THE KILLER, page 3
On the wall was a single picture, an enlarged fuzzy photograph of two men standing by the carcass of an elephant. One of the men was Stennis himself, his face younger. The other was Farrow. Farrow stood and looked at the picture for a while. It had been a long time ago. Stennis said, “Yes, that's the same elephant. I don't forget it, Jacob.”
“Your chief fault, then and now. You always took too long a chance.”
“You saved my life then. Will you do just as much for me now?”
Farrow turned around and eyed him quizzically.
“Walt, I might as well be blunt. I think your loss has put you a bit off your rocker. I think you're doing again what you did with that bull in the picture. Rushing into a bad situation without considering.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I didn't get where I am today by being orthodox, I'll tell you. On occasion I've even skirted the law because there come times when the law doesn't provide. The law isn't providing for me now. The rules of this century don't allow for a personal revenge. And that's what I want, a personal revenge. My son's death was personal and I saw it happen. I want the same for Bocock, to be caused by me. There's only one restriction I'll put on you, Jacob—when you've tracked him down, I want to see his death, be in at the kill.”
“Revenge and good hunting don't mix. There are only two reasons to hunt, for food or for sport. Since this Clel Bocock is a man, he doesn't fit either category.”
“No,” said Stennis emphatically. “He's not a man any longer in “the sense that you and I are men. That's what you've got to remember. He's an animal, nothing more. By murdering, he's forfeited his human estate. He's free game to anyone with guts enough to go after him.”
Again Farrow grunted doubtfully.
Stennis said, ''My God, you're not going to hold up a j lot of moral objections, are you?”
“No.” Farrow lowered himself to the couch and sat there, hands clasped in a single large fist between his knees. “No, I don't know that morality has much to do with it Walt. I'm a hunter. I will admit that you're appealing to the worst side of me, I think. Every professional hunter wonders at one time or another how it would be to hunt game that can shoot back.”
“But you're not sold on it.”
“No, I'm not. I can't believe you're thinking clearly. There already must be thousands of police on Bocock's trail. They know their terrain and they've hunted criminals before. I'm a stranger to all that.”
Stennis made a brushing gesture, as if those objections were gnats. “The metropolitan cops and the county and state forces and the FBI have all been on the job two weeks. They've accomplished exactly nothing. Could you do any worse than that? Bocock is a country boy, right out of the Georgia swamps. You're bound to understand him better—how he thinks, where he'll hide—than these city people who are chasing him.”
“And perhaps I'd fail, Walt. My pride wouldn't like that.”
“I'm gambling a lot of money on the fact that you've never failed.” Stennis paced up and down. “We'd have to maintain a certain amount of secrecy, of course. Any publicity would lessen your value. I've prepared credentials establishing you as a bank investigator, but I don't think you'll need them. The man who kills Clel Bocock is performing a public service. I have traveler's checks made out in your name; they're in my desk out there. The Lincoln downstairs is the hunting car I've used in Canada. It's a beauty, Jacob. The trunk is stocked with any camping supplies you might need, and behind the rear seat is a rack for your rifles. The car can go anywhere and—”
“You think it will be a long trek, then.” Stennis' face had been like his voice, intense, anxious, striving for confidence. Now it relaxed slightly with a short grateful smile. He said, “I knew you'd agree, Jacob. It can be done, and you're the one who can do it.”
“I didn't say that. I asked your opinion on the extent of the thing.”
But Stennis was heartened. “Yes, it'll probably, take time and travel. I know you never count on luck. The Bocock gang isn't in this part of the country, that we know for sure. A week ago they knocked over a bank in Jefferson City, Missouri. A teller got shotgun wounds from that trigger-happy Mouse bastard and the whole gang got away clean again. That's when I sent Osher off after you.”
“That's strange,” Farrow muttered. Stennis raised his eyebrows. “I mean, strange they'd strike so soon after making off with so much here. Why wouldn't such badly wanted outlaws be satisfied with a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for a while?”
