Terror comes creeping (14 page)

Inside, I stood still for maybe fifteen seconds, until my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I could see properly. I remembered from the time before that there had been plenty of fight after a while. Slowly, the various planes and surfaces came into focus—the tractor, the mechanical harvester, the vertical white ladder that led up into the hayloft.

A couple of minutes later, I was sure there was no one 112

else inside the bam, and that left the lake. I turned toward the door and then froze in my tracks. Someone had laughed. A low, gurgling, sensual sound, so obscene that my ears refused to believe it for a moment.

It had drifted down from somewhere above me the

only place possible—the hayloft. I catfooted over to the ladder and climbed it cautiously, one rung at a time, holding my breath.

I reached the top and lifted my head over the level of the platform, and they were so close I could have reached out a hand and touched them.

Pete was crouched on his hands and knees, his back toward me. The shaft of moonlight that Sylvia had used so effectively spilled a cone of hght onto the straw, and in the center of the cone was Martha Hazelton.

She lay on her back, one arm flung across her face, and she was whimpering softly. The silk shirt had been ripped open down the front, exposing her smallish, high-peaked breasts that looked both virginal and defenseless.

Pete gave an animal grunt deep in his throat, then lunged forward, his fingers digging into the waistband of her peon pants, ripping them downward with a savage force. She moaned desperately then raised herself up on one elbow, her eyes staring wildly—and looked straight at me.

For a long moment she just stared, and her dark eyes seemed to get larger and larger.

"Danny?" she sounded as if she wasn't sure I was real.

"Danny," she said again in an urgent whisper. "Help me! Please, help me!"

"All right, Pete!" I said slowly. "One wrong move and I'll put a hole through your spinal column!"

He didn't even stop to think about it. He lashed out savagely with his right leg in a backward kick, and the heel of the polished boot smashed into my face.

I went backward, losing my balance, losing my hold on the Magnum, off the ladder in a slowly turning arc, then hit the bam floor flat on my back.

There was no air left in my lungs and I figured Fd broken my spine or something. Whatever it was, I couldn't move and I couldn't breathe.

I heard Pete's harsh, ragged voice say, "You double-crossing bitch!" Then the staccato sound like a pistol shot as he hit her, and afterward the thin, wavering scream as she felt the shock and pain.

His boots scraped on the ladder as he came down, making a rasping noise, but for me it was the bell tolling. He thudded onto the floor of the bam, and a second later, his bulk loomed over me.

"What's the matter, buddy?" he said thickly. "Break your back?" A boot hammered into my ribs. "Too bad!" he jeered. "Now I don't get the fun of doing it myself." The boot emphasized the way he felt again.

Maybe it was going to happen anyway, or maybe the boot in the ribs helped ailong, but suddenly I was breathing again. I sucked in air like next week it was rationed, and moved my arms experimentally. The boot came into my ribs again, but this time I made a grab and caught his ankle. I hung on while he cursed wildly, then tugged sharply, pulling him off balance so he sprawled on top of me. We rolled across the floor and broke apart.

I came up on my knees quickly and then more slowly up on my feet. Pete was already up, standing ready, waiting for me.

"This I like, buddy!" he said sofUy. "We had this coming from the first time!"

He came toward me slowly, a shadowy, menacing bulk that looked larger than life-size. When he got withia reach I swung at him with a chopping right toward his head. He ducked under it easily, and the next moment two pulverizing fists hammered into my chest directly over the heart. He danced out of range again, moving lightly on his feet. I remembered the tiny white scars on his eyebrows and that I'd figured him for an ex-pro the first time I ever saw him.

He moved in again, weaving and bobbing, and I knew 114

he'd kill me if I tried to fight him his way, so the only thing I could do was fight him my way. I took a punch in the mouth which spht my lower lip Hke it was paper, and another one over the heart that nearly stopped it in its tracks, but I got in a high-stepping kick which made a crunching noise when it connected just below his right knee.

The wild howl he gave while he hobbled away from me made the torn lip almost worthwhile. I figured I'd slowed him down a httle and went after him. He backed off slowly, circling all the time and I kept after him, trying to crowd him back against the wall. Then his back touched the wall and I got overanxious and careless. A vicious uppercut came out of nowhere, and bright lights exploded inside my head as I went staggering backward onto my knees.

