“Pete is simply a hired thug employed by my father,” she said when I’d finished talking and had a chance to drink some of the gin and tonic. “I knew there was something more to that West woman than the house-keeper-companion story Father put over! Anyway, Clem-mie’s out of their clutches now and I’m relying upon you to see she stays that way, Mr. Boyd!”
She opened her purse and took out a folded check. “This is for two thousand dollars,” she said as she handed it to me. “As we agreed. Let me know when you need more money, Tm willing to pay all expenses, and for your time as well, Mr. Boyd.”
“Fine,” I said and looked at her appreciatively. “I like that dress, it’s real cool. The last time I saw you in that kidskin jacket, I couldn’t tell whether you were flat or what.”
She pursed her lips together tightly. “Please write your obscenities on walls, Mr. Boyd,” she said tightly. “That’s where they belong and I’m sure you’re an expert at it by now. If you have nothing further to report, I’ll leave. I shall be late for dinner as it is.”
I lit a cigarette and looked at her for a moment, wondering how she and Clemmie could ever have come out of the same mold.
“Were you followed here?” I asked her.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said. “I think not—why?” “You were right about feeling you were followed yesterday,” I said. “Your father’s attorney—Houston— called on me in the afternoon. He had a detailed list, right down to the number of drinks I had while we were talking in here.”
“What did he want?” she asked tautly.
“He wanted me to lay off,” I said. “He came up as high
36
as a thousand dollars for me to forget whatever it was you wanted me to do.”
“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “I didn’t know things had gotten quite as bad as this. Thank you for remaining loyal to me, Mr. Boyd.”
“It was your money I was loyal to,” I said. “It added up to exacdy twice the amount Houston was offering. Has Philip turned up yet?”
“I still haven’t seen or heard from him,” she said. “Thank God you got to Clemmie in time!”
I finished my drink and ordered another; Martha Haz-elton’s glass was still untouched.
“You figure something’s happened to Philip,” I said. “You hired me to get Clemmie away to a safe place. What about you—aren’t you worried about your own safety?”
“Yes,” she said after a long pause. “I suppose I am, Mr. Boyd. But I’ve always thought that I was safe in New York—that farm out in Rhode Island is the danger-spot, it’s lonely, so isolated. But now Father knows I’ve got you working for me, and Clemmie is out of his reach, he wouldn’t dare try to murder me, surely?”
‘That’s logic,” I said. “Trouble is, when you’re talking about a murderer, or a potential murderer, you got to remember they don’t always have the same kind of logic you’ve got. Have you got an attorney representing you about this trust your mother left?”
“No,” she shook her head. “Houston represents the whole family. There’s no dispute—you see, Mr. Boyd? There can’t be any dispute until it’s proved that Father has embezzled the money.”
“And you can’t prove he has—you only suspect he has?”
She nodded briefly. “That’s the precise situation. At the moment I have nothing to gain by legal representation —and it would make Father furious.” She shuddered momentarily. “My father is a strong-willed and physically
37
powerful man, Mr. Boyd. It isn’t easy to defy him directly.”
“Sure,” I said. “How about Houston—you think he’s mixed up in the embezzlement?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It’s possible of course, but it’s my father who has complete control of the trust fund.”
“Well,” I shrugged my shoulders, “there’s nothing else we can do right now, but keep Clemmie out of the way.”
“I think so,” she said crisply. “I’ll keep in touch, Mr. Boyd, call your office every afternoon if that’s satisfactory?”
“That’s fine with me.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Boyd.” She got to her feet gracefully, picked up her purse from the table, and went out the door. Still no chance to check on the white underwear.
I turned the key and pushed open the front door of the apartment, wondering if I was going to find dinner on the table, or Clemmie in a negligee, or maybe both. The bottle of champagne was under my arm and I was prepared to let the rest of the evening take care of itself. Then I walked into the living room and found other plans had been made for me.
Clemmie sat huddled on the couch, biting her thumbnail savagely. She lifted a blotched, tear-stained face as I came into the room, then dissolved into tears. Houston stood in front of the window, his arms folded neatly across his chest, in an attitude of patient waiting. His face was its usual expressionless self as he looked at me.
The third guest would have been standing behind the living room door as I walked in. I realized that too late, when the hard barrel of a gun thrust into my spine.
“Just take it easy, Boyd,” a clipped voice said in my ear, “and nobody gets hurt.”
His free hand slipped down over my shoulder and lifted the .38 from the holster.
•'Better?" the guy said. “Now we can all take it easy. Over on the couch beside the dame, Boyd.*'
I walked across to the couch and sat down beside Clemmie.
“The buzzer went,” she sobbed, “and I thought you must have forgotten your key, so I opened the door. I’m dreadfully sorry, Danny.”
“Don't let it worry you,” I told her. “Here's your champagne.” I put the bottle into her lap.
Then I got my first look at the guy with the gun. Average height, powerful shoulders, a snappy dresser— around my age, maybe a couple of years older. His jet-black hair was cropped short in a semi-crew, and his face was long and narrow with a wolfish look about it. The eyes were nut-brown in color with a reddish pinpoint somewhere in the pupil—violence on a short leash. He held the gun like he could use it.
“This is Mr. Tolvar; Carl Tolvar, Boyd,” Houston said in a dry voice. “He’s by way of being a colleague of yours—he’s also a private detective.”
“It gets more overcrowded every day,” I said.
“You realize kidnapping is a Federal offense?” Houston went on calmly. “Kidnapping is also a capital offense.” “Clemmie came with me of her own free will,” I said. “You don’t need to knock yourself out trying to scare me, Houston. One look at your face is enough.”
“Someone called the State Police early this afternoon,” he went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “Gave them a fantastic story about a corpse being buried in one of the pigpens at the farm—and also gave my name as the informant. You wouldn’t know anything about that, Boyd?”
“Whose corpse was it?” I asked interestedly.
“I don’t need to tell you there was no corpse at all,” he said curtly. “But I had an embarrassing fifteen minutes with the police before I proved to their satisfaction that I had been right here in Manhattan all day, so I couldn’t possibly have made that call other than by long dis-39
stance; and they knew it was a call made in Rhode Island.”
“Who got to the corpse before the cops?” I asked him. “Stop playing the clown, Boyd!” he said irritably. “I find it tiresome to say the least. I’ve discussed the whole thing with Mr. Hazelton and he has, very generously I feel, decided not to charge you. This is your last warning though—if you attempt to see either Martha or Clemmie Hazelton again, you can expect no mercy from their father. You can consider yourself fortunate that Mr. Hazelton is a very forgiving man.”
He came around the couch and helped Clemmie to her feet, then escorted her toward the door. She looked back at me once and tried to smile but didn’t make it.