The man grunted, snatched a gun from his coat. Heath grabbed his wrist just in time, wrung it until the gun dropped from his fist, then jerked him up close. “What you mean pulling a gun on me?” Heath said angrily.
The man cleared his throat, his flabby face sheeted with fear. “Put the lantern down,” Heath commanded. The man obeyed, flinching at sight of the automatic in the county detective's hand. “You—you was in the tower awhile ago!” the man gasped. “You tried to kill Trappett!”
“You're crazy,” Heath said, shaking him. “I just now drove up. Who are you? Where's Miss McCulloch?”
“I'm Lee Bascome. I work here.” Sullenness began supplanting the fear in Bascome's face. “Miss McCulloch's inside.”
“Did she send you out?”
Bascome shook his head. “I ain't seen her since she came. She went right to her room.
“Where's Miss McCulloch's father?”
“You ought to know,” said Bascome, ogling Heath with resentment. “He left here right after sundown, with Lorney and Weblick in the car.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Why ask me?” Bascome shrugged. “Don't you know?”
“You're not being smart,” said the county detective. “You're playing it dumb as hell. Tell me, who's inside except Miss McCulloch?”
“Ira Trappett. He's hurt, as you know. You—a guy almost killed him in the tower, after he lost his little book.”
“We're going inside,” Heath said. “Take it slow. You try anything tricky and—”
Bascome crashed the lantern with his foot, then whirled and swung a haymaker at Heath's head. For the second, time that night Heath was lucky with a punch. His right caught Bascome squarely on the point of the jaw. A moment later when Heath leaned over him, Bascome was out cold. He found Bascome's gun, pocketed it, then turned toward the house.
His sole intention just then was to find Mary, make her believe him, tell her of seeing the face in the brush clump above the highway. The door wasn't locked. He pushed it open and found himself looking into the twin yawn of a double-barreled shotgun.
THE man holding the gun was sunken- faced, badly jaundiced. Heath guessed he was Trappett. There was the couch with mussed pillow and blanket where the fellow had been resting. The county detective recalled what the antique dealer had said about a man with a yellow face.
Trappett's face was certainly yellow. His skin was golden, splotched with bright saffron. His large dark eyes glowed dully from beneath heavy black brows, fixing an intent stare on Heath's face. He seemed an animal at bay that, through lucky circumstance, had gained an advantage it couldn't hope to hold.
“I saw you pummelling Bascome,” he said in a gentle baritone. “Did you kill him?”
“Of course not,” said Heath hotly.
Trappett clucked his tongue. “A pity.” He stood hunched forward as if to ease a strain on his right side. Had it not been for the jaundice and a look of ill health he would have been handsome. He was perhaps in his early fifties.
“I'll say—” he began, stopped as the earth shuddered, the house rattled, sighed, the flame in the oil burner lamp danced weirdly.
“The blast,” he said. “I've been waiting for it.” Something akin to defeat wavered in his eyes. “They must have got back, even without a car—or they may have left Weblick behind.”
“You seem a reasonable man,” said Heath. “Why don't you use some sense and put up your gun. I'm here for no harm. You should realize that.”
“Reasonable?” said Trappett, seeming surprised. “I?” He laughed, a rustling sound. “Who are you?”
Heath almost decided to forego the tale he and Mary had made up to tell her father. He wasn't forgetting the corpse in the car, the way Bascome had pulled a gun on him. Still . . . He'd wait until he met McCulloch before telling anyone he was from the county prosecutor's office “Name's Heath,” he said. “I—”
At that moment Mary McCulloch stepped into the room, the music box tucked beneath her arm. She'd been crying, seemed in a daze, near hysteria.
“Tell this fellow about me, Mary,” Heath said.
Trappett said, “This man just drove up out front. Bascome went out, thinking it was your father. He knocked Bascome down, beat him up.”
Mary's face grew sicker. “Another one, Sully?” she said.
“The fellow pulled a gun on me,” said Heath, anger hardening his tone. “But I didn't beat him up. I punched him once, knocked him out.”
“The last time it was a blackjack that was drawn on you, now it's a gun,” said Mary, fighting to keep back a sob. “Furthermore, Mr. Heath, I took the liberty to look inside some of your luggage. Tell me, why are you carrying a map of this farm? Why do you have a genealogy of my father's family written in your little book?”
The sob got loose, jerked at her words, but she kept on. “You worked your way into my confidence, made me care for you, to get a chance to accompany me here. It was you, I remember, who suggested the surprise visit after hearing about my letter. And why— why?”
He hadn't expected her to look inside his luggage. It was bad enough she believed he'd killed the hoodlum back on the pike, but now. . . If things didn't break right for him he saw that he'd lost her forever.
Trappett said, ''What'll we do with him, Miss?”
“He—he's dangerous,” said Mary. “We should lock him inside the tower until father comes home.”
Trappett frowned, said, “I don't wish to frighten you, Miss. But he drove up in your father's car—alone. That's why Bascome went out. He thought it was Lorney, Weblick, and, Mr. McCulloch coming back.”
Heath was watching Mary's eyes and saw when the light of true reason flickered in them. He drew a sigh of relief.
Mary said, “Are you sure, Mr. Trappett?”
Trappett nodded. “I got a good look when Bascome went out with the lantern. It's Mr. McCulloch's car all right. Maybe this man has done your father some harm. We'd better lock him up and get word to the State Police, don't you think?”
MARY'S face told Sully what she was beginning to think. The way her mind was changing didn't make him mad. “Sully,” she said, her eyes going soft, “was it—the car—that—”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“Then, perhaps I—”
Sully said to Trappett, “Did you try to buy that music box at Coverlee today?” He pointed at the music box in Mary's arms.
Beneath the brilliant ochre, Trappett's face paled. “Yes,” he said, “I did.”
“Why?” asked Heath.
Mary drew it loose quivering breath, took a few steps toward the county prosecutor's ace detective.
“Because I have one like it, made by David McCulloch,” Trappett told them. “I bought it in Baltimore. David McCulloch had mailed it to a friend there. I happened to hear it play.”