Over Her Dear Body (7 page)

Then I remembered the two limp bodies on the floor. But I tried to play it light. If I played it heavy, it looked as if Elaine would fall down in a crumpled heap. “Sorry, Elaine,” I said. “Sorry. Excuse the looks of my apartment. It ... it's a mess.”

She dropped her arm and blinked at me. “What ... what...”

“Sit down.” I led her to the divan and placed her on it, facing away from the mugs on the floor. “Just a moment. I'll have to, ah, tidy up the place a bit.”

She didn't say a word. But I heard a groan.

I looked around and noticed the big guy on the floor wiggling feebly. The little one would be no trouble for quite a while, I knew; the knife man not only was tougher, but I hadn't kicked him as hard as I'd slugged the other one.

“Elaine,” I said gently. “Just keep looking at the wall or something. Look at Amelia.”

Amelia is the yard-square nude, garish, bawdy, the kind of oiled tomato you would find only in a bachelor's apartment. Amelia, who says “Come hither, honey,” not only with her eyes, but with a great deal of the rest of her. Amelia, whom the ladies always frown upon, lips curling and the men always examine closely, lips curling the other way.

Elaine looked at the wall and her lips began curling, and I picked up the spring-loaded sap, walked the few steps to the feebly wiggling man and clobbered him a good one above and behind his right ear. He became motionless again, like furniture.

When I straightened up Elaine was watching me, but her lips were still curling. She said, in a horrified tone, “You ... you
hit
him.”

“Yeah. I got him a dandy one.”

“But—that's terrible.”

“What's so terrible? I should let him—”

“But he was just lying there—”

“No, he wasn't. He was wiggling.”

“Wiggling! He was on the floor, not doing anything—”

I interrupted her again. “Honey, slow down. I know the rules, but I can't allow guys to get up and kill me. And that's what this poor unconscious man would bend every effort to do.”

“Don't be sarcast—” She stopped. “Kill you,” she said softly, her face getting blank. “Kill...”

I thought at first she was concerned about the heartrending possibility that I might have been there on the floor instead of the two thugs. I sat beside her on the divan and pointed to the two guns, picked up the knife and held it in my palm.

“These bums,” I said, “were waiting for me when I got home. The guy I just tapped tried to stick me with this.”

I didn't get it. She seemed hardly to be listening. Her face was twisted. “Shell,” she said, her voice a cry of pain, “Shell, they killed him. It was horrible. They murdered him.”

“Murdered? Murdered who?”

“Craig. They killed him. I was there. It was horrible. Horrible.
Horrible!
” Her voice rose, getting higher and louder.

I put my hands on her shoulders, suddenly serious. “Easy. Craig Belden? Your—your brother?”

“Yes. I—” She couldn't get the rest of it out at first. Then she pulled herself together with an effort. “You remember I was suppose to meet you on the
Srinagar
.”

“Yes. I went to Cabin Seven.”

“I'm sorry. But I was there, waiting, when Craig came in and said we had to leave.”

“He was on the yacht?”

“Yes. We went aboard together. He was insistent that we couldn't wait, had to leave right then. I knew I could explain to you. We went to Craig's home in Los Angeles. He said he wanted to give me some papers. Said he could trust me—but he didn't even get to tell me what they were. And he was extremely upset. There's a safe behind a painting in his living room. He got some things out of it and barely started telling me what to do with them when a car came into the drive.”

She paused, brushed at her eyes. And now I saw why they had looked darker, even bigger, as she'd stood in my doorway. Mascara was smeared around them, as if tears had moistened her lashes, and she had brushed the darkness onto her lids.

Elaine sighed heavily, shakily, then went on, “Craig got white as a sheet, told me to get into the bedroom and keep quiet. I did, and two men came in—I guess it was two, I heard two voices but I didn't see anybody. One of them said, ‘We got a message for you, Belden.' And then ... oh, I can't!”

