terror comes creep

7

father’s farm before she disappears, like Philip has. It’s worth two thousand dollars, Mr. Boyd. Take her away from that farm and hide her where she’ll be safe, until after the facts about Mother's estate have been revealed.” “Where would I hide her?”

“That’s up to you,” she said irritably. “Anywhere—so long as it’s safe. I’ll pay all expenses, naturally. I’m offering two thousand dollars simply to have Clemmie rescued from that farm. It wouldn’t take more than a few hours, Mr. Boyd. It’s a generous remuneration, surely?”

“I guess so,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

She sipped her rye on the rocks cautiously, with a faint expression of distaste on her face.

“I’m glad that’s finally settled,” she said. “Is there anything more you need to know?”

“The name of the farm, and where I contact you after I’ve snatched your sister?”

“The farm’s called ‘High Tor’ and it’s twenty miles south of Providence. You’d better not try to contact me —I’ll call your office.”

“O.K.,” I shrugged. “1*11 go to Rhode Island first thing in the morning.”

“Why not today—now?” she asked impatiently.

“It’s afternoon already,” I said. “It’s hot and the wrong kind of weather for the fall, tomorrow may be cooler.” She looked at me for a long, brooding moment. “I wonder if I’m doing the right thing?” she said slowly.

“If you don’t know now,” I said, “call Radcliffe and ask for your money back.”

I stayed in the bar for another half-hour after Martha Hazelton had left, wondering if she was a refugee from Nutsville, the way she sounded. But then all my clients are a little nuts—why else would they come to me in the first place?

It was around five when I got back to my office. In the three months since I quit the Kruger Detective Agency and founded Boyd Enterprises, I’ve picked up a few

8

things along the way, like an office with blondwood furniture and white leather chairs, some clients and some money. The latest addition is a secretary who sits behind a desk in the closet I optimistically call the reception area.

Her name is Fran Jordan, and she’s a redhead with gray-green eyes that have a pensive look in them, mostly. She also has a will of her own and a figure which makes her fully entitled to it

“Hi, Fran,” I said. “Any calls?”

“No calls—one caller,” she said dryly. “He’s waiting inside your office.”

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t say. His name is Houston, he told me.” She lifted her eyebrows fractionally. “But he’s not my idea of Texas.”

“Maybe he’s got a wildcat oil well he wants to sell cheap?” I said hopefully. “I’ll go talk with him. You doing anything tonight, perchance, peradventure?”

“Danny,” she said gently. “We agreed when I took this job that you’d lead your life and I’d lead mine. Tonight I’m leading mine—I have a project.”

“Yeah?” I said sourly. “I bet it leads straight in through the front door of Cartier’s.”

“He’s from the Midwest, looking for an investment program,” she said complacently. “I’m givng him points that haven’t even shown up yet on a Wall Street index.” “So I’ll go talk to the wildcat oilman,” I said gloomily, and walked through into my office.

He sat in one of the white leather armchairs, waiting for me. The mid-century man of average height and weight, constructed from data supplied by an electronic computor; the expensive, dark suit carefully tailored so he would never, never stand out in a crowd.

A guy maybe forty, maybe not, with a polite, intelligent face and a polite, intelligent smile on his lips. Behind the neat, half-framed glasses, were the eyes of a dead slug.

“Mr. Boyd?’* he said in a colorless voice. “You appear to be a success—or haven’t you paid for the furnishings

yet?”

“Been waiting long?*' I asked him.

“Thirty-five minutes.'*

“Maybe I should charge you rent?** I said thoughtfully.

He crossed his legs carefully. “My name is Houston, I’m an attorney.'*

“We all have to make a living,** I sympathized. “I figured you for a process server.**

“I represent Galbraith Hazelton,” he said calmly. “You’ve heard of him, naturally.**

“You don’t mean the Galbraith Hazelton, the female impersonator?” I asked.

“Why don’t we cut the comedy and get right down to business, Boyd?” he asked briskly. “It would be best for both of us—you agree?**

“If your business is my business.’*

“You talked with Martha Hazelton earlier this afternoon in a bar on East 49th. You must have met her by appointment and you talked for some thirty minutes before she left. That’s correct, isn’t it?” His eyes looked smugly at me.

“It’s your story,” I told him.

Houston smiled vaguely. “You drank two gin and tonics while she was with you—I have all the details written down, but there’s no point in quoting any more. I presume she hired you professionally to perform some service for her?”

“You make it sound cute,” I said, “like I was a call-boy or something.”

“I have to warn you,” he said, with a slight edge creeping into his voice, “that Martha Hazelton is not herself.”

“You mean it was old Galbraith the whole time?” I asked with reluctant admiration. “He sure fooled me— the way he filled that skirt—Man! Like it was for real.” 10

The skin around his mouth tightened, slowly turning a dirty gray color.

“You have a poor sense of humor, Boyd," he said. “I mean—and you know it—that Miss Hazelton is sick. A sickness of the mind. She suffers from delusions, imagines things.”

“Like you, maybe?” I suggested. “You look a product of a warped imagination, Mr. Houston. Something out of a nightmare—but an organized nightmare, naturally.*' He took a deep breath. “All right!” he nearly snarled. “Why don’t we stop insulting one another for a moment and get down to facts. Anything Martha said to you would be part of her own fantasies and you’d be well advised not to go any further with them!”

“Her money's real,” I said pointedly.

“Ah, yes—her money!” He relaxed visibly, now I was talking the language he’d majored in.

“Money,” he repeated comfortably. “Mr. Hazelton feels it is only fair you should be compensated for the time you’ve wasted on his daughter. Will fifty dollars cover it?” “In a pig's hindquarters,” I said politely.

Houston looked at me stonily for five seconds, the little contacts inside his computor head clicking softly.

“You put a high value on your time, Boyd,” he said finally. “What do you consider a reasonable amount?” “Two thousand dollars,” I told him.

“Ridiculous!”

“So I’m still working for Martha Hazelton.”

He stroked the tip of his nose gently with one finger, while he thought it over. Then he stood up, rubbing his hands together briskly; he’d come to a final decision.

“I won’t argue,” he said. “A thousand dollars—take it or leave it.”

“Ill leave it.”

“Youll regret it,” he snapped. “You're building yourself all kinds of trouble!”

“Legal trouble?”

‘To say the least.”

“Maybe I should get me a good attorney?” T wondered out loud. “You know where I can find one?”

MOST TIMES I FEEL LTKE A DAY IN THE COUNTRY, I TAKE a walk through Central Park. Now there’s a piece of country that knows its place. If the going gets tough you can always stop off at the Tavern on the Green for a martini—or pick up a cab.

The trouble with New England is it has so much country, it gets kind of overpowering. Not that it didn’t look O.K. with another day of sunshine showing up the scarlet leaves of the red maples, and the golden color of the birch trees. There was just too much of it and all of it real primitive, like a cold water flat or the female Tarzan in one of the Village floor shows who does that Seminole Indian love dance. They say the Seminoles are a vanishing race, and if that’s the way they make love, it figures.

It was just past noon when I found the Hazelton’s farm—a large sign beside the gates read “High Tor,” so there was no mistaking it. The gates were open so I drove in along the tracks toward the farmhouse set a couple of hundred yards back from the road.

By the time I stopped the car out front of the farmhouse, there was a guy waiting for me. A heavily built character, around medium height, with wide sloping shoulders and bare arms that just rippled with muscle. He wore a black shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves rolled high on his hairy arms. The tan polished cottons were belted tight around his small waist, the cuffs tucked into high polished boots.

