'Maybe he s after Carmel.' A horn blew outside.
'I m going to watch him, anyway,' Crane said. 'So long.' He paused at the door. 'You might be trying to figure out why Talmadge wasn t in the driver s seat of his own car while I m gone.'
Peter March was outside, looking as though he hadn t slept. He said they would pick up Woodrin and then his father. 'Judge Dornbush is driving out by himself,' he added.
In response to their horn, Dr Woodrin stuck his head out the bedroom window of his apartment. 'I ll be right down,' he called. He had on a blue pajama top.
Five minutes later they were talking to Simeon March. He was just starting breakfast. 'I ll drive out myself,' he said. 'You go too fast, anyway, Peter.'
He didn t say anything about Talmadge s death. He didn t say anything to Crane, but he looked at him through his brown-sugar eyes and Crane knew he was fired. He knew it just as well as if he d been sent a letter.
Peter said, 'We ll see you out there, Dad,' and they left.
Dr Woodrin drove. He drove very rapidly, but with great skill, and Crane remembered that he had once driven ambulances in the Oklahoma oil fields. Crane wondered what he would do when Simeon March really did fire him. It would be quite a disgrace. He wondered if Ann had found anything.
He asked Dr Woodrin if there would be an autopsy on Talmadge s body. The doctor didn t think so.
'Won t somebody talk to the police… or something?' Crane persisted.
A gusty wind kept pushing the sedan to the left. Clouds obscured the sun; gray light flooded the countryside; the trees, the fields, looked as though they were being seen through sun glasses. It was still cold.
'What could you tell them they don t already know?'
'Well… about the bodies smelling of gardenias.'
Dr Woodrin smiled. 'I d like to see old Chief Auerbach s face when you tell of corpses smelling of gardenias. He d have you locked up.'
The club was a farmhouse set on a knoll among hardwood trees. Just before the sedan turned off' the gravel road a sign said: Coon Lake-1 Mile. The country was rolling and quite heavily wooded, and the earth was a rich black.
A stocky man in blue overalls met them at the door. 'Good an cold, Doc,' he said. His face was like raw hamburger from the wind.
Crane learned his name was Karl Johnson. He and his boys took care of the Duck Club under Dr Woodrin s orders. A black-and-tan hound kept at his heels. He led them into the house.
In the clubroom, the result of the removal of a partition between the dining room and parlor of the old March house, were big chairs and two leather couches. The floor was bright with Indian rugs. In an alcove near the back was a small bar, and Judge Dornbush, his face pink, was pouring himself a whisky.
Karl offered Crane a double-barreled. 16, asking if it would be all right. He said, 'Sure.' Dr Woodrin got him some gloves from the locker room.
Karl announced shooting positions. 'The doc and you, Mr Crane, will go to Coon Lake. I ll paddle you out to the blind.' He assigned Judge Dornbush to Woods Hole and Peter to Mallard Lane. 'I ll send Mr March down when he comes,' he told Peter.
Judge Dornbush had his gun in his hands. 'Let s start,' he said. 'It s nearly seven.' The gun had silver on it, and the butt was carved.
Halfway down the knoll, the judge and Peter, with two of Johnson s boys following them, turned to the right, went away on a winding path through a patch of hardwood trees.
Peter called, 'Good luck.'
'Thanks,' Crane said.
Ahead, for miles, he could see woods and meadows and black patches of soil, and further a ridge similar to the one they were descending. Blue haze hung over the river valley; softened the reds and golds of the autumn leaves. Occasionally, a silver eye of water winked in the early sun.
'Lots of pools down there,' Karl said. 'Every spring the river fills em up.'
Crane was surprised to find there was no marshland. The earth, even in the low places, was firm underfoot. It was very black and smelled of moldering leaves.
'Should be catfish in those pools,' he said.
Karl shook his head.'The water gets oily. It kills em.'
They came to a small lake. A shallow stream flowed like a tail from one end, gave it the shape of a tadpole. Grass grew near the shore and ten yards out there were weeds. The color of the water was strange; it was iridescent with blues and violets and greens.
Karl pulled a brown canoe from some bushes. Startled, three crows left a golden maple, flew off' with protesting caws. The black-and-tan hound appeared from somewhere and tried to get in the canoe, but Karl drove him off with the paddle.
The wind was cold and gusty by the blind on the other side of Coon Lake. Karl steadied the canoe while they got out, handed them their shotguns and three boxes of shells.
'I ll go for Mr March.' Karl shoved the canoe away with his paddle. 'Be back as soon as he comes.'
The blind was the most elaborate one Crane had ever seen, built of cement and lined with pine. There were two stools in it, and Crane discovered his head was just even with the reeds when he sat down. In front of the blind two dozen wooden decoys floated patiently.
Dr Woodrin glanced at his wrist watch. 'Two minutes to seven.'
Crane shoved two shells in his gun and looked around. In back, about half a mile away, rose the bridge, covered with trees ranging in color from squash-yellow to tomato-red. A gust of wind made him turn up his flannel shirt.
'We ll alternate shots,' Dr Woodrin said. 'You take the first one.'
'At what?' Crane asked.
'There ll be something coming in pretty soon.'
They waited patiently for ten minutes. Crane was glad he had thought to put on wool socks. He heard two shots in rapid succession to the right.
'Peter March,' Dr Woodrin said, and added quickly, 'Look out?'
Two mallards, flying about two hundred feet in the air, came down the stream. They warily circled the lake, cocking bright black eyes at the decoys. They went down wind, then came slowly in for a landing. Crane stood up and nailed the drake.
The hen banked and started for the left, but the doctor caught her just as she appeared to be out of range. She tumbled head over heels into some reeds.
'Good shot,' Crane said.
The doctor said, 'Thanks,' and put another shell in his gun.
There seemed to be plenty of wild fowl around. Crane could hear frequent shots from the right and an occasional double from further away. He assumed this was Judge Dornbush at Woods Hole.
A flight of teal, coming hell for leather into the lake, startled him and he missed two shots. Dr Woodrin got one and missed his second. The teal were gone in a fraction of a second.
'They re like greased lightning,' Crane said.
He did fairly well on further shooting, and in twenty minutes he had four mallards. Dr Woodrin had two teal and six mallards. They both had fired two shots at a flock of seven spoonbills without result.
Crane began to feel familiar with mallard and teal.
The mallard, he decided, was a smart guy. His eyes were always bright with suspicion, and more often than not he d pass over a place that didn t look exactly right. He seemed to like the land, and often appeared from a cluster of trees.
The teal, on the other hand, had nothing on the ball but speed. He was prone to snap judgments, and would race for an inviting piece of water without any misgivings. He could clear out in a hurry, though, when the shooting began.
Five spoonbills appeared from the other side of the lake, circled overhead. Crane got ready to shoot. Two of the birds came down toward the decoys, but Crane held off, hoping all five would come in so Dr Woodrin would have a shot.
