They parked on a lonely stretch of road. Lark pushed his hat to the back of his head, pursed his lips and expelled a gusty sigh. “I don’t know, Red. Got any hunches?”
She shook her head, slumping down in the seat.
The sound of plodding hoofs approached, harness creaking and jingling. A farmer emerged from an almost hidden side road, driving a team of weary horses hitched to a wagon load of hay.
“Hey, mister,” he hailed. “You better put a top on that water tank you’ve been buildin’. It’ll fill with bug’n twigs— Oh! I thought you was someone else.” He picked up his whip, a tall, gaunt man in faded overalls, an old straw hat, and was about to lash the horses.
Lark tumbled out. “You thought I was Mr. Simpson?”
The man spoke to his horses, pulling on the reins. “Well — I don’t rightly know his name. He took over the Johnson cottage about three months ago. Caught a glimpse of him yesterday from the field in a car just like yours.”
Lark glanced at Jeri. She was edging to his side of the car, gripping the wheel excitedly.
He took out a cigarette casually. “Is that cottage nearby?”
The man pointed the whip back the way he had come. “Up the road a piece. Better’n a mile.”
“I’ve been looking at property all afternoon,” Lark said glibly. “Any idea he might sell?”
The farmer shrugged. “Wouldn’t be knowin’. He had some men fixin’ the place up when he first took it. Tennis court ’n everything. Then he lost interest, I guess. No good for farmin’ anyway.”
“I might have a look. My name’s Anderson.”
The man leaned down awkwardly, extending his hand. “Mine’s Arkwright. Reckon it wouldn’t hurt nothin’ to have a look. Storm’s comin’. I gotta get my hay in.”
Lark took his crushed hand back, gesturing toward Jeri. “My fianceé.”
Jeri stuck out her tongue at him, smiled at Arkwright. “You were saying something about a tank?”
“Mmm,” he muttered. “You’ll see. A crazy notion if you ask me. Water tank on stilts ’n no cover on it. Well — them clouds says I ain’t got too much time.”
He chirped at the horses, and the wagon began lumbering on. He waved. “I’m up the road about two mile. Stop in an’ get some cold milk. Best you ever drank!”
Lark grinned, waved, climbing back into the car. “Farmers,” he said. “God bless ’em!” He spun the car in a circle, wheels churning the dirt.
“Luck!” Red breathed. “Pure luck!”
The road became a lane, dense foliage crowding the edges. Jeri looked ruefully at the cloudy sky. “It’s certainly getting dark.”
“Look in the glove compartment. I saw a flashlight.”
She found it, clicked it on. “It works.”
“Good.” He was straining his eyes in the half-light, not wanting to turn on the headlamps.
They passed a hay field where Arkwright must have been working. It was on the left side of the lane. A streak of lightning flickered weirdly over the face of rolling, black clouds. A clearing on the right loomed up, the lane winding on endlessly. He turned sharply into a rutted driveway and cut the motor.
The cottage was moderately large, an almost flat roof littered with leaves and fallen branches, low-hanging eaves, a porch extending on two sides. It looked empty — curtains at the windows, but no light. A stream somewhere in back made a babbling, rushing sound, loud in the stillness.
“Empty.” Jeri whispered. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”
“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll give it a once-over.”
She scrambled out first. “Not on your life! I’m coming too.”
He climbed out. “You can’t tell what we’ll find, Jeri. Better think twice.”
She looked at him tight-lipped. “If I’m thinking the same thing you are, it won’t be easy. Not if I know Gabe. Look. There’s the tank. Back of the house. And the tennis court.”
Clay had been spread for the court and rolled with a large metal roller which appeared now to be abandoned and gathering rust. Weeds were sprouting in patches through the clay. But it was the water tank which took Lark’s eye.
About fifty feet back of the house, it stood eighteen or twenty feet above the ground on a framework of creosoted two-by-fours a large, galvanized tank roughly ten feet in diameter and about eight feet deep. There was no ladder in view. Jeri was eyeing it curiously. Their eyes met.
Side by side they approached the cottage. A bird fluttered from a thicket, darting straight for the porch and the closed front door, veering sharply on beating wings.
Jeri’s fingers dug into his arm. “It... it’s creepy.”
He shook off her hand and went up on the porch, trying the door. The knob turned but a lock held it without budging. He tried the windows along the right side of the building and found them securely locked. There was a sizable rock handy, and he picked it up. “Stand back, Red.”
Shattering glass tinkled, falling on the floor inside. He reached in gingerly and found the latch, raised the frame. “Want to go in first?” he grinned.
She was tense. “Don’t be funny, Lark!”
He hoisted himself over the sill, eyes darting over the gloomy interior. The place wasn’t badly furnished.
She held up her arms and he lifted her in. “Gimme that light.”
He pushed the bright beam ahead of him, kicked open a bedroom door. Empty. The bed was neatly made up. A sour smell hung over everything. The closet was completely bare. Another bedroom held a scattered array of tools, nothing else. There was a portable welding outfit, tanks containing oxygen and acetylene gas.
“What’s that for?” Jeri asked, pressing close behind him.
“Probably used to weld the tank when it was put up. It’s a complete outfit. Look. Here’s a flint lighter, dark glasses, even filler rod.”
“What’s filler rod?”
“Filler rod, or welding rod, it’s all the same. See? Here’s two torch heads. You weld with one type — do cutting with the other. Get me?”
“You garage men,” she said, shaking her head. “Does it matter?”
“I wonder.” he muttered, eyes squinted thoughtfully. He spotted an open can of paint with a brush lying across the top. There was a thin scum across the brownish surface but it told him nothing except that it could have been used within the past few days or hours.
Jeri was rummaging through kitchen drawers. “Lark!”
He swung the light around, grabbed the black leather gloves out of her hand. “Gabe’s! I told you about these. Remember?”
She took her purse out of her pocket, fumbling inside. “I think I need a smoke.”
The locket fell out, lay face up on the floor. The picture of Gabe Varden was missing.
“That’s funny,” she mused, stooping and picking it up. Then her face went white. “Lark! Do you remember last night? It fell out on the table at the house. If he found it — or one of the servants took it to him—”
Lark reached for the locket grimly. The girl’s face stared up at him with wide, mutely staring eyes.
“She’s dead,” Jeri whispered. “I know it! And buried in this very house!”
He gripped her arm. “Or in that water tank!”
She shuddered, pressing her face against his shoulder.
“I’ve got to get you out of here, Red. But first I’ll have a quick look in that tank.”
Her head flashed back. “You think Gabe would come here?”
“Like a homing pigeon! Come on.” He stuck the gloves and the locket in his pocket, leading the way to the window.
Outside, he surveyed the tank grimly, removing his coat and hat and handing them to Jeri.
“You’re going to climb?”
“I need a fairly long stick... There’s one.” He picked up a fallen limb, breaking it off at the right length. “Hand this up to me.” Thunder rolled and reverberated, coming almost simultaneously with the lightning flash.