Читать книгу And Kill Once More - Al Fray - Страница 6

BY MID-AFTERNOON I was beginning to adjust to life as the other half lives it. I stroked slowly toward the shallow end of twenty thousand dollars worth of swimming pool and reflected on the tidy little estate that Engle had managed to afford on a two-day working week. The main building was a huge U-shaped, inn-like structure which provided a fine windbreak for one side and both ends of the plunge. Beyond the center segment the hill rose sharply for a short distance and atop the crest an enormous storage tank gathered water pumped in from a dozen distant hot springs. A wide expanse of grass separated the house from the pool on those sides but to the south a thick growth of Italian cypress ran close to the concrete fringe of the plunge and blocked desert winds which would blow with considerable vigor at certain seasons. Leading through the cypress, a flagstone walk wound through heavy shrubbry and down the slope toward the service building that housed the valve for the pool.

Everything inside the fence was green and carefully tended, a marked relief from the parched, brown desert surrounding us, and standing on the lower edge of the estate you could look past the barren land and into a green valley to which irrigation had brought a new value. But the center of interest which completely dominated the estate was George Engle’s swimming pool. Oval, roughly thirty by fifty and a full fifteen feet at the deep end, she was a far cry from the pint capacity leaf-catchers scattered around L.A. Like I said, I’ve dreamed of operating one on a commercial basis and as a prospective customer I’ve shopped around a little as to cost and upkeep of these things and there is a hell of a lot more to it than digging a hole, cementing the sides, and filling it from the garden hose.

True, you have to dig a hole. It costs money—important money if you have any amount of rock formation running under your land, and it’s also true that you cement the walls and bottom of the thing. But a bit of pencil work coupled with a few facts you picked up in high school physics will tell you that there’s a lot of weight on the floor of that pool. To be exact there’s just over sixty-two pounds per square foot for every foot of depth—over nine hundred pounds pushing downward on each square foot at the deep end of Engle’s pool. That means steel reinforcement and plenty of it, along with several inches of concrete. Money—money—money.

Then there is a drainage system. The common way is to fill the pool once and use that water continuously, adding only enough to take care of evaporation loss. This requires an expensive filter system, pumps, and man hours, but even so it beats changing water. Then there is heat. Let’s not kid about it—water standing around gets cold, even in Southern California, in the winter. Or every night, for that matter, and while some of us might like it cool enough to be invigorating the guests you invite won’t go for it and that means heat. An added expense, but there it is. You’ll have to do something about keeping down the algae and every so often you’ll have to apply a coating to the entire surface. Time and materials and more cash down the drain.

Now add the cleaning, and it’s a major headache. Dust blowing across the street keeps right on going and eventually whisks off the far side but when those tiny particles hit the water in your pool, they stay. The dirt settles to the bottom in a thin brown film and about every other day you have to peel off and get in for some wet work or push with the long pole from the edge. The gadget that cleans your pool isn’t too different from the vacuum sweeper in principle—it sucks up water and dirt from the bottom, runs it through the filter and returns it to the plunge—but you’ll get a lot of exercise on the handle of it just the same.

That’s the usual private plunge setup and like I say it’s expensive, but basking in the warmth of George Engle’s pool I watched lazy vapors drift upward from the storage tank on the hill and thought about how different this one was. Not that the idea is original. It isn’t; there are several like it scattered around wherever you find natural hot springs. For this kind of layout you capture half a dozen warm springs, pump the water up to a big reservoir, buy enough flat land down below to engage in extensive irrigation operations, and establish the cycle. Fill the swimming pool early, paddle around in the warm water all day, and at night you drain the now cool water into a lower tank for the crops below, hose down the sides and bottom, and fill the clean pool with fresh warm water from the storage above. Each day sees newly pumped warm water in the pool and by the time it cools you are through with it and can refill again.

And all you need is a few hundred thousand dollars to find the hot springs and buy the land and lay the pipe and provide pumps, tanks, plunge, and a ranch in the valley. Just a little pin money you scrape together a couple of days a week.

