t to Garfield's left.
He could see it now through the screening bushes--a big job, a long, low
four-door sedan. The motor continued to purr. After a moment, a door on
the far side of the car opened and slammed shut.

A man walked quickly out into the beam of the headlights and started
towards the Packard.

Phil Garfield rose from his crouching position, the .38 in his right
hand, flashlight in his left. If the driver was alone, the thing was now
cinched! But if there was somebody else in the car, somebody capable of
fast, decisive action, a slip in the next ten seconds might cost him the
sedan, and quite probably his freedom and life. Garfield lined up the
.38's sights steadily on the center of the approaching man's head. He
let his breath out slowly as the fellow came level with him in the road
and squeezed off one shot.

Instantly he went bounding down the slope to the road. The bullet had
flung the man sideways to the pavement. Garfield darted past him to the
left, crossed the beam of the headlights, and was in darkness again on
the far side of the road, snapping on his flashlight as he sprinted up
to the car.

The motor hummed quietly on. The flashlight showed the seats empty.
Garfield dropped the light, jerked both doors open in turn, gun pointing
into the car's interior. Then he stood still for a moment, weak and
almost dizzy with relief.

There was no one inside. The sedan was his.

The man he had shot through the head lay face down on the road, his hat
flung a dozen feet away from him. Route Twelve still stretched out in
dark silence to east and west. There should be time enough to clean up
the job before anyone else came along. Garfield brought the suitcase
down and put it on the front seat of the sedan, then started back to get
his victim off the road and out of sight. He scaled the man's hat into
the bushes, bent down, grasped the ankles and started to haul him
towards the left side of the road where the ground dropped off sharply
beyond the shoulder.

The body made a high, squealing sound and began to writhe violently.

* * * * *

Shocked, Garfield dropped the legs and hurriedly took the gun from his
pocket, moving back a step. The squealing noise rose in intensity as the
wounded man quickly flopped over twice like a struggling fish, arms and
legs sawing about with startling energy. Garfield clicked off the
safety, pumped three shots into his victim's back.

The gr