Murder Queen High (11 page)

“Taxi,” said Faye and sat back on her haunches. “I’m glad you reminded me. I was trying on my costume and I decided to go for a drive, a fast one — to see what an ocelot felt like.” Her face got unpleasant. “Then my car was stolen. Right off the hotel parking lot, too. I thought it might be here, so I took a taxi and hurried out to see. And do you know what?”

“What?” asked Sin fearfully.

“It’s right here — just where I thought it would be!” Faye’s short upper lip curled in triumph. She got up. “Where did you say those stairs went?”

“Faye, wait! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find who stole my car — and then I’m going to kill him.”

John Henry leaned an aching temple against the cement wall. Sin hunched forward and her voice was calm only by desperate effort. “That’s exactly what you should do, Faye. But I’ve a good idea. Why don’t you untie us and then we can all look for the thief who stole your car?”

John Henry held his breath while the bright-eyed girl thought it over, afraid that a single movement on his part might turn the decision against them.

“That’s a good idea!” Faye said after a minute of consideration. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Here.” She ran forward and kneeled at Sin’s side. John Henry started to breathe again, but softly.

Sin gave a little cry and brought her arms around in front of her, free of the imprisoning ropes. Faye was unloosening the cords that bound her feet together. A few swift movements later, Sin pulled herself up. She swayed dizzily.

“How are you, honey?” John Henry asked anxiously.

“My fingers won’t feel,” replied Sin. “Just a second and I’ll let you loose.”

Faye Jordan was slinking around the pillars, a cat in every respect except that she prowled on two legs instead of four. She cocked the big ears to one side, listening. “I think I hear footsteps,” she hissed. “I’ll stalk them.” She glided up the concrete steps, opened the door that led into the ranch house proper, and she was gone.

“Hurry up, baby,” John Henry said nervously. “Barselou might come down here, especially if that screwball kicks up a rumpus.”

“I’m hurrying as fast as I can,” Sin whimpered, her fingers fumbling among the knots behind his back. “What’s wrong with Faye, anyhow?”

“She shouldn’t drink. There!”

John Henry brought his hands to the front and rubbed his wrists, trying to restore circulation. Then he brushed Sin aside and began to work his feet free. Sin went to the foot of the stairs, waiting nervously for some noise in the silent house above. John Henry got to his feet. Hundreds of black dots danced in the air. He shook his head and most of them went away.

He reached out and caught his wife in his arms for a brief hug. “We’re all right now, honey! Keep your chin up,” he whispered and urged her toward the window in the opposite wall. The grim-encrusted panes still swung half-open where Faye Jordan had left them.

“Can we get out that way?” Sin doubted. “It’s pretty high.”

“I can’t see going up through the house again. We’re taking the high road.”

By piling the cardboard boxes against the wall, they achieved a perilous platform that threatened to collapse if they breathed wrong. John Henry scaled it first, wriggling painfully through the window and bumping his sore head on the frame. He scouted carefully. The window opened on the east side of the house, facing a small orchard of grapefruit trees. To the south were round, brightly colored targets on easels — an archery range. To the north was the front of the ranch house and the parking lot. The afternoon shadows were long all about, but none of them moved.

He reached a hand down to Sin and pulled her awkwardly through the opening. She got up, straightening her peasant skirt and pushing her hair into place. North of the orchard, the barbed-wire fence was only about fifty yards away. Beyond that, cultivation ceased and sagebrush and scrub oak promised protective covering.

“Let’s go!” cried John Henry and clasped Sin’s hand tight.

They ran like mad for the fence, expecting a bullet in the back.

Azure police this evening combed the city for a mysterious killer who has struck twice in twenty-four hours, following the discovery of the body of James V. Gayner, 35, assistant manager of the Las Dunas Hotel. Gayner was stabbed to death in one of the hotel’s guest cottages early this afternoon, police said.

Lieutenant R. Fenton Lay, homicide bureau chief, claims that the murder is apparently closely related to the shooting of Homer Anglin, 41-year-old prospector, in Azure last night. Anglin, an Azure resident, was shot down by an unknown assailant a block from the Las Dunas Hotel.

