"I didn't do no shootin. It was Bovey. Old Bram jumped out at him, and he just fired off the hip. But he didn't kill him. He seen him run off...." "You were on the porch when this happened. Which way did Bram go?" "He ... run inside." "So then you set fire to the place. Whose bright idea was that?" Hull sat silent. After a moment Tremaine and Jess left the cell. "He must have gotten clear, Jimmy," said Jess. "Maybe he got scared and left town." "Bram doesn't strike me as the kind to panic." Tremaine looked at his watch. "I've got to get on my way, Jess. I'll check with you in the morning." Tremaine crossed the street to the Paradise Bar and Grill, pushed into the jukebox-lit interior, took a stool and ordered a Scotch and water. He sipped the drink, then sat staring into the dark reflection in the glass. The idea of a careful reconnoitre of the Elsby area was gone, now, with police swarming everywhere. It was too bad about Bram. It would be interesting to know where the old man was ... and if he was still alive. He'd always seemed normal enough in the old days: a big solid-looking man, middle-aged, always pleasant enough, though he didn't say much. He'd tried hard, that time, to interest Tremaine in learning whatever it was.... Tremaine put a hand in his jacket pocket, took out Miss Carroll's locket. It was smooth, the size and shape of a wrist-watch chassis. He was fingering it meditatively when a rough hand slammed against his shoulder, half knocking him from the stool. Tremaine caught his balance, turned, looked into the scarred face of a heavy-shouldered man in a leather jacket. "I heard you was back in town, Tremaine," the man said. The bartender moved up. "Looky here, Gaskin, I don't want no trouble--" "Shove it!" Gaskin squinted at Tremaine, his upper lip curled back to expose the gap in his teeth. "You tryin to make more trouble for my boy, I hear. Been over to the jail, stickin your nose in." * * * * * Tremaine dropped the locket in his pocket and stood up. Gaskin hitched up his pants, glanced around the room. Half a dozen early drinkers stared, wide-eyed. Gaskin squinted at Tremaine. He smelled of unwashed flannel. "Sicked the cops onto him. The boy was out with his friends, havin a little fun. Now there he sets in jail." Tremaine moved aside from the stool, started past the man. Soup Gaskin grabbed his arm. "Not so fast! I figger you owe me damages. I--" "Damage is what you'll get," said Tremaine. He slammed a stiff left to Gaskin's ribs, drove a hard right to the jaw. Gaskin jack-knifed backwards, tripped over a bar stool, fell on his back. He rolled over, got to hands and knees, shook his head. "Git up, Soup!" someone called. "Hot dog!" offered another. "I'm calling the police!" the bartender yelled.