by Troy Conway
I handed the gun to him.
“Okay,” he nodded. “Let’s go.”
Walrus-moustache and a mildly terrified Wanda Weaver Yule met me in the hotel lobby, together with about a thousand other excited guests. The Chief gave me one swift look and drew the trooper to one side. Sideburns and Lennie were walking under their own power, but barely. I was between them, a hand on an arm of each, acting as a guide.
I got them outside and shoved them into the state patrol car. A few seconds later the trooper came out with his buddy. He nodded at me, telling me the prisoners would be down at state trooper headquarters if I wanted to interrogate them.
Wanda was at my elbow, grabbing my arm. Her green eyes were big with shock. “It’s true, then? They were after me? To kill me?”
“What do you think, pet?”
Walrus-moustache rumbled, “Okay, let’s clear out. I want some words with those murderers. You take Mrs. Yule home, Damon. Oh—nice work.”
“Nice work?” Wanda screeched. “He saved my life!”
I had to go back inside for her ermine wrap, pushing a path through the crowd that had gathered. The reporters and photographers were shouting questions and popping flashbulbs all around us. Wanda decided she didn’t want to be left alone, so she grabbed my hand and hung on while I barreled a path between notebooks and cameras.
It took us close to half an hour to be by ourselves in the Cadillac as I sent the speedometer needle edging up to twenty miles an hour on the dark country road. Wanda was shivering steadily, clinging to my right arm so I had to drive with my left hand. From time to time she would reach across the wheel and grab that one, to kiss my bloodied knuckles. This was why I was driving so slowly. One wrong move at any speed faster than twenty and I’d have racked up the Caddy around a tree.
“Your poor dear hands,” she kept whispering between kisses. “You saved my life, Rod, you actually did.”
She acted as if this was a big surprise to her. When I reminded her it was my job, that it was the reason I didn’t act as her escort to the mod ball, she almost wept.
“I know what you said, I just couldn’t believe it,” she muttered over and over. “I thought you d-didn’t want to be seen in public with me.”
“Don’t be idiotic,” I snapped. “You’re a beautiful woman. Any male would be damn proud to be your escort.”
She sniffled, “I feel like an old bag!”
“Well, you’re not. Your only trouble is, you’ve got nothing to do to keep you busy. If you went back to the rodeo, you wouldn’t have time to brood about your looks, you’d be too busy working to fret.”
In a small voice, she said, “I’ve thought about it.”
“Good. After this hassle is over, you can give all your time to it. I guess you can still ride a horse. So practice up a bit and maybe you can start a whole new life for yourself.”
She snuggled closer, with her head on my shoulder. “Rod? Could you be a part of that new life?”
“Well, now, I do have a couple of jobs at the moment. I’m a sociology professor, founder and principal instructor for my League of Sexual Dynamics, and in my free hours I go to work on Coxe Foundation jobs like this.”
“The rodeo would help me forget you,” she murmured.
“Sure it would.”
“The only trouble is, everything’s been done before on the rodeo circuit,” she pointed out. “I have to come up with a new gimmick, something completely different, because no matter what you say, Rod, I am past my peak. I just couldn’t compete with those pretty girls in their bright satin blouses and frontier pants, with their little girl faces bright and cheerful under those Stetsons.”
“Sure you can,” I protested.
“With a trick, yes,” she nodded. “So they’d be more interested in the stunt than they are in how I look. I’ll have to think about it.”
We were almost at Heather Haven. It had taken us close to two hours to negotiate the fifty miles, what with all the hand-kissing and arm-hugging that had been going on. Wanda Weaver Yule was grateful to me, I must admit.
I turned the car into the drive. There were lights on in the house, I saw, and a big black limousine drawn up to one side of the high-columned front porch. A man in a chauffeur uniform was leaning against the front left fender, smoking a cigarette.
“Hi, Oliver,” I called as I helped Mrs. Yule from the Cadillac. “The Chief inside?”
“He is—with Lucy.”
“Who’s Lucy?” snapped Wanda Weaver Yule.
“A girl who works for the Foundation.”
