Dagger of Flesh

by Richard S. Prather

  Gladys answered my ring. She was dressed more soberly than usual, in a dark blue jersey dress. Her eyes were red, and she wore no makeup. She still looked pretty good, but a bit worn.

  I said, "Gladys, you know how sorry I am. If you don't want to talk to me right now, just say so."

  She sighed and bit her lip. "No, it's all right. Come in, Shell."

  She led the way into the living room and slumped onto the divan. I sat down in one of the big chairs. An awkward moment passed while I mumbled again how sorry I was and she dabbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief. Even during the awkwardness and the small, heavy silences, I wondered if she knew it was my gun that had killed her husband. I couldn't have been much more uncomfortable.

  Finally I said, "Is Ann here?"

  "She's in her room. She's been there ever since the police came early this morning. She hasn't eaten." Her voice was dull and flat. She wasn't the same woman who had sworn at me here last night.

  "I'd like to see her, if she's up to it," I said. "Incidentally, Gladys, was it the police who notified you?"

  She nodded, wordlessly.

  Here I was, talking to the bereaved widow only a few hours after her husband's death. But, probably because of the business I'm in, I couldn't help wondering if two or three hundred thousand dollars would have made Gladys look less bereaved. And it seemed strange to me that she'd take Jay's death so hard. She hadn't been very concerned about him when he was alive.

  I asked, "Did the police go into much detail? Do you know how he died?"

  "Yes. He was shot. He ..." She stopped.

  "I mean the details. The gun itself."

  She frowned slightly. "Well, the police did ask some peculiar questions. About you, Shell. I wasn't sure, I was so shocked and stunned." She frowned still more and her eyes widened slightly. "But now—"

  I said quickly, "Gladys, I didn't know a thing about what had happened to Jay until this morning. The police came and talked to me, too. I—My gun was stolen. That's been proved to the satisfaction of the police." There were several seconds of thick silence, and then I said, "I was trying to help Jay. You might say that right now I'm trying to make up for not succeeding very well."

  "I see." She looked at me, shaking her head, then her voice became sharper. "I see," she said again. "Dear Shell. Dear ex-love. This must be part of your personal investigation. Isn't it? Is that why? Of course. That's why you went to see Mr. Hannibal." She glared at me.

  I got up. "Look—"

  She went on, her voice nasty, "Of course it is." She laughed shrilly. "And I thought you came to sympathize with me, to console me now that—Oh, this is unbelievable! Dear, dear Shell. Mr. Hannibal was here only a few minutes ago as Jay's lawyer and as his friend! I suppose you know that, don't you? Were you spying, sneaking around spying on me again? Spying on Ann and me? Asking Mr. Hannibal who gets Jay's money now that he's—Oh! Get out!"

  I said doggedly, "May I speak to Ann?"

  "No, you may not speak to Ann!" she yelled, spitting out each word. She was on her feet now, her mouth writhing. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out, get—"

  "Shut up, Gladys!" Ann spoke from the doorway behind me, and as I turned she said quietly to me, "You want to see me, Shell?"

  Gladys said in a tight voice, "He wants to ask you if you killed your father, Ann. He wants to ask both of us." Her voice wasn't loud, but it cracked like a whip. "It was his gun Jay was shot with, so he—" She twisted the words off suddenly and sank down on the divan. Her head dropped and she sat staring at the floor.

  Ann said, "Come on, Shell." She turned and went back into the hall. I followed her. She didn't look around, but went slowly up the stairs to her room on the second floor. She shut the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed. I stood just inside the door, wishing I'd never come into the house.

  She motioned me to a low, damask-covered chair.

  I sat down and said to her, "Ann, what Mrs. Weather said about my gun—"

  "I knew about that."

  "You knew? How—"

  "The police. Oh, they didn't say so, but it wasn't difficult to draw the obvious conclusion." She was quiet for a moment, then she added flatly, "It was easy for me; I told you I'm practically a genius, didn't I? Among other things."

