hand gate, and when he pressed hard against it the gates did not budge a fraction, indicating the presence of a heavy and well-fitted latch.
The headlights from the coupe behind him gave enough light for Shayne to see an electric button set in a wooden frame on the left.
He hesitated a long moment before pressing the button, glancing up at the top of the gates, which were just above his head, and at the clear space above them beneath the stone arch. It would be simple enough to swing himself up and over the gates and inside the grounds without announcing his presence-if there were, indeed, anyone inside.
Did he want to meet Brad just now? If the caretaker was amorously engaged with Felice, it wasn’t likely he would enjoy the interruption.
But Shayne did want to talk to Felice, and, if she were here spending the evening surreptitiously, as Marsha suspected, the element of surprise at being caught in a compromising situation might bring more answers from her than he would get by a more conventional approach.
At this point in his thinking, he hesitated no longer. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and toed it out, then put his forefinger firmly on the electric button and held it there for a dozen seconds.
He could hear no sound of a bell inside to indicate that it was connected, but Marsha’s description of the arrival of Brad’s visitor that evening indicated that he must have been summoned to the gate by some means before it was unlocked.
He waited for at least two full minutes, then put his finger on the button again and held it down for at least sixty seconds.
Again, he waited a long time without getting any response whatever. He studied the tops of the gates once more and debated whether it would be wise to enter that way, and reluctantly decided against it. If Brad had taken Felice away (as Marsha somewhat naively surmised) then nothing much would be gained by entering the vacant grounds. If, on the other hand, the caretaker were inside the wall, he would be fully alerted by the ringing of the bell, and Shayne’s legal position would be indefensible if he swung himself over the gate.
He turned away instead, and made his way down the path of the headlight beams alongside the wall toward the bank of the canal about a hundred feet away.
There was no roadway beyond the gates, and Shayne made his way carefully to avoid the sharp fronds of dwarf palmettos and the cunning thorns of briars that sought to waylay him.
The solid stone wall had been built all the way to the very edge of the steep-banked canal, and then continued at right angles along the bank for fifty feet or so, where a boat-house jutted out a few feet into the swiftly moving current.
At this point the bank had been concreted to prevent erosion, and the wall was simply a continuation of the concrete, leaving not even a foothold on the outside, above the water, where one could possibly reach the boathouse.
If you were hell-bent on getting in, you could slip into the stream and swim those fifty feet to the boathouse, but the chances were it would be firmly locked against ingress from the water side, so that wouldn’t do you much good either.
Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders and turned around and started back.
With the headlight beams in front of him this time, it was easier to pick his way among the wild growth, and he arrived back at the graveled turning-area with only mild damage to his trouser-legs and ankles.
He was headed directly toward Rourke’s coupe, disgusted with himself for having wasted time stopping here, when a sound from his right attracted his attention and he stopped in mid-stride, drawing Rourke’s automatic from his hip pocket.
It was the sound of the wooden gates swinging inward on their well-oiled hinges. The side-glow from the car’s headlights revealed a brawny figure standing menacingly in the opening. He was bareheaded with an unruly shock of thick hair standing up in wild disarray. He had a square, brutal face and a thick-lipped mouth, and he held a double-barreled shotgun with twin sawed-off barrels pointed directly at Michael Shayne’s mid-section.
Both barrels of the lethal weapon were cocked, and the man’s right forefinger was crooked menacingly about both triggers.
Shayne stood very still, facing him, glad that the pistol was hanging loosely at his side and in full view of the other man.
He said, “Hi,” and sincerely hoped that his tone was casual and light. “Mind pointing that thing just a little bit away from my belly?”
“Why should I?”
Shayne shrugged and said, “I’d feel much more like carrying on a light conversation if you did.”
The man with the shotgun said belligerently, “To hell with that light conversation stuff. Throw that gat on the ground over here.”
Under the circumstances, Shayne was glad to get rid of the pistol. It was a poor match for the more lethal weapon in Brad’s hands, and this was a case in which discretion was much the better part of valor.
He tossed it forward carefully at the feet of the caretaker, who grunted, “Now you step back about six more feet.”
Shayne did so. Brad shifted the shotgun firmly into his right hand, and picked up the pistol by its barrel. He rested the short-barreled shotgun loosely in the crook of his arm to leave both hands free, and released the loaded clip of the automatic and let it drop to the ground. Then he thumbed the safety off and expelled the loaded cartridge from the firing chamber, tossed the useless weapon back to Shayne contemptuously, and growled, “Now, Mister. What the hell are you doing here?”
Shayne stooped to scoop the unloaded gun up and slide it back into his pocket.
“Looking for Felice.” Shayne tried to make his voice sound as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to be looking for Felice here and at this time of night… as though it were the only reason why anyone could reasonably be expected to be prowling around outside the grounds of a deserted house.
“What’s that?” The twin, sawed-off barrels of the shotgun wavered slightly, but not nearly enough for Shayne to seriously consider trying to take advantage of it.
“Felice,” Shayne explained patiently. “Miss Perrin, you know.”
“What about her?” The bores of the shotgun, which looked as big as cannon barrels to Shayne, came back to steady themselves on his belly.
“Isn’t she here?”
“Why should she be here?”
“She works here, doesn’t she?”
“Look, Mister. I’m the only one that works here. The caretaker, see? My boss don’t like night-prowlers around his property.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t get this at all. Isn’t this the Peralta residence?”
“No. That’s the next house back.” Brad jerked his head toward the rear.
Shayne said, “I don’t know how I could have made such a mistake. If you’ll point that thing the other way, I’ll get into my car and apologize for bothering you.”
“Won’t do you any good to go to Peralta’s either,” the man told him.
“Why not?”
“She used to work there, but not any more.”
“Is that so? Do you know where she can be reached?”
“How would I be expected to know?” Brad asked easily. He stepped backward slowly, still holding the gun steadily on Shayne. “Get lost,” he growled, and slammed the wooden gates shut.
Shayne went slowly to the coupe and got in. The door to the glove compartment stood open. He reached inside and fumbled around and found an extra loaded clip for the pistol. He got it out of his pocket and slid the clip in, but did not throw a cartridge under the firing pin. He put it back in the glove compartment and started the motor and backed around to head out into the street. On the other side of the wall the big house showed no lights in any of the windows as he drove away.
