Arson Plus | Page 8

that McClump's view of it was the same as mine, "that
there's nothing to show that even Thornburgh knew he was going to buy that house
before the tenth of June, and that the Coonses were in town looking for work on the
second. And besides, it was only by luck that they got the jobs. The employment office
sent two couples out there ahead of them."
"We'll take a chance on letting the jury figure that out."
"Yes? You'll also take a chance on them figuring out that Thornburgh, who seems to have
been a nut, might have touched off the place himself! We've got something on these
people, Jim, but not enough to go into court with them. How are you going to prove that
when the Coonses were planted in Thornburgh's house -- if you can even prove that they
were planted -- they and the Trowbridge woman knew he was going to load up with
insurance policies?"
The sheriff spat disgustedly.
"You guys are the limit! You run around in circles, digging up the dope on these people
until you get enough to hang 'em, and then you run around hunting for outs! What's the
matter with you now?"

I answered him from halfway to the door -- the pieces were beginning to fit together
under my skull.
"Going to run some more circles -- come on, Mac!"
McClump and I held a conference on the fly, and then I got a car from the nearest garage
and headed for Tavender. We made time going out, and got there before the general store
had closed for the night. The stuttering Philo separated himself from the two men with
whom he had been talking, and followed me to the rear of the store.
"Do you keep an itemized list of the laundry you handle?"
"N-n-no; just the amounts."
"Let's look at Thornburgh's."
He produced a begrimed and rumpled account book, and we picked out the weekly items
I wanted: $2.60, $3.10, $2.25, and so on.
"Got the last batch of laundry here?"
"Y-yes," he said. "It j-just c-c-came out from the city t-today."
I tore open the bundle -- some sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths, towels, napkins; some
feminine clothing; some shirts, collars, underwear, and socks that were unmistakably
Coons's. I thanked Philo while running back to the car.
Back in Sacramento again, McClump was waiting for me at the garage where I had hired
the car.
"Registered at the hotel on June fifteenth; rented the office on the sixteenth. I think he's in
the hotel now," he greeted me.
We hurried around the block to the Garden Hotel.
"Mr. Henderson went out a minute or two ago," the night clerk told us. "He seemed to be
in a hurry."
"Know where he keeps his car?"
"In the hotel garage around the corner."
We were within ten feet of the garage, when Henderson's automobile shot out and turned
up the street.
"Oh, Mr. Henderson!" I cried, trying to keep my voice level.
He stepped on the gas and streaked away from us.

"Want him?" McClump asked; and at my nod he stopped a passing roadster by the simple
expedient of stepping in front of it.
We climbed in, McClump flashed his star at the bewildered driver, and pointed out
Henderson's dwindling tail-light. After he had persuaded himself that he wasn't being
boarded by a couple of bandits, the commandeered driver did his best, and we picked up
Henderson's tail-light after two or three turnings, and closed in on him -- though his car
was going at a good clip.
By the time we reached the outskirts of the city, we had crawled up to within safe
shooting distance, and I sent a bullet over the fleeing man's head. Thus encouraged, he
managed to get a little more speed out of his car; but we were overhauling him now.
Just at the wrong minute Henderson decided to look over his shoulder at us -- an
unevenness in the road twisted his wheels -- his machine swayed -- skidded -- went over
on its side. Almost immediately, from the heart of the tangle, came a flash and a bullet
moaned past my ear. Another. And then, while I was still hunting for something to shoot
at in the pile of junk we were drawing down upon, McClump's ancient and battered
revolver roared in my other ear.
Henderson was dead when we got to him -- McClump's bullet had taken him over one
eye.
McClump spoke to me over the body.
"I ain't an inquisitive sort of fellow, but I hope you don't mind telling me why I shot this
lad."
"Because he was -- Thornburgh."
He didn't say anything for about five minutes. Then: "I reckon that's right. How'd you
know it?"
We