“Hey, down there!” the voice lifted again. “Are you hurt?
I felt around. Everything seemed to be in the right place. There was no hot rush of blood. No twisted arms or legs.
“I think I’m all right,” I returned.
“How many are you?”
“Just one!” I answered, staring up into the light and rain. “Can you get me out of here?”
“It’s a woman!” the other man yelled. “Good God!”
They seemed to be standing on the edge of the road about twenty feet above me. The broken guardrail slanted down in the light’s arc, stabbing through the rear window and snaking around the sedan’s frame.
“Can you get me out?” I repeated, wiping drops from my eyes and feeling for the first time an ache in my right arm.
“What are we going to do?” one man questioned dazedly. “She’s hanging by a thread. Any more weight’ll send her crashing.”
The light shifted, spraying on the twisted guardrail.
“There’s a rope in the back of my truck. Maybe we could drop it down to the one side where the door’s gone.”
The other man swore. “Hurry!”
Footsteps clattered again, melting in the downpour. I had a fairly good idea what they had in mind. Drop a rope, hoping that I could reach it and make a tie around my waist, then they’d pull me to safety. There was only one drawback to that solution. The opening was on the downside of the sedan. I’d have to risk leaning out into that hideous dark void to reach the rope. I inched my way toward the opening.
Suddenly the car lurched and I froze. It swayed back and forth for an instant, then stopped.
“Hurry up!” the man with the flashlight shouted. “The rail’s beginning to go!”
I held my breath and tried to think of anything but the mountain and the two men and the black void below. My mind centered on Meadow Falls. Who could have tampered with the brakes? Somebody must have drained most of the fluid from the master cylinder, leaving just enough pressure to last until the highway. But that didn’t make sense. No one knew I was going to steal Fred’s car. Not even Fred himself. Unless—
“Here!” The other man appeared in the glare of the flashlight and bent over, gripping a rope in his hands. “Hey, down there! I’m going to drop this thing as near as I can to you. Try and twist it around your wrists or something. We’ll pull you clear.”
“How much do you weigh?” the man with the flashlight demanded.
“A hundred and twenty pounds.”
The rope tumbled down in the cone of light, landing first on the rear of the car, then sliding near the opening.
“Lower!” I cried.
They let out more slack. The rope twisted awkwardly in the driving rain, swinging out and beyond me like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. Then a gust of wind blew it toward me. I caught my breath, reached as far as I possibly could, felt the car lurch again, felt rain beading on my outstretched hands, and caught the dangling rope.
In the next instant as metal began to rend, as the car began to slide out from under me in the driving downpour, I could feel my head bursting, pulse pounding, rope slipping through my fingers. The light vanished and I felt myself crashing against rock, scraping against it, hearing the sound of the sedan falling down the mountain, seeing the blur of its gas tank exploding in the night.
A hand caught me viciously, tearing at my hair, digging into my scalp. Another slipped around my shoulders. They dragged me up onto the edge of the mountain, both men panting heavily, arms linked around my aching body. We fell in a heap on the road.
Headlights loomed in the dark, casting wet shadows over us. One man scrambled to his feet, helping me up. He was tall and thick-shouldered and a cap was perched on his head. His eyes widened as he stared at me in the glow of the oncoming headlights.
Ray Spensor’s letterman’s sweater was torn wide open down one side.
“Hey,” he said awkwardly. “You—you ain’t dressed.”
“That,” I said, “is the understatement of the year.”
A Sheriff’s car from San Bernardino arrived twenty minutes later. Aside from a number of other statements made by my two rescuers and a few cocky, grinning-faced deputies, I wound up in the Sheriff’s station with a robe, a cup of coffee and a sour-faced Mark Storm. He didn’t even bother with my lack of wearing apparel. He started right in on my lack of horse sense.
“Honey,” he blared, “you use your head like it was stuck through a piece of canvas in a baseball throwing booth at a carnival side show.”
