by Robert Colby
“I’ll have to dress,” she said. “It’ll take a minute or two.”
“Couldn’t we have a little dance first?” I couldn’t resist teasing her. She was the sort who pretends modesty and virtue with a body that makes a liar out of the face.
She just stood there with her mouth open so I grabbed her and waltzed her around the room. We weren’t doing the same steps, but it was a crazy little kick while it lasted.
“Please!” she said.
I paused, holding her tight. Togetherness.
“Mr. Striker, I thought this was an emergency.”
“There are two emergencies. This is the other one.”
She gave me a tense, flickering smile. I let her go.
“What are you doing between cases?” I asked her.
“Pardon?”
“Oh hell, get dressed, Miss Jackes. One emergency at a time and first things first.”
She left the room in a swirl of movement, her fanny waving another of those haughty good-byes. The fun was over. There never seemed to be time for it.
I walked restlessly about the room. I looked out the window. A back apartment overlooking a fire escape, an alley, garbage cans. Lights from other windows cast patches of yellow over the dreary scene, draping it with illumination and shadow. For a full minute I sat on the sill of the open window and thought about Tarino and Martha Rumshaw …
Suddenly, I lost my sense of humor.
I left the window, moving about with a coiled feeling of urgency. I paused in the kitchen doorway, saw the tap, helped myself to a glass of water. Dishes were scattered about, unwashed.
“Sorry, it’s such a mess, Mr. Striker.”
I looked up and she was standing in the doorway, wearing a sweater and skirt.
“I was just going to clean up when you came,” she said.
“Don’t give it a thought, Miss Jackes.”
• • •
Ten minutes later I was opening Massey‘s door, noticing the marks on the lock where someone had tampered with it. Marilyn Jackes had given me the key and told me how to find the place.
At first the living room seemed in order. Then, behind a chair I found a lamp that had been smashed to the floor.
And blood.
I followed a trail of it into a bedroom. Clothes were strewn all over the place. A half-packed suitcase was on the bed. A tennis racket and golf bag lay on the floor near the open door of a closet. Blood stains were everywhere. But no Massey.
It looked as if he had been dragged from the apartment. But not without putting up a terrific fight.
I checked a second bedroom. It seemed long out of use.
There were no other clues to Massey so I got out of there fast and drove hard for Kim’s place.
I was shoving up the steps to the entrance when I saw a white Cadillac convertible roll past. The driver didn’t see me, but I saw him.
Tanno!
The Caddy turned a corner sharply and I decided it was too late to follow. I flew into the elevator and seconds later I was pounding on Kim’s door. There was no answer, so I kept right on pounding. After a long time and weakly, “Who is it?”
I damn near fell dead with relief.
“It’s Rod Striker, Kim.”
“Say it again.”
“It’s still Rod Striker. Open up!”
She did. With a rattle of chain. She grabbed me and held on tight for a moment.
“I wanted to make sure it was your voice, Rod. Because about five minutes ago someone else was out there.” She closed and locked the door, fixing the chain.
“Know who it was, Kim?”
She shook her head, biting her lip. “I called out but no one answered. So I didn’t open. I was too scared.”
“Smart,” I said. “It could have been Tarino. And if not, you can expect him.”
“Expect him? Why?”
“Because I just saw him go by.”
“Oh Lord, what’ll I do?”
“Nothing. I’ll handle it.”
She paced, rubbed her temples, sat on the arm of a chair.
“What about Howie?” she said in a tremulous voice. “You haven’t said a word.” “I haven’t had a chance.”
“Is there any news? I can see by your face it’s not good. Oh please, tell me quickly!”
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s not good. I have a couple of ideas, but I’m not sure. So I’ll have to call the police.”
“The police?” She paled. “Then you didn’t find a trace of him?”
“I went to his apartment, Kim. It was a mess. There was evidence of … Well, I think he’s in serious trouble.” “My God, what kind of trouble!”
I was trying to think how to put it when there was a sound at the door. I wasn’t very surprised, I was expecting something of the kind.
I motioned her towards the bedroom. “Lie on the bed in the dark,” I whispered. She seemed paralyzed but I gave her a little shove and she went I cut the lights and quietly removed the door chain. Then I bellied down behind the sofa, the .38 in my hand.
There was the scrape of metal on metal. Slowly the door opened. The gun came first and then the shadow behind it stepped in quickly and closed the door in one soundless motion.
For an age, he stood perfectly still. I knew he was adjusting to the darkness. I didn’t breathe. He moved haltingly in my direction, paused, turned towards the bedroom.
I had my shoes off and I followed close behind with the .38 in my fist. He stepped to the bedroom doorway, froze. Slowly he lifted the gun and aimed at the still outline of Kim Massey on the bed.
That was when the butt of my .38 came down on the back of his head. He staggered but didn’t fall. He turned the gun on me and I knocked it out of his hand with one downward swipe. Then Kim got the light on and I hooked his jaw with a solid right.
He collapsed and I picked up his gun.
A .32 automatic.
Kim was down on her knees above him, looking up at me and saying over and over, “What have you done, what have you done? Why it’s Howie!”
