A Bullet for Cinderella (2024)

CAME THE DARK....

They lay on their sides, facing each other. In the half-light of thecave he could see the sheen of her eyes, the slow curve of her waist.

"So we wait," she said.

"And we'll have to be very careful," he answered. "He likes the night.He even likes us right now, waiting for us to come out, to give him thepleasure of killing us. Killing ... that's really his only pleasure."

She rolled onto her back. Her voice was soft. "We're going to make it,"she said. "We've got the money, and we'll get the car and then there'sBuenos Aires, Paris and...."

They were quiet for a while until suddenly he heard her breath beginto quicken. She turned toward him and he pulled her close. There wastime....

Contents

ONE

A steady April rain was soaking the earth. It hadn't been bad to drivethrough until dusk came. In the half-light it was hard to see the road.The rain was heavy enough to reflect my headlights back against thewind-shield. My mileage on the speedometer told me I couldn't be veryfar from Hillston.

When I saw the motel sign ahead on the right I slowed down. It lookedfairly new. I turned in. The parking area was paved with those roundbrown pebbles that crunch under the tires. I parked as close to theoffice as I could get and ran from the car into the office. A womanwith the bright cold eyes and thin sharp movements of a water birdrented me a room far back from the highway sound. She said the placewas just four miles from the Hillston city limits.

Once I saw the room I decided that it would do. It would be a goodplace to stay while I did what had to be done in Hillston. I stretchedout on the bed and wondered if I had been smart to use my right name onthe motel register. But if I could find the money, there would be noone to say that I was the one who had taken it. And using my right namewouldn't make any difference at all.

When at last the rain eased up I went and found a small roadsiderestaurant. The girl behind the counter told me where I could buy abottle of liquor. She seemed open to any invitation to help me drink itup, but though she was reasonably pretty I was not interested. I hadthis other thing on my mind and I wanted to go back alone and havesome drinks and think about it and wonder how I could do it.

Maybe you saw pictures of us, the ones who were really bad off when theprisoners were exchanged. I was one of the litter cases. My stomach hadstopped digesting the slop they fed us, and I was down to ninety-threepounds. One more week and I would have been buried up there beyond theriver like so many others were. I was in bad shape. Not only physicallybut mentally. I was too sick to be flown back. Memory was all shot. Iwent right into hospital and they started feeding me through a tube.

It was during the months in the military hospital back in this countrythat I began to sort things out and began to remember more of thedetails about Timmy Warden of Hillston. When the intelligence peoplehad interrogated me I had told them how Timmy died but nothing morethan that. I didn't tell them any of the stuff Timmy had told me.

We were both captured at the same time in that action near thereservoir. I'd known him casually. He was in a different platoon. Wewere together most of the time after we were captured. Enough hasalready been written about how it was. It wasn't good.

That prison camp experience can change your attitude toward life andtoward yourself. It did that to Timmy Warden. His one thought was tosurvive. It was that way with all of us, but Timmy seemed more of afanatic than anybody else. He had to get back.

He told me about it one night. That was after he'd gotten pretty weak.I was still in fair shape. He told me about it in the dark, whisperingto me. I couldn't see his face.

"Tal, I've got to get back and straighten something out. I've got to.Every time I think about it I'm ashamed. I thought I was being smart. Ithought I was getting what I wanted. Maybe I've grown up now. I've gotto get it straightened out."

"What was it you wanted?"

"I wanted it and I got it, but I can't use it now. I wanted her too,and had her, but she's no good to me now."

"I'm not following this so good, Timmy."

He told me the story then. He had been in business with his brotherGeorge Warden. George was older by six years. George took him in as apartner. George had a flair for salesmanship and promotion. Timmy wasgood on the books, as he had a natural knack for figure work. They hada building supply business, a retail hardware outlet, a lumberyard, andseveral concrete trucks.

And George had a lush, petulant, amoral, discontented young wife namedEloise.

"I didn't make any play for her, Tal. It just seemed to happen. She wasmy brother's wife and I knew it was bad, but I couldn't stop. We had tosneak around behind his back. Hillston isn't a very big city. We had tobe very careful. I guess I knew all the time what she was. But Georgethought she was the best thing that ever walked. She was the one whotalked me into running away with her, Tal. She was the one who saidwe'd have to have money. So I started to steal."

He told me how he did it. A lot of the gimmicks didn't make much senseto me. He did all the ordering, handled the bank accounts and deposits.It was a big and profitable operation. He took a little bit here, alittle bit there, always in cash. All the time he was doing it he wascarrying on the affair with Eloise. He said it took nearly two years tosquirrel away almost sixty thousand dollars. The auditors didn't catchit.

"I couldn't open a bank account with the money, and I knew betterthan to put it in a safety-deposit box. I put the money in thoseold-fashioned jars. The kind with the red rubber washer and the wirethat clamps the top on. I'd fill them and bury them. George keptworrying about why we weren't making more money. I kept lying to him.Eloise was getting more restless all the time and more careless. I wasafraid George would find out, and I didn't know what he'd do. She hadme sort of hypnotized. We finally set the date when we were going torun away. Everything was planned. And then they called me up. I wasreserve. There wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I told Eloisethat when I got out we'd go through with it the way we planned. But nowI'm stuck here. And now I don't want to go through with it. I want toget back there and give the money back to George and tell him the wholething. I've had too much chance to think it over."

"How do you know she hasn't taken the money and left?"

"I didn't tell her where I put it. It's still there. Nobody can findit."

His story gave me a lot to think about. Timmy Warden sank lower andlower. By that time those of us who were left alive had become experton how long the dying would last. And I knew that Timmy was one of thedying. I knew he'd never leave there alive. I tried to find out wherethe money was buried. But I'd waited a little too long. He was out ofhis head. I listened to him rave. I listened to every word he said.

But in his raving he never gave away the hiding place. It was in amoment of relative lucidity that he told me. It was afternoon and hecaught my wrist with his wasted hand. "I'm not going to make it, Tal."

"You'll make it."

"No. You go back there and straighten it out. You can do that. TellGeorge. Give him the money. Tell him everything."

"Sure. Where is the money?"

"Tell him everything."

"Where's the money hidden?"

"Cindy would know," he said, suddenly breathless with weak, crazylaughter. "Cindy would know." And that's all I could get out of him. Iwas still strong enough then to use a shovel. I helped dig the hole forTimmy Warden that night.

Back in the stateside hospital I thought about that sixty thousanddollars. I could see those fruit jars with the tight rolls of billsinside the glass. I would dig them out and rub the dirt off and see thegreen gleam of the money. It helped pass the time in the hospital.

Finally they let me out. The thought of the money was no longer onthe surface of my mind. It was hidden down underneath. I would thinkabout it, but not very often. I went back to my job. It seemed prettytasteless to me. I felt restless and out of place. I'd used up a lot ofemotional energy in order to stay alive and come back to this, back tomy job and back to Charlotte, the girl I had planned to marry. Now thatI was back neither job nor girl seemed enough.

Two weeks ago they let me go. I don't blame them. I'd been doing myjob in a listless way. I told Charlotte I was going away for a while.Her tears left me completely untouched. She was just a girl crying, astranger. I told her I didn't know where I was going. But I knew I wasgoing to Hillston. The money was there. And somebody named Cindy whowould know how to find it.

I had started the long trip with an entirely unrealistic anticipationof success. Now I was not so confident. It seemed that I was searchingfor more than the sixty thousand dollars. It seemed to me that I waslooking for some meaning or significance to my life. I had a thousanddollars in traveler's checks and everything I owned with me. EverythingI owned filled two suitcases.

Charlotte had wept, and it hadn't touched me. I had accepted beingfired without any special interest. Ever since the repatriation, sincethe hospital, I had felt like half a man. It was as though the otherhalf of me had been buried and I was coming to look for it—here inHillston, a small city I had never seen. Somehow I had to begin to liveagain. I had stopped living in a prison camp. And never come completelyto life again.

I drank in the motel room until my lips felt numb. There was a payphone in the motel office. The bird woman looked at me with obviousdisapproval but condescended to change three ones into change for thephone.

I had forgotten the time difference. Charlotte was having dinner withher people. Her mother answered the phone. I heard the coldness in hermother's voice. She called Charlotte.

"Tal? Tal, where are you?"

"A place called Hillston."

"Are you all right? You sound so strange."

"I'm okay."

"What are you doing? Are you looking for a job?"

"Not yet."

She lowered her voice so I could barely hear her. "Do you want me tocome there? I would, you know, if you want me. And no—no strings, Taldarling."

"No. I just called so you'd know I'm all right."

"Thank you for calling, darling."

"Well ... good-by."

"Please write to me."

I promised and hung up and went back to my room. I wanted things tobe the way they had once been between us. I did not want to hurt her.I did not want to hurt myself. But I felt as if a whole area in mymind was dead and numb. The part where she had once been. She had beenloyal while I had been gone. She was the one who had the faith I wouldreturn. She did not deserve this.

On the following morning, Thursday morning, Hillston lay clean andwashed by the night rains, bright and glowing in the April sunshine.Timmy had often talked about the city.

"It's more town than city. There isn't much of a transient population.Everybody seems to know everybody. It's a pretty good place, Tal."

It lay amid gentle hills, and the town stretched north-south, followingthe line of Harts River. I drove up the main street, Delaware Street.Traffic had outgrown the narrowness of the street. Standardization hadgiven most of our small cities the same look. Plastic and glass brickstore fronts. Woolworth's and J. C. Penney and Liggett and Timely andthe chain grocery. The essential character of Hillston had been watereddown by this standardization and yet there was more individualityleft than in many other cities. Here was a flavor of leisure, of mildmanners and quiet pleasures. No major highway touched the city. It wasin an eddy apart from the great current.

Doubtless there were many who complained acidly about the townbeing dead on its feet, about the young people leaving for greateropportunities. But such human irritants did not change the rather smugcomplacency of the city. The population was twenty-five thousand andTimmy had told me that it had not changed very much in the past twentyyears. There was the pipe mill and a small electronics industry and aplant that made cheap hand tools. But the money in town was the resultof its being a shopping center for all the surrounding farmland.

I had crossed the country as fast as I could, taking it out on the car,anxious to get to this place. The car kept stalling as I stopped forthe lights on Delaware Street. When I spotted a repair garage I turnedin.

A man came up to me as I got out of the car. "I think I need a tune-up.It keeps stalling. And a grease job and oil change."

He looked at the wall clock. "About three this afternoon be okay?"

"That'll be all right."

"California plates. On your way through?"

"Just on a vacation. I stopped here because I used to know a fellowfrom this town. Timmy Warden."

He was a gaunt man with prematurely white hair and bad teeth. He pickeda cigarette out of the top pocket of his coveralls. "Knew Timmy, didyou? The way you say it, I guess you know he's dead."

"Yes. I was with him when he died."

"There in the camp, eh? Guess it was pretty rough."

"It was rough. He used to talk about this place. And about his brotherGeorge. I thought I'd stop and maybe see his brother and tell him abouthow it was with Timmy."

The man spat on the garage floor. "I guess George knows how it was."

"I don't understand."

"There's another man came here from that camp. Matter of fact he'sstill here. Came here a year ago. Name of Fitzmartin. Earl Fitzmartin.He works for George at the lumberyard. Guess you'd know him, wouldn'tyou?"

"I know him," I said.

Everybody who survived the camp we were in would know Fitzmartin. He'dbeen taken later, had come in a month after we did. He was a lean manwith tremendously powerful hands and arms. He had pale colorless hair,eyes the elusive shade of wood smoke. He was a Texan and a Marine.

I knew him. One cold night six of us had solemnly pledged that if wewere ever liberated we would one day hunt down Fitzmartin and kill him.We had believed then that we would. I had forgotten all about it. Itall came back.

Fitz was not a progressive. Yet he was a disrupting influence. In thecamp we felt that if we could maintain a united front it would improveour chances for survival. We organized ourselves, appointed committees,assigned responsibilities. There were two retreads who had been in Japcamps in another war who knew the best organizational procedures.

Fitz, huskier and quicker and craftier than anyone else in camp,refused to take any part in it. He was a loner. He had an animalinstinct for survival. He kept himself clean and fit. He ate anythingthat was organically sound. He prowled by himself and treated us withicy contempt and amusem*nt. He was no closer to us than to his captors.He was one of the twelve quartered in the same hut with Timmy and me.

Perhaps that does not seem to constitute enough cause to swear to killa man. It wouldn't, in a normal situation. But in captivity minorresentments become of major importance. Fitz wasn't with us so he wasagainst us. We needed him and every day he proved he didn't need us.

At the time of the exchange Fitzmartin was perhaps twenty poundslighter. But he was in good shape. Many had died but Fitz was in fineshape. I knew him.

"I'd like to see him," I told the garage man. "Is the lumberyard farfrom here?"

It was north of town. I had to take a bus that crossed a bridge atthe north end of town and walk a half mile on the shoulder of thehighway—past junk yards, a cheap drive-in movie, rundown rentalcabins. I kept asking myself why Fitz should have come to Hillston. Hecouldn't know about the money. But I could remember the slyness of theman, his knack of moving without a sound.

The lumberyard was large. There was an office near the road. There wasa long shed open on the front where semi-fabricated pieces were keptin bins in covered storage. I heard the whine of a saw. Beyond the twobuildings were tall stacks of lumber. A truck was being loaded backthere. In the open shed a clerk was helping a customer select windowframes. An office girl with thin face and dark hair looked up from anadding machine and told me I could find Fitzmartin out in the backwhere they were loading the truck.

I went back and saw him before he saw me. He was heavier but otherwiseunchanged. He stood with another man watching two men loading a staketruck. He wore khakis and stood with his fists in his hip pockets. Theman said something and Earl Fitzmartin laughed. The sound startled me.I had never heard him laugh in the camp.

He turned as I approached him. His face changed. The smoke eyes lookedat me, wary, speculative. "I've got the name right, haven't I? TalHoward."

"That's right." There was, of course, no move toward shaking hands.

He turned to the other man. "Joe, you go right ahead here. Leave thisslip in the office on your way out."

Fitzmartin started walking back through the lot between the stackedlumber. I hesitated and followed him. He led the way to a shed onthe back corner of the lot. An elderly Ford coupé was parked by theshed. He opened the door and gestured and I went into the shed. It wasspotlessly clean. There was a bunk, table, chair, shelf with hot plateand dishes. He had a supply of canned goods, clean clothes hanging onhooks, a pile of magazines and paper-bound books near the head of thebunk. There was a large space heater in the corner, and through an opendoor I could see into a small bathroom with unfinished walls.

There was no invitation to sit down. We faced each other.

"Nice to see any old pal from north of the river," he said.

"I heard in town you work here."

"You just happened to be in town and heard I work here."

"That's right."

"Maybe you're going around looking all the boys up. Maybe you'rewriting a book."

"It's an idea."

"My experiences as a prisoner of war. Me and Dean."

"I'd put you in the book, Fitz. The big ego. Too damn impressed withhimself to try to help anybody else."

"Help those gutless wonders? You types stone me. You wanted to turn itinto a boys' club. I watched a lot of you die because you didn't havethe guts or will or imagination to survive."

"With your help maybe a couple more would have come back."

"You sound like you think that would be a good thing."

There was an amused sneer in his tone that brought it all vividly back.That was what we had sensed about him. He hadn't cared if we had allbeen buried there, just so Fitzmartin got out of it with a whole skin.I had thought my anger and outrage had been buried, had thought I wasbeyond caring. Perhaps he, too, misjudged the extent of the contemptthat made me careless of his physical power.

I struck blindly, taking him almost completely by surprise, my rightfist hitting his jaw solidly. The impact jarred my arm and shoulderand back. It knocked him back a full step. I wanted him on the floor.I swung again and hit a thick, hard arm. He muffled the third blow andcaught my left wrist, then grabbed my right wrist. I tried to snapmy wrists free, but he was far too powerful. I was able to resistthe grinding twisting force for several seconds. His face was quiteimpassive. I was slowly forced down onto my knees, tears of anger andhumiliation stinging my eyes.

He released my wrists suddenly and gave me a casual open-handed slapacross the side of my head that knocked me down onto the bare floor. Iscrambled to the chair and tried to pick it up to use it as a weapon.He twisted it out of my hands, put a foot against my chest and shovedme back so that I rolled toward the door. He put the chair back inplace, went over and sat on the bunk, and lighted a cigarette. I got upslowly.

He looked at me calmly. "Out of your system?"

"God damn you!"

He looked bored. "Shut up. Sit down. Don't try to be the boy hero,Howard. I'll mark you up some if that's what you want."

I sat in the chair. My knees were weak and my wrists hurt. He got upquickly, went to the door and opened it and looked out, closed it andwent back to the bunk. "We'll talk about Timmy Warden, Howard."

"What about Timmy?"

"It's too damn late for games. Information keeps you alive. I did alot of listening in that camp. I made a business of it. I know thatTimmy stole sixty thousand bucks from his brother and stashed it awayin jars. I know Timmy told you that. I heard him tell you. So don'twaste our time trying to play dumb about it. I'm here and you're here,and that's the only way it adds up. I got here first. I got here whileyou were still in the hospital. I haven't got the money. If I had it, Iwouldn't still be here. That's obvious. I figured Timmy might have toldyou where he hid it. I've been waiting for you. What kept you?"

"I don't know any more about it than you do. I know he hid it, but Idon't know where."

He was silent as he thought it over. "Maybe I won't buy that. I camehere on a long shot. I didn't have much to go on. I wanted to be hereand all set when you came after it. It was a long shot, but one townis the same as another to me. I can't see you coming here to find themoney and not knowing any more than I do. You're a more conservativetype, Howard. You know something I want to know."

"That's right," I said. "I know exactly where it is. I can go and digit up right now. That's why I waited a year before I came here. Andthat's why I came here to see you instead of going and digging it up."

"Why come at all?"

I shrugged. "I lost my job. I remembered the money. I thought I'd comehere and look around."

"I've spent a year looking around. I know a hell of a lot more aboutTimmy Warden, the way he lived, the way his mind worked, than you'llever know. And I can't find it."

"Then I won't be able to either, will I?"

"Then you better take off, Howard. Go back where you came from."

"I think I'll stay around."

He leaned forward. "Then you do have some little clue that I don'thave. Maybe it isn't a very good one."

"I don't know any more than you do. I just have more confidence inmyself than I have in you."

That made him laugh. The laughter stung my pride. It was a ludicrousthought to him that I could do anything in the world he couldn't do.

"You've wasted better than a year on it. At least I haven't done that,"I said hotly.

He shrugged. "I have to be somewhere. It might as well be here. What'swasted about it? I've got a good job. Let's pool everything we know andcan remember, and if we can locate it I'll give you a third."

"No," I said, too quickly.

He sat very still and watched me. "You have something to work on."

"No. I don't."

"You can end up with nothing instead of a third."

"Or all of it instead of a third."

"Finding it and taking it away from here are two different problems."

"I'll take that chance."

He shrugged. "Well, suit yourself. Go and say hello to George. Give himmy regards."

"And Eloise?"

"You won't be able to do that. She took off while we were still behindthe wire. Took off with a salesman, they say."

"Maybe she took the money with her."

"I don't think so."

"But she knew Timmy was hiding it, had hidden a big amount. From whathe said about her, she wouldn't leave without it."

"She did," he said, smiling. "Take my word. She left without it."

TWO

The lumberyard had looked reasonably prosperous. The retail hardwarestore was not what I expected. From talks with Timmy I had expecteda big place with five or six clerks and a stock that ranged fromappliances and co*cktail trays to deep-well pumps and pipe wrenches.

It was a narrow, dingy store, poorly lighted. There was an air of dustand defeat about it. It was on a side street off the less prosperouslooking end of Delaware Street. A clerk in a soiled shirt came to helpme. I said I wanted to see Mr. Warden. The clerk pointed back toward asmall office in the rear where through glass I could see a man hunchedover a desk.

He looked up as I walked back to the office. The door was open. Icould see the resemblance to Timmy. But Timmy just before and for ashort time after we were taken, had a look of bouncing vitality, goodspirits. This man looked far older than the six years difference Timmyhad told me about. He was a big man, as Timmy had been. The wide, highforehead was the same, and the slightly beaked nose and the strong,square jaw. But George Warden looked as though he had been sick for along time. His color was bad. The stubble on the unshaven jaw was gray.His eyes were vague and troubled, and there was a raw smell of whiskyin the small office.

"Something I can do for you?"

"My name is Tal Howard, Mr. Warden. I was a friend of Timmy's."

"You were a friend of Timmy's." He repeated it in an odd way. Apatheticand yet somehow cynical.

"I was with him when he died."

"So was Fitz. Sit down, Mr. Howard. Drink?"

I said I would have a drink. He pushed by my chair and went out to asink. I heard him rinsing out a glass. He came back and picked a bottleoff the floor in the corner and put a generous drink in each glass.

"Here's to Timmy," he said.

"To Timmy."

"Fitz got out of it. You got out of it. But Timmy didn't make it."

"I almost didn't make it."

"What did he actually die of? Fitz couldn't say."

I shrugged. "It's hard to tell. We didn't have medical care. He lost alot of weight and his resistance was down. He had a bad cold. He ran afever and his legs got swollen. He began to have trouble breathing. Ithurt him to breathe. A lot of them went like that. Nothing specific.Just a lot of things. There wasn't much you could do."

He turned the dirty glass around and around. "He should have come back.He would have known what to do."

"About what?"

"I guess he told you about how we were doing before he left."

"He said you had a pretty good business."

"This store used to be over on Delaware. We moved about six months ago.Sold the lease. Sold my house too. Still got the yard and this. Therest of it is gone."

I felt uncomfortable. "Business is bad, I guess."

"It's pretty good for some people. What business are you in?"

"I'm not working right now."

He smiled at me in a mirthless way. "And I suppose you plan on stickingaround awhile."

"I'd thought of it."

"Did Fitz send for you?"

"I don't know what you mean. I didn't know he was here."

"But you talked to him. He phoned me and said you'd probably be in fora little chat. And that you're an old friend of Timmy's. He's beenworking for me for nearly a year. I don't see how I can give you a job.There just isn't enough coming in. I couldn't swing it."

"I don't want a job, Mr. Warden."

He kept smiling. His eyes were funny. I had the feeling that he waseither very drunk or out of his head. "Maybe something nice out of thestore? We still have some nice things. I could unlock the gun rack foryou. Need a nice over and under, with gold inlay, French walnut stock?On the house."

"No thanks. I don't understand, Mr. Warden. I knew Timmy and I thoughtmaybe it would be the right thing to do to just stop in and chat."

"Sure. But you went out to the yard first."

"Yes. I went out there because I put my car in a garage here and I toldthe man I'd known Timmy in prison camp. He said there was another manhere who'd been in the same place. Earl Fitzmartin. So I went out thereand saw him. Then I came here. I could have come here first and thengone out there. I don't know why you think you have to give me a job ora gun or anything."

He looked at me and then bent over and picked up the bottle again. Heput some in both glasses. "Okay," he said. "So it's just like that. Payno attention to me. Hardly anybody does any more. Except Fitz. He's agood worker. The yard makes a little money. That's a good thing, isn'tit?"

"Yes, I guess it is."

It wasn't anything like the conversation I had expected. He was astrange man. He seemed defeated and yet amused, as though amused at hisown defeat.

"Timmy talked a lot about Hillston," I said.

"I guess he did. He lived here most of his life."

Though I didn't feel right about it, I took the plunge. "We had a lotof time to talk. They made us go to lectures and read propaganda andwrite reports on what we read, but the rest of the time we talked. Ifeel as though I know Hillston pretty well. Even know the girls he usedto go with. Ruth Stamm. Janice Currier. Cindy somebody."

"Sure," he said softly, half smiling. "Ruthie Stamm. And it was Judithnot Janice Currier. Those were two of them. Nice girls. But the lastcouple of years before he went away he stopped running around so much.Stuck closer to the business. Lots of nights he'd work on the books. Hewas getting almost too serious to suit me."

"Wasn't there one named Cindy?"

He frowned and thought and shook his head. "No Cindy I know of. Eitherof those other two would have made him a good wife. Ruthie is stillaround town, still single. Judy got married and moved away. El Paso, Ithink. Either one of them would have made him a better wife than theone I got stuck with. Eloise. He talk about her?"

"He mentioned her a few times."

"She's gone."

"I know. Fitz told me."

"Lovely little Eloise. Two-faced bitch. While you're around, stop inagain any time. We'll have a nice little chat. I'm usually here. Hell,I used to have a lot of other things to do. Zoning board. Chamber ofCommerce. Rotary. Always on the run. Always busy. Now I have a lot oftime. All the time in the world."

I was dismissed. I walked back through the narrow store to the streetdoor. The clerk leaned against one of the counters near the front,picking his teeth with a match. It felt good to get back out into thesunlight. The cheap liquor had left a bad taste in my mouth. It was tooearly to go after the car. I went into the nearest bar I could find andordered an ale. It was a dark place, full of brown and violet shadows,with deer antlers on the wall and some dusty mounted fish. Two elderlymen played checkers at a corner table. The bartender was a dwarf. Thefloor was built up behind the bar to bring him up to the right height.

I sipped the ale and thought about Fitz, about my own unexpectedlyviolent reaction that had been made ludicrous by his superior strength.I had not thought that I cared enough. It was a long time since camp.But he had brought it all back. The time with him had not been purefiasco, however. I sensed that I had won a very small victory in thetalk that had followed the one-sided fight. He was not certain of whereI stood, how much I knew. The talk with George had canceled that smallvictory. George puzzled me. There was a curious under-current in hisrelationship with Fitz, something I could not understand.

Bartenders are good sources of information. I sensed that the littleman was watching me, trying to figure out who I was. I signaled for arefill. When he brought my glass back from the beer tap I said, "Whatdo people do for excitement around this town?"

He had a high, thin voice. "Stranger in town, are you? It's prettyquiet. Saturday night there's things going on here and there. Not muchon a weekday. There's some that drive all the way to Redding. There'sgambling there, but it's crooked. Then it's easier to meet women therethan here. You a salesman?"

I needed a quick answer and I suddenly remembered something that Fitzhad said to give me my gimmick, ready-made, and reasonably plausible."I'm working on a book."

He showed a quick interest. "Writer, are you? What's there here towrite about? Historical stuff?"

"No. It's a different kind of a book. I was taken prisoner in Korea.Some of the boys died there, boys I knew. This book is a sort ofpersonal history of those boys. You know, the way they lived, what theydid, what they would have come back to if they'd lived. One of them isfrom this town. Timmy Warden."

"Hell, did you know Timmy? My God, that was a shame. There was a goodkid."

"I've been talking to his brother, George, just down the street."

The little man clucked and shook his head. "George has just plain goneto hell the last year or so. He and Timmy had a pretty good setuptoo. Couple of good businesses. But then George's wife left him. Thenhe got word Timmy was dead. It took the heart out of him, I guess.He's got about one tenth the business he used to have, and he won'thave that long if he keeps hitting the bottle. Buck Stamm's girl hasbeen trying to straighten him out, but she's wasting her time. Butthat Ruthie is stubborn. I tell you, if Timmy had made it back and ifhe'd waited until now, he'd have a long uphill fight. George has beenselling stuff off and piddling away the money he gets. Lives in a roomat White's Hotel. Gets drunk enough to be picked up every now and then.For a while there they'd just take him home because he used to be animportant man in this town. Now they let him sober up in the can."

One of the old men playing checkers said, "Stump, you talk too damnmuch."

"Watch your game," Stump said. "Get some kings. Let smart people talkin peace, Willy."

He turned back to me and said, "How do you figure on writing up Timmy?"

"Oh, just the way he lived. Where he was born. Interview hisschoolteachers. Talk to the girls he dated."

Stump glanced at the checker players and then hunched himself over thebar and spoke in a tone so low they couldn't hear him. Stump wore a slysmirk as he talked. "Now I wouldn't stand back of this, and it isn'tanything you could put in your book, but I heard it from a pretty goodsource that before Timmy took off into the army, he and that EloiseWarden were a little better than just plain friends. Know what I mean?She was a good-looking piece, and you can hardly blame the kid, if shewas right there asking for it. She was no good, anyway. She took offwith a salesman and nobody's seen or heard from her since."

He backed away and gave me a conspiratorial smile. "Of course, Georgewouldn't know anything about it. Like they say, he'd be the last toknow."

"Are there any other relatives in town, beside George?"

"Not a one. Their daddy died six or seven years ago. George got marriedright after that. Then the three of them, George, Timmy, and Eloisestayed right on in the old Warden place. George sold that this year.Man named Syler bought it. He chopped it up into apartments, I hear."

I talked with him for another half hour, but he didn't have very muchto add. He asked me to stop around again. I liked the atmosphere of hisbar, but I didn't like him. He was a little too eager to prove he kneweverything, particularly the unsavory details.

When I got back to the garage a little after three my car was ready. Ipaid for the work. It ran smoothly on the way back to the motel southof town. Once I was in my room with the door shut I reviewed everythingthat had happened. Though I had told my lie about writing up Timmy onimpulse, I couldn't see how it could hurt anything. In fact it mightmake things a good deal easier. I decided that I'd better buy some kindof pocket notebook and write things down so that my story would standup a little better.

There was no reason why Timmy and the others like him shouldn't bewritten up. I remembered that a magazine had done the same sort ofthing with the progressives who refused repatriation. So why not thedead. They would be more interesting than the turncoats, who, almostwithout exception, fell into two groups. They were either ignorantand very nearly feeble-minded, or they were neurotic, out-of-balance,with a lifelong feeling of having been rejected. The dead were moreinteresting.

My one abortive attempt to find Cindy had failed. Using the cover storyof writing up Timmy, I should be able to find her. From what Timmy hadsaid, she was a girl who would know of a special hiding place. And themoney was there.

Unless Eloise had taken it. I was puzzled by Fitz's insistence that shehadn't taken it.

When I went back into town for dinner I bought a notebook in adrugstore. At dinner I filled three pages with notes. I could havefilled more. Timmy had talked a lot. There hadn't been much else to do.I went to a movie, but I couldn't keep my mind on it. The next personto talk to was Ruth Stamm. I could see her the next morning.

But back in the motel room I took another look at Ruth Stamm. I tookher picture out of the back of my wallet. Tomorrow, Friday, I would seeher for the first time in the flesh. I had looked at this picture athousand times. Timmy had showed it to me in camp. I remembered the daywe sat with our backs against a wall in watery sunshine and he took thepicture out and showed it to me.

"That's the one, Tal. I didn't have sense enough to stay with her.That's the good one, Tal. Ruthie Stamm."

They had taken my papers away from me, including the shots ofCharlotte. I held the picture of Ruthie Stamm, turning it toward thepale sunshine. It was cracked but none of the cracks touched her face.It was in color and the colors had faded and changed. She sat on herheels and scratched the joyous belly of a blond co*cker while shelaughed up into the camera eye. She wore yellow shorts and a haltertop, and her laughter was fresh and good and shared.

