Beware the Young Stranger

4

Sam Rollins, Keith’s father, called at four o’clock that afternoon. Charles showed him into the library and carried news of the caller to the study, where Vallancourt was working with Mrs. Ledbetter.

Entering the library, Vallancourt saw a tall, thin, intense man whose clothing, while of good cut, was rumpled as if from chronic lack of attention. Rollins’s lips were thin, his nose a high-bridged blade of bone, his eyes small and restless under salty brows that matched his hair. The aroma of alcohol surrounded him.

“Good afternoon,” Vallancourt said. Rollins’s feverish eyes were going over him in a quick, envious appraisal. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Rollins?”

“Call me Sam. The mister is too damn formal for me.” Rollins dropped into a chair, gripping the arms with his long, predatory fingers. “So you are John Vallancourt.” The shifty eyes darted about the library. “Nice place you got here. But I don’t guess you have time, with all you have to do, to really read all these books.”

“There’s time for everything, if you make it,” said Vallancourt. “Incidentally, I’m glad you dropped in, Mr. Rollins. I’ve wanted us to get acquainted. As a matter of fact, I’d intended to phone you this evening.”

“I figured as much,” Rollins said. Vallancourt wondered if the man realized his own insolence. Apparently it had been many years in cultivation, becoming an automatic response. Briefly, he felt compassion for Rollins, and for the son who had been exposed to this seething belligerence during his formative years.

“I played a round of golf with your son yesterday.”

“I heard. He tried to win, too, didn’t he?”

“Is there any reason why he shouldn’t?”

“Hell, no.” Rollins’s bony shoulders twitched. “It’s just that it’s so pathetic. He failed. Naturally. Keith always does, you know.”

“Did he tell you about the game?”

“Keith? Confide in me?” Rollins uttered a thin sour laugh. “He didn’t have to tell me. I guess I know my own son.”

“I see.”

“But I don’t blame you.” A hint of obsequiousness crept into Rollins’s manner. “If I had a knock-out daughter, I’d want to know something about the stud, too.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Vallancourt said dryly.

“Does Port Palmetto mean anything to you?”

He sat down in a chair only partially facing Rollins’s. The man had to turn his head to look at him.

“Yes, it does, Mr. Rollins.”

“Keith tell you about it?”

“No, someone else.”

“I didn’t think he’d have the guts.” Rollins waited; and when Vallancourt remained silent, Keith’s father said, “Okay, okay, I guess you claim diplomatic immunity in protecting your source of information. The only thing is, not all stories are the same.”

“Would you care to give me your version, Mr. Rollins?”

“The girl was raped, killed. They picked Keith up, then let him go. He says he’s innocent.”

Vallancourt began to feel as if the room needed airing. “You’ve nothing to add?”

“Maybe you think I should get sentimental?”

“A young girl has been killed — and Keith is your son.”

“A son should be a comfort to his father, Mr. Vallancourt. You haven’t had to worry about that boy for twenty-odd years, or you’d know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sure there are a great many things about Keith that I don’t know.”

“I was hoping you might know the inside,” Rollins said. “You’ve got connections. You’ve made inquiries. You may know more about Keith in one respect than I do.”

“In respect to what?”

“His innocence — or guilt,” Rollins said.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” Vallancourt rose, and Rollins took the hint with a flattening of his lips and a glitter in his restless eyes. He rose, too.

“It was kind of you to give me so much of your valuable time, Mr. Vallancourt.” The insolence again. Or frustration. Perhaps a little of both, Vallancourt thought.

After Rollins was gone, he found it hard to return to work. His thoughts kept returning to Keith. Having met the father, he felt a sympathy for the son. But he was not reassured. Knowing why the young lion was hungry did not make his appetite less dangerous.

Vallancourt was on the point of driving off the next morning when Mrs. Ledbetter called to him with unaccustomed shrillness.

He stopped the car and hurried back into the house.

“It’s Miss Ferguson, Mr. Vallancourt. I’ve never heard her so upset. She says it’s very urgent.”

He crossed the high, vaulted entry hall. Charles was plugging in a phone, extending it.

“Dorcas?”

“Thank God! John...” Her voice was gurgly, as if she had been sobbing. “I must see you.”

Keith... rape-murder... The words sprang into his head.

“Dorcas, what’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“I can’t tell you... not over the phone. Can you... I hate to break in on you this way—”

“I’ll be right over,” he said.

She made a choked sound of gratitude and the line went dead.

Vallancourt swung into the Ferguson driveway twenty minutes later. The Norman lines of the house wheeled into view.

