Murder Mistress

by Robert Colby

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1959 by Robert Colby.

  All rights reserved.

  *

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  ONE

  At ten o’clock that night, Scott Daniels estimated that he was about two hours out of Miami. He had been driving south since dawn with only the dashboard radio for company. In the afternoon, the heat of a merciless July hot spell had begun to wear him down so that the landscape fused and shimmered and the hours of road-jog made him feel strangely unbalanced and light-headed.

  He had spun across the middle of the state over Route 27 because the towns were fewer and smaller and he could make better time. Also, there were long stretches of open road such as the one he was traveling now — nothing for endless miles but the flat tangle of the Everglades. He had stopped only once to eat — grabbing a quick sandwich while the car was being gassed and checked.

  His haste was not of necessity. He had another six days of vacation and tomorrow would be just a span of idleness with depressing reflections over his failure in New York. But Myra waited in the stuffy little westside apartment. And while Myra waited he wasn’t going to spend another night on the road. Because as his whole bright and hectic success had come tumbling down in a fraction of the time it took to build it, Myra had stood on the sidelines with a certain sadness in her smile but without the least accusation in her eyes. And above all in the world that was left to him, he loved Myra most. So that the urgency which pushed him forward into the night against hunger, against bone weariness, was self-induced.

  A half hour earlier the heat had reached a seemingly inevitable climax in one of those massive, broken-dam thundershowers for which Florida is famous. The rain had come smashing out of the sky as though driven by a minor hurricane, visibility had been not much better than a car length ahead, the road was practically awash and Daniels had lost the better part of twenty minutes before abruptly, it ended. Now the highway glistened under the long cone of his headlights, the air which rushed past his window was only slightly cooler and there was a soggy smell and feel to it. Yet, in one sense, Daniels was revived and eager — it was a mere spurt to Miami.

  He hadn’t seen a half dozen cars in the last forty minutes, not a single habitation. A lone gas station had been closed. But just ahead there was an intersection where he knew the highway picked up a branch that curved left towards the east coast. He released the accelerator even as he saw the lights of a combined gas station and cafe. It was a long and shoddy woodframe building. White and faded-blue neon alternated, weakly blinking … EATS…. GAS…. EATS…. GAS….

  He needed gas. And also food. The place stood squarely to the right of the intersection and had the quality of a bleak outpost in the night. There were two pumps which sat center of an unpaved island. He wheeled his ‘56 Ford into position beside them and waited. When no one came he didn’t blow his horn but cut the motor and lights, took the keys and went inside.

  There was a rectangle of dusky room lighted by a trio of low-watt naked bulbs, suspended from ceiling cords. To one side was a scattering of scarred tables and chairs, while opposite these was a bar over which, tacked to a wall, was a hand-painted sign — BEER AND WINE. Next to a door which apparently led to a kitchen was a square serving window. The one touch of color in the room was an immense red-trimmed jukebox. The place had a musty wood smell, seasoned with motor oil.

  A paunchy man in a stained white shirt, sleeves rolled above his biceps, leaned heavily upon the bar. He peered myopically at a crumpled newspaper as he rolled a toothpick from side to side in his mouth. If he heard Daniels, he didn’t look up at his entrance.

  The only other occupant of the room was an unusually attractive girl somewhere in her mid-twenties. She had dark hair which fell softly to a point just above her shoulders. Her delicately molded features were made up with that mixture of accent and restraint which come only with a natural instinct for artful grooming.

  Even sitting at the bar, her long legs and the slender sweep of her waist spoke of tallness. Her white skirt seemed immaculate. She wore a pale green blouse. It was plain, short-sleeved, open at the throat and had the look of expensive silk. Strapped over her shoulder was a handsomely tooled alligator bag. Though her attire was casual, the total effect of her made her surroundings seem the more shabby.

  As Daniels entered, she was already turned to face him, easing off the stool and peering at him intently, expectantly. He paused in the doorway, a little caught by the unexpected sight of such beauty apparently intent upon his arrival. Now she came towards him a step. But then as he moved and fell under the light, something went out of her face and she turned away immediately, remounting the stool and giving her undivided attention to the coffee in her cup.

  The paunchy man looked up at last and said, “Something for you, mister?”

  “Gas,” said Daniels. “If that’s in your department.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said, fill ‘er up. With regular.”

  “Yeah, sure thing,” said the man, folding the paper and shoving it aside. “You want regular, don’t ya?”

  “What have you got to eat?” said Daniels, sighing and approaching the bar.

  “Kitchen’s closed.”

  Daniels frowned. “That’s bad news,” he said. He studied the man. “I guess it is, anyway.”

  “What’s that?”

  Daniels sat down but didn’t answer.

  “Got some crackers, if you’re hard put. Peanut butter or cheese.”

  “Cheese,” said Daniels. “And a beer to wash it down.”

  “What brand you like?”

  “Just so it’s cold.”

