He listened but heard no sign of movement inside the shed. He did, however, hear little noises further away and guessed that the shed was split up into sections, foxes in sections beyond this first one could smell or hear his presence and were restless. Softly he unlatched the door. He opened it a crack and attempted to peer inside. His eyes could not penetrate the inky blackness.
He stood there for a moment and then closed the door. As he did an electric light bulb directly over the door sprang into light. Quade gasped, but his quick brain deduced instantly that the lights in the fox pens were operated by remote control and someone back at the house or wherever the switches were, had turned them on. That meant also that the short circuit in the house had been repaired. But he couldn’t stand here under this light. Neither did he want to risk running to the woods again. He would make too good a target now with lights in several spots.
There wasn’t anything he could do but tear open the door of the fox shed and spring inside. To his consternation, there was an electric light bulb inside. He saw in his first glance around the room that this wasn’t really a fox pen, but rather a room for supplies. He saw several sacks of commercial cereal, fox food, many cans of disinfectants and remedies, even a blow torch. There was a wooden latch on the inside of the door. Quade dropped it. No sooner had he done so when he heard the crunch of feet on snow outside the door.
Quade tensed. He expected any moment that a bullet would tear through the planking of the door, that the harsh voice of Willie Scharnhorst would blast at him. A voice did speak. But it was muffled, disguised.
“All right, Quade. Come on out!”
“I like it better in here,” Quade replied. The advantage was his. The man outside was the person who had killed the airplane pilot and Gustave Lund. Why would he disguise his voice? It was not Scharnhorst. This person, apparently, did not want to make noise and bring Scharnhorst down upon him. That was in Quade’s favor. Quade didn’t want Scharnhorst in on this either.
He moved away from the door to a corner of the room. He heard the crunching of snow outside. The murderer was moving alongside of the fox pens. Suddenly Quade heard the quick flurry of rubbery pads; the nervous squeaks of animals. And then he saw something. The door leading into the adjoining pen was open. The killer was letting the foxes in on Quade. Quade knew that foxes, although shy, could be exceedingly vicious when frightened. And the foxes next door were certainly frightened at the moment.
He started across the room to close the door. He had taken only a step when there was a soft thump on the other side of the door and it flew wide open. A small black animal sprang into the room, saw Quade, and made a frightened leap for the small wire-covered window. Quade stepped quickly back into the corner. He had a gun and could shoot the animal if necessary, but the shot would instantly bring upon him Willie Scharnhorst and Louie.
There was more squealing and rushing about in the pen next door. Two foxes hurtled into Quade’s room, made a simultaneous leap at the window and bounced back to the floor.
He made a quick movement with his hand. “Beat it, fellows!” he said.
The foxes rushed, but not toward the door. They sprang instead upon a bench on which were several tin dishes. They knocked them over. The clatter frightened them even more. Now they were absolutely terrified, so much so they were utterly blind. They squealed and dashed helter-skelter in all directions, bumping themselves against the walls.
Quade crouched in a corner. An animal hurtled against him. He struck at it and sharp teeth ripped the leg of his trousers and tore into his ankle. Giddy pain swept over him. For an instant, he thought he was seeing double. There were more than three foxes in the room. He blinked and tried to count them. Five. And if they had been excited before, they were doubly so now. Perhaps the smell of the blood was affecting them.
Another animal leaped at Quade. He struck down at it with the gun. The animal squealed and fell away. Quade knew that he was in one of the tightest spots he had ever been in in his life. You could fight a human being but you couldn’t fight a room full of maddened foxes. The animals moved so fast you couldn’t even strike them solid blows.
His desperate plight stimulated his nimble brain. It was then he saw the can of ether on the shelf beside him. Alongside of it lay a three foot length of broomstick. Attached to one end of the stick was a bundle of cotton. Quade exclaimed softly. He whipped down the can of ether, tore off the cover, and with a quick movement splashed a half cupful of the contents on the cotton ball attached to the stick. The sickish sweet odor of ether assailed his nostrils.
He jammed his revolver into an overcoat pocket, caught up the stick with the ether-soaked cotton in one hand. The foxes were still rushing around. An animal snapped at his ankles. Quade smashed down with the stick and rapped the animal on the snout. The result was astonishing. The fox yelped, leaped and thudded to the floor, gave a spasmodic kick and lay still.
Quade’s eyes glinted. Now he took the offensive. He advanced from his corner, lunged out at another animal and tapped it lightly on the nose with the ether-soaked cotton. That fox fell. Now there were only three animals left. One hurtled through the air toward Quade’s throat. He smashed it down with his left fist and with his right hand flicked it with the stick.
Two left. Quade sprang forward, lunged for one and missed. The animal rushed away blindly, hit the wall and bounced through the open door into the pen. The fifth animal made a lightning circuit of the room, sprang for the wire-covered window and fell to the floor.
Quade caught it there, and then it was all over. He fastened the pen door so the fox that had escaped could not return. He was dripping with perspiration, weak from his battle and narrow escape, and mad clear through. He dropped the ether-soaked stick, whipped out his gun, and unlatched the door leading to the outside.
He stepped through and almost collided with Louie, the gunman. Louie yelled hoarsely and a bullet from his gun tugged at Quade’s overcoat. Quade shot him. Louie screamed and plunged forward to the snow. Grimly, Quade stepped over him. He marched through the snow that crunched loudly under his feet with every step, straight toward the drying sheds.
There was grim determination in his step and there was fury in his eye.
He found an excited circle of figures there. Charlie Boston was the dominating one of the group. On the snow lay Willie Scharnhorst.
“Ollie!” cried Boston. “Where’ve you been?”
“With the foxes,” retorted Quade. “I see you got Willie.”
“Yeah, he took his eyes off me and I belted him. But Louie got away.”
“Those shots just now was me and Louie shooting it out.” Quade’s eyes darted around the group. “The show’s over, folks,” he said. “Let’s all go to the house.”
Electric lights were on in the big living room of Karl Becker’s lodge. Gathered around were Mona Lane and Olga, Ben Slade and Alan McGregor; Bill Morgan and Karl Becker. Louie, the gunman, was still stretched out in the snow. There was no use bringing him in. In the kitchen, Hugo was tying up Willie Scharnhorst.
“Mr. Quade,” chortled Karl Becker, “I like you. You’re a fine fellow. If it hadn’t been for you—”
Quade waved a hand. “Scharnhorst and Louie are out of it, but there’s still a murderer. He’s in this room. He’s the man who killed the pilot, and Gustave Lund. I might say he’s also the man responsible for the airplane coming down.”
“I thought there was something wrong with the motor,” cut in Ben Slade.
Quade looked at Bill Morgan. “How about it?”