She sniffed suspiciously but she walked through the front door and into the living room. Walrus-moustache was sitting gingerly in one of the love seats to the right of the wide marble fireplace. A pretty blonde in a mini-skirted black velvet cocktail dress with black lace blouse under its tight bodice was slouched down in a pale gold satin sofa, long nyloned legs crossed high up.
“Where the hell’ve you been?” said Walrus-moustache.
“Driving home,” I told him, glancing at Wanda, who was eyeing Lucy the same way the girl was regarding her.
The Chief growled at Wanda, “Maybe now you’ve gotten some sense about this case. This is Lucy Wells. She’s going to be you for a while.”
Wanda yelped in protest. I guess she figured Lucy and I would be carrying on the way she and I had been doing. My hand patted her hand.
“Relax, relax. What the Chief means is that she’s going to pretend to be you, to draw the fire.”
Lucy smiled, her green eyes going from me to Mrs. Yule. “I’ll take your place in public, that is. When you have to go out, I go instead of you. If anybody wants to kill you, they’ll shoot at me instead.”
“But you caught my killers,” Wanda pointed out “There’s no more need to bother about protecting me.” She thought a moment, then added weakly, “Is there?”
“We caught two men who tried to kill you,” the Chief said. “We know from their own lips they were hired to do the job by a pretty girl with brown hair. They knew her only as Laura.”
“Laura Ogden,” I chipped in. “This means you aren’t out of the woods yet, Mrs. Yule.” I was being formal in front of Lucy Wells and old Walrus-moustache. I went on, “It’s still most important that we protect you.”
Wanda smiled into my eyes. “If you say so, Rod.” Then she turned to look at the blonde girl. “You said you were to take my place in public?”
“Only in public,” Lucy said, her eyes alight with mirth.
Wanda Weaver Yule asked, “When will you go to work?”
Lucy spread her hands. “Any time you say. Right now, if you’d like. I have blonde hair and green eyes, I can pass as you, I think. Dressed in your clothes, that is. If you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. That was a pretty close call I had tonight. I’ve been fooling myself with the thought that when my motor exploded, it was an accident Those men out there on the balcony were no accident.”
“And you were their target,” Walrus-moustache confirmed. “I questioned them, and they admitted they were there to do you in. The man with the gun is an expert marksman. He said he’d rather go to trial on an attempted murder charge than meet up with you again, Damon.” He gave one of his rare smiles. “Can’t say I blame him, after seeing what you did to them. You all right?”
I nodded. “Never better.”
Wanda protested, “He is not! His poor knuckles are all bleeding. I’ll have to doctor them before—before he goes to bed tonight.”
Lucy asked innocently, “Should I sleep here?”
My hostess drew a deep breath. “Yes, I guess you’d better. I always take swims in the pool in the afternoon. You can do that for me. And—er—sometimes I have to go see my lawyer from time to time. You can do that, carrying my written instructions.”
Wanda Weaver Yule beamed, still clutching my arm. “We’ll get along—as long as you confine yourself to the public appearances.”
Lucy Wells smiled genially. She said,
“I have a suitcase in the car. I’ll go get it.”
Walrus-moustache ran fingers through his hair. He was still wearing his pirate costume, and it was as Blackbeard that he said, “Thanks, Mrs. Yule. You won’t regret cooperating with the Foundation. Between us, well not only save your life but get your would-be killers as well.”
Lucy Wells and the Chief left the house.
Wanda said softly, “The maid can show Lucy to her room. You come upstairs with me. I’m feeling a need for protection.”
It was more than protection that Wanda wanted.
CHAPTER FIVE
We made a very pleasant ménage à trois for the next four days. Lucy was Wanda Weaver Yule in public; she went to the law offices of Hutton, Hutton and Quinn; she took rides in the Shelby Cobra GT 500-KR; she swam in the estate pool, barely covered by an abbreviated bikini. In private, when she was alone in the Yule bedroom, she wore all the finest clothes. She played her part to the hilt.