Stennis twisted his mouth scornfully. “You'll learn that Bocock isn't noted for brains. Just ego—with a gun. Let me show you what his pack is like.” From the filing cabinet he drew some bulging manila folders and some scrapbooks. “I've had the best outfits across the country researching for me. Private detectives and clipping bureaus and . . . Maybe I have gone a little crazy, Jacob. I've sorted and arranged and rearranged this stuff until my eyes ached. All to find out what makes Bocock and his friends tick. But, by God, I've got a right to my obsession.”
“Yes,” said Farrow. He examined the first batch of pictures, Clipped from newspapers, Sunday supplements, magazines. First was a blank-faced youthful member of the gang, Larry Sidell, old enough to have a sneer but not a personality. Stennis commented, “Sold papers till a few months ago, when he fell in with Bocock.”
Farrow inspected the second man, who, with Sidell, had guarded the getaway cars. “Nicholas Mellick,” said Stennis. “Known as Prof Nick. A confidence man, first time at armed robbery. Somehow Bocock persuaded him to change his ways.” A debonair man gone to flesh, long greasy-looking hair with sideburns. It would be dyed hair, for the aging Prof Nick had vanity lined on his face.
“Number three. James Egan, Mouse Egan.” He was a little fellow, pimply, bucktoothed, broad of forehead and jaw but narrow in between, as if his head had been squeezed at birth. Even in the graceless prison photos he had a wild-eyed look. “Ex-con. A killer even before what happened downstairs. Narcotics addict and a mad dog with that damned shotgun.”
And then there was Vito Duccone, an ape in a pinstriped suit. “Bocock's right hand,” said Stennis. “Suspected of everything, convicted of nothing. Got quite a bit on him from the Creme Agency in Chicago. Duccone is the gang's principal contact with the underworld. He's been around a long time. He probably helped found hell.” Bocock's adjutant wore a broad insinuating smile in every picture. The smile only made the flat, jowly face more sinister. His bald head gleamed from within a fringe of black hair.
“Those are the assistant devils.”
“Nice lot,” Farrow said softly.
“Here is the head man. McClellan Bocock himself.” Farrow separated the final batch of pictures carefully and spread them out on the couch. He noticed the eyes first, large and round and glittering. Yet, even at secondhand, they had a dark melting look, persuasive.
Farrow said, “I'd imagine he's hell with the ladies.”
“I don't have anything on that. He's a drifter, never could find a place to light. Conies from a share-cropper family, according to the write-ups. The newspapers have made a lot of his child bride, romanticizing him and his parents. The Bocock clan like to-talk to reporters about him, it seems, though I doubt if they can read the interviews.”
Clel Bocock was tall and slim, twenty-five years old. He had a rather pale, willful face. Under the compelling eyes, his cheekbones were high and slanted jauntily. When he smiled, his full lips parted crookedly at the left side. His hair was thick and curly and black, and one lock seemed trained to hang down over his forehead. In three different pictures, he was wearing a black sport shirt with white piping, giving him a cavalier air. Women would consider him handsome; men would know he was dangerous. Farrow stared for a long time into the deep demanding eyes.
“And he's a pretty deadly shot,” said Stennis abruptly.
“I'm not surprised,” Farrow murmured. From the river a ship's whistle wailed long and mournfully.
“I know what you must be thinking, Jacob. It's really my job to do, not yours. I wounded the animal and I should be the one to follow in and finish him off. But I'm scared that I haven't got the talent; all I've got is the money to get it done. I've got too old.”
Farrow was embarrassed. He growled, “Never mind that, Walt. Let me think.” He wanted to do it for friendship's sake. He put that part of it aside and tried to consider the project as just another job. When he did that, he found his heart beat a little faster. The pay was good and there was certainly nothing for him in Kenya this year. Here, the terrain would be unfamiliar but speedy to travel; although, like most of his profession, he disliked hunting by car. And the quarry—a wild beast with a gun ... In the end Farrow said slowly, “Well, I've always considered myself a professional. Perhaps this is the acid test.”
Stennis let out his breath. He said, “God bless you, Jacob,” and touched his shoulder briefly. Then he was all business again. “The gang was last seen in Missouri. In Missouri I've got the two big branches of Global—”
“No,” said Farrow. “I'm not going there. I think we can trust the local police to thresh the areas where Bo-cock's been seen lately.”
