TOWN OF HATE.

Maxwell Grant.

I.

Two houses stood on the hill.

Strange houses, those, because of their contrast. Individually, each had qualities that captured the admiration. Compared as a pair, they clashed.

The same was true of the owners.

Claude Bigby owned the old mansion and it reflected his conservatism. For a century the Bigby family had lived on the slope above the town of Lamira in the great stone residence which looked lost among its own gables. The original Bigbys had hewn the oak trees to form the clearing where the next generation had reared a mansion to replace the paternal log cabin. By then, the paper mill in the Kawagha Valley had become a source of large and steady income.

By the time the mill had thrived and died, the Bigbys had become huge land-owners. They developed acres of farms, orchards, quarries and other operations, until these had been parceled off to smaller investors. From then on, the family had conserved its wealth, which now belonged to Claude Bigby. Hehad inherited tradition along with visible a.s.sets.

The Bigby tradition was founded on one invariable rule: What you can't use, sell to someone who can.

The system had worked perfectly until Claude Bigby--present inc.u.mbent of the gabled mansion, sound of mind and body, in his forty-first year of wisdom--had sold the old family sheep pasture.

Of course it was more than an ordinary sheep pasture, and therefore it brought more than an ordinary price. This was the very reason Claude Bigby should have suspected what might happen to it. The pasture occupied the same slope as The Gables. It followed the side of the wooded hill that curved around to the left. The dividing line between the mansion grounds and the old pasture was Stony Run, the stream that cascaded down the hill to join the Kawagha River.

Perhaps the trouble was that Claude Bigby hadn't sold his sheep until he sold his pasture.

Sheep love to nibble a pasture clean, giving it the effect of a beautiful, well-kept lawn. That was what attracted Preston Brett. He was a man of Claude's age and wealth, but none of the tradition. Mr. Bigby should have guessed that Mr. Brett had no intention of raising sheep.

What Preston Brett raised was a residence of the most ultra-modern style. His new home was one of those prefabricated propositions, constructed out of everything from indestructible gla.s.s to unrecognizable plastics. It was all brought in sections like the parts of Solomon's Temple. The completed whole included impossible balconies and a flat-topped roof with garage accommodations for the post-war helicopter that Brett had ordered.

So now the broad slope had two mansions: Brett's dream-dwelling with its soap-bubble hues and strange name of "Future Haven", opposed to Bigby's ivy-walled establishment which was called "The Gables".

Which house was the monstrosity depended on the viewpoint. One thing was certain: whoever lived in one of those houses would normally view the other in contempt, house and all. Each being a normal man in his own right, Bigby and Brett behaved accordingly.

Those houses, however, were but the personalized symbols of the feud that had grown between the old and new.

The man who knew it all was Herbert Creswold. He was telling the full tale as he sat by the window of the fifth floor room of the Kawagha Hotel. His interested listener was a visitor named Ralph Lenstrom.

He was a shrewd man, Creswold, with sharp eye and grizzled hair that denoted experience to back his keen gaze. He had lived in Lamira long enough to learn its possibilities as well as its quirks.

"Look at this town." Creswold gave a gesture from the window. "Tell me what you see in it, Lenstrom."

Adjusting his gla.s.ses, Lenstrom raised his heavy eyebrows to offset the bags that lay beneath. His piggish face gave the impression that he would have liked to wallow in the gra.s.sy soil that flanked the sides of Lamira's main street. What Lenstrom was seeing, however, were buildings which were mostly of wood, except the Star Theater and the Lamira State Bank. Those two structures were brick.

"Rather antiquated," observed Lenstrom. "Or should I say obsolete?"

"Either term will do," conceded Creswold. "The point is they're doing business. Agreed?"

Lenstrom couldn't help but agree. It wasn't yet evening, but lines were forming in front of the Star Theater. That promised a capacity crowd for the supper show, at which the average theater would find the attendance poor. People were also going in and out of the bank, which stayed open until nine everyevening. As for the stores that lined the street, they were receiving their full quota of customers. Judging from the packages that people were bringing out, business was heavy.

"Yes, Lamira is a product of the past," observed Creswold, from Lenstrom's shoulder, "but that makes its future all the brighter. Picture that main street with fine stores, more and larger theaters, a huge hotel to replace this one--"

"It will get them," interrupted Lenstrom, "if Preston Brett has his way."

Creswold's answer was a chuckle. Lenstrom pointed out a sizeable modern mill. It was located where the main street crossed the narrow Kawagha over an old, clumsy bridge. The mill bore Brett's name and a horde of workers were coming from it. But that wasn't why Creswold laughed.

