Kiss and Kill (8 page)

And then she lowered the gun.

“You're Liz's husband. She had your picture.”

She dropped into a chair like a discarded suit of clothes. The gun fell to the floor. Her shoulders shook and she began to cry. And suddenly she was laughing.

“Oh, God, I felt so stupid standing there with a gun and not a stitch on!”

And then she was all gladness, her perfect face alive with a resurrected hope. “Have you any idea what I've been through? What a nightmare this has been? And how wonderful it is not to have to go it alone any more? I feel as if I've met a couple of long-lost brothers. Brothers, will you have a drink?”

5

There was only one glass in the bathroom. Claire got a pint bottle of bourbon from her suitcase and filled the glass. She took a shuddering swallow and passed the glass to Ed, beside her on the bed. Barney, in a chair facing them, reached over to Ed and took his turn and felt joyous. This was more like it. They were three travelers in a cave taking refuge from a threatening storm. For the first time in days he relaxed.

Pale light pierced a window opaqued by grime; the ledge outside was clotted with pigeon droppings. The room had the stale bouquet of cheap hotels—moldy mattresses and musty carpets. The smell was faintly overlain by the scent of the woman's bath soap. Lovely.

Barney passed the glass to her, watching her take another slug, long and thirsty. His glance dropped to the twin hollows above her collarbone. His thumbs would fit neatly there; he'd be able to feel the pulse beating under the skin. His glance went further down the slim body, down to where her robe parted to reveal a plinth of thigh. It would be damn good to see her naked again, but unafraid this time—better than that, in a posture of availability. And suddenly there she was, lying on her bed … on her back …

“Why are you staring at me, Mr. Burgess?”

Barney stared. She was still sitting on the bed. My God, he thought, a bona fide hallucination. Just plain fag-out. He wondered if he looked as fatigue-ridden as Ed Tollman.

“I was wondering,” he said, “why you didn't ask for help from the police.”

“Why didn't
you
?”

Barney nodded with appreciation. She was quick, on top of everything else. “They had Ed's wife—”

The eyes turned to Ed, beside her, and their emerald softened. He was sitting wrapped tightly round, like a mummy, asleep with his eyes open. She turned back to Barney.

“And? You have no monopoly on logic, Mr. Burgess.”

“Barney.”

“Barney. I reached the same conclusion when I found out Liz had disappeared.”

That seemed reasonable, too. Only there was something wrong with it. After a moment's reflection he had it. “But you didn't learn that until after you'd phoned the sheriff in Colorado. Or wasn't that you?”

“Oh, that was me, all right.”

“And you also visited Ingrid Johns in Indianapolis.”

“Yes.” Her natural brows had risen. “Did you follow me?”

“Only incidentally. We were following the same trail. I'm wondering,” said Barney, “how you sniffed all this out.”

Claire English leaned back on her elbows. “It began,” she said, “when my studio was burgled. Three weeks ago.”

“That far back? The driver was killed only a week ago.”

She nodded. “Apparently they came back a second time. That's why I hid here, where I could watch the studio; I thought they might come a third time, in which case I was going to call the police. The publicity alone would have been worth ten thousand dollars to me.”

Barney looked at her in astonishment. “You'd never have lived to read it in the papers.”

She smiled at him. “I got the drop on
you
.”

“Because I didn't want to have to rough you up,” said Barney, nettled.

“You're just saying that because you're a man.”

“Listen, Claire, I had at least two chances to jump you!”

She dimpled. “Did you?”

“You're acting like a kid! Do you know anything about guns?”

“How to load, aim, shoot. Is there anything else?”

Barney finished the bourbon in the glass. “Forget it. You don't know what we're dealing with. These men
like
killing. It's second nature to them. A gun is a third hand. They don't have to think before they shoot. You do, because you're a human being. It's that split second's difference that would get you dead.”

And that sobered her, but he knew she didn't deeply understand. “I said I was glad you two showed up, didn't I?”

