Terror comes creeping (12 page)

"I know!" I interrupted her. "Mr. Houston figured that one out, too. He'll be glad to compensate me if I discover my client's a murderer after all."

Sylvia nodded silently, then the warm look in her eyes started to glow. She moved even closer to where I stood, until we touched at a couple of points of vital contact.

"Danny?" she said softly in a wheedling voice. "Please do it—^for my sake, if nothing else!"

Her arms crept around my neck and she lifted her face invitingly to be kissed, so I kissed her. She kind of melted and flowed all over me—I figured she had a fortune in merchandising a brand-new nursing technique, a kissing

therapy which could shortcut a male patient's hospitalization by an average of three weeks minimum.

We stayed in the clinch for some time, then when she finally relaxed her arms from around my shoulders, I picked her up and carried her across to the bed and dropped her onto it.

"Danny!" she gurgled excitedly. "You are the most direct man I ever met!"

"You'd be surprised where it gets me," I told her, "and where it doesn't get me often."

I sat down on the bed and looked at her for a moment. She cradled her hands behind her head and lay back on the cushion, very relaxed—maybe you could call it an air of expectant confidence?

I took hold of the hem of the sharkskin skirt with my fingers, feeling the expensive smoothness of the material for a moment; then flipped the skirt up to the tops of her thighs, exposing the firm roundness of her legs sheathed in fine nylon.

Around the stocking tops were the same fancy garters she'd worn before, and then the tanned smoothness of her bare thighs and the ruffled lace edges of black panties. I slid both the garters down her legs, one after the other, with great care, and put them into my coat pocket.

"Danny?" Her voice was throaty. "What are you doing?"

"It's been nice," I said. "I wanted a souvenir—like something to remember you by?"

She sat bolt upright suddenly. "What are you talking about?"

"We had it all," I said, "youth, love and laughter. We watched the sun go down and heard the palm trees sigh in the breeze, we were two lovely people, so goodbye, lover, don't grieve. . . . You know any more song titles, you can fill them in for yourself, huh?"

"Are you kidding, or what?"

"I'm all through being kidded by you, honey-chile," I 97

smiled at her warmly. "But I'll always remember you as one of the nicest bitches I ever met."

I got up from the bed and walked across to where I'd left my cigarettes, and lit one.

"Danny!" She still sat upright on the bed, staring at me with eyes that held a different kind of warmth now.

"I'll write you a testimonial, if that's what you want, honey-chile," I said easily. " 'I never knew how good it could be till Sylvia'—that kind of jazz?"

"What's got into you?" she asked slowly. I

"You played me for a sucker once," I said. "That brought me enough grief—now you got me real nervous."

"You're still not making any sense!" she said harshly.

"If you want it all wrapped in a neat plastic bag, well all right," I said patiently. "I figure it was you who moved Sweet William to fool the cops. I figure you're working with and for Old Man Hazelton in this and always have been."

"You must be mad, too, if you think I'm—"

"You already gave me your theories, honey-chile," I said, "now you can hear mine."

"I'm not going to—" She swung her legs off the bed and stood up, smoothing down her skirt with both hands, then started quickly toward the door.

I caught her wrist and held it tight enough to stop her getting any further.

"Stay with it," I said. "I'm just getting warmed up. You and the old man had one hell of a problem—Philip's body. You'd fooled the cops once, but supposing I tried them again, you couldn't be sure they wouldn't dig up every pen the second time.

"So you called me for help, and then used every delightful curve you have to persuade me to come out to the farm. You gave me the ultimate proof you were on the level by showing me the pens and letting me figure out how the cops had missed finding the body. Then the interlude in the bam—was that strictly for kicks? The big deal about not wanting to go back to the house, but

letting me talk you into it for the girls' sake—then you'd done your part. Tolvar could take over, have me drive around while you and the old man dug up the body and had it ready and waiting for when we got back."

"You're crazy!" she spat at me. "Let me go!"

"In one moment," I said. "It went wrong—I got away and Tolver was dead, but somebody did some brilliant thinking and came up with the hit-and-run idea. And that worked even better than you'd expected, because I was dumb enough to forget I was carrying Philip's body in the trunk of my car."