I was still trying to nail these scattered facts into some sort of pattern when I heard a splash at the deep end. Kate Weston bobbed up near the center and swam toward me with strong smooth strokes. When she came up to me she flashed a wet smile and I paddled along beside her for a way. We made two lazy laps of Engle’s triumph in tile and stainless steel fittings, then climbed out near a couple of light green patio pads near the shallow end and spread out to sun ourselves.

Kate glanced toward the assorted people sprawled over deck furniture on the far side and said softly, “Anything new, Marty?”

I grinned at her. “It gets worse.”

“You’ve found out something?”

“I’ve found out nothing,” I admitted, “or very little. You sure there’s something wrong?”

Kate slipped her white bathing cap off and let long blonde hair tumble down to the pad. I ran an appreciative eye over her trim brown lines and expensive bathing suit, then came back to catch two blue eyes looking mildly across at me.

“If there isn’t, there’s something wrong about me.”

“That could be.”

A thin smile played along her eyes. “And what have we decided about the rest of the customers, Marty?”

I grinned. “Let’s not be bitter. You can learn a lot about people around the water. Like your friend Pilcher over there. This morning he appeared to be a fat and mouthy gent with nothing to back it up. The picture hasn’t changed. A while ago he dove in beside me and started swimming away with that ‘wanna race’ look in his face. He has to impress people. You can see him on the beach any afternoon, or several like him. They spread their overstuffed skins on the sand and rest for ten minutes. Then some kid comes along and fat boy has to dive into the surf and make like a teen-ager. When he climbs out panting like an overworked steam engine he tries to muffle the sound of his breath. Ninety per cent of the time his belly overflows his trunks, but let some cute chick waltz by and our pudgy friend will suck that tummy up into a chest that would scare a gorilla, flex his muscles, and try to hold it until she’s gone. He will tell you blandly that a man with his large frame can carry a lot of weight without being fat and a mere two hundred and forty pounds is about right for him.”

“That would seem to be Mr. Pilcher,” Kate said.

“The Mrs. Pilcher type comes down to the beach now and then too,” I mused, “though not as much as she used to, I guess, before those hips began to build. And she’ll spend more time under the umbrella than she did last year and eat a few less hamburgers. You’ll see her arrive in a bigger and better car, more than likely, as years go by. And one day she’ll give up the battle entirely and eat a double chocolate marshmallow sundae whenever she wants it and let a fifty dollar corset or a forty-dollar swim suit do all her worrying. Any additions, Kate?”

“None. I’m getting a liberal education in beaches and the people who go there. Please go on.”

“Sure,” I said. “As long as we’re just kidding around I’ll carry the ball one more time. The doctor. Cronk, I think they introduced him. Dr. Cronk.”

“This should be good,” Kate laughed. “He hasn’t been in and he didn’t bring a bathing suit. How do you classify him on the Bowman beach scale?”

“He comes out all right, as long as there isn’t anything specific to nail him on. He doesn’t give a damn about the water and what’s more, he doesn’t care who knows it. From here we see a somewhat nervous gent in his fifties. Rimless glasses, a round face, no tan. He’s a little belligerent, I’d guess—a little too forceful about not letting anyone get him to paddle around in the pool. That Lincoln outside must be his and means he probably takes in a tidy little sum in fees each year. I presume that reasonable intelligence and ability will have to be credited to him, if he’s made it through the rough deal that medical school is said to be. He reads the daily paper with gusto and probably stays away from the people he reads about.” I grinned and added: “As far as the Bowman beach scale goes, we’ll say Dr. Cronk is at least honest. We see him seldom and then only when the family drags him along by the collar. Which brings a question to mind. Have you run into him up here before?”

“Once. Last spring, I think. I can’t be sure. Not with his family, though, if he has any.”

I shifted to a more comfortable position and fixed a steady eye on the girl. “So far I’ve been on safe ground. You don’t know these three any better than I do. Or very little, but you do know George and Sandy, so how about a blonde’s eye view on the lord of the manor? What about George?”