“I hope you won't have to learn the hard way,” Barney mumbled. “Anyway, we're wasting time. Keep talking. What did they steal the first time?”

“Photographic equipment. And a file folder of pictures I'd shot in Mexico. I didn't discover that was missing till later; at the time I thought it was an ordinary break-in, some sneak thief. Actually, the only unusual thing was that they came during the day.”

“They were after you.”

“I know that now. But I was out of town on a job. I didn't discover the burglary till I got back.”

“And you didn't call the police.”

“I did, on the burglary. I guess I didn't make enough fuss; the equipment was insured. The police didn't seem very excited. A couple of days later I discovered the photos had been taken. Alamo Tours had ordered some prints, so I wrote them saying I wouldn't be able to deliver. I also asked about the driver out of politeness. In their reply they mentioned casually that he had disappeared.

“At that point,” Claire continued, “I decided to get in touch with the other members of the group; I had an idea they wanted the photos for some kind of confidence game. I didn't begin to worry till I learned that old Maynard and Sue Barton were dead, probably murdered. I got really scared when Liz was reported gone. So I closed the studio, took this room across the street, and tried to figure it all out. The only answer I came up with was that somebody was systematically killing the people who'd been in Mexico with me. I drove to Indianapolis, since it was closest, and persuaded Ingrid to hide out. Then—”

“Ingrid didn't,” said Barney. “They came that night and gassed her with her own oven.”

Claire went marbly pale. “Oh, no … But she promised to leave at once!”

“She had to arrange for her cat. That was an expensive cat.”

“And Rodney Aiken? You know, the schoolteacher. I tried to convince him on the phone what danger he was in, but he sounded as if he thought I was drunk.”

“He died a believer, Claire. His heart gave out under torture.”

The marble turned the color of old ivory. She sat up on the bed, clutching her robe to her, crying, “What in God's name do they want? Why are they killing us off?”

“If we knew that,” Barney said gently, “we'd be able to take a giant step ahead of them. Unfortunately, we know absolutely nothing—who they are, what they're after, what's behind all this. By the way—”

“Yes, Barney,” she whispered.

“They're keeping Liz alive.”

She stared at him.

He nodded. “They've got her with them.” He got out of the chair, his body screaming for sleep. “And speaking of Liz, we'd better get back to Chicago and see if anything's developed.”

Claire jumped off the bed in terror. “Don't leave me!”

“I hadn't planned to,” said Barney. To himself he said, Baby, I could have all sorts of plans about you. And in spite of his exhaustion he glanced hungrily at her robe. “We'll wait in the hall while you get dressed. Then Ed and I have to get a few hours' shut-eye or we won't be good for anything. You can move in with us for protection.… Ed. Ed? Ed, wake up!”

Her presence added a fragrance to the car.

She wore a suit that matched her eyes. Her red-gold hair was teased in curves that complemented the incredible curves of her face. Ed was in the back seat, and she was sitting beside Barney; he could scarcely keep his eyes on the road. Whoa, Barney, he said to himself. And inhaled her perfume.

She had recovered from the shocks of the past few hours; she was almost animated. He could only hope that she appreciated what they were up against.

“Now,” Barney said. “Tell me all about your trip to Mexico.”

“Is that why you've brought me along?”

“Partly.”

“Oh. Then you have an ulterior motive.”

“Every man has an ulterior motive when he runs into a beautiful woman and can do something about it.”

She laughed. “Beautiful! One lech I know compares me to that TV commercial where the gal turns to stone because he's wearing the wrong hair tonic. Aren't you overstating a bit, Mr. Burgess?”

“Barney.”

“Barney?”

“Not at all. Don't forget, baby, I'm in a position to know. That wasn't marble that turned pink.”

The pinkness rose to her neck, but she did not seem angry. She looked out the car window. “I don't suppose you'll ever let me forget that.”

“Why should I? It isn't often a man has a head start like that.”

“Men—”

“I know, we're all alike. And wouldn't it be rough on you broads if we weren't?”

