Girl Meets Body

by Jack Iams

  She stopped and shrugged. “Well, he didn’t come back. Whoever he was afraid of got him. And at the same time, the man all Europe was afraid of got Poland. I went into the ATS, and I went in with everything I had. It’s a terrible thing to say, but the war, in a way, was a relief to me.”

  “Your aunt,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Did she know what the message was?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see her for some time after I went into the ATS. Then one day she phoned me and said she was going to the States. To look into Daddy’s death, presumably. Perhaps she was looking for the message, too.”

  “Did she find it?”

  “She sailed on the Athenia,” said Sybil quietly. “She wasn’t—among the survivors.”

  There was another silence in the sunlit clarity of the room.

  “That’s the story,” said Sybil. “I made up my mind to get to the States as soon as the war was over. Marrying an American made it easier.”

  “Was that why you married him?” asked Mrs. Barrelforth.

  “By a curious coincidence,” said Sybil, and under the hard brightness, her voice trembled, “I was in love with him. I still am. But I haven’t much right to expect that he’s still in love with me.”

  For the first time in quite a while, Tim spoke. “Mrs. Barrelforth,” he said, “there seems to be some doubt oh my wife’s part as to whether I’m in love with her or not. Would you mind—”

  “I don’t have to be told when I’m de trop,” snapped Mrs. Barrelforth. “I’m just trying to get the coffee things out of your way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A Way To Die

  The wind came up and drove gray clouds across the sky, dousing the sunlight and turning the sea to slate, but it could have blown the roof right off the bedroom without the occupants taking much notice. Mrs. Barrelforth had to knock several times before she got a reply.

  “I don’t know how long it takes young people nowadays to kiss and make up,” she boomed through the door, “but you’re well past the limits fixed by the Association. Besides, you have guests.”

  There was a confused mumble of voices from the bedroom, then Sybil’s disentangled itself and cried, “Guests! Why? Who?”

  “Bridge guests,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “I rounded them up for you as a special treat. Thought it would relax you.”

  “I’m not sure I ever want to play bridge again,” said Sybil.

  “You’d better play it this once,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “It’s going to be interesting. Don’t bother to dress. It’s only our old friends, Squareless and Whattleboot.”

  Sybil looked at Tim inquiringly. “She must have some reason for it,” said Tim. “She usually does.”

  “All right,” sighed Sybil. “As long as we don’t have to dress.”

  Tim slipped his feet into slippers and went to get his bathrobe. When he came back, Sybil was wearing a housecoat that reminded him, with a sheepish twinge, of Millie. It was a subject he hoped wouldn’t come up again.

  Downstairs, Squareless was sitting in an easy chair beside the fire, which crackled pleasantly in the chill afternoon. His face had regained his customary ruddiness, but his grizzled hair was still hidden under the cap of bandages.

  Mr. Whittlebait prowled nervously about the room, he looked as if he wanted to get back to his pinochle game and also as if he disapproved of people being in dishabille in the afternoon. He didn’t mention it, naturally, but, equally naturally, Squareless did.

  “A fine thing,” he growled, “slapping around like that at this time of day.”

  “At least,” said Tim, “I’m not wearing a nightcap.”

  “All right,” grunted Squareless. “I know I look ridiculous. I can’t help it.”

  “What happened to you, anyway, Mr. Squareless?” asked Mr. Whittlebait with polite concern. “I heard you wasn’t well.”

  “Had a nasty fall,” said Squareless. “Are we going to play bridge or gossip all afternoon?”

  “I’d sort of hoped we were going to have a drink all round,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “I’ll fix ’em. You folks go ahead with your game.”

  Tim set up the card table in front of Squareless, who said he didn’t propose to do any moving about. They cut for partners as usual, Sybil drawing Mr. Whittlebait, and set tied comfortably to the deal.

  Mrs. Barrelforth came back with drinks, passed them around, and stood behind Sybil, watching the play and humming lightly, as if amused by something.

  “Do you have to hum?” asked Squareless.

  “Sorry,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. She wandered idly to the window and looked out. Tim, glancing up, got the impression she was waiting for something. Apparently she was gazing toward the inlet and the bridge. Whatever she expected, she seemed to be satisfied because she walked back to the table again.

  Mr. Whittlebait was struggling meekly with a four-spade contract. On the last nick, he laid down the jack of trumps with a pleased smile that changed to apology as Squareless took it with the queen.

  “Thunderation,” he sighed. “There I go figurin’ on that right bower again. Dang!”

  “Dang is right, Whattleboot,” said Mrs. Barrelforth cheerfully. “Even I could see how you had to hold yourself in on that one.”

  “Name’s Whittlebait, ma’am. Don’t know what you mean.”

  “The name,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “is Frankie Heinkel. I might add that it’s been a real pleasure to watch one of the slickest card sharps this side of hell trying to pretend he’s a beginner.”

  In the silent room, the fire was loud, the thud of the sea outside thunderous.

