Black Mask Detective (Vol. 34, No. 3 — May 1950)

The slap — happy smoothie who’d stolen Lark Anderson’s fabulously rich and enchanting dream-girl had yet to learn he’d groomed himself... for the swankiest slab in the morgue.

Chapter One Sorrel-Topped Siren

Lark Anderson sat rigidly in the over-stuffed chair, hands gripping the arms, head tilted back. Cotten pads hugged his eyes, secured by a gauze bandage around his head. The blackness was constant, maddening...

The stillness in the bungalow gave way to the sound of pacing steps. Mentally he followed them, visualizing the dusk seeping in through the screen door, the whirring of insects blundering against fine mesh. The steps turned, came back, swinging around the piano, made a muffled turn on thick carpeting, plodded off again toward the door. He began counting. One, two, three...

The steps paused. A strained voice said: “Stop mumbling, Lark. You give me the jitters.”

“Huh? I give you the jitters? Hell!” He fumbled for a cigarette in the pocket of his shirt. “What time is it, Mac?”

“Almost eight. The doc will be here soon. Then you get your eyes back.”

Lark thought about it. He wet his lips, aware of a shaky feeling in his stomach. He longed for something green. Strangely, all during the four, endless months, he’d wanted to see something green.

He stuck the cigarette between his lips. He heard a thumbnail scrape on a match head but there was no glow, just a sputtering hiss in the inky void. He sucked in quickly. The smoke tasted flat. He inhaled anyway, letting it dribble out slowly. “So I give you the jitters, huh?”

Silence.

He removed the cigarette from between his lips, trying to hold it without a quiver. It was hard to be patient... to wait for an answer in the darkness, each second an eternity, while to the person with eyes a combination of many seconds was only a pause.

“I just say things like that to get you going, Lark. Like last week. I told you business was falling off at the garage and that we ran out of gas in the pumps on a rush night. Boy, were you burned! Don’t deny it now. We argued about it, didn’t we? And then—”

“You’re made of cellophane, Mac.”

“You mean you were wise all the time?”

“Sure. But those lies of yours helped. When I stop to think about it, you’ve practically carried me through these four months on your shoulders. You — and hate. Thanks to you both, Mac.”

The steps began pacing again. “Don’t talk like that. It’ll be over when the doc takes off that halter. Boy, what a kick!”

“Hate,” Lark whispered. “It can eat out a man’s insides. It can find me the rat who— See this?” He fingered the fresh scar on his left temple. “Sure. You’ve stared at it for four months. I’ve never seen it. But I can feel it. A .45. It wasn’t meant to just graze me. It wasn’t meant to paralyze an optic nerve. What was it meant for, Mac?”

“You’re getting all worked up. Take it easy.”

“What was it meant for, Mac?”

The steps stopped. “We’ve been over that. Everybody in Elgin likes you fine. The cops figured it was a stray bullet. Now quit talking hate. You’ve got a nice prosperous business, and a nice, well—”

“You almost said a nice girl, didn’t you?”

“No. I meant — you’re on the way up.”

“Didn’t you?” Lark shouted. He lurched upright. “Jeri and I — the richest heiress in town in love with a two-bit operator like me! And it was love, Mac. We used to argue about her dough. I didn’t want any part of it. It was love.”

“Shut up and sit down.”

“Why did she marry Gabe Vardon on the afternoon of the very night I got shot? She never cared for him. He was her father’s secretary. Can you figure it? And has she been to see me? Not once! Four months — and she’s never even come up those steps outside.” Lark stopped. He reached behind him, fumbling, found the arms of the chair and sank down. “What time is it now, Mac?”

Liquid sloshed in a glass. Ice clinked. “Here. Take it.”

Lark brushed the hand away irritably. “Call Doc Webber. Tell him to get up here.”

“But he knows about it. A lot of things could have delayed him. It’s only five after eight.”

“Call him!”

A sigh; steps plodded toward the dining room; the double doors slid closed.

Lark chewed on his cigarette, listening. Mac’s low tones were difficult to catch. The conversation dragged out. Doc Webber was a good man, a specialist. Why hadn’d he kept the appointment?

The doors scraped open.

Lark pushed up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“He was called out on an emergency. That was his nurse. I’m going to take the bandage off. Nothing to it.”

“He isn’t coming?”

“He left her instructions. She was just going to phone. You’re not supposed to use your eyes too much at first. When they start watering, close ’em. Wear dark glasses during the day. All the lights out when I take off those pads. And—”

“Well, come on! Come on!”

“And, no jolts or jars. No blows about the head for a long time.”

Lark tugged at the bandage. “Come on. Let’s see your ugly mug!”

“Hold up! I’m doing this.”

Lark felt his head turned from side to side. Scissors began cutting and pruning. The light chain on the table-lamp clicked.

“It’s real shadowy in here now,” Mac warned. “Don’t let it worry you.”

“Nothing’s worrying me,” Lark gritted. His muscles were in knots, fingers digging into the palms of his hands.

The pads were lifted away.

He opened his eyes slowly, winced. Pain stabbed him. Things came crawling out of the dark, sluggishly — a long rectangle of grayness in the opposite wall; the doorway — a fuzzy shape before him, moving, bending down; Mac’s wide, good-natured face, plastered with a frozen grin; coarse, close-cropped hair standing up like a yellow brush. “You... you all right?”

Lark reached out and gripped his hand. “I’ll have that drink.”

Mac gave a shout, running toward the dining room. “I’ll phone the boys. They’ve all been pulling for you!”

Lark cleared his throat huskily, relaxing a long moment, feeling the tenseness flow out of him. Then he got up, moving through the dim room, turned on a floor lamp, keeping his eyes squinted, head averted. Staring in the mirror above the mantel, he discovered he wasn’t a million years old after all. His blue eyes stared out of a face that had yet to see thirty.

But there was something that matched well with the iron set of his jaw — the scar. It gave him a new toughness. No more friendly claps on the back. People would hesitate, think twice about it.

Mac came back. “Here — your glasses.”

He took them, put them on. The dark lenses glinted. He was something out of a Martian Fantasy. But then, he wasn’t used to himself yet.

He went out into the twilight and stared at the lawn hungrily. June. Green grass. A sprinkler throwing delightful clouds of sheer spray. Was there anything better than this? He could see!

His face hardened. He could see — to strike back at the person who had struck at him.

“The boys want me to bring you down tomorrow,” Mac was saying from the top of the porch steps.

“I’ll drive you down tonight. How’s that?”

Mac chuckled, but his eyes were wary. “If you think I’m going to let you overdo at the beginning—”

“I’m getting into my glad rags as soon as I check up on every blade of grass in this lot.”

“Now listen—”

“Save it. I’ve waited months for this night!”

Mac spread his hands helplessly, turning.

“Left my cap inside,” he mumbled. “Go ahead. It’s your funeral.”

She had looks but no brains. He ditched her and found another. In a small town where you knew everybody and everybody knew you, there were always others. He looked different. He felt different. Cynical, maybe? They wanted rings on their fingers and a slice of his gas station. He wanted a few drinks, a few laughs, and then he turned sour, thinking about Jeri — who hadn’t loved him at all. The night wore on. And Lark Anderson called it quits.

Sober as a deacon and twice as lonely, he walked into the garage office, dropped into the swivel chair and propped his long legs on the desk; shoved his white Panama to the back of his head.

Mac eyed him, rubbing oily hands on the front of his coveralls. “I don’t like it.”

“What?”

“That’s the chair you were sitting in when you got shot. It gives me the creeps. Sit over here — away from the window.”

Lark slumped back, staring out that window into the dark field at the rear of the station. The glass had been replaced. “Maybe this is the place to start. Just like it was that night.”

Mac snorted. “Someone said they saw you in Jake’s Bar, the Elite Grill, the Pavilion. You nuts?”

“The glasses help. My head aches a little.”

Tires whined outside on the highway. Almost midnight, and traffic was still heavy.

The phone rang. Mac picked it up. He said yes a couple of times, turned laconically, still holding the receiver. “A wreck down the road. Your girl...”

Lark’s feet hit the floor.

“Now take it easy,” Mac spluttered. “Nobody’s hurt. She’s alone. Just needs a tow.” He turned back to the phone. “Be right there. Yes. About five minutes, Jeri.” He hung up.

“My girl,” Lark began thickly.

“Sorry,” Mac stammered. “I guess you are pretty sore. But — why don’t you go? Maybe things will clear up a little for you.”

“Shut up!”

Mac swallowed, turned and hurried out, climbing into the big wrecking truck.

Lark swore under his breath. His eyes gleamed behind the glasses with a bitter light. He jerked a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his blue sports coat, spilling one on the floor. What was she doing running around all hours of the night — and yet she had never come to see him? The town was going to be too small, the world too small!

