Nace had registered under the name of Jules Leeds.
“Yeah,” Nace agreed without interest. “Say, who was the eyeful waitin’ in here when I went out? The red-head.”
“That one? Her name is Benna Franks. She runs a summer camp on the lake — Camp Lakeside.”
“On the make?”
“Not her! She’s principal of the Sunday school.”
“Yeah,” said Nace, and went up to his room.
Nace opened his bag, took out a pair of black oxfords which were rather worn. He exchanged them for the low-cuts he was wearing. To his left arm, just below the elbow, he strapped a sheath which held a hammerless .38 revolver. The grip had been machined off the gun, and a wooden knob fitted directly back of the cylinder. The weapon fitted nicely up his sleeve.
The hotel room had a stone fireplace. In this, Nace burned a magazine which contained an article on criminology, written by himself. He tore the leaves off a few at a time, so they would burn thoroughly.
From a coat pocket, Nace produced a telegram. It was addressed to his New York office. It read:
GOT BIG JOB FOR YOU AND WILL MEET YOU AT SOUTH END OF MOUNTAIN TOWN LAKE AT TEN WEDNESDAY NIGHT AND YOU BETTER BE CAREFUL.
SOL RUBINOV
The message was sent Monday; Nace had received it on Tuesday. This was Wednesday. Nace eyed his watch.
The hands said twenty minutes until ten.
Nace folded the telegram and put it in a small, flat silk pack. The pack held other articles. It was half an inch thick, four wide, six long, and it tapered toward the edges. He stuck it on his back, just above the belt line, with adhesive tape.
He left the hotel and swung off across town, drawing briskly on his pipe. He watched his back trail. But no one followed him.
Nace thought a little about the telegram. He had never heard of the sender, Sol Rubinov. Judging from the composition of the message, Rubinov was a foreigner. Nace knew nothing more than the wire divulged.
A faint smile tickled Nace’s solemn mouth. Ordinarily, he didn’t take a case without knowing more about it than this. But he had intended coming up here for a short vacation, anyway.
Houses became scattering about Nace. Sidewalks gave out. He strode a path paralleling the paved road. The way dipped sharply.
Moist air off the lake pushed gently against his face.
The night was sultry. The moonbeams had a bilious yellow cast. Clouds were piled like black sponges around the horizon. Heat lightning jumped about in the clouds. Occasional thunder groaned and boomed.
Half a mile or so distant, a train clamored through the night. It began whistling for a crossing, and whistled perhaps twenty seconds. Then the train must have dived behind a hill, for its sound abruptly became fainter.
It was then that Nace heard a man gurgling and screaming faintly and crashing about in bushes near the lake shore.
Chapter II
The Man Who Blew Up
Nace halted. He cupped both hands back of his ears.
The noises continued. The screams were stifled, as though the one who uttered them had a finger in his mouth. The brush fluttered; branches broke. It was as if a drunk was repeatedly falling down and getting up.
Nace slid a fountain-pen flashlight out of his vest and advanced. But he did not have to use the light. The man making the noises staggered out on the beach, where moonbeams bathed him.
It was the fat man who had tried to shoot Nace outside the hotel. His forehead bore a cut the exact shape of the trigger guard of the automatic with which Nace had hit him.
The man now wore a bathing suit, and nothing else. The suit was wet.
A wad of cloth was embedded between the fellow’s pudgy jaws. A wire, tied tightly behind his head, held it there.
He was fighting wildly, desperately, to undo the wire. The effort had torn his fingertips until they were stringing scarlet.
“I’ll take it off, buddy,” Nace said, and stepped out into the moonlight.
The fat man ran toward Nace, still tearing at the wire.
Then he exploded.
Nothing else quite described what happened. The fat man simply blew up. A sheet of blue-hot flame burst open his bathing suit. His head and waving arms sprang fifteen feet in the air. What was left of his lower body slammed into the sand.
Nace reeled back. He clapped hands over his ears. The terrific report of the explosion had deafened him.
The upper portion of the fat man’s body thudded into the sand. Gory fragments strewed about.
Nace shuddered, turned the pen light on himself. His clothing had not been soiled.
He stepped into the brush and crouched down, nursing his aching ears. He had never before heard such a sharp, deafening blast. It had been worse than a pistol discharge alongside his ears. The ringing in his head subsided. Hearing returned until he could detect the flutter of leaves in the faint breeze.
Waves made moist sucking sounds on the lake shore. Far away, thunder clapped and rumbled; lightning splattered the clouds with fitful red.
Running feet came clap-clapping down the paved road. One man! He turned off the road, came toward the lake.
“What’re you doin’?” he yelled. “Dynamitin’ fish in that lake, I’ll bet! By crackey, that’s agin the law!”
It was the Mountain Town constable, Jan Hasser. He came up, a big pistol in hand, his left cheek wadded out with chewing tobacco.
He saw the head and shoulders of the fat man. His mouth fell open. Tobacco juice spilled down his chin, unnoticed.
“Jumpin’ snakes!” he gulped. “That’s my deputy constable, Fatty Dell!”
Nace reached inside his coat.
“No you don’t, by crackey!” yelled Constable Hasser. He leveled his big pistol at Nace. “Stand still, sonny!”
Nace scowled. “I wanted to show you my credentials. Get them — my inside pocket.”
Hasser came over, making a hard mouth under his stringy white moustache. Gingerly, he withdrew Nace’s papers. He read them, peered closely at Nace’s face.
“Lee Nace, huh,” he grunted. “Reckon that’s right. I’ve seen yer picture in the New York papers. Well, what happened to Fatty?”
“He blew up.”
“He what?”
Nace used his pen light. His solemn, puritanical face registered no horror at the scene.
“I don’t see any sign of what caused it,” he said. “The man simply exploded.”
Hasser cleaned off his chin with his sleeve. “Poor Fatty! Who stuffed that rag in his mouth and tied the wire around his head?”
“Search me, Hasser. It was there when I saw him.”
“What were you doin’ around here?”
“I was out walking.”
“That all?”
“It’s enough for the time being, Hasser.” Nace went over and played his thin flash beam along the water edge.
“Fatty Dell swam to this point,” he said. “Here are his tracks leaving the water. Somebody met him. Whoever it was had his shoes wrapped in cloth so as not to leave a distinct footprint. Here are that fellow’s tracks, too. It looks like they wrestled around in the sand some.”
“Who was the other feller?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Nace raced his flash beam out over the water. He waded in, continued out until nearly waist deep. He dipped up a soggy bundle which had been floating on the surface.
“Here’s the rags the other man had wrapped around his shoes. The piece between Fatty Dell’s jaws was torn off these.”
Nace studied the sodden cloth carefully.
“That ain’t liable to help us much,” mumbled Constable Hasser. “Or will it?”
“It’s part of an old shirt,” Nace said dryly. “Size seventeen. That means the wearer was husky. There’s several laundry marks, all the same. That makes it simple to trace the owner.”