I lit a cigarette and waited while he walked leisurely over to the car. His thick black hair was combed care-

fully straight back across his head, and there was around the same amount of expression on his face you’d see on a wooden Indian. Sometime, somebody had flattened his nose, and there w'cre tiny white scars above his eyebrows.

He leaned his elbows on the open window edge and looked down at me. Close-up there was no improvement —it was a face and that was all you could say for it.

“You selling something?” he asked in a curiously high-pitched voice.

“Just visiting,” I told him.

“You sure you got the right place, buddy?”

“You make friends real quick,” I said, like I was impressed. “I’ve got the right place.”

“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 Clemmie 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 13 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 ray 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 for me?”

“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 I”

“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 litde 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, Clemmie. 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 doubtfully.

“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?”

“Of course not!”

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

‘Til take care of you,’* he said venomously. “You lousy—”

“Pete!” Clemmie 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 standing 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 come 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. “Are 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 until you came along.” 17

“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 corners. “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 changcd 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 mind?”

“Should we see the barn 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

19

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!”

20

“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.”

“It’s that simple, I don’t believe it,” I said. “Pete is a professional.”

“Do you want to see some more of the farm, or will we go back to the house now?” she asked patiently. “It’s close to lunch time, and I could use a drink. How about you?” “You read my mind,” I said.

Sylvia walked away from me toward the house, and I started to follow, but then I heard Sweet William’s obscene noises building up to an alarming crescendo. I figured maybe he’d just struck gold, and against my better judgment I looked to see what the hell he was getting so excited about.

The boar was rooting vigorously in one comer of the pen—churning mud like a mechanical shovel. Already he’d dug a long groove around six inches deep, and was deepening it still further, grunting enthusiastically as he worked.

I watched with a kind of macabre fascination, until I saw why he was so excited. For a moment I didn’t believe it; then I leaned forward over the edge of the pen to take a closer look—and had to believe it.

Sweet William had uncovered the thumb and index finger of a human hand. While I watched, he looked up at me for a second, with satisfaction showing in his dull, brutish eyes. His jaws moved slowly in a peaceful rhythm,

21

then he gave a satisfied grunt. I looked back at the deep groove he’d made in the black mud and swallowed hard. The top joint of the index finger was missing.

I figured if Philip Hazelton had left the farmhouse late on Sunday night he hadn’t gone very far.

CLEMMIE HAZELTON'S EYES SPARKLED AS SHE LOOKED AT

me when I walked into the living room.

“I’m glad you changed your mind and decided to stay awhile, Mr. Boyd,” she said. “It’s nice to have someone visiting.”

“Can I fix you a drink?” Sylvia West asked. “We have Scotch, rye, vodka—”

“Scotch on the rocks will do fine,” I said.

I lit a cigarette which tasted like the aftermath of Doomsday. Sylvia was busy making the drinks and Clem-mie sat watching me, her hands clasped around her knees.

“Lunch is going to be a little scrappy,” she said anxiously. “You don’t mind taking potluck, do you, Mr. Boyd?”

“Sounds fine,” I said.

“I know we’ve got a freshly cured ham,” she said brightly. “Home-grown, and everything.”

My stomach lurched suddenly. “Don’t worry about me,” I mumbled. “I’m not hungry.”

Sylvia distributed the drinks and I swallowed the Scotch gratefully. I closed my mind to the thought of food—any food, and concentrated on the whisky.

“Clemmie was telling me you’re a private detective, Danny,” Sylvia said. “I guess that accounts for your suspicious mind?”

“It must be terribly exciting!” Clemmie looked at me with wide eyes. “Is it very dangerous?”

“Not as long as you stay out of the pigpens,” I grinned at her glassily.

“Pigpens?” It obviously didn’t register with Clemmie. “He’s had a close look at Sweet William,” Sylvia gurgled with laughter. “Danny is strictly a nature boy from the asphalt jungle.”

I thought about a second drink and decided against it —business before pleasure, as the actress said to the producer when he wanted her to read a script before she relaxed on his couch.

“I figure we’ll miss lunch,” I said to Clemmie. “We can eat somewhere on the road.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said blankly.

“We’re leaving,” I told her. “I just decided your big sister isn’t crazy after all. You’ve got ten minutes to pack your things.”

“You’re joking?”

“Not me,” I said wearily. “I’m no private eye from television with a couple of scriptwriters in my pants pocket I have to make up the dialogue as I go along—so no jokes.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that Clemmie leave with you, Danny?” Sylvia asked curtly.

“I like the way everybody catches on so quick around here,” I said. “Yeah, I’m serious. We’re leaving.”

Clemmie jumped up onto her feet, her eyes dancing with excitement.

“It sounds wonderfully mysterious!” she said. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you can hide out for a while,” I said. “Some place you’ll be safe.”

“Are you out of your mind, Clemmie!” Sylvia said harshly.

“Maybe!” Clemmie looked at her happily. “I just know I’m not going to miss out on the chance. This is the first really exciting thing that ever happened to me!” She looked back at me quickly. “I’ll go pack a bag, Danny, and I won’t be more than ten minutes, promise!”

“Fine,” I told her.

She ran quickly out of the room, and I picked up my glass and thought maybe I'd have that second drink after all.

“You can’t mean this?” Sylvia said. “It’s kidnapping! I’ll call the police, I’ll—”

“Why don’t you do something useful, like make me a drink?” I suggested, and tossed the glass at her.

She caught it awkwardly, then walked over to the bar and began to fix the drink.

“You must be mad!” she said tensely.

“Crazy like a fox,” I said.

She brought the new drink across to me and I took the glass out of her hand. There was a worried look on her face as she stood in front of me, biting her lower lip gently.

“Listen,” she said finally in a low voice. “Fm not really a housekeeper or a companion, I’m a nurse.”

“I bet that made all the difference to the pigs,” I said thoughtfully. “Knowing that, they can sleep nights.”

“Mr. Hazelton hired me to look after Clemmie!” she said in a harsh whisper. “She doesn’t know, of course. But he’s worried about her mental health. He hired me to watch her, look after her. She’s easily excited—you can see that for yourself. If you take her away with you, there’s no telling what could happen!”

“No telling what can happen if she stays here, either,” I said.

“How can I make you understand the importance of this!” she said desperately. “There’s a history of insanity in the family—that’s why Mr. Hazelton’s so worried about her!”

“There’s also a history of administering estates in the family,” I said. “I’m looking forward to meeting this Hazelton creep—he must be a real nice guy. Martha hires me, so he sends his lawyer around to tell me she’s 24

got fungus in the attic. He hires you and says the same thing about his other daughter. I wonder if a head-shrinker’s had a look at him lately?”

It didn't mean a thing to Sylvia West—she wasn't even listening.

“I can’t let you do this, Danny!” she said in a tight voice. “I’ll stop you leaving with her.”

“So you want a fight?” I said resignedly. “O.K.—I’ll let you throw the first punch.”

She stared at me for a moment longer, then turned suddenly and ran out of the room. I heard her footsteps race down the hallway and the front door slam shut behind her. Then I heard her calling frantically, “Pete! Pete!”

I finished the new drink slowly and thought the hell with Sylvia West and the hell with Pete—she could go find him, he was no special problem.

Clemmie Hazelton came back into the room a few minutes later, carrying an expensive-looking grip in natural hide.

