Terror comes creeping

by Brown, Carter, 1923-1985

  "How thrilling!" Her eyes shone with genuine excitement. "Is it something Martha's done?"

  "Not exactly," I said. "Your sister hired me to rescue you."

  She looked at me like I was something that fell out when you took the back off the television receiver. "I beg your pardon?" she said carefully. Right then I got that feeling, but I was in there, so I might just as well keep on pitching.

  "Martha says if you don't get away from here," I said slowly, "you'll be a statistic in the Missing Persons Bureau the way your brother is right now."

  "Philip?" She looked at me blankly. "Is he missing?" "That's the way Martha tells it," I said, but it didn't sound very convincing, not even to me. "You want to get your hat, pack a bag?"

  "This is a joke, isn't it, Mr. Boyd?" She smiled doubt-fuUy.

  "It's on me if it is," I said. "Aren't you being kept a prisoner here?"

  "That's crazy!" she said flatly. "Of course I'm not— whatever gave you that idea?"

  "You don't want me to rescue you?" 15

  "Of course not!"

  The front door opened and I heard the sound of heavy feet thumping across the hallway, then Pete the muscle-man came into the room, moving fast, heading toward me with a determined look on his face.

  "I'll take care of you," he said venomously. "You lousy—"

  "Pete!" Qemmie said sharply. "What's got into you?"

  It threw him off his stride, making us buddies again.

  Two Galahads riding in on white horses, with the damsel

  in distress telling us to go peddle our lances some place

  else. I knew exactly how he felt.

  "But, Miss Hazelton!" He nearly choked with emotion. "This guy just busted in here and—"

  "Mr. Boyd is a friend of my sister's, and he's just

  visiting," she said. "It's very rude of you to come into the

  house like this. I'm surprised at you, Pete! Please leave us."

  His face turned an ugly mottled color as he glared at her

  for a long, speechless moment.

  "Pete!" she said crisply.

  "Yeah," he muttered. "I heard you." Then he shuffled out of the room, the veins standmg out on the back of his neck in fury.

  Clemmie's face was flushed faintly when she looked at me, after Pete had gone.

  "I'm sorry about that, Mr. Boyd. He gets excited sometimes for no good reason. He thinks it's his job to protect me—against what I don't know!" She bit her full lower lip for a moment. "You were serious, weren't you, about Martha hiring you to rescue me from here?" "So was she," I agreed.

  The color deepened on her face. "Poor Martha! Sometimes she—well—she imagines things. I'm terribly sorry you've been put to all this trouble, Mr. Boyd. I'll mention it to my father—I'm sure he'll cover your expenses for your wasted journey at least."

  I got out of the Early Colonial chair, feeling like an Early Colonial hick.

  "It was no trouble," I said. "I guess I might as well go right back to New York now. That story about Philip having disappeared, that was Martha's imagination too, huh?"

  "I haven't seen him for the last two or three days," she said mildly. "But he and Father only cx)me up here on week-ends. I expect you'll find him in our Beekman Place apartment when you get back, if you're looking for him."

  "I'll tell Martha hello for you," I said. "Along with a couple of other things I've got in mind."

  "I'm truly sorry, Mr. Boyd," she said. "Don't be hard on her, it's .. . not her fault."

  "Sure," I said vaguely, then walked past her into the hallway and out the front door.

  Pete had disappeared, so the only thing left to do was get back into the car and drive toward Manhattan. That was how I had it figured, but by the time I reached the car, something happened to change my mind.

  The something was blonde, wearing a battered straw hat; a white cotton shirt with the top three buttons undone, and a pair of skintight citrus green pants. She walked with that wiggle which proves women smarter than men—they still know what a tail is for.

  I leaned one elbow on the left front fender of the car and watched as she came toward me. She didn't hurry because she knew she didn't have to, nobody was going to get bored watching her walk.

  Her eyes were the blue of Central Park lake in summer, and her skin was almost as bronze as the Seagram Building. She had high cheekbones, a tiptilted nose, and lips that looked lonely. Her high, full breasts made two sharp triangular outlines against the thin cotton shirt, proving that guy Isosceles knew what he was talking about.

