There was a little silence. The car kept rolling along the dark road at a reasonable speed.
"You push hard, Mister," the sheriff murmured at last.
"You started it," I said. "You wanted us to keep our wild animals in cages. My point is, you haven't done so well with yours. Now, shall we stop making faces at each other and see what we can do to get this particular man-eater back into the zoo? How much did he ask for?"
There was another silence; then the answer came reluctantly. "Fifty grand." I didn't say anything. Rullington felt obliged to explain the size of the figure: "I sold off a big piece of my land last year. Janssen must have learned about it."
I said, "He doesn't give a damn about your money. One grand or a hundred, it means the same to him: nothing. You know that."
The chunky man's shoulders moved almost imperceptibly under the khaki shirt. When he spoke, there was resignation in his voice. "What the hell can I do but play along with the gag?"
"Janssen will kill you," I said. "That's all he wants from you, your life."
"It's been tried before."
"If you've got a derringer up your sleeve or a knife under your shirt collar, forget it. Try to remember that you're dealing with a pro, not some kid who went joyriding in a stolen car." He said nothing, and gave nothing away. He was something of a pro himself. I said, "Suppose I could save you your money, your life, and your son's life; and give you an answer to your cop-killings…
He threw me a sharp glance. "I thought you wanted Janssen for yourself."
"I didn't say I'd give you the right answer, Sheriff."
There was another pause. I hoped I'd given it the right buildup: the arrogant, ruthless, unscrupulous government emissary prepared to stop at nothing to protect the reputation of his agency. Come to think of it, that wasn't so far off base.
Sheriff Rullington said, in a faintly wondering voice, "So you're going to frame some poor bastard-"
"This poor bastard I found on the ridge overlooking your house, with a loaded.300 Savage beside him. He's got motive and opportunity, what more do you want? His name's Hollingshead."
I didn't owe the old man anything. The fact that I'd kind of liked him meant nothing at all. I hadn't promised the colorful old character anything, not a thing.
"You're a liar," said Rullington.
I drew a long breath. I wanted to hit him. Well, I wanted to hit somebody, and the trouble was, the only really logical target was me.
"Oink, oink," I said.
Strangely, after all the heavy stuff I'd fired at him without effect, this childishness got to him. The car bucked as he hit the brakes hard.
"Now, listen, you federal sonofabitch-" I grinned. "You cops!" I said. "You can call anybody anything you want, but if somebody badmouths you it's a criminal offense. What the hell do you expect when you call a man a liar, kisses and flowers?"
After a moment, the car picked up speed once more. "Nevertheless, you're lying, Mister," Rullington said at last in more reasonable tones. "Or mistaken. I told you, I checked on all of them. Arnold Hollingshead works at a filling station in Sedgeville, Kentucky. He hasn't missed a day in the last three weeks. He's still there. My office would have been notified if he'd disappeared."
"Arnold. That must be the papa of the boy who got shot," I said. "Good enough as far as it goes, but you didn't go far enough, Sheriff. You didn't check on Grandpa, an old feuding type from the hills. Harvey Bascomb Hollingshead, 72, of Bascomb, Kentucky."
That shocked him more than anything I'd said. I saw his jaw tighten as if at a blow. "Jesus!" he breathed. "Christ, has the whole world gone crazy? Does every one of the goddamn brats have homicidal relatives? I suppose that brick-throwing Dubuque punk's got an uncle or a cousin sneaking around with a blowgun or tommyhawk or other crazy weapon!" He shook his head angrily. "If they'd just bring their kids up right, to respect law and order-"
"You tell them, Sheriff," I said. "You tell them. I don't know about Dubuque, but I do have Hollingshead. He'll make you a fine scapegoat. And once he's in jail, I guarantee, the mad strangler of Fort Adams will never strike again. You'll be a hero."
"Where are you holding the old coot?" When I grinned and didn't speak, Rullington said, "Damn it, I'm the law around here, Mister! I don't care how many federal badges you have, you can't come into my county and…
He was just making noise and he knew it. His voice trailed off. Presently he said, "Come to think of it, I didn't get a real good look at that badge. And you didn't tell me what your name was, just what it wasn't."
I passed him the fancy ID case. He switched on the dome light and examined it, slowing the car. Then he gave it back and switched off the light.
"Matthew L. Helm," he said. "What does the 'L' stand for? Never mind. I've seen better-looking credentials passed out free with breakfast cereal."
He could have been right about that. I said, "You're wasting time, Sheriff. You said thirty miles and we've come nineteen. Do you want the deal or don't you? If you do, you'd better get on your squawker and send somebody where I tell you-only first I want your word that you're going to cooperate."
He hesitated. "How are you going to pull it? How do you figure on catching Janssen without risking Ricky's life?"
I said, "Either you let me do it my way or you do it yours, which will certainly get you killed, and maybe your boy as well."
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because I want Janssen even worse than you do, and without any more dead bodies cluttering up his back trail."
He frowned thoughtfully. After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders and reached for the microphone. "Okay, it's a deal. Where do I send them?" When I told him, he made a face as if it was a joke on him that Hollingshead was hidden so close to his house, and maybe it was, but he got the message through to the other car, and hung up the mike. "Okay, now what His voice died. He was watching the rear view mirror.
"What's the matter?"
"We're being tailed. If it's Janssen, he's seen us together and we're in trouble. Ricky's in trouble."
"What kind of a car?"
"I can't… Wait a minute." We swung through a series of curves, and he said, "I can't make out for sure in the dark, but it looks like a white Chevy sedan with a woman driver."
I tried not to react, and I think I was successful, but I thought: The stupid, perverse, interfering little bitch..
"It's all right," I said easily. "She's one of ours. You didn't think I was handling this all by myself, did you?"
"Well, you'd better get ride of her before Janssen spots her. He said I was to come alone."
"Sure," I said. "Pull up and I'll go back and give her some instructions. Where the hell did those Detroit geniuses hide the door handle on this one?"
He made an impatient sound, and reached over to work the camouflaged handle that looked like an ashtray. The needle slipped through his khaki sleeve and into his forearm. I pushed the plunger home.
XVIII.
As I dragged the stocky, unconscious body from under the wheel and propped it up more or less securely in the front passenger seat, headlights pulled up behind us, a car door opened, and footsteps hurried towards me. I didn't bother to turn my head. I knew who it was even before I heard the indignant feminine gasp.
"You promised!" Martha Borden's voice said accusingly. "You gave me your word you'd do your best to save his life!"
I said, "He's alive. Put a stethoscope on him if you like. You'll find his heart beating like a metronome." I got him where I wanted him and closed the door, straightening up outside the car and turning to look at her. "You're a funny girl, Borden," I said. "You weep for the whole human race, but you seem to be just yearning to spend the rest of your days with the death of a ten-year-old boy on your conscience."