“That’s my occupation, Lieutenant,” I said, sipping at my coffee. “When somebody winds up, I dodge.”
“Yeah, well dodge this. Some deputies broke into your office late this afternoon. They found the missing keys to the steam roller that crushed Rip Spensor.”
“What?”
“We got another anonymous tip. Apparently from a man. They found your office securely locked, including the windows. So, start dodging.”
I shook some water out of my hair. “But, Mark, you know that I didn’t—”
“I don’t know anything. Fred Sims called me from Meadow Falls after you stole his car. He said the man you left lying inside the gate shack will live, but he’s got a nasty gash on his skull. What was the matter, the hatchet too blunt to finish the job?”
I stiffened, gripping the robe. “Now wait a minute, Lieutenant, I don’t—”
“You don’t what? Thor Tunny’s nursing a head as big as a Chinese gong. You went on quite a spree after I left, didn’t you?”
“Spree?” I hurled. “I was lucky to get out of that sex trap alive. What were you doing while you were there? Playing tiddly-winks? Did you bother to examine the fancy machines beneath the temple? Did you look inside Angela Scali’s shower stall?”
“What machines? What stall?”
I groaned. “And I suppose Fred’s sterling telephone call included how I tried to crease his noggin, too?”
“Of course.”
“Did he bother to tell you how he cracked me half a dozen times with his cane?”
Mark pushed his hat back angrily. “What was he supposed to do? Stand by while you carved him up like a Christmas goose?”
“I’m talking about earlier this afternoon,” I said. “Up in that cabin on the mountain. I didn’t take that high dive for nothing. Mr. Fourth Estate worked me over, but good.”
“Hold it, Honey. You know Fred wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said harshly. “Fred wouldn’t, but I would. Is that it?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t know what you mean, Lieutenant. That’s the trouble. You get in the middle of a case and you start taking pot shots at every stray suspect who comes along, except the right one.” I tossed him Ray Spensor’s torn letterman’s sweater. “Take a look in the left hand pocket.”
He studied me for an instant, then shoved his hand into the opening.”
“What’s this?” he demanded, removing the blood-spattered ribbon.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one before?”
“It—it’s a Congressional.” He indicated the dark spots. “What happened here?”
“Fortunately, I didn’t wind up in a crimson-colored basket or you would have blamed me. I found it in Angela Scali’s shower stall at the camp.”
Mark twisted the ribbon around in his fingers. “These are blood stains, all right.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I was afraid you were going to say they were the remains of a sand painting made by an early American Indian.”
The deputy brushed at his face thoughtfully. “You—you’re not kidding about this?”
“Wise up, Mark. Somebody obviously murdered Angela Scali, then returned to her apartment and washed off his bloody clothing. The ribbon must have dropped from the killer’s pocket when he wasn’t looking.”
“But—but that doesn’t make sense,” Mark stammered. “Who’d carry one of these in his pocket?�
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“Fred Sims,” I said.
“Honey, are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe. It’s worth investigating, isn’t it?”
Mark tossed the ribbon in the air and caught it savagely. “But Fred was with us this morning!”
“How long was I unconscious? Three, four hours? When’d Fred show up at my apartment?”
“A few minutes before you woke up,” the deputy said tightly. “But that still doesn’t prove—Fred has no motive!”
“Do I?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Lieutenant, the man who came up to that mountain cabin limped. He walked with a cane. He sounded like Fred. He acted like Fred.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Mark’s face was crumpled as if it had been beaten.
“Because I couldn’t believe it, either. Not until after I found that ribbon. Not until after he attacked me again in the gate shack.”
Mark grimaced. “These things can be purchased in service stores, you know.”
“Sure,” I said. “The same way missing steam roller keys can be purchased in a dime store. It’s not that easy, Lieutenant. You’ve got to show proof you’re a holder of the medal.”
He tossed his hat on a desk and circled the room quietly, then said, “How could those keys have been planted in your office with the door and windows locked?”
