The End of the Night

Five

After Dallas Kemp dropped Helen off at her house on that late Saturday afternoon in July, he drove directly to the small building which housed his bachelor apartment and his office. He felt swollen with righteous anger. He knew he had handled her clumsily, but that did not give her the right to be such a damn fool about that crackpot Arnold Crown.

He was twenty-six, a tall, slender man, swarthy, with a bristling black brushcut, premature pouches under his eyes, large clever hands, great architectural ability, and an enduring capacity for painstaking work. Upon graduation, aided by a small inheritance, he had taken the calculated risk of opening his own office in his home city. His father was retired, and his parents had moved to Venice, Florida. An elder sister lived in Denver with a husband and two small children.

His first year had been bitter and anxious. The first half of the second year had been touch and go. Now, in his third year in practice, he knew he had made it. He employed one draftsman and a part-time secretary. Though he had become the fashionable young architect, he knew his work was sound and good. Two recent residences had received awards. He had that precious flexibility and understanding from which comes houses to fit the owners, not houses to which the owners must dubiously adjust themselves.

Until a few months ago, marriage had been something to consider in the misty future. He had been so completely engrossed in his work that he could readily sublimate his sexual drive, and could thus skillfully avoid the often shockingly overt suggestions of the sillier wives of his clients. When the need was upon him, too pressing for sublimation, he took his pleasure far from Monroe, in the casual, capable, affectionate arms of a girl he had known at school, who was at the beginning of an impressive career as an industrial designer.

He had told himself that when he became thirty-two, he would begin the search for a wife. He had no idea why he had selected thirty-two as the proper age, nor could he foresee how Helen Wister would upset that scheduling.

He met her at a cocktail party at a client’s house. He would not have gone had he known it would be a large party. A large cocktail party inevitably produced a small contingent of drunks who felt oddly competent to criticize modern architecture. He supposed the other professions had their own problems with drunks. But at any large cocktail party it was a dreary certainty that he would be concerned by tipsy laymen who felt that they were being keen and challenging when they told him that they, by God, didn’t want to live in anything built of pieces of bowling alleys and department-store windows. He was supposed to be enchanted and intrigued by their perception and taste. He was supposed to argue defensively. But he was more bored than appalled by the excruciating banality of their statements about a creative field in which they enjoyed almost total ignorance.

He learned that Helen Wister was distantly related to his hostess, and that she was a Smith graduate now doing office work at City Hall. He knew that her father, Dr. Paul Wister, was a dedicated, highly competent and successful orthopedic surgeon, with a socialite do-gooder wife, wealthy in her own right.

She came over to him, over to where he stood in a corner of the long living room, smiling with warm and total confidence as she came. It was the winter season. She wore a knit suit, in a dull, heathery green. The light behind her haloed the silky texture of her fine, blond hair. Beautiful women made him feel uncomfortable and suspicious. Helen Wister was tallish, slender, poised, luminous and beautiful. His drawbridges clanked shut, and archers stood ready behind the walls.

“Marg says you’re going to do them a new house, Mr. Kemp.”

“That’s right.”

“They’re both very excited about it.”

“Clients usually are.”

She had stared at him then, looking a little less certain of herself. “Are you cross about something?”

“Cross? No. Don’t you want to tell me what kind of a house I should design for them?”

She laughed. Her voice was a clear contralto, melodic. Her laugh was husky and earthy. “Why should I? Don’t you have any ideas?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you don’t need my help.”

“I had the impression I’d get it, whether I needed it or not.”

“Mr. Kemp, maybe rudeness is becoming to shaggy, famous old architects. I can’t say it improves you any.”

She spun away and joined a small group, leaving him stung and angry. He had not planned to stay until the end of the party, but he did. Finally he and Helen were the only guests left. He talked to Willie Layton about the house-to-be while the women cleaned up after the party. They all went out to a late dinner together. He and Helen Wister sniped at each other.

In his bed that night he told himself what an impossible person she was. Beautiful, spoiled, arrogant, bossy, vain. A fragrant trap, destined to emasculate her mate.

