Читать книгу And Kill Once More - Al Fray - Страница 4

I LAY on the Santa Monica strand and watched lazy fall breakers pile in. Each long slow wave rolled shoreward, mounting higher and higher until at last the crest toppled over and crashed toward me in a broad curtain of white foam, then spent itself on the sand and washed silently back into the surf. Hungry sandpipers followed the backwash, their long needle-like beaks darting into the wet sand in search of an early snack. A squadron of gulls wheeled overhead and morning sunlight gave a sparkle to the blue Pacific, a glitter which, for me at least, has never lost its attraction. I stood up, stretched, weighed the empty feeling in my stomach against the lure of salt water and decided on another dip before breakfast.

The water had just enough snap to feel right. I splashed through the surf, knifed into a seven foot wall of white and came up on the other side. Working easily out a hundred yards, I rolled over and lay on the swells, my thoughts on the beach and how things were and how they might go on being for quite a while. Summer had gone the way of a lot of other summers; now it was October. Next month the inn at Death Valley would open and I’d hold forth as combination lifeguard and swimming instructor for the winter season, then knock off for another vacation and when warm weather brought the multitude down to the ocean there would be a job for Marty Bowman.

A nice life—until there comes a day when you begin to wonder if thirty-one isn’t getting a little old for a beach boy and wouldn’t it be smart to look around for something a bit more permanent. But thinking back over some of the other times I’d tried to make the break brought a smile to my face. There was that fall I took a job punching rivets in an aircraft plant. Not too hard, a nice clean, respectable spot but somewhere along the second week I figured out that at the rate of one every ten seconds I was forty million rivets from retirement and that’s just too damn many rivets. I asked for my time and caught on with a plunge down in Palm Springs for the rest of the winter.

And there have been other times, other jobs I’ve taken and some I tried for without success but somehow I always wind up wearing swimming trunks, dark glasses, and a towel over my shoulders. Maybe the real reason I can’t get interested in running a drill press is that in the back of my mind there’s a picture of the enterprise I hope to launch some day. A small but classy pool well located on the fringes of Beverly Hills, perhaps, and set up to skim off some of the easy dough spilling out of pockets in that area. Swimming lessons for small fry during the day and party rental at night—work I could really enjoy and at the same time lay away a buck or so, and. . . .

Vaguely I was aware that the pounding of the surf had increased and the swells had carried me toward the beach. I turned and stroked along ahead of a rising crest, caught it breaking, and rode all the way in. When it petered out under me and dribbled back toward the sea I jogged up onto the dry sand, caught up my towel and went toward my small beach cottage. Before I opened the door I heard the phone ringing. I went inside, crossed the narrow hallway, dropped the towel on the carpet, stepped on it and picked up the phone.

“Marty Bowman,” I said.

“Marty? Boreland Gregory.” He let that soak in for a second, then said, “Marty, I have an assignment for you. A client is with me now, a young lady who seems to have a rather unusual problem. It’s your type of thing and I’d like you to handle it.”

I stood there, the phone in my hand and salt water dripping onto the towel. There couldn’t be any mistake. Boreland Gregory was my brother’s boss and the few times Gregory had dialed my number it was in an effort to locate Fred. Now Gregory was calling me. He had used my first name slowly and deliberately. Twice.

“Hold on,” I said. “I just came up from the beach and I’d better dry off.”

But I wasn’t worried about a few drops of water. I needed time to square this one away. Somebody was obviously right at Gregory’s elbow. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say, couldn’t make any explanations. Over the wire I heard his voice again, low this time as though he’d turned away. “How’s that for service, Miss Weston? Our man Bowman just came out of the water.”

If the Miss Weston in his office answered I didn’t hear her but I was getting a line on things. Gregory had a Bowman on his staff all right but it wasn’t me. Fred has been an ace investigator with the Gregory Agency for a dozen years and once tried to grease the chute there for me. He arranged an interview and I went down, but the deal didn’t jell. We’d gotten along fine until Boreland Gregory tilted back in his heavy oak chair, fixed a shrewd eye on my face and asked how he could be sure, after investing his time and money to train me for his work, that it wouldn’t all go slipping down the drain when summer came and the beaches called. I didn’t try to kid him. I said he couldn’t be sure at all and right about then he lost interest in adding Marty Bowman to his payroll.

Two years ago, that was, but now things had suddenly changed. Now Gregory was making a noise like a man who was over the barrel. It was obvious he needed somebody who owned more than one pair of trunks, you might say, and I thought about the month I had to kill before the inn opened and decided against giving him the kiss-off.

