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nothing.”
    “This target rifle reported stolen from Danvaz . . . could this be the murder weapon?”
    Beigler shrugged his shoulders.
    “Your guess is as good as mine. We’re investigating that possibility.”
    “When will you have something for me?”
    “About a couple of hours. We’ll have a press conference at midday at headquarters.”
    Hamilton regarded Beigler, his expression deadpan.
    “Okay. . . that’s the best you can do?”
    “Sure is.”
    Hamilton ran down the steps to his car. Beigler watched him go, then went into the house to see how Terrell was progressing. He stood around, listening to Toko talking. When Toko had run out of steam, Terrell got rid of him. When Beigler and he were alone, Terrell showed him the note Toko had given to him.
    Beigler examined it, then swore under his breath.
    “A nut.”
    “Could be or a cover.”
    Both men knew a nut with a gun was about the trickiest killer of all killers to corner.
    Beigler slid the note into a plastic envelope. “I’ll get this to the lab boys.”
    As he started towards his car, he paused. “Hamilton’s as hostile as ever. He’s onto the stolen rifle. We’re in for a lot of publicity.”
    “Yes.”
    Terrell made for his car.
    They hadn’t been gone five minutes before Pete Hamilton Pulled up outside the house again. He talked to Toko, had his Photographer take pictures and was driving away before the two other rival newsmen came storming up the drive.
    Hamilton caught the 11.00 TV news programme. Photos of the stolen gun.
    McCuen’s house, the distant apartment block were flashed on the screen.
    Hamilton told his watching audience about the note from the Executioner.
    “Who is this man?” he asked. “Is he going to strike again?”
     
    ***
     
    The Welcome Motel stood back from Highway 4 on a dirt road, three miles outside Paradise City. Its fifteen shabby cabins, each with its own garage, was presided over by Mrs. Bertha Harris whose husband had died during the Korean war.
    Bertha, large and floppily built, was now in her late fifties. The Motel provided her with a living: eating money as she called it, and since Bertha scarcely did anything else but eat, the Motel could be regarded as a success.
    Usually she only expected one night stands so she was gratified and surprised when a dusty Buick had driven up the previous evening and a respectably, quiet-spoken Indian had told her he and his friends were on vacation and could they rent two cabins for a week: possibly longer?
    Bertha was still more gratified when there was no haggling about the price. The Indian had agreed so readily to her terms that she wished she had asked for more. She was also gratified that the Indian had paid a week in advance for both cabins, but she was a little puzzled to see his friends were white: a young man and a girl, but then she told herself that was their affair and not hers.
    The Indian signed the register as Harry Lukon and had signed the other two in as Mr. and Mrs. Jack Allen.
    They had gone to the restaurant, run by Bertha’s coloured help, a woolly haired negro called Sam who at the age of eighty-five still managed to keep the cabins reasonably clean and produce depressing meals when asked, which was seldom. After eating limp hamburgers and a flabby apple pie washed down with root beer, the three had gone to their cabins and Bertha forgot about them.
    At 22.00 Bertha’s other three guests - elderly travelling salesmen - had gone to bed. The Motel was quiet. Poke Toholo had tapped on Chuck’s cabin door and the two men had whispered together while Meg tried to hear what they were saying. Then Chuck told Meg to go to bed and he and Poke went off in Buick, heading for Paradise City.
    By the confident way he drove once they reached the City, Chuck could tell Poke knew the place like the back of his hand. It was only after they had driven around one of the shopping blocks a couple of times that Poke explained what they were about to do.
    He had