’ll remember I nearly got it in a hit-and-run case. This character who’s after me claims he’ll get me to avenge Angela’s death…”

“Well.” He was puffing faster, now. He leaned back, studying me. “Yes, I knew the Steins.”

“You did?”

“Rather. But don’t shout—”

“Sorry—again.”

“I used to buy produce at their little roadside stand. Odd I didn’t connect your name…well, anyway, I used to visit with Stein a little. I felt sorry for them, but they were proud, wouldn’t take any charity.”

I leaned forward, feeling a ripple. “I know they moved away to the coast someplace—but, do you remember if they had any relatives around here?”

“It’s been a long time, Jason. Let me think about it. Seems like there was something he told me…”

I let out a deep breath. “Try hard, Ben.”

“I don’t see how it’ll do you much good, but I will. I’ll call you.”

“I didn’t know you had a phone.”

“It isn’t listed.”

“Listen—let me call you,” I said, not wanting to go into the TT business.

“Quite all right, Jason. Rather an odd sort of family, the Steins. He was very strict—with the children.”

* * * *

Walking back home that vision of Angela’s tortured face coming at me was more lifelike than ever. A nightmare in broad daylight. I fought it and tried to wish it away, but it stayed with me, a succubus gnawing at my brain—and maybe it would be with me as long as I lived.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The black strands of thread were exactly as I had left them. A great five-and-dime detective I had turned out to be…Perhaps a classified ad in the Herald would do the trick: inexperienced snoop for hire, cheap. Knows all of the old tricks, but none of the new ones. When you’re in real trouble, call somebody else.

Early that afternoon I was surprised to hear Goofy Joe clip-clopping across the ramp. I looked out, seeing the familiar shambling figure in faded blue overalls. Joe was in a hurry.

“Come on in,” I yelled, before he reached the door. The mild weather had held amazingly. And the next morning it might be snowing.

He opened the door cautiously.

“It’s all right, Joe.”

He moved in swiftly, standing against the door. He was breathing fast.

“Take it easy, Joe. What’s the matter?”

“Cable didn’ come home las’ night—ain’t been around all day—”

I had an uneasy feeling, as though events were moving too fast, too unpredictably.

“Sit down, Joe.”

“Purty busy, Mark. Thought I’d better let y’u know.”

“Thanks. I’ll check it out right away.”

“Funny fella,” Joe said, easing out the door, shaking his head. “Funny fella—”

And he was gone, blinking and squinting at the unusual February sunlight, hurrying along as though he’d be glad to get back in the basement, out of sight. At the end of the ramp, like a wart on a huge fist, rose Cable’s apartment.

I didn’t waste any time plugging in the phone and dialing Riley’s number. Surprisingly, he was in.

“Jason, still alive,” I said.

“I didn’t figure you’d be calling from the grave.”

“Listen, damn it—” I told him what Joe had said.

“Look, wise guy. Maybe Joe’s wrong. Ever think about getting off your dead butt and checking?”

“You’re so jazzy today. Joe doesn’t make mistakes like that. Just for kicks, why don’t you check it yourself?”

He grunted something about half-witted poets and cut the connection.

Just for the hell of it, I left the phone plugged in. Nothing happened. Maybe some girl would call up and tantalize me.

I wandered around, smoked and waited for Irish to show. Where would the redheaded electrician be? He was away a lot on calls, but late at night I could always see a light on over there.

Pretty soon I spotted Riley climbing the Hillview stair. He made it vibrate. Sergeant Wilson, who had been up here on Riley’s first call, trailed behind. They reached Cable’s landing and Riley hammered on the door. He glanced across at me standing at the window and made a face. I moved out on the ramp, strolled across. I hadn’t walked over it for how long—months?

“You been around here?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nope.”

Riley tried the door knob. It was locked, as I had anticipated.

“Nobody at his shop, either. Sometimes he has an old guy there to answer calls and wait on drop-ins. Well go by there later…”

“Wave a magic wand and get inside,” I said.

“You been watching too many movies,” he growled. “Wilson, see if you can get this damn door unlocked.”

The sergeant bent down and poked some kind of a gimmick in the old-fashioned lock. He twisted around a while and we all heard it click. Wilson pushed the door open. I moved up to crane over their shoulders.

An untidy living room, as I might have guessed. A dirty shirt on the floor. The furniture old and worn. The overall impression, however, was one not of grubbiness but of poverty. It even smelled like short money. An odor of bacon grease gone stale, of dirty socks.

Riley shook his head. He bellowed: “Cable, you in there?”

No answer.

They moved inside, Riley leading. I waited on the small porch, feeling a sharp breeze slip along the cavity between Hillview and the Hill. Percy the poet, getting his kicks…

In a few minutes they came out. Riley looked puzzled. “Nobody home. Hasn’t been for a while, the way it looks.”

“You believe Joe now?”

“So help me, one of these days…you notice anything?”

“Naturally not, or I’d say so. Some days I don’t even raise the blind. Such a lovely view.”

“I figured you’d be a big help, Jason.”

Wilson closed the door, leaving it unlocked. Maybe I’d do some looking myself, later.

“Where does he park that panel of his?” Riley asked.

“Out on the street, or right down there—” I pointed to a paved slot almost beneath us, at the bottom of the roofed-over stair. You came into it from the incline of Fifth Street.

He nodded. “Come on, Wilson. We got more to do than stand here and gab.” He looked at me. “And keep your eyes open.”

I said I would and they trudged back down the steps. Riley wasn’t overdoing our start at a beautiful friendship.

I returned to my abode, made coffee and sat down by the window. I’d been a little rough on Cable, as had Henry and others around. Now I felt sorry for him. Poor devil probably dressed as he did because he had no other clothes.

The unlocked door was a temptation. I was just on the point of getting rid of the temptation by yielding, when the crazy telephone rang.

I swore and tipped my cup over. Another stain on the landlord’s rug. I released another useless blast of profanity. I seized the receiver.

“He, he, he, he—ha, ha, ha, ha…”

My jaws clamped so tight they ached.

“Shut up!” I yelled.

More insane laughter, tinny and mechanical as ever. “—I’ll get you next time, Jason. You’ll pay for killing Angela! You’ll pay…”

It ended with a click.

I had the same reaction as before, only more violent. Cold sweat on my hands and forehead. Hands trembling. My stomach convulsed a couple of times.

As quickly as possible I reported the call to the police station. I needed help, any kind of help. I’d poked around and made mistakes…Riley wasn’t in, naturally. Some guy on the desk said he’d handle it. Again I jerked the cord out of its socket. This time I pulled too fast and hard—the raw end of the wire slapped against the old steam radiator, scraping the cast iron so it rasped the nerves, like a fingernail on a blackboard.

I walked around, fuming and cursing. I was still at it when I heard Joe returning, quickly. A glance out the window confirmed the audio.

I opened the door for him. He stumbled in, panting. His narrow chest heaved.

“That—sound, ag’in, Mark—”

I blinked.

“Like I told you—sort of sliding. A little different, but…”

I snorted, pointing to the raveled telephone cord. “It rasped against the radiator, Joe.”

He bent down and examined the fault. He straightened slowly. “Funny…Sorry, Mark.”

“Let it ride, Joe.”

He left quickly, looking downcast. I was restless. I’d spoiled my chance of calling Riley to see what he’d found down at Cable’s shop—but I had a car out front. I hadn’t contacted the car dealer, either.

I slipped on a jacket and got out the front door in a hurry. The Ford came alive quickly. I turned around and headed for town. I’d gotten so damned used to being caged in that bungalow, I’d been neglecting a chance to get out. I didn’t think this spook would try anything in broad daylight.

I drove over to Fifth and dropped quickly down the steep incline, using second gear, hearing the glass-packs rattle. I waited for the light, moved across Main to D and found a parking place not too far from Cable’s shop. I saw Riley’s patrol car parked in front.

I piled out and walked toward the shop—and fell flat on my face.

I had been knocked there by an awful concussion from behind me. An explosion that vibrated painfully all through me.

Luckily I had thrown my hands forward, or my head would have been cracked open on the sidewalk. Cement is so non-porous and cushionless.

Simultaneously with the blast, or right after it—I was still reeling from the force of the concussion—I heard pieces of glass strike pavement, metallic bangings, like dishpans on cobblestones.

The quiet afterward was appalling.

I managed to turn over, aware that feet were pounding toward me, doors were slammed, people shouted and traffic began to pile up. Car doors banged, but they seemed far away, now. A siren coming nearer was very faint.

