We'll Share A Double Funeral

Chapter 3

Sheila Weston sipped her dry martini while she regarded the handsome man sitting opposite her at a table overlooking the tennis courts.

“You play a fine game of tennis, Mrs Weston,” the man said and smiled. “Way out of my class. I hope, if it won’t bore you, we could play again soon.” Sheila was in almost a professional class at tennis, and this man who had suggested they might play had offered no opposition. That didn’t matter. She liked to win, and especially against a man.

This man, tall with curly dark hair, a handsome suntanned face, had introduced himself as Julian Lucan. Sheila had regarded him and decided he could be an exciting bed partner. After Perry had gone upstairs to pack and she was driving to the tennis club, she had decided she now wanted a change of bed partners. Joey and George were beginning to bore her.

This handsome man could enliven her sex life while Perry was away, she told herself. Seeing the way he was looking at her, she knew there would be no problem.

However, he was a stranger to her. She hadn’t seen him at the club before, and she decided to probe a little.

“You don’t come here often?”

“First time,” Lucan said. “Nice here, isn’t it? I drove out on the off chance of getting a game. Most days, I’m bottled up in the City.”

She probed further. “What do you do in the City?”

“I’m a photographer’s model. The season’s approaching for men’s wear, and I’m kept pretty busy.”

She nodded. That seemed satisfactory. “Are you doing anything over the weekend?”

He gave her a wide, handsome smile.

“Not if you have something more interesting to suggest, Mrs Weston.”

She believed in the direct approach. She had done this before and it always paid off — the well built men on the beach, the good looking men at the club bar, she’d let them take her somewhere, generally to a motel, but this time, she decided, she would make the arrangement.

“Well, I’m all alone this weekend. My husband is away on business.” She smiled. “Or so he tells me. Would you like to spend tonight and tomorrow at my place?”

His smile widened. “Nothing I would like better.”

She opened her bag, took out her card case, slid out a card and pushed it across the table. “That’s the address. Come at eight o’clock. My help will have gone by then. We’ll have a cold supper.”

He picked up the card, studied it, then slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“I’ll be there, Mrs Weston. I look forward to it.”

“You may call me Sheila, Julian,” she said. “I have a lunch date. See you tonight,” and giving him a flashing smile, she got to her feet, waved to him and walked to the club house.

Lucan finished his drink, then ordered another. Mrs Perry Weston, the wife of the successful scriptwriter. Lucan made it his business to know about successful men. Weston must be worth a sack of loot, he thought. Well, his friends called him ‘Lucky Lucan'. He seemed to be living up to his name.

Neither Sheila nor Lucan had noticed a thickset man, sitting under a sun umbrella, nursing a glass of beer. He was one of those nondescript men you pass in the street and not notice. His name was Ted Fleichman, one of the Acme Investigation’s best private detectives.

For the past week, he had been instructed to keep tabs on Sheila Weston. A daily, detailed report of her activities was to be sent to a Miss Grace Adams of the Rad-Hart Movie Corporation.

Fleichman had watched Sheila give Lucan her card, then he had watched her make her way to the open air restaurant. He nodded to himself, then, getting to his feet, he went in search of a telephone. He called Acme Investigations’s office and spoke briefly to Dorrie Roper who was in charge of assignments.

“Dorrie, I want Fred Small. Is he around?”

“When isn’t he? He’s lolling around in the lounge, gaping at the girlie mags. What do you want him for?”

“I need a second on the Weston job. Tell him to hustle down to the Long Island Tennis Club pronto. I’ll meet him on the terrace.” He hung up and returned to his seat under the sun umbrella.

Julian Lucan was eating a sandwich, relaxing in the sun. He seemed set for a while. From where he sat, Fleichman could see Sheila talking with three other women as they sat at a lunch table. He nodded. She was settled, too, for a while.

He finished his beer and waved to a waiter for a refill.

Half an hour later, Fred Small, a man in his late fifties, wearing a pale blue light-weight suit, yet another of the Acme men who could pass in a crowd without being noticed, joined Fleichman.

“What’s cooking, Ted?” he asked as he sat beside Fleichman.

“The party across the way in the tennis outfit,” Fleichman said, without looking in Lucan’s direction.

Small took a quick, casual glance, then he smiled.

“Oh, him. Lucky Lucan. Man! There’s a smooth operator! I had a little trouble with him in Manhattan. Usually, he works the Big City.”

“What’s his thing, Fred?”

“With those looks, he takes the older women for a ride. All very smooth. He screws them, and then puts on the pressure, gets them either to pay up or give him a big present. He does well.”

“Well, he seems to be having a go at Mrs Weston.” Fleichman grimaced.

“Or maybe, she’s having a go at him. Keep tabs on him, Fred. I’ll watch her.”

“You know something, Ted? You and I would be on the bread line if women behaved themselves. Nasty thought, isn’t it?”

“Don’t leave the men out. It’s the way of modern behavior. We’ll never be on the bread line so long as we can watch and wait.” Seeing Julian Lucan get to his feet and move over to the waiter to settle his check, Small grabbed up Fleichman’s beer, drained it and patted Fleichman on his massive shoulder.

“Get yourself another, Ted. You’ve got it soft,” and he walked casually after Lucan.

Lunch finished, Sheila parted with her three women friends, then went to a call booth. She spoke to Liza, her colored help-cum-cook.

“I want to give Mrs Bensinger supper at home, Liza.” she said. “Something nice. I leave it to you. Then get off. Have a nice weekend,” and she hung up.

She then went to the changing rooms, put on a bikini and went to sit by the swimming pool. Fleichman sat under another sun umbrella in view of the pool and waited. His job consisted of waiting, but the money was good and he was a patient man.

As Sheila lay in the sun, her eyes closed behind her big sun goggles, she thought about Julian Lucan. Some man she thought, and felt the urge of sex surge through her. Way out of Joey’s and George’s class. This man could be the lover of all lovers! Those grey, sexy eyes, his muscles and his confidence!

“That was a lovely hunk of man you were talking to,” a voice said.

Frowning, she looked up to find Mavis Bensinger had taken a lounging chair beside her. She and Mavis were confidantes. Mavis had married a man twenty years older than she, but although he was fat and balding and had the disgusting habit of sweating in bed, he was rich. Mavis looked elsewhere for romance.

Happily Bensinger spent a lot of his time in Washington, so there were only a few days in the month when he pestered Mavis.

“I guess,” Sheila said with a satisfied smile. “I’ll know tonight. I’ve invited him home. Perry is in LA.”

