by Frank Lauria
Now she had definite proof for her suspicions. Anthony Bestman was the man they should be investigating. Owen was wasting precious time by persisting in his mad delusions. But perhaps her information would help cure all that.
She put her glass down and glanced at the red velvet telephone on the bar. If only he would call. Perhaps she should try reaching him. Last time it was three days before she heard anything. She certainly couldn’t spend that long locked up in her apartment. Still she didn’t want to upset anything Owen was working on. She sighed again and it seemed overloud in the stillness, almost as if it had been made by someone else.
She didn’t move. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she sat listening and her mind jumped back to Owen’s warning. He seemed to be sure there was going to be another murder.
Her heart was pounding as she stood up, went to the door, and checked the lock. She should have asked someone to keep her company, Sybelle decided. She was too excited to wait it out like this. She folded her arms and shivered slightly as she went to the bar. She’d been so anxious to find something to link Anthony Bestman with the killings that she’d neglected to make adequate arrangements for her own safety.
She sat down on the red velvet barstool and stared mournfully at the phone. No, she admonished, you cannot give in and call. It’s too important for Owen.
She knew that the disease had sapped most of his physical energy. He was worn thin as a bone and his brilliant mind was exhausted. A surge of compassion smoothed over her ruffled nerves as she recalled the helplessness and desperation in his gaunt face. She’d just have to wait it out. For his sake.
As the minutes passed, however, her reasoning took another tack. Owen was the one most in danger from Anthony Bestman. She owed it to him to tell him. She reached for the phone and started to dial. Then she realized she’d heard no dial tone. She pushed the receiver button down. Still no tone. She tried dialing the number anyway, but the result was the same. No tone, no ring, nothing—the phone was dead.
She tried to keep calm against a rising flood tide of apprehension, but it was useless. It made her nervous to know that she was locked in alone in her apartment with no way of calling for help.
She looked up startled as a floorboard creaked somewhere.
She sat perfectly still for a moment, her hand still resting on the velvet-covered phone, trying to hear above the booming of her heart.
The apartment was absolutely silent.
She was jumpy, she told herself. It was against her nature to just sit and wait. She’d been foolish for listening to Owen in the first place. His judgment was impaired by the disease. The best thing for her to do would be to go out to someplace where there were bright lights and lots of people. Perhaps she could even stop at Owen’s house later to see if everything was all right. She’d get her coat and go to a pub somewhere.
But as she turned and looked at the darkened doorway of her bedroom, she hesitated. For some inexplicable reason, she didn’t want to leave the cozy circle of light around the bar to go get her coat. There was something menacing about the dark room. She took a deep breath and tried to screw up her courage.
“You’re just being as silly as an old-maid aunt looking for burglars under the bed, she scolded, making herself get off the barstool and walk toward the bedroom.
An electric buzz split the silence.
Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked fearfully at the front door. Her first instinct was to ignore the bell
The buzz was longer the second time. Sybelle set her jaw, went quickly behind the bar, picked up a heavy glass pitcher, and went to answer.
“Who is it?” she demanded.
“It’s me Sybelle....” For a moment she didn’t recognize the muffled voice. “Sordi Are you busy?”
She heaved a great sigh of relief and threw back the bolt.
Sordi smiled sheepishly from the doorway. “I tried to call,” he explained quickly, “but your phone is on the blink. I was taking a walk and saw the lights. Am I disturbing you?”
“Not a bit!” she exclaimed. “Come right in.”
Sordi noticed the pitcher in her hand. “Expecting trouble?”
“Oh, no,” Sybelle evaded. “Just making a drink. Would you like one?”
Now that Sordi was here, her fears of a moment ago seemed childish. She patted her hair and headed for the bar.
“How about a nice bi… er... little Scotch?”
“That’ll be fine. How’ve you been?” he asked, settling down on the couch. “Haven’t seen very much of you lately.”
“Oh, well,” Sybelle bubbled as she prepared the drinks, “So much has been going on. I haven’t had a chance to visit. And Owen’s been so involved, poor thing.” She put the glasses on a tray, tugged at the waistband of her trousers, then reappeared smiling from behind the bar.
“Anyway, it’s certainly lovely to see you now,” she gushed as she gave him his drink. Delightful, she thought as she sat down next to him. She’d been hoping that Owen’s associate would make a move to extend their friendship. And tonight was a perfect time. She smiled again and raised her glass. “Cin, cin.”
She watched him over the rim of her glass as he returned the toast. He was wearing a checked walking suit and the deep-green silk scarf around his neck accentuated his blue eyes and graying hair. But his dapper good looks had a worried air. “It’s always nice to see you,” she ventured.
He seemed to become more ill at ease. “Yes: I’ve been meaning to stop by earlier, but lately there’s been another guest at the house and there’s been a lot to handle.”
“I can imagine,’’ she sympathized. Then she brightened. “And how is dear Lily? I’m so happy Owen’s found someone at last.”
Sordi nodded thoughtfully. “I was very happy myself. She’s a fine girl.” He looked up. “But I’m really worried about the doctor.”
