“Yes. Probably an hour before George and I left.”
“But on the other hand, it’s almost certain she
called somebody the minute you left the house. That’s
why the line was busy when I tried to call you,
because I’m positive it was after eleven-forty-five. So
it could have been anybody. Now, remember carefully
—how long do you think it was from the time you
called George Clement until he arrived in the Sheriffs
office?”
“Not over ten minutes,” I said, and then did a
delayed take. “George?”
“Why not?” she asked. “That’s the way the police
operate, from all the mysteries I’ve read. Anybody’s
under suspicion until he’s been cleared by the facts.
Also, there’s something else I’ll get to shortly—a
couple of things—but first let’s look at that ten
minutes. How many blocks would he have to drive to
go from his to your house and then to the
courthouse?”
I ran it in my mind, beginning at his house in the
east end of town. Three west on Clebourne, five south
on Montrose, five back, three more west on
Clebourne, and two north on Stanley. “Eighteen. It’s
impossible. Also, he had to dress.”
“He said he had to dress. But suppose he was
already dressed and on his way out, because of
another telephone call he’d received a few minutes
before?”
I turned. “By God—!”
“And unless time was a factor—that is, to him—why
would he even mention it? It’s not in character.
Clement has a brilliant and incisive mind, the type
that seldom wastes time on trivia.”
“But, still— Ten minutes? It’s not enough.”
She went on. “There would have been little or no
traffic at that time of night. We’ll clock it, under the
same conditions, and see. That’s one of the things I
picked you up for.”
The Long Saturday Night — 94
“But wait a minute,” I broke in, as the absurdity of it
began to dawn on me. “This is George Clement we’re
talking about, the ex-mayor, the leading citizen; he’s
so proper and law-abiding he’s a little stuffy
sometimes. Also, he’s a friend of mine—and of hers—
we played bridge together an average of once a
week.”
“Yes, I know,” she said calmly.
“And, listen—I don’t think anybody on earth could
have walked away from the horror in that bedroom
and then, in less than three or four minutes at the
outside, into another room where there were people,
without its showing on his face. Something would
have twitched, or there’d have been no color—except
green. Hell, he even called me Hotspur, because I was
blowing my stack all over the place. Could anybody
face the husband of the woman he’d just beaten to
death with an andiron—?”
“He could have,” she said. “Remember, I worked for
him for almost a year, and women study men a lot
more than men are ever aware of. George Clement
has the most perfect—I’d say absolute—control of his
features of anybody I’ve ever seen. I don’t say he has
that much control over his emotions—in fact, I know
he hasn’t— but nothing inside shows through when he
doesn’t want it to. It’s like pulling a blind. I’ve
watched him in court when he was in trouble with a
hostile witness and an unfriendly judge, and one time
I hit him—”
“You what?’
She grinned. “All right, so I’ve been known to give
way to a hot-headed impulse myself.”
“But—but— what did you hit him for?”
“Well, it was a little ridiculous, actually, but at the
moment that seemed the simplest way to get his hand
out of my bra.”
“You can’t mean—not George?”
“I assure you, George has hands.”
The Long Saturday Night — 95
I goggled at her. “Well, I’ll be damned; the
sanctimonious old bastard. So that’s the reason you
quit?”
“Yes. Not then, but later. He apologized for it, and I
thought we understood each other, but all he did was
change his approach. I finally got tired of knocking
down passes, oblique or otherwise, and resigned.
Naturally, I didn’t say anything about it when you
asked, and wouldn’t now except that it has a bearing
on this matter. In fact, I would say it was quite
relevant. But we were talking about his ability to
control his expression. Most men under the
circumstances would have been angry and blustered
it out, or looked sheepish, or tried to laugh their way
out of it, or shown some expression. All he did was
pull that blind in back of his face. Imagine, the red
splotch on the side of it still showing, where I’d hit
him, and he was as calm and poised as if he’d merely
offered me a cigarette. ‘My apologies, Mrs. Ryan.’ He
must have been raging inside—at me, and at himself
for getting into a ridiculous position—but he went
right on dictating without missing a comma.”
I was still having trouble assimilating it. “That
changes the picture considerably. George could be the
man we’re looking for.”
“Of course. Now, there’s one other item. Are you
sure that Frances Kinnan came here from Florida?”