She stopped, pressed both hands to her face and bent forward, choking sounds coming out of her mouth, muffled against her fingers. After a while she took her hands from her face, then without prompting from me she continued. “There were three gunshots then. I heard ... Craig fall. Not a sound after the shots, just—oh, as if he were clutching at the desk, scratching, then the sound of him falling. I was petrified. I didn't even realize what had happened, not really. A voice—a different one from the first said—‘Grab that stuff and check the safe. Make it snappy.' There wasn't a word after that. Just the men moving around, and then the door slamming. I heard a car start.”

She was silent for a long time, then said, “I just stood there. Not more than a few seconds, but it seemed forever. When I went into the front room, Craig was lying on his back behind the desk. There was blood on his chest and his face ... his face—” She stopped, then went on, her voice dull and flat. “Well, he was dead. The safe was still open, empty, and the papers were gone from his desk. I touched him, once, and then ran. We'd driven to Balboa and back in my car. I ran to it, came straight here.”

It was quiet for a while. Then I said, “It's obvious the men thought he was alone. Do you have any idea who they were?”

She shook her head. “What am I going to do, Shell? You've got to help me. I don't know
what
to do, I'm all—all in pieces.”

“If you've any idea what caused this, what's going on, tell me now. You left a lot of things unsaid earlier.”

“But I don't know anything. I told you most of it on the yacht, the little there was to tell.”

I was concerned about two other things besides Belden's murder. One, the fact that Elaine had been in the house when her brother was murdered, and thus would be on the spot herself if the killers ever learned of that fact; and the other item, that two more croak-and-dagger boys had been waiting here for me. It seemed too much, on one night, to check off as coincidence.

I told her that, then said, “Start at the beginning. When you first got worried and why. Why you hired me, called me in the first place.”

She told me little more than I already knew. Her brother had in the last month or so become increasingly drawn and jittery, worried, afraid of something. On more than one occasion he had told her that if he got killed suddenly—accidentally, he'd said to her—she was to take everything in his wall safe to the Los Angeles D.A. He had not explained further, merely asked her to promise she'd do that for him. Elaine had agreed. This afternoon—the previous afternoon now—he'd asked her to accompany him to a party on the
Srinagar.
She didn't know why. He'd acted so oddly, in such a despairing and frightened manner that Elaine had phoned me, asked me to meet her on the
Srinagar.

I said, “Honey, that sure sounds like it was a pro job. And there's the business about those papers to the D.A. Could Craig have been mixed up in anything illegal?”

“I can't believe he'd have been involved in anything like that at all. But ... well, he's been a kind of promoter all his life. You know, always a big deal on the fire—but hardly any of them came to anything. Once in a while he'd make quite a lot, but spend it before he started anything else. He's been in real estate for the last few years. And...” She paused. “Well, I don't know how to put it. He just seemed to have a lot of money this last year or so. Bought a new car, expensive clothes, gambled in Las Vegas once in a while. But he never would tell me how he made the money. Just that he'd closed a couple of big deals.” She bit her lip. “And that's all, Shell.”

There were still several questions I wanted to ask Elaine, but she seemed about ready to keel over. In a moment she said, “Could I wash my face somewhere? I must look awful.”

“You look beautiful.” She did. The mascara was smeared, the thick chestnut hair was tangled, her face was drawn and pale. But she was lovely, compelling, a pleasure for eyes and warmth for hearts, more than beautiful, even at this moment.

I stood up. “Come on, I'll show you. Watch your step, though, Elaine. Don't step on any people.”

The smile was wan, but it was an improvement. She stood up, facing me. Then she bit her lip again. “I'm ... I'm asking a lot I suppose. We barely spoke earlier. Maybe you don't want to get mixed up in this now. After all, those men—”

“That's enough. I'm in it, so don't mention it again.” I grinned. “You name it, I'll try to do it. Besides—” I glanced at the mugs—“It seems very likely your problems are also my problems. And, honey, I like it that way.”

I don't know what it was that turned her on. She must have been holding back the tears for a long time, must have been hanging onto her emotions, forcing herself to drive, to come here, to tell me the story. And maybe now that she had a moment in which to relax even a little, she let go.