But he phoned her, dated her, telling himself that it was in the interest of research. Her inevitable monstrous flaw would soon be revealed to him. There was a continual tension between them, emotional and sexual. They exhausted each other with bickering and pointless argument. And as the evenings began to turn warm with spring, with a suddenness that startled them both, it became a physical affair. He knew that she was not promiscuous, and he had told himself that any woman so lovely would be basically frigid, capable only of simulating healthy passion. But her response left no room for doubt of her intensity, her ability to intoxicate herself with the demands of the flesh. Their lovemaking was like an extension of the tension between them — a combat between strangers, juvenile, pseudo-sophisticated, brazen.

And finally it all turned into love. He had to admit that what had seemed to be paragon was in truth paragon. She was precious and valuable beyond belief. Her basic sweetness and decency were genuine. She was aware of and quietly pleased by her own beauty, and glad it was something she could bring to him, like a gift wrapped with love.

They had sidled obliquely, rancorously, into love, and were astounded by this great and sudden gift. It was a strong love that made of marriage a fussy but necessary technicality. They were intensely proud of each other and delighted with the magic of themselves.

He knew her flaws. Stubbornness, too much casual generosity with her time and efforts, too much empathy for dreary people. This Arnold Crown thing was a perfect example of that.

Dallas Kemp knew exactly how to kill his own anger and indignation. He went directly to the drawing board. The hard, white fluorescence was a bright island in the blue-gray light of dusk. He worked on a scale drawing of the fireplace wall for the Judlund house, breaking the lines off neatly, focusing his concentration until, unwatched, the anger drained away.

At eight o’clock he stood up and stretched, working the stiffness out of his shoulders. He thought about Helen and about Arnold Crown, and began to realize, with a certain uneasiness, that he hadn’t been very bright about the whole thing. His objection had been that Arnold Crown was irrational about Helen, and possibly dangerous. It would have made more sense to follow them.

He phoned the Wister home. The line was busy. He tried again at ten after eight. Helen’s mother answered. “Jane, this is Dal. Is Helen there?”

“No, she isn’t, Dal. I just got home a little while ago. Her car’s gone. Did she... ah... tell you her program for this evening?”

“She told me she was going to see Arnold Crown. We had a hell of a blowup about it. I think it’s a stupid idea.”

“So do I, dear. But you know our Helen. When she was little I had a terrible time with her at zoos. She wanted to climb in and pat the lions. But I do think she’ll handle it all right.”

“I... I hope so. Where was she going to meet him?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“At the station?”

“I really don’t know, Dal.”

“I shouldn’t have gotten so sore. I should have stuck with her.”

“I’d feel a little better if you had, actually. This Crown person isn’t exactly a young boy with a crush on her.”

After he hung up he got into his station wagon and drove to Arnold Crown’s service station. As he pulled in to park beyond the pumps, he saw Helen’s little black MG parked beside the station in the shadows, lights out. The man who had started to come out of the station stopped in the doorway as Dal got out and walked toward him. He was a small man in his forties with a pallid, knotty face, a smear of grease at the corner of his mouth. The name Smitty was embroidered over the breast pocket of his twill uniform.

“Is Crown here?”

“You missed him by five, ten minutes. Anything I can do for you?”

“No... I guess not. That’s Miss Wister’s car, isn’t it?”

“The little car? Yeah. That’s hers.”

A car pulled up to the pumps. Smitty went out to service it. Dal moved restlessly into the station. He was staring blankly at a display of windshield wipers when Smitty came in.

Dal turned and said, “Miss Wister was with him when he left here?”

“That’s right, mister.”

“Well, if her car’s here, I guess it means they’re coming back here.”

The small man looked at Dal with a rather strange grin and said, “I wouldn’t count too much on that, mister. I mean they’re probably coming back here, but it won’t be right soon. I mean I got my orders about that car. The keys are in it, and I’m to roll it in when I close up, and tomorrow I’m to get it washed and serviced and have one of the boys run it over to Arn’s place and put it in his garage.”

Dal stared at him. “Why? I don’t understand.”

“She’s got no need for it for a while, that’s all.”

“Why not?”

“The last thing you’d take on a honeymoon is two cars, mister. They took off in Arn’s Olds.”