I think I blacked out for a few seconds. The ground tilted…then I focused on the Ford. It was now a pile of junk—blown to bits. Where I’d been sitting was nothing but a gaping, smoking hole. No top, no windshield, the hood kinked crazily forward. A scorched odor in the air, of electric wires grounded and burning insulation.

Riley’s bellow was a welcome sound. Someone bent over me. It seemed to be sergeant Wilson.

“Don’t move ’im!” Riley shouted. Then he was off, barking orders. Somebody began using a fire extinguisher. No flames, but a dangerous looking smoke billowed from the wreckage.

I tried to raise myself up, and fell back, groaning. Something that had been numb began to throb like hell. Car horns tooted. It sounded like circus day…

“Take it easy, Jason,” I heard, close by. Back a few paces, people were standing thick, jabbering like magpies. Shrill voices questioning, exclaiming.

By the time the ambulance got there I was on my feet. I didn’t want to go to that damned hospital again. I told the driver I’d be okay. He took off, shaking his head, gawking at the mass of twisted metal and fabric that had once been a nice hopped-up runabout.

Somebody had tried real hard—and it had been so close my knees were still shaking.

With some help I got over to Riley’s patrol car, where Wilson gave me an assist. The seat felt like heaven. Wilson looked at me worriedly, then took off to help direct the snarled traffic.

I checked myself a little. Both elbows were skinned, my upper arms ached from taking the brunt of the sudden fall, but my shoulders were always good, as I mentioned before, and they’d kept me from getting my brains smeared out over the sidewalk.

I was able to get out a smoke and light it. But inside I was shaky and weak. Like when you’ve just missed driving over a high cliff. Only worse.

Riley loped up to his car, peering in. His face was flushed, his lips set firmly together.

“You really kept an eye on it,” I said.

He blasted out a truly Irish curse. “I had my men on patrol check on their rounds. I got other things to watch! I figured you’d have brains enough to look it over!”

“I did, believe me—but not well enough.”

He wiped his forehead. “Too close—too close…”

“What kind of explosive?”

“Uh—probably dynamite. The State highway department supply was busted into the other night…you’re not driving any more cars—or Bingo! I toss you in jail.”

I nodded. I was getting dizzy.

“Look—I better get you up to the doc.”

“Damn it all, I’m all right. Take me home if you want to be useful.”

He growled and piled in. “You don’t look so hot, Jason…”

“Shut up and drive.”

He was pointed away from the wreck, and I was glad to get it out of my sight. “I hope the car dealer had it insured.”

“They got a blanket policy, so quit chewing on it.”

It didn’t take him long to get me home. I had another smoke and we sat in the car. I was rocky, but still curious.

“How about it—did you find Cable?”

“No. The place was practically empty. A few old radios and TV sets around, a few tools. It was locked up, like his apartment.”

“Contact the old man who stayed in the shop?”

“Don’t get so snotty. We will.”

“And Cable just naturally dropped out of sight—”

“Get inside and lay down, Jason. Let me handle it. I’ll find him. That old panel of his won’t be hard to locate.”

I climbed out, stiffly. He started to pile out and help me, and I waved him off. “Go back to your dynamiter, Irish.”

“And you get the hell inside and stay put.” He hesitated. “We’ll know more later. I’ll be around.”

“Goody, goody.”

He smirked, turned the car around and drove off, spinning gravel.

I got inside, staggered to the bedroom and dropped. The bed went spinning, like when you’re on a real tail-twister of a drunk. I started to throw up, but didn’t. Just a dry heave or two. Then I passed out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“As near as we can tell—and we got a real good explosives man on the force—this dynamite was wrapped around one of your tail pipes between the muffler and the manifold, and set off by a fuse that would pop when the pipe got hot enough. Simple, but not so accurate, or you’d be all over the landscape.”

Riley had come up, as he’d promised, and had melted enough to have a can of beer. It was about seven and I’d had a sleep and was feeling much better. In fact, I felt more alive than I had for quite a spell. Maybe violence had worked where plain sitting on my can hadn’t. Or maybe I was just glad to be alive. What if, in driving downtown, I’d hit a good wide rut in the road?

“Just for kicks, anything on Cable?”

“Uh—no.”

“Is he next?”

Riley slapped his thighs with those brutish hands. “We’re trying, Jason. Got out an APB. What else can I do? Personally begin to examine every house and shack in the valley?”

“Naturally. What’d the old man have to say, the one that worked in the shop?”

“Said he came to work this morning, opened up, and Cable never showed. He called Cable’s apartment, but nobody answered. About noon the old guy gave up and went home. So he’s gone. Disappeared.”

“Anything else, perchance?”

He scowled. “Look—we went over his shop. Nothing outa line. No money in the cash drawer. I told you part of that.”

I nodded. “When do you think the dynamite was planted?”

“Must have been last night, some time. I checked around where your car was sitting. Not a thing in that loose gravel.”

“You know where everybody was last night—I mean of these poetic jaybirds?”

“Jason, my boy, you don’t run up to any of these people and put the bee on ’em. Sure I asked, clear down through the line, but there are laws—and every one of them can afford an attorney, and when you ask polite, do you think the guilty one hasn’t already got an answer?”

“Just something I read.”

“Look—you come along with me sometime and I’ll show you how far we can go without any evidence. They were all in town, doing various innocent things. We’ve got no set time to go on, like in Fay’s case. Marie Goddard stayed home. Miss Swatch stayed home. Ben Cook, ditto. Vently and Mrs. Snark, ditto. Henry Dee went to a show, the Sproot couple went to a tavern and drank beer, Cable—we don’t know. Like I said, I had men cruising this area…”

I had a smoke. I opened two more cans. Riley said he was officially off duty, so it was all right. I told him I wouldn’t squeal to the Commissioner.

“Riley, do you mind if I get back up the river? I’m on my feet, my money’s running short, and—”

“Bull!” he snorted. “You wouldn’t give up that easy.”

I had been thinking about it all evening. “After today, you can have him. I think I’ll just let it ride, as they say.”

He grinned slyly. “I know what you’re up to. This nut is after you, so you figure he’ll follow you up there and you’ll lay for him.”

I had to grin. “Perchance…”

“It’d be damn dangerous.”

I sipped my beer, feeling the first one begin to kick a little. “You have any other ideas?”

“Uh—not right now.”

“You can’t hold me in town—”

“Maybe I could, but—you think you’re strong enough?”

“I never will be if I don’t get out of this smog and back to living again. I’ve been away too damn long.”

“You don’t mind some things the city’s got.”

He had me there.

“It’s your funeral, Jason. I can’t give you any protection up there.”

I dragged on my smoke and felt of my sore elbows. I’d wrecked a good jacket, too.

“Don’t rub it in, Jason. Maybe I shoulda had a guy sitting in your car all night. But as cagey as this nut is, it probably would have worked out like our other little stunt. How did we know what he was going to do? I really figured you’d have brains enough to check it out.”

“I did, around on top. Those old Fords sit pretty low. Here’s a clue. Our guilty one won’t be a potbelly.”

“You get this way very often?”

“Sometimes I spout poetry, even.”

He sighed and stood up. He’d finished his can. “Tell your man at the car lot he can be thankful it wasn’t a late model.”

“He won’t mind a bit—he’ll get plenty of publicity out of it, and so will you.”

“Tell the reporters to stay away from here.”

He grinned. “You might get a sample of what we got to put up with—all the time.”

On that happy note he departed. As soon as his car pulled away I started packing. I wanted out. The idea had been brewing so fast I didn’t want to spend another night in this hole. I was a sitting duck. I’d had my three chances—I’d be a fool to press my luck in town any further.

But the phone hadn’t been fixed. I couldn’t even call a cab. And I had no car. The beer and pain-killer had been working overtime.

However, I still had a few friends. I rapped a message to Joe with my pocket knife via the steam radiator. About that time I heard a car park out in front. Activity around the old place was certainly picking up.

Heavy feet made it up to the front door. A knock. I strolled into the parlor. “Who is it?”

“I’m from the Herald—couldn’t reach you by phone.”

“Beat it. I’ll write you a letter.”

“Come on, Jason, this thing is big!”

“Nope. Riley knows as much as I do—see him.”

I heard a groan. “Come on—please!”

“I’m shook up. I don’t want to see anybody. Doctor’s orders—”

That did it, and then I heard Joe on the ramp. I left the reporter to his own devices. They would call me the savage, the riverman, as they had before.

I let Joe in and locked the back door. The blinds were down.