“I’m all packed, Danny,” she said. “Where’s Sylvia?” “She just remembered she had to see a guy about another guy,” I told her. “I think we’ll go.”

We walked out of the house and there were the two of them waiting for us. Pete stood a few feet in front of the car, his arms folding their muscles across his chest, looking like something out of an old De Mille epic, with the sun hitting him full in the face. Sylvia stood to one side, watching anxiously, her whole body tensed.

“Is there something wrong?” Clemmie whispered nervously.

“Nothing I can’t take care of,” I told her. “They don’t think you should go with me, that’s all. Let me handle it. Don’t worry about what happens, just go sit in the car and wait for me, huh?”

“Sure, Danny,” she nodded quickly. “Whatever you say.”

We kept on walking until we got close to the muscleman.

“You’re not leaving, buddy,” he said coldly. “Not with MLss Hazelton, anyway!”

“Pete!” Clemmie said in a shrill voice. “You don’t know what you’re doing—I’m leaving of my own free will with Mr. Boyd and—”

“Sorry,” he said flatly. “Miss West don’t think it’s right, and neither do I. You go on back to the house, Miss, and I’ll take care of this guy.”

“Move over, Pete,” I told him. “Before you finish up a heap of pigfood.”

“Not this time, buddy,” he said with an ugly grin on his face. “This time I’m ready for you.”

He started to walk toward me slowly, his arms held out in front of him—anybody who didn’t believe in evolution needed just one look at Pete right then to be convinced. I remembered those tiny white scars across his eyebrows as I watched his hands change into fists and saw him come up on his toes as he swayed toward me like a ballet dancer. He was an ex-pro all right, and my guess was he knew all the dirty tricks along with the rules laid down by the Marquess of Queensberry.

So I had a choice. I could raise my own fists and try to prove I was a better fist-fighter than he was—and I wasn’t for sure. I could let him slam at me a couple of times and wait, hoping to get close enough to him to give him a judo chop or a stiff-fingered jab where he’d remember it for the next few days. Or I could be a lousy sport and not get hurt at all.

I reached inside my coat and pulled the .38 out of the shoulder holster, eased off the safety, and pointed the gun at his stomach.

“Relax, buddy,” I said. “Or I’ll blow a hole through your guts.”

He didn’t relax, he stood very still for a moment, looking at the gun. Then he lifted his head slighdy and looked 26

at me, and it wasn't hard to keep up with his mental calculations.

“You’re kidding!” he said finally. “You wouldn’t dare use that rod, buddy!”

“If I wouldn’t use it, I wouldn’t cany it,” I said easily. “But you go right ahead, buddy, if you want to find out the hard way.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he repeated, but he didn’t sound quite so sure the second time.

“Get in the car, Clemmie,” I said, without looking at her.

I took a couple of steps toward Pete and he stayed right where he was.

“You shoot me, it’d be murder!” he said thickly. “In front of two witnesses, buddy! You wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“I don’t need to kill you, Pete,” I said conversationally. “Smash a kneecap maybe, shatter a wrist.”

He was a one idea at a time man, and this was a new idea so he had to think about it. While he was thinking about it, I took another step and that brought me up real close to him.

“How about this for another idea, Pete?” I said. Then I slammed the gunbarrel hard into his stomach, into the softness just below the rib cage, and the air came out of his lungs faster than a dame who’s just realized it didn’t say ladies on the door after all.

He started to bend in the middle and I lifted the gun high, out of his way, then laid the barrel across the side of his head just above the ear. It made a kind of thunk-ing noise when it hit, and I would’ve felt sorry for Pete right then, except I never could feel sorry for a guy like Pete. I stepped back as he hit the ground with his face, and stayed there limp.

I saw Clemmie’s white face staring at me from inside the car and grinned encouragingly at her. Then I walked across to where Sylvia stood with a white face.

“He’ll be O.K.,” I told her. “A sore head for a couple of days, that’s all.”

“That was the most brutal thing I’ve ever seen!” she said in a low voice. “You’re nothing but an animal!” “I’m taking Clemmie' somewhere where she’ll be safe until after Tier mothers estate is cleaned up,” I said. “You can tell Old Man Hazelton that, and tell him she’ll be where he can’t find her.”

“You won’t get far!” she said icily. “I’ll call the police right away—now.”

“Sure,” I said. “And while you’re talking to them you might mention that new feed you’re giving Sweet William —now there’s something that is real nervous!”

“What are you talking about?” she said blankly.

“You mean you don’t know?” I shook my head dubiously. “Well—if you really don’t know—there’s one easy way to find out. Why don’t you go take a look?”

I turned around and walked back to the car. As I slid in behind the steering wheel, Clemmie looked at me with her eyes glittering.

“That was the most exciting moment of my life!” she said in a shaking voice. “Did you kill him, Danny? Did you? Is he dead!”

“Just knocked out,” I said. “Take it easy, will you?” I started the car rolling down the tracks toward the gates, and fumbled for a cigarette.

“I was worried,” she said breathlessly. “Pete’s awful strong and everything. But when I saw you had a gun I knew it was going to be all right.”

“I’m real glad you had faith,” I told her thankfully. “It made all the difference.”

I swung the car out onto the road with its nose pointing toward Manhattan and trod down hard on the gas pedal.

“Would you have shot him if you had to, Danny?” she asked in a muffled voice.

“I guess so,” I said absently.

“I knew you would!” Clemmie sounded almost ecstatic. “I knew you would—I kept saying it over and over to myself all the time—‘Danny will shoot him, Danny will kill him!’ I wish you had!”

“You what?”

“I wish you had killed him, Danny.” There was an urgent, demanding note in her voice. “I’ve never seen a man killed before.”

“You figure it’s something every growing girl should see?”

“It would have been like growing up all at once,” she said wistfully. “Like the moment of truth at the bull-, fights, but this would have been so much better, Danny,

' don’t you see? This would have been a man who was killed, not just an animal!”

She started to cry suddenly, starting out in a soft whimper and finishing with loud, dry sobs. Her fist pounded my shoulder in an unsteady rhythm as I drove.

“You should have killed him, Danny,” she wailed. “I | wanted so much for you to kill him!”

Thirty minutes later I stopped at a roadside diner and we went in for lunch. Since the hysterics, Clemmie had been quiet, almost sullen, but she brightened up at the thought of food. I ordered steak sandwiches and coffee, and tried hard to ignore the smell of crisping bacon that sneaked up on my nose.

“This is terribly exciting, Danny,” Clemmie whispered loudly in my ear. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Hell!” I said. “People eat in diners all the time.”

“I mean I’ve never been kidnapped before, you idiot!”

Her whisper had got louder still and it seemed to bounce off the walls. A truck jockey, the other side of her, turned his head slowly and scowled at me. He must have been over two hundred pounds and it looked all muscle. I figured if he ever got a breakdown, he just lifted his truck in j one hand and carried it home.

“You don’t have to whisper,” I told Clemmie. “We’re going back to New York, for now anyway, to my apartment.”

“Your apartment!” she squealed excitedly. “Are you

29

going to keep me there all the time, Danny, with the door locked and everything? Maybe take all my clothes away even, so I can’t escape?**

The truck jockey’s eyes bulged suddenly and then his head moved quickly until his face was just six inches away from mine.

“Listen, Mac!” he said explosively. “I got a good mind to bust—”

“Relax,” I told him hastily. “She’s my sister—and she’s just kidding.”