“Home?” Mavis sounded startled. “Is that wise, Sheila? I thought you went to a motel as I do.”

“I’m sick of motels.”

“But suppose one of your creepy-crawly neighbors saw him? You don’t want a divorce, do you?”

“Sometimes I think I do. Perry and I are always fighting. We haven’t slept together for a couple of months. I think I’d like to be free. There are so many men to choose from.”

“But think of the money Perry makes! He does spoil you. You might not find another man all that easy with money.”

“Oh, shut up!” Sheila got up. “I’m taking a swim.”

“Well, baby, it’s your funeral. I wouldn’t divorce Sam. I have only to put up with him for three or four days a month, and I can spend what I like.” Sheila took a header into the pool.

She returned to her home at 7:00 p.m. to find Liza laying the table.

“I got a nice hors d’oeuvres and two good lobsters, Mrs Weston,” she said. “Will that be all right?”

“That’s fine,” Sheila said. “You get off when you’ve finished. I’m taking a bath.”

She spent the next half hour making herself seductive, and she was an expert at that. As she was fixing her false eyelashes, she heard Liza drive away. Now, she had her home to herself!

At exactly 8:00 Julian Lucan arrived in his rented Mercedes 200 SL. Sheila was standing on the open patio and pointed to the double garage.

Lucan drove his car into the garage beside her Volvo, then he got out of his car, closed the garage door and walked quickly to where she was standing.

“Hello, there,” he said, smiling. “Well, here I am.” The small but luxurious house was screened by high hedges and trees. There was no problem of the neighbors seeing Lucan’s arrival.

That Saturday night with Lucan was the most exciting Sheila had ever experienced. For the first time in her life a man left her completely exhausted.

His sexual technique was, to Sheila, like a shot of LSD. She floated away under him, out of her body, which he manipulated in a way that made her cry out, clutch him and groan for more.

She came out of a heavy sleep to find him dressing. For a long moment she didn’t know what was happening. Then she remembered it was Sunday and, looking at her bedside clock, she saw the time was 11:50.

“You’re not leaving?” she asked in dismay, sitting up in bed. “It’s early yet.” He smiled at her.

“Yes, honey, I have a date in the City.”

“But it’s Sunday!”

“That’s right. These people don’t keep Sundays.” He stood before the mirror of her dressing table and adjusted his tie.

Looking at his long, strong back, Sheila released a long, moaning sigh.

“I’ll get you coffee.” Naked, she swung off the bed and put on a wrap.

“I’d love that, honey,” he said. “Did you have a good time?”

“You don’t have to ask... didn’t you?”

“I sure did.”

While she was heating up the coffee which Liza had prepared, she thought of the past night. This had been a fantastic experience! She mustn’t lose this fantastic lover. It was a shock to hear he wasn’t staying until Monday morning, but although she was only twenty three years of age, she did know that to put pressure on a man was fatal. Next time, they would go to a motel. Then the next weekend, when she could get rid of Liza, they would come here. She carried a tray of coffee and cups into the living room to find Lucan wandering around, staring at the various objets d’art that Perry had collected. To her irritation, Perry was a collector, and, even more irritating, he knew good antiques.

“It’s a kind of instinct,” he had told her, when they had wandered around various antique shops, something that had utterly bored her, but that was in their first months of marriage. He liked small things. Articles she wouldn’t be bothered to look at. He had tried to educate her when he had bought a gold George IV snuffbox. “In a few years’ time, this will be worth a lot more than I’m paying for it now.” She couldn’t care less. Nor could she care less having thrown a valuable Chinese vase at him. Who cared for junk like that?

“Ah, coffee,” Lucan said and joined her at the table.

“Honey, you are one of the most beautiful women in the world.” Sheila felt a rush of blood, and a driving sexual urge. “Stay a while, Julian. Please don’t go.” He drank the coffee, still smiling at her.

“With the greatest regrets, I have to go.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not for a while. I will be busy all this week.”

Her heart sank.

“When can we meet again?”

He poured more coffee into his cup.

“We’ll have to see. I don’t often come this way.”

She felt a sudden uneasiness.

“But, Julian, don’t you want...?” She paused, then stared at his smiling face.

“Oh, sure. I loved it, but I have to move around. Maybe I’ll be your way in a month or so. Suppose I give you a call?”

“But Julian—”

“I said no way, honey.” She was aware that those sexy grey eyes were suddenly hard. “And before I go, how about my stud fee?”

She stared at him, her fists clenched on the table.

“What do you mean?”

His smile broadened.

“Be your age, honey. You don’t imagine I spend a whole night with a woman without getting a fee, do you? It was good, wasn’t it? You enjoyed it. So—”

“You mean you are asking me for money?” Sheila said, her voice a husky whisper.

“Let’s settle for five hundred dollars,” Lucan said, his smile still wide, but his eyes now like chips of ice. “For a full night, I usually charge a thousand, but seeing it is you...”

She sat for a long moment, motionless, then she jumped to her feet, her eyes flashing, her face contorted with fury.

“Get out!” she screamed at him. “Get out or I’ll call the police, you filthy blackmailer!”

Lucan shook his head sadly. He had been through this scene a number of times.

“That’s a great idea, honey,” he said. “Call the police. It’ll be headline news tomorrow. Your husband and the guys he works with will love it. So will all your girl friends. Go ahead, call the cops.”

Sheila felt her fury drain out of her. God! What a fool she had been! She didn’t care what Perry thought, but her friends mattered. Okay, most of them were having it off with each other’s husbands, but, so far, they hadn’t been caught. She could imagine the gossip. She wouldn’t be able to show her face at the club again.

“Hurry it up, honey,” Lucan said, seeing her dismay. “I’ve another babe with hot pants waiting.” They stared at each other, then Lucan smiled.

“Well, you didn’t perform badly... the dinner was good. So, okay — this time I’ll let you off the hook. There are times when I can be generous. When you get hot pants again, be seeing you,” and he walked from the room.

When she heard the front door slam, Sheila sank onto the settee.

God! What a crazy fool she had been! she thought. When her girl friends wanted a change in bed, they always picked on their friends’ husbands. That way, there was security. To think she could have picked on a stranger! Her shame and fury was such, she burst into tears.

Ted Fleichman sat in his car opposite the Weston house. He held a Nikon camera fitted with an AF-S 70-200 mm lens. He took three rapid shots of Lucan as he came out to the sunshine, then, dropping the camera on the passenger seat, he swung out of the car and walked fast to where Lucan was opening the garage door.

