We'll Share A Double Funeral

Chapter 1

With a sigh of contentment, Sheriff Ross settled his bulky body into the big armchair before the TV set.

“That was a fine dinner, Mary,” he said, “and you’re a fine cook.”

“Well, as long as you are satisfied,” his wife said as she began to stack the dishes. “My ma was a better cook, but I reckon I’m not so bad.” She paused to listen to the rain hammering down on the roof of the bungalow. “What a night!”

Ross, around fifty three, big, balding, with a pleasant suntanned face, nodded agreement.

“About the worst we have had for months.” He reached for his pipe, looking affectionately at his wife, whom he had married some thirty years ago.

Regarding her, he remembered her as a young girl, bright eyed with long dark hair. Now, thirty years on, Mary had filled out, but she still had magic for him.

He had often told himself how lucky he had been to have had her as a partner and companion for over thirty years.

Ross had had a good, unsensational career. He had left school to become a military policeman, then the war over, he became a Highway Patrol officer, attached to the Miami headquarters, then, because he was liked and trusted, he had been elected Sheriff of Rockville. He wasn’t an ambitious man. To be Sheriff of Rockville was no great shakes, but it suited him and, more important, it suited Mary. The money was acceptable, and they were content to live modestly.

They had this comfortable bungalow, attached to the Sheriff’s office. All Ross had to do was to walk through a doorway from his living room to reach his office, and he was in business.

Rockville was situated in the north of Florida, amid the citrus farmers. The town’s population was around eight hundred, mostly retired farmers, but there was a sprinkling of young kids only waiting to shake Rockville off their backs and get into some action further south. There was a good self-service store, a bank, a garage, a small church, a schoolhouse and a number of wooden bungalows. The crime rate in Rockville was practically zero. Now and then some kid thieved from the self-service store. Some drunks had to be cooled. The main highway passing through Rockville brought hippies and undesirables on their way south, and often they had to be dealt with. All this was easy for Ross, and he often wondered why he had been given a deputy, who did little except drive around, chat up the outlying farmers, check on the blacks who worked on the farms and give tickets to the kids who were speeding. All the same, Ross was fond of his deputy, Tom Mason, a young, keen, good looking twenty eight year old. He and Mason had one evening together each week devoted to the game of chess. Neither of them played well, and it was a turn-and-turn-about who won.

Ross stretched out his long legs and sucked at his pipe which was drawing well and listened to the rain. Some night!

Then feeling guilty that, after a good dinner, he should be already making himself comfortable, he called a little halfheartedly, “Hi, Mary, are you sure I can’t help with the dishes?”

“You stay away!” Mary called back firmly. “I don’t want you in here!”

Ross sucked at his pipe, grinned and relaxed. He thought of tomorrow. He would drive over to Jud Loss’s farm, which was situated some fifteen miles from Rockville. Loss’s daughter, Lilly, a sixteen year old, had been kicking over the traces, according to Miss Hammer, the schoolteacher. Miss Hammer, a dried up, elderly spinster, had come to Ross and had told him that Lilly, bright enough at school, was keeping undesirable company. The girl was going around with Terry Lepp, the town’s Casanova, who owned a powerful Honda motorcycle, and all the girls in town fought each other to have a ride. Miss Hammer had hinted that Terry gave them a lot more than a ride.

Ross had hidden a grin. That was youth. No one was going to stop that kind of thing. Nature is nature. All the same, he was a good friend of Jud Loss who ran a small but prosperous farm. He would go out there and have a careful word in Jud’s ear. Maybe the girl could be cooled.

Listening to the sound of the hammering rain, Ross hoped it would cease before morning. A drive out to Loss’s farm in weather like this wasn’t his idea of fun.

As he tapped ash out of his pipe, he heard the telephone bell ringing.

“The telephone!” Mary shouted from the kitchen.

“Yeah. I hear it.” With a sigh, Ross heaved himself out of his chair and, in his stocking feet, padded over to the table on which the telephone stood.

A well known voice barked in his ear.

“Jeff, we have trouble!”

“Hi, Carl, hell of a night, isn’t it? What’s the trouble?” Ross asked, knowing he was talking to Carl Jenner, head of the Highway Patrol.