“Yes. There’s no doubt of it. Regardless of the fact
that Crosby couldn’t pick up her trail down there, she
came here from Miami. Her car had Dade County
license plates, and she paid the first month’s rent on
the store with a check on a Miami bank. She was lying
about all the rest of it, but she’d been there, and she’d
been using the name Frances Kinnan. She had to,
because that was the name on the pink slip of the car.
I sold it for her when we were married, and bought
her that Mercedes.”
“You don’t recall the date on the slip? I mean, when
she bought the car?”
“No. I didn’t even look at it. But why?”
The Long Saturday Night — 96
“As I recall, she arrived here in January, 1959. Is
that right?”
“Yes. It was two years ago this week.”
“Well, George had just come back from a Florida
fishing trip, less than three weeks before.”
“What? Are you sure of that?”
“Positive. I’ve been thinking back very carefully, to
make certain of it. I started work for him in
November, 1958, and it was less than a month
afterward. There were continuations on a couple of
cases he had pending, and he got away for about a
week, sometime after the middle of December. He
came back just a few days before Christmas. And he
was down there alone.”
The Long Saturday Night — 97
9
“By God, I think you’ve got it!” I said. “So that was
what those fishing trips were for? He always went
alone; Fleurelle didn’t care for fishing—or for Florida,
either.”
“Yes, I know,” she said simply. “I’ve been briefed on
what Fleurelle didn’t like.”
“So you had the frigid wife bit thrown at you too?”
She nodded. “But it’s not important now. The thing
that is, however, is the fact he could have met
Frances Kinnan that trip—” She broke off, making a
little grimace of distaste. “I don’t like this sort of
thing.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “But it can’t be helped. So he
met her, only this time he brought the girl home with
him. And cooked up that dress shop deal to cover it.
He knew about the living quarters in back of the
store, and knew the place was vacant—it had been for
a couple of months, in fact—” I stopped, realizing we
still didn’t know the answer. “What is it?” she asked.
“We’re as far in left field as ever. There’s no motive
for murder in any of this. Take a look. Suppose
Roberts did find out something about her—I mean,
who she was—and she was paying him to keep it
hushed up; it was still nothing to George. By that time
she was married to me. She’d have been in a jam, and
The Long Saturday Night — 98
my face might have been a little red if it suddenly
developed the police were looking for my wife
because she’d absconded with the assets of some
bank in Groundloop, Arizona, but they couldn’t pin
anything on George, even if the details of this dress
shop setup ever came out. He’s too shrewd a lawyer
to get tagged with a charge of harboring a fugitive—
he’d probably thought that all out in advance. He’d
simply say he had no idea she was a fugitive, and even
if she said otherwise, it’d only be her word against
his. Admittedly, the scandal wouldn’t have helped his
position much here in town, but anybody with
George’s mind and legal training wouldn’t have much
trouble weighing the risks of first-degree murder
against a minor thing like that and coming up with the
safe answer, even if he had no scruples against
murder aside from the risk. Let Roberts talk, and be
damned to him. And, finally, it’s doubtful Roberts even
knew there was any connection between her and
George. As far as Fleurelle is concerned, she might
have divorced him if it all came out, but from my
viewpoint that’d hardly qualify as a total disaster.”
“I know,” she said. “There has to be more to it than
we’ve discovered.”
“Also, I still don’t think George could have killed
her. There simply wasn’t enough time between my
calling him and his showing up in the Sheriff’s office.”
“That we can check,” she said. “And we will in just a
minute. But right now, let’s look at that Junior
Delevan possibility again. I still have a feeling he fits
into it somewhere; you can call it feminine intuition if
you want, but there’s something very significant in
that bitterness of Doris Bentley’s toward Frances. At
first, I thought it might be because she believed you’d
killed Roberts and of course blamed Frances for the
fact. She probably still thinks you killed him, but I
don’t think that’s what’s bothering her. She didn’t
care that much about him. They dated a few times,
but from what I can find out, that’s about all it
amounted to. So we have to go back further. She was
pretty crazy about Junior, from all accounts.
The Long Saturday Night — 99
“I’ve been asking a few questions here and there,
trying not to be too obvious about it, and I’ve learned
just about all that was ever known or ever found out
about what happened to Junior that night. And it’s not
very much. Scanlon questioned Doris about him, along
with a lot of other people, but she swears she never
saw him at all. She had a date with him, but he stood
her up.”