Lucan, who was humming happily, only became aware of Fleichman when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found Fleichman standing close to him.

“Hi, Lucky,” Fleichman said with his hard-cop grin. “Had a good time?”

Lucan closed his hands into fists and scowled.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, not liking the cold tough eyes that were probing him.

“Security.” Fleichman produced his wallet and flashed a silver badge. “Okay, no fuss, Lucky. Let’s have it. The place is bugged. You could go away for ten. So hand it over.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucan said, his face paling under his tan.

“Don’t let’s waste time. You have another client waiting, so hand it over, unless, of course, you want me to mess up your handsome face.”

“Hand what over?” Lucan demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t give me that crap, Lucky. She didn’t give you any money, so you helped yourself to something. I know your methods. Come on, hand it over or I’ll have to get rough with you.”

Lucan had had one or two unfortunate experiences with security guards. He realized to tangle with this thickset professional would lead to real trouble

He hesitated, then took from his pocket Perry’s gold George IV snuffbox.

Fleichman produced a small plastic bag.

“Drop it in there, Lucky,” he said, “then I’ll have a nice set of your fingerprints. No tricks or I’ll ruin your family jewels.” Knowing Fleichman was capable of kneeing him in his most lucrative possession, Lucan dropped the snuffbox into the plastic bag.

“Okay, Lucky, now piss off. If you show your mug in my district again, you’re for the cop house.” Lucan glared at him, then got in his car and drove out of the garage and away.

Perry Weston came awake with a start. For a long moment, he didn’t know where he was, then realized he was still sitting in the rented Toyota and the rain was hammering down still on the roof of the car.

He yawned and stretched. Too much Scotch, he thought, and looked at the clock on the dashboard. The time was 10:05. He’d better get moving. He turned on his headlights and looked at the highway road, dancing with rain. He should have stayed over at Jacksonville. He reckoned he was within ten miles of his fishing lodge. A mile down the highway there was a turn-off that led to his destination, but the road could be bad. He opened the glove compartment, took out the bottle of Ballantine and took a long drink. Then replacing the bottle, he lit a cigarette and stared through the streaming windshield at the pelting rain.

Maybe he should have his head examined. To get to his fishing lodge could be some performance, but the Scotch bolstered his determination.

He felt hungry. He hadn’t been to the fishing lodge for three years, but he had arranged with Mary Ross, the Sheriff’s wife, to look in from time to time and keep an eye on things. He knew there was plenty of food in the freezer, and he knew Mary Ross had kept the lodge clean. He suddenly looked forward to seeing her again, and to having a beer with Sheriff Ross. They were both his kind of people and, in spite of his fame, they were real friendly.

He thought of Sheila. Okay, so she was having it off with men younger than himself. Silas S. Hart didn’t make reckless statements. So what? Maybe when she got older she would settle down. He admitted to himself that it couldn’t be great fun for her to be married to a man who worked long hours. Maybe, after this break, they could come together. Maybe...

He switched on the ignition and started the car’s engine. Usually, the highway was crammed with trucks and cars, but it was now deserted.

Another ten miles to go. Take it slow, he said to himself. You’re full of Scotch. Just take it slow.

He knew there would be a juicy steak waiting for him. He had an infrared grill. In less than an hour, he would be sitting at the table, eating.

Ten miles to go!

He drove carefully along the highway. The windshield wipers scarcely coped with the hammering rain, and he had to lean forward to peer into the wet darkness.

The turn-off couldn’t now be far. He mustn’t miss it. He slowed down to twenty five miles an hour, then he saw a bright light flashing ahead of him. He slowed to a crawl. All he could see was the red light flashing and the wetness.

Some accident?

He stopped the car as the flashing red light moved towards him. Then the light of his headlights showed him a man wearing a rain soaked Stetson hat and the yellow slicker of a highway patrol officer.

Jesus! he thought, if this guy smells my breath, I could be done for a drunk driving rap.

He watched the man until he stepped out of the beams of the headlights. He pressed the button so the electrically driven driver’s window sank. Rain pelted in the car and against his face. He waited, feeling the rain refreshing.

The man came alongside the car and flashed the red lamp at Perry. The beam moved to the passenger seat, then to the back seats as if the man was checking that Perry was the only occupant in the car.

“What’s the trouble?” Perry asked, seeing only the middle part of the man’s body as the man stood close to the car.

“My car’s run off the road.” The man bent slightly, but Perry could now only see the outline of the Stetson hat. “I’ve got to get to a telephone. Where are you heading?”

“Rockville. I’ve a fishing lodge two miles out of the village,” Perry said. “You can use my phone.”

“Yeah.” The man ran around the car. His wet slicker showed for a brief moment in the headlights. He opened the passenger door and slid in beside Perry.

“Hell of a night,” Perry said as he shifted into gear.

“Yeah,” the man said. He had a hard clipped voice. “Let’s go.”

Hollis sat in Sheriff Ross’s car and talked to Carl Jenner over the radio. He told Jenner that Deputy Sheriff Mason had just died. For a moment, Jenner didn’t seem able to grasp what Hollis was telling him, then he said, “You mean this bastard killed young Mason?”

“Yes, sir. He’s dead. He had a terrible blow on the head. I’ve found the weapon: an ax. All the others were killed in the same way. Their skulls were crushed like eggshells. Mason only survived for a while because of his hat. This man must be as strong as an ox.”

“Now six killings in one night! Good God!” Jenner exploded. “No one will be safe as long as this animal is free! Don’t touch anything, Hollis. The homicide squad are trying to get to you. I’ve got cars covering Jacksonville. When Lewis and Johnson reach you, send them back to the highway. He could be heading for Miami. Tell them to head that way. The State police are trying to set up roadblocks, but in this rain it’s a job.”

“Okay, sir,” Hollis said. “I’ll keep in touch,” and he switched off the radio.

A minute or so later, he saw the headlights of an approaching car. The car pulled up beside him, and Lewis, the driver, leaned out of the window.

Shouting above the sound of the rain, Hollis gave him the picture.

“Orders are for you to belt back to the highway and head towards Miami fast. You just might overtake him. He’s wearing a Stetson hat and a yellow slicker he took from Mason,” Hollis bawled. “He’ll be in Mason’s Ford. Number SZY 3002. Watch it! He has Mason’s gun.”

“We hardly made it up this goddam road,” Lewis moaned. “It’s like a quagmire. Okay, I’ll do my best.”

“It’ll have to be better than that!” Hollis snapped. “This punk’s got to be caught.”

