Terror comes creeping (2 page)

"Uh-uh!" He shook his head slowly. "You got the wrong place, buddy. Nobody visits here."

"I'm the dawn of a new era," I said. "I'm visiting with Qeromie Hazelton."

"She don't see any visitors, buddy," he said. "Too bad."

"She'll see me," I told him. "Why don't you be a real buddy, buddy, and go find out?"

He sighed noiselessly. "She don't see anybody—^that's orders—so be a good Joe and drive on out, huh? That way we keep it nice and friendly."

"Maybe if she's not seeing anybody, she's still hearing them?" I suggested.

I pushed down on the horn, and it made a raucous sound for a few seconds, until his fingers clamped around my wrist, pulling my hand away.

"You shouldn't have done that, buddy," he said sorrowfully, "now I got to get tough."

His fingers were still tight around my left wrist, and his head was just inside the windowframe of the car. I let him keep hold of the wrist, lunged at his face with my right hand and got a firm grip on his nose between my first and second fingers. I moved my arm up and down quickly, so the top of his head slammed against the top of the windowframe, and then his chin slapped against the bottom. It was strictly a boing-boing, comic-strip

caper, but it didn't do him any good at all. After five or six times I let go of his nose and he faded out of sight.

I got out of the car and there he was. Down on his hands and knees, looking like the guy on the railroad track ten seconds after the Twentieth Century went through. He was dazed but recovering fast, so I lifted my foot and tapped him sharply with the toe of my shoe just above the right ear. I stepped over him carefully on my way toward the front porch because it's a hard world and who likes to step on a buddy.

The front door opened while I was still a couple of yards away, and a girl came out on the porch. She was young, not yet twenty; dark, with a vibrant curiosity showing in her eyes. She didn't look the sister type and I was glad about that—I need a sister the way the guy out cold on the grass needed a buddy.

"I heard the horn," she said breathlessly. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Not a thing," I assured her. "You're Clemmie Hazel-ton?"

"That's right," she nodded eagerly. "Were you looking forme?"

"I'm Danny Boyd," I said. "A friend of Martha's. She said to look you up."

"I'm glad you did," she smiled warmly. "Any male friend of my sister's is a friend of mine!"

"My pleasure," I said politely.

"Didn't Pete come out when you tooted?" she asked.

"Pete?" I asked blandly.

"He's most of the help around here," she said. "I guess he must have been busy some place else." Her smile deepened as she looked me over carefully. "Won't you come in?"

"Thanks," I said. "Martha gave me a message for you."

I followed her into the house, into the large, wide-beamed living room that was furnished a little too selfconsciously in Early Colonial.

"Sit down, won't you?" she said. "Can I fix you a drink or something?"

"Not right now," I told her.

She didn't have her older sister's elegance—or arrogance. But she had the beauty all right, not matured yet but coming along fast as the full curves under the tight dress proved. It began to look like an interesting assignment.

"Is there any more hired help on the farm beside Pete?" I asked.

"There's only Sylvia, but she's out on the farm someplace—I haven't seen her the last couple of hours—I can't think what's happened to Pete."

"O.K.," I said. "I'll give it to you straight, Qemmie. I'm a private detective."

"How thrilling!" Her eyes shone with genuine excitement. "Is it something Martha's done?"

"Not exactly," I said. "Your sister hired me to rescue you."

She looked at me like I was something that fell out when you took the back off the television receiver. "I beg your pardon?" she said carefully. Right then I got that feeling, but I was in there, so I might just as well keep on pitching.

"Martha says if you don't get away from here," I said slowly, "you'll be a statistic in the Missing Persons Bureau the way your brother is right now."

"Philip?" She looked at me blankly. "Is he missing?" "That's the way Martha tells it," I said, but it didn't sound very convincing, not even to me. "You want to get your hat, pack a bag?"

"This is a joke, isn't it, Mr. Boyd?" She smiled doubt-fuUy.

"It's on me if it is," I said. "Aren't you being kept a prisoner here?"

"That's crazy!" she said flatly. "Of course I'm not— whatever gave you that idea?"

"You don't want me to rescue you?" 15

"Of course not!"

