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with you.”
    He didn’t push it. “Who’s the dead guy?”
    “The name is Carl Hendrix.”
    He said dryly, “There anything else you’d like to tell me, Lee?”
    I hesitated. He was on top and knew it. My nose began to ache across the bridge. It was stupid to try and hold things back from the police. On the other hand, in this instance, it could be stupid not to do what you thought was right, even if somebody else thought it wrong. If I fouled up, that was no good, either. But if this killing had something to do with the Laketown robbery, and I managed to get a lead, it could mean good things. Telling Haddock about the paper currency band I’d found might stall me and tip them to something. They would find it soon enough.
    “I guess there’s nothing else, Lowell.”
    Haddock made a sound like a fly buzzing into a bird bath. This was ticklish business. I didn’t want either him or Chief of Police Howard Garlik forming snap opinions of me right now. James Baron had played ball too hard with all of them. I didn’t want them getting the idea I would take their orders and tear up my ticket, just because they nodded their old gray heads.
    I felt as if I were being watched. It was a creepy feeling. The rain fell heavier on the trailer roof now, and outside it seemed remote and dark.
    “Lee, you do me a big favor and wait right there. I’d like to have a chat with you. Old Jim and I were close friends. I always knew when you finally came home, you’d be made of the same fine stuff.”
    “Come down out of the palm tree, Lowell. I’ve been knocking around in this business for a long time, remember?”
    His tone changed. “What, son?”
    “Forget it.”
    “Now, look, son—”
    “Go ahead. Keep on calling me that.”
    “Jim and I were very close, Lee.”
    I lowered my voice and spoke carefully. “Good-by.”
    I hung up, feeling touchy about the phone call. I had wanted things to go right. The Florida Gulf Coast held big promise.
    The feeling that I was being watched made my ears itch. I looked around, then stood up fast.
    A man stared at me through the window over the bunk at the rear of the trailer. His features were faint.
    I moved fast around the table, headed for the door. The face vanished. Feet scrambled. I heard savage animallike running and panting.
    That hound.
    The door snapped open.
    “Don’t move.”
    He stared at me over the double barrel of a shotgun. A big guy, soaking wet, with black hair hanging over his forehead.
    I watched him without speaking.
    “I mean it,” he said nervously. “You move and I’ll shoot.”
    He shouldered inside and closed the door. Something smashed resoundingly against the door, clawing and growling. He opened the door. The hound flopped wetly in across the linoleum, whined softly, cocked his head at me, then shook himself. Water sprayed from floor to ceiling.
    “Who the hell are you?” the man said.

FOUR
     
    T HE HOUND shook himself good and dry. He took his time. I moved my hand to wipe some of the fragrant spray off my face.
    “Don’t,” the guy said.
    His eyes flickered curiously with the look they get when they’re nervous and haven’t much control. He was young, in his early twenties. He wore a heavy black raincoat, gleaming wetly. His gaze steadied, and he frowned.
    “How long we going to stand here?” I said quietly.
    “Till you explain to me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
    The shotgun was steady. He reached back, pawed around, then laid his hand on the wall switch. He knew right where it was. A bright overhead light came on.
    I said, “I might ask you the same thing.”
    He coughed lightly, watching me under sparse black brows that looked like black watercolor paint. His face was waxen, without color. The lips were pale.
    The hound panted and squeaked and dripped.
    “You broke in,” he said.
    “If that’s what you call opening the door with a key.”
    “Don’t get funny.”
    He meant it. He didn’t like people to get funny. The