Terror comes creeping

by Brown, Carter, 1923-1985

  "Is there something wrong?" Clemmie whispered nervously.

  "Nothing I can't take care of," I told her. "They don't think you should go with me, that's all. Let me handle it. Don't worry about what happens, just go sit in the car and wait for me, huh?"

  "Sure, Danny," she nodded quickly. "Whatever you say."

  We kept on walking until we got close to the muscle-man.

  "You're not leaving, buddy," he said coldly. "Not with Miss Hazelton, anyway!"

  "Pete!" Clemmie said in a shrill voice. "You don't know what you're doing—I'm leaving of my own free will with Mr. Boyd and—"

  "Sorry," he said flatly. "Miss West don't think it's right, and neither do I. You go on back to the house, Miss, and I'll take care of this guy."

  "Move over, Pete," I told him. "Before you finish up a heap of pigfood."

  "Not this time, buddy," he said with an ugly grin on his face. "This time I'm ready for you."

  He started to walk toward me slowly, his arms held out in front of him—anybody who didn't believe m evolution needed just one look at Pete right then to be convinced. I remembered those tiny white scars across his eyebrows as I watched his hands change into fists and saw him come up on his toes as he swayed toward me like a ballet dancer. He was an ex-pro all right, and my guess was he knew all the dirty tricks along with the rules laid down by the Marquess of Queensberry.

  So I had a choice. I could raise my own fists and try to prove I was a better fist-fighter than he was—and I wasn't for sure. I could let him slam at me a couple of times and wait, hoping to get close enough to him to give him a judo chop or a stiff-fingered jab where he'd remember it for the next few days. Or I could be a lousy sport and not get hurt at all.

  I reached inside my coat and pulled the .38 out of the shoulder holster, eased off the safety, and pointed the gun at his stomach.

  "Relax, buddy," I said. "Or I'U blow a hole through your guts."

  He didn't relax, he stood very still for a moment, looking at the gun. Then he lifted his head slightly and looked

  at me, and it wasn't hard to keep up with his mental calculations.

  "You're kidding!" he said finally. "You wouldn't dare use that rod, buddy!"

  "If I wouldn't use it, I wouldn't carry it," I said easily. '*But you go right ahead, buddy, if you want to find out the hard way."

  "You wouldn't dare," he repeated, but he didn't sound quite so sure the second time.

  "Get in the car, Clemmie," I said, without looking at her.

  I took a couple of steps toward Pete and he stayed right where he was.

  "You shoot me, it'd be murder!" he said thickly. "In front of two witnesses, buddy! You wouldn't stand a chance!"

  "I don't need to kill you, Pete," I said conversationally. "Smash a kneecap maybe, shatter a wrist."

  He was a one idea at a time man, and this was a new idea so he had to think about it. While he was thinking about it, I took another step and that brought me up real close to him.

  "How about this for another idea, Pete?" I said. Then I slammed the gunbarrel hard into his stomach, into the softness just below the rib cage, and the air came out of his lungs faster than a dame who's just realized it didn't say ladies on the door after all.

  He started to bend in the middle and I lifted the gun high, out of his way, then laid the barrel across the side of his head just above the ear. It made a kind of thunk-ing noise when it hit, and I would've felt sorry for Pete right then, except I never could feel sorry for a guy like Pete. I stepped back as he hit the ground with his face, and stayed there limp.

  I saw Clemmie's white face staring at me from inside the car and grinned encouragingly at her. Then I walked across to where Sylvia stood with a white face.

  "He'U be O.K.," I told her. "A sore head for a couple of days, that's all."

  "That was the most brutal thing Tve ever seen!" she said in a low voice. "You're nothing but an animal!"

  "I'm taking Clemmic somewhere where she'll be safe until aftef her mothei^s estate is cleaned up," I said. "You can tell Old Man Hazelton that, and tell him she'll be where he can't find her."

  "You won't get far!" she said icily. "I'll call the police right away—now."

  "Sure," I said. "And while you're talking to them you might mention that new feed you're giving Sweet William —now there's something that is real nervous!"

