The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (89 page)

Jeff didn’t answer. He read the slip of paper Smitty pushed across the desk to him, “Go.” He nodded to Smitty, leaned back in his chair and dropped his feet on the desk top.

“Mike, I’d like to tell you a little story. Before the war, I was engaged to Myrna Dalton. It was the only serious love affair of my life. I went to her home for a weekend house party, just before her unit sailed for England. The first night, most of the crowd were tired and went to bed early. Three other fellows and myself sat up in the library playing poker until near dawn.”

“I know how it is,” Mike said.

“We’d been drinking, but not too much. I was dead tired when I climbed into bed. There had been a long drive there, the lateness of the hour, and the strain of the card game. I must have gone to sleep the minute my head hit the pillow.”

“I should imagine you did.”

“Pamela Bogart was one of the party. She was the first to wake next morning, and she promoted some silly idea of dragging everyone out of bed and dumping them into the swimming pool. The girls bore down on each room in turn, making a game of it.”

“I’ve been through the same thing,” Mike sympathized.

“When the whole party pounced into my room, they found it strewn with feminine apparel. As an added touch, there was an extra pillow on the bed with the imprint of a head. Someone had sneaked into my room while I was asleep and planted the stuff. Myrna was badly cut up about it, wouldn’t listen to my explanation.”

“I can understand her feeling. But what are you driving at, Jeff?”

“Pamela Bogart was the girl who planted that evidence. She did it for pure meanness. I didn’t get any proof that she did it until much later.”

The line was silent for a long time. Then Mike’s voice came over the wire:

“I see. I’m sorry, Jeff.”

“If you still want me to come to that party tonight, I’ll come after dinner – say, about seven thirty. But you’ll have to tell me why you’re marrying Pamela, Mike. You’re one of the last people in the world I’d expect to marry her!”

Smitty looked at his boss with open mouth. He reread the words he had written, as if he couldn’t believe them. He, too, hung on the line, waiting for Mike’s answer.

“I’ll tell you, Jeff, and then I don’t want to discuss it again. I know what Pamela is. I can well believe the story you’ve told me. But the part you don’t understand is that I loved Corinne. I’ll never love another girl. Pam is – well, she sort of looks like Corinne.”

“What do her looks have to do with it?”

“I guess we professors aren’t very practical. I’m marrying Pam on the chance that our children would be like Corinne. That’s all there is to it, Jeff.”

“You’ve considered the possibility that she might walk out on you and take the children with her, bring them up as replicas of herself?”

“Yes, I’ve considered that. She couldn’t do that to me. My life is an open book. There isn’t a court in the land that—”

“Oh, come down to earth, Mike!” Jeff snapped. “She has over a million dollars, you have ten thousand. You couldn’t begin to defend the appeals.”

“Oh, come, Jeff. You don’t mean to insinuate that the courts are crooked?”

“Of course I don’t. I just wanted to point out that by the time you could regain custody over the children, they would have passed beyond their formative years—”

“There’s no use going into that. It’s too late now. I’ve committed myself. You will stop in for highballs after dinner, then?”

“I’ll be there.”

Jeff hung up the phone and looked at Smitty, who shook his head sadly.

“I wouldn’t have believed Pamela was like that. Imagine Mike marrying her for any such reason!”

“I can’t.”

“What did you say, Jeff?”

“I said I can’t imagine Mike’s marrying her, for that or any other reason. There’s a lot of funny things going on. I wish you could come along to help keep an eye on things tonight.”

“I’ve considered it. There are plenty of large trees in and outside of the wall, Jeff. There’s one in the back that would be easy to climb.”

“So?”

“Well, I imagine they’ll sit on the terrace after dinner. I could climb one of the trees and keep an eye on things with night glasses. I think I’d see more that way than if I were actually on the terrace.”

“OK. Make your own arrangements, Smitty.”

“Right.”

“Tell Chief Gaines what we’re going to do. I don’t like this setup. I can’t imagine why Pam wants me there. Not to protect her, that’s sure. You keep your eyes glued on her, Smitty. Don’t stop watching her, no matter what happens. But that’s ridiculous. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open. Er . . . Jeff, after vampires have been shot with a silver bullet, they don’t come back, do they?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was just thinking, suppose it gets real dark while I’m still in that tree – Jeff, tell me why a silver bullet was used.”