Joe looked scared. “Mark—I was afraid—”

“It’s all right, Joe. I need a favor. See if you can call Henry for me. Tell him to drive up. This phone’s out of whack, as you know.”

He nodded, peering at me steadily. “You sure you’re awright? I heard about it—”

“I was lucky, Joe.”

He saw my two old suitcases and looked up. “You leavin’?”

“It’s time, Joe. I told you about my place on the river. If I live long enough, I’m going.”

The expression of concern, of sadness on his ugly face made me lumpy in the throat. During the long months of my confinement, and for a while before, Joe and I had developed a real friendship.

“I’ll come back and see you, Joe. I promise.”

He nodded, looking like a whipped dog. “You been good to me, Mark.”

I patted his shoulder. A half-smile livened his grotesque face. He turned and went out, quickly. I think he was crying.

Strange what a few kind words and deeds could do to some people, and I’d really done nothing except put confidence and trust in him.

And what would I tell Marie?

I sat down stiffly, idly wishing I could somehow take her with me…the pain-killer had made me really high!

Was I running scared? I wanted it to look that way, but Riley had guessed my purpose…Would others? I didn’t think so. By staying in town I couldn’t protect Henry or Marie or Joe—or even Rita. The others didn’t concern me a great deal. And by seeming to run I might catch me a crazy killer.

In fifteen minutes I heard the roar of Henry’s Plymouth out front. He had one of the lively models. I had unlatched the door and he came in with a rush. He saw me standing and waiting and slowed down. “Joe called—said you needed help—”

“I do, my friend. I need transportation. I’m clearing out.”

“You mean—”

“That’s right. Home. I’m fed up.”

He shook his head, pacing about. “After getting shook up—like you did? I was going to go up to the hospital this evening—”

“I’m all packed,” I said. “Perchance you’ll phone the landlord for me. This phone’s out of order…”

“Yeah, sure Mark.” He looked rather put out. “You said you were gonna track down this killer—”

“Believe me, I tried—and messed it up. We’ve been over that.”

If he guessed my real intention, it didn’t show. In fact it was obvious he thought I was running away.

“I guess after what’s happened, I can’t blame you. Did you get hurt?”

“Skinned a little and all the poop scared out of me.”

He growled under his breath. “Our plans kind of fell through.”

“As plans often do. Let’s get moving. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay, Mark.”

“Let’s go by your place a minute and use the phone. I want to talk to a couple of people.”

He looked at my phone, saw the broken wire and shrugged. He grabbed one suitcase, I took the other, and out we went. I locked the front door, left the key over the door-frame where the owner stashed it, and we piled into Henry’s car.

He didn’t say much as we moved westward across the Hill and dropped down to River Street. Although I could see his house from my window, it took quite a lot of turning and driving to reach it. He parked deftly and as we walked up to his front door I glanced up at the Hillview, perched like an eagle’s nest on the northwest edge of the Hill. Even with a few lights on, it looked ugly and monstrous—and I thought idly if it ever came loose it would slide right down on top of Henry.

As he opened up and turned on lights he didn’t seem very cheerful.

“What do you think about Cable? I guess you heard he’s missing…”

“Yeah. But so what? He’s an oddball.”

“No doubt. Maybe the killer—”

“Oh, skip it and come on in.”

It was an average bachelor hangout, rather disorderly. I’d never been here before. I’d gotten acquainted with Henry after my mishap on Fifth. Copies of Jasmine & Lace here and there, a few printing trade journals. A small TV set and a radiophono. Furniture dull and average, as it generally is in a rented home. He waved at his telephone and I sat down gratefully.

I heard him in the kitchen opening the refrigerator. I also heard the ping of an opener going into a can.

I dialed the Goddard home. She answered.

“Mark, here—”

“Well—really! Good gosh, I’ve been trying to call ever since I heard—they said you weren’t in the hospital…”

“I was feeling rocky and had the phone unplugged.”

She sighed. “I was really scared, Mark!”

“Easy does it. I’m all right. How’re you, plushy?”

“Yearning—what else?”

“I’m going to be gone a while, Marie. Leaving tonight.”

“Well—gosh! I’ve got to get back to school, too. Can’t you come by and at least kiss me?”

“I wouldn’t be able to leave, then.”

She giggled. “I mean, really?”

“Now listen—watch yourself. This character might decide to dynamite your car.”

“I will, lover.”

I sighed. “Any more calls?”

“No.”

“Till later, then, oh dream of torrid memories…”

She laughed. “Real good, Percy. I’ll miss you…”

It ended. Henry handed me a cool can, winking. I seemed to be nerved up again. It was still an effort to use a phone, any phone. But I did. It rang several times.

“Hello,” came Ben Cook’s deep bass.

“This is Jason. Remember our little conversation?”

“Oh yes. Given me quite a lot of food for thought, you might say.”

“Any old memories return?”

He chuckled. “I’ll tell you what I can. Did I mention that Stein and his wife were very religious, very strict with their children, including Angela?”

“You hinted at it. Anything else?”

“Also, I think the girl was in trouble.”

“Did it show?”

“Perhaps not what you’re thinking. I got to remembering back. I stopped by their stand last fall, before the—accident. Stein seemed pretty upset—and I’m guessing it had something to do with Angela.”

I felt a shiver of anticipation. “You’re coming through loud and clear. Anything else, perchance?”

“I think she’d been seeing some man—on the sly.”

My pulse hammered. This could be the first inkling of a real motive. I’d killed her, and the mysterious lover was after the one who had done it—me. “Anything at all about who it was?”

“No. I don’t think Stein or his wife knew, either. That is, if I’m guessing right—and perhaps I’m all wrong…”

I thanked him and cut the connection. Henry sat forward in his chair. “What was all that?”

“The other day I went out to see our friend and fellow poet, Ben Cook.”

“Oh. I thought you’d given it up.”

“I didn’t learn enough to fill a peanut shell, my friend. My mind is just naturally made up.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “More beer?”

“I’ve had it. Let’s get moving.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Going home, at last—but not at all as I’d planned it. Home to me meant peace, security—an escape from the deadening monotony of city living, getting away from the sidewalks and neons, troubles and tensions. But now the malignancy that had festered in the city was riding along with me.

I found myself wishing it was daylight, so I could look my country over, rest my eyes on the familiar hills and bends in the river I knew so well.

We passed quickly through the sleepy village of Austin, where I’d grown up—beyond it the hills pushed the road nearer the river. His headlights picked out well-remembered turns, clumps of willow, blue elder and hackberry. At Nine Mile Creek the road dipped sharply, taking us over a bridge, then on deeper into the lower Snake River Canyon.

“How’re you gonna get back to town?” Henry asked, lighting a cigarette.

I joined him. “I can hitch a ride on the mail boat or float down in my rowboat, if necessary.”

“What about supplies?”

“Plenty of grub for the time being. Small game around, fish.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You can just about live off the land.”

“I’ve done it. I’ve had a bellyful of the city.”

“I still think you’re kind of shook up after that blast—”

“It shook some sense into my head, believe me.”

He shook his own head. “I still don’t see how you live out here alone—and like it.”

“I’m used to it. Naturally, I get the city urge after so long a time. A few days is usually enough. Believe me, a lot of guys would be out in the wilderness like I am, if they weren’t tied down, one way or another. It’s as basic as evolution.”

He snorted. We’d argued this before. “You’re a savage,” he said.

“No doubt—to a degree. We all are. Where do most men want to go on vacation? Hunting, fishing, prospecting—anything to get out in the wilds, away from the idiotic routine of assembly-line living, from the blatting crowd and the merchandise of conformity. When some of them get too much of it, they crack up—like our telephone psycho.”

He drove along expertly, as usual. “You don’t mind taking advantage of a hell of a lot of modern inventions, though.”

“Goody for you. I probably couldn’t make it living a stone-age existence, because I’m naturally more ‘civilized’ than savage. But it must have been a wonderful experience anyway, before the white man brought along his smallpox and firewater.”

“Okay—skip it. You’re in a real sweet mood.”

“Maybe it was the beer.”

“What about Marie?”

“She’ll go on and finish school and marry a good, respectable fellow and settle down with her automatic kitchen and laundry.”

He changed position. We had an unspoken disagreement on our attitudes toward women, so he changed the subject. “Did anybody ever kind of wonder about Goofy Joe?”

I snorted. “The character we want isn’t that simple, believe me.”

He let it go and pretty soon we were at my landing—a turn-out hemmed in by hackberry trees where I parked my car, when I had one. No one had driven in here for a long time. I opened the car door and caught a wonderful whiff of cold, clean air, blowing sweet off the river. A hint of sage and willow and moist earth…

I hauled my two suitcases out of the back seat.

