Читать книгу They All Ran Away - Edward Ronns - Страница 8

THE HUNTER estate sprawled on the west shore of the lake, a rambling Tudor house with exposed beams, slate roofs, many gables. There was a velvety green lawn, rhododendrons, a formal garden, a high iron fence surrounding the acreage. The lawns sloped down to the lake front with a miniature of the manor house serving as a boat shed. There was a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, and moorings for a plane. There were terraces with striped umbrellas, a fine imported sand beach, towering oaks and spruce, and an air of desolate emptiness as Barney was admitted through the high iron gate and drove up the winding drive.

A man waited, scowling in the sun, on the terrace between carefully trimmed privet hedges. The man remained where he was while Barney walked up the shallow flagstone steps toward him.

“Forbes? I’m Felix Branthorpe. Estate manager.”

They did not shake hands. Branthorpe was about thirty, medium height, with enormously wide shoulders, a flat, tanned face. His blond hair was cropped in a stiff brush, close to his skull. He gave an impression of physical power that was not lessened by his thin voice. His eyes were a cool, hostile gray.

“I told Mrs. Hunter about you. I advised her that you would come here and I also advised her not to see you. But she insists that you be given a chance to say your piece. For my part, you’re not welcome here.”

“Since when does your job as estate manager give you the right to pick and choose Mrs. Hunter’s visitors?”

Branthorpe flushed. A muscle jumped in his heavy jaw. “I’m a friend and adviser of the family, as well as an employee. My sole interest is in protecting Malcolm Hunter’s property.”

“By way of keeping his wife incommunicado?”

Branthorpe’s hands closed into fists. “I didn’t say that.”

“I think you’d better get out of my way,” Barney said. “Go stand in front of a mirror and make muscles at yourself. I’m too busy to argue.”

Branthorpe’s rage was poorly concealed. For a moment, Barney thought the man would not move. He weighed well over two hundred and from his lightly balanced stance Barney guessed he would not be easy to handle, one way or the other. He was in no mood for unnecessary trouble. He looked at Branthorpe’s glacial eyes and the man stared at the lake, jerked his square jaw to the left, and said: “On the back terrace.”

“You first, Felix,” Barney said.

The man’s mouth curled. Then he turned and went up the shallow steps three at a time. The tall Gothic doors of the house stood open to the lake breeze. There was an entrance hall of red Belgian tiles, a huge stone fireplace with carved griffins standing guard, and suits of armor in wall niches. On the paneling was a collection of hunting bows, old English longbows, arquebuses, crossbows of every size, including one that was distinctly Chinese, inset with an intricate ivory design. Branthorpe’s shoes made no sound at all as he led the way through the house, past a tall stained-glass window, and through French doors to a terrace in the rear.

A hedge of yellow Pinocchio roses made a splash of color against tidy yews and arbor vitae. The slate terrace came in subdued pastels. The bees were busy. Under a candy-striped umbrella was a redwood lounge chair with an aquamarine sun mattress lashed to it with yellow cords. Branthorpe spoke in a harsh voice. “Jan’s snooper is here, Evelyn.”

The woman on the lounge chair said: “Thank you, Felix. You can leave us alone.”

“I’d rather not,” Branthorpe said. His neck was red.

“Please, Felix.”

“Mal wouldn’t like it.”

“Mal isn’t here. Do as I say.”

Branthorpe hesitated, eyes hot and furious. His fists clenched, then his hands went slack. He turned on his heel, his shoe making a brief squealing sound on the tiled terrace, and slammed back into the house.

Barney stood as he was. For a moment, when he first saw the back of the woman’s head, the length of her legs, he felt an unholy pounding in his heart against his ribs, a quick tremor and a frantic denial shouting in the back of his mind. It was as if he were seeing Lily again. The way she held her head, the same trick of tying a blue ribbon in her hair, the way she lay with her long legs outstretched. The same silky shine of black hair, shoulder-length, the same deep, calm voice. He was badly shaken.

Then he walked around to take a chair where he could look clearly into her face. She wore dark sunglasses with jeweled bows like butterfly wings. She wore a yellow sunsuit the color of melted butter, with big ivory buttons. Her face was the same, yet not the same. He felt relieved and then he felt disappointed and then he told himself to put it out of his mind. Lily was dead. He could not go on seeing her every now and then in various women he met or passed. She would not have wanted to haunt him so, he told himself.

“What is it, Mr. Forbes?” she asked.

He had not realized he was staring. “You reminded me for a moment of someone I once knew. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry I’m not she?” Evelyn Hunter smiled.

“In a way. I’d rather not—”

“Of course. You’re the man Jan hired, aren’t you, to look after Mal?”

“Yes, I am.”

She said: “Jan was always fussy, unable to see the true picture. It is Malcolm who always looks after Jan. Jan means well, I suppose. But he will not be thanked for sending you here. Malcolm has always been able to cope with his own problems.”

“I’ve come to realize that. But this problem may be murder.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It must be said, Mrs. Hunter. Until one or the other or both men turn up. Ferne Kane is crying murder, and it has to be answered.”

She was silent. There were tiny beads of perspiration on her short upper lip. Her mouth was soft and Barney received an impression of sadness. When she took off her glasses and he looked at her dark blue eyes, the sadness was still there. She looked defeated, as if something had broken inside her long, long ago.