  "What are you talking about?" she said blankly.

  "You mean you don't know?" I shook my head dubiously. "Well—if you really don't know—there's one easy way to find out. Why don't you go take a look?"

  I turned around and walked back to the car. As I slid in behind the steering wheel, Clemmie looked at me with her eyes glittering.

  "That was the most exciting moment of my life!" she said in a shaking voice. "Did you kill him , Danny? Did you? Is he dead!"

  "Just knocked out," I said. "Take it easy, will you?"

  I started the car rolling down the tracks toward the gates, and fumbled for a cigarette.

  "I was worried," she said breathlessly. "Pete's awful strong and everything. But when I saw you had a gun I knew it was going to be all right."

  "I'm real glad you had faith," I told her thankfully. "It made all the difference."

  I swung the car out onto the road with its nose pointing toward Manhattan and trod down hard on the gas pedal.

  "Would you have shot him if you had to, Danny?" she asked in a mufiled voice.

  "I guess so," I said absently.

  "I knew you would!" Clemmie sounded almost ecstatic. "I knew you would—I kept saying it over and over to myself all the time—'Danny will shoot him, Danny will kiU him!' I wish you had!"

  "You what?"

  "I wish you had killed him, Danny." There was an urgent, demanding note in her voice. "I've never seen a man killed before."

  "You figure it's something every growing girl should see?"

  "It would have been like growing up aU at once," she said wistfully. "Like the moment of truth at the bullfights, but this would have been so much better, Danny, don't you see? This would have been a man who was killed, not just an animal!"

  She started to cry suddenly, starting out in a soft whimper and finishing with loud, dry sobs. Her fist pounded my shoulder in an unsteady rhythm as I drove.

  "You should have killed him, Danny," she wailed. "I wanted so much for you to kill him!"

  Thirty minutes later I stopped at a roadside diner and we went in for lunch. Since the hysterics, Clemmie had been quiet, almost sullen, but she brightened up at the thought of food. I ordered steak sandwiches and coffee, and tried hard to ignore the smell of crisping bacon that sneaked up on my nose.

  "This is terribly exciting, Danny," Qemmie whisf>ered loudly in my ear. "I've never done anything like this before."

  "Hell!" I said. "People eat in dmers all the time."

  "I mean I've never been kidnapped before, you idiot!"

  Her whisper had got louder still and it seemed to bounce off the walls. A truck jockey, the other side of her, turned his head slowly and scowled at me. He must have been over two hundred pounds and it looked all muscle. I figured if he ever got a breakdown, he just lifted his truck in one hand and carried it home.

  "You don't have to whisper," I told Clemmie. "We're going back to New York, for now anyway, to my apartment."

  "Your apartment!" she squealed excitedly. "Are you 29

  going to keep me there all the time, Danny, with the door locked and everything? Maybe take all my clothes away even, so I can't escape?"

  The truck jockey's eyes bulged suddenly and then his head moved quickly until his face was just six inches away from mine.

  "Listen, Mac!" he said explosively. "I got a good mind to bust—"

  "Relax," I told him hastily. "She's my sister—and she's just kidding."

  He thought it over for a couple of seconds, then looked at Qemmie. "That right, lady?"

  "Why, no!" She looked up at him with wide, imiocent eyes. "That isn't right at all—
he's just a friend of my brother's. You see, my brother owes him a couple of hundred dollars and he couldn't pay it back. So Danny here," she smiled sweetly at me, "suggested that if I went to New York with him for a week and stayed at his apartment, he'd forget about the money my brother owes him."

  The truck jockey was breathing heavily through his nose by the time she'd finished. He put his right hand on my shoulder and five steel talons dug cruelly into my flesh.

  "So that's how it is, Mac?" he said softly. "You trade a sweet little kid like this for a lousy coupla hundred bucks! So I'm giving you a new face to go along with the deal!"

  The talons let go my shoulder suddenly and rearranged themselves into a bunched fist the size of Sweet William's snout.

  "Get your gun, Danny!" Clemmie hissed in a choked voice. "Quick! Get your gun and kiU him, Danny—he'll kill you if you don't!"