In some crazy way it became our picture—Timmy's and mine. I took itoff his body after he died and it became mine. It represented an alienworld of sanity and kindness and strength. I looked at it often.

Now I took it out again and lay on the motel bed and looked at it inthe lamplight. And felt a tingle of anticipation. For the first time Ipermitted myself to wonder if this pilgrimage to Hillston was in partdue to the picture of a girl I had never seen. And to wonder if thispicture had something to do with the death of love for Charlotte.

I put the picture away. It took a long time to get to sleep. But thesleep that came was deep and good.

THREE

On Friday morning it was not until I opened the bureau drawer to takeout a clean shirt that I knew somebody had been in the room. I hadstacked the clean shirts neatly in one corner of the big middle drawer.They were scattered all over the drawer as if stirred by a hasty hand.I went over all my things and saw more and more evidence of quick,careless search. There was nothing for anyone to find. I had writtendown nothing about the elusive Cindy.

It did not seem probable that the maid or the woman who had rented methe room had done this. Nor did it seem probable that it had occurredon the previous day while I was out. I checked the door. I distinctlyremembered locking it. It was unlocked. That meant someone had come inwhile I had slept. Fortunately, from long habit, I had put my walletinside the pillowcase. My money was safe. Some cool morning air camethrough the door, chilling my face and chest, and I realized I wassweating lightly. I remembered how Fitz could move so quietly at night.I did not like the thought of his being in the room, being able tounlock the door. I did not see how it could have been anyone else. Iwondered how he had found the motel so easily. I had given the addressto no one. Yet it could not have taken too long on the phone. Maybe anhour or an hour and a half to find where I was registered. It wouldtake patience. But Fitzmartin had waited over a year.

I had breakfast, looked up an address and drove off to see the girl ofthe cracked, treasured picture—the girl who, unknown to herself, hadeased great loneliness, and strengthened frail courage.

Dr. Buck Stamm was a veterinary. His home and place of business wasjust east of town, a pleasant old frame house with the animal hospitalclose by. Dogs made a vast clamor when I drove up. They were inindividual runways beside the kennels. There were horses in a corralbeyond the house.

Dr. Stamm came out into the waiting-room when the bell on the doorrang. He was an enormous man with bushy red hair that was turning gray.He had a heavy baritone voice and an impressive frown.

"We're not open around here yet unless it's an emergency, young man."

"No emergency. I wanted to see your daughter for a minute."

"What about?"

"It's a personal matter. I was a friend of Timmy Warden."

He did not look pleased. "I guess I can't stop you from seeing her.She's at the house, wasting time over coffee. Go on up there. Tell herAl hasn't showed up yet and I need help with the feeding. Tell herButch died in the night and she'll have to phone the Bronsons. Gotthat?"

"I can remember it."

"And don't keep her too long. I need help down here. Go around to theback door. She's in the kitchen."

I went across the lawn to the house and up the back steps. It was awarm morning and the door was open. The screens weren't on yet. Thegirl came to the back door. She was medium tall. Her hair was dark red,a red like you can see in old furniture made of cherry wood, oiledand polished so the sun glints fire streaks in it. She wore dungareesand a pale blue blouse. Her eyes were tilted gray, her mouth a bitheavy and quite wide. She had good golden skin tones instead of theblotched pasty white of most redheads. Her figure was lovely. She wastwenty-six, or perhaps twenty-seven.

There are many women in the world as attractive as Ruth Stamm. Butthe expression they wear for the world betrays them. Their faces arearrogant, or petulant, or sensuous. That is all right because theirdesirability makes up for it, and you know they will be good for alittle time and when you have grown accustomed to the beauty, therewill be just the arrogance or the petulance left.

But Ruth wore her own face for the world—wore an expression ofstrength and humility and goodness. Should you become accustomed to herloveliness, there would still be all that left. This was a for-keepsgirl. She couldn't be any other way because all the usual poses andartifices were left out of her. This was a girl you could hurt, a girlwho would demand and deserve utter loyalty.

"I guess I'm staring," I said.

She smiled. "You certainly are." She tried to make smile and wordscasual, but in those few moments, as it happens so very rarely, a sharpawareness had been born, an intense and personal curiosity.

I took the picture out of my pocket and handed it to her. She lookedat it and then looked sharply at me, eyes narrowed. "Where did you getthis?"

"Timmy Warden had it."

"Timmy! I didn't know he had this. Were you at—that place?"

"In the camp with him? Yes. Wait a minute. Your father gave me somemessages for you. He says Al hasn't showed up and he needs help withthe feeding. And you're to phone the Bronsons that Butch died duringthe night."

Her face showed immediate concern. "That's too bad."

"Who was Butch?"

"A nice big red setter. Some kid in a jalopy hit him, and didn't evenstop. I should phone right away."

"I would like to talk to you when you have more time. Could I take youto lunch today?"

"What do you want to talk to me about?"

The lie was useful again. "I'm doing a book on the ones who didn't comeback. I thought you might help fill me in on Timmy. He mentioned youmany times."

"We used to go together. I—yes, I'll help all I can. Can you pick meup at twelve-fifteen here?"

"I'll be glad to. And—may I have the picture back?"

She hesitated and then handed it to me. "The girl in this picture waseighteen. That's a long time ago—" She frowned. "You didn't tell meyour name yet."

"Howard. Tal Howard."

Our glances met for a few seconds. Again there was that strongawareness and interest. I believe it startled her as much as it did me.The figure in the picture was a girl. This was a woman, a fulfillmentof all the promises in the picture—a mature and lovely woman—and wewere shyly awkward with each other. She said good-by and went intothe house. I drove back into town. For a long time I had carried thepicture in the photograph in my mind. Now reality was superimposedon that faded picture. I had imagined that I had idealized the photoimage, given it qualities it did not possess. Now at last I knew thatthe reality was stronger, more persuasive than the dreaming.

I found the old Warden house and chatted for a time with the amiableMr. Syler who had purchased it from George Warden. It was a big,high-shouldered frame house and he had cut it into four apartments. Mr.Syler needed no encouragement to talk. In fact, it was difficult toget away from him. He complained of the condition of the inside of thehouse when he took it over. "That George Warden lived here alone for awhile and that man must have lived like a darn bear."

In addition he complained about the yard. "When I took it over I didn'texpect much grass. But the whole darn place had been spaded up likesomebody was going to plant every inch of it and then just left italone."

That was a clue to some of Fitzmartin's activities. He was a man whowould do a good job of searching. And the isolation of the house behindhigh plantings would give him an uninterrupted opportunity to dig.

I drove back out through April warmth and picked up Ruth Stamm at thetime she suggested. She had changed to a white sweater and a dark greenskirt. She seemed more reserved, as if she had begun to doubt thewisdom of coming along with me. As we got into the car I said, "Howdid the Bronsons take it?"

"Very hard. I thought they would. But I talked them into gettinganother dog right away. That's the best way. Not the same breed, but anew pup, young enough to need and demand attention."

"Where should we have lunch? Where we can talk."

"The coffee shop at the Hillston Inn is nice."

I remembered seeing it. I was able to park almost in front. She ledthe way back through a bleak lobby and down a half flight of stairsto the coffee shop. It had big dark oak booths upholstered in redquilted plastic. They were doing a good business. The girls were brisk,starched. There was a good smell of steaks and chops.

She accepted the offer of a drink before lunch, and said she'd like anold-fashioned, so I ordered two of them. There was an exceptionallyfresh clean look about her. She handled herself casually and well.

"How well did you know Timmy?" she asked me.

"Pretty well. In a deal like that you get to know people well. Whateverthey are, it shows. You knew him well, too, I guess."

"We went steady. It started seven years ago. Somehow it seems likelonger than seven years. We were seniors in high school when itstarted. He'd been going with a friend of mine. Judy Currier. Theyhad a sort of spat and they were mad at each other. I was mad at theboy I'd been going with. When he wanted to take me out I went. And wewent together from then on. When we graduated we both went up to statecollege at Redding. He only went two years and then came back to helpGeorge. When he quit, I quit, too. We came back here and everybodythought we were going to get married." She smiled a small wry smile. "Iguess I did, too. But then things changed. I guess he lost interest. Heworked very hard. We drifted apart."

"Were you in love with him?"

She gave me a slightly startled glance. "I thought I was, of course.Otherwise we wouldn't have been as close. But—I don't know as I canexplain it. You see, Timmy was very popular in high school. He was agood athlete, and everybody liked him. He was president of the seniorclass. I was popular, too. I was queen of the senior pageant and allthat sort of thing. We both liked to dance and we were good at it. Itwas as if people expected us to go together. It seemed right to otherpeople. And that sort of infected us, I guess. Maybe we fell in lovewith the way we looked together, and felt the responsibility of whatother people wanted us to be. We made a good team. Do you understandthat?"

"Of course."

"When it finally ended it didn't hurt as badly as I would have thoughtit would. If it hadn't ended, we would have gone on and gotten marriedand—I guess it would have been all right." She looked puzzled.

"What kind of a guy was he, Ruth?"

"I told you. Popular and nice and—"

"Underneath."

"I don't want to feel—disloyal or anything."

"Another drink?"

"No. We better order, thanks." After we had given the order, shefrowned beyond me and said, "There was something weak about Timmy.Things had come too easily. His mind was good and his body was goodand he made friends without trying. He'd never been—tested. I hadthe feeling that he thought that things would always be that easy allhis life. That he could always get whatever he wanted. It worried mebecause I'd learned the world isn't like that. It was as though nothinghad ever happened to him to make him grow up. And I used to wonder whatwould happen when things started to go wrong. I knew he'd either turninto a man, or he'd start to whine and complain."

"He turned into a man, Ruth."

There was a sudden look of tears in her eyes. "I'm glad to hear that.I'm very glad to hear that. I wish he'd come back."

"I think you would have seen that I'm right. After he stopped goingwith you, who did he go with before he went into the army?"

Her eyes were evasive. "No one."

I lowered my voice. "He told me about Eloise."

Her face became more pale. "So it was true, then. I couldn't becompletely certain. But I suspected it. It made me sick to think thatcould be going on. And it was part of the pattern. Everything came soeasily. I don't think he even realized what he was doing to himself andto George. She was trash. Everybody was sorry and shocked when Georgemarried her."

"Timmy told me about Eloise and he told me he was sorry about it. Hewanted to come back so he could make things right. I guess he knew hecouldn't turn the clock back and make things like they were before, buthe wanted to be able to make amends of some sort."

"I don't think George has ever suspected. But even if he knew now itcouldn't hurt too much. He knows what she is now."

"What was she like?"

"Quite pretty in a sort of full-blown way. A tawny blonde, with a kindof gypsy-looking face. I don't know where she got those features.They're not like the other people in her family. She was a year aheadof me in school at first, and then in the same year, and then a yearbehind me. She never did graduate from high school. She was dumb as apost as far as schoolwork is concerned. But smart in other ways. Verysmart. She was sloppy. You know, soiled collars, bare dirty ankles. Shealways soaked herself in perfume. She had a very sexy walk, full hipsand a tiny waist and nice legs. She had a lot of little provocativemannerisms. Boys used to follow her around like stupid dogs, theireyes glazed and their tongues out. We used to make fun of her, but wehated her, and in some funny way we were jealous of her. She did as shepleased. She always seemed to be mocking everybody. It was a very goodmarriage for her, to marry George. Then the three of them were livingin that house. I guess she got bored. Being right there in the house,once she got bored Timmy had as much chance as—hamburger in a panthercage. I guess they were careful, but in a place this size people get toknow things. Quite a few people were talking by the time Timmy wentaway. I hadn't had a date with Timmy for over two years when he wentaway."

"Then Eloise went off with a salesman."

"That was so stupid of her. She had everything she wanted. Georgebelieved in her. The man's name was Fulton. He was a big red-faced manwho drove a gray Studebaker and came to Hillston about once every sixmonths. Eloise ran off almost—no, it's over two years ago. George hadto be out of town on business. People saw Eloise and Mr. Fulton righthere in this place having dinner one night, bold as can be. They musthave left that night. When George came back they were gone."

"Did he try to trace her?"

"He didn't want to. He was too badly hurt. She'd packed her prettiestthings, and taken the house money and gone without even leaving a note.I'll bet that some day she's going to come crawling back here."

"Would George take her back?"

"I don't know. I don't know what he'd do. I've been trying to helpGeorge." She blushed. "Dad always teases me about the way I keepbringing kittens and homeless dogs back to the place. He says my wardseat up all the profits. It's sort of the same with George. He hasn'tgot anyone now. Not a soul. Not anyone in the world. He's drinking allthe time and he's lost most of his business. I do what little I can.Cook for him sometimes. Get his room cleaned up. Get his clothes inshape. But I can't seem to make him wake up. He just keeps going downand down. It makes me sick."

"I saw him at the store. He wasn't in very good shape. He actedstrange."

"The store is doing almost no business at all."

"The lumberyard looks all right. I was out there to talk to Fitzmartin.He was in the same camp."

"I know. He told me that. I—is he a good friend of yours?"

"No."

"I don't like him, Tal. He's a strange man. I don't know why Georgehired him. It's almost as if he had some hold over George. And I havethe feeling he keeps pushing George downhill. I don't know how, or whyhe should. He kept bothering me. He kept coming to see me to talk aboutTimmy. It seemed very strange."

"What did he want to talk about?"

"It didn't make much sense. He wanted to know where Timmy and I usedto go on picnics when we were in high school. He wanted to know if weever went on hikes together. And he acted so sly about it, so sort ofinsinuating that the last time he came it made me mad and I told him Iwouldn't talk to him any more. It seemed like such a queer thing forhim to keep doing. He's creepy, you know. His eyes are so strange andcolorless."

"Has he stayed away?"

"Oh yes. I got very positive about it.... He had such an unhealthykind of interest in Timmy I wondered if it was the same sort of thingwith you. But if you're going to write about him I can understand yourwanting to know things."

The honesty in her level eyes made me feel ashamed. There was anawkward pause in our conversation. She fiddled with her coffee spoonand then, not looking up, said, "Timmy told you about Eloise. Did hetell you about me?" She was blushing again.

"He mentioned you. He didn't say much. I could make something up tomake you feel better, but I don't want to do that."

She raised her head to look directly at me, still blushing. "Thisisn't anything to go in your book. But it's nothing I'm ashamed of.And maybe you can understand him better, or me better, if I tell you.We went steady during our senior year here. A lot of the kids, a lotof our friends, who went steady, taking it for granted that they weregoing to get married as soon as they could, they slept together. Itwas almost—taken for granted. But Timmy and I didn't. Then we bothwent up to Redding. We were both away from home. We were lonely andin a new environment. It—just happened. It got pretty intense for afew months, but we began to realize that it wasn't helping anything.We stopped. Oh, we had a few lapses, accidents. Times it wasn't meantto happen. But we stopped, and felt very proud of our character and soon. You know, I sometimes wonder if that is what spoiled things for us.It's a pretty Victorian attitude to think that way, but you can't helpwondering sometimes."

I felt ill at ease with her. I had never come across this particularbrand of honesty. She had freely given me an uncomfortable truth aboutherself, and I felt bound to reciprocate.

I said, too quickly, "I know what you mean. I know what it is to feelguilty from the man's point of view. When they tapped my shoulder Ihad thirty days grace before I had to report. I had a girl. Charlotte.And a pretty good job. We wondered if we ought to get married beforeI left. We didn't. But I took advantage of all the corny melodrama.Man going to the wars and so on. I twisted it so she believed it wasactually her duty to take full care of the departing warrior. It was apretty frantic thirty days. So off I went. Smug about the whole thing.What soft words hadn't been able to accomplish, the North Koreans haddone. She's a good kid."

"But you're back and you're not married?"

"No. I came back in pretty bad shape. My digestive system isn't back topar yet. I spent quite a while in an army hospital. I got out and wentback to my job. I couldn't enjoy it. I used to enjoy it. I couldn't dowell at it. And Charlotte seemed like a stranger. At least I had enoughintegrity not to go back to bed with her. She was willing, in the hopesit would cure the mopes. I was listless and restless. I couldn't figureout what was wrong with me. Finally they got tired of the way I wasgoofing off and fired me. So I left. I started this—project. I feelguilty as hell about Charlotte. She was loyal all the time I was gone.She thought marriage would be automatic when I got back. She doesn'tunderstand all this. And neither do I. I only know that I feel guiltyand I still feel restless."

"What is she like, Tal?"

"Charlotte? She's dark-haired. Quite pretty. Very nice eyes. She's atiny girl, just over five feet and maybe a hundred pounds sopping wet.She'd make a good wife. She's quick and clean and capable. She haspretty good taste, and her daddy has yea bucks stashed."

"Maybe you shouldn't feel guilty."

I frowned at her. "What do you mean, Ruth?"

"You said she seems like a stranger. Maybe she is a stranger, Tal.Maybe the you who went away would be a stranger to you, too. You saidTimmy changed. You could have changed, too. You could have grown upin ways you don't realize. Maybe the Charlotte who was ample for thatother Tal Howard just isn't enough of a challenge to this one."

"So I break her heart."

"Maybe better to break her heart this way than marry her and break itslowly and more thoroughly. I can explain better by talking about Timmyand me."

"I don't understand."

"When Timmy lost interest the blow was less than I thought it wouldbe. I didn't know why. Now after all this time I know why. Timmy wasa less complicated person than I am. His interests were narrower. Helived more on a physical level than I do. Things stir me. I'm moreimaginative than he was. Just as you are more imaginative than hewas. Suppose I'd married him. It would have been fine for a time. Butinevitably I would have begun to feel stifled. Now don't get the ideathat I'm sort of a female long-hair. But I do like books and I do likegood talk and I do like all manner of things. And Timmy, with hisbeer and bowling and sports page attitude, wouldn't have been able toshare. So I would have begun to feel like sticking pins in him. Do youunderstand?"

"Maybe not. I'm the beer, bowling, and sports page type myself."

She watched me gravely. "Are you, Tal?"

It was an uncomfortable question. I remembered the first few weeks backwith Charlotte when I tried to fit back into the pattern of the life Ihad known before. Our friends had seemed vapid, and their conversationhad bored me. Charlotte, with her endless yak about building lots, andwhat color draperies, and television epics, and aren't these darlingshoes for only four ninety-five, and what color do you like me best in,and yellow kitchens always look so cheerful—Charlotte had bored me,too.

My Charlotte, curled like a kitten against me in the drive-in movie,wide-eyed and entranced at the monster images on the screen who tradedplatitudes, had bored me.

I began to sense where it had started. It had started in the camp.Boredom was the enemy. And all my traditional defenses against boredomhad withered too rapidly. The improvised game of checkers was butanother form of boredom. I was used to being with a certain type ofman. He had amused and entertained me and I him. But in the camp hebecame empty. He with his talk of sexual exploits, boyhood victories,and Gargantuan drunks, he had made me weary just to listen.

The flight from boredom had stretched my mind. I spent more andmore time in the company of the off-beat characters, the ones whobefore capture would have made me feel queer and uncomfortable, theones I would have made fun of behind their backs. There was a frailheadquarters type with a mind stuffed full of things I had neverheard of. They seemed like nonsense at first and soon became magical.There was a corporal, muscled like a Tarzan, who argued with a mightyferocity with a young, intense, mustachioed Marine private about thephilosophy and ethics of art, while I sat and listened and felt unknowndoors open in my mind.

Ruth's quiet question gave me the first valid clue to my owndiscontent. Could I shrink myself back to my previous dimensions, Icould once again fit into the world of job and Charlotte and bluedraperies and a yellow kitchen and the Saturday night mixed poker gamewith our crowd.

If I could not shrink myself, I would never fit there again. And I didnot wish to shrink. I wished to stay what I had become, because manyodd things had become meaningful to me.

"Are you, Tal?" she asked again.

"Maybe not as much as I thought I was."

"You're hunting for something," she said. The strange truth of thatstatement jolted me. "You're trying to do a book. That's just anindication of restlessness. You're hunting for what you should be,or for what you really are." She grinned suddenly, a wide grin and Isaw that one white tooth was entrancingly crooked. "Dad says I try tobe a world mother. Pay no attention to me. I'm always diagnosing andprescribing and meddling." She looked at her watch. "Wow! He'll bestomping and thundering. I've got to go right now."

I paid the check and we went out to the car. On the way back I steeredthe conversation to the point where I could say, "And I remember himtalking about a girl named Cindy. Who was she?"

Ruth frowned. "Cindy? I can remember some—No there wasn't any girlnamed Cindy in this town, not that Timmy would go out with. I'm sure henever knew a pretty one. And for Timmy a girl had to be pretty. Are youcertain that's the right name?"

"I'm positive of it."

"But what did he say about her?"

"He just mentioned her casually a few times, but in a way that soundedas though he knew her pretty well. I can't remember exactly what hesaid, but I got the impression he knew her quite well."

"It defeats me," Ruth said. I turned into the driveway and stopped infront of the animal hospital and got out as she did. We had been atease and now we were awkward again. I wanted to find some way of seeingher again, and I didn't know exactly how to go about it. I hoped herair of restraint was because she was hoping I would find a way. Therehad been too many little signs and hints of a surprising and unexpectedcloseness between us. She could not help but be aware of it.

"I want to thank you, Ruth," I said and put my hand out. She put herhand in mine, warm and firm, and her eyes met mine and slid away and Ithought she flushed a bit. I could not be certain.

"I'm glad to help you, Tal. You could—let me know if you think of morequestions."

The opening was there, but it was too easy. I felt a compulsion to lether know how I felt. "I'd like to be with you again even if it's notabout the book."

She pulled her hand away gently and faced me squarely, chin up. "Ithink I'd like that, too." She grinned again. "See? A complete lack oftraditional female technique."

"I like that. I like it that way."

"We better not start sounding too intense, Tal."

"Intense? I don't know. I carried your picture a long time. It meantsomething. Now there's a transition. You mean something."

"Do you say things like that just so you can listen to yourself sayingthem?"

"Not this time."

"Call me," she said. She whirled and was gone. Just before she went inthe door I remembered what I meant to ask her. I called to her and shestopped and I went up to her.

"Who should I talk to next about Timmy?"

She looked slightly disappointed. "Oh, try Mr. Leach. Head of the mathdepartment at the high school. He took quite an interest in Timmy. Andhe's a nice guy. Very sweet."

I drove back into town, full of the look of her, full of the impactof her. It was an impact that made the day, the trees, the city, alllook more vivid. Her face was special and clear in my mind—the widemouth, the one crooked tooth, the gray slant of her eyes. Her figurewas good, shoulders just a bit too wide, hips just a shade too narrowto be classic. Her legs were long, with clean lines. Her flat back andthe inswept lines of her waist were lovely. Her breasts were high andwide spaced, with a flavor of impertinence, almost arrogance. It wasthe coloring of her though that pleased me most. Dark red of the hair,gray of the eyes, golden skin tones.

It was nearly three when I left her place. I tried to put her out ofmy mind and think of the interview with Leach. Leach might be the linkwith Cindy.

I must have been a half mile from the Stamm place when I began towonder if the Ford coupé behind me was the one I had seen beside Fitz'sshed. I made two turns at random and it stayed behind me. There wasno attempt at the traditional nuances of shadowing someone. He taggedalong, a hundred feet behind me. I pulled over onto the shoulder andgot out. I saw that it was Fitz in the car. He pulled beyond me and gotout, too.

I marched up to him and said, "What the hell was the idea of goingthrough my room."

He leaned on his car. "You have a nice gentle snore, Howard. Soothing."

"I could tell the police."

"Sure. Tell them all." He squinted in the afternoon sunlight. He lookedlazy and amused.

"What good does it do you to follow me?"

"I don't know yet. Have a nice lunch with Ruthie? She's a nice littleitem. All the proper equipment. She didn't go for me at all. Maybe shelikes the more helpless type. Maybe if you work it right you'll get achance to take her to—"

He stopped abruptly, and his face changed. He looked beyond me. Iturned just in time to see a dark blue sedan approaching at a highrate of speed. It sped by us and I caught a glimpse of a heavy baldingman with a hard face behind the wheel, alone in the car. The car hadout-of-state plates but it was gone before I could read the state.

I turned back to Fitz. "There's no point in following me around. I toldyou I don't know any more—" I stopped because there was no point ingoing on. He looked as though I had become invisible and inaudible. Hebrushed by me and got into his car and drove on. I watched it recededown the road. I got into my own car. The episode made no sense to me.

I shrugged it off my mind and began to think about Leach again.

FOUR

Though the high-school kids had gone, the doors were unlocked anda janitor, sweeping green compound down the dark-red tiles of thecorridor, told me I could probably find Mr. Leach in his office on theground floor of the old building. The two buildings, new and old, wereconnected. Fire doors separated the frame building from the steel andconcrete one. My steps echoed in the empty corridor with a metallicring. A demure little girl came out of a classroom and closed the doorbehind her. She had a heavy armload of books. She looked as shy andgentle and timid as a puppy in a strange yard. She looked at me quicklyand hurried on down the corridor ahead of me, moccasin soles slapping,meager horsetail bobbing, shoulders hunched.

I found the right door and tapped on it. A tired voice told me to comein. Leach was a smallish man with a harsh face, jet eyebrows, a graybrushcut. He sat at a table marking papers. His desk, behind him, wasstacked with books and more papers.

"Something I can do for you?"

"My name is Tal Howard. I want to talk to you about a student you usedto have."

He shook hands without enthusiasm. "An ex-student who is in trouble?"

"No. It's—"

"I'm refreshed. Not in trouble? Fancy that. The faculty has manycallers. Federal narcotics people. Parole people. Prison officials.County police. Lawyers. Sometimes it seems that we turn out nothing butcriminals of all dimensions. I interrupted you."

"I don't want to impose on you. I can see how busy you are. I'mgathering material about Timmy Warden. Ruth Stamm suggested I talk toyou."

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "Timmy Warden. Gathering material.That has the sound of a book. Was he allowed to live long enough togive you enough material?"

"Timmy and some others. They all died there in the camp. I was there,too. I almost died, but not quite."

"Sit down. I'm perfectly willing to talk about him. I take it you'renot a professional."

"No, sir."

"Then this, as a labor of love, should be treated with all respect.Ruth knows as much about Timmy as any person alive, I should say."

"She told me a lot. And I got a lot from Timmy. But I need more. Shesaid you were interested in him."

"I was. Mr. Howard, you have probably heard of cretins who canmultiply two five digit numbers mentally and give the answer almostinstantaneously."

"Yes, but—"

"I know. I know. Timmy was no cretin. He was a very normal young man.Almost abnormally normal if you sense what I mean. Yet he had a spark.Creative mathematics. He could sense the—the rhythm behind numbers.He devised unique short cuts in the solution of traditional classproblems. He had that rare talent, the ability to grasp intricaterelationships and see them in pure simple form. But there was no drive,no dedication. Without dedication, Mr. Howard, such ability is merelyfacility, an empty cleverness. I hoped to be a mathematician. I teachmathematics in a high school. Merely because I did not have enough ofwhat Timmy Warden was born with. I hoped that one day he would acquirethe dedication. But he never had time."

"I guess he didn't."

"Even if he had the time I doubt if he would have gone any further. Hewas a very good, decent young man. Everything was too easy for him."

"It wasn't easy at the end."

"I don't imagine it was. Nor easy for hundreds of millions of hiscontemporaries anywhere in the world. This is a bad century, Mr.Howard. Bad for the young. Bad for most of us."

"What do you think would have become of him if he'd lived, Mr. Leach?"

The man shrugged. "Nothing exceptional. Marriage, work, children. Anddeath. No contribution. His name gone as if it never existed. One ofthe faceless ones. Like us, Mr. Howard." He rubbed his eyes again, thensmiled wanly. "I'm not usually so depressing, Mr. Howard. This has beena bad week. This is one of the weeks that add to my conviction thatsomething is eating our young. This week the children have seemed moresullen, dangerous, dispirited, inane, vicious, foolish, and impossiblethan usual. This week a young sophom*ore in one of my classes wentinto the hospital with septicemia as the result of a self-inflictedabortion. And a rather pleasant boy was slashed. And last Monday twoseniors died in a head-on collision while on their way back fromRedding, full of liquor. The man in the other car is not expected torecover. When Timmy was here in school I was crying doom. But it wasnot like it is now. By comparison, those were the good old days, recentas they are."

"Was Timmy a disciplinary problem?"

"No. He was lazy. Sometimes he created disturbances. On the whole hewas co-operative. I used to hope Ruth would be the one to wake him up.She's a solid person. Too good for him, perhaps."

"I guess he was pretty popular with the girls."

"Very. As with nearly everything else, things were too easy for him."

"He mentioned some of them in camp. Judy, Ruth, Cindy."

"I couldn't be expected to identify them. If I remember correctly,I once had eight Judys in one class. Now that name, thank God, isbeginning to die out a little. There have never been too many Cindys.Yet there has been a small, constant supply."

"I want to have a chance to talk to the girls he mentioned. I've talkedto Ruth. Judy has moved away. I can't remember Cindy's last name. Iwonder if there is any way I could get a look at the list of studentsin hopes of identifying her."

"I guess you could," he said. "The administration office will be emptyby now. You could ask them Monday. Let me see. Timmy graduated inforty-six. I keep old yearbooks here. They're over there on that bottomshelf. You could take the ones for that year and the next two yearsand look them over, there by the window if you like. I have to get onwith these papers. And I really can't tell you much more about Timmy. Iliked him and had hopes for him. But he lacked motivation. That seemsto be the trouble with too many of the children lately. No motivation.They see no goal worth working for. They no longer have any dreams.They are content with the manufactured dreams of N.B.C. and Columbia."

I sat by the windows and went through the yearbooks. There was no Cindyin the yearbook for '46. There was one in the '47 yearbook. I knew whenI saw her picture that she could not be the one. She was a great fatgirl with small, pinched, discontented features, sullen, rebelliouslittle eyes. There was a Cindy in the '48 yearbook. She had a narrowface, protruding teeth, weak eyes behind heavy lenses, an expressionof overwhelming stupidity. Yet I marked down their names. It would beworth a try, I thought.

I went back to the '46 yearbook and went through page after page ofgraduates more thoroughly. I came to a girl named Cynthia Cooper. Shewas a reasonably attractive snub-nosed blonde. I wondered if Timmycould possibly have said Cynthy. It would be an awkward nickname forCynthia. And even though his voice by that time had been weak andblurred, I was certain he had said Cindy. He had repeated the name. ButI wrote her down, too.

Ruth Stamm's yearbook picture was not very good. But the promise ofher, the clear hint of what she would become, was there in her face.Her activities, listed under the picture, made a long list. It was thesame with Timmy. He grinned into the camera.

Mr. Leach looked up at me when I stood near his table. "Any luck?"