The front door opened and I heard the sound of heavy feet thumping across the hallway, then Pete the muscle-man came into the room, moving fast, heading toward me with a determined look on his face.

"I'll take care of you," he said venomously. "You lousy—"

"Pete!" Qemmie said sharply. "What's got into you?"

It threw him off his stride, making us buddies again.

Two Galahads riding in on white horses, with the damsel

in distress telling us to go peddle our lances some place

else. I knew exactly how he felt.

"But, Miss Hazelton!" He nearly choked with emotion. "This guy just busted in here and—"

"Mr. Boyd is a friend of my sister's, and he's just

visiting," she said. "It's very rude of you to come into the

house like this. I'm surprised at you, Pete! Please leave us."

His face turned an ugly mottled color as he glared at her

for a long, speechless moment.

"Pete!" she said crisply.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I heard you." Then he shuffled out of the room, the veins standmg out on the back of his neck in fury.

Clemmie's face was flushed faintly when she looked at me, after Pete had gone.

"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Boyd. He gets excited sometimes for no good reason. He thinks it's his job to protect me—against what I don't know!" She bit her full lower lip for a moment. "You were serious, weren't you, about Martha hiring you to rescue me from here?" "So was she," I agreed.

The color deepened on her face. "Poor Martha! Sometimes she—well—she imagines things. I'm terribly sorry you've been put to all this trouble, Mr. Boyd. I'll mention it to my father—I'm sure he'll cover your expenses for your wasted journey at least."

I got out of the Early Colonial chair, feeling like an Early Colonial hick.

"It was no trouble," I said. "I guess I might as well go right back to New York now. That story about Philip having disappeared, that was Martha's imagination too, huh?"

"I haven't seen him for the last two or three days," she said mildly. "But he and Father only cx)me up here on week-ends. I expect you'll find him in our Beekman Place apartment when you get back, if you're looking for him."

"I'll tell Martha hello for you," I said. "Along with a couple of other things I've got in mind."

"I'm truly sorry, Mr. Boyd," she said. "Don't be hard on her, it's .. . not her fault."

"Sure," I said vaguely, then walked past her into the hallway and out the front door.

Pete had disappeared, so the only thing left to do was get back into the car and drive toward Manhattan. That was how I had it figured, but by the time I reached the car, something happened to change my mind.

The something was blonde, wearing a battered straw hat; a white cotton shirt with the top three buttons undone, and a pair of skintight citrus green pants. She walked with that wiggle which proves women smarter than men—they still know what a tail is for.

I leaned one elbow on the left front fender of the car and watched as she came toward me. She didn't hurry because she knew she didn't have to, nobody was going to get bored watching her walk.

Her eyes were the blue of Central Park lake in summer, and her skin was almost as bronze as the Seagram Building. She had high cheekbones, a tiptilted nose, and lips that looked lonely. Her high, full breasts made two sharp triangular outlines against the thin cotton shirt, proving that guy Isosceles knew what he was talking about.

"Hello," she said in a softly pitched, slightly husky voice. "Arc you looking for somebody—or did you find them already?"

"I found them already," I told her. "I didn't figure I was still looking for somebody untU you came along."

"I guess you must be a traveling salesman?" She fluttered her eyelashes extravagantly. "My Pa done told me about guys like you!"

"If you're the farmer's daughter, I'll go plough a field some place," I said.

Her lips parted in a smile, showing even white teeth. "Pete told me about you," she said huskily. "That's why I had to come see for myself—Pete is supposed to be the tough guy around these parts."

"Are you part of the hired help, too?" I asked.

"I'm Sylvia West," she said. "I'm a kind of housekeeper-companion. During the week I see Clemmie doesn't get too lonely up here by herself."

"What's to stop her going back to Beekman Place if she gets lonely?"

"Nothing at all," she said evenly. "But she won't feel lonely with good-looking guys like you visiting with her. And you can stop turning your head side-on to me all the time—I caught the profile and I think it's really something."

"The right profile is fractionally better than the left," I admitted truthfully. "But they're both pretty good!"

"I love a modest man," she sighed gently. "So now I know you have a terrific profile and nice big muscles. Is there anything else I should know about you while we're on the subject?"