  “You must be crazy, ma’am,” said Elias Whittlebait.

  Mrs. Barrelforth was fumbling matter-of-factly in her bag, from which she now produced two items. One was a set of handcuffs, the other a revolver which she pointed casually at the handy man.

  “You’re under arrest, Heinkel,” she said. “For any number of things. For the murder of Sam Magruder. For the attempted murder of John Squareless. For the murder, seven years ago, of Magruder’s British partner who happens to have been your hostess’s father.”

  Mr. Whittlebait sat motionless. But his pale eyes glittered behind the thick lenses.

  “Dirtiest trick of all, Heinkel,” Mrs. Barrelforth went on, “was holding out on the message that the man you were about to kill wanted sent to his daughter. You’re going to burn, brother, and you’re getting off too damned easy.”

  Swiftly, so swiftly his hands scarcely seemed to move, the handy man sent the card table forward with a lunge and followed it with his body, using the overturned table as a shield. From his pocket came a gun. He and Mrs. Barrelforth fired simultaneously, both shots ripping through the table top.

  With a little cry of pain and vexation, Mrs. Barrelforth let her revolver fall to the door. Blood appeared on her grotesquely dangling hand.

  Tim wasn’t aware of making any decision. It seemed natural and automatic that he should be diving for the slight figure crouched between the table legs. His mind, in fact, felt disassociated from his body, watching his hand grope with agonizing uncertainty for the gunman’s wrist as a football spectator watches the recovery of a fumble. Then he had the wrist firmly clutched and their bodies closed in and they rolled over together on the hearthrug.

  Tim had weight on his side, but the other’s slightness quickly proved to be a rapier wiriness. He twisted and turned like a steel-plated eel. The wrist in Tim’s fingers jerked like a piston.

  Mrs. Barrelforth had picked up her revolver with her left hand and stood there holding it awkwardly as the two men grappled in slithering confusion of arms and legs. Sybil pressed her fist to her mouth in frenzied helplessness. Squareless was trying to lift himself from his chair, cursing his impotence.

  The wrist slipped out of Tim’s fingers, their hands clasped together over small, metallic l
ife and death, and the gun went off. In the shattering instant, Tim wasn’t sure but that this was the way you died. Then, slowly, he realized he was still in one piece and the writhing eel in his arms was growing limp. Cautiously, suspiciously, he relaxed his hold. Nothing happened and he stood up. The bullet had torn through the other man’s head and he lay dead in front of the fire.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Grand Slam, Redoubled

  Sybil swayed against Tim, sobbing in overwrought relief. Squareless had sunk back into his chair, breathing hard. Mrs. Barrelforth was wrapping a handkerchief around her hand and muttering to herself. Then she glanced toward Tim and said, “Nice work, son. Saved the day. Are you all right?”

  “Just scared,” said Tim. “How about you?”

  “Slightly scraped. Not to mention humiliated. Particularly as it was my own bright idea to separate Heinkel from the rest of his gang so I could handle him myself. Instead of which, he damned near handled me.”

  “Where is the rest of his gang?” asked Tim.

  “In the pokey, I trust. Did you hear that motorcycle go across the bridge a while ago? That was a State trooper giving me the high sign that the hideout had been raided. I don’t suppose they put up much of a scrap without Frankie. Which was one reason for getting him out of the way.”

  “Where was the hideout?”

  “That general store back in the pines. The yokels who sat around the stove there were simply the Heinkel outfit. Apparently the idea of holing up and passing off as a simple-minded backwoods community goes back to the days when Heinkel ran the big casino down the coast. The few genuine Pinies who lived around there were either paid off or terrorized into keeping their traps shut.”

  “Did you know all this last night?” asked Tim.

  “No,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “To tell you the truth, I thought they were using Squareless’s house. You remember that Lady Sybil—I’m in the habit of that now, sorry—picked up the same sort of paper there that that inquest note was written on. Turns out it came from the general store. Furthermore, I thought it possible that Lady Sybil had spotted Squareless as Heinkel and that she was the one who took the pot-shot at him.”

  “A similar thought occurred to me,” said Squareless.

  “So you told me,” said Sybil. “And my feelings are still hurt.”

  “At that time,” said Squareless, “I thought you a much more ruthless adventuress than you’ve turned out to be.”

  “But why did Whittlebait or Heinkel, or whoever he is, want to shoot Mr. Squareless?” asked Tim.

  “It wasn’t Frankie in person,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “That cowardly scum never did his own killing. But I don’t know, either, why he wanted Squareless knocked off.”

  “f think I do,” said Squareless. “Remember the day when he just couldn’t resist that Vienna coup? Hie thought I’d tumbled to him. He gave me credit, I’m afraid, for being a faster thinker than I am. The truth of the matter didn’t dawn on me until today when Mrs. Barrelforth and I got to talking things over.”

  Tim looked at Mrs. Barrelforth. “Might I ask,” he said, “if matters of this sort are frequently dealt with by the British-American War Brides Improvement Association?”