  "Hello," she said in a softly pitched, slightly husky voice. "Arc you looking for somebody—or did you find them already?"

  "I found them already," I told her. "I didn't figure I was still looking for somebody untU you came along."

  "I guess you must be a traveling salesman?" She fluttered her eyelashes extravagantly. "My Pa done told me about guys like you!"

  "If you're the farmer's daughter, I'll go plough a field some place," I said.

  Her lips parted in a smile, showing even white teeth. "Pete told me about you," she said huskily. "That's why I had to come see for myself—Pete is supposed to be the tough guy around these parts."

  "Are you part of the hired help, too?" I asked.

  "I'm Sylvia West," she said. "I'm a kind of housekeeper-companion. During the week I see Clemmie doesn't get too lonely up here by herself."

  "What's to stop her going back to Beekman Place if she gets lonely?"

  "Nothing at all," she said evenly. "But she won't feel lonely with good-looking guys like you visiting with her. And you can stop turning your head side-on to me all the time—I caught the profile and I think it's really something."

  "The right profile is fractionally better than the left," I admitted truthfully. "But they're both pretty good!"

  "I love a modest man," she sighed gently. "So now I know you have a terrific profile and nice big muscles. Is there anything else I should know about you while we're on the subject?"

  "Danny Boyd's the name," I said. "I was about to head back to New York, but I just changed my mind."

  "You have a good reason?"

  "You," I said. "What better reason?"

  Her lips quirked upward at the comers. "I can't argue with that, can I? How long do you figure on staying?"

  "Depends entirely on you," I told her. "A housekeeper I don't need, but a sympathetic companion—that's something else again."

  "I don't mind at all how long you stay," she said, "but it depends an awful lot on Pete. I don't think he likes you very much."

  "Don't give me remorse!" I pleaded. "And if it depends on Pete, there's nothing to worry about. I can handle him."

  "I think maybe you can," she said softly. "Should we go back inside the house and tell Clemmie you've changed your mind about leaving?"

  "Plenty of time for that," I said. "Why don't you show me around a little? I've never got a close-up look at a farm before. How about showing me a steak on the hoof?"

  "This isn't Texas, partner," she said lightly. "But I can show you some bread on the stalk, or bacon on the trotter."

  "This is something new for me," I told her in a wondering voice. "A back to nature kick—life in the raw outside of nudism—and all that jazz. It kind of spoils things like you wearing clothes. The way I had it figured, there'd be a flute playing somewhere in the background while you gamboled naked through the woods."

  "We don't have any woods," she said. "And I never gamble—no girl in her right mind would bet on a profile like yours."

  "Martha Hazelton did," I said. "You figure she's in her right mmd?"

  "Should we see the bam first?" she asked. "Or would you prefer the pigs?"

  "I'm easy," I told her. "You feel like a romp in the hay first, it's O.K. with me. A little exercise before lunch never hurt anyone yet."

  "If it's fertility rites you're after, it's the wrong time of the year," she said calmly. "Come back in the spring, I won't be here then."

  We had
a quick look at a cornfield; we saw the lake with a couple of out-of-town ducks swimming on it, and we saw the barn, complete with its hayloft, tractor and mechanical cultivator. We saw the chickens and the cows and I got my shoes plastered with mud all over.

  Finally we got around to the pigpens. I stopped to light a cigarette and looked at a mother pig with nine baby

  piglets. It was a depressing sight, so I concentrated on Sylvia West instead.

  "How long have you been a housekeeper-companion-farmer?" I asked her.

  "Two months," she said. "Why?"

  "You don't seem the type, you're more the penthouse than pigpen style of girl. I don't believe you belong this close to the rich soil, even if that outfit you're wearing is kind of cute."

  "If it comes to that, you don't belong anywhere in New England, Danny Boyd," she said. "What are you doing so far out of Times Square?"

  "Martha asked me to say hello to her sister," I said. "You know Martha?"

  "Of course," she nodded. "She's been up here a few times with her father. She was here over the week end."

  "Has Philip been around lately?"

  "He was here at the same time."

  "They all went back to town together?"