“This is an emergency Jeff,” Carl said. “Haven’t time to go into details. I’m calling all local sheriffs. We have a dangerous runaway on our hands. This man, Chet Logan, was being conveyed to Abbeville lockup. There was an accident. Both police officers with him were killed. Logan has disappeared. This man is dangerous. He just might be heading your way. In this goddam storm, he’ll be difficult to track. I want you to alert every farm in your district to be on guard.”

Ross sucked in his breath. “Okay, Carl. I’ll get busy.”

“Do that. Here’s his description: Chet Logan, around five foot ten, powerfully built, blond hair cut in a fringe, age around twenty three, and he has a cobra snake tattooed on his left forearm. This description will be out on radio and TV within an hour. He’s wearing blue jeans and a brown shirt, but could have found other clothes. This guy is really vicious. He was caught busting a gas station. The patrol officer, trying to arrest him, was stabbed to death. Logan then knifed the gas attendant, who isn’t expected to live. He tried to make a getaway, using the patrol officer’s motorcycle. He was nabbed as he was trying to get the bike to start. Two patrol officers, alerted by radio by the murdered officer before he investigated what was going on at the gas station, had a rough time with this man. He cut one of them, before the other clubbed him. Now he’s loose again. What worries me is he might get to some outlying farm and get a shotgun. You with me?”

Breathing heavily, Ross tried to assemble his wits. He now wished he hadn’t had a second helping of Mary’s chicken pie. It was the first time in years he could remember having an emergency like this.

“I’m with you, Carl,” he said, forcing his voice to sound brisk.

“The accident took place at Losseville junction, some twenty miles from you. Logan has been two hours on the run. Warn all outlying farmers, Jeff, and keep in touch.” Carl Jenner hung up.

Ross slowly replaced the telephone receiver as Mary came into the living room.

“Something?” she asked, her good natured face anxious.

“I guess. We’ve a killer loose,” Ross said. “Look, Mary, I’ve got to get busy. Let’s have some coffee.”

He crossed the room, tugged on his boots, then, opening the door to his office, he turned on the light and sat at his desk.

Mary wasn’t one to ask questions. Ross had told her enough. A killer was loose. She went immediately to the front door and locked it, then went to the back door and shot the bolt, then she put the kettle on to boil.

Ross made a list of the names and telephone numbers of all the outlying farmers. He was dialling the telephone number of his deputy, Tom Mason, as Mary brought in a jug of coffee and a cup and saucer.

Although the time was only 9:30, Tom Mason was on his bed with Carrie Smitz, who ran the local post office, under him. When the telephone bell rang, Tom was thrusting good and deep, and Carrie was squealing with pleasure. The sound of the telephone bell made Tom abruptly cease his activities. He cursed, then broke free from Carrie’s frantic and sweaty arms, and swinging off the bed, grabbed the telephone receiver.

The sound of a telephone bell to Tom was like the whistle to a well trained gun dog. No matter what was happening, the telephone bell had only to sound and Tom was there.

He heard Ross say, “Tom! Get over here pronto! We have big trouble,” and Ross hung up.

Carrie sat up on the bed and glared at Tom as, without even looking at her, he began to throw on his clothes. “What do you imagine you’re doing?” she screamed.

“An emergency!” Tom said, zipping up his khaki pants. “I’ve got to go.”

“Listen, stupid,” Carrie yelled. “Do you remember what we were doing just now?” Tom zipped up his blouse, then grabbed his gun belt.

“Sure... sure. The old man wants me. I’ve got to go!”

“Emergency! Some snot nosed kid’s got his dingle in a mangle! Emergency! What emergency is more important...”

“Sorry,” Tom said. “I’ve got to go.” He dragged on his boots.

“So what do I do?” Carrie demanded. “Who’s going to drive me home in this bloody rain?”

“Just stay put,” Tom said as he scrambled into his slicker. “Watch your mouth, baby. See you,” and, cramming on his Stetson hat, he plunged out into the rain.

A three minute drive brought him to the Sheriff’s office. As he pulled up, he saw the lights were on. Head bent against the pelting rain, he shoved open the door and entered, rain dripping off his slicker and making small puddles.

Sheriff Ross was talking on the telephone. He hung up as Tom pulled off his slicker.

“What a night!” Tom exclaimed. “What’s the excitement, Jeff?” He moved into the big, old-fashioned office, typical of a small town Sheriff’s office, with two cells, a locked gun rack, two desks and wall hooks on which hung handcuffs.

