Terror comes creeping

by Brown, Carter, 1923-1985

  I caught her wrist and held it tight enough to stop her getting any further.

  "Stay with it," I said. "I'm just getting warmed up. You and the old man had one hell of a problem—Philip's body. You'd fooled the cops once, but supposing I tried them again, you couldn't be sure they wouldn't dig up every pen the second time.

  "So you called me for help, and then used every delightful curve you have to persuade me to come out to the farm. You gave me the ultimate proof you were on the level by showing me the pens and letting me figure out how the cops had missed finding the body. Then the interlude in the bam—was that strictly for kicks? The big deal about not wanting to go back to the house, but

  letting me talk you into it for the girls' sake—then you'd done your part. Tolvar could take over, have me drive around while you and the old man dug up the body and had it ready and waiting for when we got back."

  "You're crazy!" she spat at me. "Let me go!"

  "In one moment," I said. "It went wrong—I got away and Tolver was dead, but somebody did some brilliant thinking and came up with the hit-and-run idea. And that worked even better than you'd expected, because I was dumb enough to forget I was carrying Philip's body in the trunk of my car."

  I let go of her wrist suddenly. "So go back to the old man and tell him sure I'll be out at the house later, and to stay. I'm coming to protect my client, like he suggested!"

  "I told you it was Mr. Houston's idea!" she said stormily.

  "That's right, you did. But I still think it was the old man's. Tell him I'm coming out."

  She massaged her wrist. "You hurt me. You're the most stupid, dirty animal I ever—"

  I opened the door, pushed firmly with one hand against her back, and propelled her outside into the corridor.

  Her face was white with fury. She stood for a moment, the cashmere sweater about to come apart at the very fibers, then she looked down at her legs—and the stockings which sagged forlornly around her ankles.

  "You can—" She nearly choked with fury and had to swallow a couple of times to get her voice back. "You can at least give me back my garters!" she said in a metallic voice.

  "Honey-chile," I shook my head, "I told you I wanted a souvenir."

  "But how will I keep my stockings up?" she wailed desperately.

  "Try walking on your hands, why don't you?" I said, then shut the door gently in her face.

  If this was being a catalyst, I was beginning to hke it. 99

  El

  even

  I HAD DINNER BEFORE I LEFT THE HOTEL. FOR ALL I KNEW

  it was going to be a long night and wlio needs hunger? It was just after eight when I got going in the rented convertible. Another nice, crisp, moonlight night, and once I'd left the city limits, there were just the soft silhouettes of trees on either side of the road, caught ia the headlights' glare. Made me feel kind of nervous; I've got the native New Yorker's fear of open spaces. I just don't trust all that nothing, not imtil it's filled with tall buildings, anyway.

  I turned off the road through the open gates, past the board which stiU said "High Tor," then down the tracks to the farmhouse. For a moment, after I'd turned off the motor, I just sat in the car, Ut a cigarette, and looked at the house. Lights showed from the windows, it didn't look any different now than it had before. But something was different about it.

  You could feel it and it couldn't be put into words. A sensation, something that touched your face like a spider's web, and then was gone. Something that spiked your nerve ends and made them jump suddenly and painfully. A silent, creeping thing that crept closer all the time, waiting to pounce. What was it Sylvia had said about a house of fear?

  I got out of the car fast because I knew if I sat there much longer thinking that way, I'd turn the car around and drive straight back into Providence—and that hit-and-run rap Greer had waiting for me.

  The front door opened almost as soon as I knocked, and Galbraith Hazelton stood there, glaring at me. He looked a lot older, even since the morning when I'd last

  seen him. His eyes were sunken in his cheeks, and the mustache didn't bristle any more.

  "What do you want, Boyd?" he asked in a lifeless voice.

  "To see Martha," I said. "She's still my client."

  "You can't see her," he said. "Haven't you caused enough tragedy to my family?"

  "She's still my client," I said. "I'm going to see her, I don't think you can stop me, Hazelton."

  Hazelton was pulled back from the door suddenly, and Pete Rinkman, the handyman with muscles, took his place.