  She didn't smile. She didn't look very different from the way she had last night, except for her lack of expression. She wore the same knitted green outfit, and she'd put on makeup, probably for something to do. But there wasn't any of her previous vivacity of expression and there wasn't any lilt or life in her voice.

  Death affects people in a lot of different ways. Some go all to pieces, others seem to shrivel up within themselves and wither inside first before the pain spreads and seeps to the surface. Others will get drunk. Ann looked like the kind who go on nearly normal for days or weeks, then suddenly come apart all at once. I wondered what she'd been thinking since she learned it was my gun that had killed Jay—if she'd been thinking at all.

  She looked at me steadily. "Why did you come here, Shell? I shouldn't think you would, after last night." She paused. "I heard what Gladys was saying. Did you talk to Hannibal?"

  I nodded and said, "Listen to me, Ann. Just for the record. I liked, admired, and respected Jay. I wouldn't have hurt him knowingly for the world. But somebody did, and I'm going to find out who it was."

  She looked at me, really at me, for the first time. "Did you learn all you wanted from Hannibal? Dad left everything to me. I'm rich now. Gladys doesn't get it, and I'm glad she doesn't. She didn't love him as I loved him." She smiled, but it was all on the outside, just a movement of her lips. "They didn't even sleep in the same room, but I'll bet that didn't deprive her of a good night's sleep. Or anything else."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You think about it." She looked away from me and added, seconds later, "I know she'd gone shopping all day and never bought a thing. What would you make of that?"

  I didn't answer her. That was one question I couldn't answer very well. We sat quietly till I asked her, "Why did Jay change his will, Ann?"

  She said quickly, "Why shouldn't he? Gladys married him only for his money. He knew it, so he changed his will."

  "Are you guessing?"

  "All right, I'm guessing. Dad didn't ever say so, if that's what you mean. He wouldn't have. But anyone would know she married him for his money." Her jaw got hard for a moment and she said, "She won't get it now. She won't." Then she paused and said softly, "Oh, God, how I hate her." Several seconds passed. Then Ann sighed deeply through her open mouth and said, "You'd better go."

  "Ann," I said, "I'm sorry. If there's anything—"

  "You'd better go. This isn't like last night, Shell. I can't even talk to you today. I can't think, can't feel anything."

  Suddenly the wooden appearance of her face melted and she turned and threw herself facedown on the bed. Sobs burst from her mouth, their shrillness muffled by the bedclothes. Her body shook uncontrollably. I walked over to her and put my hand gently on her shoulder.

  She twisted around and looked up at me, mascara smudged around her eyes, lipstick smeared redly along the side of her mouth. With her lips pressed tightly together she shook her head and waved past me to the door.

  I turned and went out.

  I walked down the stairs and to the front door. I didn't see Gladys anywhere and I couldn't hear Ann crying. I heard nothing except my footsteps, and they sounded abnormally loud, as if I were walking alone in a tomb.

  I got into my car and sat quietly for a few minutes, just thinking. I'd learned a little, maybe, but whether it was any good, or even true, I didn't know. I still wondered why Jay had been killed so soon after leaving everything to Ann, but I'd convinced myself of one thing: even if Ann did inherit Jay's estate, it was foolish to think she might have killed him.

  If I tried hard enough, I might make myself believe a lot of things about that girl, but not that she'd murder her own father.

  Chapter Eleven

&nb
sp; I DROVE to a neighborhood bar and ordered a rum and soda. While the bartender fixed it I used the phone to call Joseph Borden, but drew a blank. I tried both his office and apartment twice while I finished my drink, but all I got was the buzz of an unanswered phone.

  In the next hour I called on Miss Stewart, the woman Hannibal had escorted to Jay's party, and Ann's long-underwear Arthur. I got nothing from them that I didn't already know, and frustration started growing inside me.

  Miss Martha Stewart was a plain but pleasant woman in her early thirties. She was slim and well-groomed, with her nails freshly painted, and her hair set in neat waves close to her head. Yes, she'd known Hannibal for a year or so; they'd been to the theater two or three times, and to the party at the Weathers'. Lovely time. Parrot? Why, what are you talking about, Mr. Scott?