He thought it over for a couple of seconds, then looked at Clemmie. “That right, lady?’*

“Why, no!” She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “That isn’t right at all—he’s just a friend of my brother’s. You see, my brother owes him a couple of hundred dollars and he couldn’t pay it back. So Danny here,” she smiled sweetly at me, “suggested that if I went to New York with him for a week and stayed at his apartment, he’d forget about the money my brother owes him.”

The truck jockey was breathing heavily through his nose by the time she’d finished. He put his right hand on my shoulder and five steel talons dug cruelly into my flesh.

“So that’s how it is, Mac?” he said softly. “You trade a sweet little kid like this for a lousy coupla hundred bucks! So I’m giving you a new face to go along with the deal!”

The talons let go my shoulder suddenly and rearranged themselves into a bunched fist the size of Sweet William’s snout.

“Get your gun, Danny!” Clemmie hissed in a choked voice. “Quick! Get your gun and kill him, Danny—he’ll kill you if you don’t!”

The fist remained poised in the air for a second, then it quivered a little.

Clemmie stood there, her eyes closed tight, her whole body shaking with excitement.

“Kill him, Danny,” she repeated stiffly through

30

clenched teeth. “Shoot him in the stomach—he asked for it!”

The truck jockey dropped his arm back to his side | and took another look at her. A trickle of sweat ran [ down one side of his face and he wiped it away with I the back of his hand absently. Then he looked at me i again.

“Whatsa matter with this dame?” he asked hoarsely. “She lost her marbles or something?”

I loosened my coat so he could see the butt of the .38 protruding from the leather holster, then widened my | eyes so the whites showed.

“There’s nothing with the dame, Mac,” I said in a I grating voice. “Just figure you made yourself a lucky ! break and you’ve still got your marbles!”

The trickle of sweat down the side of his face rapidly changed into a steady stream. He backed off a pace ¹ quickly, with his coordination not functioning a hundred ; per cent, so he bumped another guy on the way.

“I guess a guy can make a mistake,” he said in a jerky | voice. “Sorry.” Then he walked rapidly toward the door.

Gemmie giggled suddenly. “I didn’t really think you’d shoot him, Danny, I was just hoping!”

“I should drape you over that counter and tan the hide off you,” I said sourly.

An interested gleam came into her eyes. “You horrible j man!” she said warmly. “I bet you know I just might I enjoy it.”

What was the use—I quit. The steak sandwiches arrived and she attacked hers with a startling primitive ferocity.

“I have to make a phone call,” I told her. “Just try and behave until I get back—don’t go assaulting any of I these truck jockeys, huh? They’re all married men and they love their wives!”

“Your sandwich will get cold,” she said indistinctly through a mouthful of steak. “No, don’t worry, it won’t. rU eat it.”

“Wear it in good health,” I grunted.

I got inside the phone booth and pulled the door shut behind me, then checked the directory. I called the State Police headquarters and said I wanted to report a murder. I gave them the name and location of the farm; the exact location of the pigpen and a description of Sweet William; I told them the farm was owned by Galbraith Hazelton and I suspected the body was that of his son, Philip Hazelton.

The guy on the other end of the line was most interested in the whole deal. 1 answered one question before I hung up on him.

“And what is your name, sir?” he asked politely.

“Houston,” I told him. “I am Mr. Galbraith Hazelton’s attorney.”

It’s a hard world here below and most of the time you’re too busy kicking the next guy’s teeth in before he does the same to you, but once in a while comes along the chance to do something nice for the next guy. I stepped out of the booth, feeling I’d done my good deed for the day, and if it got Houston into any real trouble, I’d be happy to recommend a good attorney.

By the time I got back to the counter, Clemmie was finishing the last mouthful of my steak sandwich. I got that smell of frying bacon again and right away lost my appetite and settled for a cup of coffee.

WE CAME INTO NEW YORK AROUND FIVE-THIRTY THAT evening. I parked the car on the block where I live on Central Park West, then carried Clemmie’s grip for her into the building.

When we got inside the apartment, she walked over to the window and looked down into my back yard, or Central Park, as other people call it.

“You have a beautiful view, Danny,” she said. “I’m going to like it here.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll fix us a drink.”

The phone rang when I was halfway to the kitchen. I answered it, and a cool, remote voice said, “So my wandering boy finally came home. I’m still sitting in the office like a good secretary should—is there anything I should do before I start out on my Midwestern investments project?”

“Not a thing, Fran,” I said. “Any calls—or callers?” “I was getting around to that,” she said. “Don’t jump me—not in the office, anyway. Callers—there was that Houston man this morning. He seemed almost annoyed that you were out and I didn’t know when you’d be back. . . . Then early this afternoon, just after lunch, there was a Mr. Carl Tolvar to see you. He’ll be back probably tomorrow, he said.”

“Tolver?” I repeated. “I never heard of him.”

“He said the two of you were in the same racket,” Fran added in a bored voice. “From the way he looks it must be white slavery. If you’re thinking of selling me off to an Eastern potentate, Danny Boyd, I warn you now, you’ll only get a ten per cent commission on the deal, and that’s my last offer.”

“How about phone calls?” I said.

“I was getting around to that, too,” she said patiently. “This is where it gets real exciting, so hold onto your insides. A bitchy-sounding dame called about three times during the last hour. She wouldn’t give her name, but the last time she called, she said she’d see you in the same bar where you met yesterday, and she’d wait there until six-thirty. That make any sense?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m glad for you, Danny,” she said gently. “I hope it gets to be an exciting evening—but from the sound of her 33

voice I think you should take a horsewhip along with you. I’ve met her type before.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, Fran,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

“Depending on how my investments pan out tonight, slaver,” she said. “Give the anonymous dame a nice, savage nip from me.”

I hung up and went out into the kitchen and made a couple of drinks, then took them back with me to the living room again. Clemmie sipped her drink appreciatively, and stopped looking at the view and looked at me instead.

“I feel so wonderfully immoral, Danny,” she said happily. “Are you going to make violent love to me now or wait till it gets dark?”

“I have to go out for a while,” I said quickly, “but I should be back in an hour.”

“Would you like me to get dinner ready while you’re gone?” she asked earnestly. “Or just slip into a negligee and wait?”

“Dinner sounds like a wonderful idea,” I said. “There should be some food in the icebox. Why don’t you do that?”

“You think you might bring back some champagne with you, Danny?” she asked wistfully.

“I’ll make a note of it,” I promised her. “Just one thing—don’t answer the phone if it should ring. If I want to call you, I’ll let the phone ring three times, then hang up and dial again right away.”

“I haven’t had so much excitement since that time at school when one of the gardeners chased me around a hedge.”

“Did he catch you?”

“No,” she sighed gently. “It wasn’t my fault—I’d slowed down a lot, but the French teacher’s wife came around the wrong comer at the right time and he caught her instead. Neither of them were ever quite the same afterwards.” “They fired the gardener?”

She shook her head. “He quit to go and work full time at the French teacher’s house."

I came into the bar at quarter after six, and it took me a while to spot Martha Hazelton in the crowd. Then finally I saw her at a table tucked away in one corner and went over.

She wore a cocktail dress, black and white silk, with a 1 widely-scooped oval neckline. There was a blue fox stole with golden glints in it, draped carelessly across her I shoulders. I sat down beside her, relaxing in the uphol-| stered comfort of the bar, and signaled a waiter.

