Terror comes creeping (11 page)

I got to my feet slowly. "You're not kidding me?" 86

"You stay here any longer, we'll start charging you rent," he said.

"I'm on my way," 1 told him happily.

"Not yet," he said coldly. "Some facts first, Boyd."

"I'm listening."

"If you try to leave town, I'll throw the book at you," he said fiercely. "I've stuck my neck out so far to swing this, that one flick of the fingers will cut it clean in half! You don't forget that, not for one single second."

"I promise," I said. "Private eye's honor!"

He sucked his teeth derisively. "They're all lying," he said, "every one of them out on that farm. Not one of them will tell the truth. Why, do you figure, that is?"

"Some can't afford to, and some are too scared," I said.

"Yeah," he nodded. "So we won't get anywhere asking questions and getting the same old Ues back as answers. I figure we need a catalyst—^you know what that is?"

"Sure," I said. "It's halfway between a cat and a kitten."

"So maybe I am out of my mmd to do this," he muttered. "So you're the catalyst, Boyd. I figure to drop you right in the middle of them and see what happens."

"Maybe I'll get my head blown off—or wind up face down Ln the lake?" I said.

"Think of the legal fees you'll save," he grunted. "I got the medical report on Clemmie Hazelton. She died of drowning all right, the lungs were full of water. But there was a small contusion on the back of her head. Looks like she was slugged first, then carried down to the lake and tossed in." He shrugged his shoulders, shrugging off responsibility for the world and its sins at the same time. "Maybe somebody held her head under the water long enough to make sure?"

"It makes a great cure for insomnia, just to think about it," I said. "How do I catalyst this deal?"

"That's your problem," he said. "I already put up the baU."

"How about my car?" I asked hopefully.

Greer shook his head. "That stays right here—as evidence. That hit-and-run rap is still waiting for you; the only way youll ever beat it is to prove your self-defense story. Don't fhink of taking it easy when you get out of here, Boyd, you don't have the time."

"I dig," I said. "You're a nice guy, Lieutenant, I think; I just wish I had a little more faith, that's all."

"I want to clean up a double murder, that's all," he said irritably. "Morals are for juries—me, I keep the books neat and up to date."

"I'll try to dig up a couple of new entries for you," I told him. "This playing catalyst is going to be tough enough— but do I have to play cops and catalysts, too?"

"What the hell are you—uh, I get it." He grunted a couple of times while he thought it over. "I guess not. I'll have the stake-out on the house lifted right away."

"Don't forget the guy on the gate," I prodded.

"Him, too," Greer said, "You got anything special in mind? No—don't tell me, I got enough troubles, already!"

"O.K.," I said. "So long, Lieutenant."

He let me get past him into the corridor, then his right hand clamped painfully onto my elbow.

"I knew it had to be a pipe dream," I said. "So you're just a sadist, huh?"

"There's one little thing you forgot," he said. "Fix it, and you can get the hell out of here as fast as you like."

"What Uttle thing was that?'*

He extended his hand, palm up, under my nose. "Five bucks," he said coldly. "Remember?"

en

I RUSHED OUT INTO THE WONDERFUL FREE AIR IN THE

street. On the way back to the hotel I stopped at a car

rental agency, produced the right credit card, and drove the rest of the way in a convertible.

Back in my hotel room I put a call through to the office and spoke with Fran Jordan. I gave her a quick rundown on what had happened since I got into Providence.

"Sounds like you've got troubles, Danny," she said casually when I'd finished. "Are you going to give the : client her money back?"

"Give Martha Hazelton back that two thousand?" I yelped. "Why the hell should I do that?"

"She hired you because she thought her brother had been murdered, and she didn't want it to happen to her sister," Fran said mildly. "Well—it happened, didn't it?"

"If I ever earned a fee, I've earned this one!" I said coldly. "You realize I've still got this hit-and-run rap hanging over my head?"

"Danny," she said patiently. "Did you call me from Rhode Island just to have a fight?"

"No!" I shouted. "I want you to get hold of Jimmy Regan and tell him about the hit-and-run. If they do hit me with it, I want him to come up here and start some action."

"Jimmy Regan," she repeated. "Who's he—one of your gangster friends?"

"He's an attorney," I said in a strangled voice. "One of the best in New York."

"I'll find him," she said. "Anything else?"

"I guess not. . . . How's the Midwestern investment project coming along?"

"His wife wondered what was keeping him so long in New York," she said. "So she arrived last night to take a look—now she's taken over the investment project as well."

"Tough," I sympathized. "Have we got any new clients?"

"No—but the same old one came around again this morning for the office rent. Something I meant to tell

you, Danny, you didn't need that complicated alibi about playing poker with the boys last Sunday night. Any time you need an alibi, just say you spent the night at my apartment. I'll eilways back it up."

"Fran," I said wonderingly, "that's danrned nice of you."

