got it lit and bent over.
She had stepped on a mushroom. The whole floor of the cellar was dotted with the tan hoods of mushrooms. Their white, dead-flesh stalks gleamed in the light of the match. It was like a grotesque stunted forest. The match flickered, and at the same moment something rustled behind her. She turned and saw, just as the match went out, a big rat watching her.
She went on across the cellar to the stairs. Twice mushrooms oozed horribly under a foot, but she didn t stop. She wanted terribly to get on those stairs. Darkness closed in on her at the far end of the cellar; she had to feel her way for fear of falling. Finally, with her left foot, she found the bottom step and started upward.
At the top she felt for the knob to the door, but her hands recoiled from spider webs. She lit a match, found the knob, blew out the match. The door opened with a faint squeak, and she peered into the kitchen.
Blue shades, heavy outside shutters made the room s furnishings obscure. Two paintless chairs and a table occupied the center of the kitchen. On the table were dishes and a metal pot over which swarmed flies. An iron hand pump stood at the end of a large sink. She opened the door a little further and stepped into the room. A plank creaked under her foot. Eggs had been eaten from two of the unwashed plates, and a spider had spun a web between one of them and the pot.
Ann thought the web meant no one had eaten in the kitchen for some time. She wondered if Delia had gone. The house did feel empty. It suddenly seemed to her that Delia was dead; that her body was lying somewhere in the house. She felt a terror even greater than before. The dirty kitchen, bathed in blue light, suddenly became as ominous as the cellar.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward and then screamed madly. Hands clutched her from behind, bruised her breasts, finally found her mouth. The hands were strong and smelled of tobacco. She struggled, trying to catch her breath, but she couldn t free herself. She couldn t get air. The blue room became dimmer and dimmer…
CHAPTER XVI
They stood up, flung their guns to their shoulders, but neither fired. Karl Johnson sat in the rear of the brown canoe, his paddle held by both hands. He looked startled, then amused.
'Trying to scare me?' he demanded.
'Scare you, hell!' Dr Woodrin said. 'Somebody s been potting at us with a rifle.'
Crane looked at the yellow-leaved ridge, but he could see nothing. 'From up there,' he said.
Karl was quickly convinced when they showed him the bullet hole in the blind. 'Come on,' he said. 'I ll get my. 30-. 30.'
They hurried back to the clubhouse. Peter was smoking in front of the fire. 'You re slow,' he said. 'I ve been through for ten minutes.'
They told him about the shooting. They got rifles and went up on the ridge, and presently Karl discovered a pile of brown oak leaves. 'Looks like somebody was lying here.' He felt among the leaves. 'Look.'
It was a small brass shell. It was about the diameter of a. 22 rifle shell, but it was longer.
'But that couldn t hurt anybody,' Peter objected. 'A. 22 rifle!'
Crane took the shell in his hand. 'Don t fool yourself,' he said. 'That s a. 220 Swift. It s the highest velocity small rifle in the world. One of these ll drop a moose in his tracks.'
They stared at the small shell with respect.
'You didn t see anybody?' Crane asked Karl.
'No sir. I waited at the house for Mr March. And when he didn t come I came back to the lake.'
Crane felt sudden suspicion of the caretaker s long wait. 'Why didn t you telephone Mr March s house to see if he d started?'
'No telephone anywhere out this way.'
Further examination of the ground produced three more shells and a black hairpin. 'A woman?' Peter asked incredulously.
'It sure looks like it,' Karl said.
Crane took the hairpin and put it in his pocket. They decided to see if they could find where the assailant s car had been parked. Karl said he knew where a car could come in from the gravel road.
Walking behind the others, Crane tried to think. He felt the attack had been directed at him. He thought it was a lucky thing the day had been windy; otherwise the sharpshooter, man or woman, would have nailed him. He wondered what Peter had done after he d finished shooting. 'Look!' Karl said.
A car had left tracks on a narrow road down the other slope of the ridge. It had been parked behind some bushes and it had gone out as it had come in, from the gravel road two hundred yards away. Its tires were not of any brand Crane knew. The tread looked like that of the vacuum-cup tires popular years ago. It left a series of small craters on the soft earth.
Nobody said much on the way back to the clubhouse. Crane wondered if somebody had followed him out from Marchton. He regretted having slugged the bartender at the Crimson Cat.
They were almost down the lake side of the ridge when a green convertible with the top down turned into the club drive from the gravel road. Dust rose in clouds from the wheels. The car was too far from the club for them to recognize the driver.
Judge Dornbush met them at the door. He was smiling. 'How d you make out? I got a cinnamon teal.'
They started to tell him about the attack when the convertible came up, halted in a long skid. Carmel March, wearing the mink coat over a tan sweater and a brown tweed skirt, jumped out. 'Peter,' she called. 'Peter!'
They watched her run toward them, having a hard time with her high-heeled shoes in the gravel. Her face was like soap.
'Dad!' she gasped. '… Overcome… gas…'
Peter asked, 'Dead?'
'No,' Carmel said. 'Not yet… '
Carmel went back to town with Peter, and Dr Woodrin took Crane in her convertible. The doctor seemed very upset about Simeon March.
'He just couldn t have been gassed,' he said.
'He was, though,' Crane said.
'It isn t reasonable.'
'There have been a lot of people gassed,' Crane agreed.
'It couldn t have happened.' Dr Woodrin swung the car around a curve in a long skid on the gravel. 'It doesn t make sense.'
He fell silent, his eyes on the winding road. Occasionally his lips moved, but Crane couldn t hear what he was saying. He seemed to be agitated. He looked ill, too.
Crane didn t understand why he should be so perturbed about Simeon March. Why hadn t he displayed as much emotion when Talmadge was gassed? Of course, the possibility that all the March deaths were not accidental might have just occurred to him. Then he would be upset.
Dr Woodrin got out of the convertible at City Hospital. 'I ll see what I can do,' he said. 'Will you take the car to Carmel s house?'
'Sure.'
Crane halted at his house, set the emergency and stepped out into a bed of dahlias. Williams appeared, his eyes bright with curiosity.
Crane asked, 'Where s Ann?'
'Not back yet.' Williams eyed the convertible. 'Where d you get the job with the outside plumbing?'
'It s Carmel s,' Crane said, leading the way into the house. He felt a little worried about Ann.
'How was the shooting?' Williams asked.
'Lousy,' Crane said. 'Nobody could hit me.'
He got a decanter of scotch, poured himself a good drink. He told Williams about Simeon March and gave him a graphic account of the attack at the Duck Club. He was so moved by his tale that he had another drink.
