Beware the Young Stranger Read Online Free PDF Page A

eyes. He rose, too.
    â€œIt was kind of you to give me so much of your valuable time, Mr. Vallancourt.” The insolence again. Or frustration. Perhaps a little of both, Vallancourt thought.
    After Rollins was gone, he found it hard to return to work. His thoughts kept returning to Keith. Having met the father, he felt a sympathy for the son. But he was not reassured. Knowing why the young lion was hungry did not make his appetite less dangerous.
    Vallancourt was on the point of driving off the next morning when Mrs. Ledbetter called to him with unaccustomed shrillness.
    He stopped the car and hurried back into the house.
    â€œIt’s Miss Ferguson, Mr. Vallancourt. I’ve never heard her so upset. She says it’s very urgent.”
    He crossed the high, vaulted entry hall. Charles was plugging in a phone, extending it.
    â€œDorcas?”
    â€œThank God! John …” Her voice was gurgly, as if she had been sobbing. “I must see you.”
    Keith … rape-murder … The words sprang into his head.
    â€œDorcas, what’s the matter? What’s happened?”
    â€œI can’t tell you … not over the phone. Can you … I hate to break in on you this way—”
    â€œI’ll be right over,” he said.
    She made a choked sound of gratitude and the line went dead.
    Vallancourt swung into the Ferguson driveway twenty minutes later. The Norman lines of the house wheeled into view.
    Two cars were parked at one side of the driveway ahead of him—a small open sports car, and behind it a blue sedan.
    The door of the sedan on the driver’s side was open. Howard Conway had apparently just got out and gone forward to look into the sports car. He turned toward the Continental as Vallancourt brought it to a nose-dipping stop.
    Vallancourt got out quickly and moved to the fleshy younger man.
    â€œI just got a call from Dorcas, Howard—”
    â€œSo did I. Just minutes ago. What’s up, John?”
    â€œI don’t know.” He glanced at the sports car. “Keith’s?”
    Conway nodded.
    They hurried across the strip of lawn between the driveway and the house.
    â€œDorcas?” Conway called when they were inside. He glanced at Vallancourt, moved a few steps further. And then a tremendous shock rippled over Conway’s frame. All the color left his face.
    â€œGod Almighty!”
    Vallancourt rushed into the living room where Dorcas lay, and dropped beside her. His heart seemed to dissolve, leaving a cold cavity in his chest.
    He knew instantly that Dorcas Ferguson was dead. The black, silver-stranded hair was fanned across her Indian face, wisps of it sticking to her unseeing eyeballs. Her lower jaw hung to the limits of it hinges, making an ugly red and black hole of the once-warm, generous mouth.
    From the odd, twisted position of her head, Vallancourt raised his eyes slowly. Up the leg of the heavy table. To the edge of the table where the finish was marred by a smear of blood and a few hairs. He guessed what the table’s edge had done to the base of her skull. He did not care for a closer look.
    He was aware of Howard Conway standing nearby, grasping the back of a chair. He rose, started toward Conway … and out of the corner of his eyes saw a drapery move.
    Vallancourt lunged, ripping the drapery aside.
    It was Keith Rollins.
    Vallancourt saw the blow coming and rolled with the punch, taking it high on his cheek. His brain jarred, his left knee buckled slightly. Then he was all right. With his right foot he thrust himself forward, ducking under Keith’s next frantic blow. His fingers touched the boy’s arm. Keith screamed softly and lashed out with his foot. Vallancourt slid to one side, and Keith had an instant in which to turn. He covered his face and head with his arms and plunged through the tall window in a shower of glass.
    â€œLook at him! Look at him!” Conway shouted senselessly.
    Keith struck grass, tripped,