After watching Lewis reverse his car, sliding in the mud, he ran back through the rain to the shelter of the bungalow’s lobby.

Sheriff Ross, looking ten years older, met Hollis as he came into the lobby.

“There’s nothing for me to do here,” he said. “I guess I’ll get back to my office.”

Hollis felt sorry for him. The Sheriff looked a broken man.

“I need your radio, Sheriff,” he said. “Please stay around until the ambulance comes, then drive down with them. Okay?”

“I wasn’t thinking.” Ross walked heavily to an upright chair in the lobby and sat down. “That boy was like a son to me. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

Hollis regarded him for a brief moment, then walked into the living room.

Davis was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, keeping his eyes from the three bodies.

“We don’t touch a thing, Jerry,” Hollis said. “The Homicide boys should be on their way. This killer could have left fingerprints, and he could have a record.”

“He’s a real smart ass,” Davis said. “The big deal is to catch him. I’d hate to be the guy who corners him. He’s got Mason’s gun. Let’s get out of here. This carnage turns my stomach.” The two men joined the Sheriff in the lobby.

“You’ve got to get him,” Ross said, not looking up. “The Loss family and Tom were my true friends. What’s happening? What’s Jenner doing?”

“There’s a full State alert, Sheriff,” Hollis said. “The State police are in on it. Tomorrow the National Guard will join in. Every motorist, if he’s listening to his radio, is warned, but there can’t be many motorists out on a night like this. There’s not much else we can do tonight.”

“Okay, but this is for sure,” Ross looked up. There was a grim, determined expression on his white face. “If you boys don’t find him, I will, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Sure, Sheriff,” Hollis said, feeling for the old man. He thought this was kid’s talk. By now the killer could be miles away, probably heading for Miami, far away from Ross’s territory. “Don’t worry. Sooner or later, we’ll find him.”

“I’ll have to tell Tom’s mother,” Ross muttered, and buried his face in his hands.

The rain continued to pelt down.

Perry Weston started the engine of the Toyota.

“Around a mile ahead, there’s a turn-off to the left that leads to my place,” he said. “God knows what the road’ll be like. It’s pretty rough even in dry weather.” The man, sitting by his side, wearing a Stetson hat and a soaking wet slicker, said nothing.

“Would it be an idea for you to call for help on your radio?” Perry asked. “All cop cars have radios, haven’t they?”

“The radio’s bust,” the man said.

“If it would be more helpful, I could take the branch road and you could telephone from the Sheriff’s office.”

“Your phone is good as any.” The hard, metallic voice jarred on Perry.

“Well, okay.” Perry slowed the car. “We’re coming to the turn-off. It could be tricky.” The man at his side said nothing.

One of those strong, silent, brainless types, Perry thought and shrugged.

He turned off the highway and onto a road that led, five miles ahead, to his fishing lodge. The road was half tarmac half sand.

Feeling he should make the offer, and now aware that the lodge would be dismal, he said, “If you want to, you can stay the night. My place is well organized, but maybe you want to get back to your car.”

There was a long pause.

“I don’t give a damn about the car,” the man said. “I’m off duty. I’ll have to tell them where the car is. Sure, I’d like to spend the night. I’ve had it up to here with this rain.”

“Me too.” Perry leaned forward to stare at the narrow road scarcely lit by his headlights. “Glad to have you. Who are you?”

“Keep driving, buster. Watch the road. It looks bad.”

Perry felt a sudden uneasiness. Although he couldn’t take his eyes off the road, he wanted to look at this man by his side.

“We shouldn’t be long,” he said. “What’s your name?” Again there was a long pause.

“Call me Jim.”

“Jim — what?” Again a pause.

“Brown.”

“Okay, Jim Brown. I’m Perry Weston.”

“Watch your driving,” the man who called himself Jim Brown snapped.

“Yeah. God! This rain!”

Jim Brown leaned forward, staring into the small pools of lights from the car’s headlights. Suddenly he shouted, “To your right!” It was too late. A split second later, Perry saw a vast pool of rainwater and mud. The front wheels of the Toyota just managed to cross the pool, but the rear wheels sank. The car’s engine stalled.

“Hell!” Perry exclaimed. “We’re stuck!”

“I told you to drive to the right,” the man beside him snapped.

“How the hell can anyone see anything in this rain!” Perry snapped back. “We’re stuck for good!”

“I think I can shift her. Let’s take a look.”

The man slid out of the car and into the pelting rain. Cursing, Perry opened the driver’s door and flinched as the rain beat down on him. He was wearing a light trench coat that scarcely protected him as he floundered in the mud and the water.

Brown was already standing up to his ankles in the pool. He turned on his flashlight, grunted, then looked towards where Perry was standing.

“I can get her out,” he said.

“How do I help?” Perry asked, feeling helpless.

“I’ll handle it. Get in the car, start the engine and, when I yell, move into gear and creep forward. Understand?” Perry stared with amazement as the man turned his back to the car and caught hold of the rear bumper in his gloved hands.

“You’ll never shift her,” he exclaimed. “Let me help.”

“Get in the car and do what I’ve told you!” the man barked. “I’ll shift the sonofabitch!”

Crazy! Perry thought. To try and lift the Toyota, loaded with luggage, out of this quagmire. “Suppose we both...” he began.

“Will you goddam do what I tell you!” The voice was a hard bark that startled Perry.

“Well, okay.” He was glad to climb into the shelter of the car. He started the engine.

“Now!” the man yelled.

Perry shifted into gear and gently pressed the accelerator. He felt the back of the car lift, the wheels spun, then gripped tarmac and rolled forward.

Perry could scarcely believe it. The car was again on firm ground. He slightly accelerated and the car moved forward, then he trod on the brake.

He had imagined he would have had to walk to his fishing lodge, leaving his car bogged down, and would have to telephone for someone to pull the car out of the quagmire. This man had actually lifted the rear end of the car and had shoved it forward on its front wheels, doing the work of a breakdown truck!

Incredible! He must be as strong as an ox, Perry thought, unaware he was using the same phrase as Hollis had used when talking to Jenner on the radio about the savage murders.

Brown appeared, his head bent against the rain at Perry’s window.

“We’re clear,” he said. “Shift over. I’ll do the driving.”

“I know the road. You don’t,” Perry said. “I’d better drive.”

“Shift over!” The man jerked open the door and shoved himself in as Perry was forced to move into the passenger seat.

As the man set the car moving, Perry realized he was thankful he didn’t have to drive. He felt that if anyone could get them down to the lodge, this man could.

