Terror comes creeping

by Brown, Carter, 1923-1985

  "Perhaps not," Hazelton said dully.

  "Get her to a psychiatrist!" Houston said loudly. "You'll have proof soon enough about the state of Martha's mind!"

  "You keep saying that," I snarled at him. "You keep saying Martha's insane—and Sylvia West keeps on saying she's insane and Clemmie was on her way to becoming insane. Any moment now, Pete Rinkman's going to come rushing in here and say the same thing."

  I looked at Hazelton. "But nobody else has said that. You were only frightened that one or both of your daughters might have inherited the family history of insanity. But up to this moment you never believed that either of them were actually insane, did you?"

  "No," Hazelton stiffened in his chair. "No, I didn't."

  "I haven't known either of them for long," I said. "But I never thought for a moment that Clemmie was insane or showing any signs of abnormality. And I don't think for one moment that Martha is insane now. How did you come to hire Miss West?"

  "WTiy—Houston said if I was worried about the girls, why didn't I hire a professional nurse to keep an eye on them. He said the girls didn't need to know. The nurse could pretend to be a housekeeper at the farmhouse."

  "Then he produced Miss West as the right candidate for the job?"

  "Yes, yes, he did!" His eyes were suddenly alert again.

  "And after Miss West had been on the job a little while she gave you a bad report on Clemmie, maybe? Suggested it would be better if Clemmie stayed on the farm full-time for a while so she could keep her under close observation?"

  "Yes!" he said sharply.

  "How about Pete Rinkman? Whose idea was it to employ a handyman who was really a bodyguard—to keep people out?"

  Galbraith Hazelton stood up slowly, his mustache bristling, his back ramrod-stiff.

  "Do you have any further points to make, Boyd?" he asked in a deceptively mild voice. His eyes glittered as he watched Houston the whole time.

  "Gilding the lily," I said. "When you knew Fd taken Clemmie away from here—it would be Houston who produced the private detective, Tolvar, to bring her back? Houston who said, once you'd got her back, wouldn't it be best if you all went up to the farmhouse for a time where you'd be safe, and take Tolvar along for extra protection?"

  Hazelton walked slowly toward the card table, his eyes still fixed on Houston's chalk-white face.

  "I think, Greg," he said in a low voice, "I'm going to kill you!"

  "Don't waste your time, Mr. Hazelton," I told him. "The law will take care of that!"

  "Have you all gone mad?" Houston said desperately. "What motive could I have for trying to prove them insane—for killing Philip and ClenMnie!"

  "The answer to that is in the trust fund, I guess," I told him. "If the money's all there, you have nothing to worry about."

  "I've said the money's all there!" he said tautly. "I already told you that—over and over! Didn't you hear me? If you want the books checked over I'm perfectly prepared to—"

  "I don't think you need bother, Houston," I told him. "Lieutenant Greer's taken care of that already."

  "Anyone you nominate, can take a look at—" He turned his head slowly and stared at me. "What did you say?"

  "Lieutenant Greer's had the New York police subpoena the trust fund's accounts," I repeated. "They're being checked over right now."

  For the first time there was some expression in his dead eyes. They looked sick. He picked up the deck of

  cards from the table and began to riffle them aimlessly in his hands.

  "Oh, my God!" he said softly. "Who'll believe me now?"

  Sylvia West began to cry noiselessly, the tears streaming down her face as she sat and watched Houston.

  "Maybe now would be a good time to call Lieutenant Greer," I said to Hazelton.

  "Yes," he nodded. "I was so wrong about you, Boyd, I don't know how to apologize. You had more faith in my daughter than I had—your faith couldn't be shaken the way mine was. That's a bitter lesson I will never forget."

  "I wouldn't worry about that too much," I told him. "When Martha knows the truth, I guess it'll make you both equal again. You thought for a little while she was a murderer, and she thought the same of you."

  "I hope you're right," he said. "I'll call the Lieutenant right away."

  "I'll go find Martha," I said. "The sooner she knows, the better for her."

  I got as far as the door and stopped for a moment to look back at Houston.