“I was just about to give up hope that you’d get here,” j she said. “I called your secretary—if that’s who she is I —three times, but she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me i anything.”

“She didn’t know where I was or when I’d be back,” I i said. “You wanted this to be a very confidential as-i signment, didn’t you?”

“Of course!” she said coldly.

The waiter hovered impatiently and I ordered a gin and tonic—there was another untouched rye on the rocks in front of Martha Hazelton.

“Well?” she said impatiently after the waiter had gone.

“Clemmie’s in my apartment right now,” I said.

She took a deep breath. “I’m so glad. But will she be | safe there?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “I wanted to see you i first before I took her any place else. You have any ideas about a hideaway?”

“I don’t care where you take her, so long as she’s safe!” she said. “I thought I made that clear the first time?”

“Finding a hideaway isn’t that easy,” I said. “I figure she’d be better in New York where I can keep an eye on her. Maybe my secretary’s apartment.”

“That’s up to you,” she said. “I said I’d pay all the expenses, they’re a minor detail. What happened at the farm?”

I gave her a censored version of what had happened. I didn’t tell her about Sweet William and the corpse under the mud of the pigpen. Somebody else could tell her about that

“Pete is simply a hired thug employed by my father,” she said when I’d finished talking and had a chance to drink some of the gin and tonic. “I knew there was something more to that West woman than the house-keeper-companion story Father put over! Anyway, Clem-mie’s out of their clutches now and I’m relying upon you to see she stays that way, Mr. Boyd!”

She opened her purse and took out a folded check. “This is for two thousand dollars,” she said as she handed it to me. “As we agreed. Let me know when you need more money, Tm willing to pay all expenses, and for your time as well, Mr. Boyd.”

“Fine,” I said and looked at her appreciatively. “I like that dress, it’s real cool. The last time I saw you in that kidskin jacket, I couldn’t tell whether you were flat or what.”

She pursed her lips together tightly. “Please write your obscenities on walls, Mr. Boyd,” she said tightly. “That’s where they belong and I’m sure you’re an expert at it by now. If you have nothing further to report, I’ll leave. I shall be late for dinner as it is.”

I lit a cigarette and looked at her for a moment, wondering how she and Clemmie could ever have come out of the same mold.

“Were you followed here?” I asked her.

“I don’t know for sure,” she said. “I think not—why?” “You were right about feeling you were followed yesterday,” I said. “Your father’s attorney—Houston— called on me in the afternoon. He had a detailed list, right down to the number of drinks I had while we were talking in here.”

“What did he want?” she asked tautly.

“He wanted me to lay off,” I said. “He came up as high

36

as a thousand dollars for me to forget whatever it was you wanted me to do.”

“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “I didn’t know things had gotten quite as bad as this. Thank you for remaining loyal to me, Mr. Boyd.”

“It was your money I was loyal to,” I said. “It added up to exacdy twice the amount Houston was offering. Has Philip turned up yet?”

“I still haven’t seen or heard from him,” she said. “Thank God you got to Clemmie in time!”

I finished my drink and ordered another; Martha Haz-elton’s glass was still untouched.

“You figure something’s happened to Philip,” I said. “You hired me to get Clemmie away to a safe place. What about you—aren’t you worried about your own safety?”

“Yes,” she said after a long pause. “I suppose I am, Mr. Boyd. But I’ve always thought that I was safe in New York—that farm out in Rhode Island is the danger-spot, it’s lonely, so isolated. But now Father knows I’ve got you working for me, and Clemmie is out of his reach, he wouldn’t dare try to murder me, surely?”

‘That’s logic,” I said. “Trouble is, when you’re talking about a murderer, or a potential murderer, you got to remember they don’t always have the same kind of logic you’ve got. Have you got an attorney representing you about this trust your mother left?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Houston represents the whole family. There’s no dispute—you see, Mr. Boyd? There can’t be any dispute until it’s proved that Father has embezzled the money.”

“And you can’t prove he has—you only suspect he has?”

She nodded briefly. “That’s the precise situation. At the moment I have nothing to gain by legal representation —and it would make Father furious.” She shuddered momentarily. “My father is a strong-willed and physically

37

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 Clemmie out of the way.”

“I think so,” she said crisply. “I’ll keep in touch, Mr. Boyd, call your office 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.

•'Better?" the guy said. “Now we can all take it easy. Over on the couch beside the dame, Boyd.*'

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

“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. “Kidnapping is also a capital offense.” “Clemmie 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-39

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 smile 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 my 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 beginning 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 time. 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.

WHENEVER YOU HAVE A BRIGHT IDEA, 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 Clemmie 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,

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, well-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 Missing Persons first?” I asked him. “Or don’t you want to bother them about your son?”

43

“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 vour 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

44

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, I’ll give them access to all the books.”

“What about Clemmie and the farm?” I said. “That bodyguard who says no visitors allowed—and the house-keeper-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?”

Hazelton studied the glowing end of his cigar for a few seconds. “Philip is a perfectly normal boy—and always has been,” he said quietly. “The two girls seemed to be the same through their childhood, adolescence—it’s only recently that they’ve become . . . eccentric.”

“Are they having medical treatment—you’ve got a psychiatrist who can confirm this?” I asked him.

“No,” he shook his head. “Not yet. Don’t you see, if I take them to a psychiatrist, the family history has to be made known. It would be halfway toward condemning an innocent person—halfway toward having them committed! I won’t do that until I’m sure there is no other way.” “So Martha imagines you’ve embezzled money from the trust fund, huh?” I said. “She imagines you keep Clemmie a prisoner on the farm—she imagines she hasn’t seen Philip during the last several days? She didn’t imagine she was being followed when she met me in that bar.” “Harris overheard her calling you the first time,” he said heavily. “He thought I should know. I called Houston and asked him to find out what Martha was up to. Don’t you see, Boyd? She’s developing a persecution complex. She’s imagining people are conspiring against her—even me, her own father!”

“Yeah,” I said bleakly. “How about Clemmie—what kind of complex has she got?”

“It started with Clemmie about three months ago,” he said. “She seemed to alternate between moods of black depression and almost violent ecstasy. One day she’d stay in her room the whole time and refuse to speak to anyone in the house. The next day she’d be laughing and talking the whole time, and you couldn’t get her to stop. That was why I sent her up to the farm. It’s peaceful there, quiet, restful. I put Pete in to keep curious people away, and the nurse—who’s both discreet and highly trained—to watch her. What more could I do?”

“That brings us back to Philip again,” I said. “What's happened to him?”

“I don’t know where he is at the moment,” he said tersely. “As far as I know, he was still at the farm when I left with Martha on Monday morning. He could be anywhere—on his yacht, staying with friends—anything at all. He’s of age and he pleases himself where he goes and what he does. I don’t interfere—in a few months* time I expect him to come into my office and start work —learn the investment business thoroughly, and I know he will—I have his promise. Until then, his life is his own affair.*’

“Whose idea was Tolvar?”

“Tolvar?” he repeated blankly.

“The private eye Houston brought along with him last night when he picked up Clemmie from my apartment.” “That would be Houston’s affair,” he said stiffly. “I’ve been entirely frank with you, Boyd. Now you can see why you must stop interfering—for the sake of both my girls.”

“Where is Martha now?” I asked him.

“I sent her up to the farm with Clemmie this morning. Do I have your word you’ll forget all about them now?” He flicked an inch of ash from his cigar, and I could see the wheels were still churning, so I didn't answer.