“Some people do carry skeleton keys,” I said wearily. “They seldom pack spare Congressional ribbons.”
He stopped, wiping at his rain dampened face. “All right. I’ll buy the plant in your office. I did anyway.”
“Lieutenant, you amaze me,” I said sarcastically. “I thought for sure you were going to produce a set of my fingerprints taken off the wheel of that steam roller.”
“Don’t stretch me, Honey.”
“Mark, do you think I jumped with joy when I found that ribbon in Angela Scali’s shower?”
“You sound happy enough.”
I laughed grimly. “Take it for what it’s worth. I still can’t believe Fred murdered Angela Scali—or Rip Spensor. But, as I said, it’s worth investigating.”
Mark was sick inside. I could see that. As sick as any man could be without messing up the floor. He straightened, swallowing hard. “What about these machines you were talking about?”
I told Mark about the Playground. His face grayed. “If we can prove this,” he said, “Tunny’ll end up in another kind of camp. With numbers plastered on his chest instead of suntan lotion.”
“The gimmicks are removable, Mark,” I said. “You’ll never get him unless you pull a surprise raid.”
“We’ll work it out through this office,” he said, replacing his hat grimly. “Right now I’ve got a personal call to make.”
“Fred Sims?” I asked.
“Maybe.” He crossed to the door. “You say you think somebody drained the master cylinder on Fred’s car, huh?”
“Either that or the nut was loosened enough to allow leakage every time the brakes were applied. No mistake about the hand brake. The cable was hacksawed.”
He nodded grimly. “I’ll let you know.”
After Mark left, I borrowed a dress and a coat from a blonde telephone operator who worked in the Sheriff’s building and walked outside into the chill, misty night. A clock on a bank at the corner chimed 10 o’clock as I crossed to a cab stand. Then a familiar convertible pulled up beside me, a handsome unshaven face peering through the window.
“Taxi, lady?” the man said, grinning warmly.
“Ray,” I stammered. “Where—where the devil have you been?”
“Circling a mountain,” he said, a chagrined look creeping around his mouth. “I understand you took a short cut.”
‘“Just about as short as they come,” I answered, climbing in beside him. “How’d you find out?”
He lifted my auto phone. “I got it working again. The Sheriff’s office told me.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Honey. If I hadn’t left you—”
“That wasn’t exactly heroic, Ray.”
He bit his lips. “I know. I’d like to make it up to you if I could.”
“Okay,” I said. “This agent of Angela Scali’s, the one Toy Tunny was talking about. Sol Wetzel. Do you know where he lives?”
“Sure.”
“Will you take me there?”
He touched the tip of my nose and winked. “It’s your car.”
“Glad you finally remembered,” I said, unable to stop the smile that came into my face. “First I’ll need to make a stop at my apartment in Long Beach. I’m lost without your letterman’s sweater.”
“You’re never lost, Honey,” he said pulling out onto the highway and pointing my convertible toward Riverside. “Chart the course, commander!”
“Alamitos Bay. And don’t spare the horses.”
He grinned, turned south toward the freeway and drew me nearer. “It’s a long ride,” he said. “I might get cold.”
I switched on the heater. “You’ll do all right.”
“Killjoy!”
When we reached my apartment, I showered hurriedly, climbed into a black sheath and suede pumps and wound some pearls around my throat. Then I outlined my mouth with pale pink lipstick, swept my hair back to one side and we continued on to Hollywood.
Angela’s agent had a place in Box Canyon with a pool and a spectacular view of the surrounding hills. A number of cars were parked in the driveway and lights blazed inside the low-slung ranch-style house. The sound of bongo drums and castanets greeted us.
“Sounds like a party,” Ray said stepping from the car. The open front door led us into a cloud of cigarette smoke and people who were clapping and stamping to a weird rhythm. Sweat streamed down one man’s face as he stared across the room. Another licked at his mouth as he clapped. At the far end of the room the lights had been dimmed so I could only faintly distinguish the frantic outline of a woman dancing. She whirled, throwing up her arms, wriggling her hips.