He strode outside. There were four “islands,” twelve pumps, three grease racks — a super, with garage attached. The blue neons drew ’em in like flies from the V intersection outside of Elgin on the Chicago pike. Three attendants worked briskly this hot night, but the lanes were full, cars lined up waiting.

Removing hat and coat, he tossed them in the office and lent the boys a hand. He saw their surprised smiles. They evidently got a kick out of him — the first night like this. He drove himself hard. Ten, twenty minutes passed. He paused, wiping the perspiration from his forehead on his sleeve. It was hot, sticky... Could she have been hurt and not told Mac?

He went out back in the field and prowled around. What a target the office made! But the silence, and the stars overhead, told him nothing. The only clue he had was Mac. Mac was acting strangely. It was almost as though that phone call from Jeri had been prearranged.

By one a.m. business tapered off. He moved restlessly toward his coupe but couldn’t make himself leave. Be there in five minutes, Mac had said. That was an hour ago. He dragged a bottle out of the coke machine; let the stuff slide down his throat. Then he saw the red light coming down the highway.

The big tow-buggy eased up into the driveway swinging a sedan with a smashed front wheel. A slight, familiar figure sat beside Mac on the high seat. As the truck growled in a half-circle, the blue lights of the station washed over straight, chiseled features, coaxed streaks of flame from her hair.

Stiffly, Lark paced into the office, shrugged on his coat, picked up his hat. He looked at Mac as the other entered. “What kept you? Trying to sober her up?”

Mac’s glance was straight. “You shouldn’t talk like that. Maybe there’re a few things you don’t understand.”

Lark slapped on his hat viciously. “So? Take her home then. What the hell do I care?”

Mac frowned. “Come off it, Lark. You’ve been through a lot. I talked her into coming here. I said you’d — see her. It’s about her husband, Gabe Varden. Something she has to tell you.”

“You’ve got a lousy nerve. Jeri marries another guy — never comes near me when I’m hurt. And you—”

“She’s been waiting. We didn’t think it was wise for her to see you — until now. There’s a lot you don’t know.”

Lark stared incredulously. “You and she? What is this? You’ve been in touch with her all the time?”

Mac scrubbed his hands on a piece of waste, ears growing red. “I sort of let that slip. She wants to tell you all about it. She — loves you, Lark.”

Lark spat. “She loves me — so she marries him!”

“Varden’s put on a model-husband act for the town ever since they’ve been married, but — they live in different parts of the house. He knows how Jeri feels about you.”

Lark took off his glasses wearily, eyes squinted. “I didn’t think you’d hold out on me, Mac. All these months. You know who shot me too, don’t you?”

“Maybe. There’s not a shred of proof. Right now it’s her I’m worried about. If you let her go alone, she may be too dead to come back!”

“Go alone — where?”

Mac stuffed a wad of chewing gum in his mouth, eyes hard and bright. His jaw moved rhythmically. “Ask her.”

Lark shoved him to one side, walked out front, his gaze probing around the parked tow truck, searching for her.

She was standing in shadow, irresolutely, half-turned to flee. At the sound of his approaching steps she snapped a lighter to her cigarette in a little gesture of bravado. The tiny flame wavered, blew out. A clinging, black suit left her face and hands a pale blur without substance or reality. Then he caught the perfume and remembered — many things. It gave him a choked up feeling. Four months. He had anticipated seeing her when he recovered his sight, around town. Golf course, drug store — but not close. Not like this.

“Lark?”

He knew that husky catch in her voice. It was always there.

“Lark? Mac told me you — your eyes—?” She snapped the lighter again. Her hand trembled. As she slipped it away in her shoulder bag, he caught a glimpse of an automatic hidden among feminine odds and ends of junk.

“I’ve got ’em back,” he said coldly. “Wide open too. How’s things, Jeri? How’s your hubsand?”

She flinched back as though he had struck her. “Please, Lark. Don’t be bitter. I—”

“Where’d you get that gun?”

“Mac gave it to me.”

“Oh? Simple as that. Mac gave it to you.”

“You’ve got to understand,” she said quickly, “that Mac has been helping both of us — you and me. If you’ll only listen to me.”

He opened her shoulder bag, plucked out the automatic, a .32, and laid it on the floor of the truck.

She started to protest, clamped white teeth into her lower lip instead.

“Get in my car,” he heard himself saying. “We’ll cruise around awhile.”

He felt her tremble as he guided her to his coupe.

She lifted her dark eyes just once, searchingly. “We shouldn’t be seen together.”

“Why not?”

“Someone tried to kill you, Lark. You know that.”

He opened the door for her. “Sure I know it. Get in, Red. Get in before I change my mind. This is a bad night to run into you. Don’t ask me why.”

She caught her breath.

He remembered then that he was the only one who had ever gotten away with calling her Red.

Chapter Two Flight to Nowhere

He drove four or five miles down the river road toward St. Charles, pulled into a marshy clearing, snapped off the ignition and the lights. “Now,” he said, “Mac’s worried about you going somewhere alone. Give it to me straight.”

“It’s Gabe. He’ll be leaving tomorrow for a real estate convention in Omaha, to be gone two days. He’s done that for four months — always on the second Thursday of the month. Only—” she hesitated — “he doesn’t go to Omaha.”

“No?”

“I’ve checked. His real estate office here in Elgin is just a blind — something to make people think he works for a living. He doesn’t sell enough property to pay the rent.” A tinge of color swept her cheeks.

“Where do you think he goes then?”

“I don’t know. Last month I hired a private investigator. He lost the trail. Tomorrow I intended to follow Gabe, but Mac thought — he said you would say it was too dangerous once you understood all that has happened.”

“Uh huh.” Lark drummed on the wheel, swallowing his anger at this inference that he should feel responsibility for another man’s wife. “Why would he disappear on a certain day? The second Thursday of the month. I don’t get it. You suspect another woman, of course. You’re jealous. And you want me to—”

“No!” She whirled fiercely to face him. “Don’t you understand, darling? I despise him! As soon as it’s safe I want a divorce. Our marriage has been a sham. He was after my money... But I was helpless. I... I never even pretended to think that Gabe could ever mean—” She choked. Tears clung in the thick lashes and she winked them back. “It was always you, Lark. But you’re so darn bull-headed — sitting there glaring at me. How can I tell you what it was like when Dad lay dying?”

“The day I was shot?”

“Yes. And Gabe came out from Chicago—”

“I remember,” Lark growled. “Quite a boy, Gabe Varden. He can talk rings around me. Well, he’s ten years older. He’s had the experience. Forty, isn’t he? And he’s got soft hands, like a woman. You’re sure busting my heart, Red. After four months too. Four months of sitting without eyes, trying to get you out of my hair.”

“Lark!”

“Oh sure. What do I do now? Break out in a rash? Not me, baby. You and your easy money and your stuffed-shirt husband and—”

Her swiftly indrawn breath warned him too late. He turned his head and caught the stinging flat of her hand against his cheek. Pain cut across his eyes. For an instant things swam. A blurred flash of red hair and she was out of the car, running toward the road. Her stilted, red heels tripped, and she fell, picked herself up and went on, limping in the direction of town.

He fingered his cheek, listening to the damp frog chorus echoing thinly from the marsh. At that moment he wished Gabe Varden’s plump throat was here between his two good hands. He kicked the car to life, snapped it back on the road, turning on his lights. He waited, blinking, as a gray fog swirled in front of him, slowly ebbed away. When he came along beside her, she took to the grass and weeds. He leaned toward the open window.

“Now listen, Jeri.”

She must have found a path, her figure melted so quickly into the darkness.

Alarmed, he jammed on the brakes, leaped out, stumbling in the underbrush. The dark glasses didn’t help. He snatched them off. “Jeri!”

Far away that marsh pulsed and throbbed. He put the glasses away and inched deeper into the brush. He found her finally, huddled on the ground, and lifted her up roughly. “Why did you marry him? Why?”

“I prefer to walk!” she said coldly. “Please let go of me, Mr. Anderson.”

Sighing, he picked her up in his arms and dumped her on the seat of the car.

As she scrambled up indignantly, he grabbed her, holding her while he crawled beneath the wheel. “It was Gabe who shot me that night, wasn’t it?”

“You seem to have everything figured out — including me,” she said frigidly.

He looked at her. Her face was averted, pert little nose tilted angrily.

“You did plan that accident with your car tonight. Why?”

She turned furiously. “You couldn’t possibly guess that I wanted to see you — that I had to see you, without arousing suspicion in case I was being trailed? Mac phoned that you were all right, that you could use your eyes. We trumped up the accident. It would help to disrupt Gabe’s plans tomorrow too.”

“Does he drive to Omaha?”

“No. I think he goes ten miles to Geneva to catch the Chicago and North Western. He’ll probably go to the office as usual and then take a cab.”

