Shooting Star/Spiderweb

number of the Professor’s house after a two-minute delay, and the clock kept going louder and louder. Tick- tock.

The phone buzzed. If there was no answer, I could assume Miss Bauer had left. If there was an answer—

“Hello.”

It was a man’s voice. There was something familiar about it. I hesitated until I placed the speaker. Dr. Sylvestro.

“Hello?” he repeated, questioning.

I hung up without answering. Sylvestro was out there. And if the Professor had revived and called Sylvestro before Miss Bauer got away, then...

“Did you get her?” asked Ellen.

“No, but I’m going to.”

“What do you mean?”

I glanced at my watch. Twenty past. “I mean I’ve got to get out to the Professor’s house, right away. She may still be coming, delayed by a flat tire or something. But we can’t take that chance. Sylvestro answered the phone just now, and that can mean anything. So I’m on my way.”

“I thought you weren’t taking any chances. What do you call that? If they find you there, you’ll never get away.”

“I’ve no choice. Miss Bauer is my alibi, our alibi. Besides, I can’t leave her in the soup.”

Ellen put her arms around my neck. They seemed to belong there.

“All right, Eddie. But I’m coming with you.”

“Me too.” Caldwell clenched his big hands.

“No you’re not. You can’t. Miss Bauer may still show up here. You’ll have to be on hand when she arrives, get her statement and the pictures and the negatives. Wait for me to call. I will call, as soon as I can.”

“If you can.”

I kissed her. “Yes, darling. If I can.”

It wasn’t very heroic, and there was nothing heroic about the way I kissed her. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to stick my neck out, or in.

But I had to, and I went.

I went fast. The walls of Vista Canyon flashed by, the roadside signs blurring before me. “DRIVE SLOWLY” meant nothing to me. And “DANGER—FALLING ROCKS” was kid stuff. I wasn’t afraid of falling rocks. I was afraid of seeing the Professor’s car, or Jake’s, in the rear-view mirror. I was afraid of seeing Doc Sylvestro waiting for me in ambush with a sawed-off shotgun.

As I approached the heart of the Canyon I slowed down. Just before the turn which brought me to the crossroads beneath the hillside, I pulled over to the shoulder and stopped the motor. I climbed out and walked cautiously around the bend. A car was parked up against the trees—a strange car. I inspected it, noted the familiar AMA seal. Dr. Sylvestro’s heap, all right. That meant he was still up there.

I returned to my car and started the motor. A U-turn was dangerous here, but it was more dangerous to leave the car standing where it could be seen. If Sylvestro recognized it, or if the Professor and Jake arrived, it meant, as they say in the drapery business, curtains.

So I drove back slowly down the road until I hit another side path in the Canyon. I pushed the car up the dirt roadbed until I found a spot under some trees, out of sight. I parked here and walked back on foot. I kept looking over my shoulder, in case somebody came along. And I kept looking ahead, anticipating Doc Sylvestro.

My neck got sore in a hurry. It was hot, but sunset wasn’t far off. I came abreast of the crossing again, glanced up at the hillside house far above me, and then found a clump of bushes to screen me. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette, and let the sand fleas have dinner. The cigarette smoke didn’t rise above the bushes, nor did I. I sprawled out and watched the sunset.

Pretty soon it was twilight on the trail, and the ranch-hands were gathered around the fire swapping yarns, the rich and poor alike lolled at their ease before the festive board, and I still sat in the prickly weeds, turning my flea-bitten face to the hilltop. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I began to doze...

Muffled sound from far away: door slam, crunching, footsteps. Dr. Sylvestro descended interminable stairs. I caught glimpses of him through the trees. He minced down, carrying the inevitable black bag. He stopped at the bottom, mopped his forehead and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, and a little red eye moved through the dusk towards his car.

The car started, rolled down the road, out of sight. I waited until the sound of the motor died away in the dim distance, and then I got up. I said goodbye to the fleas and crossed over to the wooden stairway.

I climbed. There was no handrail, and the Canyon depths loomed below. A crowd of bats, courtesy Universal Pictures, flew out of an old vampire movie and chittered at me. The sky darkened. I sweated. Up and up and up. I looked down at the gray ribbon of the road. No cars coming. I went on. Then I stood on a level, stone-set patio, before the porch. The windlass for the little cable car occupied part of the area. I occupied what was left. The house before me was dark. This time I knew what to do. I went around to the porch and looked for the place where I’d slashed the screen. It accommodated me promptly. I entered through the porch and walked into the parlor.

The house was more than dark—it was empty. There were no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate what Dr. Sylvestro might have been doing. Perhaps I’d been mistaken. Perhaps Miss Bauer had left. She might be at Caldwell’s place right now. Best thing to do was call and find out, at once.

I looked around for the phone and couldn’t find it. I walked through the hall and peeked into the bedroom. Nothing there. The bed was made, no signs of packing or confusion. I was relieved. I walked on, into the kitchen.

Even before I entered, I could smell it: the strangely familiar odor, the instinctively recognized reek. An attempt had been made to mop up. But there were stains on the table, on the floor all around it. I thought of an operating room—Dr. Sylvestro and his black bag! But then, where—?

Humming. Humming from the corner. Something huge and white and gleaming, something that hummed and purred as it crouched next to the refrigerator. I walked over to the deep-freeze, tugged the handle, raised the lid of the freezer chest.

I saw the packages wrapped in heavy preserving paper—six of them. I lifted out the top one, the round one. I unwrapped Miss Bauer’s head.

Eighteen

There was nothing else for me to do, then. I closed the freezer and left the kitchen, left the humming and the odor and the stains. I found the phone in the dining room to my left.

I clicked the receiver, sharply. I said, “Give me the police department, please.”

An answering voice came. “What are you doing here?”

It was Rogers who spoke.

Here?

I dropped the mouthpiece. Rogers wasn’t here. How did he get on the phone? Then I realized. The phone was connected with the vaults under the fox pen!

I knew it now. I knew there wouldn’t be time to make a call, because Rogers was climbing out of the cistern. I heard a clang as I ran toward the porch door. I stood on the patio, at the head of the stairs. I gazed down into darkness. I’d have to take those stairs in the dark now, and I’d have to move fast.

Feet thudded behind me. The porch door banged. Then I saw the flash, heard the sound of the shot. It went sprang! And it was close, too close. I ran forward. The windlass loomed. I could use the cable car.

There was another shot, another flash and spang! I jumped into the car and reached over to trip the windlass. A knife slashed at my wrist. It was too dark, too close for Rogers to use a gun. He had a knife now, and he was cutting the cable.

I reached out, groped, grabbed. He kicked at my face. I found his leg in the darkness, held on. He toppled but I was a second too late. Something snapped, and suddenly the car was plunging down through a gauntlet of branches that stabbed my face. Rogers squirmed in my arms. We were crashing together, clattering, ripping, roaring in a flimsy wooden car that was like an orange crate.

He still had his knife, and the blade grazed my throat. I twisted his arm. He grunted and bit into my shoulder.