  "I wouldn't try running," I told him. "Greer's got the whole place surrounded by cops," I said in a wUd exaggeration. "I don't think you'd get ten yards out the front door!"

  Then I realized I was wasting my time. He still sat there staring at nothing, while his hands shuffled and reshuffled the cards in a formless pattern. Mr. Houston wasn't going any place—he wasn't going to try and go any place. Mr. Houston was all through.

  She was nowhere inside the house. I'd checked every room and there was no sign of her. I went out of the back door and called her a couple of times but she didn't answer.

  The cold moonlight bathed the farm in its brilliance 111

  and the crisp air was still. Any sound would carry a long way on a night like this—if she was anywhere on the farm at all, she would have heard me. If she heard me, she'd answer, I reasoned, unless she heard me and couldn't answer.

  I walked quickly away from the house with icy fingers tightening around my insides. Houston had Sylvia West working for him inside the house—and Pete working for him outside the house. It could have been either one of them that moved Sweet William around in the pens to fool the cops; but it was Pete who told Greer about the mythical hit-and-run accident where Tolvar had supposedly been killed. So maybe he'd panicked when Martha had come screaming accusations at him?

  There were two obvious places to look at first. One was the bam, and the other was the lake. I didn't want to think about the lake. In her state of mind when she'd rushed,out of the room blindly, Martha could have done anything, including drown herself in the same lake where her sister had been drowned. I preferred Pete, out of the two possibilities.

  I got to the bam, then slowed down to a sudden stop. If he did have Martha inside, she might still be unharmed. But if I went charging in like a mad dog, he could panic and maybe kill her before I got to him.

  So I moved quietly up to the door of the bam and saw it was open about a foot—enough for me to squeeze through without opening it any further. The Magnum's weight in my right hand was reassuring as I edged my way inside the barn slowly, making no noise.

  Inside, I stood still for maybe fifteen seconds, until my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I could see properly. I remembered from the time before that there had been plenty of fight after a while. Slowly, the various planes and surfaces came into focus—the tractor, the mechanical harvester, the vertical white ladder that led up into the hayloft.

  A couple of minutes later, I was sure there was no one 112

  else inside the bam, and that left the lake. I turned toward the door and then froze in my tracks. Someone had laughed. A low, gurgling, sensual sound, so obscene that my ears refused to believe it for a moment.

  It had drifted down from somewhere above me the

  only place possible—the hayloft. I catfooted over to the ladder and climbed it cautiously, one rung at a time, holding my breath.

  I reached the top and lifted my head over the level of the platform, and they were so close I could have reached out a hand and touched them.

  Pete was crouched on his hands and knees, his back toward me. The shaft of moonlight that Sylvia had used so effectively spilled a cone of hght onto the straw, and in the center of the cone was Martha Hazelton.

  She lay on her back, one arm flung across her face, and she was whimpering softly. The silk shirt had been ripped open down the front, exposing her smallish, high-peaked breasts that looked both virginal and defenseless.

  Pete gave an animal grunt deep in his throat, then lunged forward, his fingers digging into the waistband o
f her peon pants, ripping them downward with a savage force. She moaned desperately then raised herself up on one elbow, her eyes staring wildly—and looked straight at me.

  For a long moment she just stared, and her dark eyes seemed to get larger and larger.

  "Danny?" she sounded as if she wasn't sure I was real.

  "Danny," she said again in an urgent whisper. "Help me! Please, help me!"

  "All right, Pete!" I said slowly. "One wrong move and I'll put a hole through your spinal column!"

  He didn't even stop to think about it. He lashed out savagely with his right leg in a backward kick, and the heel of the polished boot smashed into my face.

  I went backward, losing my balance, losing my hold on the Magnum, off the ladder in a slowly turning arc, then hit the bam floor flat on my back.

  There was no air left in my lungs and I figured Fd broken my spine or something. Whatever it was, I couldn't move and I couldn't breathe.

  I heard Pete's harsh, ragged voice say, "You double-crossing bitch!" Then the staccato sound like a pistol shot as he hit her, and afterward the thin, wavering scream as she felt the shock and pain.