“Honeymoon!” Dal said blankly.

Another customer arrived. Smitty hurried out. It took an exasperating length of time before he came back.

“What’s this about a honeymoon?” Dal demanded.

Smitty sat on the corner of the desk and grinned amiably. “I tell you, mister, it hasn’t been easy around here lately, working for a guy in love. That Helen like to give him fits. They were going together regular and then she broke off and started going with some other guy. Arn was like out of his mind for a couple months and more. He’d chew you out for nothing at all, like a crazy man. I was about to quit forty times, honest. But all of a sudden, thank God, they got it all ironed out. You never see a guy so happy as him today. I bet a dozen times he bust out laughing, over nothing at all. I guess if you get to run off with a girl like that, it’s worth feeling good about. Their suitcases were all ready in the back of the Olds since yesterday. And he showed me a wad of bills big as a ham sandwich he’s got for the trip. So she showed up like he said she would... oh, about a half hour ago, pretty as a picture, and shy like. You know. Like a bride. I’m in charge until he gets back He told me she’d marry him. You know, I never really believed it until I saw them take off together. She’s from a big-shot family. If you know her car, I guess you know Helen. She looked shy and happy when they took off. Arn, he’ll make a good husband. He’s a worker, and there isn’t anything he won’t do for that girl.” Smitty stopped smiling and stared at Dallas Kemp. “You sick or anything?”

“No. Thank you... thank you very much.”

He drove down to police headquarters. He announced to a desk sergeant in a firm, loud voice that he wanted to report a kidnaping. He expected bells to ring and people to gather around, asking a hundred questions. The sergeant told him to take a seat. He could hear the monotonous hammering of a teletype in some room nearby. A drunk was brought in and booked and led away. The sergeant carried on several low-voiced phone calls.

Ten minutes later a man about thirty came into the room. He was slope-shouldered, long-headed, with a bitter, turned-down mouth, sleepy eyes. He was in his shirtsleeves. He smelled strongly of perspiration. He wore dark-red suspenders over his white shirt, a green tie with small yellow polka dots.

Dal jumped up as he came toward him.

“I’m Lieutenant Razoner. You want to report a kidnaping?”

“What’s your name and occupation?”

“Dallas Kemp, registered architect.”

“Who’s kidnaped?”

“Helen Wister.”

“Who’s she?”

“We’re to be married... in less than three weeks.”

The lieutenant looked at him and sighed and turned, saying, “Come on with me.”

He took Dal upstairs to a large bullpen office, where three out of a dozen desks were in use. He sat at one of the empty desks and had Dal sit beside the desk. He asked questions in a bored voice. He made notes. Dal told him the whole story.

When he had all the information he threw the pencil onto the desk and leaned back, clasping his fingers at the nape of his neck.

“What do you expect us to do, buddy? Loan you a crying towel?”

“I... I think you should find them!”

“The lady changed her mind. They do that, you know.”

“It isn’t like that, Lieutenant. This is serious! That man is dangerous.”

“I’ve known Arn Crown for ten years, buddy. Solid guy, I’d say.”

“He’s acted irrational about Miss Wister.”

“Like following you and phoning you and all that?”

“Yes.”

“Man in love, he’ll do a lot of stirring around. Arn break any laws?”

“No, but...”

“There’s no law about running off and getting married, Kemp.”

“Believe me, that’s the last thing she’d do — marry Arn Crown.”

“I guess it must seem that way to you, you being the one she left behind. Believe me, it happens all the time. And other guys have just as much trouble believing it as you’re having right now.”

“Lieutenant, will you talk to Helen’s mother?”

“Why should I? She lied to you. She could lie to her mother. Now, if she was under age, maybe we could do something about it...”

A heavy-set man came striding into the office. He looked around, spotted Lieutenant Razoner and said, “Lew! On the double!” He turned and hurried out.

Razoner stood up. “We can’t help you, buddy.”

“I’d like to talk to you some more about...”

Razoner shrugged. “Stick around then, but you may have a hell of a long wait.” He hurried out of the room.