Kate let a twinkle work its way into her eye and then a smile broke over her tan face. “That hardly seems fair—you should take a flyer on George, too, just to show me that Bowman knows his beach people. Where do we put George Engle?”

I looked over toward my smokes and matches across the pool. A stall. Three minutes, maybe, to think of something. “Time out,” I grinned. “I’ll get my cigarettes and be back.”

The blonde watched me go and I didn’t hurry any. I had already had a few ideas about the pool. Now I watched Engle. He stood by the diving board, a trim, well-formed man who had taken the best possible care of his physical being. Fifty, Kate had said, and I thought now that she’d given him the benefit of a good five years. Fifty-five, say, with straight gray hair that hadn’t yet made him a highbrow. He was as tan as walnut stain and it made his teeth flash white when he smiled.

I picked up my pack and matches and started back. Small black tile numbers just below the water level marked the fifteen foot depth under the board and it graded up to three feet, the dark numbers waving slightly as the tiny ripples on the water distorted them. Fifteen feet of water under a low board—and it told me something else about Engle. I walked slowly back to the pad, flopped down, offered smokes, and looked at Kate.

“Here it is,” I said lightly. “We’ll try one for size on George Engle. Apart from age and the rest that’s visible, I’d say George hasn’t always been a swimming enthusiast. In fact he’s only been a water bug for three or four years, Kate. Right?”

Her eyes came up a little and she nodded slowly.

“Uh-huh.” I said, gaining confidence. “He took it up, probably because Sandy liked to swim, but like some of the people who join a church to please a bride, George really got interested. Now he loves the pool. As far as being a husband goes, George would stop at nothing in his efforts to please Sandy. He’s considerate, a good provider, well mannered, and yet has enough determination and force to keep from being a milktoast. Okay so far?”

“I’m trying to remember,” Kate said, “what I might have said that told you George didn’t swim much before he met Sandy. I mean—”

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” I grinned. “No one puts this much cash into a pool without professional advice. Any pool man would have told him that six to eight feet is enough under a low board. It goes up—or down really—to fifteen feet for a tower but there is no tower here. So probably George had the pool built for maximum depth and figured to put the tower in later. In fact the base plates for a tower are already in the concrete. Now, I ask myself, why didn’t he put it in when the pool was made? Surely money was no problem. And that leads us to a very fine point about George Engle. He didn’t want a tower to dive from until he became an expert on the rest of it—the springboard and swimming in general. Because G.E. is a man who makes sure that he always looks good. Unlike Pilcher who wishes he did.”

“All right, Sherlock, I’ll buy that,” Kate laughed. “And I’m sorry to have put you on the spot.”

“You can do penance,” I said lightly. “You can take over the opium pipe for a while and do a little dreaming for me. You were very insistent, Kate, that Gregory provide you with a man who would be at home in the water. But look at what’s here—Pilcher who splashes more than he swims, Dr. Cronk who hasn’t even pulled on a bathing suit, and a host who is an ardent fan but no better than a fair swimmer, and that in an elderly sort of way. True, you’re an expert. I’m not simonizing the apple when I say you’re really good. But what about Sandy Engle? As a kid she was nuts about the water, you tell me. Now I see her as strictly a dry number. She hasn’t gotten wet once, and while I’m a big boy now and don’t go around asking girls why they can’t go swimming, I get the feeling this has nothing to do with the calendar. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t swim any more. Period. What’s the pitch, Kate? Does she or doesn’t she?”

“Well, yes and no, Marty.”

“That’s an answer?”

“I mean she has been in. I’ve seen her, but late at night. Mostly it’s as you say. She stays on the patio lounge or lies in the grass. But a few times I’ve been awake in the night and looking down from my window I’ve watched Sandy and George swim.”

“No one else around. You didn’t join them?”

“No. It was almost obvious that she didn’t care to be in while the rest of us were and that’s another reason I wanted to get someone to come up here and look things over.”

“It’s your money,” I told her. “How late was this swimming party for two?”