“You’ve been put to some trouble, Boyd,” he added, at length. “It’s only fair you should be compensated. I’ll see a check is mailed to you today.”

I got to my feet. “No dice,” I told him. “I think you’re a liar, Hazelton, a lousy liar at that! I’m sticking my nose into this deal until I find out the truth.”

“Boyd!” He spread his hands wide in a pleading gesture. “You don’t know what you’re doing—believe me! Clemmie was bad enough last night after the day’s excitement—but if you keep on causing trouble it could be enough to send both girls over the edge. I’m asking you to forget it—for their sake, not mine!”

“It’s still no dice,” I said. “And I just might take you

up on that offer of checking over the trust fund accounts.” “What is it you want?” he said flatly. “More money? How much is enough?”

“Most times it would be the answer,” I admitted, “and I’d have a nice round figure all ready to quote. But not this time—you don’t have enough money to buy me off, Hazelton, not even in that trust fund.”

I’d nearly reached the door that led into the hall before he spoke again.

“You won’t listen to reason,” he said in a low voice. “You won’t be bought off. . . . I’ll protect my family, Boyd, under any circumstances. This means I shall have to take other steps to deal with you.”

“I figure the steps you’ve taken already will lead straight into the deathhouse in Sing Sing,” I told him. “I’ll dance at your funeral, Hazelton, and so will your daughters!”

The manservant wasn’t anywhere in sight, so I had to open the front door for myself—life can be tough here and there. I got back into the car and drove across town to my office.

Fran Jordan smiled sweetly when I walked into the office.

“Where was my wandering boy this morning?” she said. “And no prize if you guess it was the same place as last night and who was she, not that it’s any of my business.”

“If I told you you were wrong, you wouldn’t believe me,” I grinned at her. “How’s the Midwestern investment project coming along?”

“Slowly,” she said in a serene voice, “but surely. He has a little trouble seeing the obvious. You know, like stocks are only pieces of paper, but a mink is a mink?” “It must be lunchtime,” I said. “Why don’t you have lunch with me and this time I might even pay for it. You know I’ve usually got nothing left after I pay your salary!”

“That’s a charming invitation,” she said. “But I ac-48

cept. By the way—that man, Tolvar, left a package for you this morning. I put it on your desk.”

“I'll take a look, then be right with you.” I said.

The package was gift-wrapped. I opened it up and there was my .38. I put the gun in the top drawer of my desk and then went back to Fran who was still making final adjustments to her face.

We settled on the Chambord for lunch, and when we were comfortably established with a martini. Fran looked at me sideways with those luminous eyes of hers.

“Who is Sylvia, what is she?” she said.

“She’s a girl who looks after pigs,” I told her solemnly. “So now you don’t need to ask why all the swine adore her.”

“My God!” Fran said in a pained voice, and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

‘How did you come to dig Sylvia, anyway?”

“She dug me,” Fran opened her eyes again. “Trying to dig you on a long distance call from Providence.”

“She say what it was all about?”

“More or less. She wants to see you urgently on a matter of vital importance—she’s the original cliche-kid— but she can’t make it to New York. If you can make it to Providence, she’ll be in the Sheraton-Biltmore from eight till eleven tonight.”

“Anything more?”

Fran shrugged her beautiful shoulders delicately. “That’s all. Isn’t it enough? You want the girl to promise to wear her best girdle—over long distance?”

It was two-thirty when we got back to the office. Fran found the number of Tolvar’s office and I told her to call and find out if he was there. She did and he wasn’t. I had her call again, and ask for his secretary this time— say it was Houston’s office calling and was Tolvar expected back from Rhode Island today?

Fran handled it with casual efficiency, then after she’d hung up, looked at me with a spark of curiosity showing in her gray-green eyes.

“He’s not expected back untiJ after the week-end,” she said. “What’s Providence got that it’s so popular so suddenly?”

“It’ll have Danny Boyd by tonight,” I said. “Maybe the word’s got around already that I'm coming?”

“Big deal!” she sighed. “All right—if it’s a secret, I guess I can’t gouge it out of you.”

“We could have a lot of fun while you tried?” I said hopefully.

“Mink before fun,” she said. “Are you going to stay somewhere in Providence, or has Sylvia taken care of that detail already?”

“You could book me a room at the Biltmore,” I said. “I might be gone a few days. While I get some things from the apartment, you’d better cash a check before the bank closes.”

“How much, master?”

“Better make it five hundred,” I said. “I’m crazy for seafood and I’m going to the right place to get it.”

I went over to my apartment and packed a grip. I’d taken the .38 home with me, but decided finally not to take it along. Tolvar was in Providence, and I had respect for him, so I took the .357 Magnum and its harness along with me instead.

When I got back to the office again, Fran had the cash waiting for me.

“You have a room at the Biltmore,” she said, “double, naturally. Is there anything special you want me to do while you’re away?”

“Call me if anything exciting happens,” I said. “Anybody wants to know where I am, you don’t know. That’s about all, I guess.”

“O.K.” she said. “You’d better be on your way if you’re not going to keep Sylvia waiting too long.”

“Sure,” I said. “See you.”

“See you,” she echoed. “And—Danny—take care of that profile, will you? Somebody got a little careless with it last night.”

Six

I CHECKED INTO THE BILTMORE * JUST AFTER EIGHT-thirty that night. After I’d registered, I followed the bellhop toting my bag up to my room. It took maybe twenty minutes for a fast shower and a change into a fresh suit. If I kept Sylvia West waiting a while longer, I didn’t mind. Maybe it was the Boyd profile that had prompted her call, and maybe it was a guy named Tolvar. I didn’t figure on taking any chances until I found out for sure, so I strapped on the harness under my coat, and checked the Magnum before I slid it into the holster.

A lot of guys figure it’s not worth lugging a Magnum around with you, because if you don’t lean to one side, you start to give at the knees. My theory is it’s worth the weight because a Magnum will stop an elephant and who knows what the hell you might meet out in the wilds of Rhode Island.

It was just after nine when I got down to the hotel lobby again. I lit a cigarette, then started wandering, looking for Sylvia West. She must have been wandering around looking for me—I turned a comer and there she was. I felt my eyes bulge as I looked at her.

She wore a gold lame sheath, a couple of shades lighter than her suntan. Two minute straps across her magnificent shoulders stopped it from falling to the floor. It had a square neckline cut low enough to reveal the beginning of the division between her full breasts, and the slender, matching belt was drawn tight around her waist, emphasizing its smallness. On her feet were golden-colored kidskin pumps.

Her blue eyes brightened as she saw me, and for a moment there, her lips didn’t look lonely any more.

“Danny!” she said thankfully.

“Wow!” I said limply.

She smiled. “Do 1 take that as a compliment?”

“And a tribute,” I told her. “So it was you all the

time?”

“What do you mean?”

“The dame who’s been haunting my dreams. I’ve been losing weight, fading away into a gaunt shadow. But from here on out, things will be different.”

“How different?”

“I’ll stay awake and have my dreams at the same time,” I said. “That way I don’t waste any time sleeping, I’ll be able to eat twice as much and put all the weight back that I lost—and talking of eating let’s go some place and do that, otherwise I’ll be making love to you right here in the lobby, and the management won’t care for it.”

“Just wait till I get my breath back!” she laughed. “Where do you want to eat?”

“Somewhere the seafood is caught right in front of your table,” I said. “I want fish, lobster, clams . .

