Mary squeezed Heath's arm. “He's angry, Sully. I told you—”
Heath grinned good-naturedly; “Okay, old-timer. You win. But it's a holdup. The thing isn't worth more than six-bits.”
The dealer grinned, satisfied, yellow fangs gleaming as his pale lips whipped back. “It ain't worth more than two-bits, looking at it one way,” he said. “But looking at it another way it's worth any price a man might ask. Any price. The man that made it was a strange man, Mister. A strange man, indeed. David McCulloch made it, whittled and tapped and tinkered it into shape while he sat high in his rock roost out there at McCulloch's Rest watching for bloody murder to come traipsing up the turnpike. You ever hear of David McCulloch?”
Mary's face paled. Heath said, “Wrap it and we'll take it along.” As the dealer's whistling voice continued, Heath counted two hundred dollars from his wallet.
“Forty miles north as the crow flies from here is the spot where David McCulloch made this here thing. McCulloch's Rest 'tis called, and an accursed place it is—where dogs won't stay, where bats and owls abide.”
The old man suddenly bent forward and gave a short, harsh cackle. “Murder makes a hard bargain, Mister.” He nodded swiftly, his eyes lost behind red film. “Yes, so it does. And what I say is true, a man might ask any price for a thing like this, two hundred or two thousand or more. . . .”
HEATH passed him the money. He shuffled the bills, folded them and slipped them into a pants pocket, then turned and picked up a huge piece of wrapping paper. Smoothing it on the counter with gnarled hands, he looked up at them, his fiery eyes unwinking.
“John McCulloch lives at the Rest now,” he said. “Keeps on out there, he does, with his three hired men, trying to get a living off that accursed land. But I didn't get this antique from him. Ah, no! He threw it away, he did. Trash to him, it was. Trash, mind you!”
He gave with another cackle as he turned his back and began wrapping the package.
Heath said, glancing at Mary, ''Well, how about getting along? Ready, darling?”
She nodded. The old man followed them to the door. “Maybe you're buying it for that stranger—that yellow-faced stranger that was here awhile ago trying to buy it for one hundred dollars? Maybe you're buying it for him?”
“We're buying it for ourselves,” said Heath stiffly, irritated by the dealer's prying manner, his uncouthness.
“Well, you got a fine antique piece there,” the dealer said, his voice a lisping throb as they stepped out on the sidewalk. “There ain't another music box like it in the whole world. David McCulloch made it without pattern or design. But don't try to figure out the conundrum under the lid. It won't do you any good. Carved by a fool it was; by a fraidy- headed old fool.”
He let go with a short, shrill cackle, then after a moment of complete silence, his voice a slow, hoarse croak, said, “When the water runs low look at the feet of the weeping one.” His laugh rose and fell like the quick screech of a rusty hinge. “Under the weeping one, mind you! If such as that ain't a fool's folderol then I'm a catbird's uncle.”
Mary slumped onto the seat, shuddered, whispered, “You drive, Sully.” Heath took the wheel, cursing the old man for an idiot. “Don't let it get you, baby,” he said. “That old buzzard would make the sea hag a good husband.”
She shuddered again. “The letter said he was eccentric, but—ugh!” She slipped a hand under Heath's arm, gripped it hard.
It was dark now, starless dark. There would be a moon later, but now it was so dark the line dividing the headlights' swath from the darkness seemed scalloped. Heath had just brought the convertible onto the highway beyond Coverlee when the car turned in behind them. They both noticed the car because it didn't try to pass, though they were doing less than thirty-five.
For five miles it hung behind them, maybe three hundred feet back. Other cars came up, passed on, but still it stayed there. Ten miles out its presence began making Mary nervous and Heath curious. Once when she was speculating as to probable reasons why anyone might want to follow them, he said:
“After all, Mary, there's no law against anybody driving along at the same speed as somebody else. Forget it, there just isn't any reason why we'd be tailed.”
“Of course,” she said, her voice brittle with mounting anxiety, “you remember that the dealer mentioned a stranger who tried to buy grandfather's music box today?”
He'd been remembering it since the car had persisted in tagging them. “I'll speed up a little,” he said. “Make the play interesting for him, whoever he is.”
The car behind speeded up, too, moving up to keep a little closer pace.
CHAPTER II
“I POSITIVELY refuse to ride any faster,” Mary said when the convertible's speed indicator touched seventy- five. “You're driving a strange road. Seventy- five is too fast for any kind of road.”
He laughed lightly, cut the gas. He certainly didn't wish to add to the strain that was tightening her nerves. In a few seconds they were doing sixty. The car was still back there. It had been there all the time. A few miles farther on Heath began getting angry.
“How far to your home now, Mary?”
“About fifteen miles. A road leaves the highway beyond the village of Imps Cove. I'll know when to tell you to turn off.”
“I think I'll stop just to see what our bloodhoundish friend will do about it.”
“No, Sully;” Mary said quickly” touching his arm. “It may cause trouble. He'll not follow us off the highway, surely.”
“Open the package and take a look at the music box, look it over good,” he told her.
She obeyed. The music box was about a foot square, made of something that looked like cherrywood. She took a flashlight from the glove compartment, placed the music box on the seat between them. She lifted its wooden lid and it began tinkling a tune. A moment later she gave a short, tight gasp.
“Find Nero's emeralds?” Heath asked.
''The—it's carved inside the lid like the old man said! See?”
He was busy watching in the rear vision mirror, also along the road ahead, and didn't look. The car behind suddenly spurted up closer. “Read it,” he said.
She did, slowly. “When the water runs low look at the feet of the weeping one.”
“River or lake near your home?” he asked.
“A creek. I used to wade in it. It runs near the house. Narrow and very swift.”
“Water ever get low in it?”
“Not often. I remember twice.”
The car behind suddenly drew so close its head beams passed on to mix with those of the convertible. Heath slipped his automatic pistol from under his arm, dropped it into his lap.
“How many are in the car?” Mary said, her voice loose and shaky.
“I don't know,” he said. “Examine the music box, maybe it has double paneling.”
She rapped on it with her knuckles. It was still tinkling a tune. When she jarred it the tinkling stopped, but a clicking sound began in the place of the music. It was like the ticking of a clock, only louder and unevenly timed. “The walls are of thin wood, so is the lid and the bottom. There doesn't seem to be anything hidden inside it.”