“Your boat was here the last time I checked,” Henry said. “But maybe you’d better make sure.”

“Commendable, civilized idea.”

“I’ll go down with you, Chief Four-Winds.”

He relieved me of one suitcase, as I used my flashlight. We dropped down the rocky trail, sagebrush catching at my trousers legs. The subtle purl of the river filled the night, awakening a fierce nostalgia. It seemed to murmur a fond welcome.

Now we slipped through a screen of bare willow scrub, rattled over the round, water-worn rocks. Before leaving the bungalow I had put on heavy walking boots, and had no trouble. Henry, coming along behind, cursed at the uncertain footing.

We reached the shore at a small cove where the water lay calm except in very high weather. My wooden rowboat was where it belonged, pulled up on a small sand bar, oars in the bottom, where I’d left them. Even from such a short walk my legs trembled.

“I’ll check you out in a few days,” Henry said, his voice oddly hushed by the wind and the river.

I nodded, adjusting my gear, putting the oarlocks in place.

“So long,” he said.

“Thanks, Henry.”

Minutes later I was out in the eddy, getting the feel of the oars. I heard Henry moving through the rocks, back toward his car. Then the current grabbed the boat and I had to get busy. I swung the nose diagonally into the thrust of the water and used my good shoulders.

I saw Henry’s headlights slice the darkness, waver about as he turned, then point down-river.

The honest toil of rowing, the clean air and the river worked better inside me than a bottle of vitamin tablets. I’d been away too long…

However, by the time I eased into the sand on the Idaho shore, I was pooped. Sickness and easy living, pain-killer and liquor, had taken their toll. I was breathing too fast and my head was feathery.

I tied the boat to the familiar tree, eased my suitcases out on the sand bar. An overcast had cleared somewhat, a few stars came out to reveal the homey shapes of trees and cliffs, the black gulf of the canyon behind my cabin.

Would the tormenter follow me here? No roads, no cars, no telephones…

I staggered up the brush-lined trail, finding it thickly overgrown with creepers and dry, tall grass.

Then, in the starlight, I spotted my cabin—a black oblong beneath the old mulberry tree. Now I saw the white boles of cottonwood that grew along the creek, heard the chuckle of the creek itself. Now a strong odor of red fir and pine drifting down the canyon—higher in the hills they grew thickly on the moist northern slopes…

Home again!

Along the path now to the back door, hearing the wind in the bare tree branches, the mulberry limb that rubbed a gable, creaking.

I lifted the front door latch and pushed. It gave—and I smelled warmth, wood smoke!

I hustled backward, the suitcases forgotten. I eased around the nearest corner of the cabin. I crouched there, breathing too fast, my thoughts skittering like dry leaves on a windy street.

Somebody had beat me up here!

Not Henry—he was across the river, probably in Austin, by now. I hadn’t caught the odor of wood burning because the wind was blowing eastward, away from me. Some character had built a fire in my stove, and was in there laying for me—waiting…

Then I paused and tried to use my head. Would I be alive now if someone had really set a trap?

Would a sly killer make his presence known? Or had I been expected at a later date?

My fear began to be replaced by a throat-tightening rage. Some dirty sneak had moved into my castle, and ordinarily I would have wasted no time working him over. But right now I’d be no match for an overgrown boy, let alone—

Faintly I heard footfalls—from inside. I put my right ear against the cabin wall. Someone moving toward the back door, cautiously. I peered around the corner. I was much too nervous and jumpy, and my ‘night eyes’ weren’t operating the way they should have been. Too long in the city…

The door creaked as it opened. I saw a white blob of a face moving out. I was getting ready to try the invader, bad legs or no, when a voice stopped me cold.

“Ohhhh—Lord!” it said.

A young, womanish voice! I nearly fell over backward with astonishment. I gulped air.

“Who is it?” I barked.

“A—friend—please…”

Her voice was shaky with fright. And then I recognized it. I ran-a trembling paw across my forehead. Of all the kicky, idiotic dames on my list, it had to be this one—Rita Snell.

I found my flashlight and used it. “I’m a friend,” I said. “And this is my cabin.”

“Ohhh—Lord! Thanks! I was scared to death…”

I slid up to the door, still cautious. It could be a trap—baited with a good looking dame.

“You alone?”

“Yes!—please—”

I moved the light nearer, seeing a pair of denim pants, nicely filled, a plaid shirt likewise, and an oval scared face so white her mouth looked like a daub of purple. Right now she wasn’t acting very cold, aloof or even disinterested. I’d nearly scared her pants off.

“I’m sorry—Mark…”

She backed away as I moved inside. I closed the door. I lit one of my kerosene lamps—later I’d get a gas one going.

“I’m—terribly sorry,” she repeated, still retreating. “I came up the river in my boat, it was getting dark—and the motor quit. I thought some other boaters would come along, so I waited. There’s—no car traffic up here…So I came up to your place to keep warm!”

“Good enough, Rita. Relax. And I see you cleaned the place out.”

“It—was the least I could do. I’ll get out—of course…”

I was pumping up the gas lamp. “Nope. You’ll stay here and rest and we’ll get you going when it gets light.”

“But—”

“Look, sharp tongue, regardless of what you might have heard or think, in the upriver country when you get lost or run out of grub, you go to the nearest house and take shelter, whether anybody is home or not. You eat and rest. I hope you did that.”

Her arms were folded protectively across her plaid shirt. Like perchance I was going to attack her. I nursed the lamp into life and the interior of my cabin began to take shape. Wash basin and dish pan all in place, a good wood fire burning in the air-tight heater. I sat down in one of my home-made chairs and heaved a sigh of relief.

“You gave me a scare, too,” I said.

“I’m—still shaking…”

“Take it easy, Rita. Make the best of it. I won’t bite or snarl or act primitive, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“But—we’re here—alone! What will people say?”

I pulled out a smoke. It was my last pack, too. When I ran out I’d quit, as I’d always done before. Out here I didn’t need them.

“What people are going to know about it?”

“I—”

“Look—my nearest neighbor downriver is below Couse Creek, the nearest one upstream is eight miles away. You come up the river a lot, you ought to know.”

She nodded, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the bunk where she’d obviously been asleep. Her brownish hair, cut short and modern, was tousled. She licked her all-right lips and fussed with her hair, as dames do.

“I’m a—mess,” she murmured.

“Don’t worry about hair styles up here. I’ve got two bunks, as you can see, and I’m tired, believe me. I’ve had a long, long day.”

“That’s—very kind of you—”

I finished my smoke, stood up and poked more wood in the stove. She smiled a small, shaky one.

“I’ve been keeping up on what’s been in the papers—I mean about Louise Schmidt and Fay Simmons…”

I had no comment.

“I’m sorry I—acted so stuffy—at the meeting.”

“Think nothing of it. I was acting like an ass.”

She giggled suddenly, as some of the tension seemed to leave her. She didn’t strike me exactly as a giggler. And what was under that ‘party’ or ‘meeting’ aloofness? Not ignorance, surely. Her alert, wide-set eyes and good forehead indicated otherwise.

“You’re quite a student,” she said, those eyes indicating a makeshift book-case. Over the years I’d accumulated quite a pile of books, and sometimes had to commit a few boxes to the attic.

“Is that a boost or a knock?”

Her smile was better. “I read a lot, too. But I didn’t expect to find Thomas Wolfe and Aldous Huxley out here.”

“Maybe we have something in common even if I am disgusting.”

She flushed. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Sorry, Rita. We’ll consider the hatchet buried.”

She folded her hands in her lap—a real curvy lap, too. “But—don’t you find it uncomfortable—living away out here?”

“Naturally, sometimes. No running water, no inside plumbing. But it suits me, and my scant income. Now and then I go to town and debauch myself—then come back nursing my wounds and swearing I’ll never do it again.”

I was talking like a boob. She flushed again.

“I forgot,” I said. “I was warned that you have a very sharp tongue and impeccable morals—and hate men. So we’ll go to sleep in our separate bunks and rest, and I promise I won’t act the way I do in town.”

She looked at the floor. I brought in the luggage, shed my coat, dipped some cold creek water out of the bucket—evidently she had brought that in—into the wash basin and rinsed my face. I washed my hands and toweled dry. My hands shook as they put the towel on the rack. I sat down, weak in the knees.

“You—look awfully pale,” she said.

“I feel it. Which bunk do you want, Rita?”