Something nebulous brushed against the perimeter
of my mind. I tried to close in on it, but it got away. I
must have grunted, because she stopped. “What?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to remember
something. Go on.”
“She could have been lying about not seeing him,”
she went on, “but apparently Scanlon was satisfied
she was telling the truth. It seems she even called
Junior’s house, when he failed to show up for the date
when the dress shop closed at nine P.M., trying to find
out if his mother knew where he was. She—that is,
Mrs. Delevan—verified this. She said Doris called
there twice. There’s not much more to tell. They do
know where Junior was until around eleven-thirty. He
was with two other boys— Kenny Dowling and Chuck
McKinstry—just riding around drinking beer. Dowling
was old enough to buy it, so he was picking it up by
the six-pack, and they were drinking it in the car.
They told Scanlon he got out of the car on Clebourne,
near Fuller’s, around eleven-thirty, saying he had
important business to take care of and couldn’t spend
the whole night with peasants. They thought he meant
a girl, since he always swaggered a bit over his
conquests, but he wouldn’t tell them her name. They
swear that was the last they ever saw of him. Scanlon
had them in his office for six hours—he had Dowling
where the hair was short, anyway, for giving beer to
minors— and when they came out they were pretty
sick-looking boys, but they stuck to their story and
said they had no idea where he was going or what he
was going to do after he left them. Apparently that
was the last time he was ever seen alive; he must
have been killed in the next half hour. Somewhere.”
The Long Saturday Night — 100
“Well, our only chance is that Doris knows
something about it she hasn’t told. Shall we go?”
“Right. But first we time that route.”
I got in the back again, crouched down between the
seats, with a pencil flashlight she took from her purse.
She drove back into the edge of town, turned left, ran
two or three blocks, turned right, and stopped. “We’re
parked on Stuart,” she called softly over her shoulder.
Stuart was the next cross street east of Clement’s big
house on Clebourne. “Headed toward Clebourne, a
half block from the corner. Starting from here would
about equal the time it’d take him to back his car out
of the garage. Ready?”
I cupped the little light in my hand and focused it on
the watch. When the sweep second hand came around
to the even minute, I said, “Take it away.”
She pulled away from the curb, and turned right at
the corner. A car passed, headed in the opposite
direction. I kept down. She turned again, left this
time. We were on Montrose. She didn’t appear to be
driving fast at all. After a moment, she turned right,
and then right again. “I’m going around behind,” she
said quietly. “I doubt he would have parked in your
driveway.” Probably not, I thought. There were two
houses across the street from ours, and he could have
been seen. “I’ll park at that vacant lot directly behind
your house.” We eased to the curb and stopped.
“Mark.”
I flashed the pencil light on the watch, and couldn’t
believe it at first. “One minute, twelve seconds,” I
whispered. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“I didn’t go above 30 miles an hour at any time. All
right, here we go for the second leg.”
I checked the time as we pulled away. There was
very little sound of traffic, even when we turned into
Clebourne. In a moment we turned again, went on a
short distance, and stopped. “Mark,” she said. “We’re
parked right in front of the courthouse.”
I flicked the light on the watch. “One minute and
thirty-two seconds. That makes a total of—” I added it
quickly. “A total of two minutes forty-four seconds.”
The Long Saturday Night — 101
“I thought so,” she whispered. “You see, he had
better than seven minutes. It wouldn’t have taken him
over two at the most to walk around to the front of
your house and then back to the car. He had all the
time he needed.”
Then—if it were George—there’d been no argument,
nothing. He must have gone there simply for the
purpose of killing her, for cold-blooded, premeditated
murder. She’d called him, let him in the house when
he rang, and then—the first instant her back was
turned —he grabbed up the andiron and brought it
down on her head. Why? I shook my head wearily,
wondering if anybody would ever know. We started up
again.
I could see the blinking amber light at the
intersection as we crossed Clebourne. She turned left
into Taylor. Westbury was in the east end of town, just
beyond the edge of the business district. In a moment
we stopped. “Nobody in sight,” she whispered.
I sat up. We were at the curb in the middle of the
block, in shadow under some trees. All the houses
were dark, and there were cars parked ahead and
behind us. Up at the next corner, at the street light,
was the apartment house. We could see the entrance
from here. I checked my watch. It was five minutes of
three. “She may be already home,” I said.
