“She’s a pain in the neck. Boy, is she stingy! The only way to do, we’ll just get in the car and go. Gee, it’s an emergency, isn’t it?”
“It sure is. But you can’t go, Tim. I’d love to have you, but it’s against the law. You’re a minor and I could be arrested and put in jail for kidnapping you. It’s a crazy law, but that’s it. We turn in here? Are they on the porch?”
“Naw, they’re inside. Gee, I want to go!”
“I know you do and I want you to, but that’s the law. Anyway, you’ll have to explain who took the car and why, or if they hear it leaving they’ll report it stolen. That’ll take a lot of nerve. Have you got enough nerve to do that?”
“Sure I have. But—”
It took persuasion to get Tim to agree to stay behind, but, being by nature a reasonable man, he finally consented. He would wait until the car was safely out of the yard and on its way, and would then apprise his womenfolk of the situation.
Luckily the key was in the dash. Hicks got the engine started with as little noise as possible, told Tim he was proud of him and Miss Gladd would be too, eased the car softly down the drive to the road, and turned right.
That, the short way to Crescent Road, took him past the Dundee entrance, but he went right on by at a good clip without meeting any attempt at interference. Evidently Aunt Sadie took good care of her property, for the car, a small sedan, without any pretensions to grandeur, nevertheless ran like a dream. In three minutes he came to the first right, which he took, and in another three minutes a cluster of outbuildings, the largest one square and white, told him that he was passing Crescent Farm; so he slowed down.
He crept along, entering a wood, but saw no car. A mile. Two miles. Three miles. The wood was far behind. At a widening of the road he turned around and started back, keeping a sharp eye to either side; but in another five minutes he was back at the cluster of outbuildings and had certainly had no glimpse of a car, neither a JV 28 nor a Dundee Cadillac. In a smaller building, apart from the others, with trees around it, there was a light and a radio going, and he drove into the lane, got out, and walked across the yard to a door.
“Is this Crescent Farm?” he asked a man in overalls who came and peered through the screen at him.
“This is it, yes, sir. Mr. Humphrey’s place is up the road. I’m Walt Taylor, the farmer. You looking for Mr. Humphrey?”
“No, I’m looking for a friend of mine. I thought maybe he stopped to use your phone. Has anybody asked to use your phone the past hour or so?”
The man shook his head. “Nope.”
“I was expecting to find him parked down the road. Half a mile beyond Crescent Farm, he said. If you—”
“A big black sedan?”
“That’s right. License JV 28.”
“I didn’t notice the license, but a big black sedan was parked there around five o’clock when I went by to get a load of hay, and it was still there an hour later when I came back with the load.”
“It must have been him. What did he look like?”
“Didn’t see him. Neither time. Just the car. I kept an eye out, because I figured maybe he was after pheasant, but I didn’t hear any shot up to dark.”
“Did you hear one after dark?”
“Nope. Not that I was expecting one. It’s kind of hard to shoot pheasant when you can’t see ’em.”
“Have you noticed a car going by in the last half hour? Either direction?”
“No, I’ve been listening to the radio.”
Hicks thanked him and left, went back to Aunt Sadie’s car, and headed east. Arriving at the four corners, he pulled up at the side of the road, and sat scowling at the clock on the dash. His fingers, with no command from higher up, took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and extracted one. Minutes later he was still sitting motionless, still scowling, and the cigarette had not been lit.
Twenty
The disposal of forces, at the instant Ross and Heather caught sight of the man aiming the pistol at them, was like this:
The man stood at the front of the car, against the front bumper. Heather stood by the left running board, at the point where it joined the front fender; and Ross was directly behind her. The man with the pistol was saying:
“What do you want?”
Ross didn’t hear him. That is, he didn’t recognize the words as words, because he was in no condition to do so. It is possible, when a man aiming a gun at you is only five feet away and the space is clear, to leap for him; but it is foolhardy to try that when he is barricaded by the fender and hood of a large automobile. Certainly a coward wouldn’t try it, or a prudent man, or one with any experience to speak of in situations of that kind. Therefore Ross proved that he belonged to none of those categories when he did in fact leap.
It was more a vault than a leap, for as he went up and forward his hand on Heather’s shoulder forced her down and back, and he went scooting over the hood with a velocity suggesting a projectile hurled by an explosive rather than a man propelled only by muscle. It was so instantaneous and meteoric that the man with the gun had time for no movement, except the squeezing of the trigger, and that he failed to do. The impact toppled him over. Ross, tumbling by him and on him, grabbing with both hands wildly, got the gun with his right, wrenched it loose, and slammed it against the man’s head. The man’s knees jerked up and straightened out again, and he lay still.
The engagement had lasted perhaps five seconds.
Heather was there, saying something, but Ross was still not recognizing words. He scrambled to his feet, panting, looked at the gun in his hand, glistening in the glare from the headlights of the other car, started to tremble all over, and said in a loud voice:
“Holy smoke! I hit him with this!”
“He didn’t shoot,” Heather said. “He didn’t, did he?”
“Shoot?” Ross stared at her. “Oh. No, he didn’t shoot.”
“I thought... I thought he was going to shoot.”
“So did I.”
“You certainly — went after him.”
“I certainly did.” Ross looked at the figure on the ground, still motionless. “I guess I hit him pretty hard. I never did anything like that before.” He went down on one knee beside the figure. “Here, hold this, will you?”
Heather took the gun from him, and stood gazing down at him. In a moment he said:
“I can’t feel any heartbeat.”
Heather’s teeth left her lip to let her say, “Feel his pulse.”
Ross’s hand went to the man’s wrist. After a long silence he said uncertainly, “It feels pretty good to me. Will you see what you think?”
Heather didn’t want to. If this was to be death again... a blow on the head had killed Martha... but she knew she had to. She had to because he had asked her to, and after the way he had jumped over the car straight at that gun... She squatted beside him, took the wrist he released to her, and felt for the spot. She couldn’t find it; and it took her half a minute to realize that her own heart was beating so violently that it was out of the question to feel another pulse.
“It’s all right,” she lied.
“Good.”
“It really is.”
“Good. Let me see again.”
She relinquished the wrist to him, arose, took two steps, and sat down on the bumper. In a moment Ross got up and came and sat beside her.
“My knees are wobbly,” he said. “Gosh. Now I don’t know what to do. I can’t just leave him here. I expect he’ll come to pretty soon, and then what am I going to do? Maybe I ought to take him to a hospital. Or maybe I ought to take him to the house and turn him over to that fathead district attorney. Darned if I know what to do.”
Heather giggled; and, as Ross looked at her in surprise, she giggled again. She knew she was doing it, and was furious; but in spite of the desperate effort she made, she felt it coming once more, up to her throat; it was irresistible; and then suddenly Ross’s arms were tight around her, and the last giggle never got out because his lips were against hers, allowing it no avenue of escape, and it was no longer even in her throat, there were no more giggles in her...