"deaddonttalk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blackmon Robert C)

and he bad died in Morris Weir's coupe!

Benton swore again; then, moving fast in the slanting rain, he scrambled back up the
ditch bank to his roadster. Snapping on the lights, he sent the light car speeding along
the highway after Weir's coupe. The fingers of his right hand touched the butt of the heavy
service revolver holstered under his left arm, and he watched for, the first red gleam of
taillights in the rainy darkness ahead.

It was murder, now! The little man in the ditch had been living less than thirty minutes
ago. Morris Weir had killed him, in the coupe, and had taken something from the man's pockets.
The dead man could have been one of the pair who'd staged the fake fight. His murder could
be pinned on Weir.

Benton's teeth made an audible click as they met.

But proving that Morris Weir had committed murder wouldn't help Dick. It wouldn't and
couldn't change anything in the trial next week, unless the dead man could be connected with
the fake fight. But the little man was dead now. The dead don't talk.

Benton's lean shoulders drooped an inch, raised again.

There was a chance that the dead man had been one of the fake-fight pair. If he had
been, his being with Morris Weir tied the restaurant owner in with the bond snatch. Knowing
one man in the fake fight, Weir would know the other--the short, fat man. Confronted by a
murder charge, Weir might be frightened into talking.

Benton's knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel. His right foot went down on the gas
pedal. He started swearing steadily.

He'd catch Weir and beat the truth out of him.

Lights flared in the darkness ahead, as a car came around a curve in the highway,
meeting Benton's roadster. The car was moving very fast, and its lights grew rapidly as
it rocketed closer. It met the roadster, shot past, and Benton's swearing went into a
loud, involuntary yell.

The car was Morris Weir's coupe, heading back toward East City!

The roadster all but jumped off the rain-slick pavement as Benton jammed on the brakes.
Fighting the wheel, he kept the light car on the road, made a skidding U-turn, and raced back
along the highway. The coupe was already a mile away as Benton completed the turn. Gas pedal
to the floor, he raced toward the red taillights, and his mind was moving much faster than
either car.

The body in the ditch beside the highway should be reported at once. Morris Weir should
be arrested, taken in and charged with the murder. But neither of those things would
guarantee immediate help for Dick. Lee had to have more. He had to have definite proof that
Weir and the dead man had been connected with the bond theft.

Bleakly, he watched the taillights ahead.