“Sure,” I said. “And this .32 he was carrying is the one that killed your aunt You were next.”
“He killed my aunt? Howie killed Aunt Martha!”
“That’s right.”
“Why, why?”
“Your aunt left you her money, didn’t she?” “Yes, but — ”
“And did you make out a will in favor of Howie-boy?” “Yes. We both made out wills the day we were married, each in favor of the other. He insisted, in case anything — Oh God, oh God,” she moaned. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t know anything for sure. This morning I decided it had to be you or Massey. I thought it was you. Then I went over to Marilyn Jackes place and I saw someone go down her fire escape. The guy looked like Massey and I figured he and Jackes had a thing going together. But when I got to Massey’s apartment it was a shambles and covered with blood. He had faked a fight but it convinced me and I didn’t know what to think. Except that maybe the guy on the fire escape wasn’t Massey at all. Then I saw Tarino and after that I was so goddamn confused I had to play it by ear. Period. Any more questions, ask Massey. He’s waking up.”
Massey had come to a sitting position, his eyes glazed. I held my gun on him while I moved to the phone and dialed Ben Ulrich.
Kim’s face had gone wild. “You killed her, you killed her!” she screamed at Massey. Then she began to pound him with angry little fists. That didn’t bother him so she clawed his face with vicious swipes, like a frenzied cat, sobbing the whole time.
I went right on telling Ulrich what had happened.
I didn’t once try to stop her.
Twenty-Four
“You mean to tell me,” said Myra, “that Tarino had nothing whatsoever to do with it?”
“Wrong,” I answered. “He got the ball rolling for Massey.”
We were in Myra’s apartment She was seated across from me, wearing nothing but a robe and one of those flimsy half-nightgo
wns. A shortie, I guess you call them. I saw it when she came to the door and the robe fell open just enough.
It was a couple of hours later. Massey had confessed and they had booked him. No bail for that boy.
“What kind of double-talk is this?” Myra asked. “Tarino got the ball rolling. I don’t read you, Sherlock.”
“I only know what I heard the man say down at the station, sweetheart. According to Massey, he just picked up where Tarino left off.”
I took a long swallow of my highball. How I needed that drink! Myra held the robe tight and crossed her legs in such a way that you couldn’t see item one.
“I get it,” she said. “Tarino gave Massey the idea, but for his part, Tarino was only bluffing.”
“Right. Tarino did send a couple of boys to rough Massey up. He did have one of those hoods make the threatening calls. Even though he’ll deny it. But he never meant to have anyone killed.”
Myra produced a cigarette and I jumped to give her a light. It gave me a chance to nibble her ear and peek at a couple of things that weren’t entirely hidden.
“Just how far did Tarino take it?” she asked when I finally made it back to my chair.
“Tarino arranged the one and only beating of Massey,” I said, “and the calls. Nothing more. Massey lied about someone trying to get into his apartment the night Mrs. Rumshaw was murdered. He scraped the lock himself. He phoned the police to make it look good.”
“And he faked the gory scene at his apartment, the one you found tonight?”
“True.”
“So what was his little plan?”
“Well, he was gonna shoot Kim, then run and hide somewhere. Later he would claim he was kidnapped but he got away. He wanted to make it appear that he wasn’t even around when wifey was killed.”
“Did this Marilyn Jackes have anything to do with it?”
“She was playing love games with Massey and that’s all. She didn’t know his scheme. And his problem was money, first, last and always. He had made a mess of the old man’s business. It was deep in the red and be was holding that imported bug-trap together with chewing gum, for show. End of story. Except that I got suspicious after the Aunt was killed. Because unless Kim was in with Tarino, how in the name of Jesus would he expect that she would fall into his arms after he had her aunt knocked off? Unless he was a moron studying to be an idiot, he’d know it was the end of him so far as Kim was concerned.
“Take that line of reasoning and you could only guess that — one, Tarino didn’t have the old gal plugged at all, or two, that he did and Kim was on the sidelines applauding all the way. Since Kim had the hots for Eddie-boy in the beginning, I figured she just never cooled off. So I was wrong. Come on over to my little chair and punish me.”
“I can throw things from here,” said Myra. “God,” she sighed. “Dancing virgins on a hot tin roof. I make a big play for Tarino who turns me over to Nick Markos, who dangles me by one foot like a kewpie doll fifteen stories in the air, no parachute — and now you tell me that Massey was our boy all the time.”
“What the hell. You got your jollies out of it.”
That was when she threw the ice cube at me. But I caught it and tossed back. A lucky pitch. Because the robe was open at the top and it went down her neck. She did a sitting broad jump and landed on her feet. That caused some mighty interesting angles to become exposed.
She glared at me.
I leered back.
She smiled. Then she began to laugh.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
“How about a one-inch steak with — ”
“We’ll eat later,” I said, and got to my feet.
She backed off slowly, then she began to run. I chased her all over the goddamn apartment But I guess I wasn’t trying very hard.
Because she finally caught me.