Lark headed the car once more toward town. “Let him go his own gait.”

They rode for awhile in strained silence.

“Of course,” she said abruptly. “Just forget the whole thing. Gabe could be rather dangerous. It didn’t take him long to shake that private investigator last time.”

“Oh shut up,” Lark said irritably. “I’ll be on his tail.”

They were coming into the outskirts of Elgin. Overhead street lights hung, one to a block, casting yellow puddles of light. Heat lightning flickered on the horizon, highlighting clumps of trees and occasional houses with grassy lawns.

Her voice sounded remote. “We’re not far from the house. It would be wiser to take a cab, don’t you think? I see one on that side street.”

He nodded, pulling the wheel sharply. The cab was just drawing away from the curb. At his arm signal the driver stopped with squealing brakes.

She had the door open, but he caught her arm. “What would be the best way to get in touch with you from out of town. Phone — telegram? Can you trust the servants?”

“I told you to forget it! I wish I’d never—”

“I’ll phone you,” he interrupted decisively. “And, Red — why did you marry him?”

Color mounted high in her cheeks. “Do you care?”

His voice softened. “Tell me.”

“Dad made me promise. He always had Gabe picked out for me. He was dying, Lark. I... I married Gabe that same night while Dad watched from his bed. It was — horrible.” She shivered.

“But — you never came near me!”

She put her soft fingers over his lips, “Let me tell you in my own way. Gabe knew I was engaged to you. When he found out I’d have nothing to do with him, he blamed you — threatened to kill you if I ever tried to see you.

“The butler follows me everywhere. It’s been like a prison. I never knew you’d been hurt that first week. When I found out, I rushed to the station and Mac heard what I’d been going through. You couldn’t help me then, and we decided to wait until your eyes were all right. And we had no proof that Gabe—” she reached up, gently touched the scar on his temple — “did that.”

He caught her hand so tightly she winced. “Proof? What do I care about proof! He did it, Red. Tomorrow I’ll get the dirty—”

“Lark! Not like that. He’s up to something. Find out what it is. Lark, promise me you won’t—”

“I don’t know. I’ll see what shapes up as I go along.”

She jumped out, slamming the door, stood gripping it so tightly her knuckles went white. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Please be careful.”

He almost leaned toward those cool, red lips. Resisting the urge he sat stiff and motionless, one foot jazzing the accelerator.

She was gone, running toward the cab. He watched her climb into the back. The cab shot away — a red dot of light winking, growing smaller.

Sunlight slanted in through the doorway of the tobacco shop where he lounged. Outside, people were moving sluggishly along the walk. It was nine in the morning and the door of Varden’s ground-floor office across the street had opened and closed once, admitting his big, well-dressed shape, lugging a brown grip.

Clayt Fenlow, the proprietor, tossed a bag of peanuts across the counter, “Here, try some. Hot, ain’t it? Wish we’d get a good rain.”

Lark munched stolidly, his eyes on that distant door. He’d already told Mac he might be out of town a few days. Heat danced above the red brick pavement of the street, illusive, vague; then again as tangible as Jeri’s slim, curved body hovering like a mirage — a dream unfolding behind his eyes. He was right back where he left off four months ago. He turned, realizing suddenly that Clayt had spoken twice.

“I asked if those glasses were really doing you any good, Lark. What’s the matter? I never seen you woolgathering so much.”

“Oh? Yes, they help, Clayt. How’s everything with you?”

The other planted his elbows on the counter, waving a pencil airily. “Business? Just fair. Now you take that feller, Varden, that came out a second ago. He can afford to ride in cabs. Marrying a gal who’s pa left her just about half the town—”

“He came out!”

Clayt’s mouth fell open. “What’s eat-in’ you? Varden climbed into a taxi. You were lookin’ right at him. It headed down Fountain Street.”

Lark ran out front. The cab was turning a corner, heading west. He spun around, ploughing into a group of people, running toward his car parked on another street. He fell in beneath the wheel, jabbing his key at the ignition, crashed a stop light, heading on a short-cut for the Geneva road.

He made open country and tromped on the gas. With luck he’d be at the Chicago, North Western depot before Varden arrived. If Varden went somewhere else? Well, then he had lost him before the chase began. Blistering down the highway at eighty miles an hour, he cursed himself for an addle-brained amateur in this game of man-stalking.

The tires sang a mad song during those few minutes it took him to hit Geneva’s outer limits; then he was forced to a more moderate pace. Traffic hedged him in. He swore. There was nothing he could do about it. He ditched his car finally and was running a short block toward the depot when he saw his man.

Gabe Varden walked swiftly on the other side of the street, swinging his grip. He wore a gray-checked sport coat, gray crush hat, gray gabardines; and he moved in a fast stride, looking neither to right or left. Once he glanced at the watch on his left wrist, pulled a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat, wiping pale, plump cheeks. Abruptly he turned into a small clothing store.

Lark loitered at a news stand. He could see a clerk stirring behind the plate glass window. Varden was purchasing a pair of black gloves, trying them on, smoothing them down over his fingers. He paid for them; opened his grip and tossed them inside. Emerging as abruptly as he had entered, he headed once more toward the depot where a heavy passenger train had already ground to a stop.

Lark quickened his step. This bird worked with split-second timing.

He began to worry about Jeri. What had happened since that moment last night when Jeri returned to her lonely estate? Had Gabe been waiting for her — suspicious? Chill urgency goading him, he longed to dash for a telephone, but there was no time. He manuevered, took his place in the ticket line, ears alert.

Varden’s low, precise voice carried quite plainly. There was the word “Omaha,” and “club car.” The man was moving briskly away.

When Lark’s turn came, he bought an Omaha ticket too, but chose a day coach. Redcaps dove for his grip but he shook his head.

The wheels clacked monotonously. Sprawling behind his paper, hat tilted well down over one eye, Lark stared out at the Lincoln Highway paralleling the track like a white snake, darting in and out, disappearing in hollows, plunging over bridges. On his last trip of exploration he had spotted Varden in the car ahead, intent on a magazine.

Fifty miles down the line they stopped briefly at Dixon, Illinois, again picked up speed after taking on a few bedraggled passengers, munching ice cream cones, and carrying their coats on their arms. The heat was oppressive.

Another hour dragged by. Lark rose, stretching, moving casually toward the other car. The rumbling sound of the wheels hurt his ears as he traversed the jolting, metal pathway between doors.

Varden was gone.

Heedless of the fact that he might be instantly recognized if he bumped into the man, he ran through the car, shouldering his way into the men’s rest room. Empty!

He tucked his glasses away, working back through the train car after car. Varden could have gotten off at Dixon, fifty miles back. Groaning aloud at his stupidity, he made his way through the last car, fumbling at the door leading out onto the observation platform.

Wind and cinders swirled into his face. He struggled outside, closing the door after him, turned, grabbing at his hat.

It was that unforseen, instinctive act that, saved him. The descending blackjack smashed against his wrist instead of his skull.

He threw out his arms, grappling wildly. He saw Varden’s eyes, black slits, staring between small mounds of puffy flesh. Varden had wedged his hat down over his ears to keep it from blowing away. His full, red lips beneath the eye-brow mustache drew back in maniacal fury. “You interfering pup!” He lunged, one knee ramming Lark’s stomach. The blackjack cut down viciously once more.

Lark had him by one arm, whirling him around. They crashed into the railing, momentum carrying them half over. He tried to tear at Varden’s face, but one hand was pinned, his spine grating against the brass. He felt a hand gripping his ankle, lifting. Varden’s mouth was wide open as he strained, finding the purchase he needed.

“You won’t get the redhead now, Anderson!” The man braced himself — heaved...

A sickening sense of flying off. Then something like a thousand tons of dirt fell on Lark’s body. He was in a gigantic cement mixer, rolling over and over with white hot, blazing lights shattering to bits inside his skull. Varden had won, he kept telling himself. Varden had won so easily...

And then, just as suddenly, he was staring at a hot, blue sky with a hawk floating on outstretched wings. No sound — just floating. And then there was sound — the distant grind of a receding train!

He sat up, fell back weakly, and sat up again. A high, grassy slope led up toward the tracks. There was a long, level stretch of weeds before that slope began — a matted path leading straight to him.

He shivered. How a man could live and hurtle eighty or ninety feet from a speeding train?

A figure was running toward him. A short, rotund individual, hat in hand, eyes wide and staring. He came from the direction of a highway where a car was drawn up. The man leaped a log, veered around a boulder, and stopped, horrified, as Lark staggered upright.

“You... you alive?”

“I’m able to navigate,” Lark said, “if you’ll give me a lift.” Only he didn’t say it all at one time. He spat out a tooth, and said it in easy stages.

“I saw you fall off the rear of that train! It’s a miracle!”