“Jenner reports there’s a killer on the run,” Ross said. “This guy escaped from arrest at Losseville and could be heading our way. Instructions are to call all outlying farms in our district and warn the farmers to hide their guns, lock their homes and keep indoors. This guy seems to be real vicious. He killed an officer trying to arrest him and he’s killed a gas station attendant. I’ve listed the farms to call and the killer’s description. You get on the other phone and let’s get moving.” He handed Tom a sheet of paper, then began dialling.

This was the first piece of action Tom had experienced since he had been appointed Deputy Sheriff and his eyes lit up. Carrie Smitz forgotten, he went to his desk and pulled the second telephone towards him.

The warning to the farmers took longer than either of the men anticipated.

First, the farmers wanted more details. They seemed to take the news as a joke. It wasn’t until both Ross and Tom began to bark at them that they slowly came to realize the seriousness of the situation.

“Keep indoors?” one farmer said and laughed. “Who the hell would want to go out on a night like this? It’s raining up here fit to drown a duck.”

“Ted, be serious!” Ross barked. “Hide your shotgun. This guy could make a break-in. His description will be on TV and radio in a while. This guy’s a killer.”

“Well, what the hell do we have cops for?” the farmer demanded. “If it’s that bad, we need protection out here.”

Ross contained his feeling of exasperation. “Right now, Ted, you’ve got to look after yourself and your family. There’s a big search going on, but he could visit you.”

“If he does, I’ll shoot his balls off,” the farmer said, a quaver in his voice.

“Do just that,” Ross said and hung up.

Tom was having the same kind of trouble. The various farmers he called kept asking to speak to Ross, but Tom hammered home the message.

“The Sheriff is calling other folk,” he explained. “Keep indoors and hide your gun.”

After an hour of this, Ross dialled Jud Loss’s number. Loss’s farm was the nearest to Rockville and Ross had left him until the last. He had decided first the outlying farms, then the near farms.

Tom had finished his rota. Every farmer on his list had been warned, but he felt frustrated. Why couldn’t these dopes understand a simple thing like this? Why must they yak, laugh and not take him seriously?

Ross said, “I’m not getting any answer from Jud Loss.”

Tom stiffened. “He’s probably in bed.”

“Could be.” Ross listened to the burr-burr sound on the telephone line, settled his big frame more comfortably and waited.

Both men were aware of the sound of the rain hammering on the roof of the office.

“Still no answer,” Ross said.

The two men looked at each other.

“He can’t be out,” Tom said uneasily.

“I guess someone should be answering by now. There’s Doris and Lilly. They can’t all be out.” Ross broke the connection, then dialled again.

Tom became aware that tension was building up in the office. He sat back, watching Ross as he held the receiver to his ear. Finally, after a long three minutes, Ross hung up.

“No one’s answering.”

“Do you think...?” Tom began and stopped.

“Someone should be answering. I don’t like it, Tom.” Ross dialled the number again, but again there was no answer.

“I’ll go up there and take a look-see,” Tom said. “There’s nothing for me to do here now.” He reached for his slicker.

“Well, I guess,” Ross said reluctantly. “Yeah. They could be in trouble. Be careful, Tom. That’ll be a nasty drive.”

As Tom put on his slicker, he wasn’t thinking about the drive, he was thinking that maybe somewhere around the farm, a runaway, vicious killer might be lurking.

He checked his .38 police special as Ross watched him.

“I’ll alert Jenner,” Ross said. “Maybe he can get a couple of his men up there. I don’t like you going up on your own, Tom.”

Tom forced a grin. “Could be they have their TV at full blast and don’t hear the phone,” he said without much hope. “Still, I’d better check.” He put on his Stetson. “I’ll keep in touch on the radio.”

“I’ll be listening. Be careful, Tom.”

“You bet,” and Tom went out into the drowning rain.

Jud Loss’s farm consisted of a comfortable bungalow, several barns and a chicken-run. The farm was modest, but thriving. Loss owned some sixty acres of orange trees and employed three blacks, and, when picking time came, some twenty blacks.

The three permanent blacks had cabins well away from Loss’s bungalow. They had been with him for the past ten years. They and their families handled most of the heavy work.

Tom thought of these black people as he drove up the narrow road towards the farm, wrestling with the steering wheel as his back wheels slipped on the mud, his windshield wipers scarcely able to cope with the pouring rain. What were these blacks doing? Probably at home, glued to the TV. He knew them well.