Two cars were parked at one side of the driveway ahead of him — a small open sports car, and behind it a blue sedan.

The door of the sedan on the driver’s side was open. Howard Conway had apparently just got out and gone forward to look into the sports car. He turned toward the Continental as Vallancourt brought it to a nose-dipping stop.

Vallancourt got out quickly and moved to the fleshy younger man.

“I just got a call from Dorcas, Howard—”

“So did I. Just minutes ago. What’s up, John?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced at the sports car. “Keith’s?”

Conway nodded.

They hurried across the strip of lawn between the driveway and the house.

“Dorcas?” Conway called when they were inside. He glanced at Vallancourt, moved a few steps further. And then a tremendous shock rippled over Conway’s frame. All the color left his face.

“God Almighty!”

Vallancourt rushed into the living room where Dorcas lay, and dropped beside her. His heart seemed to dissolve, leaving a cold cavity in his chest.

He knew instantly that Dorcas Ferguson was dead. The black, silver-stranded hair was fanned across her Indian face, wisps of it sticking to her unseeing eyeballs. Her lower jaw hung to the limits of it hinges, making an ugly red and black hole of the once-warm, generous mouth.

From the odd, twisted position of her head, Vallancourt raised his eyes slowly. Up the leg of the heavy table. To the edge of the table where the finish was marred by a smear of blood and a few hairs. He guessed what the table’s edge had done to the base of her skull. He did not care for a closer look.

He was aware of Howard Conway standing nearby, grasping the back of a chair. He rose, started toward Conway... and out of the corner of his eyes saw a drapery move.

Vallancourt lunged, ripping the drapery aside.

It was Keith Rollins.

Vallancourt saw the blow coming and rolled with the punch, taking it high on his cheek. His brain jarred, his left knee buckled slightly. Then he was all right. With his right foot he thrust himself forward, ducking under Keith’s next frantic blow. His fingers touched the boy’s arm. Keith screamed softly and lashed out with his foot. Vallancourt slid to one side, and Keith had an instant in which to turn. He covered his face and head with his arms and plunged through the tall window in a shower of glass.

“Look at him! Look at him!” Conway shouted senselessly.

Keith struck grass, tripped, rolled, bounced to his feet, tore his way through shrubbery. He did not pause to look back, but darted toward his sports car.

Nearer to the front door, Conway was outside before Vallancourt. The sports car was fishtailing around the bend in the driveway. The breeze carried the pungency of scorched rubber back to them.

“Call the police, John,” Conway shouted as he ran. “Tell ’em to head him off!”

Conway threw himself in his car, fumbled with the ignition, shouted a four-letter word, and got the car started. The sedan shot away in pursuit.

Vallancourt phoned the police.

Dorcas Ferguson is dead. The most important woman in this end of the state has been murdered.

He could see the headlines, the editorials. The shortwave police band would soon be chanting the old litany that was always new:

All cars... Wanted on suspicion of murder, Keith Rollins... age twenty-two. Husky build. Black hair. Dark blue eyes. Driving MG, late model, license BF-3850. Fleeing estate of Dorcas Ferguson, victim. Approach with caution. Suspect was recently questioned in connection with a Florida rape-murder...

Vallancourt returned to the front door, watching the driveway. He made a pad of his handkerchief and applied it to the bruise Keith had left, only partially aware of the throb in his cheekbone. In these scant remaining moments of quiet, the fact of Dorcas’s death was a vaster pain. Dorcas dead. Dorcas dead.

Grief was acid in his throat.

He heard the sound of an approaching car, and looked up. It was Ivy Conway’s compact sedan.

She parked sloppily, leaving the driveway barely passable.

“Hi,” she said wanly. She looked tired. She manufactured a grin, touching her temple. “Long evening at the country club bar,” she confessed. “Why do I always say never again?”

She started toward the front steps, the breeze feathering the gossamer brown hair about her small face. “What’s wrong with you, John? Don’t tell me you tied one on, too! This I would have to see.” She laughed.

Vallancourt touched her arm. “Before you go inside, Ivy...”

“Whatever is the matter with you?”

“A dreadful thing has happened.”

“Happened?” Then she said quickly, “Not to Dorcas!”

“I’m afraid so.”

They had stopped midway up the front steps. She jerked her head toward the house.

From the distance came the approaching wail of a police siren.

Very slowly and carefully, Ivy turned.

“An ambulance, John?”

“No,” he said gently.

“Then — police?”

“Yes.”

“Dorcas... the police?”

She darted into the house. She was at the edge of the living room when Vallancourt caught her. She looked into the room, struck herself in the temple, and began to scream.