“Where is Yvan?” Cornell asked.
“At your cabin,” Milly said.
“How did you know I was hiding out at a cabin?”
“Yvan found out. Don’t ask me how. You take chances, don’t you? Does Hannigan know who you are?”
Cornell turned and saw that the fat little cop was watching from across the arena. As he glanced at the man, Hannigan seemed to come to a decision, and elbowed his way toward them.
“Let’s get outside,” Cornell muttered.
The rain had stopped. A mist covered the Landing, shutting off their view. The air felt chill and damp after the hot smokiness inside the barn. Cornell had half expected to find Hand and his men waiting out here, but no one was in sight. The blonde girl glanced curiously at Sally, but neither said anything.
“Come along,” he said. “Both of you.”
Somewhere in the mist a car motor started, echoing curiously. Headlights made a glow far up the road, wheeling through the dark, then fading. Cornell wondered about it.
“Did Yvan tell you what he remembered?” he asked Milly.
Milly said. “Ask him yourself. He’s excited, but he’s sober, anyway. He ought to make sense.”
“Does he know who killed Stone?”
“He claims he does.”
Light strayed into the fog behind them as a door opened and closed in the shed. It would be Hannigan, Cornell decided. He hoped the fat little cop hadn’t got suspicious finally. Another hour would see him through, one way or another, the whole thing settled. The mist was an effective cover. He looked back, but he could see nothing. His shoes gritted on the gravel road as he turned left, guided by a dim light from Kelly’s house and the faint outline of a lighted window in the tourist camp.
He heard the querulous sounds of the cat about twenty paces from the cabin. The whining became a spitting, and Milly giggled. “It’s Cellini. We brought him along, because he’s got a hangover.”
Cornell paused and drew a deep breath. The damp mist cut deep into his lungs.
“It’s more than Cellini,” he said softly.
A man was sprawled on the cement walk that linked one cabin to another. The Maltese had been near the man, but as he approached ahead of the girls, the cat arched its back and spat at him, then thought better of it and backed away. Cornell hunched down and turned the man over. The light from the nearby cabin made a dim aura over the man’s face. He was a complete stranger—but not to Sally.
“Johnny!” she whispered.
Cornell looked at her.
“It’s Johnny Acorn,” Sally said.
Milly said, “Whoever he is, is he dead?”
“Just slugged,” Cornell said.
He straightened, uneasiness in him. There was nothing he could do for the FBI agent at the moment. The man had a nasty bruise on the back of his sandy head, but his breathing was light and regular, and it was only a matter of minutes until he revived. Alarm stretched along his nerves. He knew he had been going along on borrowed time, but now, when he had the solution almost in his grasp, he didn’t like Acorn’s appearance. Milly plucked at his sleeve and distracted him.
“What about Yvan?” she whispered.
“Let’s find out,” he said.
Her voice lifted anxiously. “If anything’s happened—”
She started for the cabin door, but Cornell reached it first. Somehow, from the moment he first heard the cat, he knew what to expect. But when he opened the door and stepped inside, he felt that this was more than he had bargained for.
Yvan Rulov was there, waiting for him. He was alone. He sat in one of the small maple chairs, as if watching the door for their arrival, and one of the lamps cast a harsh, pitiless light on his gray face.
He was dead. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CORNELL was too late to stop Milly and Sally from entering behind him. He tried to hold the blonde back, but a queer sound escaped her and she tore away to rush headlong toward the dead man. Cornell caught her again before she reached him.
“Milly, don’t—”
“Yvan,” she whimpered. “Yvan!”
Cornell looked at Sally. “Take care of her.”
Sally’s face was paper white. Her eyes looked enormous in her small face. After the first, horrified glance at the figure in the chair, she resolutely looked away, her gaze fixed on Cornell as if clinging to the sanity in his lean face. But Milly stared in fascinated horror at the dead man, and an incoherent mourning bubbled from her open mouth. Cornell forced her to turn aside. Her eyes stared without seeing him. He shook her hard.
“Milly, listen to me.”
“Yvan is dead. Somebody killed him.”
“Was he all right when you left him?”
She stared blankly. Cornell shook her again.
“What?” she whispered.
“Was he alive when you left him?”
“Of course. Alive,” she whispered.
“Was anyone else with you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone follow you to the barn when you came for me?”
“What?”
He repeated his words, forcing sanity back into her mind. She tried to twist her head to look at the dead man again.
“I didn’t see anyone. It was all misty.”
“What about the man outside? The one who’s been slugged?”
“I don’t know,” she moaned. “I don’t know.”
Sally took over, her voice comforting. Cornell walked toward the dead man in the chair. There was a lot of blood. The knife lay on the floor behind the chair. It could have come from the regular cabin equipment. He looked at it, but he didn’t touch it. Time was running out, and the dead man would never tell him what he knew. He felt his stomach churn with defeat, and went back to Milly. The girl was sobbing, her face buried in her hands, her body racked with deep shudders. Sally looked at him, appealing to him to leave Milly alone. He shook his head.
“Milly?”
She took her hands from her face and looked up at him.
