“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.”
IV
“She’s dead!” Mike Collins said in a flat, bewildered voice as Jeff stepped back to the terrace.
“She can’t be! It’s impossi
ble!” 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?”
The chief of detectives paused a moment, considering his reply. He looked sharply at Jeff, then spoke, “The medical examiner doesn’t know yet. He hasn’t found a mark on her body, except the bruised mouth, and that is hours old. It sounds damned silly, but the only explanation he has ventured is the possibility of rare poison.”
“It wasn’t that.’
“He doesn’t think it was, either. I’ll have you make a statement to a stenographer in a few minutes, Jeff. But, first, is there anything you can tell me that will speed things up?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I was looking at Pamela when the flash temporarily blinded me. When my eyes focused again, she was slumping forward. What caused the explosion?”
“Haven’t found out, yet. Whatever it was, it occurred in the top dish of the fountain, according to Smitty.”
“That’s how it was.” Smitty nodded. “It was almost dark. I was watching Pamela through my glasses from the tree, when the flash blinded me. When my eyes cleared, she was falling off the settee. I continued to watch. I saw Jeff’s back as he slipped into the house to phone you. No one concealed anything. I never took my eyes from that terrace until after the first policemen took over. Then I climbed down out of the tree and started toward the house. An officer grabbed me as I came to the end of the wall.”
Jeff nodded and turned to the chief. “How did you get on the job so quickly?”
“I wasn’t taking a chance, Jeff. When Smitty told me about the dinner tonight and that you were coming here, I sent two patrol cars to cruise the neighborhood. They were here in less than a minute after you called.”
An excited young detective burst into the library, glanced around hurriedly, and handed the chief a manila envelope. Chief Gaines lifted the flap. Jeff and the others leaned forward, Smitty bumping awkwardly against Jeff.
Out of the envelope rolled a small, misshapen lead pellet.
The mushroom-shaped bullet had a bit of red coloring on the end of it. Bill Gaines drew a magnifying glass from his pocket and studied it. He passed the glass to the other detectives in turn.
“I’ll be damned. An air pistol pellet. That little thing couldn’t have killed her, but call Doc Marshall and tell him about it. If this hit her, there must be some mark somewhere on her body.”
“Where was the slug found?” Jeff asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
The young detective answered without thinking, “Under the settee at the far end of the terrace where she—”
“Quiet!” Chief Gaines shot an irritated glance at his subordinate, and turned to Jeff. “Keep that to yourself, Hunter. We’ll find the gun this time. Hawkins” – he turned to one of the detectives at the table – “begin with Jeff Hunter. Take him up to one of the bedrooms and search him. Get a stenographer to take down his statement. Keep him there until I send for him.”
“What about this one?” Detective Hawkins jerked his thumb at Smitty.
“Leave him here. His eyewitness account will give us a basis for our questioning.”
“Come along, Mr Hunter,” Hawkins said.
“OK. Just a second.” Jeff addressed the chief. “Bill, will you have your men make a thorough search of the lawn? Using a vacuum cleaner might not be a bad idea for a quick preliminary search. I’ve got a hunch—”
“What foolishness—”
“Bill, you owe me something,” Jeff reminded him. “If I hadn’t tipped you off, they would have had Pamela upstairs and it might have been the same thing over again.”
“OK, Jeff.”
In an upstairs bedroom, Jeff was quickly searched. He dictated his detailed statement and was questioned closely by Detective Hawkins.
As Jeff signed the final copy of the statement, Patrolman Murphy burst into the room.
“Hell has broken loose. The chief wants you in the library, Mr Hunter. Bogart’s on the verge of apoplexy. Come on.”
“What’s happened?” Hawkins demanded.
Murphy paused to explain. “Plenty. Bogart’s taking the line that his niece died of heart trouble. The
chief is holding everyone incommunicado. He’s within his rights on the preliminary investigation. Somehow, Bogart’s lawyers have learned something’s wrong here. They’re burning the town getting restraining orders against a p.m., against everything. The investigation’s at a standstill, outside of this house.”
Bogart, seated behind his big desk in the library, reached into his humidor for a cigar as Jeff entered. He paused a second, then jammed one into his mouth, and shoved the opened humidor toward the assembled crowd.
“Mr Hunter” – he looked at Jeff – “I wish you’d try to convince these stupid policemen that Pamela died of a heart attack.”
“The police aren’t stupid, Mr Bogart. Why have you changed your tune? Downstairs, a while ago, you were accusing me of killing her.”
“I thought you had some sense, Hunter. If she didn’t die of a heart attack, you did kill her. There are plenty of witnesses who heard you threaten her. I’ve told the police. Granted that Pamela played a mean trick on you, it was, after all, only a joke. It didn’t justify your striking her, much less killing her.”
“It was more than a joke, Mr Bogart. It was pure malice. There was something wrong with Pamela – she couldn’t bear to see anyone else happy. I tried to explain that to Myrna Dalton, but there wasn’t time.”
“Why not?”
“She shipped out a couple of days after Pamela planted those clothes in my bedroom. I wrote to her once from China, and asked if she was ready to listen to my explanation. She wrote back that she was.”
“Why didn’t you send her the statement you forced from my niece? Oh, she told me about that, too!”
“I did, Mr Bogart. It would have squared things, but Myrna was killed in a bombing raid before the letter reached her.”
Bogart didn’t comment. Absent-mindedly, he picked up the darts that were lying on the desk before him, and threw them into the target as if continuing the around-the-clock game he had begun that morning. The feathered darts smacked into three, double three, triple three, four, double four.
Before throwing the last dart, Bogart looked at it. The needle-like steel point was broken off near the wooden body. With apparent disgust, he dropped the dart into the wastebasket.
The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction Page 71