"You still think Brett is going to expand his industries, don't you?" queried Creswold. "That, just because he is making the mill pay, he will soon own the timber and the quarries hereabouts? I'm telling you, Lenstrom, that Brett has gone the limit--and more."

"How more?"

"Look over among those hills," suggested Creswold. "See those farms and orchards. The people who own them don't want industry to rule this town. They'll make sure it doesn't."

"If enough of them remain, they may," admitted Lenstrom, "but they seem to be thinning out already.

Look at the ruins of those farmhouses that have burned in the last month."

There was a nod from Creswold as Lenstrom pointed out blackened patches among the farms. Then: "Don't worry about those," remarked Creswold, cheerfully. "Claude Bigby will see that those farmers rebuild. They are his friends, you know. Maybe Brett thinks he owns the town, but Bigby claims the county and it includes the town."

As if by common consent, Creswold and Lenstrom looked off to the hill straight beyond the town. There, the two houses representing the old and new occupied the same slope, with Stony Run carving the quarter-mile stretch that divided the two properties.

From this distant observation post, the two buildings appeared quite close together, which made the comparison the more odious for both. It was plain, however, that Bigby and Brett kept themselves completely apart. There was no sign of a pathway between the houses. A journey by road would necessarily be roundabout, for the driveway up to Bigby's began soon after the highway crossed the river; whereas to reach Brett's, a car would have to follow the road around the base of the hill.

Creswold and Lenstrom were thinking in terms of men, not houses and the outlook was itself an expression of their thoughts. Looming over the hill, as though to engulf the buildings and their occupants, was a huge thunder cloud. It represented one of the frequent storms that struck the region. A sharp crackle of lightning etched the hillside scene; shortly there came a salvo of distant thunder.

"Sounds like Bigby arguing with Brett," laughed Creswold, "I'll bet those two could out-shout the biggest thunderstorm that ever struck Lamira."

"I've heard about those storms," said Lenstrom, nervously. "How big are they?"

"Plenty," a.s.sured Creswold. "We'd better stay indoors until this one pa.s.ses. It will follow up the Kawagha past the Old Bridge Tavern. That's where they all go and it's where they hit the hardest. But let's get back to business." "You mean Brett's business?"

"Or Bigby's." Creswold gave a canny smile. "They're both licked: Brett because he wants to rush everything and make it grow too fast; Bigby because he won't uproot himself and turn reasonably modern."

The sky was darkening rapidly and Lenstrom's face clouded with it. A flash of lightning revealed a troubled expression on the man's countenance. Creswold was prompt to understand it.

"I wouldn't invest in Brett's expansion schemes," advised Creswold. "He's already having trouble from the workers because he's been hiring outsiders. You've heard that, haven't you?"

Lenstrom gave a slow nod.

"It would be equally foolish to back Bigby if he wanted cash," added Creswold, glibly. "Those two are going to cancel each other out like a couple of Kilkenny cats."

"And then?"

"Then there will be some sense in Lamira. The farmers and the town-folk will get together and really run things right. The profit will be in local real estate and the enterprises that go with it. Now is the time to buy into the real investments, while everybody is watching Bigby and Brett--"

There was a double interruption from the storm and Lenstrom's telephone. The coincidence of a lightning flash and the jangle of the bell made the fat man hesitate. Smiling, Creswold picked up the telephone.

"I'll answer it," he said. "I've never had lightning shock me over the phone wires. Besides, the call is probably for me. I left word that I'd be here and I have a lot of friends in this county. In fact"-- Creswold was lifting the receiver-- "they call me everybody's friend."

The call was for Creswold and he had trouble making himself heard above the rumble of the thunder.

Away from the window, where rain was pelting furiously, Lenstrom caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of the conversation.

At last Creswold said: "Alright, I'll meet you there. Wait for me. I'm glad you have it fixed."

Turning toward Lenstrom, Creswold shrugged as he saw how heavily the storm was lashing at the window. He had the air of a man accepting a task whether or not he liked it.

"I'll see you later, Lenstrom," said Creswold. "Meanwhile hold everything. I may have more to tell you.

One of my scouts has picked up a few new angles. There's a lot of them in this county--scouts and angles both."

Lightning and thunder, teamed in a terrific broadside, followed Creswold's hurried departure from the hotel room. Cringing beside the door, fearing to touch its metal k.n.o.b, Lenstrom gave a fearful glance toward the window.

Outside, the downpour had obliterated the entire scene. Those houses on the far hill were gone--not only from Lenstrom's sight but from his mind as well. The fury of the cloudburst terrified the timid man with the piggish face. He didn't like the town of Lamira, when it stormed.