Dallas Kemp sat there on the hard chair. It was five of ten. He was trying not to think about Helen too specifically. It made him feel cold and sick to think of her with Crown. He knew he should call Jane Wister. He wondered if it would be all right to use the phone on Lieutenant Lew Razoner’s desk. Just as he had decided to attempt it, the lieutenant came to the doorway and said, “Kemp! Come here!”

He was taken to a smaller office. There were four men there, two of them talking over phones.

To the elderly man behind the desk, Lew Razoner said, “Barney, this is the guy reported him for kidnaping.”

The man called Barney stood up. “Bring him along, Lew. We’ll talk on the way out there.”

They went down to the courtyard. A driver was waiting behind the wheel of a police sedan. The three of them got into the back, Dallas Kemp in the middle.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “Is Helen all right?”

The car sped out through the gates, elbowing its way into traffic. “Give me this kidnaping thing,” the elderly man ordered.

Lew Razoner gave it to him, compacting it neatly and tightly, a professional résumé, uncolored by personal opinion.

“Can’t you tell me what’s going on?” Dal asked.

“Captain Tauss is head of Homicide,” Razoner said gently. “The sheriff’s got a body tentatively identified as Arnold Crown.”

“An accident! Is Helen hurt?”

“What happened to this Crown,” Captain Tauss said, “sounds like on purpose. No accident. I don’t know anything about the girl.”

Dallas Kemp realized that they had turned out of the main traffic arteries and were headed east on Route 813 at a high rate of speed.

“Looks like over the next ridge, sir,” the driver said and began to reduce speed.

They swept over the ridge and Kemp saw the shallow valley ahead of them filled with a confusion of lights and vehicles. State Police were posted to prevent the curious from stopping. Summer bugs wheeled in front of the floodlights and headlights. The generator on an emergency truck throbbed. As they got out, Razoner said, “Stick close to me, Kemp. Don’t wander around.”

“I want to know what happened to...”

“So let’s find out.”

Kemp saw an abandoned barn on the left. On the right, a hundred feet beyond the barn, an Oldsmobile was snugged down into a deep ditch, tilted far over onto its right side, lights still on, turning the weeds in the ditch to a vivid artificial green. Technicians knelt, studying the road surface, making careful scrapings. A man in coveralls stood patiently by a red tow-truck, hands in his pockets, cigar stub in the corner of his mouth. An ambulance was parked parallel to the ditched Olds, rear end open.

Kemp followed Tauss and Razoner as they approached a small group of men who were examining something that lay near the rear end of the Olds, half in the ditch. Hard, white light was focused on the body. Cameras flared.

Kemp got close enough to see the face. He swallowed and took a half step back. The heavy features of Arnold Crown were barely recognizable.

A wide man in khaki was squatting heavily on his heels. He wore a blue baseball cap and a sheriff’s badge. He glanced up and said, “Hello, Barney, Lew,” and came lithely to his feet.

“Evening, Gus,” Captain Tauss said. “Lew should be able to make him.”

“That’s Arn Crown,” Lew said. “He didn’t do all that going into the ditch.”

“Did maybe none of it at all. He got banged around some, and then there was a knife.”

A tidy little man got up off his knees and said tartly, “That’s all I can do with it here. You might as well load it.”

“When can you do the complete job, Doctor?” the sheriff asked.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” the little man said. “Tonight we’re entertaining.” He gave a barking laugh, snapped his case shut, and walked quickly away into the night.

The ambulance people loaded the body. The sheriff signaled the man standing by the wrecker. He went down into the ditch with the hook, clanged it onto the frame, climbed into his cab and yanked the big car up onto the highway, the big red warning lights on the wrecker blinking off and on.

“We got witnesses, Barney. Nice nervous witnesses,” the sheriff said. “Right over there. Come on. We’ll play People Are Funny.”

He strode away toward the silent group on the other side of the road. Tauss and Razoner lagged behind.

Kemp heard Razoner say in a quiet voice to Barney Tauss, “Out here in front of the newspaper people? He should take them in.”

“Usually, yes. Not in an election year. Honest Gus Kurby, the reporter’s pal.”