"Danny Boyd's the name," I said. "I was about to head back to New York, but I just changed my mind."

"You have a good reason?"

"You," I said. "What better reason?"

Her lips quirked upward at the comers. "I can't argue with that, can I? How long do you figure on staying?"

"Depends entirely on you," I told her. "A housekeeper I don't need, but a sympathetic companion—that's something else again."

"I don't mind at all how long you stay," she said, "but it depends an awful lot on Pete. I don't think he likes you very much."

"Don't give me remorse!" I pleaded. "And if it depends on Pete, there's nothing to worry about. I can handle him."

"I think maybe you can," she said softly. "Should we go back inside the house and tell Clemmie you've changed your mind about leaving?"

"Plenty of time for that," I said. "Why don't you show me around a little? I've never got a close-up look at a farm before. How about showing me a steak on the hoof?"

"This isn't Texas, partner," she said lightly. "But I can show you some bread on the stalk, or bacon on the trotter."

"This is something new for me," I told her in a wondering voice. "A back to nature kick—life in the raw outside of nudism—and all that jazz. It kind of spoils things like you wearing clothes. The way I had it figured, there'd be a flute playing somewhere in the background while you gamboled naked through the woods."

"We don't have any woods," she said. "And I never gamble—no girl in her right mind would bet on a profile like yours."

"Martha Hazelton did," I said. "You figure she's in her right mmd?"

"Should we see the bam first?" she asked. "Or would you prefer the pigs?"

"I'm easy," I told her. "You feel like a romp in the hay first, it's O.K. with me. A little exercise before lunch never hurt anyone yet."

"If it's fertility rites you're after, it's the wrong time of the year," she said calmly. "Come back in the spring, I won't be here then."

We had a quick look at a cornfield; we saw the lake with a couple of out-of-town ducks swimming on it, and we saw the barn, complete with its hayloft, tractor and mechanical cultivator. We saw the chickens and the cows and I got my shoes plastered with mud all over.

Finally we got around to the pigpens. I stopped to light a cigarette and looked at a mother pig with nine baby

piglets. It was a depressing sight, so I concentrated on Sylvia West instead.

"How long have you been a housekeeper-companion-farmer?" I asked her.

"Two months," she said. "Why?"

"You don't seem the type, you're more the penthouse than pigpen style of girl. I don't believe you belong this close to the rich soil, even if that outfit you're wearing is kind of cute."

"If it comes to that, you don't belong anywhere in New England, Danny Boyd," she said. "What are you doing so far out of Times Square?"

"Martha asked me to say hello to her sister," I said. "You know Martha?"

"Of course," she nodded. "She's been up here a few times with her father. She was here over the week end."

"Has Philip been around lately?"

"He was here at the same time."

"They all went back to town together?"

"Martha and Mr. Hazelton went back together on Monday morning," she said easily. "I'm not sure, but I think Philip left late on Sunday night. He wasn't around the next morning anyway—why do you ask?"

"He's dropped out of sight the last couple of days," I said carefully. "I just wondered."

There was a revolting series of grunts from somewhere much too close for comfort. I looked into the pen next door to momma pig, and saw the solitary pig inside. It looked kind of outsize as it rooted around savagely, thrusting its snout deep into the black mud.

"Why is that one by itself?" I asked Sylvia. "All ready for market maybe—and that pen's the death cell, huh?"

"It's a boar," she said. "An old, bad-tempered boar, that's why he's on his own. You wouldn't want to get inside the pen—those tusks can hurt!"

"I'll take your word for it," I assured her.

"He's called Sweet William," she grinned, "and he's a living lie. But the girl pigs think he's really something!"

"The way he digs dirt with that king-sized nose, he looks like a syndicated columnist," I said distastefully. "He's got that look of morose belligerence on his face which reminds me of Pete.'*

"Don't be so hard on Pete," she said. "He was only doing his job."

"To keep visitors out?" I asked. "What's so special about this place you need a strong-arm to stop anybody taking a close look at it?"

She sighed gently: "Talk about morose belligerence! Mr. Hazelton has a phobia about privacy, that's all. So he hired Pete to make sure he and his family get the privacy he wants. It's that simple."