“I don’t like to bother you, Mrs. Hunter,” Barney said. He spread his hands. “But I must find your husband and talk to him. If there’s nothing to Ferne Kane’s story, then I’ll be happy to pack up and go home.”

“If Ferne says that Mal was trying to sleep with her, I’ll believe that,” the woman said quietly. She looked at the bank of yellow roses nearby. “I’d believe almost anything about Mal.”

“Even murder?”

“It’s quite possible.”

“Do you think he killed Alex Kane?”

“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Forbes. I—I’ve rather lost the knack of thinking for myself, this past year. If Mal isn’t here to tell me what to do, then Felix is only too eager to take over.”

Not like Lily, Barney thought. Not at all like Lil. Yet he felt a kinship to her, because of his startled first impression. He knew it was irrational to feel pity for her because of those first words of hers, but he felt sorry, nevertheless, and a quick urge filled him, impelling him to help her. Probably she didn’t want help. She had married Mal Hunter as Evelyn Smith, of Reading, Pa. A coalminer’s daughter, perhaps. It happened. There was nothing to feel sorry about. She got what she wanted.

“Have you heard from Mal since the night he disappeared?” he asked.

“No. Nothing.”

“Did he come back from Kane’s place that night?”

“Oh, yes. It was very late. Two or three o’clock in the morning. He was drunk. He—he was impatient with me because I asked him where he’d been and what he’d been doing.” Her mouth curved down. “He left me this to think about.” She touched the long silken curve of her thigh. There was a mottled bruise high up near her hip, under the fold of her sunsuit. “Do I shock you, Mr. Forbes?”

“A little,” he said.

“You may as well know for whom you are working.”

Barney nodded. “Did he say anything at all about where he was going, or why?”

“Nothing. He was in a rage. He took the plane and flew off, after finishing a bottle of liquor.”

“He was drunk? This was at night?”

“He can do anything, drunk or sober.”

“No pilot?”

“He used to have a man named Charles Danger who flew for him. But Charles was too fine and decent to take the sort of treatment that Mal inflicts upon those who work for him. Charles quit two weeks ago. There was another man. Al Greeley from Jackson, who occasionally acted as an air chauffeur, but Al—I don’t know if he was here that night or not.”

“And you haven’t heard from Mal since.”

“No.”

A bee hummed around a bottle of suntan lotion on a red-lacquered Javanese table near the lounge chair. Evelyn Hunter put her butterfly glasses back on again. The image of Lily faded from Barney’s mind. He watched the woman finger a golden sunburst of intricate design, the center a glowing red stone, on a heavy golden chain around her slender throat. It caught the light, winking and twinkling.

“Where might your husband have gone, Mrs. Hunter?” he asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

“Meaning you choose not to say?”

“I must consider his wishes in all things.”

“Do you think he’s alive?”

It startled her. “What do you mean by that?”

“According to Ferne Kane’s story, Mal killed Alex Kane. But both men have disappeared. Maybe it happened the other way around. Maybe Alex killed your husband.”

She frowned delicately, her brows delicate dark arcs over big, limpid eyes. It was obviously a new thought to her.

“It’s hard to believe that Mal might be dead.”

“But not impossible.”

She bit her lip. There was no other sign of panic, regret or desperate love. “I must think about that, Mr. Forbes. It must be considered.”

He stood up. “Then you can’t help me in any way?”

“I’m sorry. No.”

He left a few minutes later, walking through the big manorial house. He paused a moment to admire again the collection of crossbows on the wall, flanking the fireplace with its huge stone griffins. Felix Branthorpe appeared in the entrance hall. He had changed from sport clothes to a business suit of subdued Palm Beach gray. His clipped head looked alert, his whole figure carried lightly, easily, on perfectly toned muscles. He walked silently to where Barney stood.

“I’ll escort you to the gate. In case you lose your way.”

Barney looked at him. “Have you heard from your two stooges yet?”

Branthorpe’s head tilted a little to one side. He smiled. His pale eyes were cool. “You’re jumping to conclusions,” he said softly.

“You know about them, so I wouldn’t say I’d stabbed you in the dark. They invited me to take the next train back to town. It was not the first invitation I received today. I told them I regretted it, but I’m staying in Omega.”

“And?” still softly.

“You should have hired men who are professionally a bit more adept at their trade, Felix.”

The man’s neck grew red again. “You’re not wanted here, Forbes. Hasn’t that been made clear enough?”

“It’s nice to find a man so intensely devoted to the interests of his employer,” Barney said. “And so intent on guarding his employer’s property—including his wife.”

Without warning, Branthorpe swung. Barney partially blocked the blow, but the man’s strength was like that of a bull. His fist drove in like a sledge, hammering into Barney’s middle. Barney slammed against the wall, bounced off it, caught his balance, and ducked under the next swing. He came forward, and suddenly saw that Branthorpe had dropped his guard. His hands were at his sides. His head was cocked as he looked at someone beyond Barney.

He drew in a deep breath and said tightly: “Yes, Evelyn?”

“You’re a fool, Felix. Let Mr. Forbes go.”

Barney looked at her. She stood at the head of the hall, a striped cape thrown over her slender shoulders. The butterfly glasses dangled from her slim fingers. Her face was scornful. Felix Branthorpe swallowed his rage, ducked his cropped head in a nod, and walked away. Evelyn Hunter gave Barney a smile that was empty of all meaning and turned to follow her estate manager.

Barney found his own way out to the gate.