  The fist remained poised in the air for a second, then it quivered a little.

  Clemmie stood there, her eyes closed tight, her whole body shaking with excitement.

  "Kill him, Danny," she repeated stiffly through 30

  clenched teeth. "Shoot hira in the stomach—he asked for it!"

  The truck jockey dropped his arm back to his side and took another look at her. A trickle of sweat ran down one side of his face and he wiped it away with the back of his hand absendy. Then he looked at me again.

  "Whatsa matter with this dame?" he asked hoarsely. "She lost her marbles or something?"

  I loosened my coat so he could see the butt of the .38 protruding from the leather holster, then widened my eyes so the whites showed.

  "There's nothing with the dame, Mac," I said in a grating voice. "Just figure you made yourself a lucky break and you've still got your marbles!"

  The trickle of sweat down the side of his face rapidly changed into a steady stream. He backed off a pace quickly, with his coordination not functioning a hundred per cent, so he bumped another guy on the way.

  "I guess a guy can make a mistake," he said in a jerky voice. "Sorry." Then he walked rapidly toward the door.

  Clemmie giggled suddenly. "I didn't really think you'd shoot him, Danny, I was just hoping!"

  "I should drape you over that counter and tan the hide off you," I said sourly.

  An interested gleam came into her eyes. "You horrible man!" she said warmly. "I bet you know I just might enjoy it."

  What was the use—I quit. The steak sandwiches arrived and she attacked hers with a startling primitive ferocity.

  "I have to make a phone call," I told her. "Just try and behave until I get back—don't go assaulting any of these truck jockeys, huh? They're all married men and they love their wives!"

  "Your sandwich will get cold," she said indistinctly through a mouthful of steak. "No, don't worry, it won't. rU eat it."

  "Wear it in good health," I grunted.

  I got inside the phone booth and pulled the door shut behind me, then checked the directory. I called the State Police headquarters and said I wanted to report a murder. I gave them the name and location of the farm; the exact location of the pigpen and a description of Sweet William; I told them the farm was owned by Galbraith Hazelton and I suspected the body was that of his son, Philip Hazelton.

  The guy on the other end of the line was most interested in the whole deal. I answered one question before I hung up on him.

  "And what is your name, sir?" he asked politely.

  "Houston," I told him. "I am Mr. Galbraith Hazelton's attorney."

  It's a hard world here below and most of the time you're too busy kicking the next guy's teeth in before he does the same to you, but once in a while comes along the chance to do something nice for the next guy. I stepped out of the booth, feeling I'd done my good deed for the day, and if it got Houston into any real trouble, I'd be happy to recommend a good attorney.

  By the time I got back to the counter, Clemmie was finishing the last mouthful of my steak sandwich. I got that smell of frying bacon again and right away lost my appetite and settled for a cup of coffee.

  Four

  WE CAME INTO NEW YORK AROUND FIVE-THIRTY THAT

  evening. I parked the car on the block where I live on Central Park West, then carried Clemmie's grip for her into the building.

  When we got inside the apartment, she walked over to 32

  the window and looked down into my back yard, or Central Park, as other people call it.

  "You have a beautiful view, Danny," she said. "I'm going to like it here."

  "Fine," I said. "I'U fix us a drink."

  The phone rang when I was halfway to the kitchen. I answered it, and a cool, remote voice said, "So my wandering boy finally came home. I'm still sitting in the office like a good secretary should—is there anything I should do before I start out on my Midwestern investments project?"

  "Not a thing, Fran," I said. "Any calls—or callers?"

  "I was getting around to that," she said. "Don't jump me—not in the office, anyway. Callers—there was that Houston man this morning. He seemed almost annoyed that you were out and I didn't know when you'd be back. . . Then early this afternoon, just after lunch, there was a Mr. Carl Tolvar to see you. He'll be back probably tomorrow, he said."

  "Tolver?" I repeated. "I never heard of him."