  "Maybe Mr. Hazelton can't stop you, buddy," he said softly. "But I can!"

  The only difference in his appearance, compared to the first time I saw him, was that now a red, instead of black, shirt was tucked into the polished cottons. His boots still had the same high gloss.

  "Hi, Pete," I said. "Seen any more hit-and-run accidents lately?"

  "Nobody wants you here, buddy," he said. "So why not go now before you get hurt?"

  "We went through this routine once before, I remember," I said.

  His face darkened a fraction. "This time, I'm watching you!"

  I slid the Magnum out of its harness, weighed it in the palm of my hand for a moment, then looked at him again.

  "The gun don't scare me!" he said flatly.

  "It should," I told him. "I'U use it if I have to, buddy."

  "Pete!" a voice called sharply from somewhere in the haU behind him. "Who is it?"

  The next moment Martha Hazelton's face appeared over Pete's shoulder.

  "Mr. Boyd!" She looked almost pleased to see me. "Do come in."

  "Excuse me, buddy," I said politely to Pete, put the gun away, then stepped past him into the hallway.

  I saw Galbraith Hazelton just disappearing into the living room—he must have quit trying when his daughter got into the act as well.

  "Fm very glad you came, Mr. Boyd," Martha said in a low voice. "Very glad."

  She looked just as immaculate as ever, in a white silk shirt with a pointed tab collar, and tailored peon pants. Her dark eyes smiled at me as she shook hands.

  "My father told us the good news about your release," she said. "Not that he thought it was good news, but I think you already know how he feels about you?"

  "He drops a hint here and there," I admitted, "like a thermal bomb."

  "What brings you here, Mr. Boyd?"

  "You," I said. "You're my cUent, and I figure after what happened this morning, you need some protection."

  "I think you're right," she said tautly. "Thank you for coming."

  Pete brushed past us on his way somewhere to the back of the house, his face an expressionless mask.

  "Well," Martha Hazelton injected a false note of brightness into her voice. "Shall we go into the living room?"

  "Maybe we could play happy families?'* I suggested.

  Inside the living room, Hazelton was sitting in an armchair Ughting a cigar. He gave me a blank, hostile look, then concentrated on the cigar again.

  "You've met Father already I think?" Martha said in a dry voice. "Do you know Mr. Houston?"

  Houston was at a card table playing gin rummy with Sylvia. He looked up and almost smiled—^but his corpse's eyes behind their half-frames showed no emotion at all.

  "Glad to see you, Boyd," he said.

  "And I think you know Miss West," Martha concluded the unnecessary introductions, "our—er—housekeeper?"

  "We've met before," I said. "I've always thought Miss 102

  West was a highly efficient girl—no one needs to tell her to pull her stockings up, I'm sure!"

  Sylvia shot me a glance of pure hatred, then looked down at her cards quickly.

  "You can see we're just one happy family here, Mr. Boyd," Martha said caustically. "Can 1 make you a drink?"

  "Gin and tonic," I said, "thanks."

  She walked over to the small bar in one comer of the room, and told me to sit down while she made the drinks. I sat in one of the uncomfort
able Early Colonial chairs facing the card table, with Hazelton on the other side of me.

  Martha brought the drinks over and sat down in the chair next to mine.

  "Do you know what progress the police are making with the case?" she asked.

  "Lieutenant Greer says they've nearly got it all wrapped up," I said. "But he didn't give me any details."

  Houston stopped shuffling a deck of cards and looked across at me. "That's very interesting news, Boyd," he said. "You have no idea who they suspect?"

  "Greer didn't confide in me," I said. "So your guess is as good as mine. . . . What is your guess?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, it all seems completely unreal to me even now. Whoever the murderer is, there's no doubt we're dealing with an immensely clever personality—a brilliant brain." His eyes never left Martha's face as he talked on in a slow, deliberate voice. "The way the murders were carried out showed a natural genius for strategy and planning, one almost can't help admiring it."

  "Admiring it!" Hazelton said in a choked voice. "Are you mad, Houston? You're talking about a cold-blooded killer who murdered my boy and my youngest girl!"