If there was an emergency at the bungalow, he was sure he could rely on them for help.

His big Ford slid in the mud and he again wrestled with the steering wheel. Not much further. He switched on his radio.

“Sheriff? Mason calling.” Tom was always formal when using the radio.

“Hi, Tom, I’m hearing you.”

“I’m now approaching the farm,” Tom said. “It’s been heavy going. Lots of mud.”

“I’m still trying to contact Loss. Still no answer. Careful how you approach.”

“Yeah. I’m turning off my headlights. I’m on the crest of the hill down to the farm— I can see the farm now. There are lights showing. I guess I’ll leave the car and approach on foot.”

“Do that, Tom. Look for trouble. Jenner says there’s a patrol car diverted your way, but won’t be with you for at least half an hour. Look, Tom, maybe you’d better wait for them.”

“I guess I’ll take a look-see, Sheriff. I’ll take care. Over and out.” Tom turned off the radio and switched off his headlights. He sat staring at the farm bungalow some three hundred yards away. Lights showed in the living room. Tom often called at the bungalow and knew its geography. To the left was the main bedroom, and in the attic was Lilly’s bedroom.

There were no lights showing in those two rooms.

Reluctantly he got out of the car, his head ducking against the pelting rain.

His hand fumbled under his slicker and he drew his gun. Slowly, he began the muddy walk towards the bungalow, aware he was breathing heavily and his heart was thumping. As he approached the bungalow, he heard the telephone bell ringing faintly through the closed windows of the living room.

He felt very much alone. Up to this moment, his life as Deputy Sheriff had been easy and straightforward. He had been proud of his uniform, proud to be carrying a gun on his hip, and pleased to be welcomed when he called on the outlying farms. In his short career of less than three years as Deputy Sheriff, he had never had trouble. Even the drunks had been amiable. Some of the hippy kids had cursed him, but had accepted his authority. Up to now, working with Sheriff Ross in this small town, Rockville, his life had been a bowl of cherries.

But now, standing in the darkness, the rain hammering down on him as he stared uneasily at the lighted windows of the bungalow, still hearing the faint and sinister sound of the telephone bell, sudden fear gripped him. He had never felt such fear before. There had been times, when driving his car, he had avoided a head on crash, when fear had seized him, but this present fear that was now gripping him, was something that snatched away his confidence and made his knees shake. He was alarmed at how fast his heart was beating, how rapidly his breath hissed between his clenched teeth, and he could feel cold sweat running down his back, and a tightening cramp in his stomach.

He stood motionless, oblivious to the pelting rain, only aware of his fear.

Was the vicious killer in the bungalow? Was he somewhere in the wet darkness, maybe creeping towards him?

The cramp in his stomach worsened. Ross had told him two of Jenner’s men were on their way to him. Tom drew in a deep breath. Why take chances? The sensible thing to do was to get back into the car, lock the doors and wait until these men arrived. Hadn’t Ross told him to wait?

He began to move to the car, then the faint but persistent sound of the telephone bell was once again to him like the whistle to a well trained dog.

He turned to face the bungalow. If he hadn’t the guts to go down there, he told himself, he would never respect himself. Damn it! He was a Deputy Sheriff!

He might even arrest this killer single-handed if the killer was in the bungalow, and at the back of his frightened mind Tom prayed he wouldn’t be there.

Holding his gun in a wet, shaky grip, the safety catch snapped back, he began a slow and cautious advance towards the bungalow.

He paused when he was within fifty feet of the bungalow. He could see the curtains of the lighted living room were drawn. The sound of the telephone bell was urging him forward much like a beckoning finger. The sound grew louder.

He passed a clump of bushes, unaware of them in the darkness. He was also unaware of the dark shape of a man, crouching in the bushes, watching him as he moved towards the bungalow.

The cramp in his stomach made Tom pause, then he forced himself again to move forward. With his left hand under his slicker, he unhooked a powerful flashlight from his belt. He sent the beam to the front door and saw it stood ajar. He stopped short. The fact the door stood ajar added to his fear. He looked furtively to right and left into the wet darkness. The only sound, apart from the drumming rain, was the telephone bell that now stretched his nerves.

He wished to God it would stop ringing. Was the killer inside, waiting for him? Why should the front door be ajar unless there was trouble in there? He peered into the lobby, which was lighted from the light coming from the living room, its door half open. He could see the steep stairs that led to Lilly’s bedroom.

