The ice cold nude

chapter five

I was knotting my tie when I heard a couple of sharp, rapping sounds from somewhere else inside the house. Maybe a minute later I was fully dressed, so I stepped out of the guest room not at all sure exactly what awaited me, like a brace of loaded pistols.

Rutter was waiting for me in the living room. A tall, huskily built guy who looked like he could go fifteen rounds with about anyone you cared to name. His thick black hair was streaked with gray, and the gray was repeated in his eyes, which held all the warmth of a tombstone carved out of granite. He was massaging the back of one hand with a set of well-manicured fingers when I came into the room.

“Sit down, Boyd,” he said almost cheerfully. “I want to talk with you.”

I sat on the edge of the chair and fumbled for a cigarette while he still massaged busily.

“Just hurt my hand,” he said casually. “Shows what can happen when a man loses his temper for a moment and hits his wife too hard, eh? Must be an object lesson wrapped up in that someplace—don’t you agree, Boyd? I’m afraid Myra won’t be joining us for a while, but I know she’d want me to apologize for her and make sure you’re quite comfortable. Can I get you anything?”

“Not one single thing,” 1 said thinly.

He shrugged easily. “Oh, well. I guess you’ve pretty much helped yourself to everything available already?’* “You caught me with your wife,” 1 said tautly,” so I guess you’re entitled to play the whole bit if you insist. But don’t shove it too hard, Rutter, or I could get real mad and maybe wind up hurting my own hand a little.” “Don’t waste any sympathy on Myra,” he said harshly. “She’s a tramp from way back. You’re only a number in an arithmetic progression as far as she’s concerned. Tomorrow she won’t even remember your name, and next week she won’t even remember you!”

I got to my feet again. “So now you’ve talked with me,” I snapped. “If you want to call me a few names on the way out, that’s fine—be my guest.”

He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth in a gesture of irritation. “Sit down, will you? I haven’t started to talk yet!”

“I’ve heard all I want from you about your wife, friend,” I said as patiently as I could. “Drop me a postcard, huh?”

“This has nothing to do with Myra,” he grated. “This concerns me—and you.”

The look of surprise on my face must have shown as I slumped back into the chair. Rutter glared at me for a little while, then ran his fingers through his hair in a frustrated gesture.

“Look! I wasn’t going into the plant at all today. I had a long interview with a certain police lieutenant downtown and I figured that was enough. Then I changed my mind and went into my office for an hour after lunch. I talked to Machin and he told me about your visit—the questions you asked. After that I called Elmo and asked about you. He said you came highly reccomended from Lieutenant Schell, no less.”

“So what do we have to talk about?” I growled.

The back of his hand wiped his lips a second time as he still glared at me intently. “Louise Lamont was murdered last night. You found her body, right?”

“Sure.”

“Schell seems convinced there’s a direct link between the tiara theft and her death. What do you think?” “Who the hell cares what I think?”

“Please!” He made a tired, downward gesture with his hand. “I’m not playing games, Boyd. This is important to me.”

“She was shot,” I said. “Whoever killed her put a tiara on her head, then left her in the shower with the water running. Sure I figure there’s a direct link.”

“So?” He pursed his lips tight. “Schell didn’t bother to tell me about the tiara.”

“It wasn’t the real one,” I said, “just another fake.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “That makes a clear-cut obvious connection between the theft and Louise’s murder. That gives me quite a problem, Boyd, because there’s a direct link between Louise and myself!”

“I know,” I said shortly.

The gray eyes searched my face with cold purpose. “Just how much do you know about that?”

“She was your confidential secretary until a few months back,” I said. “Then she called your wife, said she was your mistress, and demanded money to keep the fact quiet. Your wife told her to go to hell, then called you. There was a screaming fight between you and the Lamont dame which resulted in you kicking her out of the office with a ‘Never to return’ label hung around her neck. Then you came up with the brilliant idea of holding a beauty contest to gain publicity—and coincidentally Louise turned up as one of the contestants. Even more coincidentally she became one of three finalists and, the way I hear it, had openly boasted she was going to win the contest from the day she first entered. Like the implication was somebody had rigged the contest her way.”

“You haven’t wasted your time since you got here,” he said with grudging respect in his voice. “You know the way that damned lieutenant has things figured out?” “No,” I said confidently, “but I can guess.”