She bit her lower lip. Her mouth was promising, like her full figure. She had everything some guy ought to go for—including a rich daddy. Maybe a mite tall, but that shouldn’t bother most career bachelors. She was trying hard to be buddy-buddy, but it didn’t come off. What had Ben Cook said? Excelled on water skis, high bowling scores, drove her speed boat like the wind.

“Oh, maybe I’d better just—leave.”

I sighed. I didn’t want to go over it again. “Suit yourself. I’m for beddy-bye. And I’m going to lock the door. So decide soon, will you?”

“Oh, all right! I’ll take the upper—”

She flounced off the bunk and climbed the homemade ladder. Those jeans were so snug every line of her long legs came through.

I turned the gas off, left the kerosene on, bolted the door, and fell into the bunk, clothes and all. I heard her shifting around up there. I pulled a blanket over me and the lights went out.

* * * *

I came awake quickly. The drugged tiredness had melted away, somewhat. The fire had died and the big room was cooling. What had awakened me? Probably having a stranger in the room—and a dame at that.

Stretching out, I winced. My legs still were under par. Maybe I’d been a fool to come out here. Another gal to gum up the works—and a cool one. Now if she was only Marie…

And why had Rita stopped here, really? That boat breakdown sounded flimsy. Had we been overlooking her as a candidate for evoking murder? Wouldn’t a man-starved, egocentric girl-woman like the one overhead fit the bleary picture? Waiting here so handily…

But if she had planned any dirty stuff, it should have been done earlier, when I was dog-tired and asleep.

I hadn’t slept in my clothes for over a year. Was I, too, becoming civilized, worrying about a minor detail like that? I raised up cautiously, seeing the imprint of her weight above me, and began shedding clothes. I’d sleep much better…

“What—are you doing?” her voice came shakily.

I sighed. “Go to sleep, doll. I’m taking off duds and getting ready for more shut-eye. You better do the same.”

“Oh!” she gasped.

I shook my head. Dames.

“You still think I’m going to crawl up there and rape you?”

Silence.

“Well, you can tell your society friends you slept all night in the same room with a savage. It’ll make good cocktail hour conversation.”

“Please…”

I ran a tentative finger along the outline so gently moulded above me.

“Oh! I should have known! I’m leaving!”

“Good enough. But you’ll have a jim-dandy time working on your boat in the dark, cold as it is.”

“Lord—I believe you’d say anything!”

I laughed. “You’ve got me awake now. Want a smoke?”

“No!”

I found my shirt which I’d so recently cast off, and dug out the crumpled pack of Luckies. I’d evidently slept on them. But they were smokable. I blew some up at her.

She coughed. “You’re trying to see just how mean and miserable you can make me. Lord, if I had a brother, I’d have him come up here and beat the tar out of you. And I’d watch with pleasure!”

“Goody. But since you don’t have a brother, and you’re so good in all kinds of sports, I’d rassle you Indian style.”

Cold silence. She flipped over, making the bunk creak.

“You know what’s the matter, Rita? You scare all the men off. You beat them bowling and swimming, you drive a bigger car, and you have a faster boat.”

“Who said I was even remotely interested in men?”

I chuckled. “Every girl is—unless she’s a lesbo, and you don’t have the earmarks.”

“Oh—you heathen!”

“You’re old enough, you’re built right, you look good, you know how to dress and fancy up. If you ever let yourself go you could nail any guy you wanted.”

Silence. I stretched out on the bunk, finished my smoke and ground it out on the floor. A bad habit, and I hadn’t made any New Year resolutions about it, either. Then I saw her nicely tousled head appear over the edge of the bunk. In the yellow, dancing light she looked real tempting.

“Mark—I’m sorry. I asked for all that, and more. Are you—naked?”

“Almost.” The blanket was pulled up to my belly.

“You look—strong.”

“Now that’s better.”

“Do you—have another cigarette?”

“Sure—a little mashed up.”

Her head disappeared and pretty soon here she came. Bare-footed. She slipped over to the stove and put in more wood, like an old hand. She came back. I moved over a little, cocking my head on one elbow. She eased down on the edge of the bunk. Ordinarily, this would have been the time to make a pass—but something held me back.

I handed her the mashed pack of smokes. She took one out, lit it. She held it like she wasn’t used to smoking.

“Mark—would you do me a favor?

“Naturally, if I can.”

In the half-light her eyes slid over me, then turned away. I think she was blushing, but it didn’t show. The curve of her cheek and mouth and plaid shirt did, however. Her hand holding the cigarette trembled.

“When you come back to town—would you—take me out, on a date?”

“Lions couldn’t keep me away.”

She was still tense, afraid. The words had been a great effort. I’m sure she was blushing again.

“When did this fear begin, Rita?”

“Fear—?”

“Of men.”

Her eyes swung back. “A long time ago—I was only about eleven. A man did try to—attack me.”

I didn’t rush it. “You could get over it, if you tried.”

“I have—not physically, I mean.” She hesitated.

“Rita, take it easy. You go on back up and go to sleep. I understand.”

“I—believe you do.” She leaned forward suddenly and mashed her mouth on mine—then she was climbing the ladder, fast. I reached up and caught her around the calves. She stopped, didn’t say anything. Slowly, I ran my hands under her denims and felt the warmth of her skin just beneath the knees. She stiffened. I placed my lips on one ankle, ran them slowly, maddeningly upward. Slowly, I felt her relax as I repeated my caress over and over. When she stiffened again, it was from surprise—but this time a surprise she had been waiting for all of her life…

CHAPTER TWENTY

My rowboat was pulled up on the sand bar not forty feet from her classy inboard. The darkness had hidden it from me. I’d come down to the river ahead of her, so she could have some privacy. After tinned fruit, bacon and strong coffee I felt almost human again.

Rita had eaten well, too. She’d been sociable but cool, as though we’d talked of nothing the previous night. I didn’t mention it.

I heard her coming down the trail, I turned and then batted my eyelids several times.

Her short locks were neatly combed, she had on enough makeup, and regardless of what anybody said about her being athletically inclined, her walk was all girl. She smiled.

The sun was out, warming the beach, but the wind reminded you it was still February and could turn icy cold at sundown. And sundown came quickly in the deep river canyon.

Her boat, all canopied over and at least twenty feet long, had cost daddy a lot of money.

She paused beside me, looking out over the river.

“I’m not afraid of you now.”

“Easy does it—”

Another smile, not exactly bewitching, but the best I’d seen yet. She looked real good in broad daylight, too. Some girls don’t.

She put her hand lightly on my jacketed arm. “Mark—I feel better—about everything. I don’t care what you call yourself, or what other people do, either—but you’ve done me a lot of good.”

“Ho-ho! Merely my prescription for unraveling mixed-up city thoughts. It can happen out here, believe me. Good food, sleep and fresh air. No tensions.”

She laughed. It was pleasant and natural.

“Another dictum, fair lass: if you’re going to live a little, you’re going to get hurt. Life is short and bitter and evil enough—so why not take a chance?”

“Oh—I take chances—”

“But not the kind you want to take.”

She flushed a little. “Come on over and maybe you can help me with the boat.”

We strolled through the sand, some of it still frozen. The clean, cold air in my lungs was a tonic.

She climbed up nimbly, opened the hatch over the motor. She stretched out and leaned down inside, leaving her well-filled pants for me to consider. I considered them.

In a minute she squirmed back out, closed the hatch and slipped down into the front seat. She fiddled with stuff on the control panel and the starter cranked. The motor turned over, sputtered and began roaring.

She smiled over at me, let it idle a while and turned it off. “I thought I could spot the trouble…”

I grinned. What I didn’t know about motor boats would fill a book and a half.

“Oh—I’d better call home—”

“What?”

“Call home, silly. I’ve got a short-wave telephone.”

I snorted. “You could have called home last night.”

“Oh, I did. I told Mom I was staying in Austin with a girlfriend. Do you think I’d tell her I got stuck away out here? They’d have had the sheriff’s flotilla and a river full of boats getting me home. Besides, I was curious about your place. And I was tired.”

I shook my head. I was going to have to slip further back in the hills. Things on the river were getting too citified.

She smiled and monkeyed with her phone. I stood on shore, gawking. Then I had a crawling sensation along my spine—a chill as the crawling moved into my guts. Something resembling an idea began perking in my head, and I’d been a damn fool not to have guessed it sooner.

I heard a mutter of disgust. “It’s shorted or something.”

“Listen, Brownie,” I said. “What about a ride back to town?”

She put the phone down and blinked at me. “What came over you?”