"It's nothing," she said calmly. "I think I should reciprocate in these things. Any time I want to stand up a date I always use the same excuse—I'm spending the night in your apartment. So it's only fair to give you the same rights, don't you think?"

I was still gurgling helplessly when she hung up. There was an antidote I remembered finally, and room service could provide it.

Half an hour later I'd finished the "Clean-up-Boyd-Week" effort and felt a lot better in clean clothes, the Magnum's weight resting coihfortably in its harness under my coat. Room service had provided a bottle of cognac and some ice, and life would have been pleasant if I didn't keep on remembering a guy called Lieutenant Greer.

Then there was this catalyst jazz—I made another drink and sat down with it to try and think what the hell I was going to do. Fifteen minutes later I had a brilliant and detailed plan of operation. I'd drive out to the farm, knock on the door, walk right in and see what the hell happened. Thinking it over, I couldn't see much wrong with the plan—there wasn't much right with it either but I was stuck with it.

There was a gentle knock on the door so I walked across and opened it. Sylvia West stood there, with an uncertain smile on her face.

"Danny," her voice was hesitant. "The police told me you were free, isn't that wonderful news!"

"Sure," I said. "How's your memory coming along, honey-chile—still getting those blank spots here and there?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Danny,'* she said in a low voice. "Please, may I come in?"

She wore a black cashmere sweater over a white sharkskin skirt, and if she didn't have straw in her hair, the memory was stUl with me all right.

"Sure," I said. "I'm glad you remembered my name, anyway."

When she was sitting m one of the armchairs, I asked her if she drank cognac and she did, so I made her a drink and freshened up my own, then sat down opposite her.

"I know I lied to the police when I told that Lieutenant I didn't remember anything about us taking a look at the pigpens, Danny," she said. "Believe me, I'm sorry, but I didn't dare tell him the truth."

"Why not?"

"I was too scared."

"What of—the truth?"

Sylvia shook her head slowly. "Of what might happen if I told the truth."

"I don't get it," I said truthfully.

"You don't know what it's been like in that house the last twenty-four hours," she said in a tense voice. "It's ^ a house of fear!"

\ "Tune in next week for another gripping mstallment," 1 1 sneered. "What is this, the big blue eyes and hold me ^ close I'm scared routine? You must have a better reason why you didn't tell Greer the truth?"

She shrugged her shoulders listlessly. "All right, Danny, then don't believe me. I'm sorry I bothered coming here at all." She got up from the chair and walked toward the door slowly.

"O.K.," I said. "Relax. I guess I can listen to your story, anyway."

"Don't bother!" she said frostily. "I'd hate to bore you with it."

I caught up with her at the door the moment before 91

she reached for the knob, put my hands on her shoul-| ders, and spun her around to face me. ■

"You still wear those cute fancy garters?" I asked her solemnly.

She tried not to giggle and didn't make it. I walked her back to her chair, picked up her empty glass and made her another drink.

"So tell me about the house," I said when we wer both sitting down again.

Her face looked sober again. "You know why Mr. Hazelton hired me in the first place?"

"Sure—to look after Clemmie."

"I mean, why he thought she needed a nurse?"

"Oh, sure!" I said. "You told me the story yourself, and so did he. The streak of insanity—comes through his wife's side of the family—and he was worried about his daughters."

"That's it," she nodded. "You never knew Clemmie very well, Danny, there wasn't time before . . . but didn't you notice it?"

"Notice what?"

"Her violent alternation of mood—one moment she'd be deliriously happy, bubbling over with all kinds of lighthearted energy, and the next moment she'd be sullen and morose, not saying a word to anyone."

"Maybe," I said cautiously. "But not as bad as it soimds the way you put it."

"I was with her all the time, the last two months," she said mildly. "And I had to watch her professionally, Danny. My guess, if she'd lived, is she'd have been committed within the next two years. I've seen too many of them, not to know the sure signs."

"So I bow to your professional judgment," I said. "But if it was Clemmie—what's scaring you now—her ghost?"

"Clemmie never scared me, Danny," she said sofdy. "I knew her too well, we were friends, she trusted me. Even if she had gotten suddenly violent, I was sure she'd never try to hurt me."

92

i "Then who are you scared of?"

She bit her lip gently. *'I know you'll laugh when I jteU you."

I "Honey-chile, I never laugh at frightened people— ^ke biting the hand that feeds me!" ! "It's Martha." i "Martha!"

Sylvia gestured helplessly with her hands. "You didn't laugh, you just didn't believe me and that's even worse." "Martha scares you?"

"Not only me,'* she said stonily. "The others, too." "Like Pete?"

"I don't know about Pete, I've never known about Pete—except the way he looks at me sometimes, but Greg is scared of her and—" "Greg?"

"Sorry, Mr. Houston."

"I never figured that electronic computor would have la Christian name," I said, "just a machine number."