Lark felt blood running down his wrist. He took a few experimental steps, fumbled for his handkerchief, touched it to the right side of his face. It came away red. His glasses were ground to bits in an inner pocket.

“Here!” The man took hold of him gingerly. “Let me get you in the car. I’ll take you to Deerfield to a doctor. I never saw such a thing in my life. I almost drove off the road!”

Lark gritted his teeth as a leg buckled, but he kept moving. The knee began to loosen up by the time he crawled into the front seat of the car. His eyes — that was the miracle. No hard blows, Mac had said. But somehow Lark could still see.

The salesman drove fast, casting anxious glances. “Don’t pass out on me, mister.”

“I’m okay. Does that train stop in Deerfield?”

“I think it takes on water there. You better rest — not talk.”

“Could you catch that train?” Lark asked grimly.

The other looked at him blankly. “I’m doing seventy now. You’ve got to get to a doctor. How did you ever fall off that observation car? I saw someone trying to help you.”

Lark smiled grimly, reached for his wallet and discovered his coat was minus a sleeve, but the wallet was intact. He took out two twenties. “Here. Put this crate into high gear, will you? What’s your name?”

“Jones.” The other shook his head, pushing harder on the gas. “I don’t want your money.”

Lark sat back, staring at the road. “I’ll remember you for the rest of my life, Jones. You’re okay.”

Chapter Three Too Many Brides

They rolled to a stop in the public square. Deerfield seemed lively enough, overflowing with farmers at the noon hour. Trucks lined the curb. A small depot was plainly visible, squatting beside the double line of tracks, but there was no sign of the train.

“I’ll help you find a doctor,” Jones offered.

“Never mind. A druggist will do. And — thanks.” He climbed out, limping off with a wave of his hand, leaving Jones with his mouth open.

His coat he left on a bench. A friendly prescription clerk took him in hand, rendering first aid on several deep cuts. The drugstore smelled of soap and anticeptic. He bought new glasses, ordered a coke, found out that the town contained two hotels. He drew a blank at the Emporia, went directly across the street to the Alcazar and hit the jackpot.

The diminutive bell-hop sized him up from shrewd blue eyes and grinned crookedly. “A guy wearing gray? I might a seen him.”

Lark parted with five dollars.

“I saw him.” The blue eyes brightened. “I took his grip up to 24 on the second floor. He registered about a half hour ago. His name’s Simpson. I don’t know where he is now. He left.”

“Been here before?”

“Lemme see... Yeah. Last month, about this same time. You a dick or something?”

“Uh-uh. Salesman. He’s been cutting in on my prospects. Don’t tip him off that I’m wise.” Lark wadded another five into the other’s hand, getting a sharp salute in return, and a wink.

On the way out of the lobby he drifted past the desk. The last name on the fly-specked registry book was in a bold scrawl. A. T. Simpson, Buffalo, N. Y.

A clerk without any teeth started ambling toward him. Lark waved cheerily and walked out.

He bought a hat, shirt, sport-coat and a cheap grip. Back at the Emporia he took a room on the second floor front, ordered beer, and settled down to watch the entrance across the street. The sun was blistering, curtains rustling in the steamy breeze. This was a better hotel than the Alcazar. He thought with longing of the cool cocktail lounge downstairs just off the lobby, and here he was, aching in every joint, plastered grimly in a rocking chair with shirt and tie hanging on a bedpost!

He put a long distance call through to Jeri, propped the dresser mirror just right so he could recline on the bed and still see across the street, and waited, chain-smoking one cigarette after another. The phone failed to ring. The fan on the small table droned monotonously. He nodded, jerked upright.

At 5 p.m. he finally got connected with someone or other, probably a maid, who informed him that Mrs. Varden had gone out, and would he care to leave a message? He hung up, feeling a bit easier. Then he called the room clerk and ordered his dinner sent up.

Darkness found him still waiting. Ten p.m. Varden could have pulled the oldest gag in the world; simply gone on his way, leaving his grip in an empty room. He might be hundreds of miles away by now. But then again — he might walk into sight any moment. Doggedly, Lark determined to stick it out...

He woke up at eight a.m. the following morning, still in the rocking chair, a bunch of painful knots cramping his lean body. What a hell of a flop he was! He staggered stiffly, getting into his new shirt, hobbled down the stairs as fast as he could make it, jolting through the lobby out into the sunlit street. It gave promise of being another sizzling day.

He dodged between traffic and eased into the Alcazar. A blast of sluggish air met him head on. There was no one behind the desk; only one man seated in the lobby buried behind a newspaper. The key of room 24 was in the box. Moving fast, he walked behind the desk, plucked up the key and continued casually, mounting the stairs.

In the hall he hesitated. The second floor creaked as various guests moved around in their rooms. He slid the key in the lock of 24, turned it, and pushed gently.

The brown grip sat in the middle of a patched carpet. The bed hadn’t been slept in. The air was stale. He slipped inside, closing the door. Sick with the certainty that his man had flown, he leaned down and unsnapped the grip. Shirts, socks, handkerchiefs — that was all. The black gloves were missing.

Lark squatted back on his heels, forehead wrinkled. Gloves — in the heart of a blistering, June heat wave. Why would Varden lug them around with him?

Then steps sounded in the hall. He jerked off his glasses, pushing them down in his inside coat pocket, threw things back in the grip, closed the lid and straightened, tip-toeing to the door. A floorboard creaked protestingly. He winced, holding his breath.

The knob was turning. He remembered, then, that he had left the key sticking conspicuously in the lock on the outside. He brought his doubled fist up to his lips, kissed it expectantly, tensing his back muscles.

The door opened an inch, kept moving wider in short, cautious jerks. A hoarse, stage whisper floated in. “Hey, mister—?”

He reached around, grabbed a handful of brass buttons and yanked the tiny bell-hop inside. “What the hell are you up to?”

The little fellow threw up a protecting arm. “I don’t think yer no crook, mister. Honest! I seen you sneak that key. But you ain’t got no right by-passin’ me. If yer playin’ a trick on that other salesman I’m yer boy.” He managed a wink. “You been pretty generous with yer tips. You don’t need to go by-passin’ me.”

“Uh huh, I get you.” Lark released him. “Smart boy, huh? Student of human nature. What’s your name?” He pushed the door closed.

“Jimmy. You musta scared Simpson bad. He ain’t never come back to his room. I don’t like that guy.”

Lark took off his new hat and dragged a handkerchief around inside the band. “Why not?”

Jimmy shrugged. “He’s oily. Don’t like his looks.”

“Uh huh. I’ve got a better reason. He married the swellest girl in this world — for her dough. You see, I’m trusting you, Jimmy.”

“Your girl?”

“That’s right. I tailed Simpson here, and now I’ve lost him. Got any ideas?”

Jimmy scratched his head. Flies buzzed vainly against the closed windows. He slid a cigarette from beneath his monkey-coat, stuck it over his ear, eyes screwed shut in thought.

“Mailmen get around all over town. Start checkin’ with ’em. Then there’s garages. We got three or four. Iver’s rented a ’41 Hudson yesterday to some guy. Heard one of their mechanics talkin’ about it down at the cafe. They don’t rent a car very often in this burg.”

“Ivers? Where is it?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.” He opened the door, looked out into the hall, and beckoned importantly. “It’s clear.”

Lark put on his hat and his glasses and stepped out.

Jimmy twisted the key out of the clock, grinning derisively. “Mr. Anderson, yer an amateur.”

“How’d you know my name?”

The other snorted. “Any time you hand a hop ten bucks you got him practically in the family. I got connections across the street.”

Lark shook his head, following this little wise-guy down the stairs.

In front of the hotel, Jimmy paused, pointing out a garage sign in the distance. “You want I should get on the ball at the post office? I know most of the guys.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

At the garage he clicked. Yes, they had let out a ’41 Hudson yesterday about noon to a Mr. Simpson. The time of the rental was marked on a card. 12:40.

“I may be in town a few days myself,” he told the man in the office. “What have you got that’s fast?”

They settled on a late model Buick, and he made the necessary arrangements, identifying himself, and writing a check for the amount of the deposit required. It would be at least two hours before they proved up on him. A tire had to be changed, gas and oil checked. He grabbed the opportunity to get a bite of breakfast. Time was racing away. He fumed because he had neglected to bring enough cash to cover the amount of that deposit. He kept an eye out for Jimmy, but the other didn’t appear.

It was 11 o’clock before he got the Buick and drove to the post office.

“No luck yet,” Jimmy told him. “I’ve asked a dozen guys. But the rural route boys are showin’ up now. Wait out front. If I get something hot I’ll let you know.”

In twenty minutes he came out, eyes alight, a pleasant-faced chap in tow. “Here’s yer man, Mr. Anderson. Hey, Jack, tell him what you told me!”