"I took down some names. They might help."

I thanked him for his help. He was bent over his papers again beforeI got to the door. Odd little guy, with his own strange brand ofdedication and concern. Pompous little man, but with an under-currentof kindness.

I got to the Hillston Inn at a little after five. I got some dimes fromthe cashier and went over to where four phone booths stood flankedagainst the lobby wall. I looked up the last name of the fat girl,Cindy Waskowitz. There were two Waskowitzes in the book. John W. and P.C. I tried John first. A woman with a nasal voice answered the phone.

"I'm trying to locate a girl named Cindy Waskowitz who graduated fromHillston High in nineteen forty-seven. Is this her home?"

"Hold it a minute," the woman said. I could hear her talking to someoneelse in the room. I couldn't make out what she was saying. She cameback on the line. "You want to know about Cindy."

"That's right. Please."

"This wasn't her home. But I can tell you about her. I'm her aunt. Youwant to know about her?"

"Please."

"It was the glands. I couldn't remember the word. My daughter justtold me. The glands. When she got out from high school she weighedtwo hundred. From there she went up like balloons. Two hundred, twofifty, three hundred. When she died in the hospital she was nearly fourhundred. She'd been over four hundred once, just before she went in thehospital. Glands, it was."

I remembered the rebellious eyes. Girl trapped inside the prison ofwhite, soft flesh. A dancing girl, a lithe, quick-moving girl foreverlost inside that slow inevitable encroachment. Stilled finally, andburied inside her suet prison.

"Is your daughter about the same age Cindy would have been?"

"A year older. She's married and three kids already." The womanchuckled warmly.

"Could I talk to your daughter?"

"Sure. Just a minute."

The daughter's voice was colder, edged with thin suspicion. "What goeson anyhow? Why do you want to know about Cindy?"

"I was wondering if she was ever friendly in high school with a boynamed Timmy Warden."

"Timmy is dead. It was in the papers."

"I know that. Were they friendly?"

"Timmy and Cindy? Geez, that's a tasty combination. He would have knownwho she was on account of her being such a tub. But I don't think heever spoke to her. Why should he? He had all the glamour items hangingaround his neck. Why are you asking all this?"

"I was in the camp with him. Before he died he gave me a message todeliver to a girl named Cindy. I wondered if Cindy was the one."

"Not a chance. Sorry. You just got the wrong one."

"Was there another Cindy in the class?"

"In one of the lower classes. A funny-looking one. That's the onlyone I can remember. All teeth. Glasses. A sandy sort of girl. I can'tremember her last name, though."

"Cindy Kirschner?"

"That's the name. Gosh, I don't know where you'd find her. I think Isaw her downtown once a year ago. Maybe it's in the book. But I don'tthink she'd fit any better than my cousin. I mean Timmy Warden ranaround with his own group, kind of. Big shots in the school. ThatKirschner wasn't in that class, any more than my cousin. Or me."

The bitterness was implicit in her tone. I thanked her again. She hungup.

I tried Kirschner. There was only one in the book. Ralph J. A womananswered the phone.

"I'm trying to locate a Cindy Kirschner who graduated from HillstonHigh in nineteen forty-eight."

"That's my daughter. Who is this calling, please?"

"Could you tell me how I could locate her?"

"She married, but she doesn't have a phone. They have to use the oneat the corner store. She doesn't like to have people call her therebecause it's a nuisance to the people at the store. And she has smallchildren she doesn't like to leave to go down there and answer thephone. If you want to see her, you could go out there. It's sixteenten Blackman Street. It's near the corner of Butternut. A little bluehouse. Her name is Mrs. Rorick now. Mrs. Pat Rorick. What did you sayyour name is?"

I repeated the directions and said, "Thanks very much, Mrs. Kirschner.I appreciate your help. Good-by."

I hung up. I was tempted to try Cynthia Cooper, but decided I hadbetter take one at a time, eliminate one before starting the next. Istepped out of the booth. Earl Fitzmartin stepped out of the adjoiningbooth. He smiled at me almost genially.

"So it's got something to do with somebody named Cindy."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"'I was in camp with Timmy. Before he died he gave me a message todeliver to a girl named Cindy.' So you try two Cindy's in a row. Andyou know when they graduated. Busy, aren't you?"

"Go to hell, Fitz."

He stood with his big hard fists on his hips, rocking back and forthfrom heel to toe, smiling placidly at me. "You're busy, Tal. Nicelittle lunch with Ruth. Trip to the high school. Tracking down Cindy.Does she know where the loot is?"

He was wearing a dark suit, well cut. It looked expensive. His shoeswere shined, his shirt crisp. I wished I'd been more alert. It's nogreat trick to stand in one phone booth and listen to the conversationin the adjoining one. I hadn't even thought of secrecy, of makingcertain I couldn't be overheard. Now he had almost as much as I did.

"How did you get along with George, Howard?"

"I got along fine."

"Strange guy, isn't he?"

"He's a little odd."

"And he's damn near broke. That's a shame, isn't it?"

"It's too bad."

"The Stamm girl comes around and holds his hand. Maybe it makes himfeel better. Poor guy. You know he even had to sell the cabin. DidTimmy ever talk about the cabin?"

He had talked about it when we were first imprisoned. I'd forgottenabout it until that moment. I remembered Timmy saying that it was on asmall lake, a rustic cabin their father had built. He and George hadgone there to fish, many times.

"He mentioned it," I said.

"I heard about it after I got here. It seemed like a good place. So Iwent up there with my little shovel. No dice, Tal. I dug up most of thelake shore. I dug a hundred holes. See how nice I am to you? That's onemore place where it isn't. Later on George let me use it for a whilebefore he sold it. It's nice up there. You'd like it. But it's clean."

"Thanks for the information."

"I'm keeping an eye on you, Tal. I'm interested in your progress. I'llkeep in touch."

"You do that."

"Blackman runs east off Delaware. It starts three blocks north of here.Butternut must be about fourteen blocks over. It's not hard to find."

"Thanks."

I turned on my heel and left him. It was dusk when I headed outBlackman. I found Butternut without difficulty. I found the blue houseand parked in front.

As I went up the walk toward the front door the first light went oninside the house. I pushed the bell and she opened the door and lookedout at me, the light behind her, child in her arms.

"Mrs. Rorick?"

"I'm Mrs. Rorick," she said. Her voice was soft and warm and pleasant.

"You were Cindy Kirschner then. I was a friend of Timmy Warden inprison camp."

She hesitated for a moment and then said, "Won't you come in a minute."

When I was inside and she had turned toward the light I could see herbetter. The teeth had been fixed. Her face was fuller. She was stilla colorless woman with heavy glasses, but now there was a pride abouther, a confidence that had been lacking in the picture I had seen.Another child sat on a small tricycle and gave me a wide-eyed stare.Both children looked very much like her. Mrs. Rorick did not ask me tosit down.

"How well did you know Timmy, Mrs. Rorick?"

"I don't think he ever knew I was alive."

"In camp, before he died, he mentioned a Cindy. Could you have been theone?"

"I certainly doubt that."

It confused me. I said, "When I mentioned him you asked me to come in.I thought—"

She smiled. "I guess I'll have to tell you. I had the most fantasticand awful crush on him. For years and years. It was pathetic. Wheneverwe were in the same class I used to stare at him all the time. I wroteletters to him and tore them up. I sent him unsigned cards at Easterand Valentine Day and Christmas and on his birthday. I knew when hisbirthday was because once a girl I knew went to a party at his house.It was really awful. It gave me a lot of miserable years. Now it seemsfunny. But it wasn't funny then. It started in the sixth or seventhgrade. He was two grades ahead. It lasted until he graduated from highschool. He had a red knit cap he wore in winter. I stole it from thecloakroom. I slept with it under my pillow for months and months. Isn'tthat ridiculous?"

She was very pleasant. I smiled back at her. "You got over it."

"Oh, yes. At last. And then I met Pat. I'm sorry about Timmy. That wasa terrible thing. No, if he mentioned any Cindy it wasn't me. Maybe hewould know me by sight. But I don't think he'd know my name."

"Could he have meant some other Cindy?"

"It would have to be some other Cindy. But I can't think who. Therewas a girl named Cindy Waskowitz but it couldn't have been her, either.She's dead now."

"Can you think of who it could be?"

She frowned and shook her head slowly. "N—No, I can't. There'ssomething in the back of my mind, though. From a long time ago.Something I heard, or saw. I don't know. I shouldn't even try to guess.It's so vague. No, I can't help you."

"But the name Cindy means something?"

"For a moment I thought it did. It's gone now. I'm sorry."

"If you remember, could you get in touch with me?"

She smiled broadly. "You haven't told me who you are."

"I'm sorry. My name is Howard. Tal Howard. I'm staying at the SunsetMotel. You could leave a message there for me."

"Why are you so interested in finding this Cindy?"

I could at least be consistent. "I'm writing a book. I need all theinformation about Timmy that I can get."

"Put in the book that he was kind. Put that in."

"In what way, Mrs. Rorick?"

She shifted uneasily. "I used to have dreadful buck teeth. My peoplecould never afford to have them fixed. One day—that's when I was inJohn L. Davis School, that's the grade school where Timmy went, too,and it was before they built the junior high, I was in the sixth gradeand Timmy was in the eighth. A boy came with some funny teeth thatstuck way out like mine. He put them in his mouth in assembly and hewas making faces at me. I was trying not to cry. A lot of them werelaughing. Timmy took the teeth away from the boy and dropped them onthe floor and smashed them under his heel. I never forgot that. Istarted working while I was in high school and saving money. I hadenough after I was out to go to get my teeth straightened. But it wastoo late to straighten them then. So I had them taken out. I wantedmarriage and I wanted children, and the way I was no man would eventake me out." She straightened her shoulders a little. "I guess itworked," she said.

"I guess it did."

"So put that in the book. It belongs in the book."

"I will."

"And if I can remember that other, I'll phone you, Mr. Howard."

I thanked her and left. I drove back toward the center of town. I beganto think of Fitz again. Ruth was right when she used the word creepy.But it was more than that. You sensed that Fitz was a man who wouldnot be restrained by the things that restrain the rest of us. He hadproved in the camp that he didn't give a damn what people thought ofhim. He depended on himself to an almost psychopathic extent. It madeyou feel helpless in trying to deal with him. You could think of noappeal that would work. He couldn't be scared or reasoned with. He wasas primitive and functional as the design of an ax. He could not evenbe anticipated, because his logic was not of normal pattern. And then,too, there was the startling physical strength.

In camp I had seen several minor exhibitions of that power, but onlyone that showed the true extent of it. Those of us who saw it talkedabout it a long time. The guards who saw it treated Fitz with uneasyrespect after that. One of the supply trucks became mired inside thecompound, rear duals down to the hubs. They broke a towline trying tosnake it out. Then they rounded up a bunch of us to unload the supplytruck. The cases aboard had obviously been loaded on with a winch. Wegot all the stuff off except one big wooden packing case. We never didlearn what was in it. We only knew it was heavy. We were trying to geta crude dolly under it, but when we tilted it, we couldn't get thedolly far enough back. Every guard was yelling incomprehensible orders.I imagine Fitz lost patience. He jumped up into the bed of the truck,put his back against the case, squatted and got his fingers underthe edge. Then he came up with it, his face a mask of effort, cordsstanding out on his throat. He lifted it high enough so the dolly couldbe put under it. He lowered it again and jumped down off the truck,oddly pale and perspiring heavily.

Once it was rolled to the tail gate on the dolly, enough men couldget hold of it to ease it down. When it was on the ground one of thebiggest of the guards swaggered up, grinning at his friends, and triedto do what Fitz had done. He couldn't budge it. He and one of hisfriends got it up a few inches, but not as high as Fitz had. They werehumiliated and they took it out on the rest of us, but not on Fitz. Hewas left alone.

Back in town I decided I would have a drink at the Inn and a solitarymeal and try to think of what the next step should be. I was picked upin front of the Inn, ten steps from my car.

FIVE

There were two of them. One was a thin, sandy man in uniform and theother was a massive middle-aged man in a gray suit with a pouched,florid face.

"Your name Howard?"

"Yes, it is."

"Police. Come on along."

"What for?"

"Lieutenant wants to talk to you."

I went along. They put me in a police sedan and drove about eightblocks and turned into an enclosed courtyard through a gray stone arch.Other cars were parked there. They took me through a door that was oneof several opening onto the courtyard. We went up wide wooden stairsthat were badly worn to the second floor. It was an old building withan institutional smell of dust, carbolic, and urine. We went by opendoors. One door opened onto a big file room with fluorescent lights andgray steel filing cases. Some men played cards in another room. I couldhear the metallic gabbling voice of some sort of communication system.

We turned into a small office where a thin, bald man sat behind adesk that faced the door. His face was young, with a swarthy Indianharshness about it, black brows. His hands were large. He looked tall.A small wooden sign on his desk said Det. Lt. Stephen D. Prine. Theoffice had cracked buff plaster walls. Books and pamphlets were piledin disorder in a glass-front bookcase. A smallish man with white hairand a red whisky face sat half behind Lieutenant Prine, on the smallgilded radiator in front of the single window.

One of the men behind me gave me an unnecessary push that made me thumpmy knee against the front of the desk and almost lose my balance. Prinelooked at me with complete coldness.

"This is that Howard," one of the men behind me said.

"Okay." The door behind me closed. I glanced back and saw that theman in uniform had left. The big man in the gray suit leaned againstthe closed door. "Empty your pockets onto the desk," Prine said."Everything."

"But—"

"Empty your pockets." There was no threat in the words. Cold, boredcommand.

I put everything on the desk. Wallet, change, pen and pencil, notebook,cigarettes, lighter, penknife, folder of traveler's checks. Prinereached a big hand over and separated the items into two piles,notebook, wallet, and checks in one pile that he pulled toward him.

"Put the rest of that stuff back in your pockets."

"Could I ask why—"

"Shut up."

I stood in uncomfortable silence while he went through my wallet. Helooked carefully at every card and piece of paper, at the photographof Charlotte, at the reduced Photostat of my discharge laminated inplastic. He went through the notebook and then examined the traveler'schecks.

"Now answer some questions." He opened a desk drawer, flipped a switch,and said, "April 20, seven-ten p.m., interrogation by Lieutenant Prineof suspect picked up by Hillis and Brubaker in vicinity of HillstonInn. What is your full name?"

"Talbert Owen Howard."

"Speak a little louder. Age and place of birth."

"Twenty-nine. Bakersfield, California."

"Home address."

"None at the present time."

"What was your last address?"

"Eighteen Norwalk Road, San Diego."

"Are you employed?"

"No."

"When were you last employed and by who?"

"Up until two and a half weeks ago. By the Guaranty Federated InsuranceCompany. I had a debit. Health and life. I was fired."

"For what reason?"

"I wasn't producing."

"How long did you work for them?"

"Four years all together. Three and a half before the Korean war. Therest of it since I got back."

"Are you married? Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Parents living?"

"No."

"Brothers or sisters?"

"One sister. Older than I am. She lives in Perth, Australia. She was aWave and she married an Aussie during the war."

"Do you have any criminal record?"

"N—No."

"You don't seem sure."

"I don't know if you'd call it a criminal record. It was when I was inschool. One of those student riots. Disturbing the peace and resistingan officer."

"Were you booked and mugged and fingerprinted and found guilty?"

"Yes. I paid a fine and spent three days in jail."

"Then you have a criminal record. How long have you been in Hillston?"

"I arrived here—Wednesday night. Two days."

"What is your local address?"

"The Sunset Motel."

"On this vehicle registration, do you own the vehicle free and clear?"

"Yes."

"You have a little over a thousand dollars. Where did you get it?"

"I earned it. I saved it. I'm getting a little sick of all this. It'sbeginning to make me sore."

"Why did you come to Hillston?"

"Do I have to have a reason?"

"Yes. You need a reason."

"I knew Timmy Warden in prison camp. And I knew others there thatdidn't come back. I'm going to write a book about them. There's mynotes. You have them there."

"Why didn't you tell George Warden that?"

"I didn't know how he'd take it."

"You didn't tell Fitzmartin, either?"

"He has no reason to know my business."

"But you went out there to see him. And you were both in the same campwith Timmy Warden. It would seem natural to tell him."

"I don't care how it seems. I didn't tell him."

"If a man came to town with a cooked-up story about writing a book, itwould give him a chance to nose around, wouldn't it?"

"I guess it would."

"What else have you written?"

"Nothing else."

"Are you familiar with the state laws and local ordinances coveringprivate investigators?"

I stared at him blankly. "No."

"Are you licensed in any state?"

"No. I don't know what—"

"If you were licensed, it would be necessary for you to find outwhether this state has any reciprocal agreement. If so, you wouldmerely have to make a courtesy call and announce your presence in thiscounty and give the name of your employer."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you know a woman named Rose Fulton?"

"No. I've never heard of her."

"Were you employed by Rose Fulton to come to Hillston?"

"No. I told you I never heard of her."

"We were advised a month ago that Rose Fulton had hired an investigatorto come here on an undercover assignment. We've been looking for theman. He would be the third one she's sent here. The first two made abotch of their job. There was no job here for them in the first place.Rose Fulton is a persistent and misguided woman. The case, if there wasany case, was completely investigated by this department. Part of ourjob is to keep citizens of Hillston from being annoyed and persecutedby people who have no business here. Is that clear to you?"

"I don't understand what you're talking about. I really don't."

He looked at me for what seemed a long time. Then he said, "End ofinterrogation witnessed by Brubaker and Sparkman. Copies for file.Prine." He clicked the switch and closed the desk drawer. He leanedback in his chair and yawned, then pushed my wallet, checks, andnotebook toward me. "It's just this, Howard. We get damned tired ofcharacters nosing around here. The implication is that we didn't do ourjob. The hell we didn't. This Rose Fulton is the wife of the guy whoran off with George Warden's wife, Eloise."

"That name Fulton sounded familiar, but I didn't know why."

"It happened nearly two years ago. The first inquiry came from thecompany Fulton worked for. We did some hard work on it. Fulton was intown for three days. He was registered at the Hillston Inn. He stayedthere every time he was in town. On the last night he was here, Fridaynight, he had dinner at the hotel with Eloise Warden. She waited inthe lobby and he checked out. They got in his car. They drove to theWarden house. Eloise went in. Fulton waited out in the car. It was theevening of the eleventh of April. A neighbor saw him waiting and sawher come out to the car with a big suitcase. They drove off. GeorgeWarden hadn't reported it to us. He knew what the score was when he gotback to town and saw the things she'd taken. It was an open and shutsituation. It happens all the time. But Rose Fulton can't bring herselfto believe that her dear husband would take off with another woman. Soshe keeps sicking these investigators on us. You could be the third. Idon't think so. No proof. Just a hunch. She thinks something happenedto him here. We know nothing happened to him here. I've lost patience,so this time we're making it tough. You can go. If I happen to bewrong, if you happen to be hired by that crazy dame, you better keepright on going, friend. We've got a small force here, but we know ourbusiness."

The big middle-aged man moved away from the door to let me out. Therewas no offer of a ride back to where they had picked me up. I walked.The walk wasn't long enough. By the time I got to the Inn I was stillsore at Prine and company. I could grudgingly admit that maybe hethought he had cause to swing his weight around. But I didn't likebeing picked up like that. And it had irritated me to have to tell themI had no job, no permanent residence. I wasn't certain what legal rightthey had to take that sort of a statement from me.

I had a drink at the dark bar at the end of the co*cktail lounge at theInn. Business was light. I nursed my drink and wondered how they hadpicked me up so quickly. I guessed it was from the motel register. I'dhad to write down the make of my car and the license number. They'dknown who I'd talked to and what had been said. It was a small city andthey acted like men who made a business of knowing what was going on.

Just as I ordered the second drink I saw a big man come in and stand atthe other end of the bar. He looked like the man I had seen in the bluesedan. But I couldn't be certain. I had forgotten him and the effecthe had had on Fitzmartin. He became aware of my interest. He turnedand gave me a long look and turned back to the drink the bartender putin front of him. He had moved his head slowly when he turned to lookat me. His eyes were in shadow. I had a sudden instinctive premonitionof danger. Fitz was danger, but a known quantity. I did not know thisman or where he fitted in. I did not want to attempt to ask him. Hefinished his drink quickly and left. I looked down into my drink andsaw myself lying dead, sprawled, cold. It was a fantasy that had beenwith me in the prison camp and later. You think of your own death. Youtry to imagine how it will be—to just cease, abruptly, eternally. Itis a chilling thought, and once you have started it, it is difficult toshake off.

The depression stayed with me the rest of the evening. Thoughts ofRuth, of the new emphasis she had brought into my life, did little torelieve the blackness and the hint of fear. My mission in Hillstonseemed pointless. It was part of running away from myself. There was nochance of finding the money and even if there was and I did find it, Icouldn't imagine it changing anything. Somehow I had become a misfitin my world, in my time. I had been jolted out of one comfortable rut,and there seemed to be no other place where I could fit. Other thanCharlotte—and, too optimistically, Ruth—I could think of no one whogave a special damn whether I lived or died.

After the light was out I lay in darkness and surrendered myself tothe great waves of bathos and self-pity. I wondered what would becomeof me. I wondered how soon I would be dead. I wondered how many otherlonely beds there would be, and where they would be. Finally I fellasleep.

SIX

Saturday morning was dreary, with damp winds, low, scudding clouds,lights on in the stores. I couldn't get a better line on the Coopergirl until the administration office at the high school opened onMonday. The few leads had faded away into nothing. I wondered what Iwould do with the day.

After buying some blades and some tooth paste, I drove around fora while and finally faced the fact that I was trying to think of agood excuse to see Ruth Stamm. I went without an excuse. She was inthe reception office at the animal hospital. She gave me a quick,warm smile as I walked in. A woman sat holding a small shivering dog,waiting her turn. There was a boy with a Siamese cat on a leash. Thecat, dainty and arrogant, purposefully ignored the shivering dog.

Ruth, smiling, asked in a low voice, "More questions?"

"No questions. Just general depression."

"Wrong kind of hospital, Tal."

"But the right kind of personnel."

"Need some kind of therapy?"

"Something like that."

She looked at her watch. "Come back at twelve. We close at noon onSaturday. I'll feed you and we'll cook up something to do."

The day was not as dreary when I drove away. I returned at twelve.I went up to the house with her, and the three of us ate in the bigkitchen. Dr. Buck Stamm was a skilled storyteller. Apparently everymisfortune that could happen to a veterinary had happened to him. Hereviled his profession, and his own stupidity in getting into it in thefirst place. After a cigar he went off to make farm calls. I helpedRuth with a few dishes.

"How about a plain old tour of the surrounding country," she suggested."There are parts that are very nice."

"Then dinner tonight and a movie or something?"

"Sold. It's Saturday night."

She changed to slacks and a tweed jacket over a yellow sweater and wetook my car. She gave me the directions. We took small back roads. Itwas pretty country, with rolling hills and spines of rock that stuckout of the hills. In the city the day had been gloomy. Out in thecountry it was no better, but the breeze seemed moist with spring. Thenew leaves were a pale green. She sat slouched in the seat with oneknee up against the glove compartment and pointed out the farms, toldme about the people, told me about the history of the area.

At her suggestion I took a back road that led to a place calledHighland Lake. She told me when to slow down. When we came to a dirtroad we turned right. A mile down the slippery, muddy road was a signthat said B. Stamm. I went cautiously down an overgrown drive throughthe woods until we came to a small cabin with a big porch overlookinga small lake less than a mile long and half as wide. I could see othercabins in the trees along the lake shore.

We went onto the cabin porch and sat on the railing and smoked andtalked and watched the quick winds furrow the lake surface.

"We don't get up here as much as we used to when Mother was alive. Dadtalks about selling it, but I don't think he will. He hunts up here inthe fall. It's only eighteen miles from town, the shortest way. It'spretty primitive, but you know, Tal, this would be a good place towrite."

I felt again a quick, sharp pang of guilt.

Her enthusiasm grew. "Nobody is using it. There's no electricity, butthere are oil lamps and a Coleman lantern. There's plenty of woodin the shed, and one of those little gasoline stoves. The bunks arecomfortable and there's lots of blankets. It would save paying rent. Iknow Dad wouldn't mind a bit."

"Thanks, Ruth, but really I couldn't—"

"Why not? It's only a half hour to town."

"I don't think I'll be here long enough to make it worth while movingin."

"Well, then," she said, "okay." And I thought I detected somedisappointment in her tone. "I'd like you to see it, anyhow." The keywas hidden on one of the roof supports near the door. We went inside.It was bare, but it looked clean and comfortable. There were fish rodson a wall rack, and a big stone fireplace.

"It's nice," I said.

"I've always loved it. I'd make a wild row if Dad ever tried to sellit. The first time I came up here they had to bring play pen and highchair. I learned to swim here. I broke my collarbone falling out of oneof those top bunks in there."

She smiled at me. We were standing quite close together. There wassomething both warm and wistful about her smile. There was a longsilence in the room. I could hear birds and a far-off drone of anoutboard motor. Our eyes locked once more and her smile faded as hermouth softened. There was a heaviness about her eyes, a look almost ofdrowsiness. We took a half step toward each other and she came neatly,graciously into my arms as though it were an act we had performed manytimes. The kiss was gentle at first and then fierce and hungry; as shestrained upward against me my hands felt the long smoothness of herback, and her arm was crooked hard around my neck.

We wavered in dizzy balance and I side-stepped quickly to catch ourbalance and we parted awkwardly, shy as children.

"Tal," she said. "Tal, I—" Her voice was throaty and unfocused.

"I know," I said. "I know."

She turned away abruptly and walked slowly to the window and lookedout across the lake. I followed her and put my hands lightly on hershoulders. I felt shamed by all this, shamed by my lies, and afraid ofwhat would happen when she found out about me.

I felt new tension in her body and she leaned closer to the window andseemed to peer more intently.

"What's the matter?"

"Look. Isn't that some kind of animal over there? Directly across. Thatwas the Warden camp before George sold it. The one with the green roof.Now look just to the right of the porch." I looked and saw somethingbulky, partially screened by brush. It looked as if it could be a bear.She brushed by me and came back with a pair of binoculars. She focusedthem and said, "It's a man. Here. You look."

I adjusted them to my eyes. The man was getting to his feet. He was abig man in a brown suit. He was hatless and his hair was thin on topand he had a wide, hard-looking face. It was the man who had driven byFitz and me in the blue sedan, the man who had come into the bar atthe Inn. He brushed the knees of his brown suit and dusted his handstogether. He bent over and picked up what looked to be a long dowel ora piece of reinforcing rod.

"Let me look," she said and took the binoculars again. "I know thepeople who bought the camp from George. That isn't the man."

"Maybe he's a service man of some kind."

"I don't think so. I know most of them. Now he's going up on the porch.He's trying the door. Hey! He broke a window right next to the door.Now he's getting it up. Now he's stepping in over the sill." She turnedto me, her eyes wide. "How about that? Tal, he's a thief! We better goover there."

"Anything you say. But how about the law?"

"Wait a minute." She hurried into the bedroom. She came back with a .22target pistol and a box of shells. It was a long-barreled automatic.She thumbed the clip out and loaded it expertly, snapped the clip backin and handed me the gun. "You'll be more impressive with it than Iwould. Come on."

There was no road that led directly around the lake. We had to go aboutfour miles out of our way to get to the road on the other side of thelake. A dark blue sedan was parked at the head of the driveway, facingout. There wasn't room to drive by. I parked and we went down thetrail toward the camp. I turned and motioned her to stay back. I wentahead but I heard her right behind me. The man came walking around thecorner of the camp, frowning. He stopped short when he saw me, his eyesflicking toward the gun and then toward Ruth.

"Why did you break into that camp?" Ruth demanded angrily.

"Take it easy, lady. Put the gun away, friend."

"Answer the question," I said, keeping the gun on him.

He acted so unimpressed that I felt ridiculous holding the gun.

"I'm a licensed private investigator, friend. Don't put any hole in mewhile I'm getting my wallet. I'll show you."

He took the wallet out. He took out a card encased in plastic andnipped it toward us. Ruth picked it up. It had his picture and a thumbprint and two official looking countersignatures and it said he waslicensed by the State of Illinois. His name was Milton D. Grassman. Thecard said he was forty-one years old, six foot one, and weighed twohundred and five.

"But what are you investigating?" Ruth asked.

He smiled. "Just investigating. And who are you, lady? Maybe you'retrespassing." His smile was half good humor, half contempt.

"You're working for Rose Fulton, aren't you?" I asked.

The smile was gone instantly. He didn't seem to move or breathe. I hadthe impression that a very good mind behind that flat, tough face wasworking rapidly.

"I'm afraid I don't know the name," he said. But he had waited toolong. "Who are you, friend?"

"We're going to report this to the police," Ruth said.

"Go ahead, lady. Be a good citizen. Give them the word."

"Come on, Tal," she said. We went back up the trail. When we got intothe car I looked back and saw him standing by his car, watching us.He didn't take his eyes off us while he lit a cigarette and shook thematch out.

Ruth was oddly silent as I drove back toward the Stamm camp. Finally Isaid, "What's the matter?"

"I don't know. At first I thought you lied to me. Then I believed you.Now I don't know."

"How come?"

"You know what I'm thinking. You asked him about a Rose Fulton. Itshocked him when you asked him that. Anybody could see that. EloiseWarden ran away with a man named Fulton. What would make you think toask that Mr. Grassman that question?" She turned to face me. "What areyou doing in Hillston, Tal? If that's your name."

"I told you what I'm doing."

"Why did you ask that man that question?"

"The police picked me up last night. They had word that Rose Fulton hadhired another man to come here. This will be the third. They thoughtI was that man. They interrogated me and then they let me go. So Iguessed that maybe he was the man."

We got out of the car. She was still looking at me oddly. "Tal, ifyou're here to write up Timmy, I think you would have told me thatbefore now. It's a cute and interesting little story if you werehere just to write up Timmy. And I can't believe that you could haveforgotten it."

"I just didn't—think of telling it."

"That's no good, Tal."

"I know it isn't."

"What's wrong? Is it something you can't tell me?"

"Look, Ruth. I—There is another reason why I came. I lied to you. Idon't want to tell you why I came here. I'd rather not."

"But it has something to do with Timmy."

"That's right."

"He is dead, isn't he?"

"He's dead."

"But how can I know when you're lying and when you're not?"

"I guess you can't," I said helplessly.

She locked the camp and, on the way back, told me which turns to take.She had nothing else to say. I drove into her place. She opened thedoor quickly to get out.

"Wait a minute, Ruth."

Her right foot was on the ground. She sat on the corner of the seat andturned and looked back at me. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry about this."

"You've made me feel like a fool. I talked a lot to you. I believed youand so I told you things I've never told anybody. Just to help you whenyou had no intention of writing up Timmy."

"I tell you, I'm sorry."

