I freed the club from its nest in a tangle of briars, hefted it in my right hand.
I moved to the driveway and pitched a handful of pine bark against the side of the house. The place remained silent, that single light glowing behind old lace curtains that billowed gently in the open window.
I squatted and searched with my fingers until I found a broken piece of concrete at the edge of the drive. I tossed the missile into the untrimmed shrubs that drooped beneath the lighted window.
This time there was reaction from the house.
I knew Mrs. Carton had opened the front door when I heard the sharp question from the veranda. “Who’s there!”
I threw a chunk of pine bark into the thicket at my left.
“Nino!” Emily Carton commanded in a suddenly crisp, savage voice. “Out there... Get him, Nino!”
Chapter Eighteen
I placed my back against a pine trunk and backhanded sweat from my eyes.
I saw the leaping shadow of the dog leave the veranda. His toenails fell like spilled tacks on the driveway.
I let a hissing breath past my lips. He came quickly. I caught the glint of his eyes and teeth as the enormous dog bunched his muscles and sprang, a sound lower than a mere growl in his throat.
I had the urge to break and put the tree between me and the brute. Instead, I brought the club around.
The nearly petrified pine knurl met him straight on the schnoz. Better than three hundred pounds of the combined weight of dog and man were behind the impact.
Nino did a half somersault, crashing on his side in a thicket. Threshing, he gave a roar that would have done credit to a lion. He was really mad, as dangerous as a lion, if he got out of the thicket.
I heard no votes for giving him a second chance. I went in fast, while he was floundering. I swung the club and missed him.
The next time, I didn’t.
The pine knot popped him on top of the great, black head. He fell, shuddering. The shudder quickly passed, and he was as quiet as a new-born puppy after his first big dinner.
The big dog’s breathing rasped. I hadn’t wanted to kill him, hadn’t meant to. I was glad he was still alive. He wasn’t responsible for the job he’d been trained to do.
I heard the front door of the house slam shut. I plowed through the brush growing under the lighted window. The screen was old, rotten and I ripped it away.
I threw my leg over the sill, parting the wafting curtains. Emily Carton had grabbed the telephone on a nearby table. She was dialing frantically.
She threw a glance at me, dropped the phone, and ran for the door at the far end of the room.
I caught her as she was yanking the door open. With my fingers on her elbow, I swung her back. She stumbled, kept her footing, and came up short about ten feet away.
The eyes were blazing in the shriveled, skull-like face. Her thin, wiry body shook with rage.
“How dare you!” she screamed. “You insufferable...”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Mrs. Carton.”
“You’ll get out of here if you know what’s good for you! You’re forgetting that I’m Emily Braddock Carton! I’ll have you...”
“Shut up!” I said.
She did. Not because she was particularly afraid of me. She was dismayed at what she interpreted as my effrontery.
“I have never been treated...” she began.
“You were treated a lot worse in Cuba,” I said.
She gave me a stare. “I shall call the police, this instant.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “It might be best for all parties concerned. Might stop an assassination.”
She cooled visibly. She seemed to be listening, but the big dog was still out cold.
“What do you mean, Mr. Rivers?” Her breathing slowed. She was getting her anger under control.
“I’m not completely sure,” I admitted, “but I’m getting the picture.”
She turned slowly, as if looking for a place to sit down. The room was a long living room, furnished with heavy stuff that had been real luxury thirty years ago. Now the needlepoint and brocade were as faded as the curtains. The baby-grand piano, once white, had yellowed with age. The whole room had a feeling of rats’ nests snuggled in the corners.
“What picture is that, Mr. Rivers?” she asked with faint disdain.
“Your husband’s silhouette is in one corner,” I said. “Down about midway, a boat called the Sprite has been sketched in. There are several dollar marks scattered around.”
“Sounds like a most surrealistic painting.”
“That’s right. You never know what you’re going to see next — or the meaning of it.”
“Assuming there is a meaning.”
“Any time half a million dollars is involved, you’ll find a meaning, Mrs. Carton.”
“Half a million?”
“Of your money, Mrs. Carton.”
“Ridiculous!”
“You deny that you’re financing a plan to kill a man in Cuba — to have him killed as your husband was killed? You have nothing left in life, except the hunger for revenge. You’re a very rich woman, able to do something about it.”
“But I deny what you say.”
“Then you’re in grave danger yourself.”
“Equally ridiculous.”
I shook my head. “The schooner came here with a purpose. The Lessards, Scanlons, Kincaid and Smith were all a part of that purpose. If you’re not planning to put the finger on someone in Cuba, then we have to conclude that the hand which struck your husband down is reaching for you.”
“Really? Why?”
I shrugged. “The murderers, the expropriators always fear retaliation. They never feel safe. They are of the blood-purge school.”
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Rivers? Frighten me into hiring you?”
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry for you, as I’d be sorry for any woman driven half mad by the complete wreckage of her life. Disaster is especially difficult for a queen. But I’m not here for hire, just answers.”
“Too bad I haven’t got them.”
Beyond her, the lace curtains ballooned. I felt a breeze across my cheeks. I saw the change in her eyes as she looked past me.
I turned on eggshells, because I knew that’s the way I’d better turn.
Kincaid was standing in the doorway that gave to an adjoining room. His eyes were puffy, his shirt rumpled as if he’d been taking a nap. He’d opened the door noiselessly and entered without putting his shoes on.
He stood with a lithe looseness of body, the sharp angles and planes of his face without expression. His expression was reserved for the eyes under the high forehead. The gun in his right hand was centered on my middle.
“I’m very tired of you, Rivers,” he said slowly. His gaze moved past me. “How’d he get in, Mrs. Carton? Where is the dog?”
“Immobilized.”
“Rivers has a habit of immobilizing his enemies. But he’s all through with that now,” Kincaid promised.
“I was on the point of calling for you,” Emily Carton said, “when I realized he was coming through the window. I was afraid you wouldn’t be at your best, fogged with sleep, if I revealed you were here. I grabbed the phone to make Rivers think I was alone. I was certain our voices or ensuing commotion would awaken you.”
“Very clear thinking,” Kincaid said.
I had to agree. It was no wonder she’d managed an escape from Cuba with the world falling in on her. She was intelligent, capable, accustomed to command.
“What do I do with Rivers, Mrs. Carton?”
“We can’t have him found here. Take him to the Scanlon cottage. I’ll call you there. We shan’t be needing the cottage much longer.”