And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2)

by Warren Murphy

  “You might say that,” Trace said.

  “At the airport, those lunatics scratched my luggage,” the man said. The accent was Italian, Trace decided. “Can you help me collect?”

  “No.”

  “What good are you?”

  “I make a very good potato-chip dip. With chives,” Trace said.

  “Trace,” Felicia said, “this is Paolo Ferrara. He says he’s a count, but he’s not. He’s just a rich playboy.”

  “What’s he into?” Trace asked her.

  Ferrara answered. “Drugs, basically. Coke, grass, hash. Want something?” He reached for a little leather case that lay next to him on the pool deck’s rough tiled surface.

  “No, thanks. I’m into alcohol basically,” Trace said.

  There was another man lying on a towel on the deck. A copy of Gentlemen’s Quarterly covered his face. He slid it down to his chin. Another foreign accent.

  “Are you a detective?” he asked. He was a painfully lean man with a neatly trimmed moustache and beard and treebark-brown hair. He had laugh lines in the corners of his eyes.

  “Kind of,” Trace said.

  “Investigating the murder, right?” The man’s own words seemed to interest him, and he slapped the magazine aside, sat up, and shook Trace’s hand.

  “This one is real,” Felicia said. “He’s a baron. Edvel Hubbaker. He’s after my body. This is Trace.”

  “Of course I’m after her body,” Hubbaker said. “Did you ever see tits like that anywhere else?”

  “Nice butt, too,” Felicia said.

  “Are you going to catch the killer?” Hubbaker asked.

  “If you do,” Ferrara said, “Please do it somewhere else. I’m not into sordid.”

  Trace ignored him and said to Hubbaker, “I don’t know. I’m just looking around.”

  “You have a theory, though, right? All detectives have theories. What is it? Burglar surprised while cracking a safe. What does that mean, anyway? Cracking a safe? Why not busting a safe? Anyway, safecracker surprised, fights to escape, bops poor Jarvis on the noggin, and flees with ill-gotten gains. Like that?”

  “It’s as good as anything else,” Trace said, and then he stopped talking to Hubbaker because the two people on the far side of the pool stood up and Trace could see them. Or, more specifically, one of them.

  She was a platinum blonde, six feet tall, stark naked. Her body was an erotic fantasy, and looking at her bosom, Trace thought of words like “ballooning,” “bazooming,” “galoomphing.” Standing still, she quivered with sexuality. She was either a natural blonde or had a very close relationship with her hairdresser.

  “Gee whillikers,” Trace said softly.

  “You like that, huh?” Felicia said. “I’m disappointed in you, Trace. I thought you were into subtlety, hints of smoldering sensuality. A lowered eyelid, a pouty lip, that kind of thing.”

  “I am. But for her, I make an exception. Raw, sweating sex. Gee whillikers.”

  “Well, come on, I’ll introduce you. But be warned, you’re not her type.”

  “I can change.”

  “Did you ever read The Golden Ass of Apuleus?” Felicia asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know the struggle that awaits you,” she said. She grabbed Trace’s elbow and pulled him toward the woman.

  “Sweetheart,” she called out, “there’s someone here I want you to meet.”

  The blond woman turned around to face them fully. She had a face of unreal innocent beauty. Her eyes were sky-blue, her cheekbones pronounced, but soft instead of angular. She was enough woman to fill the dreams of ten generations of farm boys, Trace thought.

  “Trace, this is National Anthem.”

  “What?” he said.

  “National Anthem.”

  “Give me five seconds and I’ll be able to salute.”

  “Slob,” Felicia said. “We call her Nash for short. Nash, this is my friend, Trace, who thinks you’re absolutely spectacular.”

  He knew it. It was too good to be true. He could see it in the blonde’s eyes. There was a hesitation, as if she were trying to figure out what the countess had said, whether it was good or bad, and what she should do about it.

  She finally decided it was good and smiled radiantly, jiggled a little up and down, setting her breasts into alarming motion, and squealed.