He reached into the glove compartment and produced the bottle of Scotch.

“Have a drink, Jim.”

“I don’t drink.” Perry unscrewed the cap on the bottle and took a long swig.

“Well, have a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke.” Perry blew out his cheeks and shrugged. He replaced the bottle in the glove compartment, then sat back, staring into the darkness and the pelting rain.

“We have around three miles to go,” he said. “Man! Will I be glad to get home!”

Brown kept silent. He drove with skill and confidence, watching the road, following the twists and bends.

Perry was now able to look at him, but the light from the dashboard revealed little. He saw brown, big hands on the steering wheel, the outline of the Stetson hat, but nothing of the man’s face.

Curious to know more about this man, he asked, “Have you been long with the highway patrol?”

A long pause, then Brown said, “Long enough.”

“That’s a good answer. I’m always saying that about my job. I write film scripts.” Perry eased himself against the back of the seat. “You married?”

“No.”

“To have shifted this car the way you did, you must be a weightlifter in your spare time.” Brown said nothing.

The condition of the road was improving and Brown increased speed.

“Do you go to the movies? You might have seen one of my films,” Perry said. “Ever seen The Gun Duel? That was one of mine.”

“I don’t go to the movies.”

Man! Perry thought. This guy is a real square. He doesn’t drink, smoke or go to the movies. What the hell does he do? He asked the question, “So what do you do in your spare time except police work?”

“Stop flapping with your mouth!” There was a snarl in Brown’s voice. “I’m driving!”

“Okay... sorry,” Perry said. He lit a cigarette and resisted taking another drink.

They drove for the next twenty minutes in silence, then Perry said, “Take the turn to the right, and we’re there.”

When they finally reached the fishing lodge and Brown drove into the garage, Perry heaved a sigh of relief. He knew he couldn’t have made it, but, somehow, this man had coaxed the car through the mud with an expertise that baffled Perry. He was sure, if he had been driving, he would have been bogged down a number of times, but they were under shelter at last.

“That was great driving, Jim!” he said as they both got out of the car. “You certainly did a fine job.”

Brown moved to the entrance of the garage and peered out into the darkness and the pelting rain. Perry groped and found the light switch and turned on the light.

“Let’s dump our wet things here. No point in messing up my place,” he said, and stripped off his soaking trench coat. He dragged off his boots.

The man came away from the entrance of the garage and pulled off his mud-encrusted boots. Then the Stetson hat came off, then the yellow slicker.

In the light reflecting down on him, Perry could now see him clearly.

What he saw gave him a jolt of uneasiness. The man was about his own height, but his shoulders were broader. At first glance he looked like a primitive rock carving — long arms, a chunky body, long legs and the powerful and muscular build was awe-inspiring.

Then the face: ice cold blue eyes, a short, blunt nose, high cheekbones and thick lips as if fashioned in red putty. The hair was the color of straw and cut in a fringe across a low forehead, dirty and shoulder length.

Perry saw around this man’s thick waist was a revolver belt, and in the holster a gun butt showed.

A real character, Perry thought. Straight from the apes.

“Let’s get some comfort,” he said, wondering why a highway patrol officer should be wearing a dirty white sweatshirt and black jeans. He shrugged this thought off as he groped for his keys and unlocked the door leading straight into his living room. “Come on in, Jim.” He turned on the lights and led the way into the room.

“Maybe you’ll want to get out of those clothes. I can fix you up. Man! Is it good to get out of that goddam rain!”

Brown was staring around the big, comfortably furnished room. For some seconds the luxury of what he was seeing seemed to stun him.

Finally, he muttered, “You live pretty well.”

“It’s okay. How about a bath? I’m taking one, then I’ll organize a meal. I’ll find something for you to wear. I’ll show you your room.”

As he moved towards the stairs, he paused. “I was forgetting. You want to telephone. The phone’s over there.”

“It’ll wait,” Brown said. “I want to get out of these wet things.” Shrugging, Perry led the way up the stairs.

“Your room’s the second on the left,” he said. “I’ll find you something to wear.”

He entered the major bedroom and turned on the lights. He looked at the big double bed which he had hoped to have shared with Sheila, but in spite of his efforts to persuade her she had refused to come to the fishing lodge. He paused, for a long moment, thinking of her. What was she doing right now? He glanced at his watch. The time was well after midnight. Then grimacing, he went to his big closet, found a sweatshirt, underpants and a pair of jeans. These he carried down the short corridor and entered the second bedroom.

Brown was standing by the bed, staring around the room.

“Here you are. I think you can squeeze into them,” Perry said, tossing the clothes on the bed. “Now for a bath. See you in half an hour.”

“This is pretty fancy,” Brown said, still staring around the room.

“Glad you like it. The bathroom’s right there,” Perry said, longing to get out of his damp clothes and into a hot bath. He left the room and entered his bedroom. As he drew water in the bath, he wondered about the weather conditions. Was this rain going to cease? Stripping, he took his small transistor radio with him into the bathroom and put it on a shelf by the bath. He turned it on, then sank, with a sigh of pleasure, into the hot water.

He was in time to catch the weather forecast. Rain was expected to persist for the next twenty four hours, but would gradually die out, giving way to a spell of hot, humid weather.

Perry shrugged.

He knew he had plenty of food in the freezer. In a couple of days, with luck, he could start fishing and thinking. He grimaced, wondering if some idea would come to him. It was odd how ideas for a plot could develop in a hot bath. He thought of Silas S. Hart and what he wanted: sex, blood and action. There was time. After all, he had only just arrived. He was hungry. As he got out of the bath and reached for a towel, the impersonal voice of the radio announcer said, “We are interrupting this program for an urgent police message. All motorists travelling between Jacksonville and Miami are warned...” Perry snapped off the transistor. He was now no longer a motorist. He was home, dry and hungry. Let the other poor sods floundering in the rain listen to police warnings. So he didn’t hear the warning that a man, now called the Ax Killer, was at large and disguised as a highway patrol officer.

All Perry could think of right now was a thick, juicy steak. Hastily drying himself, he scrambled into a sweatshirt, jeans and loafers and ran down the stairs to the living room.

He found Brown moving around the room aimlessly. Perry paused in the doorway. Brown had taken a bath. His straw colored hair was clean and lay flat against his skull. He had squeezed himself into Perry’s clothes. The short sleeved sweatshirt was too small and revealed this man’s bulging muscles. Perry saw on this man’s left, thick forearm the tattoo of a striking cobra snake. Around his solid waist was the cartridge belt and gun.