Ralph Lenstrom wasn't going to like Lamira even afterward.

II.A LITTLE matter like a terrific thunderstorm might alarm the soft townsfolk in Lamira--particularly newcomers like Preston Brett, the man who thought he owned the town. But it didn't bother the county crowd that patronized the Old Bridge Tavern. They were hill-folk, like Claude Bigby.

What if the storms did hurl their hardest bombardment through the narrow, sloping gorge; there, where the old bridge crossed the turbulent Kawagha as it tumbled toward the mill valley? These people were used to the river's roar. A rousing thunderstorm simply added to the accustomed tumult. Once in a while a pa.s.sing storm splintered a towering pine tree and crashed it somewhere near the inn; when it did, the drinks were on the house.

It was just an old Kawagha custom, dating from the days when teamsters used to lash their horses to the limit so they could reach the tavern by the old bridge and find an excuse for sampling its liquid wares, with a chance for a free tripper. Ramshackle though the tavern was, it had stood the test of a century.

Only one building in this region was older; the house where Claude Bigby lived.

There were Bigby portraits in the Old Bridge Tavern, beginning with the glowering old original who had felled Indians with his axe along with trees. He had been noted for saying--and proving--that an axe was just the same as a tomahawk, except that it had a longer reach. They had been hard men, these Bigbys, to others than their friends.

The last portrait in the line behind the tavern bar was a modern photograph. It was enlarged and chrome-tinted. It had the straight Bigby nose, the broad eyes and the square chin, proving that the Bigby line lost none of its determination in its present scion, Claude.

Old Clem Jolland, who ran the inn, had a habit of toasting Claude's picture in antic.i.p.ation of his patron's occasional visit. At those times the drinks were on Mr. Bigby instead of the house. But since Bigby had a preference for riding out thunderstorms in his own residence, Clem was at present counting other faces.

There was a chance that he might soon be pouring an obituary for some stricken pine tree.

"Nine of you," said Clem, dourly. "Which guy snuk in, hoping for a free? There was only eight, last time I counted. How about you, Zeke Stoyer?"

Clem shot the question at a stoop-shouldered man with a morbid, drawn face. With a shake of his head, Zeke planked a half-dollar on the bar.

"I was here afore," he argued. "Guess I was using the telephone last time you counted. Anyway, here's for a drink, out of my own money."

"Out of somebody else's money," sneered Clem, "Getting important, aren't you, using the telephone?

Who were you calling? Maybe to Mr. Bigby, huh, to apologize for falling asleep without counting his sheep the last time you were tending them?"

"They found the sheep that got lost," returned Zeke. "Maybe I hain't worked for Mr. Bigby since, but it's only because he can't find nothing for me to do."

"He says different, Mr. Bigby does," confided Clem. "He says that if you ever ask him for another job, he'll horse-whip you over into the sheep pasture that this Brett guy has spoiled worse'n if he turned it over to cows. By the way"--Clem's eye went angry--"you've been going around to Brett's a lot lately, huh?"

"Only to deliver packages," returned Zeke, tapping an expressman's badge on his cap. "Same as I do to Bigby's house occasional. Same as I'm doing right now."

Zeke gestured to a square package lying on a chair near the bar. Eyeing it, Clem waited until approachingthunder had followed a lightning flash. Then, the proprietor asked: "A package for me?"

"Naw." Zeke shook his head. "Jest something I'm taking into Lamira. Didn't like to leave it laying in the open truck. Guess I'll ride it on the seat alongside me. S'long, Clem, and I hope two pines get busted."

Clem's jaw dropped as Zeke picked up the package and sauntered out through a rear exit. Never before had an eligible party walked out on a chance for a free drink at the Old Bridge Inn. Zeke's action amazed the regulars, too, until one tilted his head, listened between thunder claps, and laughed.

"Don't hear no backfire from Zeke's truck," the fellow said. "Likely he's just parking the package and coming back through the shed. He'll be waiting until a big tree goes and then coming in for his drink. You counted him, Clem."

The guess wasn't entirely wrong. Zeke was in the shed that the customer mentioned, but he hadn't made a return trip from his truck. In fact Zeke hadn't gone to the truck at all. As for the package, he didn't intend to deliver it. In the shed, Zeke had wedged an old chair under the door k.n.o.b so that if anyone tried the door, it would stick. He was opening the package and getting it ready for business.

The contents of the package consisted chiefly of a square black box that Zeke handled very carefully. He poked it between two upright timbers of the main wall. He then uncoiled a long wire that was around the box and climbed a ladder until he reached the lean-to roof of the shed.

