Madball (25 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE MURDERER HELD three aces and had opened. Jesse Rau and Al Ritchie had stayed. He masked his hand by holding a jack for a kicker and took one card. He put his one card with the others without looking at it because Jesse and Al were each taking one card too. He said, "Check it blind."

Neither of them had raised his opening bet so they were going, probably, for straights or flushes. They'd play him for two pair, waiting for a bet against him to see whether or not he'd filled; it would make them careful.

Jesse looked at his card and then counted out five dollar chips and put them in. Al hesitated, or pretended to hesitate, and then called.

He fanned his cards slowly. The three aces were still there
-
and the fourth one had joined them. Four beautiful aces, the winning hand.

He counted out five chips, pretended to hesitate, and then counted out five more.

Someone slid into the vacant seat behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was Wiggins. He said, "Hi, Wiggy. Going to sit in?"

"For a while. Say, you left the light on in your trailer." He managed not to start, looking down to hide whatever fright might be showing in his eyes. He hadn't left the light on. He'd turned out the light and he'd locked the door. After his experience with Sammy walking in the other night, he never had left the trailer without being absolutely positive that the light was out and the door locked. And the money-

He asked, "How long ago? Just now?" He prayed that it was. He wanted to throw in his hand and run but he couldn't throw in, not just after raising.

Wiggins said, "It was fifteen or twenty minutes ago." Suddenly he was sweating. He couldn't sit it out, even if running off looked suspicious.

He jumped up as though remembering something. He shoved the cards into Wiggins's hand. "Play these for me, Wiggy. My God, I just remembered. I got the week's take in there, and I didn't leave the light on."

He broke into a run as soon as he was outside. He could see his trailer as soon as he'd taken a dozen steps; the light was still on and now the door was ajar. When he got there and went in he saw that the lock on the door was broken.

The suitcase on the floor. Empty
...
Even the clothes had been taken out and thrown on the bed. And the shoe box was gone. So was the gun.

Blankly he looked around. The food taken out of the refrigerator and cupboard
-
the empty box that had held cookies
-
Sammy.

Only Sammy would have broken in here to look for food, to have eaten cookies while he searched the trailer looking for something else to steal. Sammy on the lam; Jesse had said something about kicking Sammy out.

But he must have left after Wiggins had been here
- the door being ajar was a much more conspicuous fact than the lights being on. If the door had been ajar when Wiggins had been by he'd have said so, not have said just that the lights were on. Sammy had still been in here then and had left since then, maybe only minutes ago. He might still be on the lot; he couldn't be far away.

The Murderer rushed out, not bothering to turn off the lights or to close the door. They didn't matter now and every second might count.

On the midway he stopped, looking around for someone, anyone, who might have seen Sammy, who might be able to tell him which way Sammy had gone.

He ran for the chow top, seeing that it was still lighted. In the entrance he almost ran into Dixie. "Seen Sammy?"

"You mean Rau's boy? Yeah, maybe five minutes ago."

"Where? Which way was he going?"

"Toward the main gate. He was with Trixie Connor, carrying a couple suitcases for her."

"They have a taxi waiting?"

Dixie shrugged. "I just saw 'em go by."

He gasped thanks and ran toward the gate. Then he whirled and ran for his car instead. Even if they'd had a cab waiting or had been lucky enough to flag one already, he might be able to catch them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DR. MAGUS SHIFTED the shielded flashlight and looked again to be sure. Yes, t
h
e line was faint but unmistakable. It had been cleverly cut along the fold under the shoulder so it couldn't be seen through the glass of the
...

He picked up the single-edged razor blade he had ready for the purpose and ran it lightly along the line, then a little harder. It was merely cemented shut with rubber cement such as he had ready to cement it shut with again.

The cut opened.

He drop
p
ed the razor blade and reached his fingers in eagerly through the cut.

He touched paper, the crisp wonderful paper of United States currency.

This was the moment. He sighed deeply with satisfaction, realizing now how tense he had been, realizing now that until this moment, despite all evidence, he had doubted that fate could be so kind to one so undeserving.

Puzzlingly, the bills seemed to be tied together and to be tied to something. He pulled.

There was a flash.

***

Weep no tears for Dr. Magus. He died the best of deaths. He died without even hearing the sound of the explosion that killed him, died so suddenly that there was no time for either pain or realization. He died without knowing that he died, and in a moment of supreme satisfaction and happiness. What more could he have asked or wanted?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

WEEP RATHER FOR Burt Evans, owner of the unborn show, the murderer now of five people if one counts Leon Quintana, and all for a shoe box full of money he no longer had.

Through the windshield of his car, as he stepped on its starter, he saw the flash, as Dr. Magus had, but
h
e heard the explosion too. He saw the canvas of the mitt camp billow outward and tear.

In his travail he thought, Oh God, what now? Had that been the booby trap he'd put inside the rubber calf fetus, the booby trap that had been for Mack Irby in case Mack got back from the hospital unexpectedly and got to the fetus to take the money from it before he could get to Irby and kill him?

It must have been; it must be that Dr. Magus had somehow got on the trail of that money too and had learned where it was hidden. Rather, where it had been hidden before he'd found it and put it in the shoe box in his suitcase. But how could Doc have learned about it?

Well, that didn't matter now. Or
...
Oh God, yes it did. If that explosion had been the booby trap in the pickled punk, then it meant he couldn't come back to the lot now whether or not he caught up with Sammy and Trixie and the money. Because the police would find fragments of rubber and fragments of glass that would add up to a five-gallon jar and they'd find the two-headed calf fetus missing from the unborn show, and he'd have some impossible questions to answer.