“Well, of course, he’s ill. But I’m sure he’ll find a remedy.”
“I’m not so sure.” He shook his head and looked away. At first when Lily came to stay with him I thought things would work themselves out. But since that man arrived... that count… the doctor’s been at the edge of a breakdown. I know. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it. Do you know this Germaine?”
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Sybelle said quickly. “I’ve known the count for years. And I just learned something today that might help Owen get over his... er, nervous attacks.”
Sordi didn’t seem to be listening. “He hasn’t told me anything,” he mourned. “He’s either locked up in his study or he’s in conference with Lily and the count. I haven’t even been able to find out what kind of tests he’s running in the lab. I think it’s time I give him my resignation.
“Oh, my, don’t do that,” Sybelle said with genuine alarm. “It would be awful to lose those lovely dinners.”
He finished his drink and set his glass down carefully. “A man can only stay at a job as long as he’s useful,” he muttered.
Sybelle took a deep breath and made a decision. It wasn’t fair that Sordi was being kept ignorant of what was happening. If something should go wrong he’d be in as much danger as anyone else. She’d have to bend her promise.
She told Sordi everything: how Owen had contracted the disease, the deaths of Daniel and Maxwell, and why Owen had changed over the past few months. “He needs us right now,” she pleaded. “He’s going through a great deal of mental stress. He even thought he killed poor Daniel. And we’re all worried that someone will be next.”
Her voice became an excited whisper as she confided what she’d discovered that evening. “I found out that Anthony Bestman, a man who always hated SEE, was in London the night Maxwell was murdered. And he came back the next day,” she added triumphantly.
Sordi sat up in his chair, his eyes snapping with urgency. “But why didn’t you tell him? It may be what he’s looking for.”
“Well, the phone was out and I didn’t want to disturb Owen and the count. It’
s so crucial they find that missing ingredient.”
He reached for his coat. “Finding a murderer’s crucial, too. Come on. We’ll go back there and I’ll tell him myself.”
“Of course, you’re absolutely right,” Sybelle agreed emphatically. I should have gone there right away.” She lowered her eyelashes. “But then we couldn’t have had our little visit, could we?”
She started for the bedroom then hesitated. Even though Sordi was with her she still felt a bristle of apprehension when she went near the shadowy doorway. Would you mind very much getting my coat?” she asked sweetly. “It’s in the closet in there, but I think I’m’ afraid of the dark. All this intrigue has made me ridiculously nervous.”
“Sure.” He walked past her to the door and reached around for the light switch. “What kind of coat is it?”
She was just about to tell him when she felt a nudge at the base of her brain. Then the picture formed in her stunned thoughts.
A fanged dog leaping for a woman’s throat.
The image faded and her mind was blank for an instant before a roaring torrent of fear washed over her senses. “Wait!” she yelled “Don’t!”
She was too late. Her scream became part of a kaleidoscope of noise and violent movement.
Sordi fell to the ground, struggling with a growling1, twisting shape on top of him and she screamed again. The room teetered and began to whirl like a carousel gone out of control. Buzzers screeched, doors burst open, voices cried out; the din reached a babbling crescendo before it exploded with a sharp crack and collapsed.
Sybelle blinked and focused her eyes through the ringing stillness. Owen and Lily were standing behind Germaine at the door of the bedroom. The tall count held a smoking revolver in his hand.
She looked at them dazedly. Then the room tilted again and her legs turned to water.
“Sybelle, are you all right?” Germaine’s melodic voice was near her ear and she felt his strong arm around her shoulders, supporting her.
“Yes... I—” Her throat was too constricted for her to say any more.
“Are you all right?” Orient repeated far away. She looked in the direction of the voice and saw that he was talking to Sordi. Lily was kneeling beside him in the doorway as they helped Sordi sit up. Blood was streaming from two deep cuts on his forehead and the sleeve of his jacket was torn.
“Doctor, you made it just in time,” Sordi stammered. “I... he was too strong.”
“Easy now,” Lily soothed as they helped him get to his feet. “We’ve got to get those cuts cleaned out.”
Suddenly, Orient muttered a curse and went into the bedroom. “Look,” he called out. “In here.”
Germaine left Sybelle’s side and went through the door, revolver held ready. She took a few hesitant steps after him.
When she first entered the room she was too shocked and confused to understand. Then she slowly grasped what was wrong.
The bedroom was empty.
23
“Where... where is he?” Sordi whispered.
Orient’s thoughts were scrambling as he looked around the room. There was nothing but an overturned table and the bed. The draped window was closed. He went to the closet and threw open the door. Except for Sybelle’s clothing, it was empty. Then his nostrils filled with an unmistakable odor and he went near the bed. There was a smudge of dark talcum on the carpet.
“There was someone here,” Sordi insisted. “He jumped me.”
“Yes, there was,” Orient assured him. “He left his calling card. But how could he get out?”
Germaine came over to examine the carpet. “I know I hit something,” he murmured. But his smile was uncertain.