  “Eeeeeyou,” the sound came out. It was accomplished somehow by inhaling on the “eeee” and quickly expelling the “you” sound at a higher pitch. “Pleased to meetcha, I’m sure.”

  So much for passion, Trace thought. It was no-man’s-land between the girl’s ears. Not a brain in her head. And a New York Forty-second Street accent.

  She stuck out her hand for Trace to shake and he had the fleeting desire to pump her hand up and down hard to see how her breasts would react, but he restrained himself and shook hands gently. She squeezed him hard and fingered his palm with her index finger.

  “Eeeeyou,” she squealed again.

  “Trace is into insurance,” Felicia said. “Nash here is into films. And donkeys.”

  “I’m gonna be a star,” Nash said. “That’s what they tell me anyway. No more loops.” She was still holding Trace’s hand, still tickling his palm. Maybe she would keep doing it until he told her to stop, Trace thought.

  Felicia explained to Trace patiently, with a hint of a smile in the corners of her lovely mouth, “Nash has just finished her first feature film. She takes on nine men and a donkey.”

  “Let me tell ya, the donkey was the nicest one of the bunch,” National Anthem said with a giggle, happy and secure because she was obviously repeating a phrase she had used many times before to good response. And she squealed again, “Eeeeyou.”

  Felicia would show no mercy. “It’s called Asses Up, starring National Anthem.”

  “It’s going to be bigger than Deep Throat” National Anthem assured Trace. She was still tickling his palm. “It’ll gross millions, won’t it, William?”

  And for the first time since meeting this astonishing creation, Trace noticed, really noticed, that there was a man standing behind her. Like Trace, he wore a jacket and tie, but unlike Trace, he was short and mousy-looking with thinning hair, average color skin, average features. He wore eyeglasses that seemed too large for such a small face.

  “This is William Parmenter,” Felicia told Trace. “Everybody calls him Willie.”

  “I keep forgetting,” National Anthem said. “I keep calling him William.”

  Trace shook the man’s hand. It was a surprisingly firm handshake from a mouse.

  “William, ooops, Willie says my picture will gross millions, isn’t that right, Willia…Willie?”

  Parmenter seemed embarrassed to be discussing it. “I’m no expert,” he said.

  “Willie’s an expert on everything else,” Felicia said. “He works for Paolo over there.”

  “What do you do, Parmenter?” Trace asked

  “Whatever Mr. Ferrara wants me to do,” the man said. He was an American, Trace noticed, with the broad vowel sounds of the Midwest in his voice.

  “Willie’s like an accountant and a valet and an assistant and a gofer,” Felicia said. “But he’s nice.” She put her arm around the short man’s head and squeezed him, pulling him toward her bosom. His face reddened with embarrassment. National Anthem finally stopped tickling Trace’s hand. She had found something else to do. She put an arm around Willie’s head and squeezed him too.

  There he was, with his tiny little head squeezed in between two wonderful chests. Mouseman’s paradise, Trace thought.

  “Willie,” bellowed Ferrara’s voice from the other side of the pool.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If you can extricate yourself from all those tits would you fix me a drink?”

  “Yes, sir,” Willie said. He nodded to Trace, slipped free of the two women, and walked quickly away.

  “Eeeeyou, he’s sweet,” National Anthem said.

  “Does he have somet
hing to do with your movie?” Trace asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Is he an actor? Or a producer? Something like that?”

  “I don’t know,” National Anthem said. She looked at Felicia in confusion. “Is he?”

  “No. He’s just a little, put-upon, horny wimp of a man who’d say anything to get into Nash’s pants. If she had pants.”

  “Eeeeyou. I didn’t know that.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Felicia said.

  “Too bad,” Nash said. “I’m into donkeys.” She smiled at Trace again.

  “Come on,” Felicia said to Trace. “I guess you want to look over the scene of the crime and like that.” She pulled him away from National Anthem. “If you find evidence that makes me the killer, you’ll give me time enough to run away first?”

  “For you, Felicia, for enriching my life by introducing me to National Anthem, anything. Tell me. Is this what they mean by decadence?”