Man! Perry thought. This guy is certainly a character!

“Hungry?” he asked, moving into the room. “I’m starving. How about a steak?”

“Not for me,” Brown said. “I guess I’ll take a kip, but you go ahead, buster.” Perry suddenly realized he was beginning to dislike this man. He now regretted offering him a bed, but what else could he have done? Maybe he should have driven him to the Sheriff’s office and have got rid of him.

“Cut out calling me buster,” he said sharply. “I told you my name’s Perry Weston... okay?” Brown stared at him for a long moment. His ice-blue eyes were intimidating.

Then he shrugged.

“Sure. I’ll catch up on sleep.”

“You wanted to use the telephone,” Perry said, thinking that there might be a chance for a highway patrol car to come and pick this man up and he would be rid of him.

“Yeah. Right.” Brown moved slowly towards him. “The phone’s out of order. My fault.” He gave a short, barking laugh. “I guess I don’t know my own strength.” The sound of that mirthless laugh sent a cold prickle down Perry’s spine.

“I’m not with you,” he said. “What’s the matter with the phone?”

“Bust,” Brown said, still moving forward. Perry stepped aside. “Don’t worry about it. Have your steak. I’m taking a kip.”

Perry watched Brown walk into the lobby and then climb the stairs. He went quickly to the telephone and saw the cable was dangling. It had been wrenched out of its socket.

He heard a door upstairs slam shut.

He stood thinking. Something was very wrong. This man just could not be a highway patrol officer, not with his long hair and the clothes he had been wearing. Then who was he? What the hell have I got myself into? he asked himself. Then he remembered there had been a police warning which he hadn’t bothered to listen to. Had that warning been anything to do with this man?

Maybe there would be other warnings.

He no longer felt hungry. He had to admit he was now more than uneasy.

Maybe the warning would be repeated on the television. He crossed to the set, then paused, seeing the cable dangling. That too had been wrenched out of the socket and the plug was missing. Shocked, he remained motionless, aware his heart was thumping, then he remembered the transistor he had left in his bathroom.

Moving silently, he climbed the stairs, entered his bedroom switching on the light, and moved into the bathroom. One quick glance told him the transistor was no longer there.

Jesus! he thought, this is becoming really something! Then he remembered the radio in the Toyota. Again moving silently, he crept down the stairs. Reaching the door that let into the garage, he turned the handle to find the door locked and the key missing.

So he was cut off, isolated, alone with this ape man. No outside help!

Controlling a rising panic, he walked slowly back into the living room. He poured himself a stiff Scotch and drank it neat. Then he refilled his glass and sat down in one of the big lounging chairs.

Some situation, he thought. He was now convinced this man, up in the spare bedroom, was dangerous, possibly crazy. He had a gun. Apart from the gun, he was horrifyingly strong. Perry emptied his glass, then placed the glass carefully on the occasional table, so carefully the glass fell to the floor.

Perry closed his eyes. So, okay, he was smashed. He hadn’t eaten for ten hours. He had been drinking steadily since he had got on the plane.

He stretched out his long legs and made himself comfortable.

Some situation! Could this turn into the script that Silas S. Hart was demanding. Blood, sex and action?

Who cares? he muttered. Who cares about a guy with a gun? Who the hell cares about anything?

Lulled by the sound of the rain and the moaning of the wind in the trees, Perry Weston passed out.

Sheriff Ross sat at his desk listening to Carl Jenner on the telephone. The time was 3:00 A.M., and Ross was feeling bone weary and utterly depressed. He had ridden back in the ambulance which contained four brutally murdered bodies. He had sat beside Dr O’Leary, Jacksonville’s medical examiner, a short, thickset man in his late fifties.

“Never seen anything like this,” O’Leary muttered.

Ross said nothing. He was thinking of Tom Mason. His mother would have to be told, and his friends who had been friends of his for the past fifteen years.

The ambulance driver had dropped Ross outside his office. With a brief word of thanks and a nod to O’Leary, Ross entered his office. As he stripped off his soaking wet slicker and hat, he told his wife what had happened.

“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, walking to his desk and sitting down. “I’ll have to tell Tom’s mother.”

“Tomorrow will do. Let the poor soul have her night’s rest,” Mary said. “Don’t worry about it now. I’ll tell her. I have coffee for you. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“I want to talk to Jenner,” Ross said, reaching for the telephone. “I’ve got to know what’s going on. The State police have taken over, but that doesn’t mean I can go to bed!”

“Jeff! This dreadful thing has now nothing to do with you,” Mary said gently. “It’s all in good hands. Now, come to bed.” Ross was already talking to Jenner.

“Any news?” Ross asked him.

“Yeah, but nothing helpful,” Jenner told him. “Mason’s car was found tipped into a ditch around twenty five miles from the farm on the highway. Jacklin, who is now in charge of the investigation, thinks the killer must have stopped a passing motorist and got a lift, posing as a highway patrol officer. Radio warnings are out. Any motorist giving a patrol officer a lift is asked to contact headquarters. So far, nothing. Jacklin thinks by now he could be in Miami. The homicide squad turned up nothing. The killer didn’t leave fingerprints — must have worn gloves. The murder weapon is clean. We have a description of him, but it’s vague. I haven’t had time to tell you the details, but here’s what happened. A motorcycle patrol officer spotted a hold-up at a garage. He sent a radio message that he was making an arrest. A patrol car, picking up the message, was in time to find the hold-up man trying to start the police motorcycle. The officer who radioed was dead, and the gas attendant so badly wounded he also died. The two patrol officers tackled the killer. Sergeant Hurst was badly wounded, but Trooper Brownlow clubbed the man unconscious.

“Brownlow is new to this racket. He searched the unconscious man and found a driver’s licence made out in the name of Chet Logan. He threw the man into the back of the car, then attended to Hurst, who was bleeding badly. I guess Brownlow lost his head. All he could think of was to get Hurst to the hospital. He forgot to put handcuffs on the unconscious killer. Can you imagine? He drove fast to Abbeville. The road conditions were bad. He did have the sense to report to me on the radio as he was driving. From what Brownlow told me we have a vague description of the man. You already have that. The big thing is this man has a cobra snake tattooed on his left arm. I guess Brownlow, while talking to me, must have taken his eyes off the road. I heard the crash over the radio.

“He and Hurst were dead by the time we found them, and Logan had vanished.