Lark slid out from beneath the wheel eagerly.

“Sure,” the other nodded. “I saw a ’41 Hudson this morning. Blue, you say? It was coming out of the road that leads to Jason’s Sanitarium. Man and woman in it.”

“You’re sure?” Lark said tensely.

“Of course. That was about 10 o’clock. I’m on the tag end of my route by then. It’s only six miles to Jason’s from here. That’s a private home for the mentally unbalanced.”

“I see. Thanks very much.”

Jimmy was tugging at his sleeve. “Want me to come along?”

“Uh-uh. You’ve done plenty as it is.” He started to reach for his wallet, but the look in those blue eyes stopped him.

“It’s for the swellest girl in the world,” Jimmy said soberly. “Let me know how it comes out.”

Lark pressed his shoulder. “Sure I will. I’ll run you back to the hotel.”

“Naw. Get goin’! Jason’s is out on the Potter Road. Head out this street and turn left at the bridge. After that keep on straight. You can’t miss it.”

Lark jumped in and slammed the door, kicked the starter. The car ran like a breeze. Jimmy’s figure dwindled in the rear view mirror...

The sign said simply: Jason’s Sanitarium. A circling driveway, newly tarred, led past a square stucco building on a wooded hillside, with several small out-buildings grouped nearby among the trees.

Lark parked in front and walked up a flagstone path. The bell beside the wrought-iron grill peeled loudly.

A large, unsmiling woman in a starched white uniform opened the door.

“Good morning.” Lark smiled, removing his hat.

She nodded stiffly.

He cleared his throat. “I wonder if I’m too late to catch Mr. Simpson?”

She lifted her brows questioningly. “Mr. Simpson?” Her voice was slightly nasal. “We have only women patients.”

“The gentleman who was here this morning.”

“Oh. Mr. Simpson did call for his wife. They left.”

Lark managed to restrain a quiver of excitement. He was thinking fast. “I didn’t realize,” he said, “that Mrs. Simpson was in a condition to be — what’s the word — released?”

“Mrs. Simpson is completely cured.”

“Well,” he drawled, fanning himself with his hat. “That’s fine. Glad to hear it.”

“Are you a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Simpson?”

“Sure. I’ve known them for years. I was to meet them here. Have you any idea where they—”

“Step in,” she said. “I’ll ask Doctor Creighton. She was his patient.”

He walked through the shadowy doorway and paused. It was fairly cool in here. Her heavy tread departed down the hall. Unconsciously he found himself listening for something. In a joint like this you might expect to hear anything.

She was back, holding forth a small locket on a chain. “Mrs. Simpson overlooked this. I believe it has sentimental value. Would you give it to her when you see them?”

“Sure thing.” He slipped it in his pocket.

“I’m sorry — Doctor Creighton Is busy right now and can’t talk to you. He doesn’t know where Mr. Simpson was planning on taking his wife.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll probably catch them in town. You’ve helped a lot. Thanks very much.”

She smiled and one hand dove for her pocket, came out holding a gun!

He slapped her across the face with his hat. His upraised knee jolted her hand hard as he swung to one side. Miraculously the revolver didn’t go off. He tore it from her fingers, tossing it out the door onto the lawn. Once he got his arms around her, she quit squirming.

“Now,” he grated, “what’s the idea, sister?”

“I didn’t want to alarm Doctor Creighton,” she panted. “But you don’t know Mrs. Simpson! You didn’t even glance at the pictures in that locket. If you’d known them for years like you say, you’d at least have glanced inside.”

“You’re bluffing about the doctor. You run this place!”

She glared. “What if I do? It’s a respectable business. But our patients are strictly confidential. Mr. Simpson would certainly never have friends dropping in here. He visited her himself only once a year up until lately. I don’t know what you’re up to, but—”

He pushed her away from him and stepped back. “Don’t worry about me. Your dear Mr. Simpson already has a wife! Now do you know where he’s taken this one, or don’t you?”

She stared at him searchingly. “Mr. Simpson committed his wife to our care almost five years ago. Her mind was — well — we expected no hope of recovery. But she made amazing strides this last year, and we notified him to that effect.”

“When?”

“About three months ago. But who are you? What authority do you have making accusations?”

“Do you know where he took her?”

Her face darkened. “I don’t! You better get out of here!”

He slapped on his hat. “With pleasure. But if you try to bum any of Mrs. Simpson’s records, the police will make it tough on you. Understand?”

She remained rigid, stony-eyed.

He slammed the door, left the gun laying on the lawn, and jumped in the Buick.

The full implications of this business began to soak in as he headed for the main road. Where was Varden hiding wife number one? What did the black gloves mean? Afraid of fingerprints maybe?

He dug the locket out of his pocket, pried it open as he drove, and stared at miniature photographs of Varden and a woman. Varden looked seven or eight years younger and somehow different without the mustache. His cheeks were shadowed, not so plump. The girl was a pale blonde with wide-set eyes, a prim mouth. She appeared to be around Jeri’s age, twenty-five or six. Her face was soft and round, the little ringlets in her hair giving her an air of wide-eyed innocence.

He let the locket lie on the seat, glancing at it from time to time. Finally he put it away in his pocket.

Chapter Four Hot Trail

Back at the Alcazar he discovered that Varden, alias Simpson, still hadn’t returned. No doubt of it now. In this section of the country — somewhere — was his hideout.

In the phone booth at the drug store, Lark put through another call, this time to Mac.

“Don’t ask questions,” he said crisply when he had him on the line. “Get over to Jeri’s. Tell her I’ll see her tonight—” he glanced at his watch — “around seven o’clock. I’m in Deerfield. Driving through as soon as I hang up.”

“Right,” Mac replied. “But listen: That gun of Jeri’s that you left in the truck — I slipped it in the glove compartment of her car. It’s gone. I missed it Thursday morning when I started working on the wheel.”

“Varden?”

“Who else? I just wanted you to know he’s armed. Take care of yourself, boy.”

“Yeah. Thanks...” He hung up, lips compressed.

Outside, he climbed into the Buick and headed for the Lincoln Highway. It was almost four-thirty. With luck, he’d make Elgin in two and a half hours...

It was growing dusk as he pulled in back of the three-car garage at Jeri’s, took a shortcut across the grass beneath imported firs. A few lights gleamed in the rear of the two-storied house. He followed the edge of the walk, moving soundlessly. A maid came out of the kitchen, beating a mop over the porch railing. He stood motionless, waiting. Without a sideward glance she went back inside and the screen door banged.

It had been four months or better since he had taken this path to the partially enclosed terrace at the far side of the house. He came to a low, ivy-covered wall overlooking the rock garden with its splashing fountain. Rustic tables and chairs were scattered about. A softly glowing lamp framed Jeri’s head, her slim weight stirring an old rocker, one leg tucked beneath her, a book cradled on her lap.

He whistled.

She jumped up nervously, tossing the book in the chair. “Lark?” The sleeveless, blue silk dress clung smoothly, revealing bare, white shoulders.

He vaulted over the wall, tossed his hat on a chair and strode toward her. “Thought I’d better sneak in.”

She laid her hand on his arm, barely conscious of the act. “What’s happened to you? Your face...”

He touched a strip of adhesive tape gingerly. “Never mind. Mac get in touch with you?”

“He phoned. Said you were in Deerfield. I’ve been waiting hours — all yesterday—”

“Take it easy, Red. I’ve had myself a time. Is it safe to talk?”

“Wait!” She slipped over to the side door, locked it, and came back. “Gabe has a way with servants. He must give them outrageous sums for their loyalty. Hungry, Lark?”

“Starved.”

She pulled him over to the table where a white cloth had been laid. “Just coffee and sandwiches. Sit down.”

He watched her tilt the percolator over his cup.

“Jeri — you’ve got to get out of this house.”

She looked up slowly, her eyes dark unfathomable shadows, regarding him steadily. “Is it — that bad?”

Lark dropped into the chair, dribbling lumps of sugar into his coffee. “Sit down.”

She sank into a chair. “Tell me, Lark! Is he in Deerfield?”

He jabbed his spoon at her. “Let me ask you something — has he got into you for much dough? I mean — he hasn’t broke you yet, or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “Dad left things tied up in investments. My income is large. Naturally Gabe spends money like water, but he stays within a limit. He’s a business man. He’s content to let things go along as they are. Why shouldn’t he?”

“But what if something happened to you?”

“Then I suppose—” She stopped.

“Uh huh.” Lark sat back, lighting his cigarette.

She leaned forward. “Will you stop being so secretive? Where is he? What’s he up to, Lark?”

“He’s got a wife. Married her before he met you.”

“A wife!”

He told her then, swiftly, all that had happened in the last two days.

She shook her head mutely. Finally she whispered. “It’s horrible. That woman — where do you suppose he’s taken her?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to find out. D’you want to help?”