  “Hell, no. This is just a quiet afternoon at home with friends. You want decadence, come after the sun goes down.”

  They walked past her two parrots again. One of them squawked, “Polly want a hit. Polly want a hit.”

  They were near the goldfish pool.

  “Early’s body was found here,” Felicia said.

  “I saw the police photos.”

  “I don’t know. The cops think he maybe was dazed or trying to follow the guy that hit him. Then he hit his head on this goddamn statue and ripped it open and then bled to death.”

  “Could the thief escape from out here?” Trace said, looking around the yard.

  “Well, he could go through that gate back there. That puts him out into the grounds. But he’d still have to get through the front gate, or over the wall.”

  Trace nodded and said, “Felicia, would you mind covering your chest? It’s hard for me to concentrate when my mouth keeps watering.”

  He hadn’t realized how hot it was until he walked after Felicia into the air-conditioned coolness of her living room.

  There was a white shirt tossed over the back of the sofa and she put it on. When she turned back to Trace, the shirt was open, unbuttoned, and even though her breasts were covered, she now seemed even sexier.

  “The safe’s in the fireplace,” Trace said.

  “Right. It’s buried under the stone.” She walked to the fireplace and reached under its front edge. “There’s a clip in here,” she said. As she spoke, an irregularly edged rectangle of stone pieces popped away from the rest of the fireplace facing. “It’s spring-loaded,” she said. The section swung back on hidden hinges, exposing the safe. It was a regular wall safe, a foot in diameter, with a combination dial in the center.

  Trace looked at the face of the safe. On either side of the dial was a deep hole and he touched them with his fingers.

  “That must’ve been where the burglar tried to force the safe,” Felicia said.

  Trace nodded. “The safe was unlocked when what’s his name, Spiro, found it?”

  “Actually, the cops found it open. And everything gone.”

  “Who has the combination?”

  “Now, me. Early had it too.”

  “Not Spiro?” Trace asked.

  “A mopper and flopper? No, thank you. He didn’t have it.”

  “And it was a million in jewels?”

  “More than that, actually. It was insured for a million, but it might have been worth a million two or three. Diamonds have been going up again.”

  “From what I hear, they haven’t shown up yet,” Trace said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe somebody from out of town stole it all. Or whoever stole it is waiting for the heat to die down before he dumps it somewhere,” Trace said.

  He had the sense that somebody was listening to him and he walked softly to the open patio doors.

  “Hello, Baron,” he said. “Why don’t you come in, instead of straining your ears?”

  7

  Baron Edvel Hubbaker stepped into the room. He was as tall as Trace and very thin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Felicia.

  She shrugged, and Trace said, “Mind telling us why you were eavesdropping?”

  “Really, I’m sorry. I just wanted to see how a real detective worked. But I didn’t want to intrude, so I just thought I’d listen in.”

  “Pitch right in,” Trace said. “How do you think I’m doing so far?”

  “I haven’t learned anything new yet,” Hubbaker said.

  “Here’s a new question for you,” Trace said. “Where were you the night Jarvis was killed?”

  “Oh, that’s good. This is really getting good,” Hubbaker said. He seemed totally unconcerned by the question.

  “Sorry, Trace,” Felicia said. “Edvel was in England with me. All these people were. We were staying at Lady Dishwater’s.”

  “Lady Dishwater?” Trace said.

  “We call her that. Lady Dicheter. We were all there. I invited them all to come with me when I had to come home, but they were all mutts and didn’t want to get involved in any funeral. So I came by myself and they all just arrived.”

  “Sorry,” Hubbaker told Trace. “She’s my alibi.”

  “It was worth a try,” Trace said. “I just generally mistrust people who try to listen in on my conversations. Why did Jarvis come home?”

  “He got sick,” the countess said. “I think it might have been food poisoning. First, Willie got sick as soon as we all arrived, and then Early came down with it. I told him to take a couple of days off and go out into the countryside, but he decided he wanted to come back and see his doctor.”

