“There!” said Altinger. “Just sit there for a while, Miss Ingolls. . . . You two, use that cord and fix her nicely.”
There were no voices then for hour-long minutes—only a murmuring of movement. Otto found that his whole body was trembling uncontrollably: it had been trying, ever since the first call of “Otto!” to disobey his mind: it wanted to charge up the cellar steps, with the Lüger in its hand, and blaze away and kill and kill. . . .
But his mind would not let the body so much as move. Not yet. Not until the mind knew more; knew enough to make some possibility of real escape for Clare; knew enough to be sure that by letting the body move it would not merely be signing a quicker death-warrant for Clare and himself and his task—their task.
“That’s it!” Altinger’s voice was full of pleasant satisfaction. “She’ll do nicely now!” The voice changed as he spoke to one of the men. “Carson: go outside—no, wait a minute!” He spoke to Clare again. He said:
“Now, dear, suppose you tell me a little more about our friend Jorgensen-Falken and his trip to the store.”
“I’ve told you!” Clare’s voice was rough and broken and sharp-edged with fear.
Otto’s body shook so violently that he was forced to reach out a hand and grip the edge of the table.
“I hope you don’t mind this cigar, dear?” came Altinger’s voice. “Now: how long has he been gone? And how soon will he be back? And are you sure that he hasn’t gone much further—much, much further—than the store?”
“Why do you keep on at me? I’ve told you! I’ve told you!”
Now another voice, guttural and booming. “Want me and Siegel to look around the rooms, Boss? In case he’s hiding out some place.”
“No. If he were, that’s just what he’d want, Carson. And I don’t think he is. I think the young lady’s being truthful.” There was a ruminative, speculatory ring to Altinger’s tone; a ring which Otto knew.
“Listen, dear,” said Altinger. “For a double reason, I’m going to ask you those three questions again. Never mind whether you’ve told me before or not—just answer them. And I’m afraid I’ll have to spoil that pretty shirt.”
And then a little silence—and a sudden sharp sound of tearing silk and a quick, barely heard gasp from Clare. “First, Miss Ingolls, how long has the boy-friend been gone?”
“I told you. It must be . . . half an hour now.”
“Now——”
A sick pause, and then a sudden quick flurry of drumming heels upon the floor-boards; a spasmodic drumming of heels which could not move except to drum. And no other sound; no other sound at all.
“You still say that? After the . . . warmth?” Altinger’s voice.
Then words from Clare—thickened words which came as a muffled groaning. “Yes. . . . Yes. . . .”
“Very well, dear. Watch the cigar carefully. How soon do you think he will be back?”
“In . . . in . . . oh, in half an hour. That’s all I know! For God’s sake . . .”
“Now—is that really the truth?”
The drumming of heels again—and then a long shuddering gasp which rose to a strange throaty sound like a muffled scream—and then two words. “Yes. . . . Yes. . . .”
“You know, Miss Ingolls, I’m very much inclined to believe you. But as I said, I’ve a double motive in this rather crude questioning. And you aren’t making quite enough noise. . . .”
Otto found that the trembling of his body had ceased. But sweat had drenched him; it was dripping from his brow and his chin, and his shirt was sodden. He put a hand inside the shirt and took out the pistol and thrust it into a hip pocket. There was a hard, cold lump in his stomach.
“So we’ll dispense with the third question, dear, but well—just—make—quite—sure——”
The heels beat and scraped and rattled, drumming searing flames into Otto’s head. And there were worse sounds—a hoarse groaning from the lovely throat; a hoarse groaning which suddenly and unbearably became a high shrill cry which changed in its turn to a dreadful sobbing whimper which stayed in Otto’s ears and flayed the lining of his belly. He thought he must vomit.
And then a silence, broken only by little sobbing gasps. . . .
And then Altinger, now brisk. “All right. He isn’t here, because that would’ve brought him on the inn. Sorry, dear. Now: Siegel, you stay here with the girl. Keep that gun out. Wait till I get back. Carson, Flecker, come along with me.”
And tramping feet above Otto’s head—to the door—and through it—and on to the path.
In one soundless movement, he leapt across to the opening of the bolt-hole and crouched beside it and prayed that he might hear more.
And the footsteps stopped at the end of the path, exactly above his head. He could hear every word and movement and breath of the three men as they stood there.
Altinger said: “Carson: stay here and patrol around all the time. Keep in the shadow and don’t run any risk of being seen. Flecker: you come along and drive me. Know that store the girl says he’s gone to?”
A high voice said nasally: “Yeah. Top o’ the hill down t’ Monterey.”
“Good. We’ll drive slowly down that way. I don’t want to waste any time. Carson: keep your eyes peeled. If you hear him or see him coming, get back in the house and wait with Siegel. Get him together. Don’t kill him unless it’s essential—I want him.”
The guttural voice boomed an inarticulate reception of orders—but the high nasal whine of the man called Flecker had things to say. It said:
“Mist’ Altinger, don’t you reckon it’d be best . . .” and got no further. This man, unlike the giant Carson, had not worked with Altinger before.
“Shut up!” Altinger said. “Carson: when I come back we’ll put the car where it is now. And I’ll sound the horn three times if I’ve got him. That means you bring the girl—quick! I’ll sound the horn once if we haven’t got him. It’s up to you then. Get right out front, clear of the trees there, and flash me with your light—one if you’ve got him; three if you haven’t. If you have, bring him and the girl to the car, quick! Got all that?”
Another guttural grunt.
“Good,” snapped Altinger. “Any suggestions?”
Carson said: “Should remind you about the plane.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Remember I told Kummer to have her ready to go at nine. And it’s after eight now.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Altinger said. “But we’ll leave it. I’ll have Mr. Falken-Jorgensen by then.” He laughed. “And I’ll take him along; I’ll take both of ’em along.” He laughed again. “For part of the way,” he said.
“Okay!” Carson said. “Okay.”
“Come on, Flecker!” Altinger’s voice came from further away now—and Otto could hear the whispering of the grass as legs cut through its tall and feathery stems.
But Carson still stood there; stood there for moments like days; stood there within a foot of the bolt-hole, so that Otto, his heart beating like a blacksmith’s hammer against the cage of his ribs, could see the great columnar legs as he peered upward through the chinks in the camouflage.
He strained his ears for any sound from the house above—but there was none that he could hear. None. He peered again through the bolt-hole, with a caution which would not let him so much as breathe—and saw that the legs were still there. He thought of the cellar steps into the passageway—and discarded the idea so soon as it was born. The chair he had pulled there to hide the entrance was too heavy—far too heavy—to move without sound or quickly enough. He had trapped himself with his own precautions—and he could not help Clare—and he thought of what had happened up there above him and he felt that his mind would tear loose from his control; from all control. . . .