  His boots scraped on the ladder as he came down, making a rasping noise, but for me it was the bell tolling. He thudded onto the floor of the bam, and a second later, his bulk loomed over me.

  "What's the matter, buddy?" he said thickly. "Break your back?" A boot hammered into my ribs. "Too bad!" he jeered. "Now I don't get the fun of doing it myself." The boot emphasized the way he felt again.

  Maybe it was going to happen anyway, or maybe the boot in the ribs helped ailong, but suddenly I was breathing again. I sucked in air like next week it was rationed, and moved my arms experimentally. The boot came into my ribs again, but this time I made a grab and caught his ankle. I hung on while he cursed wildly, then tugged sharply, pulling him off balance so he sprawled on top of me. We rolled across the floor and broke apart.

  I came up on my knees quickly and then more slowly up on my feet. Pete was already up, standing ready, waiting for me.

  "This I like, buddy!" he said sofUy. "We had this coming from the first time!"

  He came toward me slowly, a shadowy, menacing bulk that looked larger than life-size. When he got withia reach I swung at him with a chopping right toward his head. He ducked under it easily, and the next moment two pulverizing fists hammered into my chest directly over the heart. He danced out of range again, moving lightly on his feet. I remembered the tiny white scars on his eyebrows and that I'd figured him for an ex-pro the first time I ever saw him.

  He moved in again, weaving and bobbing, and I knew 114

  he'd kill me if I tried to fight him his way, so the only thing I could do was fight him my way. I took a punch in the mouth which spht my lower lip Hke it was paper, and another one over the heart that nearly stopped it in its tracks, but I got in a high-stepping kick which made a crunching noise when it connected just below his right knee.

  The wild howl he gave while he hobbled away from me made the torn lip almost worthwhile. I figured I'd slowed him down a httle and went after him. He backed off slowly, circling all the time and I kept after him, trying to crowd him back against the wall. Then his back touched the wall and I got overanxious and careless. A vicious uppercut came out of nowhere, and bright lights exploded inside my head as I went staggering backward onto my knees.

  "Danny!"

  I got to my feet and stood swaying gently for a moment, while a slim white figure came in and out of focus beside me.

  "Danny!" Martha said urgently. "I've got your gun. m shoot him, ru kill him!"

  I made a drunken, sweeping movement with my arm, meaning to brush her aside, and knocking her off her feet instead.

  "Don't bug me now, honey-chile!" I said thickly. "I'm getting to like it."

  My head cleared as I got close to Pete again. He hadn't moved away from the waU, and he was putting all his weight on one leg. I figured with any luck I might have cracked his kneecap with that kick.

  He was cursing me in a steady monotone, using the same words over and over again. I stepped up close to him , within range of his fists, then stepped back again swiftly. The haymaker which would have busted my jaw if it cormected, went whistling past six inches short of my face. He'd meant it for the finale and the momentum carried him off balance, so that he lurched toward me.

  I jumf>ed forward to meet him, bringing my knee up sharply as I went. It hit him in the pit of the stomach with brutal force and he jackknifed forward across my knee. I brought the side of my hand down in a straight, chopping movement so it hit the side of his head, just behind the ear where the bone and membrane protrude slightly under the tightly-stretched skin. He rolled sideways off my knee onto the floor and lay there.

  For a few seconds I couldn't move. Then I took a deep, shuddering breath and Martha hurtled into my arms.

  "Danny 1'* she sobbed. "I was so scared! All the time up there in the hayloft, he kept telling me what he was going to do to me. Horrible things!" She shuddered. "And afterwards he said he was going to kill me!"

  "It's all right now," I said breathlessly, and patted her shoulder clumsily. "Everything's all right. Your father knows the truth—it was Houston. Sylvia West and Pete were working with him—they were all trymg so hard to prove you were out of your mind, they tried too hard. By the time we get back to the house, Greer will be there and it'll be all over."

  "Danny!" She rubbed her face against my chest. "You saved my life. You saved me from Houston, and then from Pete. I'll never forget you, Danny, never!"

