“WHO IS IT, Daddy?”
Spig O’Leary’s heart tightened sharply. The kid with the rifle in his hand a minute ago was suddenly a round-eyed boy, terribly young, a little scared, more bewildered.
“Just some clown.” He put the phone casually back in the cradle. “Thinks it’s Hallowe’en, I guess.”
“You didn’t look like you thought it was a joke.”
“I didn’t. But my sense of humour’s shot to-night.”
He turned back to the chimney breast. “Now about the box,” he said. “It’s time both of us were in bed.”
“It’s that one.” Tip pointed up to one of the stones, smaller and more evenly cut than the rest. It was set in the centre of the pier, well under the jutting end of the chestnut mantel. “You push hard.”
He raised himself on tiptoe and pressed one side of the stone. The whitewash fell in tiny flake