I had trouble keeping my voice conversational. “I just remembered something I should have taken care of in Layton.”

“Oh. Well, I’d be delighted. Step aboard!”

The boat was really plush. And she got a big kick out of taking me through some heavy rapids just below my beach. I hung onto the seat like a tenderfoot—and kept thinking about what had happened the last week or so. Even when I got spray in my face I seemed to be half-awake, wrestling with possibilities, events, conversations, and worst of all, certain dangers a few people might be encountering, if they hadn’t already.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said loudly, above the churn of water and the rush of wind.

“Enjoying the ride. Some boat.”

She smiled cozily. I did a retake, waiting. Her blue eyes seemed to have a new kind of fire in them.

“You could sit a little closer,” she said.

“Hold it! I don’t want to get a backhand.”

“You won’t.”

You just never know about girls. Did the boat affect her the way a convertible does with some of them? I sat closer.

She kept her eyes on the river, handling the boat like an expert. The top button of her plaid shirt, open at the throat, tempted me.

“You’ve—been good to me, Mark…”

I let that pass for the time being. She was still on edge and didn’t ease the speed one bit. Couse Creek eased by on the left. A V-shaped, frothy wake trailed out behind.

I put my left arm around her waist—and what do you know? She melted in against me like a schoolgirl. She trembled. I slid my arm under her jacket. She flushed.

The roar of the motor slacked off and we quit moving so fast. But she kept her eyes on the water, staring ahead as though she were still afraid…

I ran a finger along her chin, the curve of her cheek. She bit her lower lip. Her hands on the wheel gripped so tightly her knuckles turned white. I felt her tense—so I drew my arm back.

“No—” she said harshly. “Please—”

She turned suddenly and softened and her mouth was there, her lips cool and inexperienced, but eager. Now I held her in the crook of my arm, and she relaxed. Her lips were learning fast.

I ran my right hand through her short, curly hair and she shivered. I took it easy.

Finally she whispered into my mouth. “Mark—what’s happening to me?”

“You’re necking—in a boat.”

She sighed and came back for more. The boat was rocking in its own wake. My hands wandered here and there gently. No backhands, no cries of protest…

She stirred, at last. “Mark—I’d better look—we might hit a rock…”

Blushing again, she retreated—looked ahead. I looked too. We were heading for a pile of rocks that formed the upstream point of an island.

She revved it up quickly, swung the boat back into the current.

“Wonderful,” I said.

“What—do you mean—?”

“The way you’re responding to Jason’s magic formula.”

She smiled. “We have a date—remember?”

“Naturally.”

* * * *

Before we reached the dock I gave her certain instructions. She looked puzzled, but agreed.

Where she kept her boat was the biggest layout on the Idaho shore, of course. Complete with overhead protection and a floating bar and grill. An attendant spotted her moving into a slot that she evidently rented. He grabbed the prow as she cut the motor.

“Morning, Miss Snell!” he said brightly. He looked at me and merely nodded. I didn’t have a five-figure checking account, or live in a big mansion. Don’t get bitter now, Jason. Be a jolly good fellow.

I limped out of the boat, careful not to hit the left foot I had wrapped so carefully. She helped me, let me lean on her as I hobbled along the dock, pretending to be in pain.

We passed the office, and a lot of early customers gawked out. We climbed a wooden stair that led up the steep bank.

“You’re doing fine,” I said.

“I feel very useful and protective.”

As her arm tightened around my waist, I decided this gal would be a knockout in a dancing frock, a negligee or even a pair of bowling pants. She led me over to a dazzling off-white Corvette hardtop with red leather upholstery. She opened the door and I fell into the bucket seat.

She came around on the other side and climbed in. She had it perking in no time. Then I had a chill. Fear, or the cold leather? Maybe both. She let the motor warm up a while, watching the gauges. The subtle fear resolved into a frightening idea.

“Turn it off and get out—quick!” I snapped.

“What—?”

“Turn it off!”

She did, staring at me as if I’d lost my senses. Maybe I had. I scrambled out, fell on the ground. I motioned for her to follow and limped away as fast as I could.

She came along, frowning. A couple of guys climbing the steps ogled me like I was mad. They shrugged and went on by. Rita walked over and touched my arm. I still watched her car, the fear bubbling inside me.

“Mark—good Lord! What—” Then a light seemed to dawn. “Oh—I understand! Your car was blown up—you nearly got killed…”

I nodded. “Sorry, Rita. Your car’s been here all night—and…”

The Corvette just sat there, looking sleek and trim.

It didn’t come apart. I trembled, running a shaky hand across my face.

“Look, Rita. Why not have one of the mechanics on the dock look it over. Especially underneath.”

She nodded, her eyes showing more concern for me than the car. It was probably insured to the hilt.

* * * *

As far as the mechanic could tell, the sports job was clean. No dynamite fastened to the manifold. No gimmicks under the hood. She didn’t tell him what he was looking for, but I think he got the general trend. He seemed to know who I was, and he’d probably been reading the papers. I breathed easier.

Of course our nut might not have known that Rita was up the river with me. He’d had plenty of opportunity. After one o’clock this parking area would be like a graveyard.

“Being around you is awfully exciting,” she murmured, backing around expertly. The car took off like a shot. Through traffic and up a paved incline and pretty soon we were at Hill level.

“Where’s your luggage?” she asked.

I’d forgotten it. “Take me up to my diggin’s, anyway. The rent’s still paid.”

“You could stay at my place.”

“Ho-ho! Your parents would love that.”

“They’re not snobbish, Mark.”

“Hold it—let’s don’t argue. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got some plans, as you may have guessed.”

“I wish you weren’t so mysterious.”

“I’ll fill you in later.”

I told her where to go, and she got there in a hurry. The old bungalow looked the same, and so did the dismal Hillview. It had a depressing effect.

“Could I come in a minute?”

“Rita, I’d like nothing better, but—”

She sobered. “You’ll be in danger—that’s it…”

“And you might be, too. So watch yourself. Two young girls are dead already.”

I hadn’t counted Angela, either.

“I—will, Mark. But what about you?”

“I’ve been lucky, so far.”

“Oh, all right, mysterious. You could thank me for bringing you home, and everything.”

I pulled her over and thanked her. She nibbled. Again she was amazingly soft and responsive. This girl was turning into something highly explosive, but not like nitro. Like eager and breathless and daring. “You’re learning fast, Brownie.”

“I—have a good teacher,” she breathed.

* * * *

My rooms looked the same, except a little more bare and forlorn without my books and what junk I’d packed. With one exception. The telephone wire had been repaired, and the black instrument of torture sat there waiting, plugged in the wall, ready for action.

With a definite feeling of revulsion, I dialed the landlord. No, no one had called that I was leaving. Was I? Maybe in a few days. I’d let him know. Sorry, and all that old stuff. He’d hate to see me leave, and et cetera.

I called Henry down at the print shop.

“Mark, old friend—”

“What? I just—you mean you’re back?”

“At the same old stand. I twisted the devil out of my left ankle, and caught a ride down the river.”

“The wilderness was kind of rough, eh?”

“It was. I’ll be around for a few days. Glad you didn’t call the landlord.”

“Oh—I was going to today. Can I get you anything?”

I said no, and he said probably he’d drop up later when he got off work. I tried to call Riley, but he was out somewhere. I left my number and told them it was important. They said he’d be checking in soon. My morning paper was stuck under the door, and I picked it up. I shouldn’t have.

It had seemed like three days since I’d nearly gotten blown apart, but it had only been time enough for some reporter and photographer to get in their licks. A picture of the blown-apart Ford, a heavy black headline. The wire services would pick it up, naturally. Nothing like that had happened around Layton for a long time.

I dropped the paper and called Marie. Foiled again—no answer. I called Ben Cook.

“You came back to town in a hurry,” he said.

“I damn near broke my leg. I’ll have to sweat it out for a while.”

He chuckled. “You’d better watch yourself.”

“I will. What about Cable?”

“I don’t understand, quite.”

“He turned up missing yesterday. Thought you’d heard about it.”

He said no, and I didn’t go into it, and I thanked him for listening. I sat down and had a smoke. The crumpled ones were nearly gone. I’d have to order some chow and cigarettes from my usual grocer. And beer, too.

The phone rang. I glared at it, my spine cooling. It wasn’t the spook, however—just Riley.

“What in hell you doing back here?”

“I nearly broke my leg up at the cabin. I snagged a ride into town.”

He grunted something unpleasant. I think he was glad to find me still alive.