“So guess,” he said sharply.

“He figures Louise blackmailed you into creating the contest so she could become a contestant and win it. Then maybe she forced you into the publicity deal with Elmo so she could steal the tiara. It built up to breaking-point with you—came the time when you couldn’t take it any more, so you killed her. Is that what Schell thinks?”

“It’s close enough not to make any difference,” Rutter grunted sourly. “Do your have a different theory?” “Right now I don’t have any theory—period!” I told him.

He turned away from me and stalked up and down the room a couple of times, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a look of deep concentration on his face. Finally he stopped, facing me again.

“If you want to find that tiara for Elmo, it looks like you got to find out who killed Louise first—right?” he asked abruptly.

I shrugged. “Could be—I don’t know yet”

“How much is Elmo paying you?”

“Expenses—five thousand when he gets the tiara back.”

“I'll make you a proposition, Boyd.” The gray eyes bored deep into my skull. “You come up with Louise’s murderer and Fll pay you another five thousand.” “Even if it’s you?” I queried innocently.

“Sure,” he grated. “I know damned well I didn’t kill her! I think it’s a reasonable proposition. It doesn’t cut across Elmo’s interests—the reverse, in fact. What do you say?”

“Okay, I’ll accept it,” I said promptly. I would have been out of my mind to refuse. “So now you’re a client of mine, right?”

“Repugnant as the thought is”—he closed his eyes for a moment—“yes, I am.”

“So answer me some questions?”

“All right. What do you want to know?”

“What Louise Lamont told your wife over the phone was true?”

“Naturally.”

“The thing that bugs me is why she tried to blackmail your wife instead of you—or did she try you first?” “No, she didn’t,” he rasped. “I agree with you, Boyd, it doesn’t make any sense. When Myra called me back that day and told me about it, I flipped. There was a hell of a row. Louise tried to deny it—but finally I threw her out of the place.”

“The beauty contest—was that Louise’s idea?”

Rutter looked uncomfortable for a moment. “I guess it was—kind of.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m not sure right now if I thought of it first or not,” he said vaguely. “I do know that once it was announced, she called me and said she was going to smear my name from here to San Francisco and back if I didn’t let her win it.”

“The publicity tie-in with Elmo and his tiara—that was Louise’s idea, too?”

“Definitely not!” He shook his head firmly. “That was Hugh Machin’s bright thought. I think the fact that I’d come up with the idea of the contest first had worried him a little—he wanted to prove he could do the kind of good job he’s paid for.”

“I don’t know exactly when Louise Lamont was killed last night,” I said, “but—”

“Neither do the police from what I can make out,” Rutter interrupted. “So if you’re going to ask me for an alibi—don’t.”

“The shower running warm water,” I said brightly. “I should have thought of that—retarding the natural processes and all that jazz—so now they can’t find an exact time of death.”

“Which makes things worse for me in a way,” he said bleakly. “I was in and out of the plant all day yesterday, and I didn’t get home here until around eleven last night.”

“Okay.” I stood up. “I’ll keep in touch.”

“Do that.” For a moment he was about to offer his hand, then thought better of it. “I imagine you can find your own way out?”

“Sure.” I took the easiest way—out through the still-open glass door, and onto the terrace again.

Myra Rutter was sitting by the pool, wearing the blue-green satin swimsuit again, the inevitable glass in her hand. She turned her head as my footsteps sounded on the concrete patio, and called, “Danny?” As I got close, I saw her eyes were hidden by an enormous pair of dark glasses, glitter-framed and opalescent. Her bottom lip was badly swollen and a dark bruise was beginning to show on one tanned cheek.

“Going without saying good-bye, Danny?” The swollen lip made it hard for her to smile. “That’s hardly gallant!”

“He hit you?” 1 asked bleakly.

“Twice—once where it shows, and once where it doesn’t.” She touched her midriff gently. “I hate to admit that James is a real gentleman—never even raised his voice once when he walked in on us, did he?”

I heard quick footsteps pounding across the concrete and turned to see Rutter hurrying toward us, with a flushed face and an ugly look in his gray eyes.

“Get the hell out of here, Boyd!” he said thickly. “Our deal didn’t include my wife—I thought that was understood.”