Kate thought a moment. “Perhaps one-thirty in the morning. Or almost, because the caretaker was getting ready to drain the pool and wash it down. He does that around two every morning, I think George told me.”

I smoked in silence and hoped I looked like a man thinking about something but for the life of me I couldn’t tie into anything concrete. An occasional dip in the moonlight, that I could understand. But usually people who go for that kind of diversion are crazy about the water—or each other—and in view of what Kate had told me it was hard to tell which was right.

“You did say George was in too. I mean, it wasn’t just Sandy swimming and George watching, Kate?”

“No. No, both of them were in. I watched for several minutes.”

I gave it more silence, and somewhere there the thing died. A wave of doubts began to set in. About myself. Maybe Gregory had guessed this was nothing serious and had sent a boy to do a man’s work. Maybe this called for experience and know-how in the art of investigation and maybe I was letting everybody down, including myself. I smoked and tried to think but before me was the thin veil of something only dimly seen and a little beyond my reach. My fingers scraped against the concrete deck of the pool and I clamped my teeth tightly together. I wasn’t quite sure how, but I was determined that one way or another I was going to keep a sharp eye peeled in Kate Weston’s interests, no matter how she finally fit in, Mentally I ran over the others—the pudgy Pilcher and his brown-haired, heavy-hipped wife. George Engle, fit and fiftyish, who had a wife under thirty. And the wife, Sandy Engle, thin, dark and lovely in an abnormally retiring way. Dr. Cronk, staying strictly dry in a place where swimming was the main course.

Then I looked up and something new had been added. Something with red hair and a figure that could have been a model’s stock in trade stood near the diving board and chatted idly with George Engle. I touched a hand to the tan shoulder beside me.

“A late arrival, Kate. Know this one?”

She rolled lazily onto her side, then opened a sleepy eye. Then she opened both eyes and sat up. “No, Marty, this one I haven’t seen before. My God. Competition has increased. I can see that from here.”

“Competition?”

“The eligible males in this camp are, for the most part, few and far between.”

I resisted the obvious and together Kate and I watched the redhead. She hadn’t gotten into her bathing suit yet. George led her toward the terrace side of the pool to introduce the other guests and I tried to size her up—well-filled nylons, yellow skirt cut as high as Schiaparelli would allow, sweater tight in just the right places. She walked with a trace of charm school in her step, but the lessons had been a long time ago because when she and Engle came around to our side and I got to my feet for the introductions I saw a few more years in her face than I’d seen in her construction. I mentally moved her from the last of the teens on into middle twenties.

“Miss Doyle. Miss Weston and Mr. Bowman,” George said. I nodded and was paid off with a warm smile and frank appraisal. The redhead gave Kate a smile too, but one cut from different cloth.

“You may have caught one of Miss Doyle’s pictures last month,” George Engle said easily. “She’s a starlet on her way up. Elsa Doyle. Your latest was Alone At Night, wasn’t it, Elsa?”

“Oh?” I said. Kate raised an interested eyebrow and I thought that Elsa’s brief glance at George Engle carried something less than appreciation for the plug. And I wondered why, because with TV cutting into the box office more every day, movie people shy away from publicity like a hungry kid passes up an ice cream cone on a hot afternoon.

Engle didn’t leave it there. “We’re expecting great things for Elsa,” he said. “Naturally there are a lot of pitfalls for show people, but barring accidents she should go far. We’re certainly going to keep our fingers crossed for her.”

“Thanks, George.” She said it with measured politeness and favored him with a smile that was just a shade short of being sincere. We made pleasantries for another few minutes, then watched the pair of them walk along the narrow band of concrete between the side of the pool and high Italian cypress as they went toward the house. I flopped down on the green pad again, lit a fresh smoke and tried to read something into George Engle’s crack about pitfalls and accidents. Engle had much better manners than to mention something like that without a reason. His tone had been a little like talking to a friend in a hospital bed, telling him you hope he’ll recover, and then recalling that you’ve known several others who had his same malady, God rest their souls.