  "Just so long as you remember when you write the check," I grunted. "We'd better get back to the house. You get going, 111 catch up. I'd better check on Pete first."

  "All right," she whispered. "One day I'll thank you properly!" She moved away from me, then turned and walked slowly toward the door.

  I got down painfully on my knees beside Pete Rink-man, and pulled him over on his back. I should have known I was wasting my time—that membrane is highly vulnerable.

  Pete Rinkman was dead.

  Twel

  weive

  FRAN JORDAN CAME INTO MY OFFICE WITH THE AFTER-

  noon papers in her hand.

  "You remember the Hazelton case?" she said.

  "Sure," I nodded. "That's history now—must be more than three months back."

  "Being as I went on vacation right after you got back," she said thoughtfully, "I never did get to hear the details."

  "Galbraith Hazelton sent us a check for five thousand the next day," I said. "Six weeks later, the trust fund paid off and Martha Hazelton sent us a check for ten thousand. We were solvent there for a while."

  "Hadn't Houston been milking that trust fund?" she queried.

  "He'd taken close to a quarter of a million," I agreed. "Sunk it all into a wildcat oil well that didn't have any oil. He kept throwing money into the well and all it did was just stay at the bottom. But there was still plenty left for Martha, something over a million and a half."

  Fran nodded. "I remember reading about the trial in the papers. They convicted him of first-degree homicide, didn't they?"

  "Check," I said. "Sylvia West managed to convince the jury she hadn't known he'd committed the murders, and it was Pete Rinkman who'd shifted the body in the pigpens, and helped Tolvar by digging it up and dumping it in the trunk of my car."

  "What happened about that hit-and-rim rap you were moaning about to me over the phone at one stdge?"

  "Greer kept his bargain—anyway, after finding out the setup, he didn't have any choice but to believe my story of how Tolvar got run down. Hearts and flowers all over Providence—we were buddy-buddies there for a time." I

  glared at her. "And I did not moan at you over the phone!"

  "Maybe it was a bad connection?" she said idly.

  "Anyway," I said. "What brought all this on about the Hazelton case?"

  She dropped the papers on the desk in front of me. A black banner headline screamed at me, "Ho
uston Dies Tonight!" I read the first few paragraphs which were a restatement of the highlights of the trial. The only new fact was he was going to be electrocuted at midnight.

  "I won't lose any sleep over him," I said.

  "You never lost sleep over anyone who didn't have long blonde hair and a thirty-eight inch bustline yet!" Fran said scornfully.

  "You've got red hair," I looked at her critically. "And under that loose blouse you're wearing it's hard to tell, but I'd guess at not more than 37Vi inches." I stood up and started to move around the desk toward her. "Tell you what—^you slip off your blouse and we'll make sure, but no deep breaths now!"

  Her gray-green eyes were suddenly alert. "No, you don't!" she said, and shot out of the ofi5ce at something close to the speed of hght.

  I sat down at the desk again and lit a cigarette, then looked at the other papers. The headlines were all the same—Houston was the big news tonight.

  The phone rang and I answered it.

  "Mr. Boyd?" a crisp, feminine voice asked.

  "Sure," I said. "Who's this?"

  "Danny?" the voice thawed. "This is Martha Hazel-ton."

  "How are you?" I said.

  "I wanted to ask you a favor, Danny." Her voice grew hesitant. "A big favor."

  I'd already done her a couple of big favors, but she'd paid ten grand for the privilege, and I figured she was entitled to a third for that kind of money.

  "Name it," I told her.

  "You're a nice person, Danny," she said simply. "Father's in the hospital right now."

  "Nothing serious, I hope?" I asked.

  "He had a coronary occlusion," she said. "It doesn't look very bright. . . . The thing is, it's the servants' day off and I'm alone in the house. You know what's happening at midnight?"

  "Houston," I said.

  "I guess it's weak-minded of me or something," she said in a half-apologetic voice. "But I've been thinking about it all day and getting more and more depressed. I don't think I can stand being alone when it happens. Would you come over and keep me company tonight until it's finished?"