A statewide alarm has been issued for the arrest of Mr. and Mrs. John Henry Conover, of San Diego, occupants of the cottage in which Gayner’s body was found. The Conovers, present at the scene of the first slaying, have disappeared from the hotel. Lay announced.

“I expect an arrest within forty-eight hours,” he said.

Gayner’s body was discovered, stabbed in the back with a hotel letter opener, by Vernon Stebbins, 22, Las Dunas employee. There were no signs of a struggle. An automatic pencil, believed to be the property of the missing Conovers, was found beside the body.

Other hotel guests could shed no light on the double tragedy and police …

Not far ahead of them twinkled the lights of Azure, set in an incandescent halo against early evening. The burly driver turned a knob and twin beams leaped out ahead of the speeding truck.

“Whereabouts you want to go this time?” he asked wearily.

“Any place there’s a phone,” John Henry said, feeling a bit embarrassed. He wished they hadn’t flagged the same truck and trailer that had given him a lift earlier in the day.

“Drive-in up here has one. I’m going to pull in there for some chow, anyway.”

“That’ll be swell.”

They bore down rapidly on a big neon sign that alternately flashed THE TOMAHAWK in red and then DRIVE INN in blue. Twenty-five yards beyond this, surrounded by a great circle of asphalt, squatted a round glass-and-wood structure, its ultra-modern resplendency typical of California roadside eateries.

The driver eased down on the brake pedal and pulled the huge truck and trailer off the road onto the asphalt. There he cut the engine and headlights. John Henry jumped down from the high cab and held up an assisting hand to Sin. She gingerly came to earth.

“Thanks for the lift,” John Henry called up.

“Hey, buddy.” The trucker’s grimy face leaned over the vacated seat. He beckoned to Conover, who looked up at him suspiciously. “Just between us — what goes on, huh? I pick you up this morning by yourself. Tonight, I pick you up at the same place — but you got a babe with you.”

“She’s my wife.” John Henry hoped this explained everything.

“Okay, okay,” muttered the driver. “None of my business anyway.” He withdrew into the dark cavern and opened the door on the far side of the truck.

“Gosh, am I glad to see people again,” Sin burbled happily. “Just plain old unarmed people!”

“That driver thinks I’m nuts.”

“Forget him, honey. We’re just five minutes away from the police. Then we’ll be all right. I feel like hugging Lieutenant Lay.”

Only two cars nuzzled at the cement curbing before the glassy structure. Since the bulk of the evening trade hadn’t yet made an appearance, the two carhops in blue striped slacks and white blouses perched on tall shiny stools by the open front of The Tomahawk. Their make-up showed up garishly under the blue-and-white neon lights.

The phone booth was inside and at the far end of the counter. The room was almost deserted. The girl behind the counter whistled as she concocted a chocolate malt. The solitary customer was a pompous-looking man in his fifties who was reading a newspaper near the phone booth and munching absent-mindedly on a double-deck hamburger. As the Conovers came in, he gulped down the last bite, dropped a coin by his plate and squeezed by them.

John Henry pulled the folding door to the booth open and said, “I guess you just ask for the police.”

“That’s what it always says in the front of the phone book.” Sin sat down at the counter next to the telephone booth and ordered two hamburgers — “with everything!” Then she reached out a bare arm and scooped up the newspaper the departed customer had been reading.

John Henry folded the door shut behind him and got comfortable on the built-in stool. He took the receiver off the hook. He listened for the buzz of the clear wire. He dropped the coin into the proper slot.

There was a sudden banging on the glass by his head and he reared back, startled. Sin was hammering one small fist against the pane and pointing to the newspaper.

“Operator,” a precise voice said in his ear.

Sin was pointing to the top of the newspaper where it said
Extra!
in red ink. She shook her head furiously at him.

“Operator,” the voice said again.

“Wrong number,” John Henry answered mechanically and replaced the receiver. He pushed open the door asking irritably, “What’s wrong, Sin?”

“You didn’t get the police, did you?” Sin grabbed his shoulders. Her face was white and strained.

“Not yet. Why?”