  Mrs. Barrelforth blew on the fingernails of her left hand. “It was quite an organization while it lasted,” she said. “Bit of a feat, really, when you consider that I was the only member.”

  “You mean you made it up?” asked Sybil in awe.

  “Yep,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “I had to invent some pose that would cover a big horse of a lady cop like myself. And I must say the Association worked out very well. Especially the New Jersey Chapter.”

  Sybil stared. “Lady cop?”

  “One of Scotland Yard’s best, my dear,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “You should be quite flattered that I was put on your trail. Although, mind you, I wasn’t assigned to the States just for that. You see, the Yard has been working pretty closely with the American authorities to break up these ship gambling mobs before they could get their post-war operations under way. Then, when the daughter of a pre-war British operator—forgive me, child, but there it is—turned up as a war bride, I was ordered to stick with her at least until we knew what she was up to. Hence the Association, which I trusted would enable me to string along as an amiable nuisance.”

  “And Sam Magruder?” asked Sybil.

  “Sam Magruder, my dear, offered his services to the police the day after your father was killed. You’re aware, I suppose, that Sam and your father were partners for a good many years and, to give ’em their due, they were honest as professional gamblers go. The year before the war, this mobster Heinkel, who was already cutting into most landlubbers’ gambling, got the bright notion of organizing all shipboard professionals into a ring. The idea was that he’d collect all proceeds and pay off as he saw fit. In return, he’d look after ’em if they got into trouble—get lawyers, fix cops, and so on. Anybody who didn’t care to join was welcome to the rosy expectation of being shoved overboard one fine day. Magruder and your father tried to hold out against him. Finally Magruder saw the writing on the wall and gave in. Then he asked your father to come to New York and talk it over. Your father came, but his mind was made up. Maybe that unhappy scene with you shortly before had something to do with it. Anyway, your father had an interview with Heinkel and Magruder. He was killed an hour later.

  “Magruder quit Heinkel cold and Frankie had been gunning for him ever since. Of course, the war broke loose then, and shipboard gambling went to pot. Although from what I hear of GI crap games, more than chocolate bars changed hands. Anyway, during the next few years, Heinkel was too busy dodging the draft to worry about Magruder, and the police had no particular need for Sam then, either. It’s only in the past year that all concerned started to pick up where they’d left off. Any more questions? If there are, I’d like a drink on the side.”

  “Only one,” said Sybil in a small voice. “With Heinkel dead, and Sam Magruder dead, does anybody—could anybody—know what Daddy’s message was?”

  Mrs. Barrelforth shook her head, sadly and sympathetically.

  There was a stirring and a rumbling from the easy chair where Squareless sat. “I may be able to throw some light on the matter,” he said. “You see, I’ve known Sam Magruder for a great many years. Perhaps you’ve guessed, Lady Sybil—damn, I’ve got the habit, too—that I also knew the late self-styled earl.”

  Sybil stared at him, her breath coming in short gasps. “No,” she said. “I never guessed.”

  “Well, I did,” said Squareless. “Knew him damned well. Knew him too damned well for my own good. I was perfectly well aware he made a living at cards, but I had the egotistical notion I could beat him if I kept at it long enough. He was an engaging sort of rascal, too, and it was fun to play with him. If you can call it fun to lose every cent you’ve got with you in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

  He paused and his beefy hands gripped the arms of the chair. “Furthermore,” he went on, “I wasn’t alone. You’ll recall my telling you, Lady Sybil, ; at after my wife died in childbirth, I took the unfortunate offspring with me on my travels. With Julia to look after her.

  You’ll also recall my telling you that I lost the child.

  “I lost her, all right. I lost her at sixty-four card bezique to the man you learned to call your father.”

  He clamped his lips shut and sank back in his chair. “God forgive me,” he muttered, but to no one in the room.

  There was a long silence. Outside the light was fading and the wind shook the house.

  Sybil went to Squareless’s chair and knelt beside him, resting head and elbows on his knees. His hand touched her dark hair, then drew back.

  “So you are my father,” she said softly.

  “Yes,” said Squareless. “That’s why I arranged with Magruder for you to come here. I thought that perhaps—
if we saw a bit of each other—I might get the courage to tell you. I even let myself hope that, given time, you might learn to love me a little.”

  “But I do,” whispered Sybil. “I already do. I did when I met you and I didn’t know why. It frightened me. Like Trilby and Svengali.”

  “I’m still a little frightened,” said Tim. “Everybody’s turning out to be somebody else except me. Here I am, the same old pedant I always was.”

  “You’re a lovely pedant, darling,” said Sybil, turning her face toward him. “And you’ve got a lovely father-in-law. I’d be the happiest girl in the world if we only had a lovely fourth for bridge.”

  “Patience,” said Tim. “One of these days—”

  “Speaking of patience,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “did I, or didn’t I, ask for a drink a good ten minutes ago?”