  The girl got off her stool and went to the open doorway, peering out. There was tension in her every movement.

  “Hell of a bad rain awhile ago,” said the barkeep. “Goddamn skies busted wide open and fell right on top of us. You get caught in it?”

  “In the middle,” said Daniels absently, turning slowly to watch the girl who was still gazing out the door and pulling nervously on the strap of her bag. Nice, he thought. A sweet bundle. And right out in this wilderness — in this gas and eats joint.

  There was a time, before Myra, when he would have made much of such an event. At thirty-two he was lean and darkly handsome. But two hours away, restless in the heat, Myra would be waiting. Listening for the sound of him at the door, running to comfort him, to hear him out with tender patience.

  No, even if this one were willing, there was nothing in him for the old game.

  The barkeep set the beer in front of him with the crackers. “Now I’ll go out and gas you up,” he said. “Check under the hood?”

  “Just the gas,” said Daniels. “And the windshield.”

  At the doorway the girl gave way for the man and after a final look into the darkness went to the jukebox and made much of selecting a number.

  The music blared too loudly, too jarringly in the silence of the narrow room.

  Still watching the machine, the girl tapped her foot. But it seemed more like a release of pressure than any real pretension of keeping time. In a minute, she came back to her stool. Tasting the cold coffee, she made a face and pushed the cup away. At that mo
ment, she turned and their eyes met. He smiled pleasantly but without the least overtone of meaning. She smiled back, she glanced at her watch, then out the door.

  It must be a guy, thought Daniels. And I wish he’d come. I get nervous just watching her.

  The record died.

  There was a rumble and the sigh of air brakes. A big trailer truck rolled to a stop on the other side of the pumps. The girl swung to the sound, startled. More on edge than ever, she clamped teeth on lower lip and began to drum the bar surface with the pink petals of her nails. Her fingers paused, then spread out rigidly. Decision reached her face. She turned to Daniels with a set expression.

  “Which way are you headed?” she said quickly.

  “Miami,” replied Daniels.

  “On twenty-seven?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wonder, then, if you would be willing to take me along? I seem to be stuck here.” She didn’t smile, offered none of the feminine charms of persuasion.

  “Someone was supposed to meet you,” said Daniels. “But didn’t show. Is that it?”

  “That’s it. And, of course, I have no way to get in touch. There was a very definite arrangement and I’m worried. I must get to Miami.”

  “Well,” said Daniels, who liked to understand the logic of a situation, “there was a storm, there are all sorts of mechanical troubles which could crop up and your friend may have been delayed. How long have you been waiting?”

  She looked at her watch. “Exactly twenty-two minutes.”

  “Twenty-two minutes! Well, excuse me. But I really don’t think you’ve waited long enough. People can be that late meeting you on a street corner.”

  She shook her head positively. “No, I’m afraid you don’t understand. And I don’t particularly care to explain … if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly,” said Daniels. It was better not to pursue it. She seemed intelligent enough to know what she was doing. He sipped his beer.

  “Can we get going?” she said. “I mean, are you ready?”

  He looked at her, slightly annoyed. But he held the remark he was about to make. There wasn’t room in her face to crowd another line of disturbance. She would come apart. He gulped his beer and stood.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “As a matter of fact I’m in almost as much hurry as you are.”

  Together they went out to the car.

  TWO

  She sat almost on the edge of the seat, leaning forward slightly. Supporting herself with one hand on the dash, she peered ahead into the night.

  They had gone perhaps three miles with the speedometer hovering at sixty. The highway had dried considerably and only the hiss of the tires spoke of its wetness.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Just as a point of curiosity, how did you arrive way out here in the first place?”

  She withdrew her attention from the road with great effort and looked at him briefly. “I was brought here,” she said. “By car, of course. And then the gentleman had to go alone on an errand. It wasn’t supposed to take much over a minute or two. But he … he didn’t come back.”

  “I see,” said Daniels. “How very odd.” He could understand a little better now. Though where the “gentleman” would go and on what errand in an area of the Everglades where there was nothing for miles in any direction but the gas-station-cafe, he couldn’t imagine.

  “I’m Scott Daniels. I never did get your name.”

  “Valerie,” she said absently, looking straight ahead and speaking the word from the far distance of detachment.

  “Valerie …?” he said.

  “Yes, Valerie. Just Valerie.”

  They lapsed into silence.

  In a minute or two he became aware that he was quickly gaining on some vehicle. Far ahead he could see the red jog of a tail light. The light seemed oversized and strangely misplaced. It should be directly in line of his vision on the unbending road. But no, it appeared to wink on and off to the left. Then he picked up another blinking red eye, also to the left.

  In a few seconds it was clear. They were not tail lights but signal flashers on the left side of the road. And now he could see other lights, headlights, oddly canted. It added up to an accident with police and the usual curious travelers pausing for the thrill.

  He had a startling thought and looked quickly at the girl. She had seen it. She leaned forward with her face almost to the windshield. She was rigidly intent. Both hands were riveted to the dash.