If you liked Kim check out:
Beautiful but Bad
Chapter One
Floyd Wyckoff watched from the window of his compartment as another station receded in darkness. The train gathered speed with the gentle ease of streamlined acceleration. Again there was the soft rhythm of movement, dots of light in the jagged dashes of night terrain, and the muted sounds which filtered with dream-like unreality to the isolation of the compartment — like the distant cry of engine to crossing, and then the thin warning bell at the gates, its volume growing in a splash of headlights, diminishing, gone.
Wyckoff plucked the newspaper from his lap and continued his examination of the financial section. But after a moment he yawned and thrust the paper aside. He pulled back the white French cuff of his shirt and studied his watch.
It was a gold watch; smartly modern. The design of the case was unusual, shaped like a diamond, but the face was without numerals; gold hands pointed to ruby chips. The watch had cost fifteen hundred dollars and was presented to him by the senior executives of Wyckoff, Bonham and DeWitt with an appropriate inscription. The occasion was his tenth anniversary as chairman of the board.
He had come to hate the watch because sometimes, in the haste of the moment, he misread the deceptively uncomplicated dial. Presently, it was 8:37. He observed with some irritation, that the train was going to be about forty minutes late into Miami.
Floyd Cameron Wyckoff was a multimillionaire at fifty-one. W. B. and D., a national brokerage house, was only the favourite of his holdings. There were others. He had the controlling interest in an airline, a shipping company and an auto parts chain. With so much achievement he had long ago forgotten the taste of failure and the exhilaration of success. In terms of personal need, he never thought of money at all. But there was still the pride and joy of power. When he spoke, even lightly, people moved to fulfil his smallest wish. His suggestions became orders, and his commands could rearrange the structure of big business and the lives of thousands.
Even now he was conscious of this power, dormant as a great jungle cat who sleeps in his cave and saves his energy for the prey. And with the knowledge of his power there was a feeling of indestructibility, as if the bulwark of ownership and command were almost a physical assurance of immortality.
Yet, like the lateness of the train, though in a larger, more destructive sense, there were unforeseen elements beyond his control. And toward these, Wyckoff was already moving too fast.
He was a big man, tall and imposing. Unlike most of the lesser brass who surrounded him, he was not one of those balding globs of fat, as sexual as a side of beef. His dark brown hair was barely touched by grey, and there was an ageless quality in the strong fibre of his body.
His face was square with tough, craggy skin. His eyes were chilled grey. His wide mouth was bold, his jaw demanding. His features were set in permanent lines of self-interest and arrogance.
He watched from the window until the outskirts of the city faded and once again the flat palm-strewn countryside lost character in the blur of speed and darkness. Then he pulled down the shade.
He lighted a cigarette. For a moment he sat tapping his teeth with a forefinger. He looked again at his watch. Frowning, he glanced toward the closed door of the compartment. “Damn,” he said aloud. He got up and paced the few steps possible, pivoted and returned. He produced a bottle of Scotch and a glass, added ice from the abundance provided by the porter and a ten dollar bill, and poured generously from the bottle. He picked up the glass and drank.
There was a knock on the door, a gentle furtive sound.
He put down the glass and quickly pulled his suit coat over his white shirt He opened the door and the girl slipped into the room with a little twist of her body, pushing the door closed in the same movement.
“Very good, very good,” said Wyckoff, clapping his hands in a mock gesture of approval. “I haven’t been waiting much over a half-hour.”
“Oh, now, Floyd. I had to eat, didn’t I?” She leaned back against the door.
“Sure, sure. You had to eat. But I still don’t see why we can’t at least take our meals together. I think this s
ecrecy bit has become exaggerated in your mind, Bonnie. It’s a little silly.” He picked up the glass and swallowed.
“It’s for your protection, darling. There are a lot of jealous little people who would just love to tell your wife.”
“And your husband?”
“Yes, and my husband. Not that I care — except that he’s just the type to make trouble, the brawling kind of trouble that gets into the paper.”
“Anyway,” said Wyckoff, “I don’t know anyone on this train.”
“Have you checked every car? Besides, there are many people you’ve never met in your life who might recognize you. A man in your position has his picture in the paper, has people pointing him out. See?”
“You don’t exactly pass for my wife at that,” said Wyckoff, smiling suddenly. “Not by twenty years, even if she had half your looks. But — separato meals, separate rooms, separate cars — we might as well be on separate trains.”
“Don’t I get a drink too, darling?”
He looked at her for a moment, twirling ice in the glass. His jaw relaxed, the shadow of hunger crept into his eyes. He began to fix her drink.
Bonnie reached behind her and with a groping of her hand, locked the door. Wyckoff finished pouring the drink and held it, not offering it to her, waiting for her to come to him. He really liked the way she made such an intrigue of the whole thing. It added an extra dash of spice to the affair. There was a subtle sense of drama in everything she did. And every act carried with it the overtone of her sensuality.
He had known more beautiful women, lots of them. But they were dummies with wooden faces and wooden responses. They fell in love with all the mirrors in all the rooms of the world. And in the intervals between mirrors they were merely actresses in one degree of skill or another, having no truthful appetite for the bed. Bonnie was that real article, the genuine wanton. She gave to sex a kind of cunning imagination and that rare abandon which searches out and invites the secret perversity of desire.