“What you want is a Rhode Island Shore Dinner,” Sylvia corrected me. “We’ll go to Cristy’s at Newport if you don’t mind the drive—it isn’t that far away.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “We can clear up a couple of points on the way, like are you wearing anything under that sheath and if you are I don’t believe it and if you prove it I should be disappointed but I won’t be because of the compensations involved. It so happens I booked a double room right here in the hotel—why don’t we just go on up to my room and have them send Cristy’s over here with enough seafood to last a week and then—” “Danny!” Her face was flushed a delicate shade of red over the bronze. “People can hear you!”

“The hell with them,” I said. “They don’t get any of our seafood!”

We got out to my car and I drove to Newport, which wasn’t far, like she’d said. Cristy’s was well worth the drive and the seafood was strictly out of this world. By

52

the time we got to coffee and a cigarette, I was at peace with the world—well, maybe you could strike the name Tolvar off the list, otherwise it was true.

“Danny,” Sylvia leaned across the table toward me earnestly and I made a quick check with a downward glance.

“No bra, anyway,” I said thoughtfully. “I can’t wait till you prove the rest of it to me.”

“Be serious for a moment!” She started to blush again. “Hell!” I was genuinely shocked. “You figure I’d joke about that?”

“Please!”

“O.K.,” I shrugged my shoulders. “So I’ll be serious.” “It was good of you to come all the way up here again,” she said. “I didn’t really think you would. I kept hoping, but it didn’t make any sense for you to come just because I called and said it was urgent.”

“I figured it could make sense,” I said. “When I saw that gold sheath there, I knew right away it made a hell of a lot of sense. Sylvia, honey-chile, I—”

The tiptilted nose lifted a couple of inches, and there was a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

“Danny Boyd,” she said in a gritty tone, “you promised to be serious for a moment!”

“I’m a serious Boyd,” I assured her. “An albatross, no less.”

She winced, then lit herself another cigarette to help her recovery. “Since you left with Clemmie yesterday afternoon,” she said in a low voice, “so much has happened that I’m confused—and just a little scared, Danny. Yesterday I thought you must be crazy, but now I’m wondering if you’re the only one who’s sane.”

“What happened?”

“You remember, just when you were leaving, you told me to take a look at Sweet William’s pen?”

“Did you?”

She shook her head. “I was going to, but Pete stopped me. He said he’d take care of it and for me to go into

53

the house. I guess I was jumpy after what had happened, so I did. He came back after a while and said it must have been your idea of a joke or something—there was nothing at all in the pigpen except the boar.**

Her face had an intent, half-frightened look as she went on with her story.

“Pete said he’d have to tell Mr. Hazelton what had happened to Clemmie and called him. Then he said I’d better stay in the house because there was no telling what a maniac like you would do next, and maybe you might decide to come back. He went outside again and I did as he’d said—I stayed inside the house. I was worried sick about Clemmie and what was happening to her.

“About an hour later I heard a car drive in, so I looked out the window, thinking maybe Pete had been right and you’d come back. But it was the police—State troopers. I saw Pete talking to them, and then they all walked off toward the pigpens. They were gone maybe fifteen minutes, then they came back to the house.

“There was a Sergeant Dixon in charge and he seemed awful mad about something. He used the phone but I didn’t catch everything he said, only a word here and there. ‘Hoax’—‘Have New York check on Houston’ —that was about all. He asked me who I was and did I know a man named Houston. I said I was employed by Mr. Hazelton and I’d never met Mr. Houston, but I knew he was Mr. Hazelton’s attorney. Then the police left.

“I asked Pete what it was all about, and he said it must have been some crazy practical joke of yours—you must have called the troopers and told them your name was Houston and they should look at the pigpens. It still didn’t make any sense to me.

“Then, this morning—just after lunch it would’ve been, I guess, they brought Clemmie back, and Martha with her.”

“Who’re they?”

“Mr. Houston and another man called Tolvar. They’re staying at the farm for an indefinite period as far as I

54

can make out. Tolvar frightens me somehow—do you know him at all?”

“We met for the first time last night,” I said. “He’s the athletic type—used me for kicks.”

“I can’t say I go much for Mr. Houston, either,” she went on. “He’s nothing but a fish—I’ll bet there’s not one drop of warm blood in his veins! But what really worries me is the girls, Danny. Now both of them are being kept prisoners on the farm, and the others aren’t making any secret about it. If one of the girls wants to go for a walk around the farm even, then either Tolvar or Pete goes with them. They watch the girls all the time.”

“How’s Clemmie?” I asked.

“Still on a downswing,” Sylvia said soberly. “She’s been that way since they arrived, and it’s getting worse the whole time. I told Mr. Houston I thought maybe she should see a doctor, but he said I was overanxious. Before I left this evening I put her to bed under sedation.” “And Martha?”

“I don’t know her very well,” she said. “She doesn't seem any different to me. Aloof, unfriendly, arrogant— she lives in a world of her own the whole time. She was the one who went out walking the whole afternoon— with Pete right alongside her of course.”

“I see you got your troubles, honey-chile,” I said. “Which one was so urgent you wanted me up here?” “Danny,” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I want you to prove to me I’m not crazy!”

“We can try the Boyd High I.Q. Rating Test,” I suggested. “You only need answer ‘Yes’ to one question and you have a hundred per cent pass which gives you a very superior I.Q. and the opportunity to experience something unique.”

“I’m not fooling, Danny,” she said tensely. “I want you to take a look at something—out at the farm.” “Such as?”

“A pigpen,” she said simply.

It looked like a sudden end to a beautiful evening. I lit another cigarette and thought regretfully of that double booking at the Biltmore going to waste.

“A pigpen, I’ve seen already,” I told her.

“This means a lot to me, Danny. Will you take a look at it—please!”

••Why Is it so important?”

“I don’t want to tell you—not until you’ve seen it That way you’ll be unbiased. It wouldn’t take long and it means so much to me, Danny!”

“What with Tolvar, Houston and Pete guarding the girls so close, it’s a wonder they let you out tonight,” I said lightly.

“I’m allowed one day and two evenings free a week,” she said. “I had a feeling they were glad to get me out of their hair for a while tonight.”

“How did you get from the farm into Providence— drive yourself?”

“There’s a beat-up station wagon that belongs to the farm—I drove that.”

“The only trouble with me taking a look at the pigpen is that one of the boys might object,” I said.

“They don’t have to know anything about it—if we leave the station wagon on the road and walk in—we don’t even have to go near the house,” she said.

“I guess not.”

“Will you do it?”

“I always was a sucker for a pretty face!” I told her. She smiled demurely. “Why, Danny—you haven’t looked at my face once during the whole evening!”

It was ten after midnight when we reached the farm. I’d driven Sylvia back from Newport into Providence, and she’d picked up the station wagon from outside the hotel. Then I’d followed her out to the farm in my own car. She stopped the station wagon a couple of hundred yards down the road from the farm gates while I made

56

a U-turn and left my car facing toward Providence, and well off the road.

The air was crisp, and the moonlight much too bright. I could feel my spine prickling gently as I walked back across the road to where Sylvia waited for me. It could be a trap—Tolvar could have set up the whole thing with the blonde nurse as bait—and if they had, I was walking right into it There was still plenty of spare burial space inside the pigpens. I remembered dismally.