“Could you fill my ear with tidbits?”

“I’d rather stick something in your big mouth.”

“No upgraded news?”

“Look—there’s nothing. No prints on the Ford. No leads. The stuff was fastened near one muffler with coated copper wire, clipped off with nippers of some kind. My man tells me that if you’d had only one exhaust pipe, you wouldn’t be around—you’d be in your primitive happy hunting ground. He says two pipes don’t heat up as fast as one.”

“Goody for him. Cable turned up?”

“Uh—no.” He coughed or said something to another party. “But we’ll get a line on him sooner or later.”

“No doubt. When you do I hope he’s alive.”

He growled and cut the connection.

I ordered groceries, took a bath and cleaned the joint out a little. As I had expected, I heard Joe on the ramp. I hadn’t raised the blinds. I slipped the fake bandage on my foot again and sat down. I told him to come on in.

“Mark—I thought you—was gone…and then I heard water runnin’…”

“It’s all right, Joe. I hurt my leg up the river, and had to come back. I’ll be all right in a day or two.”

He nodded.

“Anything going on, Joe?”

He shifted from the short leg to the longer one. “Mr. Cable never come back.”

“I heard that. What do you think, Joe?”

He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid, Mark. I’m afraid fer you, too.”

I told him I’d be all right; he wasn’t convinced, but finally he went out the door and shuffled away, back to his hideout.

I had a can of beer and something to eat. Time crawled along. The phone didn’t ring. I smoked and exercised and waited. I stretched out and dozed a while, but sleep was impossible. I was too nerved up. I called Marie again. She answered.

“Roses are red, violets are blue—”

She let out a glad yelp. “Mark!”

“Your same old poetic savage.”

“Mmmmm. Where are you?”

“Back at the same old poetic apartment.”

“Kid, I dig that. I’ll come over.”

“Listen, curvy, I’ve got a real bad foot—twisted it up the river. Better wait till I’m on my feet so I can defend myself.”

“Well—heck! That’s too bad. I’m a real good bedside companion.”

“Hold it, please! By tomorrow night I should be feeling much better, and you won’t have to nurse me.”

It went on a while longer and finally she rang off. I rested awhile and went over it again. Still hazy and creaky in a few places, but the pattern was unfolding—ugly and vicious. The pattern of death. And if things didn’t work out, death would strike again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Henry called at seven and said he might not make it, his ribs were still hurting. I thought Riley might ring, but he didn’t.

At nine I picked up the telephone receiver. My palm was moist and my hand a bit unsteady. My ears seemed unnaturally keen, magnifying the faint traffic noises far below. I lit a cigarette and dialed. The familiar whirring seemed much too loud.

I got the reply I wanted and began talking.

“—this you, Riley? Goody. Remember that talk we had down in your office. I said I’d call you when I had it worked out.”

Silence.

“—Proof? Listen, damn it! I picked up a little in formation here and there, and it all fits. I may have to check out a few things, but I’ve got the kicker.”

Silence.

“—Damn it, I tell you, this is right!” My voice raised.

More silence. It was spooky.

“—No, I won’t tell you—over the phone…I can’t get out—this damn foot is killing me…”

Silence.

“—Don’t come up, then! And take a fly at a wet rope yourself, you pig-headed Irishman. I tell you I can put the finger on this killer, and—”

I swore and banged the receiver down viciously. I cursed under my breath a while, and had another smoke. The room felt stuffy, overheated. I blasted out with another curse, then a low cry of pain. I hobbled over to the daveno.

Sweat began trickling down from under my arms, my ears began an odd, high pitched buzzing. They do that sometimes when I’m weak or scared.

In spite of a dry mouth, I finished my cigarette.

I hobbled into my bedroom, cursing policemen and killers. I made the usual preparations for going to bed. I let one shoe strike the floor. Out in the living room a dim light burned, as usual.

The bedroom door was ajar. I stretched out between the sheets, aware of the comforting resiliency, but not enjoying it. I moved around so the bed squeaked, as sweat from the nape of my neck soaked into the pillow. My teeth were clamped together.

I waited as crazy, nebulous thoughts pranced through my head. Riley wanted proof, did he? Was it snowing outside? The blue color of Rita’s eyes…

Then carefully, breathing cautiously as I turned out the light at the head of my bed, I slid off the bed on the far side. Very quietly. My experience stalking game served me well, now. I knew how to move lightly, even on a gimpy leg. The game I stalked now had two legs, however, instead of four.

Kneeling there, I punched the covers up to fit a mound I would make if I were in there, snoozing.

Enough light came through the half-opened door to make this facsimile appear almost real.

Slowly, ever so slowly and quietly, I retreated to the darkest corner of the bedroom. Like an animal I crouched at the end of the dressing table, my clothes still on—except the shoes. I didn’t want to hide in the closet—I wanted to be able to move, and fast. During the day when I had cleaned out I had unscrewed the bulb in the overhead light fixture.

I waited, my hands clenching and unclenching. Almost like separate entities, they, too, waited for a killer. The radiator gurgled and the pipes rattled. The bulging shape on the bed looked real enough, but very still, too. Had I erred? We would see.

How do you wait for a murderer to move in on you? Your fingers tremble, and you hate and hate until you get crampy in the guts and your groin aches. I could have found myself a weapon of some kind, but I didn’t want one. I wanted that throat under my fingers, as I had dreamed it. I wanted to feel the flesh get pulpy and bloody, hear the voice scream for mercy as my thumbs gouged and jabbed.

Again I had offered myself up as top prize in our little game of blackout. And I might wind up under the bingo table.

What I had worked out in my head was incredible, and without positive proof it was even fantastic. As Riley had told me, he couldn’t arrest anyone on mere suspicion. We had to have evidence—the kind that would stand up in court. And we were dealing with a maniac, a clever schizo who was absolutely in the clear on two murders—and maybe three. Careful, confident and brilliant.

I waited.

I don’t know what time it was when I heard light footfalls outside, near the front door. Blood pounded in my head, my lips were dry. I crouched in my best position for sudden movement. My ears quit humming. All my senses seemed abnormally sharp.

The footfalls were on the front porch. What if I’d flubbed? Suppose this was Marie, or even Rita, slipping up to see me? I didn’t think so. This tread was light, stealthy. My hands knotted.

A scarcely-heard contact of metal on metal—a key being inserted in the front door lock. A simple skeleton key would do the trick, and the intruder must have known it.

The door opened. The floor creaked in my parlor, then in the living room. The visitor was moving swiftly.

I took a deep breath as my bedroom door eased open. A figure silhouetted in the rectangle, alive with vicious motion. A slim shadow that looked like a club detached itself from the central darkness. The smaller shadow swung around in a savage arc, landing on my bed with a soft thud.

A startled, awful curse as the trick revealed itself. The shadow pawed at the wall by the door, searching for a light switch. A paw found it and clicked it up and down. Another burst of profanity as it advanced into the room, toward me, the club poised and ready.

“Where—are you—you dirty—heathen?”

“Right here,” I said, and leaped.

If my legs had been up to par I’d have nailed the character on the first rush. Maybe I had been quiet and inactive too long.

The shadow jumped backward so swiftly I nearly missed. I had aimed at the throat, my fingers like claws, and had to settle for the legs. My own legs had betrayed me again…

The momentum of the leap and my grip on the legs threw my enemy off balance—the figure crashed headlong. The club that had been swung at my head rattled across the bedroom floor and I heard it strike the radiator.

The shape writhed and kicked viciously, scrambling to get away. From its throat came a hoarse whinny of fear. One foot caught me on top of the head. I cursed like a wild man and wrenched the other foot out of kilter.

A thin scream of pain—fists thumped the floor in agony, but still that other foot pummeled me. The shadow wasn’t fighting—just trying to get away…

I snagged the other leg, yanking it hard over, twisting. The cry of agony seemed to burst in my ears. I scrambled forward and flipped the shape over. My good arms and shoulders were with me, now.

Ignoring a savage flail of fists, my hands found their mark—in the killer s throat.

I seized the neck, banging the head on the floor…I banged and gouged as all the accumulated hatred and madness roared through me like a tornado. The protesting arms and fists dropped away. I had the fiend now, I had it dazed, with the throat under my thumbs…

“…Mark!”

…a voice came through to me.

“Mark—don’t! Don’t kill…”

The voice was familiar. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Some of the madness leaked out of me. My grip eased as a shuddering, gasping breath made the shape beneath me seem more human and less a monster of the night…

I pulled my hands away, the crazy urge to kill now tempered with a touch of sanity.

