Ted Fleichman sat in his car opposite the Weston house. He held a Nikon camera fitted with an AF-S 70-200 mm lens. He took three rapid shots of Lucan as he came out to the sunshine, then, dropping the camera on the passenger seat, he swung out of the car and walked fast to where Lucan was opening the garage door.
Lucan, who was humming happily, only became aware of Fleichman when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found Fleichman standing close to him.
“Hi, Lucky,” Fleichman said with his hard-cop grin. “Had a good time?”
Lucan closed his hands into fists and scowled.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, not liking the cold tough eyes that were probing him.
“Security.” Fleichman produced his wallet and flashed a silver badge. “Okay, no fuss, Lucky. Let’s have it. The place is bugged. You could go away for ten. So hand it over.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucan said, his face paling under his tan.
“Don’t let’s waste time. You have another client waiting, so hand it over, unless, of course, you want me to mess up your handsome face.”
“Hand what over?” Lucan demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that crap, Lucky. She didn’t give you any money, so you helped yourself to something. I know your methods. Come on, hand it over or I’ll have to get rough with you.”
Lucan had had one or two unfortunate experiences with security guards. He realized to tangle with this thickset professional would lead to real trouble
He hesitated, then took from his pocket Perry’s gold George IV snuffbox.
Fleichman produced a small plastic bag.
“Drop it in there, Lucky,” he said, “then I’ll have a nice set of your fingerprints. No tricks or I’ll ruin your family jewels.” Knowing Fleichman was capable of kneeing him in his most lucrative possession, Lucan dropped the snuffbox into the plastic bag.
“Okay, Lucky, now piss off. If you show your mug in my district again, you’re for the cop house.” Lucan glared at him, then got in his car and drove out of the garage and away.
Perry Weston came awake with a start. For a long moment, he didn’t know where he was, then realized he was still sitting in the rented Toyota and the rain was hammering down still on the roof of the car.
He yawned and stretched. Too much Scotch, he thought, and looked at the clock on the dashboard. The time was 10:05. He’d better get moving. He turned on his headlights and looked at the highway road, dancing with rain. He should have stayed over at Jacksonville. He reckoned he was within ten miles of his fishing lodge. A mile down the highway there was a turn-off that led to his destination, but the road could be bad. He opened the glove compartment, took out the bottle of Ballantine and took a long drink. Then replacing the bottle, he lit a cigarette and stared through the streaming windshield at the pelting rain.
Maybe he should have his head examined. To get to his fishing lodge could be some performance, but the Scotch bolstered his determination.
He felt hungry. He hadn’t been to the fishing lodge for three years, but he had arranged with Mary Ross, the Sheriff’s wife, to look in from time to time and keep an eye on things. He knew there was plenty of food in the freezer, and he knew Mary Ross had kept the lodge clean. He suddenly looked forward to seeing her again, and to having a beer with Sheriff Ross. They were both his kind of people and, in spite of his fame, they were real friendly.
He thought of Sheila. Okay, so she was having it off with men younger than himself. Silas S. Hart didn’t make reckless statements. So what? Maybe when she got older she would settle down. He admitted to himself that it couldn’t be great fun for her to be married to a man who worked long hours. Maybe, after this break, they could come together. Maybe...
He switched on the ignition and started the car’s engine. Usually, the highway was crammed with trucks and cars, but it was now deserted.
Another ten miles to go. Take it slow, he said to himself. You’re full of Scotch. Just take it slow.
He knew there would be a juicy steak waiting for him. He had an infrared grill. In less than an hour, he would be sitting at the table, eating.
Ten miles to go!
He drove carefully along the highway. The windshield wipers scarcely coped with the hammering rain, and he had to lean forward to peer into the wet darkness.
The turn-off couldn’t now be far. He mustn’t miss it. He slowed down to twenty five miles an hour, then he saw a bright light flashing ahead of him. He slowed to a crawl. All he could see was the red light flashing and the wetness.
Some accident?
He stopped the car as the flashing red light moved towards him. Then the light of his headlights showed him a man wearing a rain soaked Stetson hat and the yellow slicker of a highway patrol officer.
Jesus! he thought, if this guy smells my breath, I could be done for a drunk driving rap.
He watched the man until he stepped out of the beams of the headlights. He pressed the button so the electrically driven driver’s window sank. Rain pelted in the car and against his face. He waited, feeling the rain refreshing.
The man came alongside the car and flashed the red lamp at Perry. The beam moved to the passenger seat, then to the back seats as if the man was checking that Perry was the only occupant in the car.
“What’s the trouble?” Perry asked, seeing only the middle part of the man’s body as the man stood close to the car.
“My car’s run off the road.” The man bent slightly, but Perry could now only see the outline of the Stetson hat. “I’ve got to get to a telephone. Where are you heading?”
“Rockville. I’ve a fishing lodge two miles out of the village,” Perry said. “You can use my phone.”
“Yeah.” The man ran around the car. His wet slicker showed for a brief moment in the headlights. He opened the passenger door and slid in beside Perry.
“Hell of a night,” Perry said as he shifted into gear.
“Yeah,” the man said. He had a hard clipped voice. “Let’s go.”
Hollis sat in Sheriff Ross’s car and talked to Carl Jenner over the radio. He told Jenner that Deputy Sheriff Mason had just died. For a moment, Jenner didn’t seem able to grasp what Hollis was telling him, then he said, “You mean this bastard killed young Mason?”
“Yes, sir. He’s dead. He had a terrible blow on the head. I’ve found the weapon: an ax. All the others were killed in the same way. Their skulls were crushed like eggshells. Mason only survived for a while because of his hat. This man must be as strong as an ox.”
“Now six killings in one night! Good God!” Jenner exploded. “No one will be safe as long as this animal is free! Don’t touch anything, Hollis. The homicide squad are trying to get to you. I’ve got cars covering Jacksonville. When Lewis and Johnson reach you, send them back to the highway. He could be heading for Miami. Tell them to head that way. The State police are trying to set up roadblocks, but in this rain it’s a job.”
“Okay, sir,” Hollis said. “I’ll keep in touch,” and he switched off the radio.
A minute or so later, he saw the headlights of an approaching car. The car pulled up beside him, and Lewis, the driver, leaned out of the window.
Shouting above the sound of the rain, Hollis gave him the picture.
“Orders are for you to belt back to the highway and head towards Miami fast. You just might overtake him. He’s wearing a Stetson hat and a yellow slicker he took from Mason,” Hollis bawled. “He’ll be in Mason’s Ford. Number SZY 3002. Watch it! He has Mason’s gun.”
“We hardly made it up this goddam road,” Lewis moaned. “It’s like a quagmire. Okay, I’ll do my best.”
“It’ll have to be better than that!” Hollis snapped. “This punk’s got to be caught.”