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“Hey, wait!” Blunt called. “Don’t go down there!” He lowered his voice and swore softly. The girl was gone.

“Who is she?” asked Stan.

“Lois Gilbert. I’d rather she didn’t see Trimmer lying down there.”

“Is everybody in Palatka interested in a fire?”

“Certainly. But Lois has a definite reason. She works for young Jupiter Carnes.”

“Oh. He’s the insurance man, isn’t he?”

“You sound disappointed.” Blunt chuckled. “She’s not only his secretary. They’re going to be married. She deserves it, too. Jupe’s about the best catch in town, but Lois is plenty smart.”

“I like them smart,” said Stan. “Hurry up and phone.”

Stan stood alone as Blunt went into the mill office. Things had broken faster than he had expected. He began to whistle softly, wondering if the fire had been precipitated by his arrival that day. He snapped his fingers in irritation and abandoned his tune. Trimmer’s murder had him puzzled. It was out of place and Stan hated things which were out of place. He was supposed to be in Palatka on an arson case, a murder didn’t fit in.

He decided that he needed help in Palatka, and that Lois Gilbert might be the answer since she was with the largest insurance agency in town... The Chief was taking plenty of time. Stan was about to go inside the office when he paused and drew back into the shadow of the building again.

From out of the darkness just above the mill where the bend of River Street straightened, the figure of a man appeared. He was walking hurriedly toward the mill. Once he stopped and looked back over his shoulder as if listening for some sound; then he looked both to right and left, turned, cut through an opening in bushes which bordered the street, and headed for the crowd at the river’s edge.

The Chief came out of the office, located Stan around the corner of the building, and said, “Who are you hiding from?”

“I was watching a man,” said Stan. “This business is getting on my nerves!”

“And what about mine?” asked Blunt. “I phoned the sheriff for help. I’d like to know what the hell I’m going to do about this murder. I can’t hold everyone in that crowd for questioning, but I’ve got to do something.”

Stan was silent, his thoughts still on the man who had come so furtively to the scene.

“It looked almighty as if you were trying to pin this on Phil Cox, Stan,” the Chief went on. “Do you know any reason why I should take him in?”

“Phil Cox?” Stan repeated absently. “No, Chief, I don’t think I’d take him in, but I think I’d talk to him the first chance you get and check him carefully on time. I’m interested to know exactly how long it was from the time he saw Trimmer alive until he found him in the water.”

“What about the others, Stan? Cox was right, you know. Lots of people had an opportunity to shoot Trimmer.”

“Before we go into that,” said Stan, “let’s find out if lots of people had a motive.”

“That’s what’s got me right now.” Blunt rubbed his strong chin. “Honestly, Stan, I don’t know of a more popular fellow in town. Maybe I’d better ask some of that crowd down there to come to the City Hall and talk this thing over tonight.”

Stan shook his head. “I’m afraid you’d be wasting time. I’m beginning to get an idea. It’s so crazy that I’d better let it hatch out in its own way, but I’ll tell you part of it now. Trimmer may have been killed from the river instead of the shore.”

“From a boat?”

“Naturally,” said Stan impatiently, “unless someone was walking on the water!”

“What gave you that idea?”

“The fire,” said Stan. “The lousiest job of arson I ever saw. Come along! There’s something down here I want to check.” He strode off toward the crowd with Blunt following close behind him.

Lois Gilbert was standing a few feet outside of the circle talking to the man Stan had watched on River Street a few moments before. Stan passed quickly by, and some distance farther on, he took the Chief’s arm and asked, “Who’s that man talking to the Gilbert girl?”

The Chief swung around. “Him? That’s young Jupe Carnes I was telling you about. Now, about this shooting from a boat...”

Blunt’s voice droned on, but Stan only heard half of what he was saying. He nodded intermittently and gradually worked his way closer to get a better look at Carnes. The young man was expensively dressed for a town the size of Palatka. Clothes with the cut and style of those couldn’t be bought this side of New York, and Stan noticed one thing more — Carnes’ shoes were wet, dripping wet, as if he’d been standing in water.

Lois Gilbert and Carnes started up toward the road. Stan broke into the Chief’s observations: “I think I’ll leave you. I’m about to die of hunger. I’ll be at Chick’s for a while if you want me.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to eat alone,” the Chief said sadly. “It looks like I’m in for a night of headache on my own.”

A few minutes later, Stan nosed his Buick into the curb near the corner of Fourth and Lemon Street and unwound himself out of the car. The small lunchroom was deserted except for the proprietor who walked up from the rear to greet Stan with a “How’ya, Stan? I heard you were in town. Is it hamburgers?”

“Four!” said Stan.

“I’ll rush ’em,” the proprietor told him. “That crowd from the fire’ll be here any minute. It’s mighty tough about Trimmer. He was a swell guy!”

It never failed to amaze Stan the way news got around in a small town. Early in his career as an officer of the law, he had learned to take into account the quick, unaccountable spread of information. Despite every precaution, things seemed to get around quicker than if they had been broadcast, telephoned, telegraphed, and called out by a town crier. The proprietor already knew about the murder, yet apparently no one had returned from the scene. Stan sighed and settled down to his eating. He had come to accept such facts and dismiss them as of no importance.

Outside, cars were pulling up. Within a few minutes Chick’s tiny restaurant was nearly filled. Stan had started on his third portion when Lois Gilbert and Jupiter Carnes came in. There was one vacant seat next to Stan. The only other one was ten stools distant. Carnes took that one and Lois took the stool next to Stan.

“Hello!” he said, not wasting a minute. “Miles Standish Rice is the name. I know you, you’re Lois Gilbert. Secretary to Jupiter Carnes, and cupid hath it that you expect soon to become Mrs. Carnes. How are you, and how’m I doin’?”

Lois looked at Stan carefully. “You’re doing all right, Mr. Rice, for a detective.”

Stan elevated one eyebrow. “Now just how did you know I was a sleuth?”

“Do you think a blond six-footer can question anybody at a fire in this town and not cause talk?”

“No,” he said. “I guess a detective can’t keep himself hidden long around here. But since you’ve found out, if you ever feel in the mood for a grilling, or even a third degree, I’d love to oblige.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that one of these days!”

“Seriously, though,” said Stan, “I have to do some detecting to earn my fee. How about a mild workout on you?”

“Go right ahead,” Lois answered, her words muffled, coming from behind her sandwich.

“O.K! We commence. What were you doing at the scene?”

“Oh, I go to all the fires. Jupe — that’s my boss, Mr. Carnes — thinks that one of us ought to get to the scene as fast as we can. We insure most of the mills. We both usually go just in case the other doesn’t get there, if you follow me.”

“Sure, sure,” Stan said. “If he doesn’t make it, you’re there — and vice versa.”