She jumped up excitedly. “Of course! Let me see the locket.”

She took it from him, turning it toward the light. Varden’s picture fluttered onto the table. “Gabe,” she breathed. And then: “Look — she’s rather pretty.”

They both heard the car in the driveway at the same instant. She caught his hand tightly, her breath warm on his cheek. “It’s Gabe! There’s a cab just leaving. You’ll have to go.”

His face darkened. “And leave you with him?”

“We can’t let him know — yet! He thinks you’re dead. He’ll make up some excuse why he decided not to go to Omaha. He’s a glib liar.”

“I’ve got to settle it with him. Now!”

“He’ll stay in his part of the house, darling. I’m in no danger. It’s that girl—”

“You’re my girl!”

She pressed against him, one hand over his lips. “Sh-h-h. We’ve got to find her, Lark. Find out what he’s done with her. Don’t you understand? I know Gabe. He’s money-mad. He’d be merciless if he thought she endangered what he has here.”

Lark jerked her hand away. “Then make up an excuse. You’re getting out tonight! We’ll go to Deerfield and pick up any clues we can. He’s got her stashed there — somewhere. I’d bet on it.”

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “I’ll tell him I’m going to visit Aunt Neila’s in St. Charles. Neila Brent. Pick me up there at ten o’clock in the morning.” She slipped the locket in the front of her dress. “Hurry, Lark.”

He caught her hard against him, staring deep into her eyes. “You know what this means, Red?”

“I’ll be free,” she said, gazing into his eyes. Her voice throbbed: “Oh, darling — free!”

He silenced her with his lips.

Her arms slid up around his neck, warm, strong arms, binding him...

He let her go finally. “If you need me — phone Mac.”

She nodded wordlessly, the wild flame still in her eyes.

He grabbed his hat, went over the wall, made his way to the Buick. He pushed the car down the inclined drive, drifted along in the dark without lights, then let in the clutch. He pulled a short distance down the main road and parked.

For awhile he couldn’t make himself leave. Varden must have left the rented car in Deerfield, and returned by train. He sat chewing his lip, worrying about her. She was probably right — Gabe’s number one wife was the one on the spot. In the quiet dusk birds twittered sleepily. He edged his tired body down on the seat, thinking of a spare cot in the back room of his garage at the station. He’d stay there, rather than at his bungalow. Mac would wake him if she phoned during the night.

Wearily he stepped on the starter. His eyes were so tired, they burned. He’d probably slump into a deep sleep if he sat here any longer...

Mac was shaking him. “Get up. This is Saturday. You wanted to be in St. Charles by ten o’clock. It’s 9:80 now. I let you sleep as long as I could.”

Lark threw off the blanket groggily, swinging his feet off the cot. His neck ached.

Mac held a cup of coffee and he took it gratefully. “How’s business?”

“Swell. What he’d do to you — run over you with his car?”

Lark rubbed the back of his neck; sipped the strong, black coffee. There were some clean clothes laid out on a chair, and he lifted his eyebrows.

“Went to your place and got ’em.” Mac grinned. “You can wash up here. Where’d you get the Buick?”

“Deerfield. By tonight I think I’ll have Gabe Varden boxed up tight, Mac! I’m meeting Jeri in St. Charles — going back to Deerfield.”

“You need me? How about me doing the driving?”

Lark shook his head. “You sit tight. If I get in a jam, I’ll phone you.”

Mac scowled. “What do I do then — hop a plane? And supposing there’s no phone service where you meet up with Gabe?”

“He’s here in town. Now stop belly-achin’. Right now I’m after a little blonde with a solemn face — Varden’s number one wife.”

Mac ran stubby fingers through his yellow hair. “He’s that smelly?”

“Brother, he is!” Lark snapped, trotting toward the washroom.

Jeri came running down the steps of her aunt’s house, hair flying in the sunlight, red lips parted. “I brought a picnic lunch.” She shoved a basket into the rear seat and jumped in front. “Not that I expect it’s going to be a picnic.”

“What happened last night?”

She snuggled against him, gripping his arm, smoothing her green, linen skirt over her knees. “Nothing.”

He headed the car away from the curb.

“He said he’d decided not to go to Omaha. Oh, he was cool as you please, but — he’s different, Lark. He’s done something. He seems very pleased with himself.”

“That I don’t like!”

“Me either. Of course he’s had plenty of time to check on the fact that no body was picked up along the Chicago North Western. He must realize you’re alive.”

“Did you bring the locket?”

“Of course.” She lifted a red leather wallet from the pocket of her skirt, thrust it back again. “When I told him I’d be at Aunt Neila’s a few days, he gave me a peculiar look. I believe he’ll check up.”

“You warned her?”

“Yes. She’d lie like a trooper for me; simply tell him that I’m down town shopping or something.”

“But it’s risky. We’ll have to make today count.”

He kept the speedometer needle floating high, and as he drove, told her there was a lot of leg-work and hours of questioning ahead of them — a hot, tiring, dusty search for an illusive hideout, probably in the country. A lonely farm, or a house one would least suspect.

“Or,” she added hollowly. “A plot of earth in the ground.”

He glanced at her face, caught the suddenly sombre expression.

“I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “She may be dead, yes. But then again — maybe not. He’s had time to plan things. And he probably doesn’t suspect interference. I think he took her somewhere first. Some place where she’d think she was secure. He’d put on the anxious-husband act probably.”

Jeri shivered. “Hurry,” she whispered tightly. “Oh, Lark — hurry...”

They didn’t reach Deerfield until two in the afternoon. A flat tire hadn’t helped. He took Jeri into the Emporia and bought her a drink, left her there while he skipped across to the Alcazar to check up.

The toothless clerk informed him that Mr. Simpson had checked out yesterday about 3 p.m.

Jeri was waiting in the semi-darkness of the cocktail lounge, twirling an empty glass, her slender heels locked over a rung of the stool.

“You may as well have one,” she gestured. “Then we’ll start. It’s on me, partner.”

He grinned, ordered bourbon.

She did deft things briefly with a lipstick, ran a comb through her red curls. She laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and the barkeep went away to make change. She swung toward Lark reflectively.

“If Gabe left that sanitarium about I0 o’clock yesterday morning and caught a train out of here about three — that gave him five hours alone with her.”

He finished his drink, nodding.

“What do you suppose he was doing from the time he got in town Thursday — about noon, you said — until 10 o’clock Friday morning? That’s 22 hours!”

“That’s one reason I’m guessing he’s got a place in the country. A nice, lonely place. Let’s get started.”

She picked up her change and stepped down from the stool, following at his heels.

He stopped by the garage where he had rented the Buick, gave them some money and switched cars, heading out into the general direction of the sanitarium, driving the blue ’4I Hudson that Varden had used the day before.

Chapter Five Delectable Dick

At six o’clock that night they were still cruising. He’d called at scores of houses and farms, asking questions, describing Gabe. Had they noticed this ’41 Hudson the last two days? Even Jeri took a hand, without success.

They parked on a lonely stretch of road. Lark pushed his hat to the back of his head, pursed his lips and expelled a gusty sigh. “I don’t know, Red. Got any hunches?”

She shook her head, slumping down in the seat.

The sound of plodding hoofs approached, harness creaking and jingling. A farmer emerged from an almost hidden side road, driving a team of weary horses hitched to a wagon load of hay.

“Hey, mister,” he hailed. “You better put a top on that water tank you’ve been buildin’. It’ll fill with bug’n twigs— Oh! I thought you was someone else.” He picked up his whip, a tall, gaunt man in faded overalls, an old straw hat, and was about to lash the horses.

Lark tumbled out. “You thought I was Mr. Simpson?”

The man spoke to his horses, pulling on the reins. “Well — I don’t rightly know his name. He took over the Johnson cottage about three months ago. Caught a glimpse of him yesterday from the field in a car just like yours.”

Lark glanced at Jeri. She was edging to his side of the car, gripping the wheel excitedly.

He took out a cigarette casually. “Is that cottage nearby?”

The man pointed the whip back the way he had come. “Up the road a piece. Better’n a mile.”

“I’ve been looking at property all afternoon,” Lark said glibly. “Any idea he might sell?”

The farmer shrugged. “Wouldn’t be knowin’. He had some men fixin’ the place up when he first took it. Tennis court ’n everything. Then he lost interest, I guess. No good for farmin’ anyway.”

“I might have a look. My name’s Anderson.”

The man leaned down awkwardly, extending his hand. “Mine’s Arkwright. Reckon it wouldn’t hurt nothin’ to have a look. Storm’s comin’. I gotta get my hay in.”

Lark took his crushed hand back, gesturing toward Jeri. “My fianceé.”

Jeri stuck out her tongue at him, smiled at Arkwright. “You were saying something about a tank?”