"That doesn't do very much good. But I'll give you this much benefit ofthe doubt, Tal. Look right at me and tell me that you have no reason tobe ashamed of why you came here."

I looked into the gray eyes and, like Grassman, I hesitated too long.She slammed the car door and went to the house without looking back.Saturday night was no longer a nice thing to think about. Somehow,through impulsiveness and through awkwardness, I had trapped myself. Ifelt as if I had lost a great deal more than a Saturday night date. Shewas not a girl you could lie to. She was not a girl you would want tolie to. My little cover story now seemed soiled and dingy. I drove intotown. I started my drinking at the Hillston Inn.

Before I left the Inn I cashed two traveler's checks. I hit a greatmany bars. It was Saturday night. The city seemed alive. I can rememberseeing the dwarf bartender. There was a woman I bought drinks for. Atone time I was in a men's room and four of us were singing. The doorwas locked and somebody was pounding on it. We were making fine music.I was sick in a hedge and I couldn't find my car. I wandered a longtime before I found it. I don't know what time it was. It was late.I had to keep one eye closed as I drove cautiously out to the motel.Otherwise the center line was double.

I parked the car in front of my motel room and went, unwashed, to bed.Sunday was a replica, a sodden day in town, a drunken day.

It was eleven when I got up on Monday morning. A half dozen glasses ofwater made me feel bloated but didn't quench my thirst. My head poundedin a dull, ragged rhythm. I shaved slowly, painfully. The shower mademe feel a little better. I decided that it was time to go. Time toleave this place. I didn't know where I would head for. Any place. Anykind of a job. Some kind of manual labor. Get too bushed to think.

I packed my two bags. I left them inside the door and went out tounlock the trunk. All the transient cars were gone. A big dog stoodwith his feet against the side of my car, looking in the side window.The cold, thin, birdlike woman was carrying sheets and towels out ofone of the other rooms and dumping them into a hamper on wheels.

The dog jumped back as I walked out. He stood twenty feet away andwhined in a funny way. I made as though to throw gravel at him and hewent farther back. I didn't know what attracted him to my car.

I happened to glance inside as I was heading to unlock the trunk. Istopped and looked for a long time. It seemed an effort to take my eyesaway. A big body was on the floor in the back, legs bent, head tiltedsideways. It was Milton Grassman. He still wore the brown suit. Theknees showed traces of pale dried mud. The forehead, in the area wherethe thin hairline had started, was broken jelly, an ugly, sickeningdepression. No man could have lived more than a moment with a woundlike that.

I realized the woman was calling to me in her thin voice.

I turned and said, "What?"

"I said are you staying another day?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm staying another day."

She went into another room. She was working her way toward mine. Ihurried back in. I put one bag in the closet, opened the other one, putmy toilet articles back in the bathroom. I slammed the door and wentout. The dog was standing by the car again, whining. I got behind thewheel and drove out of there. I drove away from town. I didn't want tobe stopped by a traffic light where anybody could look down into theback of the car. I remembered an old tarp in the back. I pulled offonto the shoulder and got the tarp. I waited while traffic went by andthen spread the tarp over Grassman. I tried not to look at him while Idid it. But I couldn't help seeing his face. The slackness of death hadironed everything out of it, all expression.

I drove on aimlessly and then stopped again on the shoulder of thehighway. I wanted to be able to think. I could feel the dreadfulpresence of the body behind me. My brain felt frozen, numbed, useless.It did no good to wonder when the body had been put there. I couldn'teven remember the places where I had parked.

Why had it been put in my car? Somebody wanted to get rid of it.Somebody wanted to divert suspicion from himself. From the look ofthe wound, murder had been violent and unplanned. One tremendous,skull-smashing blow. It was inevitable that I should begin to thinkof Fitz. Of the people I knew in Hillston, he was the one capable ofmurder, and both quick and brutal enough to have killed a man likeGrassman. From what I had seen of him, Grassman looked tough andcapable.

But why would Fitz want to implicate me? The answer was quick andchilling. It meant that he had traced the right Cindy, the Cindy whowould know where Timmy had buried the money. He might already have themoney.

The immediate problem was to get rid of the body. It should be a placewhere there would be no witness, no one to remember having seen mycar. I couldn't go to the police. "I was here before. Unemployed. Nopermanent address. A criminal record, according to your definition. Itso happens I have a body in my car. It got in there somehow last night.Was I drunk? Brother, you can find a dozen witnesses to how drunk Iwas. I was a slobbering mess, the worst I've ever been in my life.Worse even than the night before."

There would be no glimmer of understanding in the cold official eyes ofLieutenant Prine.

A state road patrol car passed me, going slowly. The trooper behind thewheel stared curiously at me as I sat there. He stopped and backed up.Maybe they were already looking for me.

He leaned across the empty seat and said, "What's the trouble?"

"Nothing. I mean I was overheating. I thought I'd let it cool off. Isit far to a gas station?"

"Mile or so. It'll cool off quicker if you open the hood."

"Will it? Thanks."

"And get it a little farther off the road, doc."

He went on. I moved the car farther off the road. I opened the hood. Iwondered if he would be bothered by the way I had acted and come backto check my license and look the car over. I wondered if I should makea U-turn and get as far away from him as I could. But it made somesense to risk the outside chance of his coming back and stay rightthere until I could plan what to do with the body.

The noon sun was warm. There was a subtle, sour odor in the car thatsickened me. A dark-red tractor moved back and forth across a distanthillside. Drainage water bubbled in the ditch beside the shoulder. Atruck went by at high speed, the blast of its passage shaking my car.

I found that a two-day drunk gives your mind a flavor of unreliability.Memory is shaky and dreams become mixed with reality. I began to wonderif I had imagined the body. When there was no traffic I looked intothe back seat again. The tarp was there. The body was covered. It wasnot covered very well. I saw a thick ankle, a dark green sock, a brownscuffed shoe, cracked across the instep, with laces tied in a doubleknot, the way my mother used to tie my shoelaces when I was very smallto keep them from coming untied. It made Grassman more believable as aperson, as the person who had sat on the edge of a bed and tied thoselaces and then had gone out and become a body, and the laces wouldeventually be untied by somebody else, somebody with a professionalcoolness and an unthinking competence. I whirled around when I heardtraffic coming. When the road was clear again I pulled the tarp tocover the ankle and shoe, but it pulled clear of his head and mystomach spasmed and I could not look at him.

After a while I fixed the tarp properly. I got out of the car. I didnot want to look in again. But I found myself staring in at the sidewindow.

I had to get rid of it somewhere. I had to get rid of it soon. The verynearness of the body kept me from thinking clearly.

The lake? I could find it again. But I could be seen there as readilyas Ruth saw Grassman. I could hunt for obscure roads at random anddump the body out when I came to what seemed to be a good place. Butthe body was going to be found and it was going to be identified and itwas going to be in the paper with the right name. And Ruth was going toremember the odd question I had asked the man and remember his telltaleresponse to that question.

The minutes were ticking by and I was getting nowhere. Fitzmartin'strap was wide and deep, lined with sharp stakes. I wished I could putthe body back on his doorstep. Give it right back to him. Let him sweat.

At first glance the idea seemed absurd. But the more I thought aboutit the better it seemed. I would be seen driving into the yard. But ifquestioned I could say that I was going to see Fitzmartin. And I wouldsee Fitzmartin. I would leave the body in the yard somewhere betweenthe piles of stacked lumber.

No. That would do no good. No man would be so stupid as to kill anotherman and leave the body at the place where he worked. Yet if someattempt was made to conceal the body—Perhaps then they would assumeit was a temporary hiding place until Fitzmartin could think of another.

On the other hand, would any man be so stupid as to kill another manand then drive the body to the police station in his car and claimhe didn't do it? Maybe that was my best out. Maybe that was the bestinnocent reaction.

My hands were icy cold and sweaty. They left wet marks where I touchedthe steering wheel. I was trying to think of every alternative, everypossible plan of action. I could go back and check out and head westand try to leave the body where it would never be found. Buy a shovel.Dig a desert grave. I could put the body in the seat beside me and runinto something. My ideas were getting worse instead of better. Thevery presence of the body made thinking as laborious as trying to runthrough waist-deep water. I did not want to panic, but I knew I had toget rid of it as soon as possible. And I could not see myself going toPrine for tender mercy. There had been a reason why Grassman had beenkilled. Hiding the body would give me a grace period. I would have toassume it would be traced to me eventually. By the time they caught upwith me, I would have to know why he had been killed. Knowing why wouldmean knowing who. I knew it was Fitz. Why did Fitz kill Grassman?

I shut the hood and started the car and drove. I was five miles fromthe court and about nine miles from town when I found a promisinglooking road that turned left. It was potholed asphalt, ravaged bywinter, torn by tractor lugs. It climbed mild hills and dipped intoforgotten valleys. It came out of a heavy wooded area, and ahead on theleft, set well back from the road, I saw a tall stone chimney where ahouse had burned long ago. The weathered gray barn had half collapsed.It looked like a great gray animal with a broken back, its hind legsdragging. The road was empty. I turned in where the farm road had oncebeen. Small trees bent over under my front bumper, dragged along theunderside of the car, and half rose again behind me. I circled thefoundation of the house and parked behind the barn near a wild tangleof berry bushes. I could not be seen from the road. I had to risk beingseen from distant hillsides. It seemed very quiet with the motor off. Acrow went over, hoarse and derisive.

I opened the rear door of the car. I made myself grasp his heavyankles. Rigor had begun to set in. It took all my strength to pull thebulky body free of the cramped space between the back seat and the backof the front seat. It came free suddenly, thudding to the ground. Ireleased the ankles and staggered back. There had been something underthe body. Friction had pulled it toward me. It rested on the car floor,half in and half out of the car—a short, bright length of galvanizedpipe with a dark brown smear at one end. I left the body there and wentto see where I would put it. There was a great splintered hole in theback of the barn. I stepped up and through the hole. The floor feltsolid. Daylight came brightly through the holes in the roof.

I went back to the body again. It was not hard to drag it to the hole.But getting it inside the barn was difficult. I had to lift it aboutthree feet. I puzzled over how to do it. Finally I turned him aroundand propped him up in a sitting position, his back to the hole. Iclimbed up over him, then reached down and got his wrists. I pulled himup over the edge and then dragged him back into the darkness. There wassome hay on the floor, musty and matted. I covered the body with it. Iwent out and got the piece of pipe, using a dry leaf to pick it up. Idropped it into the hay that covered the body. I went back out into thesunlight.

I wondered about Grassman. I wondered what compulsion had made himchoose his line of work. Dirty, monotonous, and sometimes dangerouswork. From the look of the man as he talked to us up at the lake, Iguessed that he had no idea it would end like this. He had lookedtough and confident. This body under the straw was a far cry from thefictional private eyes, the smart ones and the suave ones and the gamyones. His story had ended. He would not sit up, brush the straw out ofhis eyes and reach for either blonde or bottle. Leaving him there hadabout it the faint flavor of burial, as though solemn words should besaid.

I inspected the car. The floor rug was stained and spotted in fourplaces. I couldn't see any on the seat, or on the insides of the doors.I took the floor rug out and rolled it up. I put it beside me in thefront seat. I sat and listened to the quietness, straining to hear anysound of car motor laboring on the hills. I heard only the birds andthe sound of wind.

I drove back out and I did not head back the way I had come. A carseen going and returning was more likely to be remembered on a countryroad than a car that went on through. In about three miles I came to acrossroads. I turned north. I thought the road was paralleling the mainhighway, but in five miles it joined the main highway, coming into itat a shallow angle. I took the next secondary road that turned right.I was closer to the city. Soon, as I had hoped and expected, I came toa place where a lot of trash had been dumped. I put the rolled rug inwith the bed springs and broken scooters and kicked some cans over it.

By the time I passed the motel, heading toward the city, I wassurprised to find that it was only quarter after one. I ate at a smallrestaurant on Delaware Street. When I left I met Mrs. Pat Rorick on thesidewalk. She had an armful of bundles. She smiled and said "Hello, Mr.Howard."

"Did you remember anything, Mrs. Rorick?"

"I don't know if this is any use to you, but I did remember one littlething. It was a skit the eighth grade did and Timmy was in it. It wasbased on Cinderella. I can't remember the girl who played the part,but I remember how funny it sounded the way it was written, with Timmycalling the girl Cindy. It probably doesn't mean anything."

"It might. Thanks."

"I'm glad I met you. I was wondering whether to call you about anythingthat sounds so stupid. I've got to run. There comes my bus."

"I'll drive you home."

"No. Don't bother."

I convinced her I had nothing to do. We got into the car. She had herpackages piled on her lap. I wondered how she'd feel if she'd knownabout my last passenger.

"How should I go about finding out who that girl was?"

"Gee, I don't know. It was a long time ago. I don't know if anybodywould remember. The eighth-grade home-room teacher was Miss Major. Ihad her too, later. She was real cute. I think she wrote that skit theydid. I don't know what happened to her. I think she got married andmoved away. They might know at the school. It's John L. Davis School.On Holly Street, near the bridge."

SEVEN

The John L. Davis School was an ancient red-brick building with aniron picket fence enclosing the schoolyard. As I went up the steps tothe door, I could hear a class of small voices chanting something inunison. It was a sleepy, nostalgic, afternoon sound.

In the wide wooden hallway there were drinking fountains which lookedabsurdly low. A small boy came down the hall, tapping himself gentlyand wistfully on the head with a ruler. He gave me an opaque stare andcontinued on his way.

There was a nervous young woman in the outer office of the principal'soffice. She was typing and chewing her lip and when she looked up at meshe was obviously irritated by the interruption.

"I'm trying to find a Miss Major who used to teach here. She taughteighth-grade subjects, I believe."

"We only go through the sixth. Then the children go to the junior high."

"I know that. But you used to have the seventh and eighth here."

"Not for a long time. Not since I've been here."

"Aren't there any records? Isn't there any place you could look?"

"I wouldn't know where to look. I wouldn't know anything like that."

"Are there any teachers here who would have been here when Miss Majorwas here?"

"I guess there probably are. I guess there would be some. How long agowas she here?"

"About twelve years ago."

"Mrs. Stearns has been teaching here twenty-two years. Third grade.Room sixteen. That's on this floor just around the corner."

"I wouldn't want to interrupt a class."

"Any minute now they'll all be going home. Then you could ask her. Iwouldn't know anything like that. I wouldn't know where to look oranything."

I waited outside room sixteen. There was a lull and then somebodystarted a record player. Sousa filled the halls with brass, at peakvolume. There was a great scurrying in all the rooms. The doors opened.All the small denizens marched into the hall and stood in impatientragged double lines, stomping their feet in time to the music. Thefloor shook. Weary teachers kept a cautious eye on the lines. Theupstairs rooms marched down the stairs and out the double doors. Thenthe main floor marched out, yelling as soon as they hit the sunlight.The school was emptied. Sousa blared on for a few moments and died inthe middle of a bar.

"Mrs. Stearns?"

"Yes, I'm Mrs. Stearns." She was a round, pale woman with hair likesteel wool and small, sharp, bright dark eyes.

"My name is Howard, Talbert Howard. Did you know a Miss Major who usedto teach here?"

"Of course. I knew Katherine very well. That reminds me, I should stopby and see how she's getting along these days."

"She's in town?"

"Oh, yes, the poor thing."

"Is she ill?"

"Oh, I thought you knew. Katherine went blind quite suddenly about tenyears ago. It was a shock to all of us. I feel guilty that I don't callon her more often. But after a full day of the children, I don't feellike calling on anyone. I don't seem to have the energy any more."

"Could you tell me where she lives?"

"Not off hand, but it's in the phone book. She's on Finch Avenue, in anapartment. I know the house but I can't remember the number. She livesalone. She's very proud, you know. And she really gets along remarkablywell, considering."

It was a small ground-floor apartment in the rear of an old house.Music was playing loudly in the apartment. It was a symphony I didn'trecognize. The music stopped moments after I knocked at the door.

Miss Major opened the door. She wore a blue dress. Her hair was whiteand worn in a long page boy. Her features were strong. She could haveonce been a beautiful woman. She was still handsome. When I spoke toher, she seemed to focus on my face. It was hard to believe those eyeswere sightless.

I told her my name and said I wanted to ask her about a student she hadhad in the eighth grade.

"Please come in, Mr. Howard. Sit there in the red chair. I was havingtea. Would you care for some?"

"No, thank you."

"Then one of these cookies. A friend of mine bakes them. They're verygood."

She held the plate in precisely the right spot. I took one and thankedher. She put the plate back on the table and sat facing me. She foundher teacup and lifted it to her lips.

"Now what student was it?"

"Do you remember Timmy Warden?"

"Of course I remember him! He was a charmer. I was told how he died.I was dreadfully sorry to hear it. A man came to see me six or sevenmonths ago. He said he'd been in that prison camp with Timmy. I nevercould quite understand why he came to see me. His name was Fitzmartinand he asked all sorts of odd questions. I couldn't feel at ease withhim. He didn't seem—quite right if you know what I mean. When you loseone sense you seem to become more aware of nuances."

"I was in that camp too, Miss Major."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Probably Mr. Fitzmartin is a friend of yours."

"No, he's not."

"That's a relief. Now don't tell me you came here to ask odd questionstoo, Mr. Howard."

"Fairly odd, I guess. In camp Timmy spoke about a girl named Cindy.I've been trying to track her down for—personal reasons. One of yourother students, Cindy Kirschner, told me that you wrote a skit based onCinderella for the eighth grade when you had Timmy in the class. Timmywasn't—very well when he mentioned this Cindy. I'm wondering if hecould have meant the girl who played the part in the play."

"Whatever has happened to Cindy Kirschner, Mr. Howard? Such a shy,sweet child. And those dreadful teeth."

"The teeth have been fixed. She's married to a man named Pat Rorick andshe has a couple of kids."

"That's good to hear. The other children used to be horrible to her.They can be little animals at times."

"Do you remember who played the part of Cindy in the skit?"

"Of course I remember. I remember because it was sort of an experiment.Her name was Antoinette Rasi. Wait a moment. I'll show you something."She went into the other room. She was gone nearly five minutes. Shecame back with a glossy photograph.

"I had a friend help me sort these out after I learned Braille. I'vemarked them all so I know this is the right one. It's a graduationpicture. I've kept the graduation pictures of all my classes, thoughwhat use I have for pictures, I'll never know."

She handed it to me and said, "I believe Antoinette is in the back rowtoward the left. Look for a girl with a great mass of black hair and apretty, rather sullen face. I don't imagine she was smiling."

"I think I've found her."

"Antoinette was a problem. She was a little older than the others. HalfFrench and half Italian. She resented discipline. She was a rowdy, atroublemaker. But I liked the child and I thought I understood her. Herpeople were very poor and I don't think she got much attention at home.She had an older brother who had been in trouble with the police and Ibelieve an older sister. She came to school inadequately dressed whenthe weather was cold. She had a lot of spirit. She was a very aliveperson. I think she was sensitive, but she hid it very carefully. Ican't help but wonder sometimes what has happened to the child. TheRasis lived north of the city where the river widens out. I believethat Mr. Rasi had a boat and bait business in the summer and did oddjobs in the wintertime. Their house was a shack. I went out thereonce after Antoinette had missed a whole week of school. I found shehadn't come because she had a black eye. Her brother gave it to her. Igave her the part of Cinderella in an attempt to get her to take moreinterest in class activities. I'm afraid it was a mistake. I believeshe thought it was a reflection on the way she lived."

"Was Timmy friendly with her?"

"Quite friendly. I sometimes wondered if that was a good thing. Sheseemed quite—precocious in some departments. And Timmy was a verysweet boy."

"He could have called her Cindy because of the skit?"

"I imagine so. Children dote on nicknames. I remember one poor littleboy with a sinus condition. The other children made him unhappy bycalling him Rumblehead."

"I want to thank you for your help, Miss Major."

"I hope the information is of some use to you. When you findAntoinette, tell her I asked about her."

"I'll do that."

She went with me to the door. She said, "They're bringing me a newBraille student at four. He seems to be a little late. Mr. Howard, areyou in some kind of trouble?"

The abrupt non sequitur startled me. "Trouble? Yes, I'm in trouble.Bad trouble."

"I won't give you any chin-up lecture, Mr. Howard. I've been given toomuch of that myself. I was just checking my own reactions. I sensedtrouble. An aura of worry. As with that Mr. Fitzmartin I detected anaura of directed evil."

When I got out in front, a woman was helping a young boy out of a car.The boy wore dark glasses. His mouth had an ill-tempered look, and Iheard the whine in his voice as he complained about something to her.

I felt that I had discovered Cindy. There had been a hint as to whatshe was like in the very tone of Timmy's voice. Weak as he was, therehad been a note of fond appreciation—the echo of lust. Cindy wouldknow. The phrasing was odd. Not Cindy knows. Cindy would know. Itwould be a place known to her.

I sat in my car for a few moments. I did not know how long my period ofgrace would last. I did not know whether I should continue in search ofthe elusive Cindy or try to make sense of the relationship between Fitzand Grassman. It came to me that I had been a fool not to search thebody. There might have been notes, papers, letters, reports—somethingto indicate why he had been slain. Yet I knew I could not risk goingback there, and it was doubtful that the murderer would have been soclumsy as to leave anything indirectly incriminating on the body itself.

I did not know where to start. I didn't think anything could begained by going to Fitzmartin, facing him. He certainly would answerno questions. Why had it been necessary to kill Grassman? Either itwas related to Grassman's job, or it was something apart from it.Grassman's job had apparently been due to Rose Fulton's conviction thather husband had come to some harm here in Hillston.

Prine's investigation had evidently been thorough. He was satisfiedthat Fulton and Eloise Warden had run off together. He had a witness tothe actual departure. Yet Grassman had been poking around the cabin theWardens used to own. I could not imagine what he hoped to gain.

I could not help but believe that Grassman's death was in some wayrelated to the sixty thousand dollars. I wondered if Grassman hadsomehow acquired the information that a sizable sum had disappearedfrom the Warden business ventures over a period of time, and had addedtwo and two together. Or if, in looking for Fulton's body, he hadstumbled across the money. Maybe at the same time Fitz was looking forit. Many murders have been committed for one tenth that amount. Therewas only one starting place with Grassman. That was Rose Fulton. MaybeGrassman had sent her reports. She was probably a resident of Illinois.

I wondered who would know her address. It would have to be someonewhose suspicions would not be aroused. I wondered if there was any wayof finding out without asking anyone. If the police investigation hadbeen reported in the local paper, Fulton's home town would probablyhave been given, but not his street address.

I realized that I did not dare make any effort to get hold of Mrs.Fulton. It would link me too closely to Grassman.

Antoinette Rasi then. I would look for her.

The shack was on the riverbank. It had a sagging porch, auto partsstamped into the mud of the yard, dingy Monday washing flapping ona knotted line, a disconsolate tire hanging from a tree limb, and ashiny new television aerial. A thin, dark boy of about twelve wascarefully painting an overturned boat, doing a good job of it. A littledark-headed girl was trying to harness a fat, humble dog to a brokencart. A toddler in diapers watched her. Some chickens were scratchingthe loose dirt under the porch.

The children looked at me as I got out of the car. A heavy woman cameto the door. She bulged with pregnancy. Her eyes and expression wereunfriendly. The small girl began to cry. I heard her brother hiss ather to shut up. The woman in the doorway could have once been quitepretty. She wasn't any more. It was hard to guess how old she might be.

"Is your name Rasi?" I asked.

"It was once. Now it's Doyle. What do you want?"

"I'm trying to locate Antoinette Rasi."

"For God's sake, shut up sniveling, Jeanie. This man isn't come to takethe teevee." She smiled apologetically at me. "They took it away once,and to Jeanie any stranger comes after the same thing. Every night thekids watch it. No homework, no nothing. Just sit and look. It drives menuts. What do you want Antoinette for?"

"I've got a message for her. From a friend."

The woman sniffed. "She makes a lot of friends, I guess. She doesn'thang around here any more. She's up in Redding. I don't hear from herany more. She never gets down. God knows I never get up there. The oldman is dead and Jack is in the federal can in Atlanta, and Doyle can'tstand the sight of her, so why should she bother coming down here.Hell, I'm only her only sister. She sends money for the kids, but nomessages. No nothing."

"What does she do?"

She gave me a wise, wet smile. "She goes around making friends, Iguess."

"How do I get in touch with her?"

"Cruise around. Try the Aztec, and the Cub Room. And try the Doubloon,too. I heard her mention that. You can probably find her."

It was sixty miles to Redding, and dark when I got there. It was twicethe size of Hillston. It was a town with a lot of neon. Lime and pink.Dark, inviting blue. Lots of uniforms on the night streets. Lots ofgirls on the dark streets. Lots of cars going nowhere too fast, hornsblowing, Bermuda bells ringing, tires wailing. I asked where the Aztecand the Cub Room and the Doubloon were. I was directed to a widehighway on the west edge of town, called, inevitably, the Strip. Therethe neon really blossomed. There wasn't as much sidewalk traffic. Butfor a Monday night there were enough cars in the lots. Enough roughmusic in the air. Enough places to lose your money. Or spend it. Orhave it taken away from you.

I went to the Aztec and I went to the Cub Room and I went to theDoubloon. In each place I asked a bartender about Antoinette Rasi. Oneach occasion I received a blank stare and a shrug and a, "Never heardof her."

"Dark-haired girl?"

"That's unusual? Sorry, buster."

The cadence of the evening was beginning to quicken. All three placeswere glamorous. They were like the lounges of the hotels along CollinsAvenue on Miami Beach. And like the bistros of Beverly Hills. Thelighting was carefully contrived. There was a Las Vegas tension inthose three places, a smell of money. Here the games were hidden. Butnot hard to find.

The way Mrs. Doyle had spoken of her sister gave me reason to believeI could get assistance from the police. They were in a brand newbuilding. The sergeant looked uncomfortable behind a long curve ofstainless steel.

I told him what Mrs. Doyle had said about how to find her.

"There ought to be something on her. Let me check it out. Wait a coupleminutes."

He got on the phone. He had to wait quite a while. Then he thanked theman on the other end and hung up. "He knows her. She's been booked acouple times as Antoinette Rasi. But the name she uses is Toni Raselle.She calls herself an entertainer. He says he thinks she did sing fora while at one place. She's a fancy whor*. The last address he's gotis the Glendon Arms. That's a high-class apartment hotel on the westside, not too far from the Strip. Both times she was booked last it wason a cute variation of the old badger game. So cute they couldn't makeit stick. So watch yourself. She plays with rough people. We got roughones here by the dozen."

I thanked him and left. It was nearly ten when I got back to the Strip.I went into the Aztec first. I went to the same bartender. "Find thatgirl yet?" he asked.

"I found she calls herself Toni Raselle."

"Hell, I know her. She comes in every once in a while. She may showhere yet tonight. You an old friend or something?"

"Not exactly."

I tried the other two places. They knew the name there also, but shehadn't been in. I had a steak sandwich in the Doubloon. A girl aloneat the bar made a determined effort to pick me up. She dug through herpurse looking for matches, unlit cigarette in her mouth. She started aconversation a shade too loudly with the bartender and tried to drag meinto it. She was a lean brunette with shiny eyes and trembling hands. Iordered a refill for her and moved onto the bar stool next to her.

We exchanged inanities until she pointed up at the ceiling with herthumb and said, "Going to try your luck tonight? I'm always lucky. Youknow there's some fellas I know they wouldn't dare try the crap tablewithout they give me some chips to get in the game."

"I don't want to gamble."

"Yeah, sometimes I get tired of it, too. I mean when you just can'tseem to get any action out of your money."

"Do you know a girl around town named Toni Raselle?"

She stopped smiling. "What about her? You looking for her?"

"Somebody mentioned her. I remembered the name. Is she nice?"

"She's damn good looking. But she's crazy. Crazy as hell. She doesn'tgrab me a bit."

"How come you think she's crazy, Donna?"

"Well, dig this. There's some important guys around here. Like EddieLarch that owns this place. Guys like Eddie. They really got a yen forher. A deal like that you can fall into. Everything laid on. Apartment,car, clothes. They'd set you up. You know? Then all you got to do is benice and take it easy. Not Toni. She strictly wants something going onall the time. She wants to lone wolf it. And she keeps getting in jamsthat way. My Christ, you'd think she liked people or something. If Ilooked like her, I'd parlay that right into stocks and bonds, believeyou me. But that Toni. She does as she damn pleases. She don't likeyou, you're dead. So you can have hundred-dollar bills out to here,you're still dead. She wouldn't spit if your hair was on fire. That'show she's crazy, man."

"I think I see what you mean."

Donna sensed she'd made some sort of tactical error. She smiled broadlyand said, "Don't take me serious, that about parlaying it into stocksand bonds. I'm not that type girl. I like a few laughs. I like to getaround. My boy friend is away and I got lonesome tonight so I thoughtI'd take a look around, see what's going on. You know how it is.Lonesome? Sure you wouldn't want to see if you're lucky?"

"I guess not."

She pursed her lips and studied her half-empty glass. She tried thenext gambit. "You know, at a buck a drink, they must make a hell of alot out of a bottle. If a person was smart they'd do their drinking athome. It would be a lot cheaper."

"It certainly would."

"You know, if we could get a bottle, I got glasses and ice at my place.We could take our hair down and put our feet up and watch the teeveeand have a ball. What do you say?"

"I don't think so."

"My boy friend won't be back in town until next weekend. I got my ownplace."

"No thanks, Donna."

"What do you want to do?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Joey," she called to the bartender. "What kind of place you running?You got a dead customer sitting here. He's giving me the creepers." Shemoved over two stools and wouldn't look at me. Within fifteen minutestwo heavy, smiling men came in. Soon she was in conversation with them.The three of them went upstairs together to try the tables. I hoped herluck was good.

After she was gone the bartender came over and said in a low voice,"The boss gives me the word to keep her out of here. She used to be alot better looking. Now she gets drunk and nasty. But when he isn'taround, I let her stay. What the hell. It's old times, like they say.You know how it is."

"Sure."

"She can sure get nasty. And she won't make any time with that pair.Did you dig those country-style threads? A small beer says they don'thave sixteen bucks between the pair of them. She's losing her touch.Last year this time she'd have cut off their water before they saidword one. Old Donna's on the skids."

"What will she do?"

He shrugged. "I don't know where they go. She can always sign for atour." He winked. "See the world. See all the ports in S.A. I don'tknow where they go."

I wandered back to the Aztec. My bartending friend told me that ToniRaselle was out in the casino in back, escorted by a general. He saidshe was wearing a white blouse and dark-red skirt, and had an eveningscarf that matched her skirt.