Right then, a vivid flash of lightning ripped. A few seconds later, the ensuing rumble of thunder sent reverberations up the gorge. The storm was getting very close, so close that the ladder shook under Zeke's knees. Though whether the thunder jarred it was a question. More likely the fault was Zeke's, for he was acting nervously.

Hurriedly, Zeke thrust a short metal rod through the roof of the shed, through a knot-hole that he had noted earlier. Scrambling down the ladder, he screwed a plug and cord into a hanging lamp socket. Like the rod and wire, these were attached to the black box. It immediately began to hum.

There was another flash of lightning and by the time the thunder came, Zeke was half way through the outer door. The storm was slowing. The low clouds met the narrow winding gorge, giving Zeke more time than he expected. Hopping back into the shed, he grabbed heaps of newspapers that were stacked in a corner. He skeltered them over the buzzing box. Grabbing a large kerosene can, Zeke poured its entire contents on the floor. He let the liquid trickle under the chair-barred door.

With the next thunder-clap, Zeke was through the outer door and gone into the first sweep of rain that lashed through the gorge. He couldn't have chosen a better moment for departure, because he merged with the downpour as though it had swallowed him. The sprawling inn was gone from sight by the time Zeke caught his breath and threw a hunted look across his bowed shoulder.

Zeke's truck wasn't parked in the one-time stable yard behind the inn, where it should have been. He had left it at a turnout in the road, a short distance toward town. There, the highway made a level hairpin turn, before taking the twisty slope down toward Lamira. Just before that grade stood the old bridge that crossed the Kawagha. It lead into a side road that traced an offshoot of the gorge, but Zeke wasn't concerned with those particulars.

Only the turnout was important and there was a reason why Zeke had chosen it. If Zeke had been parked in the old yard, he would have been forced to drive out the other direction and go clear around the inn, where the highway curved in plain sight of it. Zeke wanted to be as far away from the inn aspossible when something happened. He was therefore following a well-laid plan.

Loping along a path among the trees, Zeke was a hundred yards away when another flash of lightning came, with the thunder close upon it. Stopping short, Zeke huddled tensely. Relaxing, he laughed hoa.r.s.ely and wiped the rain from his face as though mistaking it for a ma.s.s of perspiration.

Still ahead of his own game, Zeke had no cause for worry now. The lightning flash had shown him the short but steep embankment leading down between two brush-flanked trees. It sloped squarely to the road, where his truck was standing in the turnout on the other side. All Zeke had to do was clutch those two slender trees, let himself down carefully, and hop over to the truck.

He calculated on accomplishing it before another lightning flash. Though the embankment was already muddy, a slight slide wouldn't hurt.

In fact, the slide would have helped if Zeke had taken it, which he didn't.

As Zeke gripped the trees, the nearest bush stirred. The trees were at a slight angle and the bush was therefore perfectly placed for the next thing that happened. In the preternatural twilight, beneath the heavy storm cloud, a pair of heavily gloved hands took an angled grip upon Zeke's neck.

There was the strength of a vise in those clamping hands and the bulge in the gloves told why. The broad palms of the thick gloves contained strips of soldering metal that was pliable under pressure. Those two strips became the segments of a collar that included Zeke's windpipe. Nor could Zeke fight against them, for when he threw back his own hands to attempt a struggle, he lost his footing on the edge of the embankment. He could only claw madly to regain a hold upon the supporting trees.

Lightning zigzagged sharply and with its flash, Zeke writhed like the occupant of an electric chair. His backward lurch obscured the murderous foe who clutched him. As Zeke sagged forward, a roll of thunder boomed a ponderous knell. That writhe was Zeke's last; in the darkness, he became a different type of victim, a figure that seemed dangling from a hangman's noose.

The hands unclamped, the gloves spreading the improvised metal collar. Zeke's feet were on the embankment, so his fall was strictly a forward topple that didn't carry him far. His arms, twisted as crazily as the boughs of the gnarled trees, caught against the trunks and steadied him, thanks to the directing placement from the murderer's hands.

Only a slight jog was needed to pitch Zeke over the embankment brink, but in the blackness, the killer waited before delivering that final touch. In fact, all was so silent that the body of Zeke Stoyer seemed alone and forgotten.

Why had the murderer provided this strange sequel to his crime?

What could he be awaiting amid the soft whine of the wind that accompanied the patter of the drenching rain?

The answer came cutting through the singular mist that accompanies a thunder storm only when it drives itself into a pocket of rising land.

That answer was the smooth throb of an automobile motor. It purred above the m.u.f.fled obbligato of the Kawagha River as it tumbled through its deep and rocky gulch!