Somebody shifted lights until the small group was harshly floodlighted. A young couple squinted apprehensively into the lights. The boy was about eighteen. He wore khaki pants and a T shirt. He had huge, powerful, sun-red forearms, a heavy thatch of brown hair, long sideburns, a big, soft, unformed face. He held the hand of a small girl who wore blue-jean shorts and a striped Basque shirt taut across the unfettered abruptness of juvenile breasts. She had tousled dark hair with two white streaks dyed into it, a narrow face with eyes set close together, a wide, slack, pulpy mouth.

A man reached into the open window of the official sedan and brought out a hand mike on a long cord. He handed it to the sheriff, saying, “It’s working good. I checked it twice.”

The sheriff thumbed the button and the small red recording light came on. He held it a few inches in front of his mouth and said, “Twenty-fifth of July. Ten-forty P.M. Sheriff Kurby interrogating witnesses at the site of the Arnold Crown murder. Now let me have your name and address, son.” He stuck the mike in the boy’s face.

“Uh... Howard Craft. I live two miles east of here. Star Route, Box 810, Sheriff.”

“And you, girl?”

“Ruth Meckler,” she said in a thin, childish voice. “Fifty-two Cedar Street, over in Daggsburg.”

“Now, Howard, you tell me in your own words how you happened to be here.”

“Well, I had a date with Ruthie, and we drove around some and we come out here. We... been here before, a lot of times. I pulled around back of the barn there, like always and we... went up the ladder into the loft.”

One of the newsmen snickered. The girl moved closer to her boy friend. Kurby clicked off the red recording light and turned and said, “These kids could have took off and never said a word, but they phoned in. If you people want a story, keep your mouths shut. Otherwise I’ll finish this in my office.”

“Anyhow, we’re engaged to be married,” the girl said.

“Continue, boy,” the sheriff said.

“We were just inside that loading window there,” Howard Craft said and pointed. They all turned and looked at the barn glowing in reflected light. The high window was a rectangular hole, about five feet long and three feet high. A fringe of hay lapped over the bottom edge.

“Ruthie and me, we were there maybe only fifteen minutes when that Oldsmobile came along, moving real slow, and parked over there right across from us, and turned off the lights and the engine.”

“What time was that?”

“I’d guess maybe ten to nine, Sheriff. They sat there and talked. A man and a woman.”

“Could you hear what was being said?”

“Not really. It was an argument. It seemed like he was trying to talk her into something she didn’t want to do. We could only catch a word here and there.”

“Like ‘surprise,’ ” the girl said. “He talked about a surprise and money. I heard him say a thousand dollars. We weren’t listening good because we were just hoping they’d go away.”

“He said about getting married a couple times,” the boy said.

“Then all of a sudden the lights came on and they started up real fast,” the girl said.

“We were looking out,” the boy said. “I guess she jumped out when he started up. But not quick enough. She fell, I guess. And he racked the Olds right into the ditch. Then he came scrambling out and ran back to where she was, there on the edge of the road. He was yelling, ‘Helen! Helen! Helen!’ It was hard to see them. Then this other car came from the west. It was wound up real good. When the headlights hit them, we could see them good. A big guy in a white jacket kneeling beside a blond woman.”

“She had a white skirt and a green blouse,” the girl said.

“The car coming braked real good,” the boy said. “It was handled good. It stopped maybe thirty feet from them, where the guy was trying to pick the girl up and got her off the edge of the road. It was a dark Buick, a big one, pretty new, maybe last year’s. Dark-green or dark-blue or maybe even black.”

“Dark-blue, I think,” the girl said.

“Four people got out,” the boy said. “One of them was a girl. They left the doors open and the motor running. They acted... funny.”

“How do you mean, funny?” the sheriff asked.

“Excuse me, Gus,” Barney Tauss said.

Kurby turned irritably. “Yes, Barney?”

“I was just wondering if it wouldn’t be a smart thing to establish road blocks so...”

“That’s been done. After the first informal interrogation, I requested the State Police so to do. All right, son. In what way did they act funny?”

“Well, it wasn’t like they wanted to help. They were laughing and joking around. It seemed to me they were drunk, the four of them.”

“You saw them clearly?”

“When they got out in front of their own headlights, yes. We saw them pretty good.”