Wanda herself was never seen outside the big house. This left her plenty of time to think up games that a lady boss and her chauffeur could play. It is a damn good thing I suffer from priapism because Wanda might otherwise have worn me out.
On the morning of the fifth day, there was a phone call for the real Wanda. She had to make a personal appearance in New York City. She was the donor of a school for orphans. It was some of her millions that had built the edifice, and now she must make an appearance at the school opening, when the mayor and a couple of other dignitaries were going to make speeches and other hoopla about the school.
“I feel strongly about that school,” she said. “I’ve just got to go.”
After some thought, I said, “So we’ll go. The only thing is, we can’t have you parading around like Wanda Weaver Yule. You’ve got to be somebody else, like a maid.”
To my surprise, she nodded. “All right. I’ll go along with that. Lucy can be me; I’ll be her personal maid.”
I chauffeured Lucy and Wanda north in the Cadillac.
Lucy lolled in the back, swathed in mink and jewels. Wanda sat beside me in her black outfit. It was a kind of joke to the millionairess.
“I’ll have to appear myself at the ceremonies, you know,” she told me on the way. “The trustees of the building fund know me very well. An imposter could never fool them.”
“I’ll drive Lucy there as you, then. You go as the maid. In the ladies’ room you can change clothes.”
“What about the suite?” Wanda asked.
“Yeah, the suite. So we’ll make sure it’s large enough for the three of us. Maybe a camp cot for me. You can sleep with Lucy.”
She pouted, “That’s no fun.”
“For public consumption, you know. You have a built-in-excuse—these attempts on your life, you’re terrified to be alone. Hell, the papers will eat it up.”
The newspapers were full of the story. The Foundation made sure of that. Wanda Weaver Yule—the real one—gave out interviews in her home. If the object had been only to save her life, this would have been a stupid thing to do. But the Coxe Foundation was interested in tracking down the would-be killers and to do this the Opposition had to have a crack at killing her.
The suite at the Waldorf was lovely, with a view of the city eastward toward the river and Brooklyn. Below us, Lexington Avenue crawled with traffic. It was dusk, just turning into night, and the lights were coming on all over town.
Wanda and I stood together at one of the windows, looking out at one of the bridges connecting Manhattan island to Brooklyn. It was alive with lights, looking like a fairy structure against the blue velvet darkness.
“I’m hungry,” she complained. “That sandwich at Howard Johnson’s on the Jersey Turnpike seems like five days ago.”
Lucy came in from the big bedroom. “I’ll ring room service.”
While she was at the phone, I got out a fast, Swiss-made Hasselbad camera from my valise. I was already wearing my shoulder holster, the butt protruding from under my left armpit. I felt we were ready for what might come.
Room service furnished us with three filet mignons, grilled over a charcoal fire, and three salads. None of us had any dessert but we did indulge ourselves with two pots of coffee. We chatted while we ate; we had become friendly by this time, all three of us.
Lucy stretched, yawning, “Me for bed. I’m beat.”
Wanda nodded, “I’ll be right in, Lucy. I’m tired myself.” Her green eyes touched mine apologetically. I nodded. Hell, I was bushed too.
Lucy went into the bedroom, crossing to the vanity table. Wanda was just behind her, reaching for the zipper on her maid outfit. I was right at their heels.
Mrs. Yule paid me no nevermind, but Lucy sort of arched her eyebrows when she saw me lurking in the doorway. She was in the act of reaching for her skirt, to raise her dress up over her head.
“Must you?” she muttered.
“Line of duty, sweets. Suppose somebody were to snap off a shot at you while you had that dress up over your head?”
She said, “Oh, Rod, be reasonable.”
But her voice was muffled because the red number she was wearing was rising past her chin. She made a nice picture in her long gun-metal nylons and the specially made slip trimmed with ivory lace. Her full hips wriggled a little, and she cursed softly when a lock of her golden hair caught in a zipper tooth.
I started forward. “I’ll help——”
Whuppppp!
Lucy fell forward.
I whirled, the camera in my right hand lifting with instinctive reflex, aimed at the window. The camera had an infrared lens and an infrared flashbulb. There was no betraying light blast.