  I told her good-by and headed for Arthur's. He reminded me of what is sometimes, in school, called a "grind." His chin was fine as far as it went, but it only went about halfway, and he appeared to be fond of biting gently on his lower lip. He was about nineteen or twenty, and he probably got straight A's at school. I didn't even go inside. He looked at me from behind his rimless glasses, nodding occasionally while I talked, answering me courteously and quickly. He thought it was fun talking to a "private eye" and he examined my credentials with great interest when I showed them to him. And, like I said, I got nothing.

  This would be my last stop; then I was going back to the office and maybe throw myself out the window. I knocked on the door of Apartment Seven at 1458 Marathon Street. Nothing happened, so I knocked again and a door opened, but not the one I was banging on. Ten feet down the hall the door of Apartment Eight opened and Ayla Veichek looked out.

  She looked different. The face was still mean, with pulled-back black hair and slanting eyebrows, but I had taken such a good look at Ayla last night that I knew her quite well indeed, and something about her appearance was different. Ah, yes, she had clothes on.

  It was just as well. There was more I needed to know about that Saturday-night party at the Weathers', and I was here on business, not pleasure. Almost any business, though, would have been a pleasure with Ayla. She looked good, even dressed. She was wearing a bright print dress of thin cotton—or maybe it wasn't cotton, but it was thin—and she seemed to be wearing it with a good deal of reluctance. It might once have had a V-neck, but on Ayla the V became a U with the obvious result, and the results obvious. It looked as if one good wiggle would dislodge the narrow straps from her shoulders and allow the dress to slide eagerly down to her waist. At least.

  She smiled slowly. "Hello, Shell."

  "Hello. I was looking for you—"

  "Oh?"

  "And Peter. Where is he?"

  "Out."

  "In the garage?"

  She was still smiling. "No. Downtown. I thought you might be back today."

  "Well, that's not why I'm here. I mean I wanted to ask you some questions. Lots of questions. Both of you."

  "Come in."

  I went inside and she closed the door after me, then walked to another door standing ajar in the far wall. It led into Peter's apartment. She pushed the door shut, looked at me and shrugged.

  "Sit down," she said.

  I sat down and Ayla pulled another chair over close to me and relaxed in it, draping her long legs over one of its arms. "Have you found the parrot you were asking us about?" she said.

  "Uh-uh. Maybe I won't. Have you heard about Jay Weather?"

  "What about Mr. Weather?"

  "Somebody killed him."

  She swung her legs to the floor. "Killed—you mean he was murdered?"

  "Didn't you know about it?"

  "No. That's terrible!" She paused, then asked, "How did it happen?"

  I gave her as little as I could. "The police found him. He'd been shot. Nobody seems to know who did it, or why."

  She shook her head in disbelief. After a few moments she shrugged and threw her legs up over the arm of the chair again. A six-inch strip of white thigh blossomed under the hem of her dress, and suddenly seemed the brightest spot in the room. It was certainly the prettiest.

  I cleared my throat and said vaguely, "Did Jay seem normal the night of the party?"

  "I guess so. I didn't know him very well. I'd been there only once before, with Peter."

  "Peter knew him, then?"

  "He'd done some work for him. You know, posters, advertising things. That's how Peter makes his living—commercial art."

  "Commercial?"

  "Yes. I got the impression last night that you didn't think much of his portrait of me."

  I grinned at her. "Hell, I hardly saw it." She chuckled. I said, "You and Peter weren't old friends of Jay's then?"

  "No. Mr. Weather liked Peter, so he asked us over, that's all."

  "Last night you told me you were hypnotized by Borden at the party. Do you remember anything about that?"

  She frowned. "It's not really clear to me, but I can remember fairly well. He told me to do things, and I remembered his telling me—but I went ahead and did them anyway. It was—oh, as if I just didn't care. Borden said I didn't go really deep."

  Her thigh gleamed. She swung her foot gently and it seemed as if there were nothing but that gorgeous thigh in the room. I said, "Those suggestions he gave—he removed them all, didn't he, before anybody left?"