I tipped him and went out into the casino. I bought chips throughthe wicket just inside the door. The large room was crowded. It wasbrightly, whitely lighted, like an operating amphitheater. The lightmade the faces of the people look sick. The cards, the chips, the dice,the wheels were all in pitiless illumination. I spotted the uniformacross the room. The general was big-chested. He held his face asthough he thought he resembled MacArthur. He did a little. But notenough. He had three rows of discreetly faded ribbons.

Antoinette Rasi stood beside him and laughed up at him. It was theface of the high-school picture, matured, not as sullen. Her tumbledhair was like raw blue-black silk. She held her folded rebozo overher arm. Her brown shoulders were bare. She was warm within her skin,moving like molten honey, teeth white in laughter against her tan face.Wide across the cheekbones. Eyes deep set. Nose broad at the bridge.Feral look. Gypsy look. A mature woman so alive she made the others inthe room look two dimensional, as though they had been carefully placedthere to provide their drab contrast to Toni's look of greedy life.

They were at the roulette table. I stood across the table. The generalwas solemnly playing the black. When he lost Toni laughed at him. Hedidn't particularly like it, but there wasn't much he could do aboutit. I had twenty one-dollar chips. I began playing twenty-nine, andwatching her instead of the wheel. I won thirty-six dollars on thefourth spin. I began to play the red, and kept winning. Toni becameaware of my interest in her. So did the general. He gave me a mentalcommand to throw myself on my sword. Toni gave me a few irritatedglances.

Finally the general had to go back to the window to buy more chips.They didn't sell them at the table. As soon as he was gone I said,"Antoinette?"

She looked at me carefully. "Do I know you?"

"No. I want a chance to talk to you."

"How do you know my name?"

"Antoinette Rasi. Through Timmy Warden. Remember him?"

"Of course. I can't talk now. Phone me tomorrow. At noon. Eight threeeight nine one. Can you remember that?"

"Eight three eight nine one. I'll remember."

The general came back, staring at me with bitter suspicion. I wentaway, taking with me the memory of her dark eyes and her low, hoarse,husky voice.

I drove back through the night to Hillston. It was well after midnightwhen I got there. I wondered if they would be waiting for me at themotel. But the No Vacancy sign was lighted and my room was dark.

I went to bed and went to sleep at once. An hour later I awakenedabruptly from a nightmare. I was drenched with sweat. I had dreamedthat Grassman rode my back, his legs clamped around my waist, his heavyarms around my throat. I walked down a busy street with him there,asking, begging for help. But they would scream and cover their eyesand shrink away from me. And I knew that Grassman's face was morehorrible than I had remembered. No one would help me. Then it was notGrassman any more. It was Timmy who rode there. I could smell the earthwe had buried him in. I woke up in panic and it took me a long time toquiet down again.

EIGHT

I called her at noon and she answered on the tenth ring just as I wasabout to give up.

Her voice was blurred with sleep. "Whozit?"

"Tal Howard."

"Who?"

"I spoke to you last night at the Aztec. About Timmy Warden. You saidto phone."

I could hear the soft yowl of her complete yawn. "Oh, sure. You go havesome coffee or something and then stop around here. I live at a placecalled the Glendon Arms. Give me about forty minutes to wake up."

I wasted a half hour over coffee and a newspaper, and then found theGlendon Arms without difficulty. It was as pretentious as its name,with striped canopy, solid glass doors, mosaic tile lobby floor,desk clerk with dreary sneer. He phoned and told me I could go rightup to Miss Raselle's apartment, third floor, 3A. The elevator wasself-service. The hallway was wide. I pushed the button beside her door.

She opened the door and smiled as she let me in. She wore a whiteangora sleeveless blouse, slacks of corduroy in a green plaid. I hadexpected her to be puffy, blurred by dissipation, full of a morningsurliness. But she looked fresh, golden, shining and clean. Thegreat mop of black hair was pulled sleekly back and fastened into anintricate rosette.

"Hi, Tal Howard. Can you stand more coffee? Come along."

There was a small breakfast terrace with sliding doors that opened ontoit from the bedroom and the kitchen. The sun was warm on the terrace.We had coffee and rolls and butter on a glass-topped table.

"Last night was a waste," she said. "He was a friend of a friend. Astuffed uniform until drink number ten. And then what. He goes with hishands like so. Zoom. Dadadadadada. Gun noises. Fighter planes. I'm tooold for toys."

"He had a lot of ribbons."

"He told me what they were for. Several times. How did you track medown, Tal Howard?"

"Through your sister."

"Dear God. Anita has turned into a real slob. It's that Doyle. Doyleallows that the sun rises and sets on Doyle. The kids are nice,though. I don't know how they made it, but they are. What's with Timmy?He was my first love. How is that cutie?"

"He's dead, Toni."

Her face lost its life. "You certainly didn't waste any time working upto that. How?"

"He was taken prisoner by the Chinese in Korea. So was I. We were inthe same hut. He got sick and died there and we buried him there."

"What a stinking way for Timmy to go. He was a nice guy. We got alongfine, right up into the second year of high school, and then he startedconsidering his social position and brushed me off. I don't blame him.He was too young to know any better. He left me to take a big hack atthe dancing-school set. My reputation wasn't exactly solid gold." Shegrinned. "Nor is it yet."

"He mentioned you while we were in camp."

"Did he?"

"He called you Cindy."

For a long moment she looked puzzled, and then her face cleared. "Oh,that. You know, I'd just about forgotten that. It was sort of a gag. Inthat eighth grade we had a teacher who was all hopped up about classactivities. I was the rebel. She stuck me in a play as Cinderella.Timmy was the prince. He called me Cindy for quite a while after that.A year maybe. A pretty good year, too. I was a wild kid. I didn't knowwhat I wanted. I knew that what I had, I didn't want. But I didn't knowhow to make a change. I was too young. Gee, I'm sorry about Timmy.That's depressing. It makes me feel old, Tal. I don't like to feel old."

"I came back and tried to find a Cindy. I didn't know your right name.I found a couple. Cindy Waskowitz—"

"A great fat pig. But nothing jolly about her. Brother, she was asnasty as they come."

"She's dead, too. Glandular trouble of some kind."

"Couldn't you go around wearing a wreath or singing hymns like Crossingthe Bar?"

"I'm sorry. Then there was Cindy Kirschner."

"Kirschner. Wait a minute. A younger kid. Teeth like this?"

"That's right. But she had them fixed. Now she has a husband and acouple of kids."

"Good for her."

"She was the one who remembered the class play or skit or whatever itwas. And the name of the eighth-grade teacher. Miss Major. She couldn'tremember who played Cinderella. So I found Miss Major. She went blindquite a while ago and—"

"For God's sake, Tal! I mean really!"

"I'm sorry. Anyway, she identified you. I went out and saw your sister.I came here hunting for Antoinette Rasi. The way your sister spokeabout you, when I couldn't find you, I tried the police. They told methe name you use. Then it was easy."

She looked at me coldly and dubiously. "Police, eh? They give you allthe bawdy details?"

"They told me a few things. Not much."

"But enough. Enough so that when you walked in here you had to act likea little kid inspecting a leper colony. What the hell did you expect tofind? A room all mirrors? A turnstile?"

"Don't get sore."

"You look stuffy to me, Tal Howard. Stuffy people bore me. So what thehell was this? A sentimental journey all the way from prison camp todig up poor little me?"

"Not exactly. And I'm not stuffy. And I don't give a damn what you areor what you do."

The glare faded. She shrugged and said, "Skip it. I don't know why Ishould all of a sudden get sensitive. I'm living the way I want tolive. I guess it's just from talking about Timmy. That was a tenderspot. From thinking about the way I was. At thirteen I wanted to lickthe world with my bare hands. Now I'm twenty-eight. Do I look it?"

"No, you really don't."

She rested her cheek on her fist. She looked thoughtful. "You know,Tal Howard, another reason why I think I jumped on you. I think I'mbeginning to get bored. I think I'm due for some kind of a change."

"Like what?"

"More than a new town. I don't know. Just restless. Skip that. You saidthis wasn't exactly a sentimental journey. What is it?"

"There's something else involved."

"Mystery, hey? What's with you?"

"How do you mean?"

"What do you do? You married?"

"I'm not doing anything right now. I'm not married. I came here fromthe west coast. I haven't got any permanent address."

"You're not the type."

"How do you mean that?"

"That information doesn't fit you, somehow. So it's just a temporarything with you. You're between lives, aren't you? And maybe as restlessas I am?"

"I could be."

She winked at me. "And I think you've been taking yourself tooseriously lately. Have you noticed that?"

"I guess I have."

"Now what's the mystery?"

"I'm looking for something. Timmy hid something. Before he left. I knowwhat it is. I don't know where it is. Before he died, not very manyhours before he died, Timmy said, 'Cindy would know.' That's why I'mhere."

"Here from the west coast, looking for Cindy. He hid something nice,then. Like some nice money?"

"If you can help me, I'll give you some money."

"How much?"

"It depends on how much he hid."

"Maybe you admitted too fast that it was money, Tal. I am noted for myfondness for money. It pleases me. I like the feel of it and the smellof it and the look of it. I'm nuts about it. I like all I can get,maybe because I spent so much time without any of it. A psychiatristfriend told me it was my basic drive. I can't ever have too much."

"If that was really your basic drive, you wouldn't say it like that, Idon't think. It's just the way you like to think you are."

She was angry again. "Why does every type you meet try to tell you whatyou really are?"

"It's a popular hobby."

"So all right. He hid something. Now I've got a big fat disappointmentfor you. I wouldn't have any idea where he hid something. I don't knowwhat he means."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't look at me like that. I know what you're thinking. You'rethinking I do know and I won't tell you because I want it all.Honestly, Tal, I don't know. I can't think what he could have meant."

I believed her.

"This sun is actually getting too hot. Let's go inside," she said. Ihelped carry the things in. She rinsed the dishes. Having seen her theprevious evening I would not have thought she had the sort of figureto wear slacks successfully. They were beautifully tailored and shelooked well in them. We went into the living-room. It was slightlyoverfurnished. The lamps were in bad taste. But it was clean andcomfortable.

She sat on the couch and pulled one leg up and locked her hands aroundher knee. "Want to hear about Timmy and me? The sad story? Not sad, Iguess."

"If you want to tell it."

"I've never told anybody. Maybe it's time. I turned fifteen before Igot out of the eighth grade. I was older than the other kids. Timmy wasfourteen. He was the biggest boy in class. We never had anything to dowith each other until that skit. We practiced a couple of times. Wegot to be friends. It wasn't a girl-friend-boy-friend thing. More likea couple of boys. I wasn't the most feminine creature in the world,believe me. I could run like the wind and I could fight with my fists.

"I didn't want Timmy to come out to the house. I was ashamed of where Ilived. I never wanted any of the kids to see how and where I lived. MyGod, we lived like animals. It wasn't so bad until my mother died butfrom then on it was pretty bad. You saw the place?"

"I saw it."

"The old man kept pretty well soaked in his vino. My brother wascompletely no good. My sister slept with anybody who took the troubleto ask her. We lived in filth. We were on the county relief rolls. Thedo-gooders brought us food and clothing at Thanksgiving and Christmas.I was proud as hell inside. I couldn't see any way out. The best Icould do was try to keep myself clean as a button and not let any ofthe kids come out there."

She came over and took one of my cigarettes, bent over for me to lightit. "Timmy came out there. It nearly killed me. Then I saw that it wasall right. He didn't pay any attention to the way things were. I meanit didn't seem to mean much to him. That's the way they were, so that'sthe way they were. He was my friend. After that I was able to talk tohim. He understood. He had his dreams, too. We talked over our dreams.

"When school was out that summer he came out a lot. He used to cutlawns and make money and we'd go to the movies. We used to swim in theriver. He'd come out on his bike. He got hold of a broken-down boy'sbike for me. He fixed it up and I painted it. Then we could get aroundbetter. The relief people gave the old man a hard ride for buying me abike. I had to explain how I got it and prove I didn't steal it. I canstill remember the sneaky eyes on that cop.

"When it happened to us it was sudden. It was in late August. I'dgotten a job in the dime store by lying about my age and filling outthe forms wrong. I was squirreling the money away. I spent Sundays withTimmy. His brother and his father didn't like him to see me, but hemanaged it.

"He had a basket on the front of his bike and we went off on a Sundaypicnic. We went a long way into the country. Fifteen miles, I guess. Wewalked the bikes up a trail. We found a place under trees where it waslike a park. It was far away from anybody. We could have been alone inthe world. Maybe we were. We ate and then we stretched out and talkedabout how high school would be when it started in September. It washot. We were in the shade. He went to sleep. I watched him while hewas sleeping, the way his eyelashes were, and the way he looked like alittle kid when he slept. I felt a big warmth inside me. It was a newway to feel toward him. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I slippedmy arm under his neck and half lay across him and kissed him. He wokeup with me kissing him.

"He was funny and kind of half scared and sort of half eager at thesame time. I'd had a pretty liberal education as you can well imagine.I guess it was pretty sad. Two kids being as awkward and fumbling asyou can possibly imagine, there on that hill in the shade. But awkwardas we were, it happened.

"We hardly talked at all on the way back. I knew enough to be damnscared. But fortunately nothing happened. From then on we weredifferent with each other. It got to be something we did whenever wehad a chance. It got better and better for us. But we weren't friendsthe way we were before. Sometimes we seemed almost to be enemies. Wetried to hurt each other. It was a strong hunger. We found good placesto go. It lasted for a year and a half. We never talked about marriageor things like that. We lived for now. There was one place we would go.We'd take one of the boats and—"

She stopped abruptly. We looked into each other's eyes.

"Now you know where he meant?" I asked her softly.

"I think I do."

"Where?"

"I don't think we can handle it that way, do you?"

"How do you mean?"

"I think we better go there together, don't you?"

"There's nothing to keep you from going there by yourself, Antoinette."

"I know that. What would it mean if I told you I won't?"

"In spite of the money hunger?"

"I would be honest with a thing like this. I would. Believe me. I'dhave known nothing about it. How much is there?"

I waited several moments, measuring her and the situation. I couldn'tget to it without her. "Nearly sixty thousand, he said."

She sat down abruptly, saying a soundless Oh. "How—how would Timmyget hold of money like that?"

"He did all the book work for the four companies he and his brotherowned. He took over two years milking that much in cash out of the fourcompanies."

"Why would he do that to George? It doesn't sound like Timmy."

"He planned to run off with Eloise."

"That thing George married? That pig. I knew her. Where is she?"

"She went off with another man two years ago."

"Maybe she took the money with her."

"Timmy said she didn't know where he buried it."

"And she'd hardly be able to find it. I can guarantee that. So—this isGeorge's money then, isn't it?"

I waited a moment. "Yes, it is."

"But it was already stolen."

"That's right."

"And nobody knows about it. George doesn't suspect. Nobody knows aboutit but you and me, Tal."

"There's another one who knows about it. A man named Earl Fitzmartin.He was in the camp, too. He didn't know about the name Cindy. Now hedoes. He's smart. He may be able to trace the name to you."

"What's he like?"

"He's smart and he's vicious."

"So are a lot of my friends."

"I don't think they're like Fitz. I don't think you could go with Fitzand find it and come back from wherever you went to find it, that is ifit was a quiet place and he could put you where he dug up the money."

"Like that?"

"I think so. I think there's something wrong in his head. I don't thinkhe's very much like other people."

"Can you and I—can we trust each other, Tal?"

"I think we can." We shook hands with formal ceremony.

She looked at me quizzically. "How about you, Tal? Why are you afterthe money?"

"Like they say about climbing mountains. Because it's there."

"What will it mean to you?"

"I don't know. I have to find it first."

"And then all of a sudden it's going to be some kind of an answer toeverything?"

"Maybe."

"What fouled you up, Tal? What broke your wagon?"

"I don't know."

"I can place most people. I can't quite place you. You look like onetype. You know. Played ball in school. Sells bonds or something.Working up to a ranch-type house, a Brooks wardrobe, and some daywinter vacations in Bermuda after the kids are in college. You looklike that all except the eyes. And the eyes don't look like that atall."

"What do they look like?"

"The eyes on the horse that knows they're going to shoot him because hewas clumsy and busted his leg."

"When do we go after the money?"

She stepped to the kitchen door and looked at the clock. "You'd feelbetter if we stayed together until we get it, wouldn't you?"

"I guess I would. But it isn't essential."

"Your faith is touching. Didn't the police give you the word?"

"They said something about a cute variation of the badger game."

"It was very cute. They couldn't convict. And it was very dishonest,Tal. But it wasn't a case of fleecing the innocent. It was pulled onsome citizens who were trying to make a dishonest buck. Like this. Itell them my boy friend is on one of the wheels at the Aztec. I tellthe sucker the wheel is gimmicked. My boy friend is sore at the house.The sucker has to have two or three thousand he wants trebled. I say Ican't go in with him. I give him a password to tell the boy friend. Sothey let him win six or seven thousand. He comes here with the money.The boy friend is to show up later. But when the boy friend shows uphe is with a very evil-looking citizen who holds a gun on him. Gunhas silencer. Evil type shoots boy friend. With a blank. Boy friendgroans and dies. Evil type turns gun on sucker. Takes the house moneyback, plus his two or three, and one time twelve, thousand. Sucker begsfor his life. Reluctantly granted. Told to leave town fast. He does.He doesn't want to be mixed up in any murder. House money goes backto house. I get a cut of the take. I love acting. You should see metremble and faint."

"Suppose he doesn't come back here with the money?"

"They always have. They like to win the money and the girl too. Theythink it's like the movies. Now will you trust me out of your sight?"

"I'll have to, won't I?"

"I guess that's it. You'll have to." She smiled lazily.

"I have some errands. You can wait here. I'm going places where youcan't go. You can wait here or you can meet me here. It's going to takethree or four hours. By then it's going to be too late to get to themoney today. We can go after it tomorrow morning."

"How are we going to divide it up?"

"Shouldn't we count it first?"

"But after we count it?"

She came toward me and put her hands on my shoulders. "Maybe we won'tdivide it up, Tal. Maybe we won't squirrel it away. It's free money.Maybe we'll just put it in the pot and spend it as we need it untilit's all gone. Maybe we'll see how far we can distribute it. We couldspread it from Acapulco to Paris. Then maybe we won't be restless anymore. It would buy some drinks to Timmy. In some nice places."

I felt uneasy. I said, "I'm not that attractive to you."

"I know you're not. I like meaner-looking men." She took her handsaway. "Maybe to you I'm like they used to say in the old-fashionedbooks. Damaged goods."

"Not visibly."

She shook her head. "You kill me. It was just an idea. You seem niceand quiet. Not demanding. Let's say restful. You said you don't knowwhat you'll do with the money."

"I said maybe I'll know when I get it."

"And if you don't?"

"Then we'll talk some more."

"You'll wait here?"

"I'll meet you here."

"At five-thirty."

She said she had to change. I left. I wondered if I was being a fool. Ihad lunch. I didn't have much appetite. I went to a movie. I couldn'tfollow the movie. I was worrying too much. I began to be convinced Ihad been a fool. She wasn't the sort of woman to trust. I wondered bywhat magic she had hypnotized me into trusting her. I could imagineher digging up the money. Once she had it there was nothing I coulddo. I wondered if my trust had been based on some inner unwillingnessto actually take the money. Maybe subconsciously I wanted the moralproblem off my hands.

She wasn't back at five-thirty. I waited in the lobby. I was sweating.She came in at quarter to six. She looked pale and upset. We rode upin the elevator together. She gave me the key to open her door. Herfingers were cold. She kept biting her lip. Once we were inside shebegan to pace.

"What's the matter?"

"Shut up and let me think. Go make some drinks. That thing there is abar. Scotch on the rocks for me."

I made the drinks. After hers was gone she seemed a little quieter,more thoughtful.

"Sorry for being bitchy, Tal. I'm upset. My errands didn't work out theway I expected. Some people seem to have the idea that just becauseI was in on the festivities, I belong to the house. You don't needdetails. I have some funds around here and there. I got to the bank intime. That was fine. But it wasn't so good on the funds that are in,shall we say, safekeeping. I got some of them. Not all that's comingto me. Not by a hell of a lot. I'm not supposed to be able to takeoff. I made the mistake of saying I was thinking about it. They gaveme some strong arguments. I made like changing my mind. Still I wastailed back. How do you like that? The hell with them. They might evenbe thinking of a hijack job. Now I know I've got to get out of here. Ithink I've got it worked out. Will you help?"

"I guess so."

"I'm leaving for good. I can't make it tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I canpick up a little more of what's due me. You drive over here Thursdaymorning. There's a back way out of here, through the cellar. I cangrease the superintendent. Park on the parallel street back of here. Bethere at ten sharp, ten in the morning. I'll come out the back way andaway we'll go. But, damn it, I hate to leave so much stuff behind. Awhole wardrobe."

"Is it dangerous?"

"I don't know how rough they might get. I just don't like the sound ofit. I don't like being patted on the shoulder and being given a bigtoothy grin and being told 'There, there, little Toni, you don't wantto leave town. We all love you too much.'"

I said, "I could stay until after dark and you could pack things and Icould take them out maybe. A couple of suitcases."

"You sure you want to?"

"I'm willing to. If somebody followed you, they don't know I'm herenow. You could leave before I do. They'd follow you. Then I can takethe stuff out to my car."

"That should work all right. Gosh, it would really help. I've put a lotof money in clothes. I think it would be better than trying to get thestuff out in the morning, even with your help. I want it to move fastand smoothly. Stay away from the windows."

She spent a lot of time packing. It was dark when she finished. Shefilled two big suitcases. They bulged and they were heavy.

"Leave them wherever you're staying when you come back for me."

"It's a motel."

"Get me a room, too. Please."

She seemed to relax then. "I think it's going to work out, Tal. Theysort of—scared me. I know a lot. I don't plan to do any talking.That's what worries them, I think. You don't know how much I appreciatethis. I'll—make it up to you."

She wanted to be kissed and I kissed her. There was an eagerness andwarmth and sensuality about her that made it a shock to touch her andhold her. We rocked off balance as we kissed, caught ourselves, smileda little sheepishly.

"For now," she said.

I took the suitcases into the hall. She went on down. I waited therefor fifteen minutes and then I went down. The clerk was very dubiousabout my leaving with suitcases. He seemed about to speak, but didn'tquite know what to say. I was gone before he had phrased the objection.I put the suitcases in the back seat and drove to Hillston. I ate ata drive-in on the edge of town. I took the suitcases back to my motelroom. They were an alien presence there, almost as vivid as if she werethere with me. I stowed them in the closet.

NINE

Wednesday was a gray day. I had hidden Grassman's body on Monday. Itseemed longer ago than Monday. The memory was very vivid, but it seemedto be something that had happened a long time ago. I saw the suitcaseswhen I opened my closet to get at my own clothes. I was curious aboutwhat she had packed. I felt guilty about opening them. Then I decidedthat I had earned the right to look.

I put the larger one on the bed and tried the latches. It wasn'tlocked. It popped open. There were furs on top, silky and lustrous. Shehad packed neatly. Underneath the furs were suits, dresses, skirts,blouses. The bottom layer was underclothing, slips, panties with frothylace and intricate embroidery in shades from purest white through allof the spectrum to black.

The other suitcase was much the same. The clothing was fresh andfragrant with perfume. It was perfume that was not musky. It had aclean flower scent. I could understand how this was important to her. Iremembered her speaking of the charity gifts of clothing, of the dirtin which she had grown up. She would want clothing, a great deal of it,and all fresh and clean. I found the black leather box in the bottom ofthe second suitcase. I opened it. Jewelry lay against a black velvetpartition. Bracelets, rings, clips. I could not tell if the white andgreen and red stones were real. They were lustrous. They caught firein the light. But I could not tell. I lifted the partition. There wasmoney under it. Money in fifties and twenties and hundreds, a sizablestack of bills. I counted it. There was six thousand and forty dollars.When I replaced the partition the stones looked more real.

After the suitcases were back in the closet, I wondered what herthinking had been when she had packed the money in there. Perhaps sheassumed I wouldn't search the bags. I hadn't intended to. Maybe shethought that even if I did search them and did find the money it wouldbe safer with me than it would in the apartment. She could have beenright. It was safe with me. Even had I been the sort of person to takeit and leave, that sort of person would have waited for the chance ofacquiring much more—a chance only Antoinette could provide.

I found the bird woman cleaning one of the rooms. I paid her anothertwo nights in advance for myself and asked her to save the room next tomine for a friend who would check in on Thursday. I gave her one nightrental on the second room.

As I drove toward town I found myself wondering if what Antoinettehad proposed might be the best solution for me. It was tempting. Ithought of the ripeness of her, the pungency of her personality, thevery startling impact of her lips. There would be no illusions betweenus. She would make it easy to forget a lot of things. We would haveno claims on each other—and would be wedded only by the money, anddivorced when it was gone.

After I ate I went to the hardware store. I parked a half block fromit. I wanted to talk to George again. I wanted to see if I could steerthe conversation toward Eloise and Mr. Fulton. I wanted to see if hewould say anything that would make more sense out of the Grassmandeath. Obviously Fitz hadn't contacted Antoinette. And she seemedconfident that no one else could find the money. So it began to appearless logical that Grassman's death had anything to do with the sixtythousand. Then why had Grassman been killed? He could have gotten intosome kind of argument with Fitz. We had seen Grassman at the lake onSaturday. Somehow I had spoiled things with Ruth and so I had gottendrunk on Saturday and again on Sunday. Fitz could have killed him onSunday, not meaning to do so. He could have loaded the body in his carand gone looking for some place to put it, and spotted my car. TheCalifornia plates would be easy to spot. But by putting the body in mycar, he would be eliminating any chance of my leading him to the moneyTimmy had buried.

But maybe Fitz was convinced that with the clue in his possession,with the name Cindy, he could accomplish as much or more than I could.He was a man of great confidence in himself. And not, I had begun tobelieve, entirely sane.

If Grassman had contacted Fitz, perhaps George could provide me withsome meaningful clue as to why.

But there was a sign on the door. The store was closed. The sign gaveno additional information. It was crudely printed on paper Scotch-tapedto the inside of the door: Closed. I cupped my hands on the glass andlooked inside. The stock did not seem to be disturbed. It could notmean closed for good.

It took me several minutes to remember where George lived. I couldn'tremember who had told me. White's Hotel. I found it three blocks away.It was a frame building. It was seedy looking, depressing. It had oncebeen painted yellow and white. I went into the lobby. Old men sat inscuffed leather chairs and smoked and read the papers. Two pimpledboys stood by the desk making intense work out of selecting the rightholes to punch on a punchboard while the desk man watched them, hiseyes bored, his heavy face slack, smoke curling up from the cigarettebetween his lips.

"I want to see George Warden."

"Second floor. The stairs are over there. A girl just went on up tosee him a minute ago." I hesitated and he said "Go ahead on up. Roomtwo-oh-three. She takes care of him when he gets in rough shape. It'sokay. George got taken drunk the last couple of days. She tried tophone him and he wouldn't answer the room phone so she came on down.Just now got here."

I guessed it was Ruth. I wanted to see her. I didn't know how she'dreact to me. I didn't want to talk to George with her there, though. Iwent up the stairs slowly.

When my eyes were above the level of the second floor, I saw Ruthrunning down the gloomy hall toward me. I reached the top of the stairsjust as she got there. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. Her mouth wasworking. Her face was like wet paper.

I called her name and she focused on me, hesitated, and then came intomy arms. She was trembling all over. She ground her forehead againstmy chin, rocking her head from side to side, making an odd chattering,moaning sound. After a few moments she regained enough control to speak.

"It's George. In the room. On the bed."

"Wait right here."

"N—No. I've got to telephone. Police."

Her high heels chattered down the wooden stairs. I went back to room203. The door was open. George lay across the bed, naked. There wasa rifle on the floor. A towel was loosely wrapped around the muzzle.It was scorched where the slug had gone through it. I moved uneasilyaround to where I could see his head. The back of his head was blownoff. I knew that before I saw his head because I had seen the smearedwall. In the instant of death all body functions had shared thesmeared explosion. The room stank. His body had a gray, withered look.I moved backward to the door. I backed through it into the hall. Imopped my forehead. It was a hell of a thing for Ruth to have walked inon. They could just as well move the sign to this door, to this life.Closed. Closed for good.

I stood there in the hall and heard the sirens. The desk clerk camelumbering down the hall. Old men from the lobby followed him. Theycrowded by me and filled the doorway and stared in.

"Good Christ!" the desk clerk said.

"My oh my oh my," said one of the old men.

Some of the faces were familiar. I knew Hillis and I knew Brubaker andI knew Prine. Prine was not on top this time. He was taking ordersfrom a Captain Marion. Captain Marion was a mild, sandy man who wantedeverything cozy and neighborly. He had a wide face full of smilewrinkles, and a soft, buzzing voice, and little blue eyes sunk backbeyond the thick crisp blond curl of his eyebrows.

Rather than individual questioning, he made it a seminar. I could tellfrom Prine's bleak look that he did not approve at all.

They got us all down into a room in police headquarters. Therewas a stenotype operator present. Captain Marion apologized forinconveniencing anybody. He apologized several times. He shifted papersand cleared his throat and coughed.

"Well now, as I finish with you people I'll tell you whether you cantake off or not. Nothing particularly official about this. It's a sortof investigation. Get the facts in front of us. Let's see what we gothere. First let me say a couple of words about George. I knew his daddywell and I knew George well, and I knew Timmy. George could have been abig man in this town. He was on his way in that direction, but he losthis grip. Lots of men never seem to get back on the ball after bad wifetrouble. But I had hopes George would pull out of it. Seems to me likehe didn't. And that's too bad. It's quite a waste. George was a brightman." I saw Prine shift his weight restlessly.

"I got it right here on this paper that the body was discovered attwenty minutes after ten this morning by Ruth Stamm. Now Ruthie, whatin the wide world were you doing down there at that White's Hotel?"

"Henr—I mean Captain Marion, George didn't have anybody to look afterhim. Every once in a while I'd sort of—help him get straightened out."

"You used to go with Timmy, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. I was trying to help George."

"Did Buck approve of that?"

"I don't think so. I mean I know he didn't."

"I see. Ruthie, what took you down there this morning?"

"I went by the store yesterday afternoon and there was a closed signon it. It worried me. After I got home I phoned White's Hotel. HermanWatkins was on the desk. He told me George was drinking. This morningI phoned the store and there was no answer. Then I tried the hotel.George wouldn't answer the room phone. He does that sometimes. I meanhe used to do that. I have a key. So I drove down and went up to theroom. The door wasn't even locked. I opened it and—I saw him."

"What were you planning to do?"

"Get him some coffee. Get him cleaned up. Give him a good talking to, Iguess. As I've done before."

"Ruthie, you can stay or go, just as you please. Now then, I've gotthis other name here. Talbert Howard. You came along right afterRuthie. What were you doing there?"

I saw Ruth Stamm start to get up and then sit back down. "I wantedto talk to George. I saw that the store was closed, so I went to thehotel."