“I was saying good-bye,” I remarked idly.

“Did I hear somebody say something about you two having made a deal?” Myra asked lazily. “And it doesn’t include me? I’m desolate!”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” her husband said elegantly.

“James wants me to find out who killed his mistress,” I said to Myra. “It’s not that he misses her so much, I think—more that he’s worried the cops might have elected him as the killer.”

“Get out! Before I lose control!” Rutter snarled.

“That’s James,” Myra said lightly. “He just can’t help his finer feelings always getting the better of him. I often wonder why he wouldn’t be fair about Louise Lamont and let me beat him up occasionally.”

Rutter took a swift step toward her chair, his arm raised ready to backhand her across the face. Her right arm moved swiftly and the contents of her glass hit him in the face.

“Why don’t you cool down, darling?” she asked placidly. “It’s too hot out here for exercise.”

He pawed blindly at his face while he called her a whole lot of names, including a few you shouldn’t call anybody. After maybe ten seconds of it, I figured enough was enough.

“As a new employee, Mr. Rutter,” I said politely, “I’d like to offer my services right now. I think I can be of some help.”

I grabbed his coat collar in one hand and the seat of his pants in the other, then ran him forward at a vigorous pace and let go suddenly when he was on the edge of the pool. The momentum gave him the startling appearance of walking the first couple of steps on the water, then there was a huge splash and he disappeared from view.

The dark* glasses studied me for a moment, while one hand negligently flicked drops of water from the top of a curved thigh.

“Danny was that nice?” she asked reproachfully. “Now you’ve watered my drink.”

There was a soggy roar which sounded vaguely like a drunken sea lion, as Rutter’s head suddenly emerged above the surface. He plowed across to the edge of the pool and hauled himself out onto the concrete. I waited until he’d gotten to his feet and stood there dripping puddles of water all over the place.

“You want to play it real rough, Jimmy-baby,” I told him carefully, “I’ll throw you right back in—only this time I’ll tie a weight to your legs.”

A whole gamut of emotion chased across his face while I waited, then finally his shoulders hunched tight and he walked quickly past me toward the house.

“I think he’s mad about something,” Myra said cheerfully.

“I should’ve slugged him a couple of times,” I said regretfully. “Right where it doesn’t show.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” she said. “I think maybe you’d better go now, Danny.”

“Yeah.” I looked at her uncertainly for a moment. “Well, thanks for everything.”

“I’m sorry we were interrupted,” she said softly. “Like they say—better luck next time?”

The sun still shone radiantly from a cloudless sky as I walked down the forty steps that led back to the road. A gentle zephyr carressed my cheek and the scent of hibiscus was still heavy in the air, but now it wasn't lazy any more—only decadent—and I wasn’t too sure where that left Danny Boyd.

It was ten of five when I walked into Elmo’s jewelry store, figuring I should have another talk with Mr. Elmo himself. The titian fantasy bent over the desk lifted a little, revealing the calm, composed, and exciting face beneath.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Boyd—the fake tiara collector!” Tamara O’Keefe said pleasantly. “I’m afraid we don’t have any more in stock right now, but maybe I can interest you in some very uncultured pearls? They would make a perfect match for your personality.”

“I would like,” I said patiently, “to see Mr. Elmo. Is he in?—and please give a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ without any further embroidery?”

“My!” She smiled evilly. “You are in a bad temper today, Mr. Boyd. What happened? Someone steal your Wheaties private detective badge?”

“In,” I snapped, “or out?”

“Oh, you’re still talking about Mr. Elmo?” she cooed. “He’s out—if you call San Francisco out. Most people think it’s'definitely in”

I tried to ignore the taut thrust of her bosom against the black silk dress but who can ignore nature? “I wanted to ask him some questions,” I explained. “1 guess they’ll keep. When does he get back?”

“Tomorrow evening,” she said, “but you can wait in his office if you like.”

“I’d rather go buy myself a drink,” I grunted.

She glanced up at the wall clock thoughtfully, then tapped a pencil idly against her front teeth for a few moments before she made up her mind.

“You’re right, Mr. Boyd,” she said decisively. “It is drinking time—almost. I feel I should repay your offer of the Boyd good neighbor policy with an invitation to share the O’Keefe mutual hospitality plan. You buy me a drink and maybe I can answer some of your questions. How about that?”

