Lark was straining in the seat. “How about stepping on it?”
The siren drowned his voice. By the time the sheriff snapped on the spotlights, things were passing in a blur of speed.
Jager listened without comment, his hands heavy on the wheel. There was no need for the siren on these lonely stretches of gumbo. At times the wheels churned, slid — the car lurching and fighting.
They turned onto the lane at last, swinging up into the clearing. There was no car parked in front of the cottage.
Lark’s eyes had been busy on the road. “He was here!” he shouted as they climbed out. “See those ruts his tires made? He’s driven on up the lane — probably saw our lights.”
Jager grunted, sweeping a five-cell flashlight in short arcs.
Lark ran up on the porch. The front door was swinging on its hinges.
There was no sign of Jeri. They went from room to room.
“Let’s go!” Lark gritted. “He’s got her with him!”
“Wait up,” Jager said. “Let’s have a look for that body you’re so sure about — wife number one, you say?”
“There’s no time. I tell you, he’s got Jeri with him!”
Jager flung him off. “You’ve been telling me a pretty wild yarn, young man, with nothing to back it up except some tire tracks in the mud.”
“And the front door wide open! He’s been here and gone.”
“He won’t get far on this mud road without chains. A body, you say. Now where—?”
“I don’t know where!”
Imperturbably, Jager swung the beam of light in a slow, sweeping motion, rain trickling from the brim of his hat. “What’s that thing?” He had the heavy roller targeted squarely.
The answer exploded in Lark’s face. “The paint!” he yelled. “Jeri brushed against that roller when we tried to push it. She’s in there! His wife’s in it!”
Jager stood hunched, disbelief written all over his face. “Calm down, Anderson. You’re shaking like a colt. How’d anybody get a body in that roller?”
“I’ll show you! Got a hammer in your car, and a screw driver?”
Grudgingly the sheriff moved away.
Lark groped toward the tennis court, crouched by one end of the roller.
About four feet long, three and one half feet in diameter, it was the type that held either water or sand for ballast in its hollow interior. He found the threaded, screw-type cap midway along its length, but couldn’t budge it. In the darkness he could tell very little, but he found the paint — a thin circle of paint camouflaging a newly welded seam.
Jager came lumbering through the clay with a hammer and a chisel.
He picked up the hammer, held the chisel at an angle and swung. One end of the chisel penetrated. A thin stream of water spewed out, running steadily.
“Dunno,” he said, catching his breath. “A damn good hiding place. An iron grave.”
Lark’s eyes never left the dwindling stream of water. It wavered, ceased.
The sheriff dropped heavily on his knees, maneuvering one eye close to the opening. He squatted back wordlessly.
Lark went down on all fours, peering. He saw a white arm, blonde hair...
Jager took the light out of his hand. “Guess we better not waste more time. Not if he’s got your girl!”
Lark followed him on a dead run. They passed that eerie cottage and leaped into the car. Mud flew high as Jager sent the big car roaring in reverse. He straightened it out and they forged off up the winding lane.
“He can’t get far on this road,” he muttered. “And maybe we won’t either.”
They rode in grim silence, eyes straining ahead.
“What’d I tell you?”
The lane abruptly climbed, and about half a block ahead, a tail light gleamed, bouncing, weaving...
“He can’t make the hill!” Lark yelled.
The Cadillac squatted, lunging upward, losing momentum. Jager was growling, fighting into second gear, back into high again. His driving was masterful, but they were in a sea of mud and water, crawling now.
The car ahead stopped. The door on the driver’s side flew open. Varden’s figure lunged into the road, fell, reared upright. Flame spurted from his hand.
One of their headlights blinked out.
Lark had his door open. “Keep going!”
He climbed out on the running board, got the door shut and crouched, hair plastered in his eyes, finding a precarious handhold on one of the red spotlights.
He saw a movement in the car. Jeri! Her slim legs appeared, sliding into view through the open door, down into the mud. She crouched, hair whipping wildly.
Varden was holding his fire, waiting, moving closer to Jeri for protection.
They got to within sixty or seventy feet. Varden’s arm moved, extended stiffly. There was a flash — and their other headlamp went out.
Lark jumped, feeling the car sliding down into the ditch. He ploughed toward Varden — toward a cold, methodical Varden with death in his hand.
The first bullet brushed Lark’s cheek. The shadowy figure loomed tall ahead. He sprinted on in short rushes, weaving, getting close. And then Jeri’s figure left the side of the car swiftly. She flung herself at Varden, jarring him, clinging.
Fighting for breath, Lark drove his aching legs in a last desperate spurt.
Varden’s gun came up, blasting, but Lark had hold of that arm, twisting violently. His fist smashed into the other’s face, sending him reeling. Jeri was sitting dazedly in the mud; then she began scrambling to get out of the way.
Varden’s gun was gone. He came with rush, face contorted in fear.
Lark gasped, got a wad of black hair twined in his fingers and jerked, smashing with his right. Muscle and bone grated; the plump face changed contour. He smashed — again and again.
He heard Jager’s harsh, excited voice: “Wait now! Stop that!”
He kept on, his mouth twisted.
Sam Jager said, “Sorry,” and aimed a kick.
Lark went down in the mud, nursing a shin bone. It felt good to just lie there.
Jeri dropped down, pulling his head onto her lap.
“Jeri?” He stared up into her face. “Did he—?”
“Hurt me? No. You came in time — just in time. I was going into the hotel when he grabbed me. He found the picture out of the locket and realized I knew too much. He — strangled his wife — bragged about it, Lark!”
The sheriff stooped, gripped Varden’s coat collar, and began hauling. “His welding days are over,” he said. He paused, gazing at them thoughtfully. “Must be love,” he said, shaking his head, “to make you sit in the mud.” Jeri pushed back her wet mop of hair, teeth flashing whitely. “It’s taken me four months. How am I doing?”
The flashlight went on its way.
Lark pulled her down into his arm. Finally he whispered: “How am I doin’?”
“Gee,” she said shakily. “Gee...”
The Random Kee-Whango
by Rufe Bakal
Alex felt almost tender toward his fat and frowsy wife — now that her grave was awaiting.
Immobilized by a dinner of pork shanks and sauerkraut, Alex Faffner lay on the velour couch in the front room of the farm house, acutely conscious of his wife, who was washing dishes in the kitchen. He could not remember the exact moment at which he had decided to murder her, but the decision had been made and was, he knew, irrevocable. He remembered that for a time, a short while ago, her presence and her movements in his house — indeed, her very projection into his life — had become almost unbearable. But now, he reflected with satisfaction, that feeling was gone. Since he had made up his mind, Vi was tolerable to him. It was, he thought, like letting an ant crawl up your arm, enduring its sauciness because you knew you could kill it at your pleasure.