Sam helped himself to an orphan piece of cake that leaned under a clouded plastic cover on the counter. “They don’t feel it when they get hit the way you or I would,” he explained. “They haven’t got the same nervous system. They’re like animals; you’ve got to hit ‘em with a poleax to knock ‘em down, that’s all. That’s how they win fights, why they’re not afraid to get in the ring.”
Ralph bobbed his head; his eyes said that Sam had pronounced the last word on the subject. He straightened the cake cover. “Mantoli was in town tonight. Brought his daughter with him. A real looker, I hear.”
“I thought he wasn’t due until after the first.”
The counterman leaned forward, rubbing the counter with a grayed and soggy rag. “It cost more than they figured it would to finish up the bowl. Now they figure if they’re going to repay the grant in time, they’re going to have to charge more for the tickets. I hear Mantoli came to town to help them figure out how much people would be willing to pay.”
Sam poured the last of the bottle of Coke into his glass. “I don’t know,” he commented. “This thing may go over all right, or it may turn out the flop of the century. I don’t know anything about classical music, but I can’t see crowds of people flocking here just to hear Mantoli lead a band. I know it’s a symphony orchestra and all that, but the people who like that sort of thing can hear the same orchestra all winter long without having to come down here and sit on hard seats to do it. And what if it rains.” He gulped the glass empty and glanced at his watch.
“Yeah. What about that. I don’t care about music neither, at least not that long-hair kind,” Ralph agreed, “but I say if it can put us on the map like they say it can, and bring in tourists with money to spend, maybe they’ll get this joint fixed up and we’ll all live a little higher on the hog.”
Sam got up. “How much?” he asked.
“Fifteen cents, the cake’s on the house, it was the last piece. Have a nice night, Mr. Wood.”
Sam laid down a quarter and turned away. Once the counterman had dared to call him Sam. He had given a cold stare of disapproval and it had done the job. It was “Mr. Wood” now, and that was the way Sam wanted it. He climbed back into his car and reported briefly by radio before starting down the highway back into town. He settled in his seat, ready for the monotony that would make up the last part of the night.
The air was thick again as the car gained speed. For the first time since he had come on duty, Sam allowed himself to damn the pressing heat that promised a scorching day to follow. And that meant another hot night tomorrow, and perhaps another one after that. Sam slowed the car as the central area loomed ahead. The night was still deserted, but Sam drove slowly through the small downtown district as a matter of habit. He thought again of Delores Purdy. She would get married pretty young, he decided, and somebody would have plenty of fun rolling in the hay with her. It was then, a full block ahead, that he saw something lying in the road.
Sam touched the gas pedal and the car spurted ahead. In the path of the four headlamps the object grew larger until Sam braked the car to a stop in the middle of the street a few feet in front of what he could now see was a man sprawled on the pavement.
He snapped the red warning lights on and swung quickly out of the car. Before he bent over the man, he first looked quickly about him, his hand on his holstered.38, ready for instant action. He saw nothing but the silent buildings and the hard pavement stretching out in both directions. Satisfied momentarily, Sam dropped down on one knee beside the man in the street.
He was lying on his stomach, his arms above his head, his legs sprawled apart, and his face turned to the left so that his right cheek was pressed against the heavily worn concrete. He had abnormally long hair, which covered the back of his neck and then curled where it brushed the collar of his coat. Beside him, five or six feet away, a silver-handled walking stick looked strangely helpless on the hard roadway.
Sam slipped his left hand under the fallen man and tried to feel for a heartbeat. Despite the sweltering heat, the man was wearing a vest tightly buttoned; through it Sam could detect no evidence that the man was alive. Then he remembered what he had read about apparently dead bodies. Sam had not had any special course of training for his job; he had simply been put on the payroll, had been briefed for a day on his new duties, and then had gone to work. But as instructed, he had studied the civic, county, and state codes and had read the two or three textbooks made available at the small headquarters building. Sam had a good memory and the information he had absorbed came back to him now in the moment of need.
Never assume that a person is dead until he has been so pronounced by a physician. He may have fainted, been stunned, or be unconscious for any of several other reasons. Persons suffering from insulin shock have often been mistaken for dead and in some cases have revived after having been taken to morgues. Unless a body has been so mutilated as to make survival impossible, such as decapitation, always assume that the person is living unless decomposition has taken place to the point where life could not possibly exist.
Sam moved quickly back to his car and picked up the radio microphone. At this hour he did not bother to use official language, but spoke quickly and clearly as soon as his call had been acknowledged.
“At the corner of Piney and the highway, approximately, man in the road, appears to be dead. No evidence of anyone else nearby, no traffic for several minutes. Send the doctor and the ambulance right away.”
As he paused, Sam wondered for an instant if he had used the proper language in reporting in. This was something new to him and he wanted to handle it properly. Then the voice of the night operator snapped him out of it. “Stand by. Any identification of the victim?”
Sam thought quickly. “No, not yet,” he replied. “I never saw this man before to my knowledge. However, I think I know who he is. He has long hair, wears a vest, carries a cane. A small man, not over five feet five.”
“That’s Mantoli,” the operator exclaimed. “The conductor. The man in charge of the festival. If that’s him, and if he’s dead, this could be one awful mess. Repeat, stand by.”
Sam pressed the mike onto its clip and walked quickly back to the fallen man. It was only nine blocks to the hospital and the ambulance would be on the scene within five minutes. As Sam bent over the man once more, he remembered the rundown dog, but this was infinitely worse.
Sam reached out his hand and laid it very gently on the back of the man’s head, as though by his touch he could comfort him and tell him that help was coming quickly, that he would only have to lie on the harsh pavement for two or three minutes more, and that in the meantime he was not alone. It was while these thoughts were running through his mind that Sam became aware that something thick and sticky was oozing against his fingers. With a quick involuntary motion he jerked his hand away. The pity he had felt evaporated and a growing red anger surged up in its place.
CHAPTER 2
At four minutes after four in the morning, the phone rang at the bedside of Bill Gillespie, chief of police of the city of Wells. Gillespie took a few seconds to shake himself partially awake before he answered. As he reached for the instrument he already knew that it was trouble, and probably big trouble, otherwise the night desk man would have handled it. The night man was on the line.
“Chief, I hate to wake you, but if Sam Wood is right, we may have a first-class murder on our hands.”
Gillespie forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Tourist?”
“No, not exactly. Sam has tentatively identified the body as that of Enrico Mantoli-you know, the fellow who was going to set up a music festival here. Understand, Chief, that we aren’t even sure yet that the man is dead, but if he is, and if Sam’s identification is correct, then somebody has knocked off our local celebrity and our whole music-festival deal probably has gone to pot.”