Terror comes creeping (5 page)

powerful man, Mr. Boyd. It isn't easy to defy him directly."

"Sure," I said. "How about Houston—you think he's mixed up in the embezzlement?"

"I don't know," she said slowly. "It's possible of course, but it's my father who has complete control of the trust fund."

"Well," I shrugged my shoulders, "there's nothing else we can do right now, but keep Clemmic out of the way."

"I think so," she said crisply. "I'll keep m touch, Mr. Boyd, call your ofl&ce every afternoon if that's satisfactory?"

"That's fine with me."

"Goodbye, Mr. Boyd." She got to her feet gracefully, picked up her purse from the table, and went out the door. Still no chance to check on the white underwear.

I turned the key and pushed open the front door of the apartment, wondering if I was going to find dinner on the table, or Clemmie in a negligee, or maybe both. The bottle of champagne was under my arm and I was prepared to let the rest of the evening take care of itself. Then I walked into the living room and found other plans had been made for me.

Clemmie sat huddled on the couch, biting her thumbnail savagely. She lifted a blotched, tear-stained face as I came into the room, then dissolved into tears. Houston stood in front of the window, his arms folded neatly across his chest, in an attitude of patient waiting. His face was its usual expressionless self as he looked at me.

The third guest would have been standing behind the living room door as I walked in. I realized that too late, when the hard barrel of a gun thrust into my spine.

"Just take it easy, Boyd," a clipped voice said in my ear, "and nobody gets hurt."

His free hand slipped down over my shoulder and lifted the .38 from the holster.

••Betterr the guy said. "Now we can aH take it easy. Over on the couch beside the dame, Boyd."

I walked across to the couch and sat down beside Clemniie.

"The buzzer went," she sobbed, "and I thought you must have forgotten your key, so I opened the door. I'm dreadfully sorry, Danny."

"Don't let it worry you," I told her. "Here's your champagne." I put the bottle into her lap.

Then I got my first look at the guy with the gun. Average height, powerful shoulders, a snappy dresser— around my age, maybe a couple of years older. His jet-black hair was cropped short in a semi-crew, and his face was long and narrow with a wolfish look about it. The eyes were nut-brown in color with a reddish pinpoint somewhere in the pupil—violence on a short leash. He held the gun like he could use it.

"This is Mr. Tolvar; Carl Tolvar, Boyd," Houston said in a dry voice. "He's by way of being a colleague of yours—he's also a private detective."

"It gets more overcrowded every day," I said.

"You realize kidnapping is a Federal offense?" Houston went on calmly. "ICidnapping is also a capital offense."

"Qemmie came with me of her own free will," I said. "You don't need to knock yourself out trying to scare me, Houston. One look at your face is enough."

"Someone called the State Police early this afternoon," he went on as though I hadn't spoken. "Gave them a fantastic story about a corpse being buried in one of the pigpens at the farm—and also gave my name as the informant. You wouldn't know anything about that, Boyd?"

"Whose corpse was it?'* I asked interestedly.

"I don't need to tell you there was no corpse at all," he said curtly. "But I had an embarrassing fifteen minutes with the police before I proved to their satisfaction that I had been right here in Manhattan all day, so I couldn't possibly have made that call other than by long dis-

stance; and they knew it was a call made in Rhode Island."

"Who got to the corpse before the cops?" I asked him.

"Stop playing the clown, Boyd!" he said irritably. "I find it tiresome to say the least. I've discussed the whole thing with Mr. Hazelton and he has, very generously I feel, decided not to charge you. This is your last warning though—if you attempt to see either Martha or Clemmie Hazelton again, you can expect no mercy from their father. You can consider yourself fortunate that Mr. Hazelton is a very forgiving man."

He came around the couch and helped Clemmie to her feet, then escorted her toward the door. She looked back at me once and tried to smUe but didn't make it.

Houston stopped for a moment at the door and looked at Tolvar.

"I'll leave you to explain those other points, Mr. Tolvar," he said. "I don't have the time right now to go into the detail."

"Sure," Tolvar nodded. "I got plenty of time for detail."

"Excellent!" Houston smiled his approval. "You'll arrange for a car and a trustworthy driver in the morning to run Miss Hazelton back to the farm?"