I looked at her suspiciously. “This isn’t just a gag, or something?”

“I never joke about drinking,” she said haughtily. “Do we have a deal, or don’t we?”

“You bet your life,” I said.

“Then give me five minutes to put on a new face.”

“I like the old one just fine.”

“With that profile you’re naturally biased in favor of tired old faces,” she said tartly. “I’ll be back.”

It took her around ten minutes, of course, before she was ready, then I drove her to the hotel and we went into

the Luau Bar. The Polynesian waiter, who looked more like he was born in the Bronx, showed us to a nice secluded corner alcove. Alter the drinks were served, Tamara lit a cigarette and leaned back against the plush upholstery. “You want to ask your questions now, Mr. Boyd?”

“Danny is the name,” I said.

“Okay—Danny.”

“How long has Willie Byers been with the store?” “Around five years, I guess.”

“You know him well?”

She made a face. “Well enough. He's one of the dangerous ones—the leer is concealed!”

“Huh?” I gurgled.

“It’s a little hard to explain.” She thought for a moment. “Take you as an example—you’ve got an open leer on your face the whole time so a girl knows she’s got to be real careful whenever you’re within striking distance. But there are some men who seem harmless, and they can be deadly, because they catch you off guard. If you see what I mean?”

“And Byers is one of those?”

“That’s how I figure him. I remember one day when we were alone in the vault—”

“Go on,” I said eagerly.

“Never mind!” she said in a brooding voice.

“You never had a date with him, then?”

She gave me a look of complete contempt. “With that? I’d rather sit home knitting in the Y.W.C.A. than go out with Willie Octopus.”

“Maybe he’s a real riot with all kinds of other women, and you’re the odd girl out who finds him absolutely resistible?”

Tamara blinked rapidly. “Are we talking about the same guy?—Willie Byers?”

“I was hoping you’d know something about him,” I said in a discouraged voice. “His hobbies, recreations— any scandal—the whole bit.”

“I found his main hobby that day in the vault,” she said bitterly. “He does have one other, he’s always talking about it—painting. He even goes to an art class one night a week.”

“You don’t know where?”

“He did mention it.” She wrinkled her lovely forehead while she tried to remember. “The—Peerless Academy —or something like that. A brilliantly original name, anyway.”

I saw her glass was empty, like mine, and signaled the waiter.

“Why all the interest in little Willie, anyway?” she asked.

“Whoever made that first fake tiara was smart enough to fool even your Mr. Elmo, right?” I said. “Then last night, a second fake appears on top of a corpse’s head.”

She shuddered faintly. “I don’t care to think about that.”

“Whoever made thpse fakes was an expert, wouldn’t you say? It was an expert who made the original— Willie Byers.”

“You don’t think little Willie made those two paste imitations? That’s ridiculous.” She shook her fantastic hair-do carefully so it wouldn’t come tumbling down around her ears. “He’d drop dead of fright if somebody stopped him in the street and asked for a match! Sorry, Danny, you’re way out in left field on that one.”

“Maybe. But I figure there’s more to Willie than meets the eye.”

Tamara shuddered again, daintily. “I hope I never get to find out.” Her face brightened as she picked up her new drink. “I love these rum-based drinks, don’t you? With all the cute names they give them, and all. What’s this one called?”

“ ‘Virgin’s Delight,’ ” I said, straight-faced.

She bit her lip and looked at me out of the corner of her eye for a moment. “You made that up!” she finally accused me. “Let me look at the menu.” She scanned the printed page eagerly. “You did—it’s not here.” She giggled suddenly. “The kookiest name here is ‘Missionary’s Downfall’—but not a thing about virgins.”

“Guess again,” I said. “They’re one and the same. The missionaries made the virgins wear Mother Hubbards so they wouldn’t look so sexy, and the virgins knew the reason, of course, and only felt sexier, and there you have the missionary’s downfall.”

A slow grin curved the comers of her mouth. “Some missionary you’d make!”

“Give me a chance to make a pagan convert and have dinner with me?” I suggested.

“Not tonight.” She shook her head, for a moment there I thought I detected a faint note of regret in her voice. “I have a date already.”