  "Yes. About twelve-thirty, I think it was. Just as we were all getting ready to go."

  I swallowed. "Did you all leave together?"

  "No. Peter and I were the first to leave."

  "Borden was there when you left?" I swallowed again. My eyes were starting to water.

  "No. He was the first to leave—just before Peter and me. All the others, except Borden, were still there when Peter and I left." She was quiet a moment, then said, "Do you like it?"

  "Like what?"

  "What you're looking at."

  By George. I was still looking at it. I blinked and focused my eyes on her face. She was smiling, leaning against the back of the chair, her foot still swinging gently. It was a wicked smile, all right. From all that swinging, the hem of her dress had crept up a little more. And where it was creeping, a little was a lot.

  I said, "Well, that about uncovers it, Ayla—covers it, I mean. The questions. For now." I had several other things I wanted to accomplish today, and I was becoming disorganized. I stood up. "So, thanks. I'd better be going."

  She got up too, but by sliding forward over the chair arm, the dress riding up her thighs until it was soon doing her no good whatsoever. It was certainly doing me no good whatsoever. It seemed that whether Ayla was in a robe or a dress, that was all she was in. There was still nothing beneath the dress except Ayla and she didn't seem to mind at all that we both now shared that knowledge.

  As she stood up, the dress rustled back down her thighs to her knees. "Must you go, Shell?"

  "I have to go some time."

  "Stay a while longer. You weren't anxious to leave last night."

  "I'm not really anxious to leave now."

  "Then don't leave, Shell. Stay a little while. With me." She stepped up close to me.

  She wasn't smiling or trying to be funny now, and suddenly neither was I. I looked at her black eyes and slanting brows, the lips like blood, the mounds of white flesh caught at the neckline of the thin dress.

  She stepped even closer and her arms went around me. I felt the long fingernails dig into my back as my hands brushed the skin of her arms and moved down to her waist. She slid up against my body like a fluid, her lips parted and her head thrown back as I found her mouth with mine and strained her to me.

  We clung to each other, our bodies molding together until she pulled her lips from mine. For a moment she looked up into my face, silently, then her hand went behind my head and pulled it down to hers again.

  Last night when I had looked at her she had seemed beautiful and cool, relaxed and almost lethargic in her movements. She was different now, close against me, her lon
g body moving hungrily, her lips searching my mouth and her tongue darting and curling. I slid my hands over the swell of her hips, up the arching curve of her back and gripped the fragile straps at her shoulders.

  In a moment she moved away from me, dropped her arms to her sides and let me ease the dress from her shoulders and down over her breasts while she looked at me, breathing through her mouth. When I let go of the cloth and pressed my hands against the smoothness of her, she moved her fingers briefly at the side of the dress, then slid it down over her hips, let it fall and stepped from it, naked, toward me.

  I picked her up, carried her to the divan and lowered her to it, fumbled with my clothes and then sank to the divan to lie full-length beside her, reaching for her with my lips and my hands and my body. Ayla placed both her palms against my chest and whispered almost inaudibly, "Wait, Shell." For what seemed a long time she held me from her, then she smiled. Her eyes closed. "Hold me. Love me."

  When I pulled her close her arms went around me and she pressed the length of her body almost violently against mine. Her lips were moist and clinging as they kissed me and pressed against my flesh and nibbled at my skin, and the long fingernails traced fire down my spine. Then she was softness, an incredible softness, every touch of her hands, her breasts, her thighs, a velvet softness and warmth that swallowed me, enveloped me, for an immeasurable time.

  Darkness was gathering when I got back to the Farnsworth Building, went up to the fourth floor and started walking down the dimly lighted hallway to my office. The other offices were dark and deserted now and my footsteps echoed hollowly down the length of the building. I was thinking that I didn't know where I went from here. All my leads were wavering around without purpose, leading nowhere. I still hadn't been able to get in touch with Borden again, and that was something I could work on, but outside of that I wasn't sure what I could do. I didn't have anything definite I could hang onto. As soon as I got the germ of an idea it flickered and vanished like Jay's parrot.