"What did you want to talk about?"

Prine answered for me. "We had this man in last week, Captain. Wethought he was another one of those people Rose Fulton keeps sendingdown here. This man claims he's writing a book about men who died inthe prison camp where Timmy Warden died. This man claims he was there,too. He's never written a book. He's unemployed, has no permanentaddress, and has a record of one conviction."

"For what?"

I answered for myself. "For taking part in a student riot when I wasin school. Disturbing the peace and resisting an officer. The officerbroke my collarbone with a nightstick. That was called resisting anofficer."

Captain Marion looked at Prine. "Steve, you make everything sound sodamn serious. Maybe this boy wants to write a book. Maybe he's trying."

"I happen to doubt it, Captain," Prine said.

"What did you want to talk to George about, son?"

"I wanted more information about Timmy." I glanced at Ruth. She waslooking at me with contempt. She looked away.

"What happened when you got there?"

"The desk clerk told me a girl had just gone up. I met Miss Stamm whenI got to the head of the stairs. She was too upset to talk."

"I got a look in that room myself. Hardly blame her. Terrible lookingsight. All right, son. You can go if you want to."

"I'd prefer him to stay, if you don't mind, Captain."

Marion sighed. "All right, Steve. Stick around, Mr. Howard. Now,Herman, we'll get to you. The doc says he can fix the time of deathabout midnight last night. He may be able to get it a little closer buthe says that's a pretty good guess. Did you see George come in?"

"No, sir. I didn't see him. It was a pretty noisy night last night.There were a lot of people coming and going. I heard George was doinghis drinking at Stump's, until Stump wouldn't serve him any more. Heleft there about ten. Frankly, Captain, I was playing a little poker inthe room behind where the desk is. I can't see the desk from there, butI can hear the bell on the desk and hear the switchboard if any callscome in. That's why I brought Mr. Caswell along with me."

"I'm Caswell," a little old man said. He had a thin, high voice and anexcited manner. "Bartholomew Boris Caswell, retired eleven years ago. Iwas a conductor on the Erie and Western Railroad. I'm not what you calla drinking man and I see George Warden come in. I was behind him, maybehalf a block. I just happened to look at my watch because I wonderedwhat time I was getting in. Watch said eleven twenty-seven. Doesn'tlose a minute a month. See it? One of the best ever made. Right nowit's eleven minutes of two and that clock on the wall over your head,Captain, is running two minutes slow."

"Are you sure it was George?"

"Sure as I know my own name. Man alive, he was drunk. Wagging his arms,staggering all over. If it wasn't for his friend he'd never have madeit home."

"Who was his friend?"

"Don't know him and didn't get a look at him. Stiff-legged man, though.Stiff in one leg. Like a limp. He horsepowered George right into thehotel. Time I came in, they were gone upstairs. The lobby was empty. Icould hear some of the boys hooting and hollering and carrying on upon the second floor. So I went there. They were back in Lester's room.He had himself two gallons of red wine. At least he started with twogallons. I had myself a little out of my own glass that I got from myroom. It didn't set so good on what I had been drinking. Didn't setgood at all. It like to come up on me. So I went on down to bed. Gotinto my room at three after midnight. Right then I heard a funny noise.Just when I was closing my door. It sounded a little like somebodydropped a book or maybe tipped over in a chair and thumped his head.I listened and I didn't hear anything else so I went right to bed. Itturns out that must have been when George shot himself."

"That would fit what the doctor says. Herman, could you find anybodyelse who heard anything?"

"I couldn't find anybody else at all."

"You don't need anybody else," Caswell said. "I've told you all you'vegot to know, haven't I?"

"Thanks, Mr. Caswell. You can go along if you want to."

"I'll stay and see what happens, thank you."

Captain Marion studied the papers in front of him and then muttered tohimself for a while. At last he looked up. "It's not up to me to makeany decision. That'll be up to the inquest. But I think we can figurethat George was pretty beat down. Lost his wife. Lost his brother. Lostmost of his business. Drinking heavy. It certainly looks to me that ifany man had reasons for suicide, George did. Steve, you look uneasy.What's on your mind?"

"Captain, I don't think it's that easy. I've seen some suicides. I'veread up on them. A towel was used as a crude silencer. I've never heardof that being used. A suicide doesn't care about the noise. He wantspeople to come running. He wants it to be dramatic. The towel-wrappedmuzzle of the gun was in his mouth when it went off. The gun was new.A three-oh-three bolt-action rifle, right out of stock, with the tagstill wired to the trigger guard. There were nice clean prints on theside of the action. Too clean. They were George's, of course. Therewere no prints on the inside doorknob. It wasn't wiped, but it had beensmeared. That could have been accidental or purposeful. Many suicidesare naked. More than half. That fits. Buttons had been ripped off hisshirt. Maybe he was in a hurry. Maybe somebody undressed him in ahurry. There was a bottle on the floor, under the bed. Half full ofliquor. George left very clear prints on that. I'm interested in thestiff-legged man."

"What do you mean, Steve?"

"I think somebody met George after he left Stump's. I talked to Stump.George was nearly helpless. He carried a key to the store. I thinksomebody went to the store with him and took a rifle out of stock.I think he slid it down his pant leg. That gave him a stiff-leggedwalk. He took George up to his room. He fed him more liquor. When hepassed out he undressed him, sat him on the edge of the bed, wrappedthe muzzle, opened his mouth, put it between his teeth, and pulled thetrigger. He put prints on the gun and bottle, smeared the knob, andleft."

"Steve, dammit, you always make things harder."

"Strange things are going on. I got a report from the county sheriff'soffice today. A man named Grassman left his stuff in a cabin anddidn't come back for it. That was last Sunday. He'd been staying therea couple of weeks. Milton Grassman from Chicago. The county policefound stuff in the cabin to indicate he worked for a Chicago firmof investigators, and was down here on that Fulton thing. He stayedtwenty miles north of town, on the Redding road. Yesterday a car wastowed in. Over-time parking. A routine deal. Blue sedan, late model,Illinois plates. Just before I came here I found out the registrationon the steering post is to this Grassman. All right now. Grassman hasdisappeared, leaving his clothes and his car. George Warden dies all ofa sudden. Grassman was down here looking into the disappearance of aMr. Fulton who took off with George Warden's wife. It ties up, somehow.I want to know how. If we can tie it up, we can find out for sure if itwas suicide or murder. I vote for murder. It was a bold way to do it,and a dangerous way to do it. The man who did it took chances. But Ithink he did it. Was it Grassman? Was it that man over there who claimsto be writing a book? Who was it? And why was it done?"

Marion sighed heavily. "Steve, I could never get it through my head whyyou take off so ugly on those men who came down to poke around. Thatpoor Fulton woman, if she wants to spend her money, why don't you lether? It's no skin off us."

"I don't want my judgment or the result of any investigation ofmine questioned. We're the law and order here. I don't want amateurcompetition."

"Sometimes those fellas can help, Steve."

"I have yet to see the day."

"What did those Chicago people say? Did you get in touch?"

"No."

"Well, you phone them, Steve. Or teletype Chicago and let them handleit with the agency. Those fellows may want to send somebody else down."

"Why, for God's sake?" demanded Prine, losing control.

"Why, to look for Grassman!" Marion said mildly. "Missing, isn't he?"

I managed to walk out beside Ruth. She was cool, almost to the point ofcomplete indifference. "Ruth, I want to be able to explain some time."

"I don't think it's worth bothering about, really."

The day had begun to clear and we stood in frail sunlight.

"I don't know why I should worry so much about your good opinion," Isaid, trying to strike a light note.

"If I were you, I wouldn't even think about it. I'm usually frank withpeople. Too frank, as you will remember. I expect others to be thesame. I usually expect too much. I'm usually disappointed. I'm gettingused to it."

I found myself becoming annoyed at her attitude. "It would be nice foryou to get used to it. It would make it easier to be the only perfectperson—surrounded by all the rest of us."

"What do you think you—"

"I think you sounded pretty stuffy. That's all. You make a lot ofvirtuous noise. And you condemn me without knowing the score."

"You don't seem exactly eager to tell me the score."

We stood glaring at each other. It suddenly tickled her sense of theridiculous. I saw her struggle to keep from smiling. Just then a mancame up to us. He was young, with a thin face and heavy horn-rimmedglasses.

"Hello, Allan," Ruth said. "Allan, this is Tal Howard, Allan Peary."

We shook hands and he said, "Ruthie, I just heard they're going toappoint me to straighten out George's estate. What there is left of it.Do you happen to know what happened to the household effects when hesold to Syler?"

"He sold everything, Allan."

Allan Peary shook his head. "I don't know where the money went. I'vebeen in touch with the bank. There's only three accounts open. Thelumberyard and the store and his personal account. And damn littlemoney in any of them. You're about the only one of his old friendswho saw much of him, Ruth. Where did it all go? He liquidated an awfullot of stuff in the past year. What the hell was he doing? Playing themarket? Gambling? Women? Drugs?"

"He was drinking it up, I guess."

"Oh, sure," Allan said. "I know what Syler paid for the house. I knowwhat he got when he sold the lease on Delaware Street. I know what hegot for the cement trucks. If he didn't touch anything but Napoleonbrandy at twenty-five bucks a bottle, he'd have to drink a thousandbucks a week worth to go through that money."

"Maybe it's in some other account, Allan."

"I doubt it." He looked at me uneasily and said, "I don't want totalk out of school, but he had a big tab at Stump's. He was behind onthe room at the hotel. And I heard last week that Sid Forrester had asixty-day exclusive listing on the lumberyard and had an interestedcustomer lined up. That was the only thing George had left that wasmaking any money."

"Maybe when you go over his accounts you can find what he wrote checksfor, Allan."

"That isn't going to work, either. He wrote checks for cash and cashedthem at the bank. Amounts ranging from five hundred to two thousand."

Ruth frowned. "He didn't seem worried about money."

"I've tried to talk to him a few times. He didn't seem worried aboutanything. He didn't seem to give a damn about anything. He almostseemed to be enjoying some big joke—on himself."

And right at that moment something became very clear to me. SomethingI should have seen before. I wondered why I had been so dense. Onceyou made the proper assumption, a lot of things fell into their properplace.

TEN

I realized they were still talking, but I was no longer listening towhat they said. Then I realized that Ruth had spoken to me.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I have to be running along."

"Wait a minute. Please. Can we talk for a minute? You too, Mr. Peary."I saw that she was holding her shoulders as if she were chilled. Thesun had gone under again and a raw April wind was blowing. "We couldsit in my car a minute. I want to—make a guess as to what George wasdoing with the money."

They looked at me oddly. Peary shrugged and said, "Sure."

We crossed the street and got into my car, Ruth in the middle.

"It's just a guess. You know that Rose Fulton has never been satisfiedwith her husband's disappearance. Prine investigated and he'ssatisfied. George was out of town when Eloise ran off with Fulton. Aneighbor saw Eloise carry a bag out to the car. Now suppose that Eloisewasn't running away permanently. Imagine that she was just going tostay the night with Fulton. She didn't want to stay at the house incase George should come home. And there were the neighbors to consider.She wouldn't want to go to a motel or hotel in the area. She was toowell known. So she planned to go up to the lake with Fulton. She tookjust the things she'd need for overnight. Was it the time of year whenthere wouldn't be people up at the lake?"

"It was this time of year," Ruth said.

"Now suppose George came home and found she wasn't home. He startedhunting for her. And went to the lake. Or imagine that for some reason,driving back from his trip out of town, he stopped at the lake andfound them there together. What would he have done?"

"I see where this is heading," Ruth said. "It gives me a strangefeeling. George loved Eloise and trusted her. I guess he was the onlyone who couldn't see what she was. If George walked in on the two ofthem, I think he would have gone temporarily insane. I think he wouldhave killed them. He used to be a powerful man, Tal."

"So he killed them up there at the lake. He got rid of the bodies. Hecould have wired weights to the bodies and sunk them in the lake, butI'm more inclined to think he buried them. Maybe he buried them on hisown land there. He was lucky in that she had been seen at the Inn withFulton and she was seen leaving with Fulton. He had no way to know itwould work out so well. He killed them in anger, and buried the bodiesin panic. For a long time he was safe. He tried to go on as thoughnothing had happened. He played the part of the abandoned husband. Andthen somebody found the bodies. They didn't report it to the police.They went to George."

Peary said eagerly, "And put the bite on him. They demanded money andkept demanding money. He had to start selling things. When nearlyeverything was gone, he killed himself. He couldn't face exposure andtrial and conviction. So we have to look for somebody who has gottenrich all of a sudden."

"Or somebody smart enough to just put it away and not attract attentionby spending it," I said.

"He seemed so strange sometimes," Ruth said softly. "He said queerthings I didn't understand. He was like—one of those bad movies wherepeople laugh at the wrong places."

"It would be quite a thing to have on your mind," Peary said. "The moreI think about it, the more logical it seems, Mr. Howard. I think you'vehit it right on the head. The next step is to prove it. And that meanslooking for the bodies. I—I'd like to hear what Mrs. Fulton has tosay, though. She's been annoying Prine by sending people here. I'd liketo know why she's so convinced that she's willing to spend money."

"We could phone her," I said. "If you could get her address."

He got out of the car. "I think I can get it. I'll be back in a minute."

We placed the call from Peary's office. Peary talked to her from theinner office. Ruth and I listened on the extension, her ear close tomine.

The woman had a harsh voice. "How do you come into this?"

"I don't, really. Mr. George Warden committed suicide last night. Itgives us a lead to what might have happened to your husband."

"He was killed and he was killed down there. Maybe that woman did it.I don't know. Now I hear that man Grassman is missing. I talked to himbefore he went down there. When are you people going to wake up downthere? What kind of a place is that, anyhow?"

"What makes you think your husband is dead?"

"Henry was no damn good. He'd chase anything in a skirt. I knew it.That was the way he was. He'd always come crawling back. He even likedcrawling, I think. This business with that Warden woman was more ofthe same. It wouldn't last any two years. He had fourteen hundreddollars in his personal checking account. That's all tied up. He'snever drawn on it. He owed payments on the car. The finance company hasnever been able to find the car. We've got two kids in high school.I'll say this for him, he loved the kids. He couldn't go two yearswithout seeing them. Not Henry. Personally, believe me, I'm convincedI'll never see him again and I don't care. But he had a couple of biginsurance policies. I insisted on that to protect me and the kids. Whatprotection have I got? The companies won't pay off. It has to be sixyears from the time he dropped off the face of the earth. Four moreyears I have to get along. What about college for the kids? I tell you,you people better wake up down there and find out what happened toHenry."

There was more, but she merely repeated herself. The conversationended. I hung up and looked at Ruth. Her smile was wan and she shivereda little.

"That was pretty convincing, Tal," she said.

"Very."

Peary came into the outer office. He looked thoughtful. "Suppose I wasthe blackmailer. I find the bodies. I came across them by accident. Ormaybe I was smart enough to look for them. Okay. What do I do? I makedamn well certain that nobody else finds them and spoils the game. Iwant to do a better job of hiding them than George did. But I don'twant to completely dispose of the bodies. I want them where they can bea threat. I want them where they can be dug up."

Ruth said, "That man Grassman. We saw him out at the lake, Tal andI did. And now he's disappeared. That could mean that he found thebodies."

"And found the blackmailer, too," Peary said.

I found myself remembering the odd conversation with George. When hehad said he couldn't give me a job. And had offered me a gun out ofstock. He had known I had come from Fitz. He had thought I was a friendof Fitz, cutting myself in on the take. It was obvious that Fitz wasthe blackmailer. I remembered the expensive look of the suit he waswearing when I had seen him at the Inn. He had come to Hillston withthe idea of finding the money Timmy had hidden. He had stayed in thecabin out at the lake. He made a point of telling me that the moneywasn't hidden out at the lake. He had looked there. And found somethingprofitable and horrible.

But what was most convincing was Fitz telling me that he was certainEloise hadn't taken the money with her. He must have appreciated hisown joke. Eloise had never meant to leave permanently. She would havebeen a fool to leave as long as there was a chance of Timmy comingback. She knew about the money. Yet Timmy had been shrewd enough not totrust her with information about the hiding place.

I thought of that first conversation that must have taken place betweenFitz and George after Fitz found the bodies.

"What should we do?" Ruth asked. "Should we talk to Captain Marion?"

At four-thirty that gray Wednesday I stood on the lake shore with Ruthand Allan Peary, Sergeant Brubaker and Lieutenant Prine. We were infront of the place that had belonged to George Warden before he hadsold it. The narrow dock had been hauled out onto the shore for thewinter and hadn't been replaced. The wind had died and the lake waslike a gray steel plate. Voices had an odd resonance in the stillness.Captain Marion came out of the cabin with a husky young patrolman. Thepatrolman had changed to swimming trunks. He wore an aqualung with theface mask shoved up onto his forehead. He walked gingerly on the roughpath in his bare feet. He looked serious, self-important, and chilled.

Captain Marion said, "Try to stay on this line right here. The waterlooks kind of murky. How's the light?"

The patrolman clicked the watertight flashlight on. "It looks brightenough."

Prine said in a low voice so Captain Marion couldn't overhear, "This isnonsense."

No one answered him. Brubaker moved away from us. I glanced down atRuth's face. Her lips were compressed. She watched the patrolman wadeout into the water. It shelved off abruptly. He thrashed and caught hisbalance, the water up to his chest. He adjusted the face mask, bit downon the mouthpiece. He glanced toward us, then moved forward and wasgone, leaving a swirl of turbulence on the surface. The ripples spreadout, died away.

Prine lit a cigarette, threw the match aside with a quick, impatientgesture. He had looked tall when I had seen him behind his desk.Standing beside me he was not tall at all. His trunk was very long, buthis legs were short and heavy.

The long minutes passed. We made idle talk, but we kept our voices low.The pines on far hills looked black.

The man came abruptly to the surface about forty feet off shore. Heswam to the shore and waded out of the water, dripping. He pushed theface mask up onto his forehead. He was shivering.

"Man, it's cold down there," he said.

We moved toward him. "Well?" Marion demanded.

"Here, sir." He handed Marion something. We looked at it as it lay onMarion's hand. It was the dash lighter out of an automobile, corrodedand stained. "I came right up from where it is. It's in about fiftyfeet of water, half on its side. Gray Studebaker. Illinois plates. Thenumber is CT5851. Empty. Rock bottom. It's on a pretty steep slope. Ithink it can be hauled out all right."

"That number checks out," Prine said in a reluctant voice. "Damn it,how can you figure a thing like that?"

"Steve," Marion said, "I guess maybe we goofed on this one. I guessmaybe that Rose Fulton was right."

Ruth had gone back to town with Peary in his car. She had seemedsubdued, thoughtful. As Peary had credited me with making the guessthat led to the discovery of the car, I was in Marion's good graces.I had not told them the second installment of the guess—no longer aguess, actually—that Fitzmartin was the blackmailer.

The tow truck had arrived. It stood heading away from the water, brakeslocked and wheels blocked. The taut cable stretched down into thewater. At dusk they had turned on the big spotlights on the tow truck.About twenty people watched from a place just down the lake shore.Captain Marion had herded them down there out of the way. More men hadcome out from town. They had been searching the area, prodding into thesoft earth with long steel rods.

The tired patrolman surfaced again and came to shore. "It ought todo it this time," he said. "I got the hook around the rear axle andfastened back on the cable." He stood in the light. He had scratchedhis arm on a rock. There was a sheen of water-diluted blood on hisforearm.

"Try her again," Marion called.

The winch began to whine again. The cable tightened visibly. I watchedthe drum. The cable began to come in a few feet at a time. The progresswas uneven. At last, like some surfacing sea monster, the gray back ofthe car emerged from the water. The car was resting on its wheels. Itcame backward out of the water, streaming. Bright metal showed where ithad been dragged against rocks. The big truck moved forward until thecar was entirely on dry land. Water ran out of the car, runneling backinto the lake. There was a smell of dampness and weed.

"Get yourself dried off, Ben," Marion said quietly. "George, open upthat back end with a pry bar."

The cold, weary underwater swimmer went up to the cabin. A stockyman in uniform opened the trunk expertly. The county police who hadarrived moved closer. I could hear the spectators talking excitedlyto each other. The floodlights illuminated the interior of the trunkcompartment brightly. There was drenched luggage in there, soddenclothing. Water was still running out of the trunk.

Marion said, "Well, that's one place they ain't. Didn't expect them tobe. Tight fit for two of them. But you can see how it was. Those shirtsand socks. That stuff wouldn't jump out of the suitcase. He found them.After he killed them he just dumped their stuff in the back end, looselike. Then he aimed the car at the slope and started it up. It wouldbe night and he wouldn't have the car lights on because that wouldattract attention. She got going pretty good. He knew it was deep rightoff here. Hitting the water probably slowed it a lot, but once on thebottom it would keep right on going down the underwater slope until itwedged in those rocks where Ben found it."

I could see a woman's red plastic purse in the back end. The red hadstayed bright. It looked new enough to have been carried by Eloiseyesterday. Captain Marion reached in and took it out. He unsnapped itand poured the water out of it. A corroded lipstick fell to the ground.Marion grunted as he bent over and picked it up. There was a wallet inthe purse. He took it out and shook the water off it, and opened it. Hestudied the soaked cards.

"Mrs. Warden's, all right. Al, can you tow the car on into town allright?"

"Sure, Captain."

"Well, when you get there, spread all this stuff out in the back end ofthe garage where it'll get a chance to dry off." In ten minutes thecar had been lashed securely and towed off. I heard the tow truck motorlabor as it went up the hill toward the road.

"Captain," Prine said, "shall I have the men keep looking? It's gettingtoo dark to do much good. They haven't had any luck."

"Might as well save it until morning. Tom, can you detail some of yourboys to help out in the morning?"

"I can send a couple around."

The spectators had gone, most of them. A wiry little man came over towhere we stood. The swimmer, back in uniform, had come down from thecabin. I could smell a strong reek of liquor on his breath. Somebodyhad evidently found a cold preventative for him.

Prine said to the elderly little man, "I told you people to stay backthere."

"Don't you bark and show your teeth at me, boy. I want to talk to youfellows. Maybe you might learn something."

"Get off the—"

"Hold it, Steve," Captain Marion said in a mild voice. "What's yourname?"

"Finister. Bert Finister. Looking for bodies, somebody said. That'swhat you're doing. You could listen to me. I live off back there, otherside of the road. I do chores around here. Most of the camps. Everybodyknows me. Carpentry work, plumbing, masonry. Put the docks in. Take 'emout in the fall. I know these camps."

"So you know the camps. If you were hunting for bodies, Finister, wherewould you look?"

"I'm getting to that. I know the camps. I know the people that comestay in them. Knew George and Timmy Warden and their pa. Knew thatEloise, too. Knew when Timmy used to come up and swim all the wayacross to see Ruthie Stamm. Showing off, I guess. Then last year therewas a fellow named Fitzmartin up here. Guess he rented this placefrom George. First time it was ever rented, and now it's been sold,but that's beside the point. You know there's all this do-it-yourselfstuff these days. Takes the bread out of a man's mouth. Takes honestwork away from him. People do things theirself, they botch it all up.Me, I take it like an insult. That Fitzmartin, he was digging around.Didn't know what he was doing. I figured whatever he was doing it wassomething he could hire me to do. Then by God, he trucks in cement andhe knocks together some forms, and I be damned if he doesn't cement thegarage floor. Pretty fair job for an amateur. But it was taking breadout of my mouth, so I remember it. He put that floor in last May. IfI was looking for any bodies I'd look under that floor because thatFitzmartin, he's a mean-acting man. I come around to help and he chasesme clean off the place. Walks me all the way up to the road with my armtwist up behind me and calls me a trespasser. Nobody ever called methat before. Folks are friendly up here. That man he just didn't fitin at all. And I'm glad he wasn't the one who bought it. The folks whobought it, people from Redding, they seem nice. Got two little kids.I let them know when they want anything done, they get hold of BertFinister."

We stood in the glow of car lights. Captain Marion looked at Prine."Fitzmartin?"

"Runs the lumberyard for George. Shall I go get him?"

"We better look first, Steve."

"That cement floor fooled me. I went over it carefully. It hadn't beendug up and patched. It never occurred to me that the whole floor hadbeen—"

"I saw a pickax in the shed," Captain Marion said. "Maybe you betterswing it yourself, Steve. Maybe you need the workout."

"Yes, sir," said a subdued Lieutenant Prine.

They parked the cars so that the headlights made the inside of thegarage as bright as a stage. Prine swung and grunted and sweated untilCaptain Marion decided the punishment was enough. Finister came backout of the darkness with another pick and a massive crowbar. The workbegan to go faster. A big slab was loosened. They pried it up, heavedit over out of the way, exposing black dirt. The men worked silently.For a long time it didn't appear that they would get anywhere. I wasout in the darkness having a cigarette when I heard someone saysharply, "Hold it!"

I started toward the garage and then thought of what they might findand stopped where I was. The one called Ben came out into the night. Hebent forward from the waist and gagged dryly. He stood up and coughed.

"Find them?" I asked.

"They found them. Prine says it's her. He remembers the color of herhair."

I rode back in with Captain Marion. Prine had gone on ahead to pick upFitzmartin. Captain Marion felt talkative.

"It isn't going to be too easy with this Fitzmartin. What can we provethat will stand up? Blackmail? We'd have to have the money and George'stestimony. Concealing the evidence of a crime? He can say George toldhim to put a cement floor in the garage. He can say he didn't haveany idea what was under it. No, it isn't going to be as easy as Stevethinks it is. Sometimes Steve worries me. He gets so damn set in hismind. He isn't flexible enough."

"But you think it was Fitzmartin."

"It has to be. He milked George clean dry. George didn't have muchchoice, I guess. Pay up or be exposed. If he was exposed, my guess ishe would have gotten life. A good defense attorney could have broughtout some things about Eloise that wouldn't sound very pretty to a jury.George could have figured that when he ran out of money, Fitzmartinmight—probably would—take off without saying a word. That would leavehim free to walk around broke. Better than not walking around at all.What I can't figure is how Fitzmartin got it in his head to look forthose bodies. He wasn't in this town when George killed the pair ofthem. I understand he was in prison camp with Timmy. But how wouldTimmy have any idea about a thing like that. There's some angles tothis we won't know unless that Fitzmartin wants to talk."

I could sense the way his mind was turning. He glanced at me a coupleof times.

"You gave us some help, Howard. I grant that. But I don't feel rightabout the way you fit in, either."

"What do you mean, Captain?"

"Aren't you just a little too damn convenient? You hit town andeverything starts to pop open. Why is that?"

"Coincidence, I guess."

"You knew Timmy and you know Fitzmartin. Maybe before you came here youknew Fitzmartin was milking George. Maybe that's why you came here,Howard."

"I didn't know anything about it."

"I'm not through with you, son. Don't take yourself any notion todisappear. I want you where we can talk some more. You're just too damnconvenient in this whole thing."

At that moment, about a mile from the Hillston city limits, a call cameover the radio. Marion answered it. I could barely decipher Prine'sDonald Duck voice over the small speaker.

"He's gone, Captain. Fitzmartin is gone. I've put out a description ofhim and his car. He was living in a shed at the rear of the lumberyard.All his personal stuff is gone. I felt the space heater. There wasa little warmth left. He didn't leave too long ago. How about roadblocks?"

"Damn it, Steve, I've told you before. Road blocks aren't worth a damnaround here. There's too many roads. There just aren't enough men andvehicles in this area to close all those roads. That stove could havebeen turned off three hours ago. You'd have to have your blocks set upright now this minute on every road within a hundred miles at least."

"What do you suggest, sir?" Prine said more humbly.

"Wait and see if somebody picks him up."

Marion broke the connection. "Okay, Howard. You seem to know Fitzmartinpretty well. Where does he come from?"

"Originally from Texas, I think."

"What's his line of work?"

"I think he worked in oil fields."

"Ever say anything about his relatives?"

"He never talked very much."

"That's not much help, I guess. Where can we drop you off?"

"My car's parked across the street from Peary's office."

"Want to tell you that I appreciate you making a pretty good guessabout this whole thing, Howard. I can't help telling you I wonder justhow much of it was guessing. And I wonder why you came here. I'd likeit if you'd play the cards face up."

I had thought him amiable, mild, ineffectual. Hour by hour I hadrevised my opinion. I had thought Prine was the dangerous one. Prinewas the fool. Captain Marion was something else entirely.

"I'm not hiding anything, Captain."

"We've got George dead, and that Grassman missing, and we've got thosetwo bodies, and now Fitzmartin on the run. It has to get tied togethera little better before I feel right about it."

"I'm sorry I can't help you."

"I'm sorry you won't help, son. Good night."

They drove away. It was after ten and I was famished. In twelve hoursI would be picking Antoinette up. With luck, in twenty-four hours Iwould be gone. Either with her or alone. I didn't know which it wouldbe. Call it a form of monomania. I had thought about the money for toolong. I had aimed toward it for too long. Tomorrow I would have it.Once I had it, maybe I could begin to think clearly again.

I found a place to eat. I was just finishing when Brubaker came in. Hesat beside me at the counter and gloomily flipped the menu open. "Ahell of a long day," he said.

"It has been."

"And not over yet. At least they're giving me time to eat. And thenback on the job. Until God knows when. Nobody will get any sleeptonight."

"I thought Captain Marion said he'd just wait and hope Fitzmartin getspicked up."

"That's right. I mean about the girl."

I suddenly felt very cold. "What girl?"

"I thought you knew about that. The Stamm girl. Peary brought her backto town. He left her off at her car. They found her car parked on NorthDelaware. And nobody's seen her since. Her old man is fit to be tied.Everybody is running around in circles."

I couldn't finish the little bit of food that was left. I couldn'tdrink the rest of my coffee. It was as though my throat had closed.I wondered how soon they'd add two and two. Ruth had been subduedand thoughtful when she left the lake. She would remember thatFitzmartin had acted strangely. She was the sort of person to do herown investigating. She was the sort of person who would go and talkto Fitzmartin. She would have no way of knowing that he was a killer.She would underestimate his cleverness. It wouldn't take him long tolearn that the car had been found, to learn that they were searchingthe area of the lake cabin. It was time to go. The string was runningout. I could guess how it had happened with Grassman. Grassman, as aresult of his quiet investigation, had made some sound guesses as towhat had happened. He had paid a call on Fitzmartin. Maybe Grassman hadwanted to cut himself in. Maybe he had made a search of the place whereFitzmartin lived while he was out. He could have found the large sum ofmoney Fitz had extorted from George Warden. Fitz could have found himthere and killed him, driven the body into town, and put it in my car.

From the violence of the blow that had killed Grassman, it could beassumed that it was an unpremeditated killing. In the moment he killedGrassman, Fitz became more deeply involved. He waited, expecting me tobe jailed for the Grassman murder. When I wasn't, he would know that Ihad successfully gotten rid of the body. No one had spotted it in mycar. Thus, when it was found, it could as readily be traced back to himas to me.

