It was not the loss of the keys, but the fact that the key ring bore a celluloid tag with his full name and address. It would be found, sooner or later, along with the disordered house, the smashed strong box, the hole in the garden—evidence enough to convict him of burglary several times over.
He cursed himself for his carelessness. Chance seemed determined to seize every opening to ruin him. Now there was only one course—to go back to that house and recover the keys before any one else could find them.
He shrunk horribly from the thing. He would have rather done almost anything else, but there was no possible choice. Grimly he resumed the garments he had taken off, and went downstairs to consult the night clerk about trains to Biloxi.
There was none, it appeared, before five next morning. Lang could not wait. He wanted to finish with this whole episode, clear it away forever. He telephoned for a taxi, specifying a good car and a good driver, for a long-distance trip.
While he awaited it he went to the lunch counter, hungry now, and consumed coffee and thick ham sandwiches. This refreshment reanimated him. He remembered that he would need a flash light, and he brought one down with an overcoat as the car arrived.
It turned out to be a really good car, and, once out of the city and upon the good shell road they made fast time. Lang told the driver to cut loose, and he dozed periodically behind the closed curtains as the big machine roared and swayed down the coast road, past Grand Bay, Pascagoula, Biloxi, steadily through the quiet night, with the sea occasionally flashing on their left. Good luck was with him for once, for without a single breakdown and only one stop for gas and water they came to the side road that led up to Persia.
Lang was afraid to drive to Rockett’s bungalow and he feigned that Persia was his destination. The car was to wait till he came back—till morning, if necessary. He got out and walked around the store in the dark to conceal his direction from the driver, and started rapidly up the road.
He was stiff and sleepy, and it was barely light enough to see the road. All the houses along the way were dark; it was well after midnight. Strangely enough, a man seems to walk faster at night than by day, and he reached Rockett’s house before he expected it. There was no light; it looked dim and deserted. He had no doubt that no one had approached the place since he and Carroll had left it that morning, though it seemed an eternity ago.
He did not approach the front door. He knew that the keys must be in the kitchen, whose door, he was sure, was not locked. It held when he tried it, however, and then yielded suddenly with a loud crack that echoed through the empty house.
Lang paused, his heart thumping. Dead silence followed. He entered the room, turning on the flash light.