“You’re getting through to me,” I said softly. “What can you tell me over the phone? What do we do about—”

“Fine,” he cut in. “We’ll take care of the odds and ends when you get here. Just pack a bag and hurry down to the office. Miss Weston is due at a house party on the desert, Marty, but she’s a little worried. Needs help on a couple of matters. You’re going as a guest, so put some swimming trunks into a suitcase and be on your way. You might take about what you’d want for a nice weekend in a first class resort, but don’t forget those trunks. Got that?”

“The swimming trunks,” I echoed softly. “Yes, I think I get the picture, Mr. Gregory. I’ll be there as soon as possible—about twenty minutes. Anything else?”

“She’ll wait for you, Marty. Make it fast.”

The phone clicked and I cradled it, then hit for the shower. Hot water splashed across my shoulders and washed away the salt while I did a mental retake on the fragment of a picture Boreland Gregory had given me, and five minutes later I climbed into my four-year-old coupe, whipped over onto Wilshire Boulevard and headed toward Hollywood. Gregory’s agency is on the second floor in a building just off the celebrated corner, so I found a parking spot on Vine and walked back.

Before I got to the entrance a familiar voice greeted me. “Hi, kid. Or should I call you lucky?”

I turned toward the curb and saw my brother Fred leaning against a light blue Cadillac with gleaming wire wheels. “Delayed action?” I asked. “Two years ago I hit fat boy for a job and today it comes through. You sure I’m lucky?”

Fred gave me an envious grin. “There isn’t much doubt about that,” he said. He turned to admire the Cad again and nodded his appreciation, then touched a respectful toe to a spotless white sidewall. “Your carriage, m’lord. And wait till you see the lady in waiting. Enough to make me wish I’d put more time on the beach and less chasing after some jerk’s erring spouse. Now let’s get inside before the boss has a litter of pups on the office floor. He’s been hopping from one foot to the other ever since he phoned you.” I followed my brother into the narrow hall and started up the stairway but he stopped me.

“Let’s see your wallet, kid.”

I handed it over and watched him cram a sheaf of twenties into it. Then he made another small transfer and passed it back. Those little odds and ends that Gregory had mentioned were now taken care of.

“Three hundred, Marty. Pay all the tabs and keep account. Strictly a smooth operation; he’ll nick her for the expenses later, but don’t let her shell it out any place along the line. Catch?”

“Sure, but—”

“No time for a bull session, kid. Now take this and keep it out of sight. A prop, see?” Fred carefully handed over his stubby .38. “If she happens to see it, fine. Anybody else, not good. You’ve got no license. Now toss me the keys to your hack and I’ll run it back out to the beach for you.”

I gave him the keys, then took another peek into the wallet. “Take Martha and Tim,” I called after Fred. “There’s a new surfboard in the garage if Tim wants to try those breakers again.” Fred waved his thanks and I climbed the stairs to Gregory’s office.

Seeing him again brought me back to the business at hand and a wave of doubts began to roll in. In one corner of my mind was the nagging thought that all was not kosher along Vine Street this fine morning. It didn’t quite fit, this quick and easy entrance of Marty Bowman into the glamorous role of the shamus. Boreland Gregory had spent a lot of years building his name in this town and he was nobody’s chump. He was getting bald, had a figure like a couple of bags of barley, flat feet, cash register eyes, and other dubious assets that added up to nothing impressive on the physical side, but his mind was as sharp as a well-honed razor. From his swiveled throne in the bay window of a lush Hollywood office he ran one of the most profitable detective agencies in town and was far too smart a business man to risk a fine reputation in the hands of an untried operator. Yet from where I stood it looked like he was doing just that. I was still asking myself why.

The receptionist ushered me through the heavy door and the situation didn’t improve. Gregory waddled out from behind six feet of battered oak desk, made hasty introductions, pointed out that time was fleeting, said we’d have a good sixty miles to discuss things and urged the pair of us to be on our way. I shot a hard look his way. It didn’t seem to me that B.G. was very worried over the girl’s problem, whatever it was, and he should have been because another of his specialties is extracting the long green from the patrons and at his prices he could afford to show a little concern. It would have been no more than good business.