And Sammy and Trixie were a danger even aside from the money because they'd never make a clean getaway with it. However it happened that the two of them got together on it, they'd never get away with it. They weren't smart enough. Even Trixie wasn't smart enough if she ditched Sammy on the deal as she probably planned to. They'd get Sammy anyway. And Sammy would tell where he'd found the money and that would be that. The police would put it all together, finally, the booby-trapped punk, the murder of Mack Irby,
th
e bank robbery just before the accident, the whole damn thing. They might never even suspect him of having engineered Dolly's death and Linder's, and they'd have a hell of a time now pinning Mack Irby's murder on him. But they'd have him cold on Dr. Magus.

Win, lose or draw on catching up Sammy and Trixie, he had to keep on going now. And unless he got the money back, he'd have lost everything. His show, his own money
-
in the bank but he'd never dare show up to try to draw it out
-
his trailer, even his clothes except the ones he was wearing. Every second counted; he couldn't go back to the trailer
,
even for his razor or an extra shirt. Most of the money that had been in his pocket was invested in chips in that damn poker game.

The engine was running now. He jerked the car viciously into gear and turned on the lights. He started off, circling to go off the other side of the lot, away from the excitement, from the rush of people heading toward what was left of the mitt camp.

He'd been so careful, so damned careful just so that he could spend the money openly, without having to go into hiding and take a new identity and worry about being hunted all his life. He'd planned to that end from the very moment when he'd found the money. That had been three days after the accident that had killed Flack and had put Irby in the hospital. He'd noticed that the water level had gone down several inches in the jar that held the two-headed calf fetus. He'd found the jar lid was tight so he'd known that the hollow rubber fetus
-
the only fake one in the lot
-
must have sprung a leak that was letting water seep into it from the jar. He'd taken it out to hunt for and fix the leak and he'd found the cut Irby had made and had imperfectly cemented shut.

And of course he'd looked inside and found the money; it had been soaking wet and it had been a hell of a job getting it dried out and still keeping it out of sight.

He'd guessed the score right off. Flack and Irby and a bank robbery. Checking a newspaper had confirmed it
.
And Flack was dead and Irby, the only person who knew about the money being there, in the hospital.

He'd had plenty of time to think things out and to get ready for Irby's return. He made the booby trap and set it. The minute he learned that Irby was back he'd watch for a chance to kill him without being caught. And if that worked, he figured, he could ride out the rest of the season, retire and enjoy life. But in case Irby made a try for the money first the booby trap would have taken care of him.

Of course in that case he'd have taken it on the lam with the money the minute he heard the explosion. Wherever he was on the lot
-
and he'd made a point of never leaving it when Irby's return became imminent
-
he'd have heard the bomb go off and all he had to do was put the suitcase in the car and drive away.

Where had he made a mistake? None, that he could see. How could he have forseen a halfwit searching his trailer for food and finding the money?

How could he have foreseen Dr. Magus springing the booby trap? Of course he could have taken the dynamite out any time since last Monday night, but it would have been more dangerous to dismantle the trap than it had been to make it and put it in the punk. He'd figured he might as well leave it there and after the end of the season bury the whole thing, jar and punk and booby trap all together, or maybe drop it off a bridge or into deep water from a boat.

Off the lot and onto the street
.
Shouts behind him, but they were not shouts at him.

He swung around the corner with tires screeching and then slowed down. If Trixie and Sammy were still waiting for a taxi or had started to walk, he didn't want to drive past without seeing them. If they were walking they couldn't have gone more than a few blocks; he'd have to drive slowly and watch carefully for a while and then go like hell to try to catch a cab if they'd got one. Luckily he didn't have to worry about what route they'd take; this street was a main drag leading right into the heart of town.

He drove two blocks slowly and he hadn't passed them. And for the next two blocks ahead there weren't any trees along the sidewalk; he could speed up and still not miss them. Damn them, they must have caught a cab.

He hit the floorboards with the accelerator pedal. The needle climbed to sixty and kept on climbing. His mind was going as fast as the car, figuring what he could do if he reached downtown without having caught up to them.

Check railway depot and bus depot first. Phone the airport from one of them, if there was an airport. Then start checking hotels. He thought it would be a hotel
-
although of course the depots came first because if it was a hotel there wasn't any hurry. He felt almost sure it would be a hotel because Trixie would want to ditch Sammy and a hotel would give her a chance. They wouldn't register under their own names but God knows they'd be an easy enough couple to describe.

There was a car ahead that looked as though it could be a taxi
.
He didn't slow down; he swung out to go around it and as he pulled level he looked across into it. It was a squad car. Two startled faces under uniform caps looking at him. "Pull over!"

He held his foot down and went on past them almost as though they were standing still. Behind him their siren started to wail as they gathered speed for the chase. But his momentum gave him a full block lead. Could he get away from them? He had to now. If he'd stopped right away they might only have given him a ticket but now they'd pull him in for sure. Hell, they would have pulled him in anyway, even if he'd stopped when they'd yelled to him to pull over. He'd been going over eighty, in town, and his car had an out of state license.

A red stop light ahead. To hell with that. He kept his foot down. But a car came out from the cross street; he had to swing the wheel hard to miss it. He missed it, but he'd swung too sharply. The world tilted, turned upside down, and ended in a scream of tearing metal.