"Sure," Tolvar nodded a second time. "Be around at nine-thirty in the morning."

I heard the front door close a couple of seconds later, and then Tolvar walked leisurely across to the couch.

"You got a nice place here, Boyd," he said. "You must be doing all right, huh?"

"A little here, a little there—^you know how it is," I said. "How about a drink?"

"Not right now," he said. "Never drink when I'm working—kind of obsession with me. And Houston wants me to make a couple of things real clear in your mind before I go."

"Go on," I told him. "You've got me twitching already."

"Yeah." His voice was casual, almost bored. "Well, the first thing is—"

The gun seemed to dance in the air for a split-second, then the barrel whipped down across the left side of my face, the force of the blow knocking me sideways.

"—^that he don't think that corpse gag and you giving the cops his name was funny," Tolvar went on in the same casual voice. "And the second thing—"

The gun barrel raked across the other side of my face, straightening me up again.

"—he figures he wants you to know he's not kidding when he says to lay off the Hazelton family. They got problems of their own without you muscling in!"

It felt like a naked blowtorch flame was burning up both sides of my face. I couldn't see Tolvar too clearly, the image kept blurring in front of my eyes. He seemed to be talking from a long way out so I couldn't hear the words distinctly any more. But I could still feel the pain.

He worked me over methodically—^when he'd finished with my face he started in on niy neck and shoulders. I rolled off the couch onto the floor and somewhere around the time he put the first kick into my ribs, I passed out.

By the time I recovered consciousness, Tolvar had left. I worked my way through the monotonous routine of dragging myself off the floor and into the bathroom.

Maybe an hour later, with the help of some liquid insulation, I checked on the damage. Tolvar had given me a scientific beating which was something, because it hadn't been messy. Apart from a square inch of skin lifted from one cheekbone, the profile looked as good as it ever was. There were ugly red blotches under the skin but like the last rose of summer, they'd fade.

Bruises were begiiming to show up across my shoulders and down the front of my chest; my ribs were sore but I didn't think any were broken. There was a nagging pain where my left kidney used to be, but I figured no permanent damage had been done.

I poured some cognac into a glass, lit a cigarette, and 41

looked for my gun and didn't find it. Tolvar hadn't taken the champagne Clemmie had left on the couch, but it looked like he'd taken my .38. If the private eyes had a trade union, maybe I could've persuaded them to drum him out of the ranks, and rip off his buttons at the same tune. The way it was, I'd have to wait to see him again before I could even the score.

After another cognac, I started to feel better. What the hell, I told myself, taking a beating now and then is part of your business, Danny-boy. What you've got to do now is get out there and show 'em. Find out who moved that corpse out of the pigpen—grab Clemmie Hazelton back and stash her away somewhere safer this time. Take care of Houston and that Tolvar character! So get another gun, boy, and go out there, shooting!

You slob, myself told me, go to bed!

I went.

Fi

ive

WHENEVER YOU HAVE A BRIGHT mEA, DAYLIGHT WILL AL-

ways take care of it. Last thing before I went to sleep, I'd figured to be up bright and early the next day, and out to the Hazelton's place before the car left with Qem-mie in it for the Rhode Island farm. I figured I'd play hero, and snatch her right back.

I looked out the window at the day, and right away I could see myself exchanging shots across Beekman Place with Tolvar—with Clemmie screaming blue murder in the car and her old man shouting "Kidnapper!" at the top of his voice. So daylight took care of my project fast. There was another factor—it was ten o'clock when I woke up, which meant Clemmie Hazelton was thirty minutes on the road back to the farm.

The body bruises had turned black during the night, 42

and my face had swollen a little, but the pain in the kidney had gone. By the time I was dressed and ready to go on my merry way, it was eleven-thirty. It looked like a respectable hour to go visiting Beekman Place. I checked the exact address before I left.

It was just after noon when the door of the Hazelton apartment opened and a guy in a dark suit looked at me like I must be a mistake because he didn't remember ordering anything like me.

"Yes, sir?" he asked dubiously.

"I want to see Mr. Hazelton," I told him.