“I—heard—somethin’—wrong—Mark—from th’ pipes…”

I lurched to my feet, wringing wet.

“—I come on up, Mark—I was—afraid…”

I swallowed convulsively, wiped my face with my hands and found my voice. It was croaky.

“Easy does it—Joe. Thanks! Thanks for coming—”

If he hadn’t arrived when he did I’d have been a killer, too…

Joe moved into the living room and turned on more light. He returned to the bedroom door, blinking across at me.

“You—all right, Mark?”

I nodded. But my legs were shaking so bad I nearly toppled over.

Now my eyes focused on the bedroom floor where our killer lay, a trickle of blood seeping out of the contorted mouth, the chest heaving and heaving, as life inched back past the awful bruises in the throat…Over against the radiator, reminding me that the weapon intended for my head had signaled my friend and kept me from killing, lay a baseball bat.

Beneath us lay the one we were after, the dynamiter, the sly loosener of bolts, Henry Dee.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We moved Henry out in the living room, on the daveno.

I was gaining strength now, recovering. The madness cooling inside me left a watery sensation of relief.

I motioned Joe to take a chair and keep quiet. But he had retrieved the weapon, just in case. Henry’s throat wasn’t going to heal right away, but I was hoping he’d come around pretty soon. Before calling Riley, I wanted some answers.

I soaked a towel with cold water and washed Henry’s face. I had a smoke.

Joe squirmed uneasily. “You better—call the p’lice, Mark.”

“Soon, Joe…”

Henry shivered and stirred. He opened his eyes, glanced wildly about. He started to rear up—then fell back with a grimace of pain. Joe’s weapon remained poised.

“I’m—real sorry, Mark…” he muttered. His eyes were closed. His face was twisted with emotion and pain, completely colorless.

“Why, Henry? Why?”

He snickered, very low. “Christ—you know! You’re the bright one. You nosed around…Yeah, you know damn well why! I loved her—I loved Angela. Her folks wouldn’t let her out—we had to sneak around. Then she got pregnant—Christ! We—were going to run away…”

Joe muttered darkly.

I sighed. Henry seemed to fight with himself. A shudder went through his long body.

“Then you killed her!” he screamed.

I shook my head. He stirred, his hands restless. My mind was busy, thinking back, remembering that fatal accident…the white figure coming out of the fog…coming, as if…

“Listen, Henry—listen good. Yes, my car killed her. I tried to miss her and went in the ditch. But what was she doing out there, so late at night? What? Didn’t she purposely walk out there? Didn’t she actually commit suicide?”

I had to know. Maybe if I did the monstrous dreams of her frightened, contorted face would stop hounding me.

“Henry, didn’t her folks raise so much hell with her, she was desperate, and…”

“Awful, awful!” he whispered. “The sinful way…”

Perhaps he was still in shock.

“But you hated me, like an adder,” I went on. “You shifted the blame to me. You tried to return the favor, and nearly made it. I was laid up. So you planned it out very neatly. You wired my bungalow, put a microphone in here, ran a wire down to your cabin. It’s just under the hill. You waited. You wanted to get me with a car, as I’d got Angela. It was a fixation…”

His head moved sideways. His color was bad.

“Why did you kill Louise, Henry?”

That triggered him. “You know that, damn you!” A stream of gutter curses burst from his lips. “I—thought I had found—a girl that would make me forget—then I found out she only cared about me—because I knew you! She kept wanting to come up here! I tried to scare her out of town—but it didn’t work—she called you! I saw her showing herself off in front of you! I knew then she was evil! Not pure, like Angela. Not pure…God damn you, you took Angela, and now you were gonna take Louise, and…”

He fell back, fainting. His throat looked terrible.

I grabbed the phone and used it.

* * * *

“So help me, it was still too risky,” Riley said, rubbing his hand across his heavily whiskered face. He had black smudges under his eyes.

It was nearly eleven on a very long day. Riley had stuck around after an ambulance had taken Henry to the hospital under guard. I had thanked Joe again and sent him on home. And I would be thanking him for many a day to come.

“This foot of yours wasn’t banged up at all, then—”

“I faked it all the way, like I faked a conversation to you. I had to be careful what I said—with his ‘ear’ catching every word…”

“How in hell did you figure this Schmidt girl?”

“That was the toughest to reconcile. Why?—if Henry was following his pattern of torturing me…it was a combination of hatred for her interest in me, and a way to set up his alibi by appearing to be a victim. The dodge isn’t new, at all. He was my friend—I thought—so the ‘killer’ had struck at him! When he found out what she was, interested in m-e-n, period, and maybe anxious to remarry, he wanted her off his back. He was evidently still carrying a torch for Angela. Louise was a born flirt, it stuck out all over her, literally, and when she acted hot for me, Henry acted—and fast. The trip to police headquarters was a nice blind, too—throwing you and everybody else off the trail.”

Riley grunted.

“Everything about the ‘fatal auto accident’ jibed except for the vague suggestion that there didn’t seem to be a car around! He didn’t need one. Naturally, it took guts to bash his own ribs in against a curb and fall down beside Louise—after he’d banged her head on the pavement. The fog was a big help, too.

“Later, he put strands from her coat on a car in a used car lot, fixed it so it would look like it had been ‘hot-wired’ and everybody was sure a car had hit them. The old wino told me about what Henry had, except for the car. He hadn’t heard one at that intersection…”

Riley nodded. “What about this telephone tormenter stuff?”

“He wanted to make me squirm, torture me—and he did…”

“The guy really had you pinned down!”

“When you go over his cabin I think you’ll find all kinds of interesting little gadgets, including a big tape recorder to catch what was going on up here when he was at work or away from home, and also a little battery-powered portable model he used mostly in phone booths. That cackle was probably taped and speeded up and re-taped. It takes all the personality out of a voice. An imitation of a call he ‘received’ should have given me some kind of a hint—but he had me blinded with friendship…

“I’d been thinking a lot about Lewis Cable, naturally. He knew volts and watts. And Henry was dropping hints about Cable, too. Nothing really clicked until I was up the river, and Rita Snell tried to call home one her portable phone. At first I thought somebody had rigged a short-wave receiver that would pick up or intercept telephone messages. I know a ham operator who did that one time and the phone company built a fire under him. You stay on your own frequency, or else. That didn’t jell, so I remembered Joe’s hints about scratching noises the first night I got out. Wires.

“Another lead was the way the calls to me were timed. Real fiendish. How could anyone know what was being said here, in my quarters? Simple—with a mike. Leading to where?

“I had figured it went over to Cable’s apartment—but I couldn’t see him being that subtle, or find any motive. Of course, there didn’t have to be one with a real gone psycho.

“It was quite a jerk to start thinking about Dee. I already told you what he said, earlier…I’d hardly known him, before my accident, when he damn near killed me. But he began coming around, ingratiating himself very carefully. Doing favors, running errands. And waiting. He wanted me to suffer…”

“You’re sure long-winded,” Riley commented.

“Believe me, it’s a relief to get it out of my system. I don’t know when he doctored the steering gear and brakes on the old Chevy—it sat out here in front for months. The dynamite under the Ford looked clumsy—some guy like Cable would have done much better. So perhaps we were dealing with an amateur electrician, not a pro. I considered Chester and Ben Cook, as you did. But it had to be related to Angela Stein. Cook had known the Stein family, and furnished ideas—but why would he be avenging her death? Vently is smart enough, and maybe a little unbalanced, in his own way, but I didn’t think he had enough guts.”

Riley sighed. “If you’re through spouting, I got a little information, too. We located Cable in Spokane. He took off because he was behind in his rent at both places, down on his luck, and a skip-tracer got his address.”

“I think he was beginning to suspect our friend, too,” I said. “Henry knew better than to try his taped calls on a professional.”

“It figures.” He chuckled. “Dee musta got an earful now and then.”

I squirmed. Some things are better forgotten.

When he had finally departed, I raised the window blinds. The hulk of Cable’s empty apartment stood out against the glow of neons along Main street. The whir of distant traffic didn’t sound quite so ominous.

I stood up and walked around restlessly. Too late to think about going home tonight—or calling a date. But tomorrow I would. Two lovely gals available…which one?

I took a coin out of my pocket and flipped it in the air. Heads, Marie—tails, Rita.

At that instant the phone rang. I missed the coin, picked up the receiver. A nice, soft voice sent shivers along my spine.

I grinned, staring at the coin shining on the living room carpet.

“You just won, lovely,” I said.

You’ll never know which face of the coin I was leering at, buddy.