“That’s it, Jeff. Captain Jacklin has now taken charge. This is a State police job. There’s nothing either you or me can do. This killer could be miles away by now and out of our neck of the woods.”

“The killing took place on my territory,” Ross snapped. “How does Jacklin know this man is heading for Miami? He could have doubled back. Along the river there are a number of fishing lodges. Most of them are shut. He could be hiding in one of those. He could be hiding any place on my ground. As soon as this goddam rain lets up, I’m going to check. If I find him, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll make him pay for killing Tom and my friends.”

“I can’t stop you,” Jenner said, restraining his impatience. “This man must be running to Miami where he can get lost. But okay, suppose he has doubled back? You start checking out likely hiding places, and you’ll end up with a bullet in your head. This man is vicious and armed. Tomorrow there’ll be a massive search within twenty miles of where Mason’s car was found. Jacklin has called out the National Guard. You keep out of it, Jeff.”

“The National Guard don’t know the ground as I do,” Ross said.

“I’ll tell Jacklin to consult you. Now, for God’s sake, don’t start acting like a hero, Jeff. You’ll need another deputy. Sergeant Hank Hollis is due promotion. He’s a good man. Okay, with you?”

“Sure. I know Hank. He’s a good man.”

“Right. He’ll report to you tomorrow morning. Now go to bed. If this rain continues, and the forecasters say it will, tomorrow is going to be a very tough day.”

“In the meantime, this killer is loose.”

“But not for long, Jeff. Good-night,” and Jenner hung up.

Having watched Julian Lucan drive away, Ted Fleichman returned to his car. He took out the cassette that recorded from the bug in the Weston house and dropped it into his pocket. He lit a cigarette and stared into space, his mind active.

He knew Perry Weston was a rich man. Although Fleichman’s salary, working as a private investigator, was good, he was in the hole for ten thousand dollars. His wife was never out of a doctor’s hands. She was never out of a dentist’s hands. Well, okay, some women were like that. He loved his wife, who was five years older than himself, but the bills that kept coming in weighed on him. The last check he had on what he now owed came to $9,800, and he had had firm letters asking for payment.

He would have to find the money. He rubbed his jaw while he thought of Perry Weston. Ten thousand dollars would be peanuts to a man in his earning bracket.

This would have to be handled carefully, he told himself, but he could swing a deal. Weston was out of town. Maybe the wife could produce ten thousand dollars.

It was worth a careful try.

Sheila Weston had got over her crying jag. An experience! she told herself. Never again! No more strangers! She was young enough to be resilient. Today was Sunday, and she was alone. She decided she would go to the tennis club and have lunch. Julian Lucan was already fading into her past. A marvelous sexy lover! She suddenly smiled. She certainly had handled him beautifully. He had given her the sex thrill of her life, and it had cost her nothing. But never again. She would take a shower, dress for tennis and spend the rest of the day at the club.

As she walked into the lobby, heading for the stairs, the front doorbell rang.

Who could this be? she wondered, frowning, aware she was only wearing a wrap over her nakedness, then with an impatient shrug she went to the door and opened it.

She was confronted by a thickset man, wearing a dark lightweight suit, white shirt and a white linen cap with a long peak.

“Morning, Mrs Weston,” the man said with a wide smile. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Ted Fleichman, Acme Investigations.” He produced a wallet and flashed a silver badge. “Security, madam.”

“I am not interested,” she snapped. “Thank you,” and began to shut the door.

Fleichman, still smiling, shoved his foot forward so the door wouldn’t close.

“You and me, Mrs Weston, need to talk. It’s to do with Julian Lucan, the man who spent the night with you.”

The shock of hearing this was so great Sheila felt her heart skip a beat and felt blood drain out of her face. She took two unsteady steps backwards, allowing Fleichman to move into the lobby. He closed the front door.

“Go away!” Sheila said, her voice a whisper. “You’ve no right to come in here! Go away!”

Fleichman’s smile broadened.

“Sure, no problem, Mrs Weston. I’ll go away if that’s what you want, but I could help you. I want to help you. It’s part of my job. You see, I’ve been hired to watch you. I have to turn in a report, but if you want me to go away that’s just what I’ll have to do.”

“Watch me? Who has hired you? My husband?” Sheila was now recovering. This tough looking man seemed friendly. Could Perry have done such a thing... to have her watched?

“No, madam,” Fleichman said. “Nothing to do with Mr Weston. Sorry, I can’t name my client. Can’t we sit down and talk about this?”

“No! Go away!”

“Okay, madam. Anything you say. I just wanted to help you, but if you want me to turn in my report that you spent the night with Lucky Lucan, you have only to say so.”

“No one will believe you!” Sheila cried desperately. “You’re just a spy. You have no proof. Now get out!”

“Proof?” Fleichman shook his head. “If you mean there’s no evidence, madam, I have to correct you. I have a recording of what happened last night, and what happened this morning. I have photographs of Lucan leaving here. You probably haven’t had time to look around to see if anything is missing. Lucan always gets paid, either in cash or a present.” He took from his pocket the plastic bag containing the gold George IV snuffbox and dangled it so Sheila could see it.

“I believe this is your property, madam. I persuaded Lucan to give it to me.”

Not believing what she was seeing, Sheila ran into the living room and to the table where Perry’s antique collection was displayed. She saw at once the snuffbox was missing.

Fleichman had moved into the living room and stood watching her.

“Give it to me! It belongs to my husband!” Sheila exclaimed.

Fleichman looked sad.

“I wish I could, madam, but it has Lucan’s fingerprints on it. His prints establish the fact that he stole it. The tape I have establishes the fact that he tried to extort five hundred dollars from you which you rightly refused to give him. The combination of his prints, the tape and the photographs will put him in the slammer for at least five years. It is my duty to hand the evidence over to the NYC police. They have been waiting to get their hands on him, but, up to now, he’s been too smart.”

Sheila felt her knees buckling. She sat down, staring at Fleichman, who also sat down, opposite her.

“You see what I mean, madam. It’s a problem,” he said.

Sheila shuddered.

Awful thoughts flashed through her mind. A police enquiry! She would be called as a witness. Her friends! The sniggers and the whispers! Her social life, which she loved, ruined. God! What a lunatic fool she had been.

“This is a shock to you, madam?” Fleichman said. “Should I get you a drink?”

He looked around, saw the liquor cabinet, got up and poured a generous shot of Cognac into a glass. He took the drink to her. “Come along, madam. Drink it.” With a shaking hand, Sheila took the glass and swallowed the brandy in one quick gulp. She shuddered and let Fleichman take the glass from her. He returned to his chair and sat down.