Assuming he could be questioned about Grassman, then George became theweak link. George, by talking, could disclose Fitz's motive for theGrassman murder. And so George had to die. Fitz had killed him boldly,taking his risk and getting away with it. Prine had been right aboutthe towel.

Just when he thinks everything has been taken care of, Ruth Stammarrives. He can't leave without her immediately spreading the alarm.He needs a grace period, time enough to get far away before someoneelse makes the same guess she has made. That left him with a choice. Hecould tie her up and leave her there. But that would be too clear anadmission of guilt. He could take her with him. That would be awkwardand risky. Or he could kill her. One more death wouldn't make anydifference in the final penalty.

"You're doing a lot of sweating," Brubaker said. "It isn't that hot inhere."

I managed a feeble smile. I said I would see him around. I paid andleft. It was too easy to visualize her dead, with raw new lumberstacked over her body, her dark red hair against the damp ground in thecoolness of the night. What shocked me was the stunning sense of loss.It taught me that I had underestimated what she meant to me. I couldnot understand how she had come to mean so much, in so short a time.More than Charlotte had ever meant.

ELEVEN

I went directly to police headquarters. I demanded to see CaptainMarion. After fifteen minutes they let me see him.

I told him that I thought Ruth's disappearance had something to do withFitzmartin. He looked older and tireder. He nodded without surprise.

He said, "She knew George pretty well. Maybe she remembered somethingGeorge said about Fitzmartin. So she tried to check it out herself.Maybe he'd think she was the only one who'd guess. I've thought ofthat, Howard. I don't like it. I've got a crew out there searching theyard. I thought of something else, too. Maybe Grassman guessed. Maybethat's why something happened to him. Thanks for coming in, Howard. Iadded it up about a half hour ago. I don't like the total."

"Can I help in any way?"

"You look like hell. You better try to get some sleep."

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep."

I drove back out to the motel. It no longer seemed important aboutmeeting Antoinette in the morning. It didn't matter any more. I hadcome here to Hillston to find treasure. I had thought I would find itburied in the ground. I had found it walking around, with dark redhair, with gray eyes, with a look of pride. And I hadn't recognized it.I had acted like a fool. I had tried to play the role of thief. But itdidn't fit. It never would fit. The money meant nothing. Ruth meanteverything. I had had a chance and I had lost it. They don't give youtwo chances.

I parked in front of my motel room. The office was dark, the NoVacancy sign lighted. Cars sat in the light of an uneasy moon, and thetravelers slept.

I unlocked the door with my key and stepped inside, reaching for thelight switch. Something came out of the darkness and slammed against myjaw. Pain blossomed red behind my eyes, a skyrocket roaring was in myears and I felt myself fall into nothingness.

I came to in a brightly lighted place. I opened my eyes and saw nothingbut the white glare and closed them quickly. The white glare hurt.My hands were behind me, fastened there somehow. I was in an awkwardposition. Something soft filled my mouth, holding it open.

I opened my eyes again, squinting. I saw that I was in the small tilebathroom of the motel. The door was closed. I lay on my side on thefloor. Earl Fitzmartin sat on the side of the tub. He wore khakis.He looked at me with those eyes like smoke. His pale colorless hairwas tousled. I could sense at once that he had gone beyond the vagueborderline of sanity. It was like being in a cage with an animal.

He stood up, closed the lid on the toilet, bent over me, picked me upwith disconcerting ease, and sat me on the closed lid, holding me fora moment until he was certain I wouldn't topple over. He sat on the rimof the tub again, facing me.

"We aren't going to talk over a whisper, Tal. We aren't going to makeany sudden noises. If we make any sudden noises I'm going to snap yourneck with my hands. It wouldn't be hard to do. Nod your head if you'regoing to be quiet."

I nodded. He took a knife out of his pocket, opened the blade, andleaned toward me. He put the cold steel against my cheek, holding itthere, smiling in an odd way, then yanked it toward him, cutting thestrip of sheeting that held the dry washcloth in my mouth. I pushed thewashcloth out with my tongue and it fell to the floor at my feet.

"Where's Ruth?"

"That was just a little bit too loud. Not much too loud. Just a littlebit. So soften it up, Tal. Ruth is all right."

"Thank God."

"Not God. Me. I had the idea, not God. She was on the ground. On herface. Out like a light. I took hold of that wonderful hair in my lefthand and I pulled her head up. I held this little knife against herthroat. It's sharp enough to shave with. I was about to pull it throughher throat when I suddenly began to wonder if she might be worthsomething. So I didn't do it. She's all right. Don't thank God. ThankEarl Fitzmartin. She isn't comfortable. She isn't happy. But she'sstill alive, Tal."

"Where is she?"

"Not over a half mile from here. But you don't know what direction.It's across country. I was trained to fight at night. I move well atnight, Tal. I'm good at night. You know how I used to get around thecamp. You remember that. She's well tied, Tal. She can't even wiggle.She can't make a sound. You're really worried about her, aren't you?She came to the yard. For a little heart-to-heart talk. Did they findthe bodies, Tal?"

"They tore up the garage floor."

"Now they can ask George all about it. But George won't have a word tosay. George isn't talking. George didn't have much more left. Justa little equity in the lumberyard. A little stock in the store. Notenough left to stay around for. He was good for forty-seven thousand,seven hundred dollars. It should have been more. He didn't have to giveup. He could have gotten on the ball and started making more. He couldhave tried to fatten up the kitty. But he was selfish. He would havelived longer."

"You killed him."

"That was a shade too loud, Tal. Just a bit too loud. How are youcoming with Cindy, Tal. Find her?"

"You took an awful chance killing George."

He smiled again. "You won't believe this, but I didn't kill him. Hestarted to come to while I was stripping him, but I poured more liquorinto him. I read that people drown themselves and shoot themselves andcut their wrists naked. Did you know that? Very interesting. I got himpropped on the side of the bed. I got the muzzle with the towel aroundit between his teeth. The gun was about the only thing holding him up.I wanted the angle to be right and I wanted to do it when there was alot of noise on the floor. But I wanted to do it, Tal. You know, youplan a thing, and work it out just right, you want to do it. But heopened his eyes. He looked right at me. He looked ridiculous, with thegun in his mouth. He looked right at me and put his big toe against thetrigger before I could stop him. I don't know if it was an accident.What do you think?"

"I think he did it on purpose."

"So do I. So do I. It makes me feel a little strange. He maybe did itlike a joke. He did that well. He didn't do much else well. He didn'tdo well marrying that woman or burying her, either. I thought I'd hitthe sixty thousand when I dug under the pines. But it turned out to bethe woman and the salesman. It disappointed me, Tal. But it turned outto be just like finding money, didn't it?"

"They're all after you now."

"Do you think that worries me? Now hear this. It doesn't worry me abit. Maybe you ought to be worried. Where is Grassman? I didn't thinkyou could get out of that. You surprised me a little, Tal. I thoughtit would give you the jumps. What did you do with it?"

"I hid the body in a barn, an abandoned barn."

"And I bet you did some sweating. Grassman was smart. He was in myleague, Tal. Not yours. He added things up. He was a pro. He addedthings, up and came after the money. He knew I had to have it aroundsomewhere. He knew I was too smart to spend it. I caught him lookingfor it. We had a little talk. He got rough. I got mad and hit him toohard. That made it awkward. I put him in the back end of my car. Ididn't know where to dump him. I was thinking of an alley, so they'dthink he'd been mugged. But I found your car by accident. It saved me alot of time. After I killed Grassman, I knew I had to get George out ofthe way. He was the only one who could tie me to Grassman. It took someplanning, and some luck. I won't have time to work on the Cindy angle.How are you coming?"

I could see the shape of it. George could tie him to Grassman andGeorge was dead. I could tie him to both of them. It was only throughhis greed that I could buy time, buy my life. "I found her."

He waited ten seconds. He said, "A hundred and seven thousand soundsbetter than forty-seven. I think I better have that much before I takeoff, Tal."

"They're going to get you."

"I don't think so. I don't figure it that way. They might have got meif I'd cut her throat. I wanted to. But I didn't let myself. They wouldhave hunted me too hard. Now you can trade information for her, Tal.If she doesn't mean anything to you, too bad. I can kill you righthere and go and kill her and be on my way and be careful and takemy chances. I couldn't leave you here telling them about George andGrassman and then finding my sixty thousand. I'd rather nobody foundit."

"Somebody is going to find it, anyway. The girl is going to find it.She knows where it is."

"Where is it, Tal?"

"She wouldn't tell me. I told her too much. I couldn't find out anyother way. She's—more in your league, Fitz. I'm picking her uptomorrow morning in Redding. At ten o'clock. She's going to go with meto where the money is hidden."

He smiled in that wild, unpleasant way. "You're kidding the troops,boy. You're stalling. I scared you and you're making things up. You'rejust smart enough to know that if you are going to get it tomorrow, andyet you don't know where it is, I've got to leave you alive. You'rethat smart, and that's why you made it up."

"It's the truth."

"I don't think it's the truth at all. I think maybe you haven't gottenany place. I think I've stalled around here too long. I think I'd liketo hear your neck snap. I can do it so quick you'll hardly know ithappened. Maybe you won't know it at all."

"Wait a minute. Look in the closet in the bedroom. Her luggage isthere."

For the first time he looked uncertain. He turned out the bathroomlight and went into the next room. He came back with the two suitcases.He shut the door, turned the light on again. He opened them and lookedat the clothing.

"This is pretty good stuff. This belongs to her? What's it doing here?"

"We were going to get the money and go off together."

I could see him appraise that, and half accept it. "But I don't likethe idea of letting you go and get it. I can't keep an eye on you."

"Fitz, listen to me. I don't give a damn about the money. You can haveevery cent of it after I get it. I'll trade all of it for Ruth Stamm.Then see how it will be. You'll have the hundred and seven thousand.They think George was a suicide. Maybe they'll never find Grassman. Icovered the body with hay. The barn is about to fall down. Nobody evergoes in there. They won't look as hard for you. You'll be a lot safer."

"You're lying. This is a stall."

"It's not. I'll prove we were going to go away together when we gotthe money. Look for the small black box in the bottom of the smallersuitcase. Under all the clothes. Yes, that's it. Look under thepartition."

He took the money out. He riffled through it. He folded it once andput it in his shirt pocket. He looked at me for long moments, his eyesdubious.

I do not like to think about the next half hour. He put the gag back inmy mouth. He had his strong hands, and he had the small sharp knife,and he had a sad*stic knowledge of the nerve ends. From time to timehe would stop and wait until I quieted down, then loosen the gag andquestion me. The pain and humiliation made me weep like a child. Once Ifainted. Finally he was satisfied. He had learned how much I thought ofRuth. He had learned that I knew that we had to go where the money washidden by boat. He knew that I had guessed we would start from the Rasihouse north of town. And he knew that I knew no more than that.

After that he cut my hands loose. He was perfectly safe in so doing. Iwas too enfeebled by pain to be any threat to him.

"You'll get the money. You'll dig it up. You'll come back here with it."

"No."

He took a quick half step toward me. I couldn't help flinching. Memoryof what he could do was too clear.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't trust you to do what you promise, Fitz. I've got toknow Ruth will be all right. I've got to know she'll be safe. Or youdon't get the money."

"I broke you this far. You want to be broken the rest of the way?"

"I don't think you can do it."

After a long time he gave a shrug of disgust. "Maybe not. How do youwant it worked?"

"I want to see her. I want to see that she's alive before I give youthe money. It could be by the river. Then if you try to cross me, I'llthrow the money in the river. I swear I'll do that."

"You would, wouldn't you? You're making it rough. I can't risk beingseen."

"I'll see that we start off by boat at one o'clock. I don't know howfar we have to go or how long it will take. You could bring her to theRasi house at two."

"It's a risk."

"It's isolated. There's no phone there. At least I don't think theyhave a phone. I'll give you the money and I'll see that you get a fairstart. That's the most I can do. I won't try to make it any safer foryou."

"But you promise a fair start?"

"I promise that."

He snapped out the bathroom light. I heard the door open, and thenheard the outer door open and close. I walked unsteadily through thedark room to the front door. I opened it. The moon was gone. A windsighed across the flats on the far side of the road. There was no signthat Fitzmartin had ever been there. The night was still. He was verygood in the night. I remembered that.

There was a first-aid kit in the trunk compartment of my car. I got it.The small cuts had not bled very much. I cleaned myself up and bandagedthe cuts. I ached all over. I felt sick and weak, as though I wererecovering from a long illness. I kept seeing his eyes. His powerfulhands had punished nerves and muscles. Even my bones felt bruised andtender.

I went to bed. I was certain that Ruth was still alive. I hoped hisgreed would be stronger than his wish to kill. I hoped his greed wouldlast through the night. But there was something erratic about histhought patterns. There was an incoherency about the way he had talked,jumping from one subject to the next. He had a vast confidence in hisown powers.

I wondered where he had Ruth. A half mile away. Across country. Maybeshe was in his car, and it was parked well off a secondary road. Maybehe had found a deserted shed.

As I lay awake, trying to find some position in which I could becomfortable, I heard it begin to rain. The rain was light at first,a mere whisper of rain. And then it began to come down. It thunderedon the roof. It made a drench of the world, bouncing off the paintedmetal of the cars, coming down as though all the gates of the skies hadbeen opened.

TWELVE

I awoke at dawn. It was still raining. It seemed to be raining harderthan before. I was surprised that I had been able to go to sleep. Itook a hot shower to work the stiffness out of my muscles. The smallcuts stung. My face in the mirror looked like the face of a stranger,with sunken eyes and flat, taut cheeks.

I prayed that Ruth was still alive. I prayed that she had lived throughthe night. I knew what would have happened the previous night had I notfound Cindy. I would be lying dead on the tile floor. They would findme there.

I shaved and dressed and left the motel. I got uncomfortably wet in theten feet from the motel door to the car door. I drove slowly into town,the lights on, peering ahead through the heavy rain curtain. I drovethrough town and found a gas station open on the far side. I had thecar gassed up. Farther along I found an all-night bean wagon. A discjockey in Redding was giving the seven-o'clock news. The plastic radiowas behind the counter.

"... as yet on the disappearance of Ruth Stamm, only daughter of DoctorBuxton Stamm of Hillston. It is believed that the young woman wasabducted by a man named Earl Fitzmartin, Marine veteran and ex-prisonerof war. Fitzmartin had been employed for the past year by GeorgeWarden, Hillston businessman. Fitzmartin was a newcomer to Hillston.George Warden committed suicide this week. But certain peculiaritiesabout the circ*mstances of Warden's suicide have led Hillston police tobelieve that it may have been murder. Yesterday the Hillston police,assisted by Gordon County police officers, searched a summer cottageonce owned by George Warden and found, under a cement garage floor, thebodies of Eloise Warden, wife of George Warden, and Henry Fulton, ofChicago. At the time of the Warden woman's disappearance two years ago,it was believed she had run off with Fulton. Discovery of the bodiesand of the Fulton car, which had been driven into the lake into deepwater, has led police to believe that George Warden killed both of themafter finding them together at the summer cottage.

"An intensive search is being made for Fitzmartin and Miss Stamm. Fulldetails of the case have not yet been released, but it is believedthat there is some connection between Fitzmartin and the bodiesdiscovered yesterday at the summer cottage. It is expected that federalauthorities will be called in on the case today. Miss Ruth Stamm istwenty-six years old, five feet eight inches tall, and weighs about ahundred and twenty-eight pounds. She has dark red hair and gray eyesand was last seen wearing a dark green skirt and a white cardigansweater. Fitzmartin is about thirty years old, six feet tall, weighsabout a hundred and eighty pounds. He has very blond, almost whitehair, pale gray eyes. He may be driving a black Ford, license BB67063.Anyone seeing persons of this description should contact the police atonce. Listen again at eight o'clock to WRED for complete local news."

The disc jockey stopped and whistled softly. "How about that, folks?They give me this stuff to read and sometimes I read it and don't evenlisten. But that's a hot one. That one can grab you. Bodies underconcrete. Cars in lakes. Suicides that aren't suicides. A red-headedgal and an ex-Marine. Man, that's a crazy mixed-up deal they've gotdown there in Hillston. That's got all the makings of a national typecrime. Well, back to the mines. Got to spin some of this stuff. Butbefore I do, let me tell you a little something you ought to know, yougood folks out there, about the Atlas Laundry and Dry Cleaning peopleright here in Redding, over on Downey Street. If you've got clothesyou're really proud of, and I guess we all got one set of those goodthreads at least, then you—"

The fat young girl behind the counter turned off the radio. "Thatcharacter," she said amiably to me. "Ten minutes of commercials betweenevery number. Drive you nuts. I just turn him on for the news. If youwant, I can turn him back on or find something else."

"No thanks."

"How about that Stamm girl? I met her once. We had this dog, see. Gothim when he was a puppy. But this highway, it's bad to try to have adog when you live on the highway. He got himself hit and we took himto Stamm's. The girl was real nice. Pretty sort of girl. But Blackiewas too far gone. Busted his back, so they had to give him a shot.Honest, I cried. And you know what I think? I think it's a big deal forthose two. I think she maybe ran off with that Marine. You can figureshe wasn't getting any younger. She'll hear about all the mess she'scausing and she'll get in touch. That's just what will happen."

"Could be," I said.

"Of course it could be. You want more coffee, maybe? Sometimes I thinkI'd run off with anybody asked me just to get out of this rat race.That's on my bad days. Isn't this day a stinker, though? It keepscoming down like this, every creek in the county will be flooded. Itgives me the creeps to think about those two buried under a garagefloor all that time. I never knew her, but my sister knew her. She wasin the high school with her, before my time. My sister says she did alot of running around. The way I see it, mister, if a husband catcheshis wife and another man, he's got a right to kill the two of them.It's like what they say the unwritten law. When I get married, I'mnot going to do any cheating. I guess it isn't so bad if a man does alittle cheating. They're all alike, beg your pardon. But no woman witha home and husband and everything has any right to jump the fence.Don't you think so? He made his big mistake burying the two of themlike he did. He should have just got on the phone and said to thepolice, 'You boys come out here and see what I did and why.' Then itwould have been just what they say formalities. The way I look at it—"

I was saved by two truck drivers who came in from the big red combothat had just parked in front of the place. After she served them shecame back, but I had finished.

As she gave me my change she said, "You remember what I told you, now.That girl and that Marine ran off some place. Drive carefully."

I drove on through the rain. The cars I met were proceeding withgreat care. It should have been full daylight, but it hadn't gottenappreciably lighter since first dawn. It was almost nine o'clock beforeI got to Redding. I parked near a drugstore and phoned her number froma booth in the back of the store.

She answered the phone at once. "Hello?"

"This is Tal."

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid you have the wrong number."

"I'll be there at ten like you said."

"That's perfectly all right." She hung up. Her last comment had beenthe tip-off. Somebody was there with her. She had answered as though Ihad apologized. I wondered if it would be all set for ten. I wonderedif I dared try again. I went to the drugstore counter and had coffee.The counter was emptying rapidly as people went to work. I bought aRedding paper. The discovery of the bodies had been given a big play.The article filled in a little more background than the radio item, butessentially it was the same.

At nine-thirty I tried again. She answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"This is Tal again."

"Yes?"

"Is this deal off or on. What goes on? Should I be there at ten?"

"This coming Saturday? No, I'm very sorry. I have a date."

"I'm at a pay phone. The number is 4-6040. I'll wait right here untilyou can call me back."

"No, I'm so sorry. Maybe some other time. Give me a ring."

"Phone as soon as you can."

"Thank you. Good-by."

I took a booth near the phone booths. I went and got my paper andordered more coffee. I waited. Two people used the booth. At fiveminutes to ten the call came.

"Hello?"

"Is that you, Tal? I couldn't talk before. I'm glad you phoned. Make itten-fifteen. What does your watch say?"

"Exactly four minutes of."

"Don't park out back. Park a block away. Start up at exactlyten-fifteen and go slow. When you see me coming, unlatch the door.Don't waste time getting away from there."

I began to be more nervous. I had no way of knowing what she was mixedup in. I knew her playmates would be hard people. I didn't know howclosely they would be watching her.

The rain had begun to let up a little. I parked a block away from herapartment house. I could see it. I kept the motor running. I kept aneye on my watch. At exactly ten fifteen I started up. I drove slowly. Isaw a man in a trench coat across the street from the apartment house,leaning against a phone pole.

As I drew even with the apartment house, slowing down, she camerunning. I swung the door open. I didn't stop. She piled into the car.She wore a dark coat, a black hat with a veil, and carried a brown caselike a dispatch case.

"Hurry!" she ordered. Her voice was shrill, frightened.

I speeded up. She was looking back. I heard a hoarse shout.

"Keep going!" she ordered. "He's running for his car. It's headedthe wrong way. They posted a man out in back. I didn't know it untilyesterday afternoon."

A light ahead turned red. There was cross traffic. I ran the light.Tires yelped and horns blatted with indignation. I barely made thenext light. She kept watching back over her shoulder. It took fifteenminutes to get to the southbound highway, the road to Hillston.

Once we were out on the highway and I was able to open it up a little,she turned around. I glanced at her. Her left eye was badly puffed anddiscolored. Her left cheek was bruised. I remembered the story of thesmall girl who had stayed home from school because her brother hadblacked her eye.

"What happened to your face?"

"I got bounced around a little. People got annoyed at me."

"What the hell have you been mixed up in?"

"Don't worry about it."

"I'd like to know how much chance I was taking."

"You weren't taking it. I was taking it. They didn't want me to leave.Anybody leaves they get the idea there's a subpoena in the background.And a committee and an investigation. They were careless. I learned toomuch. So they had a problem. Do they kill me or watch me. They watchedme. I'm stupid, I guess. I was having a big time. I thought I couldpull out any time. I didn't know they played so rough. If I'd guessedit could be that rough, I wouldn't have gotten that far in."

"You can't go back, then."

"I can't ever go back. Don't make jokes. Just drive as fast as you can."

She had changed in the short time since I'd seen her. There had been alot of arrogance about her. Confidence and arrogance, and a flavor ofenjoyment. That was gone. She was bitter and half-frightened and sullen.

I drove. The rain finally stopped. The sky had a yellow look. Tiresmade a wet sound on the road. The ditches were full. We went through avillage. Children romped in the schoolyard under the yellow sky.

I did not like what I was going to have to do to her. She had given mea certain measure of trust. She had no way of knowing that the stakeshad changed. She could not know I was willing to betray her—that I hadto betray her. I knew I could not risk taking her to the motel. Shewould want her luggage first of all. She would want to check on themoney. It was gone. She would want an explanation. And there was noexplanation I could give her.

I would betray her, but it was the money balanced against Ruth's life.It seemed fantastic that I could have seriously considered going awaywith this woman who sat so silently beside me, fists clenched nervouslyagainst the dark fabric of her skirt. It seemed fantastic that Icould have gotten wound up in the whole thing. Charlotte was severallifetimes in the past. When I had come home I had felt half alive. NowI was entirely alive. I knew what I wanted, and why, and knew that Iwould go to any lengths to get what I wanted.

"Are you serious in thinking they would kill you?" I asked.

She laughed. A single short, flat sound. "I know where the body isburied. Ever hear that expression? It was a party I didn't want to goon in the first place. I knew it would be a brawl. It was. A man gothimself killed. He got too excited. Not a bad guy. Young guy. Richfamily. Got a big whomp out of running around with the rougher element.You know. Liked to know people by their first name, the ones who hadbeen in jail. Liked to be able to get his parking tickets fixed. Hegot suddenly taken dead. Sort of an accident. A very important fellowshot him in the head. I was the only outsider. I know where they puthim. The family has spent a fortune in the last five years, looking fortheir kid. They're still looking. It could be very bad. It was very badat the time. I'd never seen anything like that before."

"They would kill you?"

"If they think I'll talk. If they were sure of it and had a chance.There wouldn't be much heat over me. Not over this pair of round heels.The kid they killed is real heat. The man with the gun was drunk. I waswith the man with the gun. The kid thought he was too drunk to know orcare. He had his arms around me when he was shot in the head. When thebullet hit his head, he grabbed onto me so hard I couldn't breathe fora week without it hurting. Then he let go and fell down and tried toget up and went down for good. It was at a farm. They put him in anold cistern and filled it with big rocks. They had his car repaintedand sold through channels. If nothing happens in six months or so,they'll stop worrying about me, and maybe they'll stop looking. ButI know what I'm going to do. Blond dye job. Maybe glasses. I'll feelbetter if I don't look like myself."

I was wondering how I could keep her away from the motel and stillstall long enough to get to the Rasi place at one.

She helped out by saying, suddenly, "What's been going on down inHillston, anyhow? Eloise and her boy friend under the cement. ThatStamm girl missing. George knocking himself off. Sounds like it hasbeen pretty wild down there."

"I want to talk to you about that."

I sensed a new wariness about her. "Just what do you mean?"

"I'm new in town. There's been a lot going on. I haven't had anythingto do with it. I mean I've been in on it as a bystander, but that'sall. But the police like to keep busy. I think it would be better if wedidn't go on back through town to the motel. I think it would be betterif we went after the money first."

"You could be picked up?"

"I might be."

"But what for? I don't like this. If they pick you up they pick me up.And word would get back to Redding too damn fast."

"I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."

"I don't like it."

"I can't help that. I think we ought to go after the money. When we getit, we can circle around town and get to the motel from the south. Thenwe can pick up our luggage and be on our way."

"Then that means spending too much time in the area with the money onus. Why don't we circle around and get the baggage first? Then when weget the money, we're on our way."

"They know where I'm staying. Suppose they're waiting there to pick usup."

"Damn it, how did you manage to mess this up, Tal Howard?"

"I didn't mess it up. It isn't a big city. I'm a stranger. They'reafter a man named Fitzmartin."

"I remember that name. You said he knows about the money, too."

"He doesn't know where it is. You're the only one who knows where itis."

"Why are they after him? On account of the girl? They think he tookher?"

"And they think he was blackmailing George because he found out aboutEloise and her boy friend being dead. And they think he killed George,and maybe a private detective named Grassman."

"Busy little man, isn't he?"

"That puts me in the picture because the three of us, Fitz, Timmy, andI, were in the same prison camp."

"I knew this was going to be a mess. I knew it."

"Don't be such a pessimist."

"Why the hell didn't you bring all the stuff along right in the car?Why didn't you check out?"

"If I checked out, they'd be looking already."

"I suppose so. But you could have brought my stuff, anyway."

"I didn't think of that."

"You don't seem to think of much of anything, do you?"

"Don't get nasty. It isn't going to help."

"Everything gets messed up. I was all right. Now I'm out on a limb. Ishould be laughing?"

"I think we ought to get the money first."

"I can't go like this. I don't want to ruin these clothes."

"Ruin your clothes? Where are we going?"

"Never mind that."

"You haven't got anything but good clothes in—" I stopped too suddenly.

"So you had to poke around," she said, vibrating with anger. "Did youhave a good time? Did you like what you saw?"

"It's nice stuff."

"I know it's nice. Sometimes it wasn't so nice earning it, but I knowit's nice. I have good taste. Did you count the money? Attractivecolor, don't you think? Green."

"I counted it."

"It better all be there. And the jewelry better all be there. Everydamn stone. The jewelry more than the money. A lot of people thought itwas junk jewelry. It isn't. It's worth three or four times the money."

"It's all there. It's safe."

"It better be. I can't go in these clothes. We'll have to go somewherewhere I can pick up some jeans. I thought I could buy them in Hillston.Now you can't go into Hillston. So where do we go?"

"You know the area better than I do."

"Let me think a minute."

She told me where to turn. We made a left, heading east, twenty milesnorth of Hillston. It was a narrow, busy road. Ten miles from the turnwas the town of Westonville, a small, grubby town with a narrow mainstreet. I circled a block until I found an empty meter. I watched herwalk away from the car. Men turned to look at her. Men would alwaysturn to look at that walk. I went into a drugstore and came back withcigarettes. She was back in about ten minutes with a brown parcel.

"All right," she said. "Let's go. I've got what I need."

We headed back toward the Redding road. She said, "Find a place whereyou can get off the road. I want to change into this stuff. How aboutahead there, on the left, that little road."

I turned up the little road she pointed out. We passed two drearyfarmhouses. The road entered a patch of woods. I turned onto an oldlumber road. The clay was greasy under the wheels. After we went arounda bend, I stopped.

She opened the door on her side and got out. She bent over the seatand undid the parcel. She took out a pair of burnt-orange slacks,some cheap sneakers, and a wooly yellow sweat shirt. She took theblack suit jacket off and folded it and put it on the back seat.The odd light of the yellow sky came down through the trees. Theleaves dripped. She undid her skirt at the side and stepped out of itcarefully. There was no coyness about her, not the slightest flavor ofmodesty. She did not care whether I stared at her or averted my eyes.She folded the skirt and put it with the jacket. She took her blouseoff and put it carefully on the back seat. She stood there in thewoodland in black hat with veil, black shoes, skimpy oyster-white braand panties, looking both provocative and ridiculous. The hat was last.

She gave me a wry look and said, "Strip tease alfresco. Aren't yousupposed to stamp your feet or something?"

"Aren't you cold?"

"I'm a warm-blooded thing." She put the wooly, baggy sweat shirt on,then stepped into the slacks and pulled them up around her full hipsand fastened them with zipper and buttons. She sat on the car seat andtook off her black shoes and put them in back and put on the sneakersand laced them up.

"Good God, I haven't had clothes like this in years. How do I look,Tal?"

I couldn't tell her how she looked. It wasn't a return to the girl whohad gone on the bike trips with Timmy. I would have guessed it wouldhave made her look younger and fresher. But it didn't. Her body was tooripe, her eyes and mouth too knowing. The years had taken her beyondthe point where she could wear such clothes and look young.

She read the look in my eyes. "Not so good, I guess. Not good at all.You don't have to say it."

"You look fine."

"Don't be a damned fool. Wait a minute while I use the facilities, andthen we'll get out of here." She went off into the woods out of sightof the car. She was back in a few minutes. I backed out. I looked at mywatch. The time problem had been nearly solved. It was a little pasttwelve-fifteen.

I pulled into the yard of the Doyle place, the Rasi place where she hadbeen born. I saw that the boy had finished painting the boat.

"It looks even worse than I remember," she said. She got out of thecar and went toward the porch. The chickens were under the porch. Thedog lay on the porch. He thumped his tail. Antoinette leaned over andscratched him behind the ear. He thudded the tail with more energy.

Her sister came to the doorway, dirty towel in her hand.

"Hello, Anita," Antoinette said calmly.

"What are you doing here? Doyle don't want you coming around here. Youknow that."

"——Doyle," Antoinette said.

