The Last Drive by Rex Stout Page A

touched the unknown, who was nearest him.
    Harry’s voice came, scarcely more than a whisper.
    â€œI simply don’t see how I can help you, Gil, but as I say, I’ll try. You can see it’s not my fault. It’s a horrible mess, and that’s all there is to it. I’ll telephone you tomorrow morning, at Migg’s at ten o’clock. You go back there and stay there, and whatever you do don’t show your face anywhere, or you’re a goner; they may be after you now. I’ve been thinking it over—”
    The interruption came from the street. An automobile had come up from the other end of the village and through it with dimmed lights. Here it was approaching the country again, and the lights, turned on suddenly, blazed forth with startling brilliancy. Like two monstrous flaming eyes they glared down the road and, as the wheel turned a little, in among the trees flanking the sidewalk; and the form of Canby Rankin, behind one of the trees, was revealed as in the light of noonday.
    Young Adams saw him, not ten feet away, stopped, and sprang forward.
    â€œWhat the—who—why, it’s Mr. Rankin!”
    Feeling profoundly foolish, the detective stepped out. The unknown, who had leapt away like a scared rabbit, halted and turned, holding himself in readiness for flight.
    â€œWho’s Mr. Rankin?” he demanded in a voice that rasped.
    â€œWhy—” Harry stammered “— he’s a friend of Uncle Carson’s—that is, he’s a detective—”
    â€œA detective—damn you, Adams!”
    With the first word the unknown was off down the sidewalk at a bound. Rankin leaped after him. Harry called out:
    â€œIt’s all right, Gil! Come back! He’s not after you!”
    The last was a rather absurd remark, since as it was uttered Rankin was quite obviously after Gil in the most literal sense of the word. Heedless of Harry’s shouts, repeated from the rear, the unknown rushed madly down the street, his feet pounding on the brick sidewalk as he leapt forward like a stampeded steer; and fifty feet behind was the detective, running low on his toes, almost silently. A window went up in a house as they passed, doubtless that of some sleeper awakened by Harry’s shouts, and a call came through the night, unheeded. A block ahead shone the lights of the hotel; at sight of them the unknown bounded forward with fresh energy, increasing a little the distance from his pursuer. He made for the front of the building, where stood the racy-looking roadster; and Rankin, guessing his purpose, strained every muscle. Reaching the roadster, the unknown jumped to the seat; almost instantly came the buzz of the engine; a lever clicked; the car started, jerked, and started again. But too late. Rankin, leaping through the air, was beside him.
    There was a short, sharp struggle over the levers, and the car jerked to a stop and stood still with the engine whirring madly. Yelling an oath, the unknown stooped and, rising again with a heavy wrench in his hand, swung it at the detective’s head. Rankin parried the blow, catching his arm, but in doing so lost his balance and tumbled from the car to the ground, dragging the other with him. At that instant Harry came running up.
    â€œIt’s all right, Gil—for God’s sake, Mr. Rankin, let him go!”
    But Rankin’s blood was up now, and even if he had heard he would not have heeded. The murderous look in the other’s eyes as he struck with the wrench had roused him to fury; and he loved a fight. He got one.
    He had landed on his knees on the pavement, with Gil, pulled after, tumbling on his shoulders. The impact knocked Rankin prostrate, with the other on top, raining wild blows on his face and neck. With a mighty heave of his body the detective half unseated him, twisted about and caught his arms. Holding with a grip of steel, he worked to his knees, then one foot to the ground, then both. He