“Milly, you’ve got to help me.”
“I don’t know anything,” she whispered.
“You’ve got to remember everything Yvan said to you.”
“He—he didn’t say anything.”
“You want to know who killed him, don’t you?”
Milly looked blank. “But he’s dead. What does it matter? It won’t help Yvan.”
Cornell said “Do you want the murderer to go free?”
“No,” she said.
“Then help me.”
“I can’t.”
“Did Yvan know who killed Jason Stone?”
“No.”
“But you said he knew something.”
“He kept talking about Stone’s files.”
“What did he say about them?”
Milly frowned. The tears clung to her face. She looked at Cornell as if depending on him for her reason.
“Yvan said—he saw the murderer take them. He didn’t know who the man was, though.”
“But it was a man?”
“He—no, he didn’t say so, exactly. I just assumed—”
“Did Yvan see what happened to the files?”
“The murderer hid them.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m not sure about. Yvan kept saying something about under the string—under the string something-or-other. I just don’t remember!” she whimpered.
Cornell straightened. “All right, Milly. I know what he meant. I think we can find them. Yvan did help us.”
Milly buried her face in her hands again. Sally asked no questions. Cornell took the gun Gootsie had given him and checked it again, then put it back in his pocket.
It was an error. It might have worked out differently if he had kept the gun in his hand.
As it was, he had no warning when the cabin door was suddenly
flung open. Hannigan stood there, his white suit wrinkled by the damp mist, his face red and triumphant.
“Got you!” he exulted.
Cornell didn’t move. He heard Sally’s small gasp, but he kept his eyes on the fat cop, feeling hope ebb out of him. Hannigan’s hot, excited eyes jumped to the dead man, widened at the shock of seeing the gaping slash across Rulov’s throat, then turned grimly to Cornell again. Hannigan held a big Frontiersman .44 in his freckled paw, and his hand trembled as he jabbed it toward Cornell.
“No funny business, now,” he warned.
“Nothing funny about it,” Cornell said. “You took a long time working up suspicions, Al.”
Hannigan looked elated. “Ain’t no make-difference how long it took. I got here. Had ideas about you from the start, young feller. Just didn’t like to think you were a killer, is all.”
“I’m not,” Cornell said.
Hannigan said, “Didn’t kill pore old Yvan, huh?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Hannigan looked confused. His hot eyes slewed to Milly.
“Her?”
“None of us.”
“Reckon he cut his throat himself, huh?”
“No,” Cornell said. He thought of something. “What about that fellow outside?”
“I seen him, Gov’ment man. Out cold. You slugged him pretty hard, young feller.”
“I didn’t do that, either. You ought to know, Hannigan. You saw me in Kelly’s barn, and you watched me all the time.” Cornell’s voice quickened as he pressed home his point. “You saw Milly come in and look for me. We haven’t been here five minutes, and Rulov has been dead for longer than that.”
Hannigan looked worried. “There’s a reward for your arrest. Big money. I could use it.”
“The reward is for the apprehension of a murderer,” Cornell pointed out. “You’ve got the wrong man.”
“Ain’t so sure of that.”
“But I know who the right man is.”
Hannigan’s eyes glinted. “Who?”
“It will take some time to prove. I’ll need help.”
“No.”
“It won’t hurt to listen to me. You’ve been pushed around all day by these other cops. You’d really do ’em in the eye if you turned up the real killer, wouldn’t you?”
“Ain’t you the real killer?” Hannigan grinned.
“You know I’m not. It wouldn’t look so good if I had to use you for my alibi on this killing, Hannigan.”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“You wouldn’t perjure yourself, would you?”
“For five thousand dollars, I’d—”
“You’ll never collect,” Cornell insisted. “Not unless you help me get the real killer. Just you and me. We can do it.”
Hannigan lowered his gun a little.
“What about the FBI lyin’ outside?”
“Just you and I, Hannigan.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You’ve got the gun. I’m out to save my neck. I’m not interested in the reward. That’s all yours. And the headlines, too. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? While all these fancy cops are running around in circles, you and I nab this killer. He’s not far away right now. Headlines and cash, Hannigan. Just for a little time. And just to prove I’m on the level, take my gun out of my back pocket. You forgot to ask me for it.”
Hannigan’s mouth opened and closed. He didn’t move to get Cornell’s gun. “How much time?”
“An hour. Maybe two.”
“I ain’t lettin’ you out of sight.”
Cornell felt weak with relief. He had won. He said quietly, “It’s a deal, then.”
“I reckon a couple of hours won’t make such a difference,” the fat man said. His little eyes shone with thoughts of reward and fame. He took Cornell’s gun, put it and his own in his pockets, and sat down abruptly beside the sobbing Milly. “Tell me what you have in mind, Mr. Cornell.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT WAS fifteen minutes later when the riot started in Kelly’s. Even during the investigation that followed, its beginnings remained unknown. All that the state police got out of the sheepish and battered men were garbled tales of suspicion, relating back to the grudge main between a man named Claney and another named Johnson, whose roosters had fought half an hour before the riot broke out. Tempers were short to start with, perhaps because of the close weather and the heat around the gaming pit. But the battle spread too quickly for the police to trace it back to its origin. There were shouts and screams and curses, swinging fists and mauling arms, and a turmoil that burst the bounds of the shed and spread all over Pheeney’s Landing in little knots of struggling men. It didn’t help the official temper that such an event, illegal as it was, had been going on when Calvert Beach literally teemed with law-enforcement agents.
