Terror comes creeping (15 page)

"Sounds like a good idea," I said. "What are you drinking?"

"Scotch," she said. "Good dependable Scotch—and no ice, Danny. This is winter . . . the winter of my discontent. That's a quote!"

I moved over to the table and started to make the drinks.

"Just how much of this good dependable Scotch have you had already?" I asked her.

"Don't be middle-class!" she said contemptuously. "You think I count my drinks?'*

"They count, if you don't," I said. "But I guess you're old enough to know what you're doing.'*

"Twenty-seven," she said. "Old enough to do what I want—rich enough to do what I want—why don't I do what I want? Answer me that, Daniel Boyd!"

I sat beside her on the couch with the two drinks held in my hands. She whipped the nearest glass out of my hand in a sudden swoop without spilling one drop of whisky.

"Here's to us, Mr. Boyd!" She raised her glass in an exaggerated toast. "We've got it made! Isn't that what they say?"

"Who say?"

She wrinkled her nose distastefully. "Now you're being a bellhop again!"

"And you're being Miss Richbitch again," I said.

She giggled suddenly. "I guess you're right. Drink up, Danny, you only live once!"

"Sure," I said. "Just take it easy and you'll live a whole lot longer."

The glass tilted and she drank the neat Scotch down like she was dying of thirst in the middle of the Sahara. She gazed thoughtfully into the empty glass for a moment, then hurled it into the fire. It smashed against the marble, showering fine splinters over the burning logs.

"My grandfather was a Cossack," she said, slurring the words together shghtly. "He raped all the women and killed all the men! And he Uved to the ripe old age of nineteen. You know the moral of that story, Danny Boyd?"

"You tell me," I grunted.

"You shouldn't go around killing men, life's too short to waste on nonessentials." She dissolved into helpless laughter.

I thought what the hell was the use of being sober anyway, and drained my glass in one gulp, then refilled it.

Martha stopped laughing suddenly. "What's the time?" she asked in a quiet voice.

I looked at my watch: "Five after ten."

"Night's young," she said. "And I don't have a drink."

"I'll get around to it," I promised. "Right now Fm try-to catch up^."

Half an'hour later, I figured maybe I had caught up. There was a slight pounding in my temples, and the pattern in the rug that lay in front of the fire would twitch suddenly now and then.

"Danny?" Her voice drifted over me lazily from right beside me on the couch.

"You call?" I said vaguely.

"When do I get another drink?" she asked plaintively.

"About now," I said. "I figure I've caught up and we're breaiking even."

I made the drinks and handed her one. She clutched the glass with both hands, lovingly, and lifted it to her lips.

"That's better," she said when the glass was empty. "I was just starting to get mad at you."

"I never thought you'd get mad at me,'* I said in a hurt voice. "I'm a real nice guy—I know it."

"I got awful mad at you the first time we met in that bar," she said. "Remember when you said you bet I wore white underwear and thought all men were beasts?"

"I said that?" I felt mildly surprised at myself.

"You sure did!" she giggled again. "I got mad at you because you were absolutely right. I always wear plain white underwear—and I certainly did think all men were beasts."

"Not true," I said profoundly. "Not all the time anyway."

"I guess you're right," she said. "What's the time?"

I had trouble focussing for a moment. "Ten after eleven," I said finally.

"Maybe we should have another drink, Danny." 122

We had another drink, and the pounding got fiercer inside my head.

Martha got up on her feet suddenly and threw another glass into the fireplace.

"Fm hot," she said idly. "You hot, Danny?"

"Boiling," I agreed.

"Should take something off," she said slowly. "That's the only answer."

She undid the kimono belt and slipped the fragile coat from her shoulders, letting it drop to the rug.

"That's better!" She sighed contentedly and sat down on the couch again.

I leaned my head against the back of the couch and closed my eyes for a moment. Everything started to whirl around, gathering speed as it went, so I opened my eyes again quickly.

Martha's face was only six inches away from mine, her dark eyes looking intently into my face.

"Danny," she whispered. "You think Fm attractive?"

"I think you're close to being beautiful, Martha," I said honestly. "You have a lovely, elegant, arrogant face, and a figure to match it."