A woman hung in midair a yard from the window, a gun with a silencer in her hand. I got one long look at her while I Was snapping the shutter release. “Midge Priest!” I breathed, and my fingers froze on the Hasselbad.
I could have reached for my gun when that surprise first wore off, but I chose to take another snapshot. A good thing I did, because a second after the camera clicked, she shot upward into the air.
I stuck my head out and looked up. Midge was rising roofward. Even as I yanked out my holstered revolver, she was stepping into another open window a few floors above. There was that same belt about her middle that she had worn the night she and Laura Ogden had levitated upward to the helicopter on the Outer Banks.
She was out of sight before the gun cleared my holster. I swung around, started to run across the room. If I could get upstairs before Midge could get down into the lobby, I could trap and capture her.
Wanda was yelling something at me. “Where are you going? Don’t you realize she shot Lucy? My God! Give me a hand here.”
She was trying to roll the girl over onto her back. I knelt, studied the red dress in which her head was still tangled, and her creamy shoulders, the back of her slip.
“There,” I said, pointing. “The bullet hit there.”
Wanda stared down at the unmarked slip. “You’ve got to be crazy! It would go through the slip and into her heart. Whoever did the shooting was a damn good shot.”
“This is a special kind of nylon slip, honey. It’s the same stuff as the boys in Viet Nam use to stop a bullet or a bayonet. The secret’s in the weave, and has something to do with diverting the force of the impact as the bullet hits.”
Lucy stirred. I said, “She’s coming around. Lu, you okay?”
“I’m dead,” she gasped.
I laughed, “You’ll have a sore back, sure, but you’ll be as good as new, come morning. Nice Work, honey. I got two pictures. It was Midge Priest out there.” I waved a hand at the open window. “Out there.” Wanda snapped, “Oh, come off it. This suite is thirty floors above street level. There’s no place for anybody to stand on or cling to.”
“She was wearing some special kind of belt that lets her levitate, go up or down. She came down to shoot; she went up to escape.”
“Oh, brother,” breathed the millionairess. Lucy was a limp weight as I got her to
her feet, holding her against me for support. Wanda was muttering to herself as she untangled Lucy’s hair from the zipper.
I bent and lifted Lucy, put her on the bed, face down. I raised the slip up to her bare shoulders. There was a faint black and blue mark on the pale white skin of her back. It would discolor even more in the hours ahead. I put a hand on her shoulder, shook her a little. “Brave girl,” I whispered.
She began to sob. “I—I’m n-not a brave g-girl,” she stuttered. “I’ve b-been s-scared speechless these past few days. Wha-what if she’d aimed at m-my he-head?”
“Why, you poor, darling baby,” Wanda cried, and leaned to take Lucy into her arms. “I never realized what this job assignment was doing to you. I thought you were one of those absolutely nerveless human beings whom I envy—and despise.”
I dialed the boss-man. Walrus-moustache was in a suite not far from our own. The Chief was like the core of a labyrinth, with hundreds of contacts in all its many tunnels. He could make the Coxe Foundation jump when he yelled. I wanted him to yell.
“It was Midge Priest,” I told him. “No mistake about it. I’ve got her face on film so you can show her picture to all our agents.”
“I’ll send a man down right away and have them developed inside the hour. You stay there just in case she makes another try.”
“She won’t,” I assured him.
He listened while I described how the bullet intended to kill Lucy had hit her behind her heart, where the nylon slip protected her. “She’s a bit weepy at the moment, but she’s physically fine.”
He told me he’d put in a call for a doctor, just to be on the safe side. “You get a good sleep, Damon. I may want you to follow that Priest woman only God knows where,” when we get a line of her. I’m sure she’s going to report back to whoever it is that wanted Wanda Yule dead. To tell her mission accomplished and all that sort of thing.
During the next hour, a Foundation agent came for the film in my Hasselbad, a doctor appeared with his black kit in a hand and gave Lucy a thorough going-over, pronouncing her fit. He handed Wanda a salve she could massage into the skin, to alleviate any pain. Finally I went to bed.