“Figure it out while you’re roosting on a limb,” Jeff said, as he left the office.

It was seven thirty, and the guests were still at dinner when the Bogarts’ butler led Jeff to the terrace off the living room, facing the large, walled-in garden.

Jeff looked about him. French windows opened from the living room. The top and both ends of the terrace were screened by a heavy, vine-covered trellis. Beyond the terrace was open lawn, broken by formal flowerbeds and a two-tiered fountain.

The furniture came under Jeff’s scrutiny. It was cane, upholstered with gayly colored cushions, a settee at either end, backed against the vine-covered trellis, with eight lounge chairs spotted irregularly between them.

Jeff looked at the trees. There were dozens in and close to the garden. At each end of the terrace, large oaks rose protectingly above the house. His eyes rested on a tulip poplar that was just beyond the wall, commanding an unobstructed view of the terrace. In the failing light, he caught a glimpse of something white moving back and forth. He made an up-and-down motion with his hand, and the white speck did the same. Grinning, he thumbed his nose at the spot.

Jeff turned at the sound of footsteps inside the living room. Pamela, between her uncle and Mike Collins, led the procession through the French window. Bogart nodded curtly.

“Oh, Jeff, look!” The girl ran to him, extending her hand. Jeff paid a pretty compliment to the modest diamond ring she was wearing.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” she asked, and winked at Mike.

“I hope you’ll be very happy. But more important, I hope that you’ll make Mike happy. He’s a swell guy, Pam.”

She bit her lips and winced. For the first time, Jeff noticed that her mouth was slightly swollen. For a moment, he was sorry he had struck her. At her next words, he wished he had broken her neck.

“It’s just as well, Jeff, that you never married Myrna Dalton. She wasn’t the girl you thought her.”

“Pamela!” Wendell Bogart called. “Come and sit beside your old uncle, here on the settee.”

The girl spun on her heel and crossed to the far end of the terrace, smiling back triumphantly over her shoulder at Jeff.

Mike Collins caught Jeff’s arm and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “Come on, Jeff. Meet the others.”

The two other couples, Mr and Mrs Frederick Marston and Mr and Mrs Donald Wellington, were old friends of the family. They murmured the usual acknowledgments. Jeff quickly lost interest in them. They were obviously ill at ease, for they had attended the fatal dinner of the year before. Both men showed the effects of the strain, and had had more than their share of alcoholic stimulants. The two women stole nervous glances at their wrist watches.

The butler served tall highballs. The small talk was carefully kept in bounds. Mrs Marston tried to draw Jeff out, but his obvious absorption quickly discouraged her. She turned to Mike, and started him talking about earthquakes.

Pamela and her uncle were carrying on a low conversation between themselves. Pam laughed a good bit, and darted occasional looks of defiance at Jeff. Wendell Bogart pointedly ignored him.

“Gosh, it’s hot!”

Donald Wellington’s too-loud voice was like a bombshell. He was sitting alone, dabbing at his face with a large handkerchief. The highball glass in his hand was already empty.

Jeff leaned back. It was warm, but not that warm. The alcohol, the heavy dinner, and the strain were probably responsible for Wellington’s discomfort.

“Don’t you have an electric fan you could hook up, Wendell?” Donald Wellington demanded of his host.

“Don’t bother,” Mrs Wellington spoke quickly. “We’ll have to be going soon.”

“There’s no fan available, Donald,” Wendell Bogart replied. “But we could have the fountain turned on. That will cool the air some. Turn it on, please, Hunter.”

“Where’s the connection?” Jeff asked.

“I know where it is. I’ll do it.” Fred Marston rose unsteadily to his feet, crossed in front of Jeff, and stepped off the terrace.

Jeff, covertly keeping his eye on Pamela, also watched Marston fumbling with the cover of a stop box set flush in the lawn. His fumbling fingers finally hooked the ring bolt and he gave it a hearty tug.

Pamela squealed.

Jeff looked sharply at the girl. She was pointing to Marston who had sprawled on the grass when the sticking cover loosened. He scrambled to his knees, reached into the stop box and twisted the valve.

There was a bright-yellow flash, a sharp explosion.

Jeff looked toward Pamela. The sudden glare had fuzzed his vision. The others on the terrace were staring stupidly at the bubbling fountain. Jeff blinked his eyes and brought Pamela into focus.

