Part 11 (1/2)

They sat on stools at the counter, called for coffee. The girl who served them was ugly, but she had a good figure. Frank wanted to discuss her figure with Max, but he knew Max wasn't in the mood. Max didn't bother about women: he regarded them the way he regarded food: a necessity, but uninteresting and unimportant.

The girl was a little scared of the Sullivans, and when she had served them she went into the kitchen and left them alone. There was no one else in the cafe.

”I wish I knew if I'd killed him,” Max said thoughtfully. ”I know I hit him twice in the chest, but he's big and tough. I should have aimed at his head.”

”Let's not worry about him,” Frank said. ”It's the girl I'm worrying about. She was terrific! That red hair . . .”

Max turned on him.

”If he's alive he saw what happened,” he said. ”He's the only witness we've ever let get away. He could blow our racket sky-high.”

Frank hadn't thought of that.

”We'd better find him,” he said. ”But where . . .?”

”I want some sleep,” Max grumbled. ”h.e.l.l! We can't go on and on . . . we're not made of iron. Where can we get a bed?”

”Ask her . . . she'll know,” Frank said, jerked his thumb towards the kitchen door.

”Yeah,” Max said, finished his coffee, slid off the stool, walked into the kitchen.

The girl was sitting on a table, talking to a negro cook. They both stared at Max, and the negro's eyes rolled.

”Where can we get a bed?” Max asked, eying the girl.

”There's a hotel round the corner, next to the jail,” the girl said.

”O.K.” Max flipped a couple of nickels on to the table. ”Where's the hospital?”

”There isn't one. Nearest one's at Waltonville, five miles from here.”

Max grunted, walked out, jerked his head at Frank.

”Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here. I want to sleep.”

They walked down the deserted road. The big-faced clock over the station showed three o'clock.

”There's a hotel next to the jail,” Max said.

”Handy,” Frank said, and giggled.

”That's it,” Max said as they turned the corner, then he stopped abruptly, put his hand on Frank's arm. ”What goes on?”

They drew back as Sheriff Kamp came rus.h.i.+ng down the steps of the jail. They watched him pull open the wooden doors of the garage next to the jail. His movements were those of a man in a frantic hurry. A moment later a battered Ford roared out of the garage, headed down the road.

”The Sheriff's in a hurry,” Frank said, tilted his hat over his nose.

”Something's up,” Max said. ”Come on, we're going to see.”

”Thought you wanted a bed,” Frank grumbled.

”We're going to see,” Max repeated.

They set off down the road, their arms swinging, a sudden new life and spring in their stride The bedside telephone suddenly rang.

”Let it ring,” Veda said sleepily. ”It's only one of my affairs with an uneasy conscience.”

Magarth groaned, half sat up.

”I moved in here for a little peace and quiet,” he complained. ”Must you carry your love life into my life as well?”

”Don't be a grouch, darling,” Veda said. ”He'll tire of it in a moment and go back to bed.”

Magarth rubbed his eyes, sat bolt upright.

”Stop chattering,” he said tersely. ”Maybe it's for me,” and he grabbed the telephone.

”But no one knows you're here . . . at least, I hope they don't,” Veda said in alarm.

”My editor knows everything,” Magarth returned, said ”h.e.l.lo?” into the 'phone.

”That you, Magarth?”

Magarth recognized his editor's voice.

”I think so,” he returned, yawned. ”Anyway, it's someone very like me.”

”I suppose you're in bed with that woman?”

”Who else would I be in bed with-a horse?”

”Then get out of it, you licentious rat. They've found the Blandish girl!”

”They've . . . what?” Magarth exclaimed.

”The Sheriff's office 'phoned through just now. They've got her holed up in Doc Fleming's cellar. Get going and take a camera. Kamp won't do a thing until you arrive. The old b.a.s.t.a.r.d wants his picture taken making the capture. Hartman's there; in fact every punk in town's there except you. So get moving.”

”I'm on my way,” Magarth said, slammed down the 'phone and jumped out of bed. ”Sweet suffering cats!” he exploded. ”They've found her! Found her while I'm taking a roll in the hay. That's retribution!” He struggled into his s.h.i.+rt. ”Now what the h.e.l.l am I going to do? Oh, my stars! What a break!”

”Keep calm, darling,” Veda said, snuggling down under the bedclothes. ”It may turn out all for the best.”

”All for the best!” Magarth snorted, struggling into his coat. ”If they get her back into that nut-house my story'll go up in smoke. I've got to save her-somehow,” and he rushed for the door.

”But, darling,” Veda called after him, ”do try to be sensible, You've forgotten to put your trousers on.”

The narrow pa.s.sage between Doc Fleming's back and front doors was crowded. Doc Fleming with his wife stood half-way up the stairs. Simon Hartman stood in the waiting-room doorway. Magarth, a camera equipped with a flash-gun in his hand, leaned against the back door. Two State cops guarded the front entrance. Sheriff Kamp and George Staum faced the cellar door.

”All right, boys,” Kamp said. ”You stick around. Mind, she's dangerous.” He glanced slyly at Magarth. ”Get that picture as I bring her out.”