  "Martha and Mr. Hazelton went back together on Monday morning," she said easily. "I'm not sure, but I think Philip left late on Sunday night. He wasn't around the next morning anyway—why do you ask?"

  "He's dropped out of sight the last couple of days," I said carefully. "I just wondered."

  There was a revolting series of grunts from somewhere much too close for comfort. I looked into the pen next door to momma pig, and saw the solitary pig inside. It looked kind of outsize as it rooted around savagely, thrusting its snout deep into the black mud.

  "Why is that one by itself?" I asked Sylvia. "All ready for market maybe—and that pen's the death cell, huh?"

  "It's a boar," she said. "An old, bad-tempered boar, that's why he's on his own. You wouldn't want to get inside the pen—those tusks can hurt!"

  "I'll take your word for it," I assured her.

  "He's called Sweet William," she grinned, "and he's a living lie. But the girl pigs think he's really something!"

  "The way he digs dirt with that king-sized nose, he looks like a syndicated columnist," I said distastefully. "He's got that look of morose belligerence on his face which reminds me of Pete.'*

  "Don't be so hard on Pete," she said. "He was only doing his job."

  "To keep visitors out?" I asked. "What's so special about this place you need a strong-arm to stop anybody taking a close look at it?"

  She sighed gently: "Talk about morose belligerence! Mr. Hazelton has a phobia about privacy, that's all. So he hired Pete to make sure he and his family get the privacy he wants. It's that simple."

  "It's that simple, I don't believe it," I said. "Pete is a professional."

  "Do you want to see some more of the farm, or will we go back to the house now?" she asked patiently. "It's close to lunch time, and I could use a drink. How about you?"

  "You read my mind," I said.

  Sylvia walked away from me toward the house, and I started to follow, but then I heard Sweet William's obscene noises building up to an alarming crescendo. I figured maybe he'd just struck gold, and against my better judgment I looked to see what the hell he was getting so excited about.

  The boar was rooting vigorously in one comer of the pen—churning mud like a mechanical shovel. Already he'd dug a long groove around six inches deep, and was deepening it still further, grunting enthusiastically as he worked.

  I watched with a kind of macabre fascination, until I saw why he was so excited. For a moment I didn't believe it; then I leaned forward over the edge of the pen to take a closer look—and had to believe it.

  Sweet WUliam had uncovered the thumb and index finger of a human hand. WhUe I watched, he looked up at me for a second, with satisfaction showing in his dull, brutish eyes. His jaws moved slowly in a peaceful rhythm,

  then he gave a satisfied grunt. I looked back at the deep groove he'd made in the black mud and swallowed hard. The top joint of the index finger was missing.

  I figured if Philip Hazelton had left the farmhouse late on Sunday night he hadn't gone very far.

  Th

  ree

  CLEMMIE HAZELTON'S EYES SPARKLED AS SHE LOOKED AT

  me when I walked into the living room.

  "I'm glad you changed your mind and decided to stay awhile, Mr. Boyd," she said. "It's nice to have someone visiting."

  "Can I fix you a drink?" Sylvia West asked. "We have Scotch, rye, vodka—"

  "Scotch on the rocks will do fine," I said.

  I lit a cigarette which tasted like the aftermath of Doomsday. Sylvia was busy making the drinks and Clem-mie sat watching me, her hands clasped around her knees.

  "Lunch is going to be a little scrappy," she said anxiously. "You don't mind taking potluck, do you, Mr. Boyd?"

  "Sounds fine," I said.

  "I know we've got a freshly cured ham," she said brightly. "Home-grown, and everything."

  My stomach lurched suddenly. "Don't worry about me," I mumbled. "I'm not hungry."

  Sylvia distributed the drinks and I swallowed the Scotch gratefully. I closed my mind to the thought of food—any food, and concentrated on the whisky.

  "Qemmie was telling me you're a private detective, Danny," Sylvia said. "I guess that accounts for your suspicious mind?"

  "It must be terribly exciting!" Clemmie looked at me with wide eyes. "Is it very dangerous?"

  "Not as long as you stay out of the pigpens," I grinned at her glassily.

  "Pigpens?" It obviously didn't register with Qemmie.