“Johnny — look at that!”

Her pointing finger trembled over the front page of the newspaper. AZURE HOTEL MAN BRUTALLY SLAIN. The tall black type blurred. John Henry shook his head, plopped on a seat beside his wife and, focusing carefully, began to read. His lips moved and now and then a phrase escaped. “Stabbed to death … guest cottages … statewide alarm … arrest of Mr. and Mrs. John Henry Can-over … automatic pencil …”

“What are we going to do?”

“They think we did it!” John Henry gasped in amazement. “Can you imagine that?”

“But what are we going to do?”

He read the story again, rubbing his jaw irresolutely. This was a tight spot. Tighter and tighter. They were present at, perhaps implicated in, the first murder. Their alibi for the second murder was Barselou. And Barselou was certainly no friend of the Conovers.

Sin tensed, trembling. Hunger, weariness and confusion had brought her close to tears. John Henry took her chin gently between thumb and forefinger. “Calm down, baby. We’re still going to shake loose from this.”

“How? Johnny, they think we murdered those two men.”

“Uh-huh. But we know we didn’t. Don’t forget that.”

Sin cradled her head against his shoulder. “Why does everything have to go wrong?” her muffled voice wailed.

“There, there, baby. Don’t attract attention — not now.” The waitress was still whistling over the malt mixers, but John Henry noted nervously that the truck driver had joined them in the glass room. He regarded the Conovers with baffled curiosity.

Sin raised her head, rubbing at her eyes. “But we’re all by ourselves, Johnny!”

John Henry slapped the counter and his face brightened. “We’re not either all alone, not by a darn sight!” Sin’s eyes stayed puzzled. “The prize — the quiz contest,” her husband cried triumphantly. “Part of your winnings is a fairy godfather. He’s supposed to take care of us and see that we have a good time, remember? He said so himself. Well, we’re not having one.”

“Oh, but honey — what can Mr. Trim do?”

“I don’t know, baby. That’s his department.” Six seats down the counter, the truck driver was straining his neck trying to read the black headlines of the newspaper the Conovers had laid down. “Anything at all would be an improvement.”

John Henry banged the booth door to and began to call feverishly for the operator.

Thelma Loomis came out of the elevator, scanned the lobby hurriedly and then crossed the hall leading to the Oasis Room. It had taken her longer to put on her policeman costume than she had expected. Now she’d have to make up for lost time.

The stiff blue coat with its shiny brass buttons felt awkward and strange to her and the trousers gripped tightly across the seat. She reflected again that costume balls were pretty silly and she’d never be going to this one if it weren’t for business.

She paused in the doorway to sweep the room with keen eyes. Only two couples were dancing. Otherwise, the polished floor of the Oasis Room was unmarred by scuffing feet. Less than a third of the glass-topped tables was filled, and their occupants, though in gay and indiscriminate costume, slouched lifeless and depressed. Mickey Mouse, ghost, Cleopatra, Roman senator, Robin Hood, satyr — all toyed with their glasses and manufactured desultory conversation for their companions. The scheduled laughter and bright chatter hadn’t come off, save for one table in the corner where the Three Musketeers had toasted La Belle France too often.

Gayner’s murder had flatted the hotel’s note of cheer. Instead of fresh drinks, every table in the Oasis Room held a well-handled copy of the red ink
Extra!
edition of tomorrow morning’s
Press-Telegram
.

The masquerading celebrators seemed content to nurse their highballs moodily and profitlessly and glance surreptitiously at other guests. Each eye seemed to mirror the suspicion that one of the costumes might hide the phantom killer publicized by the newspaper.

She couldn’t see Sagmon Robottom anywhere. Thelma Loomis went on down the carpeted steps to the ballroom level and wound slowly among the tables to the wide doors opening onto the veranda. A man in a friar outfit fooled her for a second but she realized his shoulders weren’t broad enough. Besides, the costume was hardly appropriate.

She stepped out onto the veranda. A few bizarrely dressed couples barred her path. She scrutinized them carefully and went down into the sunken patio.