When I turned back his Miss Weston was giving me the slow top-to-bottom and I tossed it back at her. She was blonde and tan and would have been a knockout anyplace. Not too tall, a refreshing change from the amazons some people turn out these days and one quick look told you she was as feminine as a negligee. You didn’t have to be an expert on women’s apparel to guess that the blue gabardine suit had come from an exclusive shop and her white, high-heeled shoes had a simple elegance associated with good taste and a healthy bank balance. Without being too obvious I glanced down long enough to assure myself that the part of her between those shoes and the hem line was as fine a bit of leg as you’ll find on any beach. I thought about that racy Caddy standing against the curb outside, then picked up my bag and nodded toward the door. I had this pigeon pegged.

These stacked jobs with a few bucks behind them run pretty much to form. They come down to the beach wearing that go-to-hell look and not much more and never look to right or left, but every guy within seeing distance is straining his eyes and pawing the sand—and well they know it. I’ve picked up a few things besides splinters, though, while sunning myself in those lifeguard towers and I figured to get along with this cutie.

We went through the office and started down the narrow stairway and glancing back I saw Boreland Gregory smiling after us. His face wore the expression of a used-car salesman who has just unloaded the junkiest heap on the lot and it worried me a little.

At the bottom of the steps the blonde turned back toward me to make a casual remark about the weather and it told me something else about her. You didn’t have to beat her to the door. She knew the trick of hesitating long enough to give a man time to reach around her and turn the knob. No obvious stepping aside to wait, no pushing on through by herself—just a lady letting you be the gentleman. When we walked out to the curb I swung the car door and installed her on the side next to the walk, then tossed my scuffed gladstone into the back, next to a pair of matched traveling cases worth about ninety bucks a print, and slid in behind the wheel.

Over Cahuenga Pass we got it down to Kate and Marty and worked in a few background details but the blonde gave the problem at hand a wide berth. Vague generalities and the bland statement that it would be easier to show me when we arrived. Maybe I shouldn’t have worried about it, either. Good duty this. I should have been content to roll her expensive wagon over the concrete and let small matters take care of themselves but somehow I didn’t like the feel of things. We turned right onto the Canyon Highway, the tires making a soothing hum on the pavement. Dry air hung motionless over stunted desert growth and dusty tumbleweeds shook themselves at our passing, bumped lazily along in our wake for a few yards, and subsided in the peace of the morning. Tiny heat waves shimmered over rocks and sand and in the distance a range of ragged hills swept upward and caught purple tints from a climbing sun.

I pushed the lighter into contact, and tried to figure who was kidding who, and why. When the lighter clicked back I offered smokes, then held the glowing tip for Miss Weston. Her thank you was a smile backed by those cool blue eyes and then she settled back again to watch the scenery slip past. She was as relaxed as a rag doll. She had draped the jacket to her suit over the back of the seat and a stream of air deflected inward by the windwing tugged gently at that long yellow hair and arranged her thin nylon blouse into that rounded effect cover girls strive to achieve. We smoked in silence, the soft purr of two hundred willing horses whisked us effortlessly along, and once again I tried to make something sensible out of the hour that had elapsed since I answered my phone back on the beach.

A house party at a desert hideaway. Bring swimming trunks, there’s a pool. Miss Weston has a problem, one which she seems in no hurry to discuss. Well, Marty Bowman wanted to discuss it, and the quicker the better. I devoted another half mile to trying to think of a smooth way of getting her to tear into the facts, then decided on the direct approach.

“Look, Kate, I’m having a wonderful time and the desert is grand this time of year and all that, but you’re paying money and you’re entitled to service. You won’t get it unless I know a lot more than I do now, so let’s stop sparring around. Exactly what do you want done up here? What was I hired to do?”

She met my eyes, then looked straight ahead. “First let’s be sure we know what you’re not expected to do. My hiring a man to go on a house party could look like something—something it definitely isn’t. Let’s be sure to remember that I called a detective agency and not a gigolo service, shall we?” She blew a cloud of smoke to one side and kept her eyes on the sleek hood out front. I drew on my own smoke and scratched around for an answer, then saw a small café coming into sight at the next bend. I braked the big car with a loss of a couple of miles of rubber, wheeled off onto the gravel parkway, stopped next to a cream and brown Pontiac hard-top, and turned off the ignition.

“Coffee stop, your ladyship,” I said shortly. “And while we’re getting everyone in his place let’s not lose sight of one important fact. You came to us. I wasn’t out nosing around for a little Miss Gotrocks.” I started to get out of the car but the blonde reached over and caught my arm.