  "He's had a close look at Sweet William," Sylvia gurgled with laughter. "Danny is strictly a nature boy from the asphalt jungle."

  I thought about a second drink and decided against it —^business before pleasure, as the actress said to the producer when he wanted her to read a script before she relaxed on his couch.

  "I figure we'll miss lunch," I said to Clemmie. "We can eat somewhere on the road."

  "I beg your pardon?" she said blankly.

  "We're leaving," I told her. "I just decided your big sister isn't crazy after all. You've got ten minutes to pack your things."

  "You're joking?"

  "Not me," I said wearily. "I'm no private eye from television with a couple of scriptwriters in my pants pocket. I have to make up the dialogue as I go along—so no jokes."

  "Are you seriously suggesting that Clemmie leave with you, Danny?" Sylvia asked curtly.

  "I like the way everybody catches on so quick around here," I said. "Yeah, I'm serious. We're leaving."

  Clemmie jumped up onto her feet, her eyes dancing with excitement.

  "It sounds wonderfully mysterious!" she said. "Where are we going?"

  "Somewhere you can hide out for a while," I said. "Some place you'll be safe."

  "Are you out of your mind, Clemmie!" Sylvia said harshly.

  "Maybe!" Clemmie looked at her happily. "I just know I'm not going to miss out on the chance. This is the first really exciting thing that ever happened to me!" She looked back at me quickly. "I'll go pack a bag, Danny, and I won't be more than ten minutes, promise!"

  "Fine," I told her.

  She ran quickly out of the room, and I picked up my glass and thought maybe I'd have that second drink after all.

  "You can't mean this?" Sylvia said. "It's kidnapping! Ill call the police, I'll—"

  "Why don't you do something useful, like make me a drink?" I suggested, and tossed the glass at her.

  She caught it awkwardly, then walked over to the bar and began to fix the drink.

  "You must be mad!" she said tensely.

  "Crazy like a fox," I said.

  She brought the new drink across to me and I took the glass out of her hand. There was a worried look on her face as she stood in front of me, biting her lower lip gendy.

  "Listen," she said finally in
a low voice. "I'm not really a housekeeper or a companion, I'm a nurse."

  "I bet that made all the difference to the pigs," I said thoughtfully. "Knowing that, they can sleep nights."

  "Mr. Hazelton hired me to look after Clemmie!" she said in a harsh whisper. "She doesn't know, of course. But he's worried about her mental health. He hired me to watch her, look after her. She's easily excited—^you can see that for yourself. If you take her away with you, there's no telling what could happen!"

  "No telling what can happen if she stays here, either," I said.

  "How can I make you understand the importance of this!" she said desperately. "There's a history of insanity in the family—^that's why Mr. Hazelton's so worried about her!"

  "There's also a history of administering estates in the family," I said. "I'm looking forward to meeting this Hazelton creep—he must be a real nice guy. Martha hires me, so he sends his lawyer around to tell me she's

  got fungus in the attic. He hires you and says the same thing about his other daughter. I wonder if a head-shrinker's had a look at him lately?"

  It didn't mean a thing to Sylvia West—she wasn't even listening.

  "I can't let you do this, Danny!" she said in a tight voice. "I'll stop you leaving with her."

  "So you want a fight?" I said resignedly. "O.K.—I'll let you throw the first punch."

  She stared at me for a moment longer, then turned suddenly and ran out of the room. I heard her footsteps race down the hallway and the front door slam shut behind her. Then I heard her calling frantically, "Pete! Pete!"

  I finished the new drink slowly and thought the hell with Sylvia West and the hell with Pete—she could go fimd him, he was no special problem.

  Clemmie Hazelton came back into the room a few minutes later, carrying an expensive-looking grip in natural hide.

  "I'm all packed, Danny," she said. "Where's Sylvia?"

  "She just remembered she had to see a guy about another guy," I told her. "I think we'll go."

  We walked out of the house and there were the two of them waiting for us. Pete stood a few feet in front of the car, his arms folding their muscles across his chest, looking like something out of an old De Mille epic, with the sun hitting him full in the face. Sylvia stood to one side, watching anxiously, her whole body tensed.