In a small, husky voice, he called, “Anyone home?” and switched off his flashlight. He waited, then hearing nothing, and after an uneasy glance over his shoulder through the open front door, he shoved the door shut with the heel of his boot and moved into the living room, familiar to him after so many visits when Jud’s wife, Doris, used to invite him for a cup of coffee while he waited for Jud to come from the orchard. He advanced slowly, his gun at the ready, his heart hammering, until he had a clear view of the big room. What he saw made him catch his breath.

By the French window, Doris’s big, comfortable body lay face down, her head in a pool of congealing blood. From behind the big settee a pair of boots showed.

Scarcely breathing, Tom moved forward and peered around the settee. Jud Loss’s short thick body lay face down, a pool of blood matting his thick, ginger colored hair.

Tom felt bile rush into his mouth and he gulped, then let the bile spatter on his muddy boots. He was very nearly sick to his stomach, but somehow controlled himself.

He looked wildly around the room, his gun wavering in his hand, but the only occupants were he, the two bodies and some flies already buzzing excitedly around the pools of blood.

Tom had never seen violent death before, and the shock paralyzed him. He stood there, staring first at Jud Loss’s body and then at Doris’s body. With those terrible head wounds, he knew they must be dead.

He stepped back into the lobby.

“Lilly?” Had she been lucky? Had she been out while this awful thing had happened?

He couldn’t imagine even Lilly going to Rockville on a night like this.

He looked at the steep flight of stairs, then reaching for the light switch that lit up the lobby, bracing himself, he climbed the stairs the way an old man with a rickety heart climbs stairs.

The bedroom door at the head of the stairs stood open. “Lilly?” Tom’s voice was a croak.

But for the hammering rain there was silence.

Tom stood at the head of the stairs, unable to move forward. He thought of Lilly Loss. He reckoned she was the prettiest girl in Rockville. Often, he had had ideas about her, and he knew she knew it, but at sixteen she was too young, but that, of course, didn’t stop her going around with that creep Ted Lepp. Tom was sure that if he raised a finger Lilly would have jumped into his bed, just as Carrie Smitz, who was nineteen, was always ready to jump into his bed. Give Lilly a couple of years, and Tom had promised himself he would raise his finger, but now, as he stood before the open doorway, staring into the darkness of Lilly’s bedroom, he only felt cold shivers running down his back.

“Lilly?” he said, raising his voice, then he forced himself to move forward and he groped for the light switch.

Lilly lay face down across the bed, her head a pulpy mess of blood, brains and hair, her short night dress rucked up, her long slim legs spread wide.

She had been as viciously clubbed to death as her parents had been.

Turning, Tom stumbled down the stairs as the telephone bell began to ring.

He was so shocked, his mind was a blank. He moved unsteadily into the living room, located the telephone and snatched up the receiver. He was vaguely aware that he had dropped his flashlight on the stairs, and as he put the telephone receiver to his ear he laid his gun on the table.

“Is that you, Tom? What’s happening?” Ross’s voice.

Tom struggled to speak, but he made only stuttering noises. Then he no longer could control the urge to vomit.

“It’s Tom,” he managed to say, then, turning his head, he was violently sick on the floor.

He heard Ross shouting, “Tom! Are you in trouble?” Tom bent forward, his eyes closed, struggling to speak. Dimly, above the sound of Ross’s shouting voice and the hammering of the rain, he heard a sound behind him. He began to look fearfully over his shoulder when he received a crushing blow that descended on his rain sodden Stetson hat. He fell across the table, unconscious, smashing a leg of the table. He, the wrecked table and the telephone crashed to the floor.

Sergeant Hank Hollis and Patrol Officer Jerry Davis sat side by side in the big patrol car, with Hollis driving. Every man of the Florida Highway Patrol had been pressed into service to find and arrest the escaped killer, Chet Logan.

Davis, aged twenty five, had been enjoying a chicken dinner, prepared by his pretty wife, when Sergeant Hollis had pulled up outside his bungalow. Five minutes later, Davis, cursing under his breath, had buckled on his gun belt, thrown on his slicker and Stetson hat and followed Hollis out into the pelting rain.

“Orders to get to Jud Loss’s farm fast,” Hollis said, as he started the car engine. “You know where it is?”