“It isn’t like that, Marty. I mean it’s just that—”

“You’re blonde and beautiful,” I cut in, my voice jumping a little. “Your chassis would put you in the front row of the chorus or set you up as a free-lance model if you had to make a living, but this wagon we’re sporting around in says you don’t need the dough. Which brings us to your point—you’re not the type that has to hire boy friends. Now let’s see about that coffee, shall we?”

“I’m sorry, Marty. It did sound cheap, I guess.”

I looked hard at her and ran my hand over the soft gray leather of the big Cadillac. The idea trying to form itself in my mind for the last half hour finally took shape and this wasn’t my day to be coy.

“Kiddo,” I said softly, “could this all be a gag? A lot of people with too much money and not enough amusement and one of them says, ‘Why doesn’t someone bring up a private eye next weekend? We’ll give him something to investigate just for laughs. We’ll have us a ball.’ If that’s the way it is, Kate, just say the word. We’ll scoot back to San Fernando and pick up a double-billed cap and give ’em a real belly laugh.” I watched her face, saw the sudden flush of anger, edged by a hint of fear.

“Of course not, Marty. Mr. Gregory assured me that you’d be specially careful not to let anyone know. You were to go as a friend.”

“Then why not keep all the mystery on the other side? Just between friends, what’s wrong up here? So far all I’ve got to go on is that someone called Sandy Engle hasn’t been going out much lately, and that there’s always a flock of guests.”

Kate ran a slow hand over her temple, then let the hand fall to her lap and pluck nervously at the band of her tiny watch.

“Marty, there are really two things at the Engle Ranch that just don’t add up. First there’s Sandy—Mrs. Engle. I’ve known her ever so long, since we were children, and she’s the type that loves to see and be seen, as the phrase has it, and yet in the two—” She broke off as the screen door of the café slammed. A man and woman came heavily down the wooden steps. I felt Kate stiffen against the leather seat.

“The Pilchers,” she whispered. “They’ll probably be guests up there this weekend. I’ve seen them there twice.”

They were both big people, though not too many years over thirty. The woman gave us a quick glance, faltered as recogniton came to her, then went on without a word. She was brown haired and going to hips and might have looked a little less pudgy in something that fit rather than straining the seams of a dress two sizes too small. But it wasn’t a cheap dress.

Her husband did a double take when he saw the blonde beside me, then ambled our way. He had a red baseball cap cocked back at a jaunty angle, a toothpick between his thick lips, and a brothers-in-misery sneer on his kisser. He folded his elbows across the chrome window trim on the Cad, shifted his toothpick a little and grinned at the girl.

“Hell of a note, isn’t it, Miss Weston?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Pilcher,” Kate said evenly. “You said something like that once before, up at the ranch, but really I—”

The brotherly grin turned to a sarcastic look and he backed off from the Cad.

“Hell, I forgot. You’re the one that comes up here to smell the sagebrush. ‘Scuse me all to hell.”

I slid out of the big car and went around just as he was working his fat can behind the wheel of his Pontiac. I pulled the door out of his hand and put a foot along the floor trim.

“Getting a little near-sighted, aren’t you neighbor? That was a lady you were talking to.” I said it softly and waited. Chubby squinted up at me, his eyes shifting over me as he weighed the possibilities. I didn’t think I ought to leave any doubt in his mind. I gathered a handful of shirt, gave it a half twist and hauled him out onto the gravel, then let him straighten up. He stood there blowing hard breaths through his thick lips and I measured him with a watchful eye because there’s no point in leaving yourself open for the sucker punch. If he so much as tightened a face muscle I was going to hang one on him. He looked away, turned back, didn’t see any change in my eyes, and faced the big Cad.

“Sorry—Miss Weston. I made a mistake,” he said.

I watched him wiggle back into his car, fire it up, back around and gun out onto the highway. He headed north and disappeared around a bend as I opened the car door for Kate.

I grinned. “I still want that coffee, Kate.”

We found a booth. A tired gent in a white shirt and apron was busy cutting the day’s delivery of pies near the front. Kate and I settled, ordered coffee when the man came over, watched him leave, and looked across at each other.

“Thanks, Marty. I’m not sure you should have, but thanks.”

“You were going to tell me a couple of things that were out of step up at the ranch,” I reminded her. “The first had to do with Sandy Engle.” I shook a couple of cigarettes loose and held the pack across the table, then struck a mach from the folder on the ashtray. She puffed quickly and glanced nervously toward the distant waiter.

“Well—it looks like you got the second part first. As guests at the ranch, Pilcher isn’t the exception, he’s the rule. They all have one thing in common. They resent being there. They give the impression they are forced to come and bullied into making believe they like it.”