Cat and Mouse by William Campbell Gault

front of the door.”
    We did that. Then he went to his grip and took out a big black Colt .45-caliber semiautomatic. “One of us has to be armed,” he said.
    “Both of us are,” I told him. “I lied to Apoyan.”
    Fatigue and frustration fought each other in me when I went to bed. Fatigue finally won; I fell asleep.
    Harley was shaving in the morning when I woke up. He had pulled his bed away from the door and the complimentary copy of the morning Times was lying on it.
    Chief Chandler Harris had weaseled himself some big-city ink. He had explained in an interview with a Times reporter that the Meredith murder in Santa Monica and Jasper’s murder in San Valdesto had undoubtedly been committed by the same man. He went on to compare it with the Valley Intruder.
    Sheriff McClune, when interviewed by the same reporter, said simply, “I think we should wait until all the facts are in.”
    When Harley came out I asked, “Did you read this?”
    He nodded. “When I was there, McClune told me Harris was more politician than cop.”
    “He told you the truth. Harris ran for Congress two years ago and got swamped. Maybe he’s running for governor now.”
    “I liked McClune,” he said.
    “He’s a good cop,” I agreed, “and content to be just that.”
    “And I was content to be a good Marine,” he said. “But that’s not easy to explain to a wife, is it?”
    “I guess not. I had to get solvent before I got married.”
    Apoyan didn’t work on Saturdays. His weekend substitute did and we were semi-friends. Harley stayed at the motel to take any calls. I took last night’s warning to the station.
    “There probably won’t be any useful fingerprints on it,” I explained, “but it should mean the man is still in town, shouldn’t it?”
    He shook his head. “We had a call at four o’clock this morning from Ventura. Jane Meredith’s Pontiac was found abandoned there. The plates had been changed but the registration slip was still in the glove box. That’s pretty dumb for a car thief.”
    I told him what we had learned last night without mentioning Columbini’s name.
    “I suppose, as usual, you aren’t going to give me the name of your source?”
    “I would if I could. But I don’t know it. I got the information over the phone.”
    He smiled. “You know, Brock, if anybody else had told me that he’d wind up in the sweat box. But I know what a stubborn bastard you are. How are you and Chief Harris getting along?”
    “Not as well as I got along with you and Aram.”
    “I can imagine. What’s he running for now—senator?”
    “He doesn’t confide in me. Give my best to Aram. I’m going home.”
    “If you intend to make a stop in Ventura, I’ll put in a call for you.”
    “Thanks. But I’m sure he’s heading for San Valdesto.”
    Harley was reading the paper when I came to the room. I told him what I had learned and that I thought it was time to head for home.
    He agreed.
    “You can follow me,” I told him. “Most good drivers agree that the proper distance for the following car should be one car length for each ten miles per hour of speed.”
    “Yes, sir!” he said and saluted.
    There was no way he could follow that procedure. The Ventura Freeway was jammed and the sports-car pukes kept switching lanes, crowding into any open space that gave them a clearance of more than six inches, slowing the normal flow of traffic as the citizens backed off to give them room.
    His Camaro went zipping past soon after we left Oxnard. Sixty miles later he was waiting for me at the Montevista turnoff.
    From there up the long winding road to home he maintained the good-driver distance.
    Corey was sitting in a deck chair in the shade at the north side of the house, keeping his eagle eye on the road in front. He came over as we drove in.
    I introduced him to Harley and asked, “Is Jan home?”
    He shook his head. “I took her to work this morning before the guard left. Vogel doesn’t work on Saturdays.”
    “I