I let go of her wrist suddenly. "So go back to the old man and tell him sure I'll be out at the house later, and to stay. I'm coming to protect my client, like he suggested!"

"I told you it was Mr. Houston's idea!" she said stormily.

"That's right, you did. But I still think it was the old man's. Tell him I'm coming out."

She massaged her wrist. "You hurt me. You're the most stupid, dirty animal I ever—"

I opened the door, pushed firmly with one hand against her back, and propelled her outside into the corridor.

Her face was white with fury. She stood for a moment, the cashmere sweater about to come apart at the very fibers, then she looked down at her legs—and the stockings which sagged forlornly around her ankles.

"You can—" She nearly choked with fury and had to swallow a couple of times to get her voice back. "You can at least give me back my garters!" she said in a metallic voice.

"Honey-chile," I shook my head, "I told you I wanted a souvenir."

"But how will I keep my stockings up?" she wailed desperately.

"Try walking on your hands, why don't you?" I said, then shut the door gently in her face.

If this was being a catalyst, I was beginning to hke it. 99

El

even

I HAD DINNER BEFORE I LEFT THE HOTEL. FOR ALL I KNEW

it was going to be a long night and wlio needs hunger? It was just after eight when I got going in the rented convertible. Another nice, crisp, moonlight night, and once I'd left the city limits, there were just the soft silhouettes of trees on either side of the road, caught ia the headlights' glare. Made me feel kind of nervous; I've got the native New Yorker's fear of open spaces. I just don't trust all that nothing, not imtil it's filled with tall buildings, anyway.

I turned off the road through the open gates, past the board which stiU said "High Tor," then down the tracks to the farmhouse. For a moment, after I'd turned off the motor, I just sat in the car, Ut a cigarette, and looked at the house. Lights showed from the windows, it didn't look any different now than it had before. But something was different about it.

You could feel it and it couldn't be put into words. A sensation, something that touched your face like a spider's web, and then was gone. Something that spiked your nerve ends and made them jump suddenly and painfully. A silent, creeping thing that crept closer all the time, waiting to pounce. What was it Sylvia had said about a house of fear?

I got out of the car fast because I knew if I sat there much longer thinking that way, I'd turn the car around and drive straight back into Providence—and that hit-and-run rap Greer had waiting for me.

The front door opened almost as soon as I knocked, and Galbraith Hazelton stood there, glaring at me. He looked a lot older, even since the morning when I'd last

seen him. His eyes were sunken in his cheeks, and the mustache didn't bristle any more.

"What do you want, Boyd?" he asked in a lifeless voice.

"To see Martha," I said. "She's still my client."

"You can't see her," he said. "Haven't you caused enough tragedy to my family?"

"She's still my client," I said. "I'm going to see her, I don't think you can stop me, Hazelton."

Hazelton was pulled back from the door suddenly, and Pete Rinkman, the handyman with muscles, took his place.

"Maybe Mr. Hazelton can't stop you, buddy," he said softly. "But I can!"

The only difference in his appearance, compared to the first time I saw him, was that now a red, instead of black, shirt was tucked into the polished cottons. His boots still had the same high gloss.

"Hi, Pete," I said. "Seen any more hit-and-run accidents lately?"

"Nobody wants you here, buddy," he said. "So why not go now before you get hurt?"

"We went through this routine once before, I remember," I said.

His face darkened a fraction. "This time, I'm watching you!"

I slid the Magnum out of its harness, weighed it in the palm of my hand for a moment, then looked at him again.

"The gun don't scare me!" he said flatly.

"It should," I told him. "I'U use it if I have to, buddy."

"Pete!" a voice called sharply from somewhere in the haU behind him. "Who is it?"

The next moment Martha Hazelton's face appeared over Pete's shoulder.

"Mr. Boyd!" She looked almost pleased to see me. "Do come in."

"Excuse me, buddy," I said politely to Pete, put the gun away, then stepped past him into the hallway.

I saw Galbraith Hazelton just disappearing into the living room—he must have quit trying when his daughter got into the act as well.

"Fm very glad you came, Mr. Boyd," Martha said in a low voice. "Very glad."

