And then a silence, broken only by little sobbing gasps. . . .
And then Altinger, now brisk. “All right. He isn’t here, because that would’ve brought him on the inn. Sorry, dear. Now: Siegel, you stay here with the girl. Keep that gun out. Wait till I get back. Carson, Flecker, come along with me.”
And tramping feet above Otto’s head—to the door—and through it—and on to the path.
In one soundless movement, he leapt across to the opening of the bolt-hole and crouched beside it and prayed that he might hear more.
And the footsteps stopped at the end of the path, exactly above his head. He could hear every word and movement and breath of the three men as they stood there.
Altinger said: “Carson: stay here and patrol around all the time. Keep in the shadow and don’t run any risk of being seen. Flecker: you come along and drive me. Know that store the girl says he’s gone to?”
A high voice said nasally: “Yeah. Top o’ the hill down t’ Monterey.”
“Good. We’ll drive slowly down that way. I don’t want to waste any time. Carson: keep your eyes peeled. If you hear him or see him coming, get back in the house and wait with Siegel. Get him together. Don’t kill him unless it’s essential—I want him.”
The guttural voice boomed an inarticulate reception of orders—but the high nasal whine of the man called Flecker had things to say. It said:
“Mist’ Altinger, don’t you reckon it’d be best . . .” and got no further. This man, unlike the giant Carson, had not worked with Altinger before.
“Shut up!” Altinger said. “Carson: when I come back we’ll put the car where it is now. And I’ll sound the horn three times if I’ve got him. That means you bring the girl—quick! I’ll sound the horn once if we haven’t got him. It’s up to you then. Get right out front, clear of the trees there, and flash me with your light—one if
Another guttural grunt.
“Good,” snapped Altinger. “Any suggestions?”
Carson said: “Should remind you about the plane.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Remember I told Kummer to have her ready to go at nine. And it’s after eight now.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Altinger said. “But we’ll leave it. I’ll have Mr. Falken-Jorgensen by then.” He laughed. “And I’ll take him along; I’ll take both of ’em along.” He laughed again. “For part of the way,” he said.
“Okay!” Carson said. “Okay.”
“Come on, Flecker!” Altinger’s voice came from further away now—and Otto could hear the whispering of the grass as legs cut through its tall and feathery stems.
But Carson still stood there; stood there for moments like days; stood there within a foot of the bolt-hole, so that Otto, his heart beating like a blacksmith’s hammer against the cage of his ribs, could see the great columnar legs as he peered upward through the chinks in the camouflage.
He strained his ears for any sound from the house above—but there was none that he could hear. None. He peered again through the bolt-hole, with a caution which would not let him so much as breathe—and saw that the legs were still there. He thought of the cellar steps into the passageway—and discarded the idea so soon as it was born. The chair he had pulled there to hide the entrance was too heavy—far too heavy—to move without sound or quickly enough. He had trapped himself with his own precautions—and he could not help Clare—and he thought of what had happened up there above him and he felt that his mind would tear loose from his control; from all control. . . .
And then the legs moved. He heard heavy footsteps go as far as the edge of the path, and then the whispering in the grass again.
He made himself count, slowly, to fifteen—and the sweat broke out on him again. He heard a sound from above just as he began to squirm through the bolt-hole—a man’s footsteps on the boards and the tones of a man’s voice saying words he could not catch. He stopped moving to listen—and then forced himself to move again.
He came out of the bolt-hole and stayed upon hands and knees in the shadow of the bush in front of it. He listened for Carson and could not hear him. He stood upright and straightened himself motionless against the dark wall.
He wondered where Carson was. He tried to figure speed and distance in his mind, and thought that by now the man must be behind the house, and about half-way around it. He tried to see into the darkness of the shadow of the firs, but it was impenetrable as velvet.
And then he heard something. But it was not Carson It was the other man’s voice, and it came clearly through the mouldering shutter to the right of his head. It was a thick voice and in its talk had a curious, hesitating demi-lisp which only occurred in certain words. It said:
“Gee! It’s tough to thee you there like that, Missie. . . . Thure you wouldn’t like that water?”
Otto began to tremble again. He waited for Clare’s answer and it did not come.
Then he heard footsteps upon the wooden floor again. Just two of them.