Beware the Young Stranger Read Online Free PDF

rolled, bounced to his feet, tore his way through shrubbery. He did not pause to look back, but darted toward his sports car.
    Nearer to the front door, Conway was outside before Vallancourt. The sports car was fishtailing around the bend in the driveway. The breeze carried the pungency of scorched rubber back to them.
    â€œCall the police, John,” Conway shouted as he ran. “Tell ’em to head him off!”
    Conway threw himself in his car, fumbled with the ignition, shouted a four-letter word, and got the car started. The sedan shot away in pursuit.
    Vallancourt phoned the police.
    Dorcas Ferguson is dead. The most important woman in this end of the state has been murdered .
    He could see the headlines, the editorials. The shortwave police band would soon be chanting the old litany that was always new:
    All cars … Wanted on suspicion of murder, Keith Rollins … age twenty-two. Husky build. Black hair . Dark blue eyes. Driving MG, late model, license BF-3850. Fleeing estate of Dorcas Ferguson, victim. Approach with caution. Suspect was recently questioned in connection with a Florida rape-murder …
    Vallancourt returned to the front door, watching the driveway. He made a pad of his handkerchief and applied it to the bruise Keith had left, only partially aware of the throb in his cheekbone. In these scant remaining moments of quiet, the fact of Dorcas’s death was a vaster pain. Dorcas dead. Dorcas dead.
    Grief was acid in his throat.
    He heard the sound of an approaching car, and looked up. It was Ivy Conway’s compact sedan.
    She parked sloppily, leaving the driveway barely passable.
    â€œHi,” she said wanly. She looked tired. She manufactured a grin, touching her temple. “Long evening at the country club bar,” she confessed. “Why do I always say never again?”
    She started toward the front steps, the breeze feathering the gossamer brown hair about her small face. “What’s wrong with you, John? Don’t tell me you tied one on, too! This I would have to see.” She laughed.
    Vallancourt touched her arm. “Before you go inside, Ivy …”
    â€œWhatever is the matter with you?”
    â€œA dreadful thing has happened.”
    â€œHappened?” Then she said quickly, “Not to Dorcas!”
    â€œI’m afraid so.”
    They had stopped midway up the front steps. She jerked her head toward the house.
    From the distance came the approaching wail of a police siren.
    Very slowly and carefully, Ivy turned.
    â€œAn ambulance, John?”
    â€œNo,” he said gently.
    â€œThen—police?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDorcas … the police? ”
    She darted into the house. She was at the edge of the living room when Vallancourt caught her. She looked into the room, struck herself in the temple, and began to scream.

5.
    During the police preliminaries Ivy Ferguson Conway crouched in a chair and refused to move, like a child waking in the dark after a nightmare.
    Her husband’s voice mingled finally with that of the uniformed policeman on duty in the foyer. Conway came in, shaking his head. “Lost him, John. He must have slipped the MG through that parking area at the shopping center. When I tumbled to it and backtracked, there was no sign of him.”
    Vallancourt tilted his head in Ivy’s direction. Conway looked startled. He crossed the room, stooped over her, spoke quietly. Some of the blankness left her eyes. She moaned suddenly, grabbed her husband about the neck, and began to sob. He picked her up, glanced at a policeman, got a nod, and carried Ivy out of the room.
    A lanky, sweating detective in a rumpled gray suit followed the Conways out. Vallancourt knew him; his name was Woody Britt.
    Britt was in charge at least for the moment. He had questioned Vallancourt in a halting fashion, unsure of himself. The man was obviously dreading the important investigation that had fallen to him.
    Vallancourt