“Take them one at a time and give me a description.”

“One was a big, dark, tough-looking guy. The three guys all wore sports shirts and slacks. The big one had his shirt outside his slacks, and the other two had theirs tucked in. Then there was a skinny guy wearing glasses, maybe getting a little bald. He was hopping around all the time, making cracks and laughing in a funny way. The third guy was pretty well built, a big, blond guy with a good tan.”

“He maybe looked a little like Tab Hunter, only bigger and rougher,” the girl said.

“The girl wore brown slacks and a yellow blouse and high heels,” the boy said. “She had long, brown hair. She was pretty, I’d say.”

“She was kinda hippy to be wearing slacks,” the girl said.

“What did they do?”

“They gathered around the blonde and the guy who had put the Olds in the ditch. We couldn’t hear much of what the others were saying, but we could hear the crazy guy with the glasses pretty good. He was saying crazy things, like it was lucky there was a witch doctor in the audience. And he said if people were throwing beautiful blondes away, the country was in worse shape than he thought. Then he got down on his knees and took the blonde’s hand and yelled, ‘Speak to me, darling! Speak to your old buddy!’ That made the guy in the white jacket sore. He pushed the guy in glasses away so hard that he rolled over onto his back, his legs in the air, and he yelled, ‘Let her alone!’ The next second the big, tough one smacked the guy in the white coat and knocked him down. But he scrambled right up again. The big one went after him. He fought — the one in the white coat — like a crazy man. But then they were circling around behind him.”

“Who was?”

“The other three. The girl too. The one with glasses had picked up a rock in each hand. The girl had a knife. There was hardly any sound. Just shoes scraping on the road, and the way they grunted, and the smacking sound when they’d hit him. And the one with glasses laughed some. The fight moved away from the blonde girl. All of a sudden it was a terrible thing. All of a sudden you knew they were killing him. Ruthie started to cry. I whispered to her not to make a sound. I knew they’d kill us too. I knew they’d kill anybody. They weren’t like people you see. I didn’t know people could be like that. I saw something like that a long time ago. I was twelve, maybe. A pack of dogs got after a bull calf. It was a long way from the farmhouse. I didn’t have a gun or anything. The calf kept bellowing and circling, but it didn’t do him any good. The dogs weren’t even barking. They kept circling and snapping and they pulled him down and tore his throat open. It was like that.”

“Can you give us any kind of a sequence, son?”

“Just how it happened? It got pretty confusing. The blond guy knocked him down a couple of times. They’d let him get up. The skinny guy knocked him down with a rock, and he got up slow. By then he wasn’t fighting. He kept yelling, ‘Wait! Wait! Don’t!’ It was a terrible thing. When he could hardly move, the big one got him by the throat and bent him over the back of the Olds. The girl moved in close and I couldn’t see the knife, but I could see her elbow going back and forth, real fast. The guy screamed once. The big guy let go. The skinny guy popped him again with a rock. The blond guy kicked him into the ditch as he slid off the back of the car. Just then the blonde woman sat up. Her face was in the lights. I guess she didn’t know where she was. They went to her. They talked low. We couldn’t hear what they said. But they helped the blonde up onto her feet. She seemed to sort of let them lead her. The girl and the blond guy helped her. They walked her to the Buick and got her into it. They slammed all the doors. The skinny one with glasses got behind the wheel. They scratched off and they were doing I’d say seventy by the time they got to that next ridge.”

“And what did you do then?”

“We got down to my car fast as we could. I drove out and stopped by the ditch. I held my lighter close and looked at his face and I knew he was dead. I didn’t want Ruthie to see him. Sometimes a car won’t come along for a half hour. I drove home fast and phoned. It was about twenty-five after nine when I phoned. Then we came back here to... meet you people and tell you about it.”

“You did not see the plate on the Buick?”

“No, I told you, Sheriff. It was out of state, but I don’t know from where.”

“I want to thank you, Howard, and you, Ruth, for your good citizenship.” The little red light went off.

“Can we go now, Sheriff?” the boy asked.

“Yes.”

“Will I be in the papers?” the girl asked, smiling.

