She couldn’t hear all he said, but she nodded.
He started to climb, hoping the swiftly fading light would hold a bit longer. The blood pounded in his ears as he struggled for handholds, swinging higher. Jeri was holding the end of the stick as high as she could. He grabbed it and continued on up to the top.
Stagnant, smelly water lay inert, filled with nimbly hopping water-bugs, crawling things. He pushed the stick clear to the bottom, stirring, feeling. She’d probably be weighted. His teeth were clenched with repugnance as he inched around the side, probing, digging.
“Lark?”
He stopped, peering down. “Huh?”
“Is she—?”
“Not yet.” He started in again, covering the bottom of the tank thoroughly.
“Lark, she isn’t in there! Listen to me. She’s under the tennis court!”
“What makes you think—?” He straightened with a jerk. “You mean that roller was used to—”
“Of course! He’s buried her in the clay and used the roller to smooth it flat.”
He threw the stick down, began scrambling swiftly toward the ground. Maybe she was right.
He grabbed the light. She piled his coat and hat on the ground, following at his heels as he ran for the tennis court, pausing beside the roller.
She picked up the long, metal tongue and pushed. “It’s dam heavy. It would flatten anything. I doubt whether even Gabe could push it.”
Lark lent a hand and together they rolled it a few feet. “Needs a car hitched to it,” he grunted. “See any tracks?”
She flashed the light. They started working their way slowly over the level court.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “He’s smooth. Maybe all these things are just for effect. We can’t start digging up the whole tennis court!”
“Not tonight at least,” he agreed. “But I think you’re on the right track, Red.” He reached, giving her a quick hug.
She jumped as a glare of lightning ripped the sky and thunder growled, came trembling into his arms. “I guess I’m a coward. I want to get out of here, Lark. Fast!”
“Me too,” he nodded. “C’mon.”
They ran toward the car. He snatched up his hat and coat. Rain was beginning to pelt down hard, whispering and chattering through the leaves overhead.
“What now?” she asked, as he backed the car out swiftly.
“I’ll take you to the hotel. I’m coming back.”
“Not tonight! I won’t let you come back here — unless you bring the police. You haven’t even got a gun.”
“Don’t be a nut. We haven’t got a body either. Just a lot of suspicions. But if Gabe comes poking his nose in — which I hope — he may spoil his nice little set-up. All I ask is to get within arm’s reach of that rat!”
“You’re crazy! He may be in town right now. On our trail. Did you register under your own name?”
“I used my own name,” he admitted drily. “Right now I could use a drink. I’ll check the Alcazar just on the off-chance that he might have the gall to stop there again.”
“I’ll check,” she contradicted. “Too many people have seen you running around lately. You wait in the bar of the Emporia.”
He really didn’t intend to let her do it, but when they parked near the hotel, she was adamant.
“Okay,” he said finally. “What’ll I order for you — a collins?”
“Right.” She opened the door.
“What’s that?” He pointed to a brownish smear on her green skirt.
“Paint,” she exclaimed. “I must have brushed against something at the cottage. Oh well — I’m a mess anyway.”
“But you didn’t get near that open can of paint. Funny. I didn’t see anything freshly painted around the cottage either.”
She shrugged. “The rain’s slacking up, Lark. I’ll run over to the hotel.” She brushed her lips to his cheek, and jumped out, laughing. “The lady detective’s on her way...”
Chapter Six
The Iron Grave
He had a straight whiskey. He needed it. The thought of that tank gave him the willies. Her collins sat beside him on the bar, waiting.
He moved over to the juke-box, slid a nickel in, and stood listening. Suddenly he went cold. She’d been gone fifteen minutes!
Running out into the rain, he splashed across the street and into the lobby of the Alcazar. The same toothless clerk was drooping over the desk. Jeri wasn’t here.
“Listen,” he said, “did a girl come in here? Redheaded? Beautiful? So tall?” Holding out his hands he made an age-old curving motion.
The clerk shook his head.
A hand tugged at his sleeve and he turned, staring down at his friend, Jimmy, who grinned widely.
“Hello, Mr. Anderson. Gee, they don’t grow like that in this town.”
Lark grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. “You’re sure, Jimmy? She didn’t come in here? If you’re kidding—”
“Honest. That’s straight!”
Lark let go of him, whirled, running for the door. Gabe had her! He could take her to the cottage, rid himself of the last stumbling block in his path...
Lark hesitated in the doorway. “Who’s the law in these parts? Who’s your sheriff?”
They stared.
“Snap out of it!” he roared. “A girl may be murdered if I don’t get help right away!”
“Sam Jager is sheriff,” the clerk mumbled. “But you’d have to catch him at his house. I could phone.”
“Then phone, pop!” Lark snapped.
Jimmy leaped with excitement. “Murder! Wow! Got a car? I’ll show you where the sheriff lives.”
They tore across the street and leaped in the Hudson.
Three minutes later they pulled up in front of a neat yellow house. Light came from several windows, shimmering through the steady downpour of rain. Lark left the motor running and dashed for the low porch, the bell-hop at his heels.
A white haired woman opened the door. “Lands sakes — what’s all the racket? Sam?” She stepped back. “This must be the young fellow Henry phoned you about.”
A vague grunt came from the other room, followed by the screeching sound of a violin.
She turned back. “My, isn’t this an awful night? Oh hello, Jimmy. I didn’t see you.”
Lark groaned.
Jimmy slipped past her with a muttered greeting and vanished inside, jabbering a mile a minute.
Presently a short, heavy-set figure moved into view. His face was lined and seamed, hair frosted with gray. Lark’s hopes diminished until he gazed into his eyes — eyes like green ice-cubes, flickering over him appraisingly.
“Well?” he said, buckling a holstered revolver around his thick waist. “Where we gonna find this girl you’re talking about? Ma — hand me my slicker.”
“I’m sure he’s taking her to a cottage about four miles from here. I’ve got a car.”
“We’ll use mine. See you later, Ma.” He kissed her on the cheek, set a wide-brimmed hat carefully on his head and led the way around the side of the house. “No, Jimmy,” he told the bell-hop at their heels. “This ain’t for you. Skedaddle!”
“Aw, Sam.”
“What’s your name?” Jager asked Lark, swinging wide a garage door.
“Anderson. I’m from Elgin. My girl’s in the hands of a killer, Jager. And there’s a body buried somewhere around that cottage. The Johnson place, it’s called.”
They were climbing into a beautiful black car, with a siren on the side, and twin red spots.
Sam Jager backed out cautiously, easing off down the street. “I know where it is. Now give me the whole story.”