Slowly, yet surely, she was sliding away from her uncle toward the floor.

Wendell Bogart, with one arm laid along the top of the settee behind his niece, was staring fascinatedly toward the fountain. He didn’t appear to realize that Pamela was falling.

Jeff stepped into the living room as the girl’s body thudded to the flagstones. He was picking up the telephone when Mrs Wellington screamed. She was still screaming, joined by Mrs Marston, when Jeff was connected with Chief Gaines.

“It’s happened, Bill,” Jeff barked.

“Who?”

“Pamela herself.”

“Damn! Don’t let them touch anything, Jeff. We’ll be there quicker than you think.”

“She’s dead!” Mike Collins said in a flat, bewildered voice as Jeff stepped back to the terrace.

“She can’t be! It’s impossible!” Wendell Bogart shouted. “Lift her to the couch. No, wait. Carry her upstairs!”

“Don’t move her!” Jeff warned, heading toward the group.

“Get out of my way!” Bogart shoved him aside. “A lot of help you were!”

The rise and fall of a police siren tore the quiet night. It was close by, and racing nearer.

“Don’t be a fool, Bogart. The police are on their way here now. I tell you not to touch her.”

“Get out of my way, you blundering idiot. My niece isn’t going to lie there like a sack of meal.”

Wendell Bogart stooped and picked up the girl. The police cars screamed into the driveway. Carrying her in his arms, Bogart walked slowly toward the living room. A uniformed patrolman stepped through the French door and blocked his passage.

“What’s going on here? What happened?” the officer demanded. “What are you doing with that girl? What’s the matter with her?”

“She’s dead, Officer. I . . . I was taking her up to her bedroom.”

“Put her down, mister. Here!” He indicated the settee opposite the one Pamela had shared with her uncle.

Wendell Bogart lowered his niece and straightened her rumpled clothing. Almost reverently, he pressed the lids down over her now lusterless eyes.

Jeff looked at Pamela. There were no marks of violence other than the swollen lips. To all appearances, she was a young woman dreaming, a surprising dream. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she had just been told something incredible.

More police arrived. A sergeant assumed control.

“Mr Bogart, do you have a clubroom, or some place we can put you people where you’ll be out of the way?”

“There’s a basement game room.”

The sergeant pointed out a red-headed giant. “Murphy! Herd these people into the basement. Don’t let any of them out of your sight.”

Jeff followed the others into a paneled clubroom. Murphy opened the door and snapped on the lights, then followed them in and stood with his back to the door. Outside, the night was filled with screaming sirens.

Wendell Bogart, without a word to his guests, crossed to the portable bar. From beneath it, he drew out a bottle of old Scotch and poured himself half a glass.

“I could do with one of those,” Fred Marston said wistfully.

Bogart ignored him, replaced the bottle and slumped into a lounge chair. He stared quietly into space. Jeff sat alone at the far corner of the room. He pulled out his notebook and began writing rapidly. Once or twice he heard his name spoken in angry tones, but he didn’t raise his head. After filling several pages with neat, small script, he loosened the pages and dropped the book into his left coat pocket.

“Why don’t you say something?” Wendell Bogart demanded, as Jeff’s eyes met his. “Why did you kill her?”

“I didn’t kill her, and you damn well know it.”

“Listen, Hunter,” the older man snapped, “you hated my niece! She told me what happened this afternoon in the Normandy bar. There are plenty of witnesses who heard you threaten her. Her mouth is bruised from the brutal blow you gave her.”

“So what?” Jeff demanded.

“You don’t deny you struck her?” Wendell Bogart lurched to his feet and swung wildly at Jeff.

“Sit down!” The alert Murphy pushed Bogart back into his chair. “Make another move like that, and I’ll put you to sleep.”

The clubroom door swung open. “Jefferson Hunter! Upstairs!”

Jeff rose to his feet and followed the officer to the library on the floor above. Chief Gaines, and three detectives, were seated at one end of the big mahogany table. Sitting alone at the opposite end was Smitty. Jeff pulled up a chair at his assistant’s right.

“Things are a lot different than when we were here this summer.” Smitty grinned.

“Yes, Smitty, they are.” He patted his left coat pocket meaningly. “Bill” – Jeff turned to the chief – “what killed her?”