"Martha's a paranoiac," Sylvia said dully, "an advanced paranoiac with all the cunning and deadly vicious-ness they sometimes have. They don't have any normal ; standards, you imderstand. If they think the easiest way to get rid of somebody who's become a nuisance is by murder, then they do just that."

"Are you trying to say Martha killed Clemmie?'* I asked the obvious question.

"I'm sure of it," she said with quiet conviction, "as sure as I am that she killed Philip Hazelton, too."

"If anybody's crazy in this setup, you're the favorite candidate," I told her. "Why would she kill them—her own brother and sister?"

"I told you a pamoiac doesn't think the same way as a normal person—^but there's no point in trying to convince you, Danny, you've made your mind up I'm wrong before I even start."

The trouble when you're talking to a dame is that she's a dame. The rise and fall of the luxuriant curves

beneath the black cashmere, the skirt ridden a couple of inches higher than it should be, exposing the dimple in back of the knee and the deep outward curve of the thigh that was tantalizingly hidden after the first few inches. . . . You listen to what she says, but your real concentration is a couple of places elsewhere.

I made a hell of an effort and looked at her face. "I don't have my mind made up," I said. "I'll listen seriously. I know Martha has one hell of an arrogant attitude, but I figured she gets that from her old man. It's not unique."

"It's symptomatic," she said steadily. "And she does have a reason for killing both of them—a good reason. Mr. Houston told me about the trust fund their mother left. The three of them would have shared equally in it. Now there's only Martha left, the whole lot wiQ go to her!"

"Go on," I told her.

"Yesterday morning, when I first discovered Clenmiie was missing," Sylvia said in a low voice, "I went into Martha's room and told her. She was still in bed, and she looked at me and smiled—I've never seen a smile like that in my whole life before. It was terrifying, Danny, the way it kind of crept slowly across her face. She knew already, that was the awful part. She knew what had happened to Clemmie and she was enjoying the knowledge—enjoying the worry on my face because she knew there was a lot worse to come."

"You sure this thing hasn't worn down your nerves and you need a vacation?" I asked.

"Danny!" She leaned forward fiercely in her chair. "It's not just me that feels it—so does Mr. Houston— and Pete. We tried to tell Mr. Hazelton but he won't listen, that's why we can't do anything. She watches the rest of us like a hawk the whole time—I feel if I say one word too many, she would kill me as easily as she killed the others. That's why I didn't tell the police about the pigpens—I was frightened to let Martha know that I'd

known about the body being buried there, and how she must have moved Sweet William into another pen and "

"How could she have moved that lump of bacon before the cops arrived—she was in New York then,'* I said

She stared at me for a long moment, her mouth dropping open.

"I forgot that," she said slowly. "Then—it must have been Pete who put Sweet Wilham into the other pen!"

"So if it was Pete, where does that leave Martha?"

"He must have helped her kill Philip—he's her accomplice!" she said excitedly. "That makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Not much," I answered.

"Danny!" there was an impatient edge to her voice. "You just reminded me Martha was in New York, so it couldn't have been her—so who else could it have been but Pete!"

"There's one other candidate?"

"Who?"

"You."

Her eyes widened as she jumped up to her feet excitedly and took two steps toward me.

"You don't seriously think I had anything to do with the murders! You must be out of your mind as well, if you think I'd . . . What reason could I have for killing either of them? What—"

"Take it easy," I told her. "It's only another theory."

Sylvia glared wildly at me for a moment, then relaxed her shoulders and smiled slowly. "I'm sorry, Danny. I guess it shows just how shot my nerves are—maybe you're right about that vacation!"

"What made you come into town this afternoon, anyway?" I asked.

"Lieutenant Greer called Mr. Hazelton and told him you were cleared of any suspicion over Philip's murder, and you'd been released on bail on the hit-and-run charge. Mr. Hazelton thinks it's a travesty of justice or something—he told us all about it anyway. Afterwards, Mr. Houston talked to me alone and it was his idea I

should come and see you." Her eyes warmed slowlyj "Not that 1 didn't think it a good idea, too," she added softly.

"Why did Houston figure it a good idea?"

"He thought you might listen to me about Martha," Sylvia said frankly. "He didn't think you'd believe it, although it's the truth, but at least you'd listen. Then he suggested you should come to the house and stay there for a while—see for yourself. He said. Tell Boyd I'm not asking him to believe it, just to see how things are for himself.' "

"It's kind of nice for Houston to ask me to be his guest," I said, "but it's not his house. You know how Old Man Hazelton thinks about me—he's going to have something to say when I stick my profile around his front door."

"Mr. Houston said you've got the perfect excuse— Martha is your client and you could insist you wanted to be close to her—to make sure nothing happens to her the way it has to the others."

"That's smart thinking," I said. "There's only one snag —from a professional viewpoint, I mean—no client ever paid a private detective for getting them convicted of murder yet!"

"Mr. Houston—"