  Trace turned back to the fireplace, looked at the safe, then at the two plants on either side of the stone wall.

  “This the plant that got knocked over?” he asked, touching the six-foot-high plant that sat loosely inside a Fiberglas pot.

  “Yeah,” Felicia said. “I don’t know plants, but they’re some kind of aspidistra trees or something. They’re due for planting any day now and I just hope that one didn’t get shocked. They cost a small fortune. And another thing. I forgot to tell this to the police. The thief stole one of my ashtrays.” She walked to the end table by the sofa and picked up a heavy-looking milky-white marble ashtray. “There was another one just like this,” she said, “and now it’s gone.”

  “Why would a thief steal an ashtray?” Trace said. “Unless maybe he hit Jarvis with it.”

  “I don’t know,” Felicia said. “Maybe he was compulsively neat and didn’t want to drop cigarette butts in the yard when he was leaving. My ashtray. My goddamn tree. I hate this.”

  Trace looked again at the two trees. All trees looked alike to him. He looked at the one that had gotten knocked over and then at the other one, sitting inside its green Fiberglas pot, its roots wrapped loosely in a burlap bag. It didn’t look any healthier to him than the other tree. Maybe shock was good for baby trees; maybe it let them know it was a jungle out there.

  Trace looked at the trees and at the ashtray and at the fireplace and at the safe again. He glanced through the sliding doors toward the pool and the fish pond. He felt Hubbaker’s eyes watching him, and he felt required to do something detectivey.

  “Umhum,” he said with what he hoped was proper significance. “Yup. I see. Umhum.”

  “Oh, Trace, will you stop the bullshit?” Felicia said. “What are you doing?”

  He looked at her. Her shirt had slipped open and her breasts were exposed again.

  “Just thinking out loud,” he said darkly. “Is Spiro working today?”

  “Was the Jeep parked outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’s here.” She went to a speaker box on a small table and called into it.

  “Spiro, come into the living room.”

  Just then, Willie Parmenter came into the living room from the hallway at the front of the house. He was carrying a tall highball glass.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think to ask. Woul
d anyone like’ a drink?”

  “No, Willie,” Felicia said. Hubbaker and Trace shook their heads.

  The small man walked through the cool room and out onto the patio. Trace followed him and stood in the doorway, looking across the pool at National Anthem, who was doing jumping-jack exercises. The Neddlemans were still unmoving on their twin chaises. Maybe they weren’t husband and wife, Trace thought. Maybe they were Siamese triplets. Francis, Frances and the Chaise Lounge all joined at the back.

  Ferrara took the glass from Willie Parmenter and sipped it. Trace heard him snap, “Jesus Christ, what’d you do, fill this with water?”

  “Sorry, sir. Ice melts,” Parmenter mumbled.

  Trace felt Felicia brush alongside him.

  “You know anything about Jarvis’ passport?” he asked.

  “No. What about it?”

  “Police didn’t find it on him,” Trace said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe one of those dopey cops lost it.”

  “You called me, ma’am,” said a voice behind them.

  Trace remembered Spiro from the last time he had been at Felicia’s home. He was a swarthy man in his early thirties, with a Viva Zapata! moustache and greasy black hair.

  “Mr. Tracy here wants to talk to you. Trace, I’m going outside before the sun’s all gone. Call me if you need anything. I’ve heard all this before.”

  “Mind if I stay?” Hubbaker asked Trace.

  “If you want,” Trace said. “Sit down, Spiro.”

  The man sat stiffly on the edge of a small wooden desk chair.

  “Is Spiro your last name or your first name?” Trace asked.

  “Both names.”

  “Spiro Spiro? How’s that?”

  “Well, if you really got to know, my name’s Spirakos Spirakodopolous. My father was Greek.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Yes, he was,” Spiro said. Obviously no sense of humor, Trace thought. “He was a fisherman in Maryland. My mother was a bakef.”

  “Okay. How long have you been working for the countess?”

  “About a year. Since right after she moved here. Jarvis hired me.”