The Demon used his flash on the cement. A car had slurred around there. In a three-quarter circle. The marks of the tires hadn’t been obliterated by the steady sleet, either. They’d been 6.50s, he figured.
The stuff splashed on the sign would have frozen solid if it had been there more than a few minutes. If the car was the Buick, it couldn’t be far ahead. Quite an “if,” he realized.
He nosed Minnie along cautiously. Around a bend lurid neons quivered in a St. Vitus invitation:
The vibrating vermilion illuminated a half-dozen parked cars — but no ’47 Buick.
Beyond were gas pumps, a glow of bluish fluorescence. In the garage a man in a mackinaw lay on his back under the sedan with the Maryland pads.
“Little trouble?” The Demon saw no sign of the girl.
“Chains.” The man swore wearily. “Lady oughta be chained up herself, if she insists on driving tonight.”
“Where is she?” The man rolled out from under. “Eatin’, I s’pose. Anything wrong?”
“Just checking.” He couldn’t say more, with only a whiff of garlic to go on, could he? “Use your phone?”
“Right there. Help ‘self.”
The Demon got through to headquarters. Cap Matthews wasn’t there. Russ Drake was on the board. He repeated the message, as per regulations.
“Ten-seventeen peeyem, Trooper Ames calling from Port Henry fower two, One-Eyed Jack’s,” — hey, that sounds like a wild joint, Demon — “escorting to Cee Point green ’47 Buick sedan Maryland VR 21 dash 744, owner Catherine — oh, K as in Kokomo, huh? — Caudle, Baltimore, EmDee, driving, for investigation Wistor case. No one else in car. Right?”
“Think so, Russ.” If there was anyone else in the car, he’d know pretty quick! “Anything on that Comstock break?”
“Yair. Medini was reported driving a ’40 or ’41 Ford station wagon through Mechanicville toward Albany, ten minutes ago. Guess he figured the northern routes were too hot.”
“Must have.” Medini — sixty miles south, ten minutes ago! That was that. So much for garlic! “I’ll call in from the Point, Russ.” He hung up.
He’d have to go easy with the girl, now. Wasn’t a thing to connect her with Brad’s murder.
She’d come the route she told him she meant to. She’d even followed his advice about the chains. And if there had been anything — or anyone — in that trunk compartment, would she go into the cafe and leave the car like this?
As far as that slowing down before she hit the roadblock, and afterwards, anyone might do that in weather that was only fit for a walrus. She’d said she believed in playing it safe.
He went in the cafe. She perched on a stool at the lunch counter, nylons neatly crossed. When he took the adjoining seat, she recognized him, smiled.
“The nice cop.” Then she frowned. “Say, you hurt yourself!”
“My girl scratched me.” He watched her carefully — no sign of alarm at all. “She plays rough sometimes.”
“Anybody’d think—” she laughed at him over the rim of a thick, white mug — “you were following me.”
“I was.” He ordered Old Black Joe.
“Should I be flattered? Or frightened?”
“They just want to ask you some questions back at Crown Point.”
She set her cup down slowly. “Who does?”
“Police.”
“What about?” She began to be indignant.
“A murder.”
The hamburger she’d started to bite remained suspended an inch from her lips — her mouth stayed open. “I don’t understand! Are you arresting me? What for? What happened?”
“Guy got shot down there tonight.” The garlic hadn’t been on her breath, in that was one sure thing. She smelled nice and kind of exciting. “Little while before you drove past my post. They want to find out if you saw anybody who might have done it.”
“For Pete’s sake! How would I know who did it! I don’t even know who was killed!”
“They’ll tell you all about it.” He stirred sugar in his black coffee. “You stop in Crown Point at all?”
“Not even for a traffic light. No. Not until you stopped me.”
“Happen to notice a little grocery store couple miles the other side of town? Wistor’s?”
“No, I didn’t. And I don’t see why I have to—”
“Orders, that’s why. Hope you don’t mind driving back.”
“Certainly I mind. I mind plenty!”
“Sorry. You’ll come back, anyway.”
She banged the hamburger on her plate, exasperated. “I don’t even know if there’s a decent hotel in Crown Point where I can stay.”
“They’ll find a place for you somewhere.” He left it at that, laid a quarter on the counter. “Take your time. I’ll be out at the car.”
“Imagine! Wouldn’t this happen to me!” She eyed him with a mixture of derision and incredulity.
When she came out he was bending over the trunk compartment of the Buick which had been backed out onto the apron, a few feet outside the garage door. The odor of garlic, he decided, had its source in or near that rear end.
“I have to pay the man for the chains.” She strode angrily into the garage office, settled her bill.
The garageman switched off the light, followed her out curiously. “Take it easy on the bare cement, miss.”
“Thanks.” She was curt. “I won’t be able to help myself.”
The man in the mackinaw locked the door, went away. The girl tilted her chin up at the Demon.
“You want to drive, officer?”
“Uh, uh. You go ahead. I’ll follow.” The Demon waited until she climbed in back of the wheel. “Let me have your keys.”
“What for?” That queer, panicky tone in her voice again.
“Check your trunk compartment.” He held out his hand.
“I’ll open it for you.” She unlatched the door, tense, wary.
He shook his head. She gave him the keys. He closed the door again, went around back.
She watched him in the rear-view.
He used his left hand to manipulate the keys. The right fist went to his holster, came back loaded.
He got the lock open, swung up the lid.
A tarpaulin covered something bulky. He reached out, jerked at the canvas.
As he bent forward he caught the merest glimpse of a glitter on the chrome of the rear bumper beside his knees.
That wasn’t all he caught.
His fur cap broke the blow. The force of it knocked him into the trunk compartment. He wrenched around, tried to bring his gun up. The glittering weapon smashed at his wrist. His fingers went numb. The .45 clattered against the bumper.
“Help!” The Demon half-rolled, half-slid to his knees, scrabbling in the slush for the automatic. The man above him clubbed him across the mouth.
The Demon kicked at trouser-clad shins, twisted toward his motorcycle. As he slithered sideways he had a good clear view of dark eyes blazing ferocity in a narrow, olive-skinned face, small lips drawn back wolfishly beneath a long nose. “Help... Help!”
The door of the cafe banged open. Voices calling. A scurry of feet.
The Buick roared, began to back.
“Come on!” screamed the girl.
Medini snatched at the .45: The car backed over it, kept him from grabbing the automatic. “Fix this cop, first.” He lifted a nickel-plated hammerless, took careful aim.
The Demon scrunched behind Minnie’s rear wheel. Livid flame spat at him. Metal rang loudly. Pain lanced at the side of his neck.
Medini swung on the running-board, snarling commands: