“I might find a few hours for the birds, at that, if you can make it tomorrow,” Stan suggested.
“The day after’s better.” Buck turned back to Stan. “I’ll have some time off then. I know a good place out on the Rodman Road.”
“It’s a date!” said Stan.
Buck started down for the water’s edge. “I’ll see you then. I’ve got to uncouple the sucker. Phil and Trimmer’ll be cursing me blue.”
“Just a minute,” Stan put a hand on Buck’s arm. “Who’s Trimmer, Buck?”
“Wallace Trimmer, another volunteer. He usually works on the pumper. He’s pretty good.”
A figure emerged from the darkness down by the river’s edge and Buck started off again. “That’s Phil,” he said over his shoulder. “He must be done already.”
“Hey, Phil!” he called. “Let’s wind her up and get back to bed.”
“O.K.!” the man called back. “Come on down and lend a hand.”
Stan opened the door of the Buick and started to get in.
“I’ll ride down town with you, if you don’t mind,” said Blunt. “I could do with a bite to eat.”
“You can count me in on that, too!” Stan paused with one foot on the step of the car.
Phil Cox was running toward them, his rubber coat flapping grotesquely, his heavy boots swishing clumsily through the thick, tangled grass. “We need some help down here,” he called when he was still some distance away. “Trimmer’s passed out!”
Several men started forward, but Chief Blunt said, “Stay back! The fewer around, the better.” He added under his breath: “Come on, Stan!” He clicked on a small flash-light and led the way.
Stan fell in beside him after a few quick strides. The yellow circle of the flash-light guided them around charred pieces of board and nail-studded lathes. Dry sand gave way to thick, boggy mud which oozed about Stan’s shoes and threatened his ankles.
The circle of the flash swung ahead and stopped, lighting the contour of a pale, handsome face framed in the lapping water close to the bank.
Buck Anders and Phil Cox were bent over the limp form of Wallace Trimmer, just about to lift it to the bank.
“Lord!” Blunt breathed in Stan’s ear. “He looks like he’s dead to me!”
Blunt let his flash drop, and he and Stan joined the two firemen and carefully helped them lift the young man farther up on the shore. Stan straightened up from his task and pulled a clump of grass out by the roots to wipe his fingers dry. They felt sticky, but it was too dark to answer the question in Stan’s mind.
“I’ll get a doctor,” said Phil and started off to where the twin red lights of the LaFrance were bathing the mill in their fan-shaped glow.
Buck Anders, still on his knees, held a hand on Trimmer’s chest and looked up at Stan. “He’s pretty bad, I’m afraid.” His voice was low and trembled slightly. “I don’t see how smoke—” He stopped and looked down toward Trimmer again.
Stan picked up Chief Blunt’s flash and walked down to the water’s edge once more. For a moment, he stood watching the tiny waves pushing against hyacinths and reeds. He lifted the light and pointed it toward the black hulk of a large building some distance away up the river. The light battered ineffectually against the gloom.
Chief Blunt came up silently beside him, and after a while said, “Well, what do you think?”
“Look!” Stan lowered the light toward his feet. “The water’s full of blood, Chief. Wallace Trimmer was shot through the back of the head!”
A circle of men had already closed in about them, quietly watching the still form on the ground. The expression of relief which had come to the fire-fighters’ faces with extinction of the flames was gone, replaced by something grim and angry. It was obvious to Stan that Wallace Trimmer had been a popular man in the town.
The Chief of Police swung his torch around the circle and asked: “Did anyone hear a shot fired around here?”
No one answered immediately, except by an uneasy shifting of feet, and an angry mutter, unintelligible and low. The Chief repeated his question and waited again.
From the river’s edge a large unseen bullfrog croaked a reply. It was taken up by others until the night became hideous with the din. Farther inshore, trees which were lush and green by day stood stark and spectral as though aware that murder had violated the even, easy way of the mill town.
“There’s such things as silencers, Chief,” said some man in the crowd after a time. His words were followed by a stir as Phil Cox and a doctor pushed through. The fireman led the way, looking large and formidable in his bulky clothes. Stan studied him as he kneeled beside the physician, watching the play of reflected torch light on Phil’s red face and heavy brows.
The examination was short, and finished by the doctor saying, “He was instantly killed. I’ll send an ambulance down to take him away.”
Stan stepped forward. “Somebody suggested that a silencer was used to kill this man,” he said calmly. “I doubt if that’s so. The crackle of burning boards is a pretty good cover-up for a shot.” He turned to Phil Cox. “When did you last see Trimmer alive?”
“Less than five minutes before I found him lying on the shore. Him and I went down to drag the sucker free. I came back to uncouple the first joint and when I went back to help him, there he was lying like you seen him.”
“You and Wallace Trimmer worked the sucker together?” asked Stan.
“That’s right.”
“There was no one else around?”
“No.” Phil Cox adjusted his fire helmet. His face grew more congested as he fixed his eyes on Stan. “I don’t like what you’re driving at, mister. It sounds almighty like you’re hinting something about me.”
“Take it easy, Phil,” the Chief advised. “This is Miles Standish Rice. He’s up here looking around for the Mill Owners Protective—”
Stan ran one hand through his tousled blond hair. “There’ll be lots of questions asked, Cox, before all the checking is through. Trimmer was with you alive — and five minutes later he’s dead. And your own statement is that no one was near him but you.”
“Which I stick to!” Cox spoke quietly but the fury in his tone was most apparent. “I’ve heard of you, but detective or no, you don’t have to pick me out of this whole crowd. Anyone could have shot Wallace Trimmer.”
“That’s just the trouble, Cox,” said Stan softly. “Anyone.” He didn’t need to add: “Including you.”
Chief Blunt was silent as he and Stan started for the mill office to use the phone. The gay friendly kidding which marked their relationship seemed out of place in the face of death, sudden and quick-striking. Stan was never able to rid himself of a feeling of loss, almost personal loss, which death, and particularly murder, always gave him.
They picked their way slowly over the rough road of dampened sawdust, passed through an opening between two quiet buildings which whined monotonously to endless sawing during the day, and stopped outside of the small office.
A girl was coming toward the office, moving as quickly as the uneven ground permitted. She passed under a single swinging bulb which marked the juncture of River Street and the road to the factory. Stan caught a pleasant flash of dark hair and slender figure before she left the radius of light and drew nearer.
She stood for a moment looking toward the crowd which formed a black circle between office and river. Thrusting slim hands into the pockets of her light camel’s hair coat, she spoke to the Chief.
“Have I missed it?” Her voice was musical and low.
“I’m afraid so, Lois. There’s nothing much but smoke left now.”
“I’m glad of that. I was afraid—” She turned gray, intelligent eyes toward Stan for a split second then started on a run toward the crowd.