“I’ve told you he’s not married.”
Horne shrugged. “And I’ve told you that’s what he said.”
Her fingernails dug into his near shoulder. “Did he tell you anything else?”
“Now you’re getting hot under the collar.” In the enveloping darkness, the detective grinned. “No, he didn’t. I told him I didn’t handle the kind of divorce cases he said he wanted, and practically threw him out of the office. So what?”
She said slowly, “I think I believe you. You aren’t in the habit of lying.”
That gave him satisfaction. It was a little, personal victory to jolt this crazy woman once — just once. And, he told himself, he could probably jolt her again if he wanted to. He could tell her about the man who had stood on the stairs below his office to watch the fireworks. But he would hold that back, now.
He decided it was time to go home.
The game was played along far enough to convince him an unbalanced woman had killed a man and kidnaped him because she thought she was in love. He had been confident he could back out at any time he chose — after they had left Mother Hubbard’s place — and call it a night. The time was now.
“See here, redhead...”
“The name is Betty.”
“I can’t figure out if you’re sane or crazy, and I’m not going to try, tonight. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve been yanked out of bed at the point of a gun in the middle of the night, and taken for a joy ride. That I can understand because it happens. You pretend you’ve bought my life with an insurance policy and a hunk of money, and that you own me. That I refuse to understand because it doesn’t happen.”
“So?”
He put his hand on the door handle, watching for a movement of the gun. “So this is where I say good night. I’ve had enough of this foolishness.”
“May I remind you who you are?”
“No need to. I’m the world’s worst detective and know it. Good night.”
The hand on his shoulder quickly flew to his neck. He was surprised to find the hand was open, empty, and the fingers were soft on his skin. Her face loomed nearer his.
“Kiss me?”
“Kiss you! You?”
“And why not? Whatever you think of me, you must admit I’m nice looking.”
“Yes.” The soft fingers stroked his throat.
She removed her knees from the seat and edged closer to him. He saw that both hands were empty of weapons.
“And if I own you,” she persisted, “I can command you to kiss me, can’t I?”
“If you own me,” he pointed out sarcastically.
“You are a man, aren’t you?” she snapped icily.
“I hope so.” He didn’t notice that her right hand had left his neck and had dipped to the small window shelf behind the seat.
“Then, damn you, kiss me!”
Even in the darkness, he reflected, the face matched the anger in her voice. He shrugged and smiled at her.
“Why not, baby?”
Leaning towards her, he instinctively closed his eyes, searching for her lips.
The blackjack caught him behind the ear.
Horne sagged instantly. She caught his falling body and pillowed his head on her lap. The rain beat down on the steel top of the car. Singing aloud softly, as though she were afraid of waking him, she piloted the Buick back onto the highway and pressed down hard on the throttle.
“I’ve got him, Papa,” she said happily. “Damn, but he’s stubborn.”
Eight
Sergeant Wiedenbeck struggled vainly with the locked door and his midmorning grouchiness deepened.
The painted legend: CHARLES HORNE, CONFIDENTIAL SERVICES, on the frosted glass seemed to taunt him. Savagely he planted a thumping kick against the bottom of the door. The panel only quivered under his thrust.
The sergeant had struggled through a poor night. Of restful sleep there had been none; what sleep he had snatched had been stolen in fitful dozes, broken innumerable times by the ringing telephone (one was the wrong number), and broken twice more by his wife arousing him, complaining that his unconscious swearing was disturbing her slumber. That, he told her the second time she did it, was the last remaining straw: the camel was taking his pillow to finish the night on the davenport in the living room. Davenports aren’t conducive to sound sleeping.
Too, the breakfast coffee had tasted wrong somehow, and the eggs were overdone. She had put salt on his grapefruit again, instead of sugar. Were she and the criminal element conspiring against him, or was it only his perverse outlook on life that morning?
He rattled the locked door hopefully and listened for telltale signs of occupation. There were none.
Before he had left home his wife had almost forcibly separated him from twenty dollars to purchase an encyclopedia set for Junior; the set was contracted for and was to be delivered by the handsome salesman later in the day. Somewhat bitterly he consigned all encyclopedia salesmen to hell, pointing out that as Junior was only eighteen months old, he couldn’t be expected to read a book for a couple of years yet. He lost the twenty dollars nevertheless.
Two stern and righteous faces awaited the sergeant when he reached the City Hall. The faces reminded him that they had promised the papers an important arrest within forty-eight hours and... well, the only new faces in the cells below stairs were two drunks and a disturber of the peace. He had tried to placate the faces of the Mayor and the Chief of Police, tactfully attempting to point out that such rash promises should never be made. His success with the task was comparable with his success in withholding the money from his wife.
And now, blast his dishonest soul to limbo, Charles Horne wasn’t to be found, neither at home nor his office. And all the indications were he had skipped town.
He bit out a pair of scorching words men aren’t supposed to use in the presence of a lady and turned around to find he was in the presence of a lady. Elizabeth Saari stood in her open doorway watching him.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Didn’t know you were there.” He scuffled his feet, embarrassed at his language.
“Obviously,” she said. “Good morning, sergeant. Come on in.” She led the way into her inner office, closing the door behind them. As yet there were no waiting patients in the outer chamber. She indicated a chair and hoisted herself onto the leather examining table.
“Sit down, sergeant. I need no crystal ball to tell me it isn’t a good morning with you. Want to talk about it? It usually helps.”
He sat down mechanically and stared at her legs in automatic reaction. She crossed her knees, the movement breaking into his concentration. He shifted his eyes to the carpet.
“Yeah. I’m mad. That rat has run out on me.”
“What — you don’t mean Chuck?”
“I mean Chuck, if we must call him that. I can think of better names. He’s gone — skedaddled.”
“I don’t believe it. Why should he run away, sergeant? He’s out somewhere, at work.”
The policeman grunted. “He may be at work, and he is out, but he’s disobeyed my orders. He’s skipped.”
She shook her head in loyal disbelief. “Not Chuck. How can you be so positive? I don’t think he would do anything like that; I know him too well.”
The sergeant said, “That’s his quirk.”
“Quirk? I don’t understand you.”
“Know anything about psychology?”
She reminded him, “Naturally.”
“Oh — sure. That was a stupid question. Know more about it than I do. Doctor, I learned mine at police school. It doesn’t amount to a whole lot, but it covers what we need to know in police work. How to trip up a guy by what he usually thinks of, and by the one or two things — or thoughts — he keeps secret. Everybody has a private quirk.”