The tears started to well from those big dark eyes, as if squeezed out painfully, drop by drop, and then they came in a torrent, a flood. She put her hands on my chest, sobbing, her body shaking, leaned her head on my shoulder, rubbing her face against my coat.

I put my arms around her, pulled her gently against me. It was just the normal, natural thing to do. But she felt good to me, even then. Even while she was racked with sobs, only minutes from looking at her dead brother, and while two guys still lay breathing heavily on my floor, she felt good. Maybe I should have been thinking only of her troubles, and my own. But mixed with those thoughts was a kind of wonder at how firm and fine her flesh felt against my hands, her body against mine.

Her face moved against my shoulder, her big soft breasts moved on my chest, and under the white dress her flesh slid smoothly beneath my hands. Her hair brushed my chin, and I could smell the sweet perfume of her.

I'd felt it a little, earlier, at the
Srinagar's
rail, felt the warmth, the subdued fire, the magnetic attraction of her. But not as I did now. And I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to hold Elaine close, like this, when there were no troubles, no pains and worries, nothing but the two of us close together.

After a while the sobs stopped. Elaine sighed deeply, looked up at me. “Thanks.”

One word, soft, husky in her throat.

I didn't say anything. I held her close for a moment longer, then started to let her go.

She said, “Hold me tight, Shell. Please hold me tight. Hold me and hold me and—”

I guess I would have forgotten where the hell I was, forgotten what had happened, the unconscious slobs, even that I was on earth, I suppose. If what happened next hadn't happened next. Maybe it was just as well—but right then I sure didn't believe it.

Because there was a great crashing sound, and a volley of volubility, and then I was being pounded on the head. There was so much pounding and in so many places that for a wild moment I thought both those hoods had sprung upon my back and were banging and scratching and biting me and had been joined by company.

But then, as I reeled around, everything came into focus.

The crashing sound had been the door slammed open—by Bunny.

The volubility had been Bunny, mouthing imprecations.

The pounding had been—you guessed it—Bunny.

And there Bunny stood now, about a yard away. She stamped one little foot hard on the floor and waggled a finger at me. “You!” she yelled.

She stamped the floor again and shouted, “You—
you bigamist!
”

Chapter Seven

Bigamist, she'd called me.

She had me so confused that for a couple of seconds there, that's what I actually thought I was.

“Hey, hold it!” I said. “Now, Bunny. Now, Bunny.” I backed way from her, and she took a step forward, chewing on her teeth, getting ready to say some other wild thing.

Elaine was staring wide-eyed at the latest arrival, her lips forming a circle of surprise. Bunny flashed a glance at her, then burned it into me, into Elaine again, then—head turning slowly this time—speared me with it.

“So. That's it. Just like last time. Got to rush. Bunny. Business, Bunny. Wait for me. Bunny.
Stay in the car, Bunny!"
She was vibrating all over.

“You don't understand—”

"Don't
I?”

Elaine said softly, “What in the world...”

Thoughts were racing around in my skull. There's plenty of room up there for races. Finally I said, “Look at that, Bunny,” and pointed at the two guys, still quiet on the floor.

She looked, frowned, and calmed down a bit. Just a little. “Who are they?” she snorted. “Her previous escorts?”

“They are a couple of guys who tried to kill me a few minutes ago. Believe me, when people are killing me, I forget everything else.”

She frowned some more. “How were they going to kill you?”

“With a knife.” I pointed to it on the coffee table.

“And if that didn't work, with those big guns there, I suppose.”

The knife and guns were in plain view, with the leather sap, and it must have been a rather convincing display. But Bunny was not quite convinced.

She looked at Elaine and, eyes on her, spoke to me. “And what was
she
killing you with? What ... what big guns was
she
using?”

And there she had me. In all honesty, with those big guns trained on me I had been about to surrender. And I could hardly tell Bunny that we had been dancing to distant music.

There was a sticky silence. But then Elaine stepped into the breach. “My brother was killed a little while ago. I came to Mr. Scott for help. And I ... went to pieces, I guess.”