“But you've got to pick up the trail somewhere.”
Farrow leafed idly through one of the scrapbooks of newspaper clippings, a chronological history of Bocock-led crime. “I've got to find out what the trail will be like. I'll get something out of your press articles and your investigators' reports, but they're still just so much written material. I need the feel of the quarry. Men leave spoors too, you know, and Bocock will act on the basis of his habits and environment like any other animal. I'll have to begin where Clel Bocock began, get to know him and how he reasons. I can take short cuts later, but I'll have to begin in Georgia.”
“That won't do,” objected Stennis. “That takes time. What if in the meantime the police should capture—”
Farrow chuckled. “You haven't changed at all, Walt. Quick decision, rush directly into trouble. No, I don't believe in your kind of long chances. Bocock may well be wounded. The only way to approach wounded game is from the' rear.”
Stennis looked unconvinced. But he shrugged tiredly and got an atlas out of the cabinet. “You're directing the hunt, Jacob. My part is to furnish what information I can.” He spread the atlas to a two-page map of the United States. “You've got the whole continent for a game preserve, all yours. Here's Albany, where we are now. Down here is Waycross, Georgia.” He figured rapidly. “About eleven hundred miles, say about thirty hours' driving time. If you leave tomorrow morning you should be in Waycross Tuesday evening. I'd suggest you fly, but you're going to need the car. I'll phone ahead and make hotel reservations for you.”
“No need of that,” Farrow demurred.
“It's something I can do,” Stennis said fiercely. “Let me do what I can. Keep in touch with me and don't hesitate to draw on any of the people I've hired to help you.”
Farrow nodded. He picked up the nearest sheaf of agency reports and started to read. “Odd way to begin a hunt,” he murmured.
Stennis sat down beside him on the couch. He said, “Since this is the beginning, Jacob, let me wish you—good hunting.”
Chapter Four. TUESDAY, MAY 1, 9:00 P.M.
WHEN HE KICKED the oxfords off his feet one of them sailed all the way across the hotel room. He sauntered after it and remained by the window, sniffing the warm musky smell of the Georgia night. It was only the first of May, but the Waycross air had a heavy summery embrace. Insects buzzed and bumped against the screen and, three stories down, beneath the streetside oak trees, Farrow watched the slow promenade of pale white-clad girls and pale shirt-sleeved men.
He remembered that Clel Bocock had once been part of this picture. He left the window and flopped on the bed with his newspapers. Last night's Virginia paper carried a story, unconfirmed, that Clel Bocock had been sighted traveling alone through Arizona. This morning's South Carolina paper had a report, unconfirmed, that the entire Bocock gang had escaped into Canada.
Only the Waycross Journal Herald, which he'd bought a few minutes before, seemed of value. It headlined another bank raid today, this time in Butte, Montana, and the raiders were the Bocock gang. This was no rumor or guess, for they had left behind one of their members, dead. Larry Sidell, the blank-faced newsboy, had been chopped down by a bank guard's bullets.
“And then there were four,” murmured Farrow. Butte, Montana, was a long way from Waycross, Georgia. He thought of calling Walter Stennis but decided against it. Stennis would want him to rush out to Montana, just as he had wanted him to rush out to Missouri. Bad policy; you had to stalk slowly or you missed important details. Farrow wiggled his' toes comfortably, relaxing from the two-day drive. Tomorrow he would visit the Bocock family. Tomorrow he would wear his safari boots under his trousers. He'd had enough of the oxfords.
His head jerked up at a fumbling scratching noise. He looked at the doorknob. It was turning back and forth erratically. He wasn't in the habit of locking doors; he hadn't locked this one. It swung open.
Farrow got off the bed quickly. He said, “I beg your pardon.”
A girl stood in the doorway, holding onto the jamb for support. Her head was bowed so that her long hair hung, screening her face. It was thick blonde hair, the tawny yellow color of a young lioness; although badly mussed, it shimmered prettily in the lamplight. The girl had no dress on. From behind the screen of hair her voice muttered thickly, “I know I shouldn't have come here . . .”