“Mmm,” he muttered. “You’ll see. A crazy notion if you ask me. Water tank on stilts ’n no cover on it. Well — them clouds says I ain’t got too much time.”

He chirped at the horses, and the wagon began lumbering on. He waved. “I’m up the road about two mile. Stop in an’ get some cold milk. Best you ever drank!”

Lark grinned, waved, climbing back into the car. “Farmers,” he said. “God bless ’em!” He spun the car in a circle, wheels churning the dirt.

“Luck!” Red breathed. “Pure luck!”

The road became a lane, dense foliage crowding the edges. Jeri looked ruefully at the cloudy sky. “It’s certainly getting dark.”

“Look in the glove compartment. I saw a flashlight.”

She found it, clicked it on. “It works.”

“Good.” He was straining his eyes in the half-light, not wanting to turn on the headlamps.

They passed a hay field where Arkwright must have been working. It was on the left side of the lane. A streak of lightning flickered weirdly over the face of rolling, black clouds. A clearing on the right loomed up, the lane winding on endlessly. He turned sharply into a rutted driveway and cut the motor.

The cottage was moderately large, an almost flat roof littered with leaves and fallen branches, low-hanging eaves, a porch extending on two sides. It looked empty — curtains at the windows, but no light. A stream somewhere in back made a babbling, rushing sound, loud in the stillness.

“Empty.” Jeri whispered. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll give it a once-over.”

She scrambled out first. “Not on your life! I’m coming too.”

He climbed out. “You can’t tell what we’ll find, Jeri. Better think twice.”

She looked at him tight-lipped. “If I’m thinking the same thing you are, it won’t be easy. Not if I know Gabe. Look. There’s the tank. Back of the house. And the tennis court.”

Clay had been spread for the court and rolled with a large metal roller which appeared now to be abandoned and gathering rust. Weeds were sprouting in patches through the clay. But it was the water tank which took Lark’s eye.

About fifty feet back of the house, it stood eighteen or twenty feet above the ground on a framework of creosoted two-by-fours a large, galvanized tank roughly ten feet in diameter and about eight feet deep. There was no ladder in view. Jeri was eyeing it curiously. Their eyes met.

Side by side they approached the cottage. A bird fluttered from a thicket, darting straight for the porch and the closed front door, veering sharply on beating wings.

Jeri’s fingers dug into his arm. “It... it’s creepy.”

He shook off her hand and went up on the porch, trying the door. The knob turned but a lock held it without budging. He tried the windows along the right side of the building and found them securely locked. There was a sizable rock handy, and he picked it up. “Stand back, Red.”

Shattering glass tinkled, falling on the floor inside. He reached in gingerly and found the latch, raised the frame. “Want to go in first?” he grinned.

She was tense. “Don’t be funny, Lark!”

He hoisted himself over the sill, eyes darting over the gloomy interior. The place wasn’t badly furnished.

She held up her arms and he lifted her in. “Gimme that light.”

He pushed the bright beam ahead of him, kicked open a bedroom door. Empty. The bed was neatly made up. A sour smell hung over everything. The closet was completely bare. Another bedroom held a scattered array of tools, nothing else. There was a portable welding outfit, tanks containing oxygen and acetylene gas.

“What’s that for?” Jeri asked, pressing close behind him.

“Probably used to weld the tank when it was put up. It’s a complete outfit. Look. Here’s a flint lighter, dark glasses, even filler rod.”

“What’s filler rod?”

“Filler rod, or welding rod, it’s all the same. See? Here’s two torch heads. You weld with one type — do cutting with the other. Get me?”

“You garage men,” she said, shaking her head. “Does it matter?”

“I wonder.” he muttered, eyes squinted thoughtfully. He spotted an open can of paint with a brush lying across the top. There was a thin scum across the brownish surface but it told him nothing except that it could have been used within the past few days or hours.

Jeri was rummaging through kitchen drawers. “Lark!”

He swung the light around, grabbed the black leather gloves out of her hand. “Gabe’s! I told you about these. Remember?”

She took her purse out of her pocket, fumbling inside. “I think I need a smoke.”

The locket fell out, lay face up on the floor. The picture of Gabe Varden was missing.

“That’s funny,” she mused, stooping and picking it up. Then her face went white. “Lark! Do you remember last night? It fell out on the table at the house. If he found it — or one of the servants took it to him—”

Lark reached for the locket grimly. The girl’s face stared up at him with wide, mutely staring eyes.

“She’s dead,” Jeri whispered. “I know it! And buried in this very house!”

He gripped her arm. “Or in that water tank!”

She shuddered, pressing her face against his shoulder.

“I’ve got to get you out of here, Red. But first I’ll have a quick look in that tank.”

Her head flashed back. “You think Gabe would come here?”

“Like a homing pigeon! Come on.” He stuck the gloves and the locket in his pocket, leading the way to the window.

Outside, he surveyed the tank grimly, removing his coat and hat and handing them to Jeri.

“You’re going to climb?”

“I need a fairly long stick... There’s one.” He picked up a fallen limb, breaking it off at the right length. “Hand this up to me.” Thunder rolled and reverberated, coming almost simultaneously with the lightning flash.

She couldn’t hear all he said, but she nodded.

He started to climb, hoping the swiftly fading light would hold a bit longer. The blood pounded in his ears as he struggled for handholds, swinging higher. Jeri was holding the end of the stick as high as she could. He grabbed it and continued on up to the top.

Stagnant, smelly water lay inert, filled with nimbly hopping water-bugs, crawling things. He pushed the stick clear to the bottom, stirring, feeling. She’d probably be weighted. His teeth were clenched with repugnance as he inched around the side, probing, digging.

“Lark?”

He stopped, peering down. “Huh?”

“Is she—?”

“Not yet.” He started in again, covering the bottom of the tank thoroughly.

“Lark, she isn’t in there! Listen to me. She’s under the tennis court!”

“What makes you think—?” He straightened with a jerk. “You mean that roller was used to—”

“Of course! He’s buried her in the clay and used the roller to smooth it flat.”

He threw the stick down, began scrambling swiftly toward the ground. Maybe she was right.

He grabbed the light. She piled his coat and hat on the ground, following at his heels as he ran for the tennis court, pausing beside the roller.

She picked up the long, metal tongue and pushed. “It’s dam heavy. It would flatten anything. I doubt whether even Gabe could push it.”

Lark lent a hand and together they rolled it a few feet. “Needs a car hitched to it,” he grunted. “See any tracks?”

She flashed the light. They started working their way slowly over the level court.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “He’s smooth. Maybe all these things are just for effect. We can’t start digging up the whole tennis court!”

“Not tonight at least,” he agreed. “But I think you’re on the right track, Red.” He reached, giving her a quick hug.

She jumped as a glare of lightning ripped the sky and thunder growled, came trembling into his arms. “I guess I’m a coward. I want to get out of here, Lark. Fast!”

“Me too,” he nodded. “C’mon.”

They ran toward the car. He snatched up his hat and coat. Rain was beginning to pelt down hard, whispering and chattering through the leaves overhead.

“What now?” she asked, as he backed the car out swiftly.

“I’ll take you to the hotel. I’m coming back.”

“Not tonight! I won’t let you come back here — unless you bring the police. You haven’t even got a gun.”

“Don’t be a nut. We haven’t got a body either. Just a lot of suspicions. But if Gabe comes poking his nose in — which I hope — he may spoil his nice little set-up. All I ask is to get within arm’s reach of that rat!”

“You’re crazy! He may be in town right now. On our trail. Did you register under your own name?”

“I used my own name,” he admitted drily. “Right now I could use a drink. I’ll check the Alcazar just on the off-chance that he might have the gall to stop there again.”

“I’ll check,” she contradicted. “Too many people have seen you running around lately. You wait in the bar of the Emporia.”

He really didn’t intend to let her do it, but when they parked near the hotel, she was adamant.

“Okay,” he said finally. “What’ll I order for you — a collins?”

“Right.” She opened the door.

“What’s that?” He pointed to a brownish smear on her green skirt.

“Paint,” she exclaimed. “I must have brushed against something at the cottage. Oh well — I’m a mess anyway.”

“But you didn’t get near that open can of paint. Funny. I didn’t see anything freshly painted around the cottage either.”

She shrugged. “The rain’s slacking up, Lark. I’ll run over to the hotel.” She brushed her lips to his cheek, and jumped out, laughing. “The lady detective’s on her way...”

Chapter Six The Iron Grave

He had a straight whiskey. He needed it. The thought of that tank gave him the willies. Her collins sat beside him on the bar, waiting.

He moved over to the juke-box, slid a nickel in, and stood listening. Suddenly he went cold. She’d been gone fifteen minutes!

Running out into the rain, he splashed across the street and into the lobby of the Alcazar. The same toothless clerk was drooping over the desk. Jeri wasn’t here.

