ugh the open
pane for the lock inside.

"Give me a flashlight, too," Bennington said.

Patrolman Whelton responded.

At the same time, Mosby reversed the grip on the pistol in his right
hand and offered the ivory butt to Bennington.

"What do you think I am, a psychologist?"

Bennington had kept his voice to a whisper, but he had made that
whisper a snarl. He further emphasized that snap in his tone by
pulling out his own pistol, throwing the beam of the flashlight on his
hand, making both the sight and sound of the safety going off clear to
the eyes and ears of those around him.

Then he followed Thornberry into the black cave of the warehouse.

* * * * *

Before them stretched a long aisle formed by big boxes piled fifteen
feet high. Side aisles branched at ten-foot intervals.

They moved slowly, used their lights carefully, in quick flickers on
and off. Each branching from the main corridor had to be approached
cautiously. Each, when checked by a rapid finger of light, showed only
the sides of boxes marked by stenciled words and the blank walls of
the warehouse.

A flash of light, a few steps forward, another flash, a few more
steps ... until they were halfway down the warehouse.

Bennington saw it first and halted Thornberry with a touch on the arm:
the last row of boxes on the left was outlined by a faint glow of
light.

Together they walked rapidly, quietly, toward the glow. When they
reached the end of the aisle, Bennington tried to take the lead. But
Thornberry deliberately shoved himself ahead of the general and turned
the corner first.

The space from the last row of boxes to the front doors of the
warehouse was big enough for a truck and trailer to maneuver in. The
feeble glow of light came from an electric lantern on a small desk.
Beside the desk, leaning his chair against the warehouse wall, a
palefaced young man sat looking down at his hands. His long fingers
played with a knife.

The shadow of the desk spread across the floor and in that shadow
bulked a large, unmoving blackness. Bennington flicked the beam of his
light on and off quickly. One glimpse was enough. The unmoving
blackness was a middle-aged man in work clothes and boots, lying on
his back, with the slash across the throat standing out clearly.

"Walter."

Thornberry spoke softly, moved slowly, easily toward the young man.

At the sound of his name, Clarens looked up, his face calm and
com