“You sure will, honey,” one of the reporters said. “How about a few more questions before you take off, kids?”

“Sure,” the girl said.

Kemp heard one of the other reporters say, “Al, that dog pack thing writes itself. Wolf pack. Hey, I like that better! Wolf Pack Murder.”

“This is the third score for that wolf pack, Billy. If they’re the same ones.”

“What do you mean — if? It all matches up, Al. Uvalde, Nashville. It’s the same bunch. By tomorrow, boy, the wire services and the networks will be in here like...” The confidential voice faded away on the summer night. Kemp lengthened his stride to catch up with Tauss and Razoner.

Tauss was saying, “... might as well strut while he has a chance. The FBI is on this one already. But while he’s showing off, old Gus better not slip up on any of it or they’ll peel him good. Kemp? Let’s get on back to town. Get in.”

And he was sitting between them again as the driver turned the car around. Dallas Kemp felt remote and wooden.

“Those people... they took Helen.”

“And they took the honeymoon money, Kemp.”

“But what are you going to do? What’s going to happen?” He heard his voice break.

“Try to stop them. The trick is find them.”

“I heard those reporters talking. It sounded as if those people are... wanted for other things.”

Razoner laughed abruptly, without mirth. “Other murders. Don’t you read the papers?”

“I... I remember something recently. In the Southwest, though.”

“In Texas and then in Tennessee and now here,” Captain Tauss said. “If they weren’t the hottest thing in the country already, they are now. Three men and a girl. And we haven’t made one of them yet. Tonight is the best break yet. Witnesses. Descriptions.”

“I don’t understand,” Kemp said. “What are these people doing? Why? Who are they?”

“They,” said Tauss, “are the kind of people who make police work tough. There’s no rhyme or reason or pattern. Maybe they’re hopped up. They all of a sudden decided to buck society all the way. I don’t know why. I’ll bet they couldn’t tell you why. They’re after kicks, not profit. They’ll do all the damage they can, and if they’re smart it’ll be a lot, and they’ll be caught. That’s the one sure thing. The surest thing in the world. It’s not knowing where and when that makes it rough. From the pattern, they’re heading northeast. Yesterday it was an eight-state alarm.”

“I suppose,” Kemp said, “I’ve got to... go tell Helen’s people.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Lew Razoner said.

“What do you mean?”

“They found her purse in the Olds. It had her identification. Gus is no damn fool. He knows how big the Wisters are. He sent a deputy there first thing, and didn’t spill it to the press. Next he’ll come on the scene with a flock of reporters, and milk it dry.”

“She may be badly hurt,” Dallas Kemp said.

“About the only thing you can do and the only thing her people can do is pray.”

They went directly to headquarters. Captain Tauss was anxious to alert the Chief of Police and the Commissioner, and give them all pertinent details. They had no more need of Kemp. He got into his station wagon and drove out to the Wister home. On the way he heard the eleven-thirty news over the car radio from local station WROE.

“... murdered Arnold Crown, owner of a local service station, and abducted his companion, Miss Helen Wister, only daughter of a socially prominent Monroe family. The murder and kidnaping occurred on a deserted stretch of Route 813 about ten miles east of the city limits at approximately nine-fifteen this evening. Three men and a woman are involved. Sheriff Gustaf Kurby has stated that this is unquestionably the work of the same foursome who murdered a salesman near Uvalde, Texas, last Tuesday, and killed again yesterday near Nashville. Road blocks have been established and it is hoped that the foursome is trapped in the area bounded by...”

He punched the button that turned the radio off. The flat voice of the announcer could not make it any more real. It was all nightmare. It had the impersonal malevolence of summer lightning. It had struck Helen. Life had no point without her. It was monstrously unfair. People like that belonged in the impersonal newspaper headlines. They had no right coming into your life, destroying things. Life had been neatly planned. Nineteen days before the marriage. He had the plane tickets to Mexico City, the suite reserved at the Continental Hilton. A thing like this couldn’t happen.

When he got to her home, she would be there.

But he saw the official cars in the drive. And as he walked to the front door he looked in and saw Jane Wister. Her face was twisted. Tears were wet on her cheeks. She looked seventy years old.