"Maybe you mean all that," she said slowly. "I guess that arrogant bit you mean for sure! But you didn't really answer my question, Daniel Boyd. Am I desirable? Do you want me when Fm close to you like this?" Her head came closer still until our lips met and I nearly jumped at the savage, demanding passion of her kiss. The pounding in my head started all over, but it wasn't liquor causing it this time.

She broke away from me a long time later, sobbing for breath, her hands flat against my chest, her nails gouging viciously into my skin.

"Danny!" Her voice was choked.

"Yeah?"

She kept her head averted from me. "You remember what you said once—in a joke—about your true profession?"

"Not right now I don't remember," I said huskily.

"You know—like my grandfather?"

The faint scent of her perfume mixed with the liquor fumes inside my head like a clarion call to arms. I caught hold of her shoulders and forced her back on the couch. She lay there, limp, her eyes closed tight.

I grabbed hold of the lapels of her pajama jacket and pulled them apart savagely, so the jacket ripped open all the way down to her waist, baring her, high, rounded breasts.

Then she laughed. A low, gurgling, sensual sound which was so obscene that my ears refused to believe it for a split-second. A chord in my memory sounded like the crack of Doom. I reared back away from her, stumbling to my feet, and for a moment I felt the terror come creeping over me again, the cobwebs brushed my face and my nerve ends screamed mutely.

Martha opened her eyes slowly and blinked at me, her lips curving into a slow, languorous smile.

"Why did you stop?" she asked softly. "Just to tease me, Danny?"

"You laughed," I said hoarsely.

The arrogant contempt showed in her eyes for a moment. "Don't be so sensitive, darling!" she said coldly. "I always laugh, I can't help it. It's part of it, don't you see?"

"I heard that laugh once before," I said. "In the bam —it came from the hayloft. I thought it was Pete Rink-man who laughed, I never heard such an obscene sound in my whole life. I climbed the ladder up into the hay-lot sweating that I'd be in time to save you from him. But it wasn't Pete who laughed—it was you."

She sat upright on the couch, her eyes like dark bruises against the whiteness of her face.

"Damn you!" I said savagely. "You were enjoying it!"

She stared up at me for a little while longer, then suddenly her face relaxed, and she let herself fall back onto the couch again.

"All right, Danny," she said with a faint sneer in her voice. "Now you know all my girlish secrets! Sorry 1 spoiled your Galahad memory!" She looked down at her body complacently. "But now I'm giving you the chance to make up for it!"

"You and Pete," I said. My throat tightened until it hurt. "You didn't go out there to accuse him of being mixed up with Houston in the murders. . . . You went out there because it was the psychological moment for you to make an exit. All the groundwork was finished then—once I'd found out Houston controlled the trust fund and not your father, you knew I'd figure it out from there. You even knew it would have to include Pete. Is that why you went into the hayloft with him—because you knew it was your last chance to appreciate his talents?"

She opened her eyes again reluctantly. "All right!" she said irritably. "What does it matter now!'*

"You must have known Houston had been milking that fund," I said. "How did you know?"

"I cultivated his senior clerk!" she flashed the words at me with incredible speed. "He had the same talents Pete had—only in a little more refined way, of course. After one night with me, he'd have cut his head ofif if I asked him. I got him to check into the fund accounts— I'd heard stories about the oil well losing Houston a fortune. My little clerk couldn't tell for sure that Greg was milking the trust, but he thought he was. It was almost a sure thing."

"So you planned it from there?" I said. "With Houston as the ultimate fall guy. Pete appreciated your talents even more than the clerk did—and I guess you promised him a large cut of the trust when you inherited?"

"I promised him much more that," she said gleefully. "I said I'd marry him!"

"You needed me as an outsider to believe in your innocence—give you an alibi in a sense," I was almost talking to myself. "What about Tolvar and tho idea of

killing me with Philip's body in the trunk of my car?"

"That was Tolvar's own idea," Martha said lightly. "With an assist from Houston. Houston was in a panic to get rid of the body because of that phone call you made to the police, giving his name. He thought you were trying to frame him for the murder. Pete had to go along with it, because Houston had employed him in Sie first place, and he couldn't tell Greg that he was working for me right then, it would have been—inconvenient."

