little beginnings of valley between dark hills. A train roared down from the New-hall tunnel, gathered speed and went by with a long shattering crash.
Landrey said something to his driver. The Cadillac turned off on to a dirt road. The driver switched the lights off and picked his way by moonlight. The dirt road ended in a spot of dead brown grass with low bushes around it. There were old cans and torn discolored newspapers faintly visible on the ground.
Macdonald got his bottle out, hefted it and gurgled a drink. Atkinson said thickly:
“I’m a bit faint. Give me one.”
Macdonald turned, held the bottle out, then growled: “Aw, go to hell!” and put it away in his coat. Mallory took a flash out of the door pocket, clicked it on, and put the beam on Atkinson’s face. He said:
“Talk, kidnaper.”
Atkinson put his hands on his knees and stared straight at the beacon of the flashlight. His eyes were glassy and there was blood on his chin. He spoke:
“This is a frame by Costello. I don’t know what it’s all about. But if it’s Costello, a man named Slippy Morgan will be in on it. He has a shack on the mesa by Baldwin Hills. They might have taken Rhonda Farr there.”
He closed his eyes, and a tear showed in the glare of the flash. Mallory said slowly:
“Macdonald should know that.”
Atkinson kept his eyes shut, said: “I guess so.” His voice was dull and without any feeling.
Macdonald balled his fist, lurched sidewise and hit him in the face again. The lawyer groaned, sagged to one side. Mallory’s hand jerked; jerked the flash. His voice shook with fury. He said:
“Do that again and I’ll put a slug in your guts, copper. So help me I will.”
Macdonald rolled away, with a foolish laugh. Mallory snapped off the light. He said, more quietly:
“I think you’re telling the truth, Atkinson. We’ll case this shack of Slippy Morgan’s.”
The driver swung and backed the car, picked his way back to the highway again.
V
A WHITE picket fence showed up for a moment before the headlights went off. Behind it on a rise the gaunt shapes of a couple of derricks groped towards the sky. The darkened car went forward slowly, stopped across the street from a small frame house. There were no houses on that side of the street, nothing between the car and the oil field. The house showed no light.
Mallory got to the ground and went across. A gravel driveway led along to a shed without a door. There was a touring car parked under the shed. There was thin worn grass along the driveway and a dull patch of something that had once been a lawn at the back. There was a wire clothes line and a small stoop with a rusted screen door. The moon showed all this.
Beyond the stoop there was a single window with the blind drawn; two thin cracks of light showed along the edges of the blind. Mallory went back to the car, walking on the dry grass and the dirt road surface without sound.
He said: “Let’s go, Atkinson.”
Atkinson got out heavily, stumbled across the street like a man half asleep. Mallory grabbed his arm sharply. The two men went up the wooden steps, crossed the porch quietly. Atkinson fumbled and found the bell. He pressed it. There was a dull buzz inside the house. Mallory flattened himself against the wall, on the side where he would not be blocked by the opening screen door.
Then the house door came open without sound, and a figure loomed behind the screen. There was no light behind the figure. The lawyer said mumblingly:
“It’s Atkinson.”
The screen hook was undone. The screen door came outward.
“What’s the big idea?” said a lisping voice that Mallory had heard before.
Mallory moved, holding his Luger waist high. The man in the doorway whirled at him. Mallory stepped in on him swiftly, making a clucking sound with tongue and teeth, shaking his head reprovingly.
“You wouldn’t have a gun, would you, Slippy,” he said, nudging the Luger forward. “Turn slow and easy, Slippy. When
Landrey said something to his driver. The Cadillac turned off on to a dirt road. The driver switched the lights off and picked his way by moonlight. The dirt road ended in a spot of dead brown grass with low bushes around it. There were old cans and torn discolored newspapers faintly visible on the ground.
Macdonald got his bottle out, hefted it and gurgled a drink. Atkinson said thickly:
“I’m a bit faint. Give me one.”
Macdonald turned, held the bottle out, then growled: “Aw, go to hell!” and put it away in his coat. Mallory took a flash out of the door pocket, clicked it on, and put the beam on Atkinson’s face. He said:
“Talk, kidnaper.”
Atkinson put his hands on his knees and stared straight at the beacon of the flashlight. His eyes were glassy and there was blood on his chin. He spoke:
“This is a frame by Costello. I don’t know what it’s all about. But if it’s Costello, a man named Slippy Morgan will be in on it. He has a shack on the mesa by Baldwin Hills. They might have taken Rhonda Farr there.”
He closed his eyes, and a tear showed in the glare of the flash. Mallory said slowly:
“Macdonald should know that.”
Atkinson kept his eyes shut, said: “I guess so.” His voice was dull and without any feeling.
Macdonald balled his fist, lurched sidewise and hit him in the face again. The lawyer groaned, sagged to one side. Mallory’s hand jerked; jerked the flash. His voice shook with fury. He said:
“Do that again and I’ll put a slug in your guts, copper. So help me I will.”
Macdonald rolled away, with a foolish laugh. Mallory snapped off the light. He said, more quietly:
“I think you’re telling the truth, Atkinson. We’ll case this shack of Slippy Morgan’s.”
The driver swung and backed the car, picked his way back to the highway again.
V
A WHITE picket fence showed up for a moment before the headlights went off. Behind it on a rise the gaunt shapes of a couple of derricks groped towards the sky. The darkened car went forward slowly, stopped across the street from a small frame house. There were no houses on that side of the street, nothing between the car and the oil field. The house showed no light.
Mallory got to the ground and went across. A gravel driveway led along to a shed without a door. There was a touring car parked under the shed. There was thin worn grass along the driveway and a dull patch of something that had once been a lawn at the back. There was a wire clothes line and a small stoop with a rusted screen door. The moon showed all this.
Beyond the stoop there was a single window with the blind drawn; two thin cracks of light showed along the edges of the blind. Mallory went back to the car, walking on the dry grass and the dirt road surface without sound.
He said: “Let’s go, Atkinson.”
Atkinson got out heavily, stumbled across the street like a man half asleep. Mallory grabbed his arm sharply. The two men went up the wooden steps, crossed the porch quietly. Atkinson fumbled and found the bell. He pressed it. There was a dull buzz inside the house. Mallory flattened himself against the wall, on the side where he would not be blocked by the opening screen door.
Then the house door came open without sound, and a figure loomed behind the screen. There was no light behind the figure. The lawyer said mumblingly:
“It’s Atkinson.”
The screen hook was undone. The screen door came outward.
“What’s the big idea?” said a lisping voice that Mallory had heard before.
Mallory moved, holding his Luger waist high. The man in the doorway whirled at him. Mallory stepped in on him swiftly, making a clucking sound with tongue and teeth, shaking his head reprovingly.
“You wouldn’t have a gun, would you, Slippy,” he said, nudging the Luger forward. “Turn slow and easy, Slippy. When
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