We walked in through the gates and down the edge of the tracks toward the house. Lights showed in a couple of rooms which didn’t make me feel any better. When we were fifty yards from the house, Sylvia started to make a wide circle around it toward the pigpens which were some distance away from the back of the place.

Finally we reached the pens and Sylvia stood very close beside me, then shivered suddenly.

“O.K.,” I said. “What now?”

“Take a look at Sweet William,” she said softly.

I walked across to the pen and looked in. The moonlight was nearly as bright as day—in the center of the pen was a huge sow sleeping peacefully with her litter tucked in comfortably around her edges.

There was a slight rustle of Sylvia’s dress as she moved up close beside me again.

“He’s not here,” I said. “What gives?”

“Yes, he’s here,” she said in a tight voice. “Two pens further along.”

I checked and she was right—two pens further along and there he was. Once seen, Sweet William could never be forgotten.

“You see?” Sylvia said in a small voice. “You didn’t remember the right pen.”

“When you showed me around this morning, he was in that other pen,” I said. “I’m sure of it!”

“I’m glad you said that, Danny.” Something like relief sounded in her voice. “When I took a look this after-

57

noon, I thought I was losing my memory, so I had to be sure I wasn’t.”

“Yeah,” I said absently.

“Danny,” she said softly. “Why?”

“That Pete,” I said admiringly. “He can think on his feet all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“The last thing I said before I took off with Clemmie the other morning was for you to take a look at Sweet William’s pen,” I said. “Remember?”

“Of course I remember—but you never told me what I was looking for. What was in the pen?” she asked breathlessly.

“Someone had buried a body in dirt,” I said soberly. “My guess is it belonged to Philip Hazelton.”

Sylvia drew in her breath sharply and made a whimpering noise.

“Pete must have known the body was there,” I went on. “He knew he could stall you from looking at the pen and seeing it, but he couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t tell the police—as I did. So he had to do something fast. And the easiest thing to do would be shift Sweet William into a new pen—so if anybody came to take a look, they wouldn’t find anything.”

“Danny,” she said in a trembling voice. “That means it’s still there—the body—in the pen where the sow and her new litter are right now?”

“It figures,” I agreed. “Pete would’ve covered it up again, but he wouldn’t know how much time he had, so my guess is he wouldn’t have tried to move the body.” “Danny!” She clutched hold of my arm tightly. “I think I’m going to faint.”

I heard a faint noise and turned around. A shaft of light showed momentarily from the back of the house, then was cut off again.

“Someone just left the house,” I said. “We’d better get out of here.”

“Can you see anyone?” she whispered nervously.

“No.” I strained my eyes.

“How do you know they’re coming this way?” she asked.

“How do I know they’re not?” I said tersely. “We need to get somewhere out of this damned moonlight fast.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “The barn.”

She started to run, and I followed her. It was maybe a hundred yards from the pigpens to the bam and I hadn’t run so fast since that time in Las Vegas when a redhead turned up for a date with a preacher in tow.

We made the bam and went inside. I pushed the door almost shut and then listened carefully. I could hear Sylvia’s quick breathing behind me, and the loud protest of my own outraged lungs, but that was about all.

“Maybe he’s gone back into the house?” Sylvia whispered a minute later.

“Maybe,” I grunted. “But we’ll stay here awhile and make sure.”

Another couple of minutes dragged by, and Sylvia’s teeth chattered slightly.

“I’m cold!” she whispered. “Can’t we leave now?”

“In a little while,” I said, and then I heard a chinking noise as someone’s shoe hit a stone. I pushed the door open another inch and squinted at the brightness outside. There was the silhouette of a man about fifty yards away, walking directly toward the bam.

“He’s heading straight this way,” I said. “Move over to one side out of the way, Sylvia, huh?”

“What are you going to do?” she whispered.

“I’ll take him as he comes through the door,” I said.

“Why don’t we just hide?” she said.

“Where? He’s coming straight in here!”

“What about the hayloft—he won’t go up there.”

“All right,” I said. “If I slug him, the other two will come looking for him when he doesn’t show up at the house, and it’s a long way back to the road.”

I followed Sylvia across the floor of the bam, and then 59

up the ladder which led to the hayloft. We lay face down in the hay and watched the door. I eased the Magnum out of the harness, holding it ready in my right hand, just for insurance.

The door creaked as it swung open, and a moment later the beam of a flashlight hit the floor. He came in slowly, playing the flashlight all around, into the corners, over the tractor and harvester. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was Pete. Sylvia’s fingers dug deeper into my arm with every passing second. For maybe three minutes, he kept the flashlight swinging, then he must have been satisfied and went out, pulling the door shut behind him.

We listened until we couldn’t hear his footsteps any longer, then Sylvia sighed deeply.

*T thought any moment I’d sneeze or something!” she said. “Any more of this and I’ll be needing a nurse!”

“We’ll give him ten minutes before we move out of here,” I said. “He must have been looking for something —or someone—pretty hard. He made damn sure there was nothing in the bam that shouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe he was just making a routine check?” she asked. “If they’re worried about anyone else prowling around and finding the body, they could check up regularly through the night, couldn’t they?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I hope you’re right, and they didn’t spot us from the house while we were over at the pigpens.”

“Maybe we should stay here for a good while and make sure?” she said softly.

“O.K. with me,” I said. “I’ve got no place to go in a hurry.”

My eyes had got used to the darkness inside the bam, and the filtered moonlight through the one window was bright enough to show up most of the detail. I rolled over onto one side and was going to light a cigarette when I remembered the hay and went cold on the idea.

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s beautifully warm in the hay up here,” she said softly.

“Sure is.”

“You were pretty terrific to come all the way up here just because I asked you,” she went on. “And then take a chance like this to look at the pens when I asked you another favor!”

“I’m one of the original knights of the Roundtable,” I told her modestly. “A damsel in distress is our bread and butter—you know we were the first guys to demonstrate chivalry?”

“How come?” she asked interestedly.

“Whenever we accepted the conventional offer of thanks from the rescued damsel, we’d take off our armor first,” I told her. “You’d be surprised what a difference it made to the whole art of love!”

She laughed softly. “Is that a hint, Danny? About the . conventional offer of thanks from the rescued damsel, I mean?”

“It’s a question of honor,” I said. “Some girls prefer to fight for a while before they surrender—something like a boxer warming up before he gets into the ring.” She came up onto her knees and then to her feet, and brushed the small pieces of straw away that clung to her dress.

“I guess the least I can do is prove a point for you, Danny,” she said. “Just to show my gratitude.”

Where she stood, a shaft of moonlight slanted directly across her body from her shoulders to her knees, leaving her head and feet in shadow. I wondered if she knew and figured for sure she did.

My mouth went suddenly dry as I watched her peel off the gold lam£ and drop it gently onto the hay. Underneath she wore only a pair of white panties, sleek against her skin, and stockings held by fancy black lace garters. The high, full breasts looked like white marble under the moonlight.

Then she dropped quickly to her knees beside me and lifted the Magnum out of my hand and tossed it onto her dress.

“You always take of! the armor first, Danny!” she

said.

Her right hand gripped my shoulder, pushing me onto my back, and then she fell on top of me, her lips pressing hard against mine. I put my hands on her shoulders for a moment, pulling her even closer, then let them slide gently down her back to the waistband of the panties. She shivered violendy and the tip of her tongue began a questing search between my lips. I let my hands continue on their way, sliding the soft silk down over her hips.

From somewhere out in the night, a bird called suddenly in a harsh note of triumph.