“After all, Mary, there's no law against anybody driving along at the same speed as somebody else. Forget it, there just isn't any reason why we'd be tailed.”
“Of course,” she said, her voice brittle with mounting anxiety, “you remember that the dealer mentioned a stranger who tried to buy grandfather's music box today?”
He'd been remembering it since the car had persisted in tagging them. “I'll speed up a little,” he said. “Make the play interesting for him, whoever he is.”
The car behind speeded up, too, moving up to keep a little closer pace.
CHAPTER II
“I POSITIVELY refuse to ride any faster,” Mary said when the convertible's speed indicator touched seventy- five. “You're driving a strange road. Seventy- five is too fast for any kind of road.”
He laughed lightly, cut the gas. He certainly didn't wish to add to the strain that was tightening her nerves. In a few seconds they were doing sixty. The car was still back there. It had been there all the time. A few miles farther on Heath began getting angry.
“How far to your home now, Mary?”
“About fifteen miles. A road leaves the highway beyond the village of Imps Cove. I'll know when to tell you to turn off.”
“I think I'll stop just to see what our bloodhoundish friend will do about it.”
“No, Sully;” Mary said quickly” touching his arm. “It may cause trouble. He'll not follow us off the highway, surely.”
“Open the package and take a look at the music box, look it over good,” he told her.
She obeyed. The music box was about a foot square, made of something that looked like cherrywood. She took a flashlight from the glove compartment, placed the music box on the seat between them. She lifted its wooden lid and it began tinkling a tune. A moment later she gave a short, tight gasp.
“Find Nero's emeralds?” Heath asked.
''The—it's carved inside the lid like the old man said! See?”
He was busy watching in the rear vision mirror, also along the road ahead, and didn't look. The car behind suddenly spurted up closer. “Read it,” he said.
She did, slowly. “When the water runs low look at the feet of the weeping one.”
“River or lake near your home?” he asked.
“A creek. I used to wade in it. It runs near the house. Narrow and very swift.”
“Water ever get low in it?”
“Not often. I remember twice.”
The car behind suddenly drew so close its head beams passed on to mix with those of the convertible. Heath slipped his automatic pistol from under his arm, dropped it into his lap.
“How many are in the car?” Mary said, her voice loose and shaky.
“I don't know,” he said. “Examine the music box, maybe it has double paneling.”
She rapped on it with her knuckles. It was still tinkling a tune. When she jarred it the tinkling stopped, but a clicking sound began in the place of the music. It was like the ticking of a clock, only louder and unevenly timed. “The walls are of thin wood, so is the lid and the bottom. There doesn't seem to be anything hidden inside it.”
She put the music box back on the seat. In a moment the ticking ceased and another tune began.
“I'm going to slow down and make them pass us—or else,” Heath said. He pulled his foot off the accelerator.
The car behind slowed down, keeping some fifty feet back. Heath was driving fifteen miles an hour when he said, “This can't go on. They mean business,” He turned the coupe off the highway, braking it to a slow stop.
The car pulled off and stopped a few feet behind them. Heath started to get out. Mary clutched his arm. “Let them make the first move, Sully.”
He was angry. A hard pulse slammed at his temples, his neck throbbed. Behind them a door opened and a man's voice called out, “That you, Jack?”
Heath got out. “You're not looking for us, fellow,” he said.
“My mistake,” said the voice. It was too dark for Heath to see the speaker. The fellow had doused his headlights, putting Heath and the convertible in the dark. “Thought I knew you,” continued the voice. “A friend of mine drives a car like yours.” The speaker was moving toward them, his feet slapping softly on the roadside sod. Heath waited, holding the automatic loosely.
The fellow, much closer now, said, “I been wanting a smoke for a long time. Lighter in my car's on the blink somehow. You got a match!”
“I got a match,” said the county detective.
He didn't see the man until the glow of the convertible's taillights struck him. He was tall, thick-bodied, slightly stooped. Heath put his age at around twenty-nine. An unlighted cigarette dangled from his thin, gashlike mouth. His hands swung free at his sides, empty. Heath put away his pistol.
THE fellow was standing close when the detective reached for a match. The move was beautifully, expertly timed, and as swift as lightning. The blackjack must have been concealed in his sleeve, because it didn't appear until his arm was up and coming down.