Miss Loomis frowned and rubbed white-gloved hands together in perplexity. Then she ascended the steps to the glass doors and went through the lobby again.

“Three,” she told the elevator operator. The girl looked around the lobby for more passengers and, finding none, closed the divided door. The car shot upward.

“Three,” the elevator girl murmured and slid the doors apart. Miss Loomis strode down the hall past the stair well. Robottom’s room was at the end of the corridor. No light showed under the door but she put her ear to the panel just to be sure. To be doubly sure, she rapped on it with a gloved fist.

Then she tried the knob. The door was locked. Frowning again, she turned and walked slowly back along the soft carpet toward the elevator.

The elevator doors came apart as she reached them. Two big tan-shirted policemen stared out at their spurious counterpart. They stepped from the cage in unison.

“Thelma Loomis?” the bigger one said.

She nodded.

“You’ll have to come along with us. Lieutenant Lay wants to talk to you.”

“This is about the right spot,” John Henry said. The Tomahawk neon sign flashed in back of them up the highway. “I said about a hundred yards past the drive-in.”

“Why couldn’t we’ve waited for Mr. Trim back there?” Sin complained through the last mouthful of her hamburger. Eating while keeping up with the fast pace of her husband had set from the drive-in had used up most of her breath.

“That newspaper,” said John Henry briefly. He wiped mustard from his fingers and elaborated, “That driver was pretty suspicious. The minute he read that story he’d have hollered for the cops sure.”

“Are you sure it’s safe here?” Sin asked anxiously, trying to watch all the dark clumps of shadow at once.

John Henry thumbed toward a cluster of sagebrush which bulked beside the road. “Sure. We can hide back there till Trim gets here. I hope he has some ideas.”

“Way back there?”

“I’ll be with you.”

Finally, Sin settled herself dubiously on a large flat rock behind the bushes. “I hope he hurries.”

“I think he will. He sounded pretty excited when I talked to him.” He cleared off the earth painstakingly and sat down. For a while they were silent, listening to the chirp of friendly crickets and the far-off hoot of an owl.

“Johnny — ”

“Uh — huh?”

“What was he so excited about? I mean, he doesn’t have a close personal interest in us. And if we were what the papers say we are, why, it’s going to make the Bry-Ter Company look pretty foolish, much less their representative sort of shielding us.”

“Sin,” said John Henry after a pause, “don’t think I’m second guessing. But I was onto this same idea back in the cellar before that crazy Jordan girl leaped in and scared it out of me.”

“Oh, it’s just not possible, Johnny. I mean, how could he — ”

“How could anybody? I don’t know. But we’re pretty sure this Jones person killed Anglin last night, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Sin faltered. The owl hooted again, but it was no longer a sound of the peaceful night.

“And it must have been Jones who killed Gayner in our cottage.”

“I suppose. Gayner would have no way of knowing we’d give the combination to Barselou. So I guess he went on looking for it. And found it, too, since the Eversharp was by his body. And Jones surprised him and stabbed him and got it instead.”

“Well, why not?” demanded John Henry. “It’s got to be somebody.”

“But not Mr. Trim. He’s such a nice little fellow. And just this morning he saved me from those two — ”

“By gosh, it could all be part of an act.” John Henry’s voice took on a hard shell of excitement. “I think we’ve got something here, Sin. Who was it popped up right after Anglin stumbled into our cottage?”

“Well, he did know pretty much what went on with Barselou, remember — ”

“And he was the one who said it was all right to move our clothes — ”

“And, Johnny, if Mr. Trim thought we had the combination, of course he’d want to rescue me from Vernon and Gayner!”

“Honey,” cried John Henry, his tone congratulatory, “for the first time, I think we’re on the right track.”

Sin shrieked and put her hands over her mouth. Her husband leaped to his feet, but there was no new menace in sight. Sin rocked back and forth in alarm. “Johnny, I just thought — he’s coming out here now. He’s got the combination and he knows we’ll guess eventually. He’s coming out to kill us!”

“Good grief! I never thought of that.” John Henry squatted behind the mesquite and beat one fist on his knee, trying to make a semblance of an idea take sensible shape. At last it did.