“Listen,” he said, “did a girl come in here? Redheaded? Beautiful? So tall?” Holding out his hands he made an age-old curving motion.

The clerk shook his head.

A hand tugged at his sleeve and he turned, staring down at his friend, Jimmy, who grinned widely.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson. Gee, they don’t grow like that in this town.”

Lark grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. “You’re sure, Jimmy? She didn’t come in here? If you’re kidding—”

“Honest. That’s straight!”

Lark let go of him, whirled, running for the door. Gabe had her! He could take her to the cottage, rid himself of the last stumbling block in his path...

Lark hesitated in the doorway. “Who’s the law in these parts? Who’s your sheriff?”

They stared.

“Snap out of it!” he roared. “A girl may be murdered if I don’t get help right away!”

“Sam Jager is sheriff,” the clerk mumbled. “But you’d have to catch him at his house. I could phone.”

“Then phone, pop!” Lark snapped.

Jimmy leaped with excitement. “Murder! Wow! Got a car? I’ll show you where the sheriff lives.”

They tore across the street and leaped in the Hudson.

Three minutes later they pulled up in front of a neat yellow house. Light came from several windows, shimmering through the steady downpour of rain. Lark left the motor running and dashed for the low porch, the bell-hop at his heels.

A white haired woman opened the door. “Lands sakes — what’s all the racket? Sam?” She stepped back. “This must be the young fellow Henry phoned you about.”

A vague grunt came from the other room, followed by the screeching sound of a violin.

She turned back. “My, isn’t this an awful night? Oh hello, Jimmy. I didn’t see you.”

Lark groaned.

Jimmy slipped past her with a muttered greeting and vanished inside, jabbering a mile a minute.

Presently a short, heavy-set figure moved into view. His face was lined and seamed, hair frosted with gray. Lark’s hopes diminished until he gazed into his eyes — eyes like green ice-cubes, flickering over him appraisingly.

“Well?” he said, buckling a holstered revolver around his thick waist. “Where we gonna find this girl you’re talking about? Ma — hand me my slicker.”

“I’m sure he’s taking her to a cottage about four miles from here. I’ve got a car.”

“We’ll use mine. See you later, Ma.” He kissed her on the cheek, set a wide-brimmed hat carefully on his head and led the way around the side of the house. “No, Jimmy,” he told the bell-hop at their heels. “This ain’t for you. Skedaddle!”

“Aw, Sam.”

“What’s your name?” Jager asked Lark, swinging wide a garage door.

“Anderson. I’m from Elgin. My girl’s in the hands of a killer, Jager. And there’s a body buried somewhere around that cottage. The Johnson place, it’s called.”

They were climbing into a beautiful black car, with a siren on the side, and twin red spots.

Sam Jager backed out cautiously, easing off down the street. “I know where it is. Now give me the whole story.”

Lark was straining in the seat. “How about stepping on it?”

The siren drowned his voice. By the time the sheriff snapped on the spotlights, things were passing in a blur of speed.

Jager listened without comment, his hands heavy on the wheel. There was no need for the siren on these lonely stretches of gumbo. At times the wheels churned, slid — the car lurching and fighting.

They turned onto the lane at last, swinging up into the clearing. There was no car parked in front of the cottage.

Lark’s eyes had been busy on the road. “He was here!” he shouted as they climbed out. “See those ruts his tires made? He’s driven on up the lane — probably saw our lights.”

Jager grunted, sweeping a five-cell flashlight in short arcs.

Lark ran up on the porch. The front door was swinging on its hinges.

There was no sign of Jeri. They went from room to room.

“Let’s go!” Lark gritted. “He’s got her with him!”

“Wait up,” Jager said. “Let’s have a look for that body you’re so sure about — wife number one, you say?”

“There’s no time. I tell you, he’s got Jeri with him!”

Jager flung him off. “You’ve been telling me a pretty wild yarn, young man, with nothing to back it up except some tire tracks in the mud.”

“And the front door wide open! He’s been here and gone.”

“He won’t get far on this mud road without chains. A body, you say. Now where—?”

“I don’t know where!”

Imperturbably, Jager swung the beam of light in a slow, sweeping motion, rain trickling from the brim of his hat. “What’s that thing?” He had the heavy roller targeted squarely.

The answer exploded in Lark’s face. “The paint!” he yelled. “Jeri brushed against that roller when we tried to push it. She’s in there! His wife’s in it!”

Jager stood hunched, disbelief written all over his face. “Calm down, Anderson. You’re shaking like a colt. How’d anybody get a body in that roller?”

“I’ll show you! Got a hammer in your car, and a screw driver?”

Grudgingly the sheriff moved away.

Lark groped toward the tennis court, crouched by one end of the roller.

About four feet long, three and one half feet in diameter, it was the type that held either water or sand for ballast in its hollow interior. He found the threaded, screw-type cap midway along its length, but couldn’t budge it. In the darkness he could tell very little, but he found the paint — a thin circle of paint camouflaging a newly welded seam.

Jager came lumbering through the clay with a hammer and a chisel.

He picked up the hammer, held the chisel at an angle and swung. One end of the chisel penetrated. A thin stream of water spewed out, running steadily.

“Dunno,” he said, catching his breath. “A damn good hiding place. An iron grave.”

Lark’s eyes never left the dwindling stream of water. It wavered, ceased.

The sheriff dropped heavily on his knees, maneuvering one eye close to the opening. He squatted back wordlessly.

Lark went down on all fours, peering. He saw a white arm, blonde hair...

Jager took the light out of his hand. “Guess we better not waste more time. Not if he’s got your girl!”

Lark followed him on a dead run. They passed that eerie cottage and leaped into the car. Mud flew high as Jager sent the big car roaring in reverse. He straightened it out and they forged off up the winding lane.

“He can’t get far on this road,” he muttered. “And maybe we won’t either.”

They rode in grim silence, eyes straining ahead.

“What’d I tell you?”

The lane abruptly climbed, and about half a block ahead, a tail light gleamed, bouncing, weaving...

“He can’t make the hill!” Lark yelled.

The Cadillac squatted, lunging upward, losing momentum. Jager was growling, fighting into second gear, back into high again. His driving was masterful, but they were in a sea of mud and water, crawling now.

The car ahead stopped. The door on the driver’s side flew open. Varden’s figure lunged into the road, fell, reared upright. Flame spurted from his hand.

One of their headlights blinked out.

Lark had his door open. “Keep going!”

He climbed out on the running board, got the door shut and crouched, hair plastered in his eyes, finding a precarious handhold on one of the red spotlights.

He saw a movement in the car. Jeri! Her slim legs appeared, sliding into view through the open door, down into the mud. She crouched, hair whipping wildly.

Varden was holding his fire, waiting, moving closer to Jeri for protection.

They got to within sixty or seventy feet. Varden’s arm moved, extended stiffly. There was a flash — and their other headlamp went out.

Lark jumped, feeling the car sliding down into the ditch. He ploughed toward Varden — toward a cold, methodical Varden with death in his hand.

The first bullet brushed Lark’s cheek. The shadowy figure loomed tall ahead. He sprinted on in short rushes, weaving, getting close. And then Jeri’s figure left the side of the car swiftly. She flung herself at Varden, jarring him, clinging.

Fighting for breath, Lark drove his aching legs in a last desperate spurt.

Varden’s gun came up, blasting, but Lark had hold of that arm, twisting violently. His fist smashed into the other’s face, sending him reeling. Jeri was sitting dazedly in the mud; then she began scrambling to get out of the way.

Varden’s gun was gone. He came with rush, face contorted in fear.

Lark gasped, got a wad of black hair twined in his fingers and jerked, smashing with his right. Muscle and bone grated; the plump face changed contour. He smashed — again and again.

He heard Jager’s harsh, excited voice: “Wait now! Stop that!”

He kept on, his mouth twisted.

Sam Jager said, “Sorry,” and aimed a kick.

Lark went down in the mud, nursing a shin bone. It felt good to just lie there.

Jeri dropped down, pulling his head onto her lap.

“Jeri?” He stared up into her face. “Did he—?”

“Hurt me? No. You came in time — just in time. I was going into the hotel when he grabbed me. He found the picture out of the locket and realized I knew too much. He — strangled his wife — bragged about it, Lark!”

The sheriff stooped, gripped Varden’s coat collar, and began hauling. “His welding days are over,” he said. He paused, gazing at them thoughtfully. “Must be love,” he said, shaking his head, “to make you sit in the mud.” Jeri pushed back her wet mop of hair, teeth flashing whitely. “It’s taken me four months. How am I doing?”

The flashlight went on its way.

Lark pulled her down into his arm. Finally he whispered: “How am I doin’?”

“Gee,” she said shakily. “Gee...”