"Danny!"

I got to my feet and stood swaying gently for a moment, while a slim white figure came in and out of focus beside me.

"Danny!" Martha said urgently. "I've got your gun. m shoot him, ru kill him!"

I made a drunken, sweeping movement with my arm, meaning to brush her aside, and knocking her off her feet instead.

"Don't bug me now, honey-chile!" I said thickly. "I'm getting to like it."

My head cleared as I got close to Pete again. He hadn't moved away from the waU, and he was putting all his weight on one leg. I figured with any luck I might have cracked his kneecap with that kick.

He was cursing me in a steady monotone, using the same words over and over again. I stepped up close to him , within range of his fists, then stepped back again swiftly. The haymaker which would have busted my jaw if it cormected, went whistling past six inches short of my face. He'd meant it for the finale and the momentum carried him off balance, so that he lurched toward me.

I jumf>ed forward to meet him, bringing my knee up sharply as I went. It hit him in the pit of the stomach with brutal force and he jackknifed forward across my knee. I brought the side of my hand down in a straight, chopping movement so it hit the side of his head, just behind the ear where the bone and membrane protrude slightly under the tightly-stretched skin. He rolled sideways off my knee onto the floor and lay there.

For a few seconds I couldn't move. Then I took a deep, shuddering breath and Martha hurtled into my arms.

"Danny 1'* she sobbed. "I was so scared! All the time up there in the hayloft, he kept telling me what he was going to do to me. Horrible things!" She shuddered. "And afterwards he said he was going to kill me!"

"It's all right now," I said breathlessly, and patted her shoulder clumsily. "Everything's all right. Your father knows the truth—it was Houston. Sylvia West and Pete were working with him—they were all trymg so hard to prove you were out of your mind, they tried too hard. By the time we get back to the house, Greer will be there and it'll be all over."

"Danny!" She rubbed her face against my chest. "You saved my life. You saved me from Houston, and then from Pete. I'll never forget you, Danny, never!"

"Just so long as you remember when you write the check," I grunted. "We'd better get back to the house. You get going, 111 catch up. I'd better check on Pete first."

"All right," she whispered. "One day I'll thank you properly!" She moved away from me, then turned and walked slowly toward the door.

I got down painfully on my knees beside Pete Rink-man, and pulled him over on his back. I should have known I was wasting my time—that membrane is highly vulnerable.

Pete Rinkman was dead.

Twel

weive

FRAN JORDAN CAME INTO MY OFFICE WITH THE AFTER-

noon papers in her hand.

"You remember the Hazelton case?" she said.

"Sure," I nodded. "That's history now—must be more than three months back."

"Being as I went on vacation right after you got back," she said thoughtfully, "I never did get to hear the details."

"Galbraith Hazelton sent us a check for five thousand the next day," I said. "Six weeks later, the trust fund paid off and Martha Hazelton sent us a check for ten thousand. We were solvent there for a while."

"Hadn't Houston been milking that trust fund?" she queried.

"He'd taken close to a quarter of a million," I agreed. "Sunk it all into a wildcat oil well that didn't have any oil. He kept throwing money into the well and all it did was just stay at the bottom. But there was still plenty left for Martha, something over a million and a half."

Fran nodded. "I remember reading about the trial in the papers. They convicted him of first-degree homicide, didn't they?"

"Check," I said. "Sylvia West managed to convince the jury she hadn't known he'd committed the murders, and it was Pete Rinkman who'd shifted the body in the pigpens, and helped Tolvar by digging it up and dumping it in the trunk of my car."

"What happened about that hit-and-rim rap you were moaning about to me over the phone at one stdge?"

"Greer kept his bargain—anyway, after finding out the setup, he didn't have any choice but to believe my story of how Tolvar got run down. Hearts and flowers all over Providence—we were buddy-buddies there for a time." I

glared at her. "And I did not moan at you over the phone!"

"Maybe it was a bad connection?" she said idly.

"Anyway," I said. "What brought all this on about the Hazelton case?"