“Yes, but we don’t know where Mulholland is. He
might have gone in with her. If they don’t show up in
half an hour, I’ll drive back to the apartment and ring
his number to see if I get an answer.”
We smoked a cigarette. Fifteen minutes went by in
silence as we watched the shadowy, deserted street
and the empty pool of light at the corner. The night
seemed to have been going on forever, and I
wondered where I’d be when it ended. In jail? Or
dead? They’d take no chances; if I made a stupid move
they’d shoot me.
Doris had had a date with Junior, but he hadn’t
shown up. Something in that had rung a bell in my
mind, very faintly, but I hadn’t been able to isolate
what it was. She’d tried to get hold of him; she’d
The Long Saturday Night — 102
called his house— called it twice, in fact. Was she
merely incensed because he’d stood her up, or was it
something else, something she had to tell him? Just
then, a car turned into Taylor two blocks behind us,
its headlights flashing briefly in the rear-view mirror.
“Duck,” I whispered. We lay down on the seats.
The car came on and went past us. We sat up again.
It wasn’t a police car, but it was slowing. It went on
across the intersection ahead and pulled to the curb
before the apartment house entrance. A man got out
from the driver’s side and went around and opened
the other door, a big man, bareheaded. I felt
excitement run along my nerves, and began to tense
up. It was Mulholland. He helped Doris out, and they
crossed the sidewalk to the doorway. I watched
nervously to see if he were going to follow her in. He
didn’t. For a moment the two figures blended as they
kissed, and then she went inside and he came back to
the car. He drove on down Taylor and turned left at
the next corner.
“Give him five minutes, to be sure he doesn’t come
back,” she said softly. “And, remember—try not to
scare her too much. If she panics, she’ll scream. I’ll
drop you off right in front, and then go on and park in
the next block.”
“No,” I whispered. “If anybody sees me under that
light, I don’t want him to see me getting out of your
car. I’ll leave you right here, and then you go on
home.”
She refused to listen to this last. “All right,” I said
reluctantly. “But if there’s any uproar, get out fast,
because I won’t come back to the car. You’ve done too
much for me now, and I don’t intend to get you in
trouble.”
I waited another two or three minutes while my
nerves tied themselves in knots. The street remained
silent and deserted. I’d better go now, before I got too
scared to go at all. I eased the door open and slipped
out. “Good luck,” she whispered.
I came out from under the shadow of the trees at
the intersection and felt a million eyes on me as I
The Long Saturday Night — 103
crossed Westbury under the street light. I hurried into
the doorway. The door was locked. I pressed several
buttons at random, and waited, feeling the muscles in
my back grow taut. The door buzzed. I yanked it open,
slipped inside, and hurried up the carpeted steps to
the second floor.
The corridor was deserted. Apartment 2C was the
second door on the left. I pressed the buzzer, and put
one hand on the knob. For a moment nothing
happened. It occurred to me that if they had safety
chains on the doors I was sunk. Then I heard her
moving. “Who’s there?” she asked. I mumbled
something indistinguishable and trusted to curiosity.
The knob turned.
Her breath sucked in as I came in on her, but before
the scream could cut loose I clamped a hand over her
mouth. She fought, her eyes wide with terror as she
recognized me. I shoved the door shut with my foot,
and backed her across the room toward an armchair
near the old-style pull-down bed. A small, rose-shaded
lamp was burning on the table beside it. So far we
hadn’t made any noise, but I wasn’t sure how long my
luck would last; it was a very small room, too
cluttered with furniture for much romping. I pushed
her down in the chair with my hand still over her
mouth, pinching her nostrils to shut off her breath.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I snapped. “Keep quiet,
and I’ll let you go.” She quit fighting. I turned her
loose, but stood over her ready to grab her again. My
hand I’d had over her face was greasy with cold
cream. She wore nothing but bra and pants and a
sheer nylon robe or peignoir deal that had got
wrapped around her waist in the struggle. She
squirmed in the chair and tugged at it, trying to get
some random bit of it down over her legs. The blonde
hair was aswirl across her face, and the normally
rather sullen brown eyes were crawling with fear as
she looked up at me. “Wh-what are you going to do?”