  “Keep calm,” he said. “It could be someone else, you know. In any case, perhaps no one was hurt. You want me to stop, don’t you?”

  She nodded tightly without turning. “But not too close,” she said in a thin, dry voice. “Please! Not too close. Stop on this side. Then you go and … and come back and tell me.”

  “Okay. Until then, just don’t anticipate. It’s going to be all right.” But he didn’t really believe it was going to be all right.

  There was a side road which angled to the left. Down this road were a half dozen cars which must have pulled off the highway to avoid the narrow shoulder. And now the red flashing of patrol cars was clearly visible. And below them a small cluster of people gathered around the shadowy outlines of two automobiles which had careened off the highway into a shallow gully. The cars were separated by some twenty-five yards and one of them had keeled over.

  He took the side road, parked and said, “Now — who am I looking for?”

  “Never mind,” she answered. “Never mind!” Her voice was on the edge of hysteria. “Just see if one of the cars is a light blue convertible with a Florida tag. It’s a new Cadillac with a dark blue top. Tell me what happened to the man in it. Hurry, please. Run!”

  On the highway above the wreck there were two patrol cars. An officer sat inside one of the cars and wrote something under the glow of a dome light. He paused to speak into a microphone. There was a crackling, followed by a muted reply in a heavy male voice.

  Daniels looked below. A cream and red Olds sedan lay on its side like some great beast felled in a jungle. Most of the small crowd swarmed around it. A few others inspected the second car which stood upright a good seventy-five feet away. It was in shadow and the color was not distinguishable. But it appeared to be a Cadillac convertible.

  Daniels stepped around to the officer’s window. “Anyone hurt, officer?” he asked.

  The officer gave him a hasty glance and continued writing on a sheet of paper fastened to a clipboard. “Yeah,” he said. “One man hurt … so far.”

  “You don’t happen to have his name there, do you?”

  The officer looked up at him more carefully, then down to the sheet of paper, squinting. “Name of Martin Bates,” he said. “Mean anything to ya?”

  “No,” said Daniels “Was he in the Olds?”

  “Yup.”

  “Bad?”

  “Don’t know till we check the hospital. Ambulance took him away. Looked like he’d pull through.”

  “Who was in the convertible?”

  “Don’t know,” said the officer. He pushed his cap back and sighed. “Now do me a favor and let me get this report out, will ya?”

  “Sorry,” said Daniels. “And thanks a lot.”

  He moved down into the gully and, after a brief look at the Olds, hiked over to the Cadillac. It was a late model convertible, pale blue with a dark blue top. It had Florida tags. The right front was badly mauled. Tree branches and leaves were imbedded in the broken grill. The right rear fender was gouged, the rear bumper half torn from the body. There was no other visible damage.

  A pair of teenage boys and a young couple leaned inside the open windows, remarking on the magnificence of the automobile. The interior was clean and there was the smell of new leather.

  Daniels trotted up to the road and back to his car. She was outside. Standing in the darkness.

  “Tell me!” she said breathlessly. “A blue Cadillac?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think whoever was in it was hurt. Guy hurt was in th
e Olds. You know anyone by the name of Martin Bates?”

  She let out a long breath. “No,” she said. “But what about the Cadillac?”

  “The officer I talked to didn’t know who was in it. No sign of him. The other man was taken to the hospital — this Bates.”

  She was silent, breathing deeply.

  “I looked at the damage to the Cadillac,” said Daniels. “You don’t have to worry. If your friend was hurt, it wasn’t serious. The inside is neat as a pin.”

  “What about the rear?” she said. “Was there any damage to the trunk?”

  “No,” he said. “Why?” It seemed a curious question under the circumstances.

  “Were the keys in the switch?”

  “No. I noticed they were gone.”

  “I have a bag in that trunk,” she said. “I want that bag. I have to get it. There are some things in it that would identify me. I mean, I can’t be associated with this man. He’s married. And there could be a scandal.”

  “I’ve got the picture,” said Daniels, not terribly surprised. “If your friend has disappeared and they tow the car in, then….”

  “Exactly,” she said. “So will you help me get that suitcase?”

  “I don’t see how,” said Daniels. “I’d like to be gallant and all that. But the trunk looked very much locked to me.”

  She fumbled in her purse and handed him a set of keys. He took them reluctantly.

  “It’s the round key,” she said. “The square one is for the ignition.”

  “It’s your car?”

  “Well, no. But I used it a lot and I have my own keys.”

  “Great. With cops and people all over the place, I walk up and open the trunk. Don’t you think someone’s going to ask questions? Especially since they must be looking for this guy.”

  “Of course,” she said, “it’s possible that he took the bag with him. But just in case … would you?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “My hospitality has certain limits. If I was seen, it would be messy. I make enough trouble for myself without asking for it.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to risk it for nothing,” she said. “It would be worth, say … a hundred dollars to me.”