  "Do you have a special guess about the murderer's identity, Mr. Hazelton?" I asked him.

  "No," he said angrily. "But I'm damned sure you had something to do with it!"

  "Martha hired me," I said. "Does that mean you th ink she's the murderer?"

  "No!" he almost screamed. "You're twisting my words^ making out I'm meaning something I don't mean!"

  "You're quite sure, Father?" Martha said tightly. "I mean, there's only me left now, isn't there? If I were found guilty and electrocuted, there would be none of us left. So you wouldn't have to worry about Mother's trust fund, would you? No survivors among the children, and the money goes to you, as the sole surviving member of the family, as I remember?'*

  Hazelton stared at her dully. "What are you trying to say?" he whispered.

  "If the trust fund's just a little short," she said icily, "say—half a million or so? Wouldn't it be convenient if there was no one left to inherit but you?"

  He sat forward with his shoulders hunched, his hands clutching the arms of the chair.

  "You think I'd do that?" he said in a shaking voice. "I'd kill my children—^for money!"

  "You love yourself more than anyone else on earth," she said flatly. "You always have—the fine image of yourself you carry aroxmd in your mind—Galbraith Hazelton, Wall Street big shot—financial tycoon. The man in the homburg hat with the military mustache and fine upright bearing! You'd do anything to stop that picture being splashed across the front pages with 'Swindler' written underneath!'*

  Hazelton looked numbly at the cigar between his shaking fingers for a moment, then threw it into the fireplace.

  "I am worth, conservatively, something more than a milli on dollars at this moment," he said bleakly. "I'm no Wall Street tycoon, I'm not even considered to be a big shot there. A middling-small shot if you like. But I don't run a stock-broking business because I need the money!"

  "That's a pretty speech, Father," Martha said coldly. *'Why don't you practice it for Lieutenant Greer?"

  "As far as your mother's trust fund is concerned," he went on in the same bleak tone, "I have nothing to do with it. I never have—I speculate with my own money— gamble with it even. But your mother's money was different. I always felt I didn't have the right to risk it. It was a temptation at first I admit, but I got rid of the temptation by having someone else administer it. My instructions were the capital was to be invested in blue-chip stocks and there was to be no speculation of any kind. Once a year I look over the books, that's all."

  "You don't expect me to believe that?" Martha said contemptuously.

  "I'm not sure right now whether I expect you to believe anything," he said quiedy. "But you can easily check if you wish—ask the man who's administered the fund from six months after your mother's death right up until the present."

  "Don't tell me his name is Smith and by some coincidence he's away in Europe at present?" Martha jeered.

  "His name is Houston, and he's right here in this room," Hazelton said flatly. "Actually it was his senior partner, Abrams, who handled the estate for the first four years, up until his death. But Houston has managed it ever since."

  "Houston?" Martha repeated slowly. Her dark eyes grew enormous. "But I thought—"

  "Tell her, man!" Hazelton said fiercely. "Is it true, or not?"

  Houston studied the fingernails of his right hand for a moment.

  "Oh, yes," he said politely. "It's perfectly true."

  "Why didn't you tell me this before!" Martha shouted at him suddenly.

  "You never asked," he said mildly.

  "You should have told me!" she screamed, "You let 105

  1 me think all the time it was Father who was—" She

  stopped suddenly.

  "Go on, Martha," Houston said conversationally. "Who was what?"

  "Nothing!" she said sullenly.

  "Embezzling money from the trust?" He finished the sentence for her. "I don't have the capital your father has, naturally, but my income over the last five years has been in the six-figure bracket. I also don't need money, but if you would like the fund's books audited I shall be only too pleased to make the arrangements."

  Martha began to cry suddenly, burying her face in her hands and making a small, wailing noise like a young child.

  Houston looked across at Galbraith, his face white and strained.

  "How much more do you have to see?" he asked tensely. "Will you believe it now? You've deliberately blinded yourself to it for far too long already! I've told you—Miss West, a professional nurse, has told you— when are you going to take her to a psychiatrist and find out the truth!"

