Роберт Колби - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972

“There’s no definite indication that he’s headed our way,” Miles pointed out, “and even if he is, the county territory is reasonably secure. All the farm residents have been alerted and Billy and I have set up patrol routes—”

“I know all that, Frank,” Haley said irritably, “but I’m still concerned about public opinion. There’s an election in two weeks.”

“How well I know.”

“All right, then. When do you plan to get some men on the job?”

“As soon as I feel that it’s necessary.”

There was an urgent knock on the office door and Agnes Hiller rushed in. “Sheriff, there’s been a killing,” she said tensely. “The call just came in—”

“Who and where?” Miles asked, already starting to move.

“Old Doc Scott’s wife—”

“Oh, no.” Haley said, paling.

“—found strangled right in her own home!” Agnes continued.

“Get on the radio,” Miles said, already moving through the outside office. “I’ll tell you what to do on my way out there.”

“Wait for me!” Haley said, hurrying after Miles. The sheriff was nearly to his car by the time Haley caught up with him.

Both men buckled their seat belts simultaneously. An instant later Miles was speeding toward the Scott residence, red light and siren going full cycle. He steered the cruiser with one hand and used the radio with the other.

“Ready, Ag? Okay. First, raise Billy; have him continue his patrol on a one-alert basis. Next: get hold of Clary and Elton; tell them I want roadblocks set up at State Highway and the county line, and where River Road intersects the bypass. Next: get back on the private fine and call all the farms again; tell them to lock their houses and stay inside. You got all that?”

“Affirmative,” Ag verified.

“Ten-four,” Miles said, hooking the mike in place and taking a corner on two wheels at the same time.

Three minutes later, the cruiser screeched to a stop in front of old Doc Scott’s two-story Colonial home. Two city police cars were already there. Chief Able Cross was just emerging from the house with one of his men as Miles and Haley got out of the car. Miles recognized the local newspaper reporter waiting on the sidewalk.

“What are you doing here, Frank?” Cross said for the benefit of the reporter. “This is a city case.”

“Have you caught Dall yet?” Miles asked.

“No, we—”

“Then it’s anybody’s case,” Miles snapped. “This house is only a quarter of a mile from the city limits; the killer could easily be in county territory. Now, let’s knock off the showboating and forget about politics for a while. Our job is to protect this community; you in the city, me in the county. So far you’re not doing your job too well, but I intend to do mine. ” He glanced at Commissioner Haley and the reporter. They were taking it all in. “Now — let’s get down to business! Were there any witnesses?”

“Why, uh, no... not that we know of.” Cross answered subserviently.

“Who found the body?”

“Doc Scott’s cook. She just came back from the market.”

“How’d the killer get in?”

“Forced the kitchen screen door.”

“Probably left the same way, then,” Miles said. “And if he went across the back yard and kept going—”

“It would take him straight into county territory,” Cross said. He was recovering some of his composure. “That would make him your baby, Frank.”

Miles narrowed his eyes and smiled tightly for the benefit of his audience. “I’ll let you know when my deputies and I pick him up, Able,” he said flatly.

Before anyone could say anything further, Miles got quickly back into the cruiser and raced away, siren and red light going again.

Ten minutes later, with the siren and red light off, Miles arrived back at his house. He drove around to the rear and parked next to the back door. When he got inside, he found Jacob Dall still unconscious on the floor. Unshackling him, Miles dragged him out to the car and laid him face down on the back seat. He cuffed his hands behind him, then used the leg irons to hogchain his hands to his ankles. When Dall was securely trussed up, Miles got back behind the wheel and pulled away from the house.

He headed out the way he had come into town earlier, toward River Road. After he had gone a couple of miles, he radioed the jail and was told by Ag Hiller that the two roadblocks he ordered were up. He told Ag he was on his way to search the dirt roads that ran into the fields a mile or so behind old Doc Scott’s house. Clearing the frequency, he called Billy Ruud in the other cruiser and told him the same thing. He checked Billy’s position and was satisfied to learn that his deputy was a good four miles away.

When he finished on the radio, Miles turned east into the first back road he came to. He bounced and jogged over the hard ruts in the road, leaving a thick trail of dust behind him. Presently he came to another dirt road; he turned south, back in the general direction of town. One good thing about being born and raised in the same county, he thought absently, he knew every field road that existed. Half a mile farther on, he turned east again.

Miles drove for five minutes, then stopped and parked. He estimated he was about a mile and a quarter directly behind old Doc Scott’s house. There were at least three-quarters of a mile of open fields on every side of him. It was the perfect place to capture Jacob Dall.

He got out of the cruiser and opened the trunk. He took out a pair of soiled gardening gloves and threw them on the front seat. From a plastic bag he removed a few pieces of folded currency, a woman’s wristwatch, and a diamond wedding band. He put the articles in his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap. The last thing he took out before closing the trunk lid was a .32 caliber chrome revolver.

Holding the revolver in his left hand, Miles laid the muzzle across his right forearm, lifted it a fraction of an inch, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. The blast of the bullet tore off a strip of his shirt sleeve and seared a neat crease in the flesh beneath. Miles groaned and dropped the gun; he swore in pain; tears flooded his eyes. He blinked and watched his own blood rise to the surface of the wound. Quickly he went to the glove compartment and took out a first aid kit. He bit the wrapper from a gauze pad, blotted the seeping blood away, and poured iodine along the open track of flesh. It burned like fire and he groaned and cursed again. Finally he got another gauze pad over the wound and wrapped a piece of tape around his arm to hold it in place. He went back, picked up the .32, and stuck it under his belt.

Getting back in the car, he turned around and headed out of the field. On his way back to town, he radioed the jail again. “Ag, I’ve got our man,” he said. “Call Billy and have him get the roadblocks down. Let all the farms know that the danger’s over. Tell the city dispatcher to notify Chief Cross. Then get a cell ready — and see if you can get me a doctor, somebody besides old Doc Scott; I’ve been shot slightly.”

He ten-foured out before Ag could ask any questions. The story, he knew, would be all over town in fifteen minutes.

On the way back to town, Jacob Dall awoke. “Where... where am I?” he asked groggily.

“In a police car,” Miles told him. “Just relax and the chains won’t bother you.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Jail first. Then back to the hospital probably.”

“Are you... going to hurt me?”

“No,” Miles said quietly. “You’re a sick man, Mr. Dall; nobody’s going to hurt you.” And nobody would either; there was no death penalty in their state. Even if there were, it wouldn’t affect Jacob Dall; he’d been certified insane.