“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. I’ll shoot him, I’ll 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 wall, 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 connected, 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 jumped 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!” 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 trying 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, I’ll 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.
Twelve
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, j 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 I it in the trunk of my car.”
“What happened about that hit-and-run 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 I of how Tolvar got run down. Hearts and flowers all over K 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, “Houston 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 7>lVi 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 office at something close to the speed of light.
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 Hazelton.”
“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 entided 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?”
“Sure,” I said. “My pleasure. What time will suit you?” “You don’t know how much this means to me, Danny!” she said warmly. “Could you come over around ten?”
“I’ll be there on the dot.”
“Thanks again, Danny,” she said softly. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
I left the office around five-thirty, and Fran watched me cautiously as I walked past her desk.
“Relax,” I told her. “The world is crammed full of dames who know the value of the sheer, breathtaking perfection of the Boyd profile. I should grieve over a redhead with a lousy thirty-five-inch bust!”
“Thirty-seven and one quarter,” she said evenly. “I just checked.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “Well,” I admitted, “maybe I should reconsider. You might yet get lucky and have an intimate association with the classic profile of a Greek god. I am not boasting, you understand?” I added quickly. “Merely making a statement of fact.”