earth, the horns, the backfiring and the chugging.
Walking to the end of the porch, he saw Lucy standing in front of her cabin, looking around. He long-legged it across the rocky grounds, calling to her and waving. When he reached her he took both her hands and pushed her away at arm’s length. She had changed into a blue summer frock with short sleeves falling in soft folds over her upper arms, the bodice accentuating her slim waist and hips, then falling into graceful widening gores around the calves of her shapely legs. Her lips were freshly rouged, her face glowing and unpowdered.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “I tried to powder, but it just stuck in cakes, so I wiped it off.”
Shayne’s eyes twinkled. He said, “You don’t need powder.”
“Have I kept you waiting?”
“Not long. How’s your cabin?”
“Hot as hell… when I left.” She chuckled, looking up at him.
“Such language,” Shayne chided. “So was mine.”
“Did you phone Mr. Roche?” She tucked her arm in his and they walked over to the car which was parked in front of number nine.
“I called, but he wasn’t in.” Shayne frowned. He didn’t tell her about the obtrusive manner in which some man had tried to find out what his business was with Roche.
They got in the car. Shayne backed around and headed toward the highway. It was easy to edge into the traffic on this side. The sun was sinking beyond the range of mountains, but the heat was stifling, giving no sign whatever of abating. The main highway was jammed with traffic, cars stalled trying to get up the hill without momentum.
When they came to a turn-off at the foot of the hill, Shayne said, “I’m going to take this road. It must be the old one leading into Centerville.”
“Are… you sure, Michael?” She laid her hand lightly on his bare arm.
“Pretty sure.”
The old road was free of traffic. It curved to the left continuously, and they could see the lights coming on in the village below. Dark came quickly to the canyon when the sun went down.
The whiplash of a shot jarred the evening silence as they rounded a curve in the old, crooked road. Then, two more. The sound of a racing motor followed almost immediately. There was another sharp curve ahead, and before they made it they heard a crashing noise as if two cars had hit in a head-on collision.
Lucy grabbed Shayne’s arm tightly. He put on the brakes and slowed. His gray eyes were troubled and the trenches in his face were taut. He didn’t say anything.
“Was that… a backfire,” Lucy gasped, “or…?”
“It wasn’t a backfire,” said Shayne harshly. “Get down low and stay there.” He eased around the curve, ready to step on the brake, or the accelerator, as circumstances required.
A heavy car was parked on the gravel shoulder and on the wrong side of the road two hundred yards ahead of them. The left front wheel was not more than a foot from the crumbling edge of a steep cliff. The figure of a man was outlined in the middle of the pavement beside the car. He was waving to two cars approaching from the opposite direction. Shayne watched, surprised, as they sped past him, not offering to stop and give aid at the scene of an accident.
He slowed his car a little more. Lucy was leaning out her window, looking over the edge of the embankment. “There’s a car over the side there, Michael,” she cried. “I can see a man pulling somebody out…”
They were close enough now for Shayne to see a large silver star on the blouse of the man in the middle of the road. He wore a wide hat and riding breeches and puttees, and a cartridge belt supporting an empty holster on his right hip. He was waving a revolver at Shayne, and now the detective saw why the other two cars had not stopped to help. The armed man was waving him on, instead of signalling for help.
Lucy Hamilton saw none of this. She was still leaning out the window, watching the wreckage on the slope below them. She cried out, “Stop, Mike! There’s a man… beating another man over the head with a gun… or a blackjack. It’s horrible! He’ll kill him. Aren’t you going to stop and help him?” She jerked around, her face white, her dark eyes frantic.
Shayne, his gaze glued on the sliver star before him, sped up. They were directly opposite the precariously hanging car. Shayne caught a glimpse of a black and white streamer pasted on the windshield as they raced by. It read: “SPECIAL POLICE.”
A scream came through the open windows of the car as they went past. A high-pitched wail of pain and of panicky pleading.
Shayne stepped on the gas. His mouth was tight, his teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaws working in unison with his teeth grinding together.
Lucy collapsed against him, sobbing out her fright and her failure to understand.
“That was an officer in the road,” he said gently. “He didn’t want us to stop. It would have been unhealthy for us to stick our noses into a private affair.”
“You mean… you would’ve stopped if you hadn’t had me along,” Lucy stammered.
“Maybe,” said Shayne harshly. “Maybe not.”
“But that was an officer down there beating that man. He had on a hat just like that one who waved you on. I’ll bet they deliberately rammed his car and forced it off the side.”
“Maybe. This is Centerville.” He didn’t know he was going to say the three words. They sounded ominous.
“But… what kind of a place is this? Where policemen do things like that right out in the open.”
“Maybe some desperate character,” Shayne muttered. “An escaped prisoner… or a murderer.” He knew he was just saying words for Lucy’s benefit. Cops didn’t beat men to death. Not even a murderer or a desperate criminal. Normally, they welcomed an audience to witness their triumphs.
The thing that stuck in Shayne’s mind was the man with the revolver who calmly directed traffic, his gun in his hand, of course… This is Centerville… while his fellow officer went down to capture a man. Not dead or alive, but dead.
Lucy shuddered and shrank back against the seat. “You didn’t see it the way I did,” she moaned. “The one who was being beaten and kicked wasn’t trying to fight back. He just cried out, begging for help. I can still hear him screaming, Michael. It’s terrible… when a man screams like that.”
Shayne reached over to pat her hand. “We’re almost in town,” he said.
The winding side road joined the main highway which stretched out into a level street leading into the heart of Centerville. It was well past sundown in the mountain-shrouded valley, and there were plenty of parking places on the main street.
Shayne stopped in front of a dingy sign that read: “POOL amp; WHISKEY.” He got out of the car and said, “Sit here, and I’ll see what goes in this joint.”
He went into a narrow room with a strip of a bar occupying the front portion and spreading out beyond with enough room for a pool table. The air was putrid with the smell of liquor. There was no window, and as he passed the half-dozen men standing at the bar, the stench of their unwashed bodies was stifling. They wore grimy overalls, and their faces were smeared with coaldust. All six of them turned sullen faces toward him, but no one said anything.
The bartender was dark-featured and low-browed. He came slowly toward Shayne when he stopped at the end of the bar. “Any tables?” Shayne asked.
“This ain’t no eatin’ place,” he answered in a surly voice.
“Any place for a lady to sit and have a drink?” Shayne persisted.
The bartender wiped the counter with a dirty bar-rag. “Can’t she stand up, Mister?”
One of the men snickered. They were all watching Shayne.
He said, “She could, but I don’t think she’d like the way this place stinks.”
“Maybe you don’t like it either,” the bartender suggested.
There was animosity in the atmosphere about him, an indefinable sense of sinister emotion. Shayne stood rigid and savored it with twitching nostrils. It wasn’t as much directed at him as a person, but at what he stood for. Something alien. A person from outside their own tight orbit.
Shayne grinned suddenly and said, “It suits me fine. I’ll have a drink, anyhow.”
“Beer?”
