They travelled all over the country in a big black Packard Clipper: two black crows who brought death silently and secretly and were never detected. The police didn’t know about them, for their victims feared the police and couldn’t go to them for protection. There were times when word would reach the intended victim that the Sullivans were after him and he’d go into hiding. It was a matter of complete indifference to the Sullivans whether they had to hunt out their victim or whether they had merely to drive up to his house and shoot him as he opened the door. All they required was a photograph of the victim, his name and last address: finding him was part of their service. They were men of few needs. The hundred dollars they charged for their weekly expenses amply sufficed. The three-thousand-dollar fee was never touched, but salted away against the time when they should retire. Both Max and Frank were passionately fond of birds, and they planned to buy themselves a bird business when they had saved sufficient capital to set up in a big way.
Little Bernie got in touch with them a day after Roy had gypped him out of the proceeds of the bank robbery. The Sullivans undertook to murder Roy for five thousand dollars. They felt that as Little Bernie was a big shot and had plenty of hired help to do his own killing he wouldn’t come to them unless he anticipated the job would be long and difficult. To be on the safe side they jacked up the fee.
The difficulty, of course, was to find Roy. He had been warned that the Sullivans were after him and had immediately vanished from his usual haunts. Enquiries showed that he had left New York and had covered his tracks so well that his trail ended at the Pennsylvania station: the task of picking up the trail again appeared to be a hopeless one.
But not to the Sullivans. They were expert man-hunters. To find your victim quickly, they reasoned, you must know his habits, where his relations are, whether he has a girl friend, and if so, where she is. Once you have that data all you have to do is to exercise a little patience: sooner or later you’ll find your man.
It was an easy matter for them to discover that Roy had a brother, who, a year ago, was an insurance salesman in Kansas City. They wasted time going to Kansas City, for there they learned that Steve Larson had quit the insurance business and was believed to be fox-farming somewhere, but where no one seemed to know.
A week passed while the Sullivans sat in their hotel bedroom and took it in turns to call every fox farm equipment store in the district and beyond, asking for the address of Steve Larson. They gave the name of a reputable firm of solicitors when making their call and stated that as Larson had come into a large sum of money they were anxious to get in touch with him. After making many calls their patience was finally rewarded. A firm in Bonner Springs had supplied Steve Larson with equipment and was delighted to give his address.
Three days later a big black Packard Clipper slid into Point Breese, a little valley town twenty miles or so from Blue Mountain Summit.
The Sullivans parked outside a saloon, left the Packard and entered the deserted bar. They had become so accustomed to their routine entrance into the circus ring that they unconsciously walked as one man, each taking the same short quick step, each swinging his arms the same length; one looking like the other’s shadow. In their black clothes, moving as they did, they immediately attracted attention, and people stared after them, conscious of a feeling of uneasiness, of being spooked, as if they had seen an apparition.
Because in their circus days they had been supposed to be brothers, they had endeavoured to look alike, and the habit stuck. They both wore pencilled-line black moustaches and their hair cut very close. But here the similiarity ended. Max was a couple of inches shorter than Frank. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. Frank was fat and soft. His nose was hooked, his mouth was loose, and he had a habit of moistening his tips with his tongue before he said anything. His eyes were as animated as glass marbles.
The Sullivans pulled up two high stools close to the bar and sat down, resting their gloved hands on the counter.
The barman eyed them over, thought they looked a dangerous, ugly pair, but he smiled because he was anxious to have no trouble.
‘Yes, gentlemen?’ he said, wiped the counter before them.
‘Two lemonades,’ Max said. His voice was high-pitched, soft.
The barman served them, his face expressionless; then as he moved away Max crooked a finger at him.
‘What goes on in this town?’ he asked, sipped his lemonade, stared at the barman with dead eyes. ‘Tell us the news. We’re strangers here.’
‘Right now there’s plenty of excitement in town,’ the barman said, quite eager to talk about the topic of the hour. ‘We’ll be on the front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow. I’ve just heard it from a newspaper reporter.’
‘How come?’ Max asked, raising his eyebrows.
‘A mental patient escaped from Glenview Sanatorium,’ the barman explained. ‘It’s only just leaked out she’s the heiress to six million bucks.’
‘And where’s Glenview Sanatorium?’ Max asked.
‘Up the hill; five miles from here on the Oakville road,’ the barman told him. ‘This dame got a ride in a truck as far as here. They found the wrecked truck a mile or so up the road. They reckon she killed the driver.’
‘But did they find her?’ Frank asked, sipped his lemonade, then blotted his lips with the back of his glove.
‘I guess not. They’re still looking for her. We had the cops in here this morning. I’ve never seen so many cops.’
Max’s eyes flickered.
‘How come a nut has all that dough?’
‘She got it from John Blandish, the meat king. Maybe you remember the Blandish kidnapping? She’s his grand-daughter.’
‘I remember,’ Frank said. ‘Must be twenty years ago.’
‘That’s right,’ the barman said. ‘The kidnapper was the father. He was crazy in the head — so’s the daughter. If they don’t find her in fourteen days they won’t be able to take her back. That’s the law of the State. Then she’ll come into the dough and no one can control it. That’s why there’s all this uproar.’
The Sullivans finished their lemonade.
‘She’s a real nut — dangerous?’ Max asked.
The barman nodded his head vigorously.
‘You bet... a killer.’
‘Just in case we run into her, how does she look?’
‘They say she’s a redhead and a peach to look at. She’s got a scar on her left wrist.’
‘We’ll know her,’ Frank said. He put down a dollar bill on the counter. ‘Would there be a fox farm around here some place?’ he went on casually.
The barman gave him change.
‘Sure; Larson’s Silver Fox farm up on Blue Mountain Summit.’
‘Far?’
‘Best part of twenty miles.’
Max looked at his watch. It was 9.30 p.m.
‘We’re interested in foxes,’ he said carefully. ‘We thought we might look ’em over. Is he in the market?’
‘I guess so,’ the barman said, surprised. These two didn’t look like fur men.
They nodded, turned to the door, turned back again.
‘Is this fella up there alone?’ Max asked softly.