Her dance couldn’t have been more suggestive.
She was stark naked.
Dark arrows had been painted on her white body, swirling around her legs and breasts, all pointing in one direction.
“Holy smokes,” Ray whispered. “Look at that!” I looked. So did the nude dancer. She stared down at her own body, hands flailing about her thighs, legs trembling.
Suddenly she fell to the floor, writhing, screaming, groaning.
The drums stopped.
The man who had been beating the bongos tore off his shirt and lifted the dancer into his arms.
‘The pool!” he cried.
The room erupted in a frenzy of shouts and waving arms. They crowded toward French doors that lead out to the pool area, the nude dancer thrashing wildly in the bongo player’s grasp.
I turned to say something to Ray Spensor, but he was gone. Somebody brushed against me. The sweaty-faced man grabbed me about the waist.
“Hey!” I yelled.
He started peeling me like I was a banana.
I planted a toe in his stomach and he fell back. Two others took his place, hoisting me in their thick hands. I kicked, squealed, bit and punched to no avail. They carried me out to the pool where the nude dancer was being mauled by a dozen different hands as they swung her out over the water.
That was when I saw her face for the first time.
It was Toy Tunny!
But I saw something else, too.
The gleaming blade of a switchknife rose over Toy’s pudgy frame. And descended.
TEN
I screamed.
But the sound was lost in the wild orgy of hands and shouts by the pool.
The knife lowered to Toy’s stomach, the tip nearly touching her skin as she swung loosely in the network of arms.
“Cut her!” somebody cried.
“Rip her to pieces!” shouted another.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Toy’s teeth were bared in her round face, a smile etched in her red lips.
> “Cut me!” she echoed.
The man with the knife lowered the gleaming tip a fraction and the blade sliced a faint line across Toy’s stomach. The crowd thundered their approval. The arms lifted, hurling the chunky girl into the water.
“Who’s next?” the bongo player shouted, staggering drunkenly on the edge of the pool. He held the knife in his right hand, waving it ceremoniously. They carried me to him.
“A blonde virgin!” the cry went up.
“Cut her!” came the echo.
Hands jerked down the zipper on the back of my dress. I’d had about enough. One of my heels flicked, catching a red-faced man in the neck. He toppled into the pool, choking horribly. Another caught a knee in his eye. I saved the best for last. The bongo player lunged for me. He had wavy black hair and a thin mustache. I poked my fist halfway between. His nose twisted from the impact, blood spurting from the nostrils. He dropped the knife, an anguished cry spurting from his lips. Hands slipped out from under me. I caught my balance, straightened and drove another fist into the bongo player’s mid-section. He did a deep-knee bend, exhaling painfully and collapsed on the rim of the pool.
The crowd shrank back, eyes wide in their drunken, sweating heads, mouths open. The soundless moment that followed seemed reminiscent of a funeral after all the words have been said. I broke it harshly.
“You sadistic apes,” I said, through my teeth. “You ought to be hung by your toes.”
The man I’d pushed into the pool bobbed to the surface, spouting water like a baby whale. In the pool lights I could see Toy climbing up a metal ladder.
One man bent over the deflated bongo player, shooting angry eyes at me. “Are you mad?” he demanded.
“No,” I said. “But I’m willing to take lessons. Is that what you people are giving around here?”
“This—this was all in fun,” the bongo player stammered, clutching his ribs.
“If this is fun,” I answered, casting hot eyes on the silent crowd, “then the morgue’s full of it. Next time rent a cemetery.”
Toy Tunny advanced on me, shaking water from her arrow-painted body, fists curled angrily. “How’d you get here?” she demanded.
“I followed one of your arrows,” I said, staring at her knife-creased stomach. “You’d better put something on that.”
Honey West: A Kiss for a Killer Page 9