“I know,” Davis said, his mouth full of half eaten chicken. “Isn’t that swell! Just when I was having dinner!”

“This killer could be there. Tom Mason’s investigating,” Hollis said, edging the car onto the highway. “He’s asking for support.”

“These goddam deputy sheriffs,” Davis growled, “can’t they do anything without us?”

“If the killer’s there, Mason will need support.”

“Yeah? If he’s there. But suppose he ain’t? A nice ten mile drive in this goddam rain just to hold Mason’s hand.”

“Stop griping, Jerry, this is a job!” Hollis said, a snap in his voice. “Every man on the force is out in this rain. Logan’s got to be caught!”

“Okay, so we catch him. How many medals do we get?” Davis muttered, then shrugged. “A mile ahead, Sarge, there’s a turning on the left, and then up a dirt road. In this rain, the road will be a beauty. Then five miles further on, if we get that far, there’s a fork in the road and we go left, and in another five miles, if we haven’t bogged down, it brings us to Loss’s farm.” He leaned back and switched on the radio to report their position to the dispatcher at headquarters.

The drive was dangerous and slow. Once off the highway, Hollis struck mud. Every now and then the car got into a skid which Hollis corrected with expert ease. As the car began to climb, the mud increased, but Hollis kept going, skidding more often.

“Man! Am I loving this!” Davis exclaimed after a while. “Here’s the fork. Keep left. We’ve only got another five bloody miles to go.”

“I’ve known worse,” Hollis said. The tires bit tarmac and the car surged forward for a mile or so, then hit mud again and Hollis had to start wrestling the car out of another skid.

The radio came to life. Headquarter’s dispatcher said, “Calling car ten. Come in, car ten.” Both Hollis and Davis became alert. “Report from Sheriff Ross of Rockville. Something’s badly wrong at Loss’s farm. Mason’s there. Last contact is he was approaching the farm. No reply on his radio. Sounds on the telephone, before it packed up, indicate a struggle. We are diverting two patrol cars to you. Approach with caution. Logan is highly dangerous.”

“Hear you and out,” Davis said. He opened his slicker and loosened his gun in its holster. “Maybe this sonofabitch is there after all.” Taking chances, Hollis increased the speed of the car.

“Man! Did I choose the wrong job!” Davis exclaimed. “Franklin has it dead easy. He sits in the dry and yaks while we poor sods do the work.”

Hollis reduced speed. In less than ten minutes, they began to climb the crest of the hill.

“We’re nearly there, Sarge.”

Hollis snapped off his headlights and slowed the car. He edged the car forward and pulled up beside Mason’s big Ford.

Davis went on the air.

“Car ten has arrived. We can see the farm. Lights are showing. We’re right by Mason’s car.” He lowered his window and peered at the big Ford, feeling the rain beating against his face. “Mason’s not in his car. We’re investigating. Over and out,” and he snapped off the radio.

The two men spilled out of their car into the pelting rain.

“I’ll go first,” Hollis said, drawing his gun. “Give me two minutes, then follow me. You move around to the back. If Logan is still in there and makes a bolt, I want you at the back. Take no chances with him.”

“I don’t imagine he is there,” Davis said, “but you watch it, Sarge.”

Moving fast, Hollis began to run down the crest. Davis waited until Hollis had nearly reached the bungalow, then he set off fast across the sodden, muddy grass, circling around to the back of the bungalow.

Reaching the open front door of the bungalow Hollis paused to listen, but except for the drumming of the rain no sound came to him.

During his move up to the rank of Sergeant, Hollis had faced many dangerous situations. He was a man without nerves. He was determined, if Logan was in the bungalow, that this would be the end of his vicious road.

Moving silently, his gun at the ready, Hollis entered the lighted lobby, rain from his slicker making puddles on the polished floor that Doris Loss had taken so much pride in keeping immaculate.

Cautiously, he peered into the living room. The first thing he saw was Tom Mason’s body, lying face down amid the wreckage of the table. Hollis didn’t move. He stared at Mason, and unpleasant facts registered in his alert mind.

Mason should have been wearing his Stetson hat, his slicker and his gun belt. He wasn’t wearing any of these articles.

Hollis’s mind moved swiftly. If Logan was here or had been here, he had taken Mason’s hat, slicker and gun.

Was he still in the bungalow? Logan was now armed with a .38 revolver and a cartridge belt.