She dropped the papers on the desk in front of me. A black banner headline screamed at me, "Houston Dies Tonight!" I read the first few paragraphs which were a restatement of the highlights of the trial. The only new fact was he was going to be electrocuted at midnight.

"I won't lose any sleep over him," I said.

"You never lost sleep over anyone who didn't have long blonde hair and a thirty-eight inch bustline yet!" Fran said scornfully.

"You've got red hair," I looked at her critically. "And under that loose blouse you're wearing it's hard to tell, but I'd guess at not more than 37Vi inches." I stood up and started to move around the desk toward her. "Tell you what—^you slip off your blouse and we'll make sure, but no deep breaths now!"

Her gray-green eyes were suddenly alert. "No, you don't!" she said, and shot out of the ofi5ce at something close to the speed of hght.

I sat down at the desk again and lit a cigarette, then looked at the other papers. The headlines were all the same—Houston was the big news tonight.

The phone rang and I answered it.

"Mr. Boyd?" a crisp, feminine voice asked.

"Sure," I said. "Who's this?"

"Danny?" the voice thawed. "This is Martha Hazel-ton."

"How are you?" I said.

"I wanted to ask you a favor, Danny." Her voice grew hesitant. "A big favor."

I'd already done her a couple of big favors, but she'd paid ten grand for the privilege, and I figured she was entitled to a third for that kind of money.

"Name it," I told her.

"You're a nice person, Danny," she said simply. "Father's in the hospital right now."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" I asked.

"He had a coronary occlusion," she said. "It doesn't look very bright. . . . The thing is, it's the servants' day off and I'm alone in the house. You know what's happening at midnight?"

"Houston," I said.

"I guess it's weak-minded of me or something," she said in a half-apologetic voice. "But I've been thinking about it all day and getting more and more depressed. I don't think I can stand being alone when it happens. Would you come over and keep me company tonight until it's finished?"

"Sure," I said. "My pleasure. What time will suit you?"

"You don't know how much this means to me, Danny!'* she said warmly. "Could you come over around ten?'*

"I'U be there on the dot."

"Thanks again, Danny," she said softly. "I'll look forward to seeing you."

I left the ofi&ce around five-thirty, and Fran watched me cautiously as I walked past her desk.

"Relax," I told her. "The world is crammed full of dames who know the value of the sheer, breathtaking perfection of the Boyd profile. I should grieve over a redhead with a lousy thirty-five-inch bust!"

"Thirty-seven and one quarter," she said evenly. "I just checked."

I stopped dead in my tracks. "Well," I admitted, "maybe I should reconsider. You might yet get lucky and have an intimate association with the classic profile of a Greek god. I am not boasting, you understand?" I added quickly. "Merely making a statement of fact."

"I should grieve over a broken-down private eye with a moth-eaten profile yet!" she said coldly. "Can a profile buy diamonds? Can you trade it for a white chinchilla? It's not even good for eating!"

If I know nothing else, 1 know when to quit and it was 119

right there. I kept on going out into the night, back to my apartment. I had a couple of drinks, opened a can of smoked oysters and ate them for dinner, because somehow I didn't feel hungry. The time seemed to drag for a while, then suddenly it was nine o'clock and time I was on my way.

It was exactly nine-thirty when I parked the car in Beekman Place. Half a minute later, Martha Hazelton opened the front door of the apartment for me.

"Come right on in, Danny!" She smiled brilliantly at me. "You don't know how good it is to see you again." I followed her through into the living room, shedding my topcoat on the way. There was a roaring log fire in the white marble fireplace, and the room was ahnost uncomfortably warm. I noted that Martha was dressed for the warmth of the room.

She had a white nylon kimono knotted loosely over a pair of matching pajamas. The kimono had black piping around the neck which made two deep lapels and was kind of cute. The pajama pants were skintight from the waist down to her ankles and they were even cuter.

A couch had been pulled across in front of the fire, and beside it a formidable array of bottles was stacked on a small table. Martha was watching me intently, her eyes dancing.

"Come and sit on the couch, Danny," she said, "nice and warm in front of the fire. Make us a drink and then we'll be comfortable." Her voice thickened slightly as she spoke.