For several minutes, Sheila sat motionless. The Cognac began to knit her together. Her mind began to work.

“As I have said, madam,” Fleichman said, seeing she was recovering from the shock, his voice gentle, “there is a problem... for you and for me.” She looked up and stared at him.

“For you?”

“Yes, madam. I have as big a problem as you have.”

“I don’t understand. What is your problem?”

“Well, madam, unlike you, I have a financial problem. I am being paid to keep tabs on you. I’ve been keeping tabs on you for the past two months. I know you have been having fun with certain men. I know who they are. I know Mr Weston has been busy and perhaps neglectful. What is more natural for a young, attractive woman like you than to have sex from time to time with other men? It happens every day. I know you have been with two of your men friends at various motels, but this time you fell for a professional, and you invited him to your home. That, madam, was a fatal mistake.” Sheila stiffened.

“Who is employing you?”

“I can’t give you the name of my client, madam. That would be a breach of confidence. When I investigate a woman who is playing around, it’s my job to investigate in depth. I have learned you and Mr Weston have drifted apart. Divorce evidence wouldn’t worry you, but for the police and the press to know that you have been foolish enough to take on a professional...” He paused to stare at her as he saw her flinch. “Well, I don’t have to spell it out, do I?” Sheila’s hands closed into fists.

“What is your problem?” she asked.

“I have a sick wife, madam,” Fleichman said, crossing one thick leg over the other. “I won’t bore you with the details. I don’t earn much and the medical bills are more than I can pay. I am in debt, madam. I need ten thousand dollars. Now, madam, the NYC police want Lucan. They know private investigators like me often watch Lucan.” Fleichman paused, then went on, lying smoothly, “They are offering any investigator who can produce strong enough evidence to put Lucan behind bars ten thousand dollars.”

The lie, to Sheila, was so obvious, she closed her eyes. To be blackmailed twice in a morning was something she couldn’t believe possible.

“You see, madam,” Fleichman went on, “I have to think of my wife, but I have also to think of you. I realize your nice life will be spoilt if you are forced to give evidence against Lucan. It is not as if you are one of many thousands of women who have fun on the side. You are the wife of a very famous scriptwriter. The press will have a ball if Lucan comes up for trial.” He paused, smiling sadly. “I suggest you are not without money. I leave it to you. I must have ten thousand dollars. I know the police will willingly give it to me, but if you give it to me I will hand over the tape, the snuffbox and the photographs and you’ll hear no more of this unfortunate affair. I will, of course, have to continue to watch you, but I assure you, in the future, if you step out of line, I won’t report it. In fact, madam, you will have gained a friend.” He gave her a big, friendly smile. “Do we have a deal, madam?”

She sat silent, looking down at her hands, gripped between her knees.

Fleichman waited. He was sure she would give him the money. Time meant nothing to him, but after minutes had ticked by he said, a sharper note in his voice, “Do we have a deal, madam?”

“I don’t seem to have any alternative, do I?” Sheila said in a hard cold voice.

She didn’t look up. “I haven’t such a sum, but my husband might have it in his safe upstairs. I’ll see. Wait here.” Still not looking at him, she got to her feet and walked out of the room. Moving like a shadow, Fleichman left his chair and moved to the living room door. He watched Sheila climb the stairs and disappear into a room down a short corridor. Silently, he ran up the stairs and peered into the room.

Her back to him, Sheila was taking a modern painting off the wall.

He saw the painting had concealed a small wall safe, and he grinned. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy, but then, after all, she was only a kid, and he had scared her witless.

As Sheila began to turn the combination knob, the telephone bell rang. She turned, then saw Fleichman standing in the doorway. She stifled a scream, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Don’t answer it, madam,” Fleichman said, moving further into the room. “Just open the safe.”

She moved so swiftly, he had no time to stop her. She snatched up the telephone receiver as he caught hold of her wrist, but she said loudly, “Sheila here. Who is it?”

Fleichman released her wrist. “Watch what you say!” he said, in a low snarling, voice.

“Sheila, honey, it’s Mavis.”

“Oh... Mavis,” Sheila made an effort to steady her voice.

“I couldn’t wait. Has that gorgeous hunk of man left or is he still with you?”

“He’s left.”

“Was he good?”

“So-so.”

“Honey, you sound flat. He looked marvelous!”

“Yes.”

“I must tell you. Sam turned up last night without warning. What a lucky escape I had! I was about to go out with Lew! Can you imagine? I’m almost a ruin. Right now, Sam’s snoring his head off. The way he went on, you would have thought he hadn’t screwed a woman for thirty years.”

“Well, that’s Sam.”

“You can say that again. Heard from Perry?”

“No. He’s on location somewhere in California.”

“California? He can’t be, honey. He’s in Florida. Sam saw him at the Jacksonville airport.”

“I thought he was in California,” Sheila said, aware of Fleichman.

“He’s probably cheating on you, baby. You coming to the club? Sam will sleep all afternoon.”

“Maybe. I must go, Mavis. My bath is running. Bye for now,” and she hung up.

“If the phone rings again, madam,” Fleichman snapped, “you don’t answer it. Get that safe open!” He stood back and watched her walk to the safe.

Ten thousand dollars! he thought. Money that would that get him out of deep trouble. A guy like Perry Weston was certain to have a load of money in a wall safe. Maybe he should have asked for more. There would be further doctors’ bills. He had this kid where he wanted her. Maybe he had better take a look, seeing she had now opened the safe door. As he moved forward, he stopped short.

Sheila had spun around. She was holding a vicious looking .38 revolver in her hand which she had snatched from the safe.

In spite of his toughness, Fleichman felt a sudden chill as he stared first at the gun, then at Sheila’s hard, desperate face.

“Put the snuffbox and the tape on that table,” she said. “I can shoot! I’ll smash your kneecap and you’ll be crippled for life! Do what I say!” Fleichman forced an uneasy grin.

“That gun ain’t loaded,” he said. “You don’t bluff me,” and he edged forward.

There was a bang of gunfire. He felt something like a hornet whizz past his face. He started back. He had never been faced with an experience like this, and his sagging confidence oozed out of him.

“Okay... okay.” He took the tape and the plastic bag from his pocket and put them on the bedside table.

“Now, get out, you filthy blackmailer!” Sheila screamed at him. “Get out!” She followed him down the stairs, watched him open the front door and walk unsteadily down the drive. She slammed the door shut and shot the bolt.

Then she collapsed in a faint on the floor.