"Does Mr. Hazelton expect you?"

"I should read his mind!" I said irritably. "Tell him I'm here, Boyd's the name, Danny Boyd."

He shook his head slowly. "Really, sir, I don't think Mr. Hazelton will see anyone without an appointment."

"How do you know if you don't ask him?" I snarled.

He started to close the door, so I grabbed the lapels of his coat, hoisted him four inches into the air, and carried him inside the apartment. I put him down gently and closed the front door behind him, then leaned against it.

"Tell him, why don't you?" I said. "You owe him money you're afraid to talk to him?"

"I . . ." He was trembling all over like he'd just seen his first burlesque show.

"Harris!" Someone called from the living room. "What's going on out there?"

"Sir!" Harris's voice was an octave higher than normal, "Sir, there's a Mr. Boyd to see you."

"Boyd!" He made it sound a dirty word. "What the—"

The owner of the voice appeared in the hallway a few seconds later. A tall, weU-padded character with not much hair left, and a bristling, gray-tinged mustache.

"Get out of here!" he snarled. "Or I'll call the police and have you arrested."

"Why don't you call Missmg Persons first?" I asked him. "Or don't you want to bother them about your son?"

"Philip?" His bushy eyebrows twitched downward. "What about Philip?"

"You are Galbraith Hazelton?" I checked the obvious. "Of course," he said impatiently. "Answer my question!"

"Nobody's seen him since Sunday night," I said. "Last seen feeding the pigs down on your farm."

He stared at me for what seemed a long while, then turned to the manservant.

"All right, Harris," he said brusquely. "That's all for the moment. I'll ring if I want you."

"Yes, sir." Harris glided away noiselessly down the hallway.

"Maybe you'd better come into the living room, Boyd," Hazelton said. "Try and make some sense out of this."

I followed him into the living room. A big room with a white marble fireplace, and the furnishings shabby enough to be genuine antiques.

"I don't have much time," Hazelton barked suddenly. "I don't even want to talk to scum like you at all. So make sense out of your remarks about Philip, then lose yourself, understand?"

I lit a cigarette and flicked the dead match onto the hearth, despoiling the virgin marble.

"O.K. Like I said—nobody's seen Philip since Sunday night at your farm. So where is he?"

"I imagine that's his own affair," Hazelton said coldly. "Just what is it you're after, Boyd? Houston told me yesterday I was being much too lenient with you, and now I'm inclined to agree with him! First it was Martha, then Clemmie—now you seem to be trying to involve yourself in my son's affairs."

"Martha hired me to look after her interests—and those of her sister," I said. "I'm trying to do just that— I also think something's happened to Philip. The way you react I can't figure out whether you just don't care, or

maybe you already know what happened to him because you caused it?"

This time the mustache bristled along with the eyebrows. I waited for him to explode—to see the little coiled springs come pouring out of him when he did rip himself apart.But he made an immense effort, and when he spoke, his voice was almost mild.

"I guess I should try to see things your way for a moment, Boyd," he said evenly. "Martha hired you to protect herself against me, you say? All right, what did she tell you? That she was the victim of a conspiracy? That I have taken money fraudulently from her mother's trust fund? That she and Clemmie are in fear of their lives?"

"It could be true," I said. "You haven't said anything to disprove it yet."

"A trust fund the size of the one my wife left, with its varied and multiple investments, would take two skilled accountants a month to check thoroughly," he said. "If you care to provide two accountants, Boyd, 111 give them access to all the books."

"What about Clemmie and the farm?" I said. "That bodyguard who says no visitors allowed—and the housekeeper-companion who says she's a nurse? You keep them up there to make sure the com grows or something?"

"Sit down," he said abruptly.

So I sat down, and he sat opposite, taking a cigar from the box on the small table beside his chair and lighting it carefully.

"I'm going to be frank with you, Boyd," he said. "I ask you to respect my confidence."

"No guarantees," I told him.

"There is a history of insanity in the family," he said carefully. "My wife killed herself because of it. It goes back four, five generations. Sometimes it misses a generation—I've prayed it would miss my children's generation."

"Are you trying to tell me it hasn't?" I said. "That your children are nuts—all of them?"