  "He said the two of you were in the same racket," Fran added in a bored voice. "From the way he looks it must be white slavery. If you're thinking of selling me off to an Eastern potentate, Danny Boyd, I warn you now, you'll only get a ten per cent commission on the deal, and that's my last offer."

  "How about phone calls?" I said.

  "I was gettmg around to that, too," she said patiently. "This is where it gets real exciting, so hold onto your insides. A bitchy-sounding dame called about three times during the last hour. She wouldn't give her name, but the last time she called, she said she'd see you in the same bar where you met yesterday, and she'd wait there until six-thirty. That make any sense?"

  "Sure," I said.

  "I'm glad for you, Danny," she said gently. "I hope it gets to be an exciting evening—but from the sound of her

  voice I think you should take a horsewhip along with you. I've met her type before."

  "I'll keep it in mind, Fran," I said. "See you in the morning."

  "Depending on how my investments pan out tonight, slaver," she said. "Give the anonymous dame a nice, savage nip from me."

  I hung up and went out into the kitchen and made a couple of drinks, then took them back with me to the living room again. Clemmie sipped her drink appreciatively, and stopped looking at the view and looked at me instead.

  "I feel so wonderfully immoral, Danny," she said happily. "Are you going to make violent love to me now or wait tin it gets dark?"

  "I have to go out for a while," I said quickly, "but I should be back in an hour."

  "Would you like me to get dinner ready while you're gone?" she asked earnestly. "Or just slip into a negligee and wait?"

  "Dinner sounds like a wonderful idea," I said. "There should be some food in the icebox. Why don't you do that?"

  "You think you might bring back some champagne with you, Danny?" she asked wistfully.

  "in make a note of it," I promised her. "Just one thing—don't answer the phone if it should ring. If I want to call you, I'll let the phone ring three times, then hang up and dial again right away."

  "I haven't had so much excitement since that time at school when one of the gardeners chased me around a hedge."

  "Did he catch you?"

  **No," she sighed gently. "It wasn't my fault—^I'd slowed down a lot, but the French teacher's wife came around the wrong comer at the right time and he caught her instead. Neither of them were ever quite the same afterwards."

  "They fired the gardener?" 34

  She shook her head. "He quit to go and work full time at the French teacher's house."

  I came into the bar at quarter after six, and it took me a while to spot Martha Hazelton in the crowd. Then finally I
saw her at a table tucked away in one comer and went over.

  She wore a cocktail dress, black and white silk, with a widely-scooped oval neckline. There was a blue fox stole with golden glints in it, draped carelessly across her shoulders. I sat down beside her, relaxing in the upholstered comfort of the bar, and signaled a waiter.

  "I was just about to give up hope that you'd get here," she said. *T called your secretary—if that's who she is —three times, but she couldn't—or wouldn't—tell me anything."

  "She didn't know where I was or when I'd be back," I said. "You wanted this to be a very confidential assignment, didn't you?"

  "Of course!" she said coldly.

  The waiter hovered impatiently and I ordered a gin and tonic—there was another untouched rye on the rocks in front of Martha Hazelton.

  "Well?" she said impatiently after the waiter had gone.

  "Qemmie's in my apartment right now," I said.

  She took a deep breath. "I'm so glad. But will she be safe there?"

  "I don't see why not," I said. "I wanted to see you first before I took her any place else. You have any ideas about a hideaway?"

  "I don't care where you take her, so long as she's safe!" she said. "I thought I made that clear the first time?"

  "Finding a hideaway isn't that easy," I said. "I figure she'd be better in New York where I can keep an eye on her. Maybe my secretary's apartment."

  "That's up to you," she said. "I said I'd pay all the expenses, they're a minor detail. What happened at the farm?"

  I gave her a censored version of what had happened. I didn't teU her about Sweet WiUiam and the corpse under the mud of the pigpen. Somebody else could tell her about that.

  "Pete is simply a hired thug employed by my father,** she said when Vd finished talking and had a chance to drink some of the gin and tonic. "I knew there was something more to that West woman than the housekeeper-companion story Father put over! Anyway, Clem-mie's out of their clutches now and I'm relying upon you to see she stays that way, Mr. Boydl"