Hollis slammed back the door and jumped into the room. Looking around swiftly, he saw only the bodies of Jud and Doris Loss. He backed out of the room, moved across the lobby and kicked open the dark bedroom door.

That room was empty. Moving cautiously, he checked the kitchen and the bathroom, then returned to the lobby. He regarded the steep stairs, leading to Lilly’s bedroom. Was Logan up there? Crouching, his gun pushed forward, Hollis climbed the stairs, paused at the open bedroom door, then edged forward and reached for the light switch. It took him only seconds to assure himself Logan wasn’t in the bungalow. He paused for a moment to stare at Lilly’s body, then, turning, he rushed down the stairs and into the rain. He bawled for Davis who came from around the back of the bungalow at a run.

“He’s skipped,” Hollis said. “We have a goddam massacre inside. Take a look.”

The two men entered the living room. While Davis checked the bodies of Jud and Doris, Hollis bent over Mason.

“He’s still alive,” he said, squatting on his heels. “These two ain’t.”

Davis came to kneel by Mason. Hollis turned him gently. “Hit on the head like the other two. The girl’s dead. She’s upstairs.”

Hollis straightened. “We’ve got to get help. Use the telephone.” Davis snatched up the telephone from the floor, then cursed. The connecting wire hung loose.

“The sonofabitch is playing it smart.”

“Sure is. He’s stolen Mason’s hat, slicker and gun,” Hollis said. “In that disguise— Listen!” The two men paused.

Faintly, above the sound of the rain, they heard a car engine start up. “He’s getting away!” Hollis shouted.

Both men, slipping and sliding in the mud, raced up the crest. The sound of a fading car, moving fast in low gear, was now audible as the two men reached their car. Mason’s car was no longer there.

“Call Jenner!” Hollis said, scrambling into the car. “We’ll go after him! We could catch him, but alert Jenner!”

As Davis got in the car, Hollis switched on the ignition, then pressed down the gas pedal. Nothing happened. Davis was pressing the radio button, but no light appeared.

“He’s fixed the radio!” he snarled, groped and found trailing wires.

Hollis was already out of the car and peering with the aid of his flashlight into the engine.

“He’s taken the distributor cap!”

The sound of the retreating car had now faded away. “We’ve got to get to a telephone,” Davis said. “Loss must have a car!”

“Yes. You go, Jerry. I’ll take care of Mason. Franklin said two cars were coming, but God knows how long they’ll take.”

As Davis ran towards the three barns in search of Loss’s car, Hollis returned to the bungalow. He knelt by Mason’s side. Lifting him, he saw Mason’s eyes open.

“Did he get away?” Mason mumbled, then his eyes closed and he sank back into unconsciousness.

Hollis snatched a pillow from the settee and put it under Mason’s head, then went out into the lobby and peered into the wet darkness.

He waited several minutes, then he saw Davis running towards him.

“Loss’s car and the truck are out of action,” he said, coming into the lobby. “Looks as if we’re stuck, Sarge.”

Hollis grunted. “Franklin said two cars were coming. So we wait.”

“And the sonofabitch gets away!”

“He won’t get far.” Hollis walked into the living room and pulled off his slicker. “We’ll get him.”

He looked down at Mason. “This poor guy needs fast medical treatment. He’s in a bad way.”

Davis looked down at Mason. “Think he’s going to croak?”

“I don’t know. I guess he was wearing his hat when he was hit. This punk can hit.” Hollis glanced at the bodies of Jud and Doris and grimaced.

“A real, vicious killer.”

“Suppose our guys don’t make it?” Davis said. “Look, there’s a telephone box at the end of the road. How about that?”

“That’s five miles, Jerry. No, we wait. With luck our guys could arrive any minute.”

“Yeah. Okay, so we wait.”

Neither of the men was to know that the two patrol cars heading their way had run into trouble. Both of the drivers, driving too fast, had skidded in the thick mud. The leading car got out of control and crashed into a ditch. The second car just managed to stop in time, only to find that the driver of the first car had a broken arm. In the pelting rain, the driver of the second car managed to tow the first car out of the ditch, then, leaving it, he continued on towards Loss’s farm.

There had been over an hour’s delay.

Chet Logan, wearing Mason’s slicker and hat, with Mason’s gun on the seat beside him, drove along the highway, safe for the moment from pursuit.