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Ferguson.
    â€œIn the living room, she catches up with him. She’s plenty put out after all she tried to do for him. She gets in his way, and Keith …” Britt made a shoving motion with his hands. “So she falls backwards and her head …” Britt snapped his bony fingers.
    The man’s teeth were yellowish clamps on his cigar. “Only he ain’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. He’s in the living room with her dead body, and two men are walking in on him, Mr. Conway and you, Mr. Vallancourt. He ducks behind the drapery, hoping you’ll take one look and run like hell to get help, giving him a chance for a getaway.”
    â€œThat’s all pretty much guesswork, Britt,” said Vallancourt.
    â€œSure, but how the hell else could it have happened? You figure another way, Mr. Vallancourt?”
    Vallancourt shrugged. “Do you mind if I leave now? I’ve given you all the help I can, and I’m anxious to get back to my daughter.”
    â€œSure. Go on. If I need you, I’ll give you a ring. But I don’t think I’ll have to. We’ll have him behind bars by nightfall. The state patrol’s been alerted, roadblocks set up. We got this Rollins kid bottled up in this section of the state. If he gets out, it won’t be alive.”
    Charles and Mrs. Ledbetter had heard the news. Vallancourt called them into his study and briefed them on the details, concluding with the thought uppermost in his mind: “It’s possible, perhaps probable, that Keith Rollins will try to contact Nancy.”
    The Ledbetters, he suspected, had already considered the possibility. Charles said, “We’ll bear it in mind, Mr. Vallancourt.”
    They left and he placed a call to the dean’s office at the college. When Dean Hansbury was on the line, he said, “This is John Vallancourt. I’m reluctant to disrupt her schedule, but can you have someone contact my daughter in class and have her call home? It’s urgent.”
    As he hung up, the sound of a voice drifted in. He went out quickly. Charles was at the front door, firmly insisting that he would have to determine if Mr. Vallancourt was home.
    The caller was Sam Rollins. Vallancourt said, “It’s all right, Charles.”
    Rollins’s clothing flapped about his scarecrow frame. Beads of sweat glistened on the sharp planes of his face.
    â€œWe can talk in the study,” Vallancourt said. Rollins preceded him, and he closed the door behind them.
    Rollins pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and massaged his palms. Then he teetered on the balls of his feet. “What are you and Howard Conway up to, Vallancourt?”
    â€œI don’t believe I follow you.”
    â€œThe hell you don’t! Accusing my boy of murder!”
    Vallancourt’s eyes went cold. It was rather late for the man to be putting on the conscientious father act.
    â€œI’ve accused no one of anything, Mr. Rollins. I simply told the police what happened.”
    â€œYou didn’t see Keith do anything, did you?” Rollins punctuated his words with a soiled finger. “You bet you didn’t! Even that lunkhead Keith wouldn’t hang around after a killing. You scared him, he lost his head and ran. If he’d killed her, he wouldn’t have panicked. Maybe later, but not then. He’s cold as a snake when he’s in a corner. I’ve seen him …” Rollins suddenly broke off, as if he had said too much.
    â€œYes, Mr. Rollins?” Vallancourt prompted.
    â€œI mean, I’ve seen him as a kid when he had to take a licking. Go cold as turkey. Not a nerve. Afraid of nothing. Couldn’t reach him if you used a razor strap. Him being in Dorcas Ferguson’s house today don’t prove a thing.”
    He was pretty damned cold and nerveless behind the drapery, Vallancourt thought, primed for anything.
    â€œI’m not trying to prove or disprove anything, Mr.