She looked just as immaculate as ever, in a white silk shirt with a pointed tab collar, and tailored peon pants. Her dark eyes smiled at me as she shook hands.

"My father told us the good news about your release," she said. "Not that he thought it was good news, but I think you already know how he feels about you?"

"He drops a hint here and there," I admitted, "like a thermal bomb."

"What brings you here, Mr. Boyd?"

"You," I said. "You're my cUent, and I figure after what happened this morning, you need some protection."

"I think you're right," she said tautly. "Thank you for coming."

Pete brushed past us on his way somewhere to the back of the house, his face an expressionless mask.

"Well," Martha Hazelton injected a false note of brightness into her voice. "Shall we go into the living room?"

"Maybe we could play happy families?'* I suggested.

Inside the living room, Hazelton was sitting in an armchair Ughting a cigar. He gave me a blank, hostile look, then concentrated on the cigar again.

"You've met Father already I think?" Martha said in a dry voice. "Do you know Mr. Houston?"

Houston was at a card table playing gin rummy with Sylvia. He looked up and almost smiled—^but his corpse's eyes behind their half-frames showed no emotion at all.

"Glad to see you, Boyd," he said.

"And I think you know Miss West," Martha concluded the unnecessary introductions, "our—er—housekeeper?"

"We've met before," I said. "I've always thought Miss 102

West was a highly efficient girl—no one needs to tell her to pull her stockings up, I'm sure!"

Sylvia shot me a glance of pure hatred, then looked down at her cards quickly.

"You can see we're just one happy family here, Mr. Boyd," Martha said caustically. "Can 1 make you a drink?"

"Gin and tonic," I said, "thanks."

She walked over to the small bar in one comer of the room, and told me to sit down while she made the drinks. I sat in one of the uncomfortable Early Colonial chairs facing the card table, with Hazelton on the other side of me.

Martha brought the drinks over and sat down in the chair next to mine.

"Do you know what progress the police are making with the case?" she asked.

"Lieutenant Greer says they've nearly got it all wrapped up," I said. "But he didn't give me any details."

Houston stopped shuffling a deck of cards and looked across at me. "That's very interesting news, Boyd," he said. "You have no idea who they suspect?"

"Greer didn't confide in me," I said. "So your guess is as good as mine. . . . What is your guess?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, it all seems completely unreal to me even now. Whoever the murderer is, there's no doubt we're dealing with an immensely clever personality—a brilliant brain." His eyes never left Martha's face as he talked on in a slow, deliberate voice. "The way the murders were carried out showed a natural genius for strategy and planning, one almost can't help admiring it."

"Admiring it!" Hazelton said in a choked voice. "Are you mad, Houston? You're talking about a cold-blooded killer who murdered my boy and my youngest girl!"

"Do you have a special guess about the murderer's identity, Mr. Hazelton?" I asked him.

"No," he said angrily. "But I'm damned sure you had something to do with it!"

"Martha hired me," I said. "Does that mean you th ink she's the murderer?"

"No!" he almost screamed. "You're twisting my words^ making out I'm meaning something I don't mean!"

"You're quite sure, Father?" Martha said tightly. "I mean, there's only me left now, isn't there? If I were found guilty and electrocuted, there would be none of us left. So you wouldn't have to worry about Mother's trust fund, would you? No survivors among the children, and the money goes to you, as the sole surviving member of the family, as I remember?'*

Hazelton stared at her dully. "What are you trying to say?" he whispered.

"If the trust fund's just a little short," she said icily, "say—half a million or so? Wouldn't it be convenient if there was no one left to inherit but you?"

He sat forward with his shoulders hunched, his hands clutching the arms of the chair.

"You think I'd do that?" he said in a shaking voice. "I'd kill my children—^for money!"

"You love yourself more than anyone else on earth," she said flatly. "You always have—the fine image of yourself you carry aroxmd in your mind—Galbraith Hazelton, Wall Street big shot—financial tycoon. The man in the homburg hat with the military mustache and fine upright bearing! You'd do anything to stop that picture being splashed across the front pages with 'Swindler' written underneath!'*