Farrow grunted stupidly, staring at her. She seemed to have been having a wild time, although he hadn't heard the noise of any party nearby. He could smell the whisky reeking from her. Besides her dress, she had also lost one of her high-heeled slippers. The elastic of her white half-slip was canted across the soft skin of her abdomen, emphasizing the narrow bow of her hips. Her breasts were less girlish and, since the straps had drooped beyond modesty, they were only half captured by her brassiere, white silk below, white lace above.
Farrow said, “You have the wrong room, miss. Which number were—”
“Oh” she breathed, and he caught her as her knees struck the floor. He lifted her onto the bed. She was a small creature, easy to carry. She sat on the edge of the bed and clumsily swept her hair out of her face and mumbled, “I just wanted to find out.”
“No doubt,” said Farrow dryly. He rubbed his nose at the nearness of the whisky smell; it wasn't even good whisky. Then he ambled to the door and looked up and down the hotel corridor, perplexed. None of the other doors was open and there was nobody out looking for her.
The girl was giggling. “No shoe,” she said. “No shoe.” Farrow went back to her, leaving his door wide in case her boy friend should come along to claim her. She lifted her face while he was staring at her some more and she tried to focus on him. Her eyes were gray, but darker and softer than his own, and with sooty curved lashes. He said, for his own benefit, “You know, you're something of a beauty.”
Her pink full mouth giggled again while her eyes blinked and fought the liquor. It was evidently her first all-out encounter, for her fine-boned face showed no signs of dissipation. Her nose was narrow and short with gently flaring nostrils. At each side of her high smooth forehead the temple indented delicately. Her chin was small and firm and gently cleft. And her throat curved downward.
Farrow flushed, then chuckled at himself. He said, “You don't know it, beauty, but I've been taking advantage.” He leaned over her, making no sudden movements.—“Here. Don't panic on me. I'm just being a damn fine gentleman.”
The girl paid no attention while he tugged the drooping straps up onto her shoulders. When the rosy tips of her breasts were behind lace again, she suddenly hugged herself to his arm. “Don't go away!” she quavered. “Don't go away!”
Her skin was satiny and moistly warm against his bare forearm. She was perspiring, and with the female smell a faint beat of desire rose in him. He let her hold herself against his arm and looked at the open door and chewed his lip. He smiled down at her. “I wish you'd had less to drink, young lady. Where can I find your sweetheart? Who's the fellow who brought you?”
She began to sob loudly. “I want to go home. I want to go home.” Tears rolled freely down her cheeks and into the corners of her mouth.
He extricated his arm and went to his suitcase. He thought he understood. A young girl, not over twenty, out on a clandestine adventure, and suddenly her fogged brain was scared, wanting to run. . . . He dug out his rain cape and stood her up and wrapped her in it. He told her, slowly and distinctly, “You're going home now. Where do you live?”
She stopped sobbing. She lifted her chin and whispered, “I'm an Ingram.” Then she retched.
Farrow sighed. “Perhaps fresh air will bring you around.” The girl managed to remain standing while he laced on his safari boots and rolled down his shirt sleeves and put on his coat. He locked his arm around her waist and walked her down the hall to the back stairs. In the hall he discovered her other slipper and fitted it on her. His rain cape still dragged a short train behind her, but in two shoes she staggered less.
He got her down to the hotel garage and into the Lincoln without encountering anyone but the garage attendant. The attendant, a yellow-faced Negro, glanced away from the girl quickly. Farrow handed him a dollar.
“I'm going out for a short tune. It'd be very kind of you to forget about it.”
The Negro grinned slyly and put his hands over his eyes and then laughed.
Farrow drove in a circle around town, the girl huddled beside him, occasionally shuddering with nausea. Way-cross was a small clean warehouse city of some sixteen thousand inhabitants and countless railroad crossings. The girl, her head hanging out the window, gave him no help as to directions. Finally he pulled over to the side and slapped her face a few times. She didn't seem to mind. He stopped the light slaps and drew back from her when he realized again that he liked to touch her smooth skin.