  "Truth?" Martha asked in a cracked voice. She lifted her head slowly and looked at him with a tear-stained face. "What truth?"

  His face was ugly. "That you're insane, Martha," he said softly. "A paranoiac, a homicidal paranoiac who should be locked in a padded cell before you kill again!"

  "Houston!" Galbraith said hoarsely. "You can't—"

  "Insane!" Martha hissed. "So that's what you're trying to do to me?" She came out of the chair slowly and stood in a half-crouched position, staring at him fixedly.

  "What a fool I've been," she said bitterly. "I thought it was my own father—and all the time it was you! I didn't realize just how clever you are, Greg. It's you who's stolen money from the fund and can't afford to have anyone survive to claim their inheritance!'*

  "Martha," he said calmly. "It's no use—" 106

  "It's you who planned it all," she went on in that hissing voice. "You killed Philip and then Clemmie— and now you want to convince Father and the others that I'm insane—a madwoman and a murderess! Well, you won't do it, you hear! I won't let you do it!" She screamed the last words at him and took another step closer to the card table.

  "And dear, charming Miss West," she bared her teeth at Sylvia in a ghastly parody of a smile, "our housekeeper who isn't a housekeeper but a professional nurse. She's part of your plot, Greg? To back up your lies and make sure no one believes the truth when I tell it?"

  "Sit down, Martha!" Houston said sharply. "Try and control yourself!"

  "Of course!" she said slowly. "There had to be someone else, too. Somebody to keep the strangers out— people like Mr. Boyd who might get curious and had to be stopped. Someone like Pete Rinkman, Greg?"

  "You're wUdly wrong," he said. "Stop building a nightmare that doesn't exist, Martha! You're in bad enough trouble already with the one that does exist!"

  "Pete," she repeated the name slowly. "He's the one! You're too smart for me, Mr. Houston!" She looked at Sylvia and sneered openly, "You and your lady-friend nurse! But Pete isn't very smart, I can get the truth out of him . He's the one I can handle. . . . Yes, he's the one." Her voice dropped to a murmur as if she was talking more to herself than anyone else.

  "Pete!" She nodded vigorous
ly. "I must talk to him now, right away, before it's too late." She walked quickly to the door and then out into the hallway.

  "Pete!" Her voice grew fainter as she went into the back rooms of the house somewhere. "Pete! Where are you, Pete!" A door slammed and then there was silence.

  "Someone should stop her," Houston said uneasily. "Before she harms herself."

  "Sylvia," I said. "I owe you an apology. You were telling me the truth when you said Houston suggested

  you should come and ask me to come here tonight?"

  "Don't bother to apologize," she said coldly. "Just drop dead!"

  Houston shrugged his shoulders irritably, then looked at Hazelton.

  "Now you know beyond any doubt," he said evenly. "It*s too late to save Philip and Clemmie, but at least you can try and save Martha from herself. Will you call the police, or will I?"

  "I wouldn't be too quick about calling Greer," I said to him casually. "It wouldn't hurt to check a couple of points first."

  "You aren't concerned in this, Boyd!" he said shortly. "So keep your mouth shut!"

  "Martha's still my client, and that gives me an interest," I said. "And watch your manners, Houston, or I'll knock your teeth out!"

  "I wouldn't have believed it," Hazelton said in a trembling voice. "But her outburst just now—the hysterics—it was awful. It—"

  "You think that proves she's blown her stack?" I said to him. "I figure it was a normal reaction."

  "Normal?" Hazelton said blankly, looking at me for the first time.

  "You have to remember she thought it was you conspiring against all three of them," I said. "That was why she hired me—she'd convinced herself somehow that you had stolen money from the trust fund and were actively planning to kill all three of them."

  "Doesn't that sound insane?" Houston demanded.

  "You have to remember also," I said to Hazelton, ignoring the attorney's question, "when she came to me, Philip was already missing and Clemmie was up here with Miss West watching her the whole time, and Pete Rinkman acting like a guard to keep people out. It looked to Martha that her sister was being kept a prisoner here—she didn't know you were worried about Clemmie's mental balance."