“Nothing except ask you a few questions,” I said.
“But this time I want some answers, or I’ll break you
in two. You got me into this mess, and now you’re
going to get me out. Who was the man coming to
The Long Saturday Night — 104
Frances’ apartment there in the shop when you were
working for her?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You said there was one.”
Her eyes avoided mine. “So maybe I was mistaken.”
“But you weren’t; and that’s what intrigues me.
Apparently you were the only one who ever found it
out, but how did you? Did you ever see him?”
“No.”
“Were you ever back there in the apartment?”
“Once or twice. With her.”
“See any men’s clothing lying around? Cigar butts?
Pipes?”
She shook her head.
“I see,” I said. “Now, at that time Frances and I
were dating pretty steadily and generally considered
to be engaged, so if you had seen any evidence a man
had been in her apartment, you’d just have assumed it
was me, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes—I guess so.”
“Good.” Now we were getting somewhere. “But
when you told me about it on the phone, you obviously
didn’t mean me. So you must have meant you had
reason to believe there was a man in her apartment
on some night when it couldn’t have been me? When
maybe I was out of town?”
She hesitated. “Look—maybe I was wrong—”
“No, you weren’t. You were dead right, and I’ll tell
you how you knew. Junior Delevan was a pretty big
boy, wasn’t he?”
She gasped. “I don’t know anything about that
business!”
“Too big to be killed, and then loaded into a car, by
a 120-pound girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“I tell you, I don’t know anything about—”
“Maybe you don’t. But I’ll bet you could make a
pretty good guess as to where he went that night.
Couldn’t you?”
The Long Saturday Night — 105
Her gaze went past me, crawling sickly around the
room, looking for some way out. “I—I didn’t even see
him at all that night. You can ask the police. You can
ask his mother—”
I got it then, the thing I’d been trying to remember,
the missing fragment that made a whole picture of it
when you put it in place. I grinned coldly down at her.
“That’s right. You phoned his house twice, didn’t you,
trying to get hold of him?”
“That’s right. We had a date. He was supposed to
pick me up when the store closed, but he didn’t
come.”
“Quite a night for being stood up, wasn’t it, Doris?”
“What do you mean?”
“I broke a date with Frances, too, remember?”
“No. Why should I?” She tried to brazen it out, but
her eyes shifted, avoiding mine.
“You remember, all right. You were in the shop
Friday afternoon when I stopped there and asked her
to go to a dance Saturday night at the Rutherford
Country Club.”
“So maybe I was. I worked there, didn’t I?”
“Did you say anything about it to Junior?”
“How do I know?”
“Did you?”
“How you expect me to remember all the things we
talked about? You think I write down every word I say
to anybody?”
“You told him, all right.”
“Have it your way; so all we got to talk about is you
and your crummy dates, big-wheel Warren. How
would I remember? And if I did, it’s a Federal case, I
suppose?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Scanlon could answer that
question for you. But let’s get on to the big item. You
were also in the shop around eight P.M. Saturday
when I came by to tell Frances I had to go to Tampa
and couldn’t make the dance. And you’ve just said you
didn’t see Junior at all that night. You tried twice to
The Long Saturday Night — 106
call him at his home, so you must have had something
very important to tell him, didn’t you?”
She said nothing. Her hands began twisting at the
robe; she’d forgotten about trying to cover up her
legs, even if she remembered she had any.
“You never did get hold of Junior,” I went on, “so it’s
obvious he never was warned she was going to be
home that night, after all. And the next morning they
found him on the city dump with his roof knocked in.
Did you know he was going to burglarize the place
that night, or just the first night she happened to be
away?”
“Junior wouldn’t—”
“The hell Junior wouldn’t! He already had a
previous conviction for burglary. And this time he
even had a girl friend who could get him a key. Or did
he just break in?”
The truth was written on her face, but she tried to
bluff it out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Since she couldn’t have done it, you knew there
had to be a man there. Do you know who he was?”
“No! And you can’t prove any of that junk—!”