Orient gaped at the powder, his hands clenched helplessly. Then he remembered. The lure. The hunter’s bait. He inhaled and the pungent scent prodded his memory of another moon. “When I left Maxwell’s house after finding his body, the smell of blood in the talcum powder drew me to a spot where I’d be an easy target for a bullet. It’s a hunter’s trick to lure game.” He stood up. “And Anthony Bestman is a big-game hunter.”
“Well, finally you’ve come to your senses, darling,” Sybelle said congratulating him. “Since you wouldn’t listen to me in the first place, I went ahead and did some snooping of my own. Anthony was in London the night poor Maxwell was killed. And he came back the next day.”
“But how... did he get out?” Sordi groaned.
“Oh, dear, let me look at your poor hand.” Sybelle took his arm and led him to the door. “Come to the bar where we can wash it out. You need a brandy. In fact, we all need one.”
Orient looked at Germaine. “Bestman tried to set me up before. Maybe he hoped to do the same thing tonight. Even though I’m in remission my sense of smell is still good enough to sniff out his bait.”
Germaine bowed slightly. “Lead the way, doctor. But don’t expose yourself unnecessarily.”
“Don t go outside, Owen,” Lily warned. “I know he’s still nearby. I can feel it.”
‘That’s why we’ve got to go,” Orient said softly. “We have to stop him.” He smiled and kissed her gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
“Come,” Germaine said. “We have work to do.”
Orient went across the living room to the front door.
“Do you want a brandy?” Sybelle called out. Her eyes widened when both Orient and Germaine pressed frantic fingers to their lips.
Orient turned back to the open door and opened his nostrils to the faint but discernible odors of the street. The fumes of gasoline and animal excrement mingled with a warm, musty scent and he knew he was right. Bestman had planted some of the talcum nearby and was waiting in the darkness to kill him. He slipped through the door and quickly went down the few stairs to the sidewalk. He crouched down behind a parked car and scanned the empty street.
In a few moments, he’d located the source of the scent. It was coming from a point diagonally across the street. He looked back and signaled to Germaine.
The count came out of the shadow of the doorway and joined him behind the car. Orient pointed to the spot where the dried blood had been left as bait.
Germaine nodded. He stood up, rested his gun on the roof of the car, and aimed the barrel at the darkness across the street.
Bestman would be expecting him to cross toward the odor, Orient decided, so he would do the opposite. Surprise would give him an edge. But no matter which way he went he’d have to draw Bestman’s fire. He was still the quarry. He eased around the other end of the car and then quickly dashed across the street and slipped between two parked cars.
When the scuffling echo of his footsteps died away the street was silent.
Orient crouched and began moving along the outside of the row of parked cars, closer to the area where Best-man was waiting.
As he neared, the musty scent of the powder expanded in his senses. He stopped, stood up, and squinted into the shadows.
When he lifted his head over the top of the car a simultaneous boom and flash of light went off in front of him, outlining a burly figure standing in a doorway.
Orient ducked and heard the report of Germaine’s shot behind him. There was a muffled grunt and a door slammed shut. He signaled Germaine to follow and crept around the front of the car.
The sidewalk was empty. The doorway where the shot had come from was dark and still. He waited until Germaine was near enough to cover him before going in. He flung the door open and stepped back against the wall.
A shot whined off the concrete near his feet. Then he heard the hurried shuffle of footsteps climbing stairs and started moving. He made out a stairway in front of him, but just as he started going up he heard the footsteps stop and he dropped, flattening his body against the steps.
The explosion of gunfire filled the narrow stairway. For a moment, Orient couldn’t hear anything except the painful ringing in his eardrums. Then there was a stumbling scramble of footsteps above and Germaine pushed past him.
Orient got up and followed, amazed at the quickness of the aged count. Germaine’s pace didn’t falter as he hurried up the seemingly endless stairway. Above them, however, the footsteps were becoming heavier and slower.
A sudden shaft of dim light illuminated the stairway and both of them crouched down. The light was coming through the open door, two flights above them.
“He’s on the roof,” Germaine hissed. He continued up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Orient’s chest was heaving as he strained to keep up.
When Germaine reached the open door, he stopped -and pressed against the wall. Orient crept up the remaining stairs along the opposite wall and stood looking out across the shadows.
The occasional shapes on the flat-tarred roof were outlined by the glow of the full white moon above. They were completely still.
“Nothing on my side,” he whispered.
“Another door over there.” Germaine lifted the revolver and pointed it past Orient’s head. “And a fire escape. He can’t go anywhere else.”
Orient ducked down away from the gun and peered around the edge of the doorway.
There was a small square structure on the other side of the roof and he could make out the door in the moonlight.
A shadow crossed the door and Germaine fired.
Orient heard a hoarse cry of pain and the clatter of something falling to the ground. Then the shadow separated from the wall and he saw Bestman shuffling awkwardly toward the curved metal rails of a fire escape. He was clutching his arm and his gun was gone.
“I warn you, Bestman,” Germaine called out.
Anthony Bestman stopped and turned around. He stood swaying slightly, his face contorted with rage and pain.