“I’m sure of it,” she said with quiet conviction, “as sure as I am that she killed Philip Hazelton, too.”
“If anybody’s crazy in this setup, you’re the favorite candidate,” I told her. “Why would she kill them—her own brother and sister?”
“I told you a parnoiac doesn’t think the same way as a normal person—but there’s no point in trying to convince you, Danny, you’ve made your mind up I’m wrong before I even start.”
The trouble when you’re talking to a dame is that she’s a dame. The rise and fall of the luxuriant curves
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beneath the black cashmere, the skirt ridden a couple of inches higher than it should be, exposing the dimple in back of the knee and the deep outward curve of the thigh that was tantalizingly hidden after the first few inches. . . . You listen to what she says, but your real concentration is a couple of places elsewhere.
I made a hell of an effort and looked at her face. “I don’t have my mind made up,” I said. “I’ll listen seriously. 1 know Martha has one hell of an arrogant attitude, but I figured she gets that from her old man. It’s not unique.”
“It’s symptomatic,” she said steadily. “And she does have a reason for killing both of them—a good reason. Mr. Houston told me about the trust fund their mother left. The three of them would have shared equally in it. Now there’s only Martha left, the whole lot will go to her!”
“Go on,” I told her.
“Yesterday morning, when I first discovered Clemmie was missing,” Sylvia said in a low voice, “I went into Martha’s room and told her. She was still in bed, and she looked at me and smiled—I’ve never seen a smile like that in my whole life before. It was terrifying, Danny, the way it kind of crept slowly across her face. She knew already, that was the awful part. She knew what had happened to Clemmie and she was enjoying the knowledge—enjoying the worry on my face because she knew there was a lot worse to come.”
“You sure this thing hasn’t worn down your nerves and you need a vacation?” I asked.
“Danny!” She leaned forward fiercely in her chair. “It’s not just me that feels it—so does Mr. Houston— and Pete. We tried to tell Mr. Hazelton but he won’t listen, that’s why we can’t do anything. She watches the rest of us like a hawk the whole time—I feel if I say one word too many, she would kill me as easily as she killed the others. That’s why I didn’t tell the police about the pigpens—I was frightened to let Martha know that I’d
94 known about the body being buried there, and how she
must have moved Sweet William into another pen and_”
“How could she have moved that lump of bacon before the cops arrived—she was in New York then,** I said.
She stared at me for a long moment, her mouth dropping open.
“I forgot that,” she said slowly. “Then—it must have been Pete who put Sweet William into the other pen!”
“So if it was Pete, where does that leave Martha?” “He must have helped her kill Philip—he’s her accomplice!” she said excitedly. ‘That makes sense, doesn’t it?” “Not much,” I answered.
“Danny!” there was an impatient edge to her voice. “You just reminded me Martha was in New York, so it couldn’t have been her—so who else could it have been but Pete!”
“There’s one other candidate?”
“Who?”
“You.”
Her eyes widened as she jumped up to her feet excitedly and took two steps toward me.
“You don’t seriously think I had anything to do with the murders! You must be out of your mind as well, if you think I’d . . . What reason could I have for killing either of them? What—”
“Take it easy,” I told her. “It’s only another theory.” Sylvia glared wildly at me for a moment, then relaxed her shoulders and smiled slowly. “I’m sorry, Danny. I guess it shows just how shot my nerves are—maybe you’re right about that vacation!”
“What made you come into town this afternoon, anyway?” I asked.
“Lieutenant Greer called Mr. Hazelton and told him you were cleared of any suspicion over Philip’s murder, and you’d been released on bail on the hit-and-run charge. Mr. Hazelton thinks it’s a travesty of justice or something—he told us all about it anyway. Afterwards, Mr. Houston talked to me alone and it was his idea I
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should come and see you.” Her eyes warmed slowly, “Not that 1 didn’t think it a good idea, too,” she added’ softly.
“Why did Houston figure it a good idea?”
“He thought you might listen to me about Martha,”
* Sylvia said frankly. “He didn’t think you’d believe it, although it’s the truth, but at least you’d listen. Then he suggested you should come to the house and stay there for a while—see for yourself. He said, Tell Boyd I’m not asking him to believe it, just to see how things are for himself.’ ”
“It’s kind of nice for Houston to ask me to be his guest,” I said, “but it’s not his house. You know how Old Man Hazelton thinks about me—he’s going to have some- ; thing to say when I stick my profile around his front door.”
“Mr. Houston said you’ve got the perfect excuse— Martha is your client and you could insist you wanted to be close to her—to make sure nothing happens to her the way it has to the others.”
“That’s smart thinking,” I said. “There’s only one snag —from a professional viewpoint, I mean—no client ever paid a private detective for getting them convicted of murder yet!”
“Mr. Houston—”
“I know!” I interrupted her. “Mr. Houston figured that one out, too. He’ll be glad to compensate me if I discover my client’s a murderer after all.”
Sylvia nodded silently, then the warm look in her eyes started to glow. She moved even closer to where I stood, until we touched at a couple of points of vital contact. ^ “Danny?” she said sofdy in a wheedling voice. < “Please do it—for my sake, if nothing else!”
Her arms crept around my neck and she lifted her face invitingly to be kissed, so I kissed her. She kind of melted and flowed all over me—I figured she had a fortune in merchandising a brand-new nursing technique, a kissing
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| therapy which could shortcut a male patient’s hospitalization by an average of three weeks minimum.
We stayed in the clinch for some time, then when she finally relaxed her arms from around my shoulders, I picked her up and carried her across to the bed and dropped her onto it.
“Danny!” she gurgled excitedly. “You are the most direct man I ever met!”
“You’d be surprised where it gets me,” I told her, “and where it doesn’t get me often.”
I sat down on the bed and looked at her for a moment. She cradled her hands behind her head and lay back on the cushion, very relaxed—maybe you could call it an air of expectant confidence?
I took hold of the hem of the sharkskin skirt with my fingers, feeling the expensive smoothness of the material for a moment; then flipped the skirt up to the tops of her thighs, exposing the firm roundness of her legs sheathed in fine nylon.
Around the stocking tops were the same fancy garters she’d worn before, and then the tanned smoothness of her bare thighs and the ruffled lace edges of black panties. I slid both the garters down her legs, one after the other, with great care, and put them into my coat pocket.
“Danny?” Her voice was throaty. “What are you doing?”
“It’s been nice,” I said. “I wanted a souvenir—like something to remember you by?”
She sat bolt upright suddenly. “What are you talking about?”
“We had it all,” I said, “youth, love and laughter. We watched the sun go down and heard the palm trees sigh in the breeze, we were two lovely people, so goodbye, i lover, don’t grieve. ... You know any more song titles, you can fill them in for yourself, huh?”