"Don't use that kind of language with kids in the house. I'm warningyou." The girl who had cried came up behind her mother and stared at us.

"You're so damn cautious about the kids," Antoinette said withcontempt. "Hi there, Sandy."

"Hi," the girl said in a muted voice.

"You give the kids such a nice home and all, Anita."

"I do what I can do. I do the best I can."

"Look at the way she's dressed. I sent money. Why don't you spend someof it on clothes. Or does Doyle drink it?"

"There's no reason for her to wear her good stuff around the house.What do you want here, anyway? What did you come around here for?" Shegestured toward me with her head. "He was here asking about you. I toldhim where to look. I guess he found you there, all right."

"In the big sinful city. Good God, Anita. Come off it. It eats on youthat you never figured it out right. You never worked it so you got upthere. Now you've got Doyle and look at you. You're fat and you're uglyand you're dirty."

The child began to cry again. Anita turned and slapped her across theface and sent her back into the house. She turned back to Antoinette,her face pale. "You can't come in my house."

"I wouldn't put my foot in that shack, Anita. Are the oars in the shed?"

"What do you want with oars?"

"I'm taking that boat. There's something I want to show my friend."

"What do you mean? You can't use any of the boats."

"Maybe you want to try and stop me? I'm using a boat. I'm taking aboat."

"You go out on the river today you'll drownd yourself. Look at it. Takea good look at it."

We turned and looked at the river. The gray water raced by. It had asoapy look. The boil of the current looked vicious.

"I've been out in worse than that and you know it. Is the shed locked?"

"No," Anita said sullenly.

"Come on, Tal," Antoinette said. I followed her to the shed. Sheselected a pair of oars, measured them to make certain she had mates.We went to the overturned boat. We righted it. It was heavy. She triedthe oars in the locks to be certain they would fit.

She got on one side and I got on the other and we slid the boat sternfirst down the muddy bank to the water. We put it half in the water.The current caught at it, boiling around the stern.

Antoinette straightened up and looked at the river. Anita was watchingus from the porch. The pale face of the little girl watched us from acracked window.

"It's pretty damn rough," Antoinette said. "We won't have much troublegetting down to the island."

"Island?"

"Right down there. See it? That's where we're going."

The island was about three hundred yards downstream. It was perhapsthree hundred feet long and half as wide. It was rocky and wooded. Itsplit the river into two narrow areas of roaring turbulence.

"I don't think we can make it back to here. We can walk the boat downthe shore and land further down when we leave. Then walk back up to thecar and tell them where the boat is. They can get it when the riverquiets down. The worst part is going to be right at the start. Let'sget it parallel to the shore, Tal."

We struggled with the boat. She slipped on the muddy bank and sat downhard and cursed. I held the stern. The bow was pointed downstream.

"Shall I row?" I asked, over the sound of the water.

"I'm used to it. Wait until I get set. When I say go, you get into thestern."

She got in and put the oars in the locks, held them poised. She noddedto me. I got in. The current caught us. It threatened to spin the boatbut she got it quickly under control. It wasn't necessary to row. Shewatched over her shoulder and guided us by fast alternate dips of theoars. She was quick and competent. As we neared the island the fastcurrent split. She dipped both oars and gave a single hard pull thatsent us directly at the island.

The boat ran ashore, the bow wedging in the branches and rubble thathad caught there on the shelving shore, brought downriver by the hardrains.

She was out quickly, and pulled the boat up farther. I jumped outonto the shore and stood beside her. Her eyes were wide and sad andthoughtful. "We used to come here a lot. Come on."

I followed her. We pushed through thickets and came to a steep path.They had come to the island often. And so had a lot of other people,leaving behind them empty rusting beer cans, broken bottles, soddenpaper plates, waxed paper, tinfoil, empty cigarette packs.

The path climbed between rocks. She walked quickly. She stopped ata high point. I came up beside her. It was the highest point of therocky island, perhaps sixty feet above the level of the river. We stoodbehind a natural wall of rock. It came to waist level. I could see theshack, see Anita, in the distance, walking heavily across the litteredyard, see the gleam of my car through the leaves.

"Look!" Antoinette said sharply. I looked where she pointed. Aflat-bottomed boat was coming down the river. It was caught in thecurrent and it spun. The man, kneeling in the stern, using a single oaras a rudder, brought it under control. A dingy red boat under a yellowsky on a soapy gray river. And the man in the boat had pale hair. Hecame closer and I saw his face. He looked up and saw us. To him we wereoutlined against the yellow sky. Then the dwarf trees screened him.

"He landed on the island," Antoinette said.

I knew he had landed. I knew he had watched us. I guessed that he hadgotten hold of a boat and waited on the opposite shore. Fitzmartinwould not take the chance of trusting me. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe Ruthwas dead.

"That's Fitzmartin," I said.

She stared at me. Her eyes were hard. "You arranged this?"

"No. Honestly. I didn't arrange it."

"What does he know? Why did he follow us?"

"I think he's guessed we're after the money."

She leaned calmly against the rock and folded her arms. "All right,Tal. This is the end of it. You and your friend can hunt for it. Havefun. I'll be damned if I'll tell you where it is."

I took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Don't be a damn fool. Thatman is insane. I mean that. He's killed two people. Maybe three. Youcan't just wait for him and say you won't tell him. Do you think he'lljust ask you, politely? After he gets his hands on you, you'll tellhim."

She pushed my hands away. I saw the doubt in her expression. I tried toexplain what Fitzmartin was. She looked down the path the way we hadcome. She bit her lip. "Come on, then," she said.

"Can we circle around and get to the boat?"

"This is better," she said.

I followed her.

THIRTEEN

I thought I heard him call, the sound mingling with the noise of theriver. I followed Antoinette. She led the way down a curving pathtoward the south end of the island. The path dipped into a flat place.Rock walls were high on either side of us. It was a hollow where peoplehad built fires.

She paused uncertainly. "It's so overgrown," she said.

"What are you looking for?"

She moved to one side and looked at the sloping wall. She nodded toherself, and went up, nimble as a cat, using the tough vines to pullherself up. She stopped and spread the vines. She was above a ledge.She turned and motioned to me. My leather soles gave me trouble. Islipped and scrambled, but I made it to the ledge beside her. Shepushed tough weeds and vines aside. She sat down and put her feet inthe dark hole and wormed her way forward. When she was in up to herhips she lay back and, using her hands on the upper edge of the smallslit in the rocks, pulled herself in the rest of the way.

I made hard work of it. It was narrow. She pulled at my ankles. FinallyI was inside. She leaned across me, her weight on me, and pulled theweeds and vines back to cover the hole. At first I could not see, andthen my eyes became used to the light. Daylight came weakly throughthe hole. The hole itself, the slit in the rocks, was not over thirtyinches long and fourteen inches high at its widest point. Inside itwidened out to about five feet, and the ceiling was about three feethigh. It was perhaps seven feet deep.

She said, in a low voice, "Timmy found it. He was climbing on the rocksone day and he found it. It's always dry and clean in here. See, thesand is dry, and feel how fine it is. It became our place. It becamemy favorite place in the whole world. I used to come here alone, too.When things got too—rugged. We used to keep things here. A box withcandles and cigarettes and things. Nobody in the world could ever findus here. We kept blankets here and pillows. We called it our house. Kidstuff, I guess. But it was nice. I never thought I'd come back here."

"Then this is the place he meant."

"Let's look."

It was easy to dig in the sand. She found the first one. She gave alittle gasp of pleasure when she found it. She dug it out of the softsand. We held it close to the weak daylight and opened it. The wireclamp slid off easily. The rubber ring was stuck to the glass. I pulledthe top off. The bills were tightly packed. I pulled some of them out,two tens and a twenty.

We both dug in the place where she had found it. We found three morejars. That was all. We lined them up against the wall. I could seethe money through the glass. I looked at the money. I remembered howI had thought it would be. I had thought it would be an answer. But Ihad found the answer before I found the money. Now it meant only thatperhaps it could still be traded for a life.

"Now he's coming this way," she whispered.

I heard him when he called again. "Howard! Tal Howard!" We lay prone,propped up on our elbows, our heads near the small entrance, her cheekinches from mine.

"Tal Howard!" he called, alarmingly close. He was passing just belowus, his head about six or seven feet below the ledge.

He called again at a greater distance, and then all we could hear wasthe sound of the river.

"What will we do?" she whispered.

"All we can do is outwait him. We can't deal with him. He won't makeany deals. He's way beyond that. We'll have to wait until night. Idon't think he'll leave. We'll have to try to get to the water atnight. Can you swim?"

"Of course."

"We can make it to shore then, with the money."

There was no point in telling her the deal I had planned. There was nochance of making the deal. I was certain that if he found us, he'd killboth of us. When he had talked to me, I had sensed the pleasure he tookin killing. The way he had talked of George, and the way he had talkedabout holding the knife at Ruth's throat. That can happen to a man.There are men who hunt who do not take their greatest pleasure in theskill of the hunt, but rather in the moment of seeing the deer stumbleand fall, or the ragged bird come rocketing down. From animal to man isa difference in degree, not in kind. The lust to kill is in some men.It has sexual overtones. I had sensed that in Fitzmartin. I could evensense it in the tone of his voice as he had called to me when he hadpassed the cave. A warm, almost jocular tone. He knew we were on theisland. He knew he would find us. He felt warm toward us because wewould give him pleasure. Come out and be killed, Tal Howard. A warmand confident voice. It was not so much as though he had stepped beyondsanity, but as though he had stepped outside the race, had becomeanother creature. It was the same way we all might one day be hunteddown by the alien creatures of some far planet. When the day comes, howdo we bargain for life? What can the rabbit say to the barrel of a gun?

I lay on my side. She lay facing me. I saw the sheen of her eyes andthe whiteness of her teeth in the half light of the cave. I could sensethe soft tempo of her breathing.

"So we wait," she said.

"And we'll have to be very careful. He likes the night."

"We'll be careful. It's worth being careful. You know, Tal, I thoughtall along this would get messed up. Now I don't think so any more.Isn't that strange? Now that it is as bad as it can get, I think we'regoing to make it."

"I hope so."

She rolled onto her back. Her voice was soft. "We're going to make it.We'll get to the car. There's enough money here. It isn't worth therisk of going back after my things. We'll drive through the night, Tal.We'll drive all night. We'll take turns. I'm a good driver. I knowjust how it's going to be. We'll go to New Orleans. We can be therelate tomorrow. I know a man there. He'll help us. We'll sell the carthere. We'll catch our plane there. We'll have everything new. Allnew clothes. Mexico City first, I think. Then over to Havana. I wasin Havana once. With—a friend. No, not Havana. Where will we go fromthere, Tal?"

"Rio, Buenos Aires. Then Paris."

"Paris, of course. It's funny. I've always been looking. Like thatgame where you come into the room and they've named something but youdon't know what it is and you have to find out. I've been looking forsomething I don't know the name of. Ever feel like that?"

"Yes."

"You don't know what it is, but you want it. You look in a lot ofplaces for it. You try a lot of things, but they aren't it. This time Iknow I'm going to find it."

We were quiet for a long time. She turned toward me again. I putmy hand on the curve of her waist, let it rest there, and felt thequickening tempo of her breathing.

I do not try to excuse it. Until then she had had no special appealto me. I can try to explain it. It is an urgency that comes at timesof danger. It is something deep in the blood, that urgency. It is amessage from the blood. You may die. Live this once more, this lasttime. Or it may be more complicated. There may be defiance in it. Youranswer to the blackness that wants to swallow you. To leave this onething behind you. To perform this act which may leave a life behindyou, the only possible guarantee of immortality in any form.

When catastrophe strikes cities, people learn of this basal urge. Menand women in war know it. It is present in great intensity in manykinds of sickness. Men and women are triggered by danger, and they lietogether in a hungry quickness in the cellars of bombed houses, behindthe brush of mountain trails, in lifeboats, on forgotten beaches, onthe grounds of sanitariums.

By the time it happened I knew that I was hopelessly in love with RuthStamm. And I knew this woman in the cave with me was hard as stone. Butshe was there. I took from her the stubborn slacks and the bulky sweatshirt and the satin white bra. Her flesh gleamed dusky in the cavelight. We did not speak. It was very complete for us.

It was enough that she was woman. But with her first words she turnedback into Antoinette Rasi, and destroyed any possible emotionalovertones. "Well, aren't we the ones," she said, her voice a bit nasal.

She bumped her head on the roof as she was getting her shirt back on,and commented on it with a very basic vocabulary. I turned so that Idid not have to look at her. I lay and looked out the entrance, throughthe gaps between the vines and leaves. I could see the rock wall on theother side of the hollow, thirty feet away. By lowering my head andlooking up, I could see a wedge of yellow sky above the rock.

As I watched I saw Fitzmartin's head and then his shoulders abovethe rock wall. Behind me Antoinette started to say something in acomplaining voice. I reached back quickly and caught her arm andgrasped it warningly. She stopped talking immediately. She movedforward and leaned her warm weight against the back of my left shoulderso that she too could see. It was instinctive to want to pull back intothe cave, but I knew he could not see my face or hers behind the densescreen.

He stood on the rock against the sky, feet spread, balancing easily. Heheld a gun in his hand. His big hand masked the gun, but it looked likea Luger. The strange sky made a dull glint on the barrel. When he movedhis head he moved it quickly, as an animal does. His mouth was slack,lips parted. His khaki pants were soaked to the knees. He studied therock wall where the cave was, foot by foot. I flinched involuntarilywhen his gaze moved across the cave mouth. He turned and moved out ofsight.

She put her lips close to my ear. "My God, I can see what you mean.Dear Jesus, I'm glad I didn't wait to have a chat with that! He's adamn monster. How come he was running around loose?"

"He looked all right before. It was on the inside. Now it's showing."

"Frankly, he scares the hell out of me. I tell you they ought to shoothim on sight, like a crazy dog."

"He's getting worse."

"You can't get any worse than that. What was he looking over here for?"

"I think he's eliminating places where we could be, one by one. He'sgot a lot of daylight. I hope he eliminated this place."

"You can't see much from over there. Just a sort of shadow. And thehole looks too little, even if it didn't have the stuff in front of it."

"I hope you're right."

"He gives me the creeps."

I kept a careful watch. The next time I saw him, he was climbing downthe wall on the far side. Antoinette saw him, too. Her hand tightenedon my shoulder. Her breath was warm against my ear.

"What's he doing down there?" she whispered.

"I think he's trying to track us. I don't know how good he is at it. Ifhe's good, he'll find that our tracks end somewhere in the hollow."

"The ground was soft," she whispered. "Dear God, I hope he doesn't knowhow."

He was out of sight. We heard one rock clatter against another, audibleabove the soft roar of the river. We moved as far back in the littlecave as we could get. Nothing happened for a long time. We graduallyrelaxed again, moved up to where we could watch.

It must have been a full half hour later when I saw him on the farside, clambering up. He sat on the rim at the top. He aimed carefully,somewhere off to our right, and pulled the trigger. The sound was flat,torn away by the wind. He aimed and fired again, this time closer.

I realized too late what he was doing. I tried to scramble back. Hefired again. Antoinette gave a great raw scream of agony. Blood burstfrom her face. The slug had furrowed down her face, smashed her teethand her jaw, striking at an angle just under her cheekbone. Shescreamed again, the ruined mouth hanging open. I saw the next shot takeher just above the left collarbone, angling down through her body.She dug her fingers down into the sand, arched her body, then settledinto death as the next bullet slapped damply into her flesh. I waspressed hard against the rocks at the side. He shot twice more into herbody and then there was silence. I tried to compress myself into thesmallest possible target.

When he fired again, it was from a different angle. The slug hammeredoff rock, ricocheting inside the small cave, hitting two walls soquickly the sound was almost simultaneous before it buried itself inthe sand. The next one ricocheted and from the sharp pain in my face Ithought it had hit me. But it had filled my right cheek with sharp rockfragments. I could move no farther to the side. If he found the properangle he would hit me directly. If he did not, a ricochet could killme. I grasped her body and pulled it over me. He fired several moreshots. One broke one of the jars. Another hit her body. My hands weresticky with her blood. I shielded my head against her heavy breast, mylegs pulled up. I tried to adjust the body so it would give me maximumcover. A ricocheting slug rapped the heel of my shoe with such forcethat it numbed my foot.

I gave a harsh, loud cry of pain. The shooting stopped. After a fewminutes he spoke in an almost conversational tone. He was close underthe cave.

"Howard! Howard! Come on out of there."

I did not answer. He had thought of caves, had fired into the shadowyplaces, had hit the right one. I hoped he would believe us both dead.It was my only chance, that he should believe us both dead. I wormedmy way out from under her body. There was no loose stone in the cave.There were only the jars of money.

I took one jar and crouched off to the left of the entrance. I heardthe rattle of the rocks and knew he was climbing. I saw the vinestremble. I was poised and ready to hurl the jar at his face. But hisface did not appear. His strong hand appeared, moving slowly into thecave, inviting me to try to grasp it. It was a clever move. I knewthat he was probably braced there, gun in the other hand, waitingfor such a try. More of his arm came into the cave. I could see hisshoulder, blocking off the light. But I could not see his head.

His brown hand crept across the sand. It touched Antoinette's darkhair, paused for a moment, felt its way to her face, touched lightlyher dead eyes. She lay curled where I had pushed the body in crawlingout from under it. The hand moved across the sand again. It came toher flexed knee, touched the knee, felt the material of the jeans. Inthat moment I realized that he thought it was my knee. He had only seenher from the waist up when he had approached the island in the boat.She was curled in such a way he did not relate the knee to the face hehad touched. His powerful fingers bit through the blue jean material,caught the flesh underneath and twisted it cruelly.

I heard his soft grunt of satisfaction. I readied myself. He put botharms in, and wormed his way in head first. I knew he would not beable to see immediately. The gun was in his hand. As soon as his headappeared in the opening, inside the vines, I smashed the glass jar fullinto his face.

The jar smashed, cutting my hand. I tried to snatch at the gun, but Iwas too slow. He was gone. I heard the thud as he fell. I knew that Icould not afford to give him time to recover. I scraped myself badlyas I slid through the entrance. I grasped the vines and stood up,teetering on the ledge. I saw him below me. He was on his hands andknees, gun still in his hand, shaking his head in a slow, heavy way. Itwas a twelve foot drop, perhaps a little more. I dropped onto him. Ilanded on the small of his back, heels together, legs stiff.

My weight smashed him to the ground. The fall jolted me. I rolled to myfeet with agonizing slowness and turned to face the expected shot. Helay quite still. His finger tips touched the gun. I picked it up andmoved back away from him and watched him. By watching closely I couldsee the movement of his back as he breathed. I aimed at his head. But Icould not make myself fire. Then I saw that the breathing had stopped.I wondered if it was a trick. I picked up a stone and threw it at him.It hit his back and bounded away.

Finally I approached him and rolled him over. And I knew that he wasdead. He died in a curious way. He had fallen back off the narrowledge, fallen with the broken pieces of the heavy glass jar. Stunned,he had gotten to his hands and knees. He was trying to clear his head.When I had smashed him back to the ground, a large piece of the brokenjar had been under his throat. As I had watched him his blood hadsoaked into the sandy soil. His blood had soaked a thick wad of themoney that had been in the jar. A wind blew through the hollow. Therewere some loose bills. The wind swirled them around. One blew towardme. I picked it up and looked at it stupidly. It was a ten-dollar bill.

I went up to the cave again. I think I had the idea of carrying herdown. I knew I could not make it. I looked at her. Paris was out. Itwas done. I looked at her and wondered if this, after all, had beenwhat she was looking for. It could have been. It could have been thenameless thing she sought. But I guessed that had she been given herchoice, she would have wanted it in a different form. Not so ugly. Notwith ruined face and cheap clothes.

I climbed back down. I was exhausted. A few feet from the bottom Islipped and fell again. I gathered up all the money. I put it in thecave with her. They could come and find it there when I told them whereit was. I went back to where we had left the boat. The river seemed alittle quieter. I took the line and walked the boat down to the southend of the island. The current tugged at it. Below the island the riverwas quieter. I got into the boat. Just as I started to row toward theshore, it began to rain again, rain that fell out of a yellow sky. Therain whispered on the gray river. It diluted the blood on my hands. Therain was on my face like tears.

The banks were high. I found a place to beach the boat about a thousandyards below the Rasi place. I walked through wet grass to the road. Iwalked to the Rasi place.

Anita came out. I asked if she had a phone I could use.

"We've got no phone. Where's the boat? What did you do with the boat?Where's Antoinette? What's all the blood on your clothes? What'shappened?"

She was still screaming questions at me when I fitted the key into theignition, started the car, and drove away.

Heavy clouds had darkened the afternoon. I had never seen it rain ashard. Traffic crept through the charcoal streets of Hillston, theirlights yellow and feeble in the rain.

I turned through the arch and parked beside the police cars in thecourtyard of the station. A man yelled at me from a doorway, tellingme I couldn't park there. I paid no attention to him. I found Prine.Captain Marion wasn't in. He'd gone home to sleep.

Prine stared at me in a funny way. He took my arm when he led me to achair. "Are you drunk?"

"No. I'm not drunk."

"What's the matter with you?"

"I know where to look for the girl, for Ruth. North of town. Near theriver. If she's alive. If she's dead I don't know where to look. Shewouldn't be far from where he got the boat."

"What boat?"

"Will you have people look for her? Right now?"

"What boat, damn it?"

"I'll tell you the whole thing after you look. I want to come, too. Iwant to come with you."

They sent cars out. They called Captain Marion and the Chief of Police.They sent people out to look in the rain. Scores of people searched. Irode with Prine. In the end it was a contingent of Boy Scouts who foundher. They found the black coupé. The trunk compartment was open a halfinch. We sped through the rain when word came over the radio. But theambulance got there first. They were loading her onto the ambulancewhen we arrived. They closed the doors and drove away before I couldget to the ambulance.

The car was parked behind a roadside sign. It had been covered withroofing paper. Some of the paper had shifted in the wind. One of theScouts had seen the gleam of metal.

Two policemen in black rain-wet rubber capes were there.

"What shape was she in?" Prine demanded.

One of the men spat. "I don't think she'll make it. I think she wasabout gone. She looked about gone to me. You know, the way they alllook. Just about breathing. Color of putty. Pretty banged up."

Prine whirled toward me. "All right. We've got her now. How aboutFitzmartin? Start talking."

"He's dead."

"How do you know he's dead?"

"I killed him. I'll tell you the rest later. I want to go to thehospital."

FOURTEEN

I sat on a bench in a waiting-room in the hospital. Water from mysodden clothing dripped onto the floor. Captain Marion sat beside me.Prine leaned against the wall. A man I didn't know sat on the otherside of me. I looked at the pattern of the tiles in the floor as Italked. From time to time they would ask questions in a quiet voice.

I told the complete truth. I lied about one thing only. I told themthat Fitzmartin had told me that he had hidden Grassman's body in abarn eight or ten miles south of the city, on a side road. In a ruinedbarn near a burned house. Marion nodded to Prine. He went out to sendmen out to hunt for the barn. He had gone out once before, to send mento the island. I had told how to find the cave, and told them what theywould find in the cave. I told them they would find the gun in my car.I lied about Grassman, and I left out what I knew about Antoinette.

It would do them no good to know about her. They would learn enoughfrom the Redding police. They did not have to know more than that.

I told them all the rest. Why I had come to Hillston. Everything Ihad seen and guessed. Everything Fitzmartin had said. Timmy's dyingstatements. All of it. The whole stinking mess. It felt good to tellabout it.

"Let me get this straight, Howard," Marion said. "You made a deal withFitzmartin. You were going to have the girl find the money. Then youwere going to turn it over to Fitzmartin in return for Ruth's safety.You made that deal yourself. You thought you could handle it betterthan we could. Is that it?"

"I thought that was the only way it could be handled. But he crossed meup. He followed us."

"We could have grabbed him when he got to the river. We'd have gottento Ruth earlier. If she dies, you're going to be responsible."

I looked at him for the first time in over an hour. "I don't see itthat way."

"Did he say how he killed Grassman? You told us why he did it."

"He hit him on the head with a piece of pipe."

"What do you think the Rasi girl was going to do when you turned themoney over to Fitzmartin? Assuming that it went the way you thought itwould go."

"I guess she wouldn't have liked it."

"Why didn't she come and get the money herself, once she knew where itprobably was?"

"I haven't any idea. I think she felt she needed help. I think shedecided I could help her. I think she planned to get away with all ofit somehow after we were both well away from here. When I was sleeping.Something like that. I think she thought she could handle me prettyeasily."

"How many shots did he fire into the cave?"

"I wasn't counting. Maybe twenty."

A doctor came into the room. Marion stood up. "What's the score, Dan?"

The doctor looked at us disapprovingly. It was as though we wereresponsible for what had happened to Ruth.

"I think I can say that physically she'll be all right She's youngand she has a good body. She might mend quite rapidly. It's hard tosay. It will depend on her mental condition. I can't answer for that.I've seldom seen anyone handled more brutally. I can give you a list.Dislocated thumb. Broken shoulder. Two cracked ribs. A cracked pelvis.She was criminally attacked. Two broken toes. We nearly missed those.She was beaten about the face. That wouldn't have killed her. It wasthe shock and exposure that nearly did it, came awfully close to doingit. She's been treated for shock. She's out of her head. She doesn'tknow where she is. We just put her to sleep. I say, I can't estimatemental damage."

I stood up. "Where is she?"

The doctor stared at me. "I can't let you see her. There's no point inseeing her."

I moved closer to him. "I want to see her."

He stared at me and then took my wrist, put his finger tips on mypulse. He took a pencil flashlight out of his pocket and shone itdirectly into my eye from a few inches away.

He turned to the captain. "This man should be in bed."

Marion sighed. "Have you got a bed?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll have to put a guard on the door. This man is under arrest.But look. Just let him look in the door at Ruth. Maybe he earned thatmuch. I don't know."

They let me look. She was in a private room. Her father sat near thebed. He didn't look toward the doorway. He watched her face. She wasno one I would have ever recognized. She was puffy, discolored. Shebreathed heavily through her open mouth. There was an odor of sicknessin the room. I looked at her and I thought of the movie heroines. Theygo through terror and capture and violence, yet four minutes afterrescue they melt, with glossy hair and limpid eyes and gown by Dior,into the arms of Lancaster, or Gable, or Brando. This was reality. Thepain and ugliness and sickness of reality.

They took me away.

The formalities were complicated. I had to appear and be questionedat the joint inquest. I told all I knew of the deaths of AntoinetteChristina Rasi and Earl David Fitzmartin. I signed six copies of mydetailed statement. The final verdict was justifiable homicide. I hadkilled in defense of my life.

Both the money found in Fitzmartin's car and the money in the cavebecame a part of George Warden's estate. A second cousin and his wifeflew in from Houston to protect their claim to the money and whateverelse there was. They arrived on Sunday.

George and Eloise Warden were buried in the Warden family plot. Fulton,identified through his dental work, was sent to Chicago for his thirdburial. No relative of Fitzmartin could be found. The county buriedhim. Grassman's body was found. His brother flew down from Chicago andtook the body back on the train.

I had told them about Antoinette's clothes and jewelry and the money,the precise amount, that Fitzmartin had taken. The court appointed anexecutor for Antoinette Rasi's estate, and directed that the clothingand furs and jewels be sold, and made an informal suggestion to theexecutor that the funds be used for the Doyle children.

When something is dropped and broken, the pieces have to be picked up.The mess has to be cleaned up.

They were through with me on Tuesday. Captain Marion walked down thesteps of the courthouse with me. We stood on the sidewalk in thesunshine.

"You're through here, Howard. We're through with you. There are somecharges we could have made stick. But we didn't. You can be damn glad.We don't want you here. We don't want to see you back here."

"I'm not leaving."

He stared at me. His eyes were cold. "I don't think that's very bright."

"I'm going to stay."

"I think I know what's on your mind. But it won't work. You've spentall the time you could with her. It hasn't worked, has it? It won'twork for you. Not with her."

"I want to stay and try. I've made my peace with her father. Heunderstands. I can't say he approves. But he understands enough so heisn't trying to drive me off."

"You're beating your head against a wall."

"Maybe."

"Prine wants to run you out of town."

"Do you? Actually?"

His face flushed. "Stay then, dammit. Stay! It will do you no good."

I went back to the hospital. Because of her private room, visitinghours were less restricted. I waited while the nurse went to her. Thenurse came back. Each time I was afraid the nurse would say I couldn'tsee her.

"She'll see you in five minutes, Mr. Howard."

"Thank you."

I waited. They told me when it was time. I went to her room as beforeand pulled the chair up to the bed. Her face was not as swollen, butit was still badly discolored. As before, she turned her face towardthe wall. She had looked at me for a moment without expression beforeturning away. She had not yet spoken to me. But I had spoken to her. Ihad talked to her for hours. I had told her everything. I had told herwhat she meant to me, and had received no response at all. It was liketalking to a wall. The only encouragement was her letting me see her atall. The doctor had told me she would recover more quickly if she couldrecover from her listlessness, her depression.

As on other days, I talked. I could not tell if she was listening.I had told her all there was to tell about the things that hadhappened. There was no point in repeating it, no point in begging forunderstanding or forgiveness.

So I talked of other things, and other days. Places I had been. I toldher about Tokyo, about Pusan, about the hospital. I told her about thework I used to do. I conjectured out loud about what I could find todo in Hillston. I still had seven hundred dollars left. I was carefulnot to ask questions. I did not want it to seem to her as though I wereangling for a response.

She lay with her face turned toward the wall. For all I knew she couldbe asleep. And then suddenly, surprisingly, her hand came timidly fromthe cover of the hospital blanket. It reached blindly toward me and Itook her hand in both of mine. She squeezed my hand hard once and thenlet her hand lie in mine.

That was the sign. That was enough. The rest of it would come. Now itwas just a matter of time. There would be a day when there would belaughter, when she would walk again in that proud way of hers. All thiswould fade and it would be right for her and for me. We both had a lotof forgetting to do, and we could do it better together. This was thewoman I wanted. I could never be driven away.

This was treasure.

A Bullet For Cinderella

HER VENEER WAS BIG CITY ...

But one look and you knew that Toni Raselle's instincts were straightout of the river shack she came from.

I watched her as she toyed with the man, laughing, her tumbled hairlike raw blue-black silk, her brown shoulders bare. Eyes deep-set, agirl with a gypsy look.

So this was the girl I had risked my life to find. This was the girlwho was going to lead me to a buried fortune in stolen loot.

John D. MacDonald, "... one of the first-rate craftsmen of crime,"[A]is the author of more than 50 novels and the creator of the fabulousTRAVIS McGEE series, which includes such currently available titles asNIGHTMARE IN PINK, BRIGHT ORANGE FOR THE SHROUD, and A PURPLE PLACE FORDYING.

[A] NEW YORK TIMES