“Willie, I suppose,” I grunted sourly.

“Believe it or not, I have to go home tonight for dinner —it’s my kid sister’s birthday.”

“Don’t you go home every night?”

“Only to my apartment normally—I’m what they call an independent girl.”

“So why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night? Or is that your kid sister’s kid sister’s birthday?”

“No—that’s Friday,” she said happily. “All right—tomorrow night’s a date. Will it be formal?”

“Just wear your Mother Hubbard, honey,” I said, “and I’ll be wearing the same old leer.”

We finished our drinks and she had to go. I walked with her to the door and saw her disappear into a cab with a flurry of skirts that exposed a pair of beautifully dimpled knees. The world was suddenly a lonely place after she’d gone. I went up to my room and looked through the phone directory until I located the “Peerless Academy of Art.” With a name like that, I figured they must charge fifty cents a lesson at least.

A nasal feminine voice answered, reciting the full name of the academy like it was a call to arms.

“Lieutenant Schell, police,” I said in a harsh voice. “You hold a weekly painting class down there, right?” “Oh—er—yes, Lieutenant.” Her voice quavered nervously. “Every Tuesday night. Mr. Callahan teaches, and I must say he’s an excellent teacher. The fee is—”

“You figure a cop has time to paint?” I growled.

“Oh—er—I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I thought—”

“Don’t,” I said succinctly. “Just get your list of pupils out. I want to check a couple of names.”

There was a frantic rustling noise at the other end of the line, and I sat wondering if she was sorting through papers on her desk, or if she’d just lost her girdle. Finally she said she had the list right there.

“Is a guy named Byers listed?—Willie Byers?’*

“Just a moment, Lieutenant, I’ll have to put on my reading glasses first.” There were more frantic whispering sounds. “Ah!” she said in a relieved voice. “That’s better.” So I sat and wondered some more for a few seconds. “Yes, yes, Lieutenant. Here it is—Wilhelm Byers. He seems to be one of our best pupils. Never misses a class and always pays each quarter promptly in advance.”

“Can he paint?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” she said blankly. “You’d have to ask Mr. Callahan about that.”

“Never mind,” I snapped. “How about the women pupils? Do you have a Miss Lamont listed by any chance?”

“Let me see now. “More rustling. “Yes, we do—that is, we did. She only attended a few classes apparently, Lieutenant.”

“That’s Louise Lamont?”

“Yes, it is. But according to the list we haven’t seen her in the last three or four months. When they drop out like that, they don’t usually come back. But still—if you want to leave a message for her, Lieutenant?”

“No, thanks,” I said tersely. “I know where she is right at this moment.”

“Oh, really?” The curiosity was hot in her voice. “Where, Lieutenant?”

“The morgue,” I said, and hung up.

I lit a cigarette and figured it all made for a neat tie-up between Louise and Willie. For a guy who was normally repulsive to women—and I’d take Tamara O’Keefe’s word on that—to have something exotic like Louise Lamont within reach would be worth any effort, including the making of two fake tiaras. So the next time I called on Willie, like within an hour or so, I guessed I wouldn’t treat him gendy, virus or no virus. The phone rang imperatively, breaking my obvious line of thought.

“Mr. Boyd?” a whisper asked when I answered. “Sure,” I said. “Who’s this?”

“Patty Lamont,” the whisper said. It had a kind of eerie quality that prickled my crew cut. “I have to see you, Mr. Boyd, right away. Would you please come

straight to my apartment? You do have the address—I gave it to you yesterday, remember?”

“Sure, I have it,” I said awkwardly. “But I have to go out right away, Miss Lamont, and it’s important. Maybe we could make it sometime tomorrow?”

“No!” The whisper became a frantic, imploring voice. “It has to be now, right away, Mr. Boyd. There’s not a minute to lose! Believe me, I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s a matter of life and death!”

“Are you sick or something?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you any more now,” she said hysterically. “But you must come—now!¹¹ There was a sharp click as she hung up.

I replaced the phone and thought the hell with it, and with Patty Lamont, too. Then I remembered what Machin had said—she’d been very close to her sister and the shock of hearing about Louise’s murder had broken her up completely—and I figured I had to show up, however stupid her imagined emergency might be. Willie Byers could wait a couple of hours, at that.