I grabbed for her to shake the truth out of her,
forgetting she didn’t have on much to take hold of,
and this time she cut loose with the scream. It must
have come from her insteps, growing in volume all the
way. I tried to get a hand over her mouth, stupidly
hanging onto the bra and a handful of robe with the
other, but the chair went over backward, taking the
table and the lamp. The straps of the bra gave way
and it all came off in my hand. She threw in another
hopper of decibels and let go again, and bounced up
and across the bed. I was as crazy now as she was,
with no idea of what I was doing. I grabbed for her
and got part of the robe just as she hit the floor on the
other side of the bed and went rolling and bucking
across the room, and then she was in the bathroom
with the door locked, still screaming.
I wheeled and lunged for the door. There was
nobody in the upper hall yet, but my luck ran out
The Long Saturday Night — 107
when I hit the bottom of the stairs. One man was
already out of his apartment and another had his head
out the door. They both recognized me, and yelled.
Probably at the moment all either wanted to do was
get out of my way, since I was a madman who’d
already killed two people and now possibly a third,
but the one in the hallway dodged the same way I did
and I was going too fast to swerve. I crashed into him
and we went down.
Other doors were opening now, up and down the
corridor, and a woman with a voice like an air-raid
siren was shrieking, “Call the police! Call the police!”
Just as I untangled myself and scrambled to my feet,
the other man, braver now that reinforcements were
in sight, came lunging at me. I knocked him down, but
stepped backward and fell over the one who was
under me. I bounced up, swung at the other who was
already getting to his knees, knocked him over again,
and plunged on toward the front door. Another man,
in nothing but a pair of jockey shorts, was coming at a
hard run now, from the far end of the hall.
I hit the front door at full speed, remembering too
late that it opened inward, and slammed into it with
my shoulder. Glass shattered and rained with a brittle
tinkling sound on the tile. I yanked it open and leaped
down the steps. Off to the left, as I ran across the
street, I saw Barbara pulling out from the curb in the
middle of the block. I made a desperate motion of the
arm for her to get away, and ran up Westbury. I
looked over my shoulder and saw her headlights
swinging as she turned into it behind me. I plunged
behind a hedge just before the lights caught up with
me, and lay down on the ground. She went on past. I
prayed she’d get out of the area before the police cars
got here. She turned right at the next corner. People
were still shouting and pouring out of the apartment
house behind me, but none crossed the street. I cut
across the yard I was in just as lights began to come
on in the house, climbed the fence, and ran across the
vacant lot behind it. When I emerged on the next
street, there was no one in sight, but I could already
The Long Saturday Night — 108
hear the sirens. A police car shot past on Taylor, off to
my left. I ran to the right and crossed Clebourne.
I heard a car coming this way. There were street
lights ahead and behind me. I ducked into the alley
back of Clebourne and fell flat behind some garbage
cans, sobbing for breath. As the car went past its
spotlight raked the shadows, but missed me. I lay still
for a moment, trying to collect my wits after all the
confusion. I couldn’t go back to the office, even if I
could get there. They’d search it, along with the
house. But the Duquesne Building was in the next
block; all I had to do was keep to the alley, cross one
street, and I’d be behind it. I got up and ran again.
The intersecting street was clear. I made it across,
and ran on toward Montrose. I ducked into the small
vestibule at the rear of the building, and collapsed,
too winded to move. A car went past on Montrose,
flashing its spotlight up the alley.
The door to the left opened onto the stairs going up
to the second floor; the one on the right was the rear
entrance to Roberts’ apartment, leading into the
kitchen. When I could get to my feet, I backed up as
far as I could and crashed into the latter with my
shoulder. On the third lunge the bolt tore out and it
swung open. I stepped inside, closed it, and flicked on
the cigarette lighter to look about for something to
prop it shut. There was a small table next to the
refrigerator. I shoved it against the door, holding the
lighter with the other hand, and then stood looking
down at the linoleum in horror. There were spatters of
blood on it. The lighter went out. I nicked it on again.
The blood was coming from a cut on the back of my
left hand. I’d left a trail of it all the way from that
apartment house that a Boy Scout could follow. I let
the lighter go out and stood listening to the drip, drip,
drip, as it fell and spattered in the darkness. Even if I
could move on the streets now, there was nowhere
else to go.
The Long Saturday Night — 109
10
Well, I’d known all the time they had to get me sooner
or later. There was no use standing here crying about
it; at least I could make use of the little time I had left.
I looked at my watch; it was twenty minutes of four.
The chances were they wouldn’t discover that trail of
blood until after daybreak, which was another three
hours.
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