One of the principal effects of the riot was the recall of the police guard at Overlook to help quell the angry battlers. The women who were present didn’t help by turning on the troopers and all but ripping the uniforms off their backs. It was a great night for Pheeney’s Landing.
Cornell, Sally, and Hannigan were waiting in Gootsie’s boat when the car sirens sounded from Overlook. It was what they were waiting for. A moment later Gootsie came running down the path to join them. The squat man was grinning happily.
“They’re going fine. It’s good for half an hour.”
“Time enough,” Cornell said.
Hannigan looked worried. “They’re gonna blame me, all right. They’ll say I should have known about the mains.”
Cornell said, “They’ll forget it when we get the killer.”
“When and if,” Hannigan said glumly.
The sounds of rioting drifted down the beach. Hannigan looked at Gootsie. “How did you start it?”
“I told Johnson that Claney’s Whitehackle was doped up. I told Clancy that Johnson was gonna push his face in. Then I said they said a few other things I better not repeat, seein’ Sally is with us.” Gootsie grinned and started the outboard motor. “They’ve already forgotten about me.”
In ten minutes the lights of the Landing were lost in the mist behind them. Gootsie guided the boat carefully, threading the salt-water passages that laced the low, flat shore. The darkness was almost absolute. Hannigan sat beside Gootsie in the stern, his white suit shapeless. Cornell sat with Sally in the bow, a flashlight in readiness. He was thinking, with surprise, of Milly Rulov. The blonde girl had rallied quickly, listening to him sway Hannigan. It was Milly who had volunteered to stand by at the tourist cabin, although Cornell doubted whether anything could have dragged her away from Rulov’s body, anyway. The surprise was her concern for Johnny Acorn. She insisted on having the man taken into the cabin and attended to. Acorn was already showing signs of consciousness when they left. Cornell wondered how long Milly could hold out against the G-man’s angry questions. Long enough, he hoped.
He stared at the crawling mist. He could see nothing, but Gootsie turned the tiller to starboard and the boat swung into the tidal current of a creek, water purling around the bow.
Hannigan said, “They might’ve left some cops around. Better cut the motor.”
“And row?” Gootsie protested.
“Row,” Cornell said.
Time crawled by. The oars sounded loud in the dark mist. Occasionally Cornell glimpsed a sprinkle of stars overhead, but the clear patches never lasted long. The frogs were beginning to thump again, and once something swooped through the gray air overhead on white, silent wings, cutting an arc over the water nearby. A small splash followed. A moment later something bulked out of the gloom.
“The Buccaneer,” Sally whispered.
Hannigan said, “Her crew is at the Landing.”
“You hope,” Gootsie muttered.
The cruiser was dark, with no sign of life aboard. Beyond the dock, the boathouse stood on its tall pilings. Gootsie stopped rowing and shipped the oars, and they drifted inshore in silence. Presently the boat bumped s
oftly against the pier fenders. There was no alarm. Near the bank visibility was better. The tall, dripping trees made a wall farther inland, where the plantation house stood on its solitary height. No one hailed them from shore.
Hannigan said, “You better make good, Cornell.”
“It depends on whether Rulov was telling the truth,” Cornell said. “He was here last night. He was drunk, but he saw what happened, and he remembered enough to pass it on to Milly.”
“She could’ve been lying. Maybe they ain’t here at all.”
Cornell said, “They must be. The police have been here all day. The murderer didn’t take the papers with him. Sam Hand asked me for them. So did Keach. Everyone is looking for them. The murderer hid the papers here and planned to pick them up later, when it’s safe.”
He squeezed the button on the flashlight and played the beam along the edge of the pier. The tide was high. There was about three feet of clearance between the water and the top of the wooden dock. The mist sparkled and danced in the ray of light. The frogs sang and the river chuckled. Cornell guided the boat along the dock with his hand, playing the light ahead of them.
“Somewhere along here,” he said. He twisted back and looked at Gootsie and Hannigan. “Duck your heads.”
With a single shove, he thrust the boat under the wet planking. Sally crouched beside him, her shoulder touching his.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Milly said that Yvan talked about the murderer’s hiding the files under the ‘string something-or-other.’ He didn’t have time to hide them far from the boathouse. As soon as Milly said something about string, I figured Yvan was talking about the stringpiece of this pier. The papers are hidden under here, somewhere.”
Hannigan’s voice was a muffled echo under the planks. “There’s nothing here, though.”
Cornell pulled the boat farther along. His flashlight touched briefly on the barnacled pilings, the mossy underside of the pier, the thick cross-struts. He felt despair. He had chanced everything on the words of a drunken, frightened man who was now dead. He wouldn’t find anything. It wasn’t here.
State Department Murders Page 14