“And what about women?”

“You're all alike, too.”

“What nonsense!”

“Believe me, I know. That's what's kept me single all these years. Looking for a different kind of woman.”

She sighed. “There goes the same old refrain.”

He turned to squint at her. “What do you mean?”

“You're like a man I know. Nothing, nothing in the world would induce me to go through
that
again.”

He was going to retort, Who asked you? but concentrated on driving instead. The question would have been a smartaleck lie. He had been asking her, in his own fashion, for some time.

“There's nothing makes a flat tire out of a man faster than realizing he's no more to a chick than she is to him,” Barney said. It was cruel, but for some reason he found himself fiercely desirous of defending his ego. But she misunderstood him. She thought he was talking about an affair of the past that had run off the road.

“You sound as if you're determined not to allow yourself to go through it again,” Claire said, glancing at him. “Was it so bad?”

“I was going,” said Barney, glancing at
her
, “to ask you the same question.”

They laughed together. Then Claire said, “Mine turned out wretchedly. It happened on that tour of Mexico. He died.”

“John Torrance Talbot?”

She nodded.

“You were tight with
him
?”

She murmured, “I've never heard it put quite so vulgarly. But yes, I suppose you could say so.”

“How tight?”

“You're making me blush again.”

“I'd like to hear about it.”

“You're nothing but a voyeur!”

“What do you think a detective has to be? Actually, Talbot might be the key to this whole mishmash.”

She stared down the long concrete ribbon of highway. “I've thought about that. But I can't fit it in.”

“You're too close to it. I might see something you missed.”

“All right, but … don't look at me when I tell it. There are some embarrassing parts.”

“I'm of age.”

“I sometimes wonder if I am. I behaved like a fool from the first moment. But look at it from a woman's viewpoint. Here was this man, six feet three, lean, young, handsome as the devil, without a care in the world—”

Ed Tollman spoke from the back seat. “Liz wrote me that he was surly.”

Barney had forgotten he was with them. As for Claire English, she looked at Ed in surprise. “Surly? Johnny? I can't understand Liz's saying that. He wasn't surly to me—or to Liz, either, after he got to know her. He was sort of like Errol Flynn—reckless, gay, teasing, dashing—oh, I don't know, even a sort of group clown. Johnny could get away with almost anything, because nobody was supposed to take him seriously.”

“But you did,” said Barney.

Claire lit a cigarette, placed it between Barney's lips, and then lit one for herself. The action brought a memory of the many times she had performed the same service for Johnny Talbot.

She sighed. “That's my problem. I take everything seriously, even jokes. That's how it started between us, as a sort of joke …”

She had noticed him the moment she entered the tour office: Errol Flynn in slacks and a knit shirt, stooped over the piles of brochures and maps on the counter. His head turned as she crossed the room; his dark eyes followed her movements with an amused intensity that made her painfully aware of how tight the flesh-colored slacks were against her thighs and buttocks, of how her breasts thrust aside the car coat. She was not usually self-conscious about her body. It made her angry.

“Now there's a collector's item,” he said as she reached the counter.

She examined a brochure without seeing it, feeling the heat flow down her legs. It was not possible that he had spoken of the statuettes on the wall—he had not taken his eyes from her.

His words hung in midair like fog which would not settle until she dealt with it—one of those half actions that must be completed in order to dissolve the expectancy. She decided on superiority.

“Little boys shouldn't stare,” she said, looking at him.

“Why not, when there's something worth staring at?”

Somehow, it had come out coy. It made her annoyed with herself, and she got busy in her purse. He continued to stare. Then he smiled, nodded, said, “My error, Pink Lady,” and sauntered away. Damn it! thought Claire. There ought to be a pill for chronic blushing.

When she turned around, he was standing outside appreciatively examining her cream-colored convertible with its leopard-skin upholstery. A cigarette hung from his lips and his hands were thrust in his pockets. The cool December breeze ruffled his monk's cap of black hair, and she felt a sudden sense of some joy she had missed.