"Why did you have to kill Philip and Clemmie?" I asked hoarsely.

"I didn't know how much of the trust money was left after Houston had been at it." She pouted. "I was sure there wasn't enough for the three of us." She looked up and saw the expression on my face. "Well—don't look at me like that. I had to do something about it!"

"You're mad!" I whispered. "Stark, raving mad! Sylvia West wasn't lying about you when she said you were a homicidal paranoiac."

"Don't say that!" She jumped up on her feet, facing me in a crouching position. "Don't you ever say that again!" There was a hissing sound in her throat. She made an effort to smile and her face contorted into an evil imitation of it. "Darling!" The tone of her voice wasn't right but she was trying hard to make it right. "Don't make a fuss—if you want some money 111 give you some. It's all finished and Houston—"

"Houston!" I jumped. "My God! Fd forgotten all about him."

I looked frantically at my watch, then ran for the phone.

"What are you going to do?" she asked sharply. "It's four minutes to twelve!" I said. "I've just got time!"

I grabbed the phone off the hook and dialed the operator.

"Put it down, Danny!" she said thinly and I heard a sudden clinking noise of glass against glass.

The operator didn't answer right away. There was a I sudden explosive noise of glass shattering. I looked up and saw Martha swaying slightly on her feet and holding a broken bottle by the neck.

"Hang up, Danny!" she hissed. "Hang up or FU cut your throat out with this!" She waved the broken bottle menacingly at me, and the jagged edge glittered in the light.

"You keep away from me or I'll kill you, you maniac!" I said thickly.

She made a gobbling sound in her throat. "I told you not to say that!" she snarled and then she came at me with the bottle. She ran with surprising speed across the room toward me, the bottle held out in front of her like a lance.

Ten feet away from me, her bare toes caught in the edge of the rug and she tripped heavily. She screamed once as she fell. The arm holding the broken bottle twisted up under her and I saw the momentary flash as the jagged edge came upward; then her whole body hit the floor, and her soft, unprotected throat was smashed down against the jagged edge. It must have severed the jugular vein instantly on impact. I turned my head away, wanting to be sick, and heard a faint voice saying im-patiendy, "Operator! Operator!"

I lifted the phone back to my ear and said slowly, "This is a matter of life and death. I must speak to the Chief Warden at Sing Sing Prison in Ossining!"

"Have you a priority code number?" the voice asked eflficiently.

I twisted my wrist to see the watch. "No,'* I said wildly. "There's no time to argue with me! It's exactly four minutes to twelve now, and at midnight it'll be too—"

"The correct time is three minutes after twelve, sir," 127

the tinny voice said brightly. "Three minutes after twelve."

"You're sure?"

"Three minutes and ten seconds after twelve precisely," she said in a firm voice. "Hold the line, I'll connect you at once."

I listened dully to a succession of clicks and then a weary voice rasped in my ear, "Warden's Office, Sing Sing Penitentiary!"

"Listen," I said desperately. "This is an emergency, I—"

"Sure!" the guy said in an angry voice. "You newspaper guys are all alike—always got an emergency! Gregory Houston went to the chair at midnight—he was pronounced officially dead at one minute past. He didn't make any last statement. That's all we're allowed to say, brother. O.K.?"

I put the phone back gently on the hook. There were a couple of things I should do, so I did them without hurrying. I wiped the phone clean of my prints—I threw my glass into the fireplace so it shattered into minute fragments as the others had; then I collected my topcoat from the chair and put it on.

Just before I left, I took one last look at Martha Hazelton. I still felt sore at her—she'd played me for a sucker right down the line and smart guy Boyd had fallen for it all the way. It's that kind of thing which really hurts—shakes your self-confidence a little.

Out in the street it was just beginning to snow and I remembered there were ten days left to Christmas and I wasn't going to mail early again this year. I got into the car and lit a cigarette while I waited for the motor to warm up.

I didn't feel real bad about Houston—he wasn't the kind of guy you grieve for and send red roses. Martha Hazelton must have died at almost exactly the same time he did. Wherever they were going, I hoped for his sake that they didn't meet on the way!