Little Tramp (Prologue Crime)

by Gil Brewer

  She spread the paper on the couch.

  The headlines were black, large, obvious.

  SOCIALITE VANISHES

  POLICE PROBE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

  OF GIRL

  There wasn’t much in the story. They said Miss Harper had, according to her father, left for Tampa International Airport, but had never reached her destination. Taxi drivers were being questioned. Franklin Harper, the well-known business tycoon, could add nothing to the mysterious revelation of his daughter’s disappearance. Mr. Harper was deeply concerned. The police were doing everything in their power … Mr. Harper would spare no expense….

  “You believe me, now?”

  He grabbed the paper, wadded it up, flung it at the floor. He heard her laugh softly, and her knee touched him, bare and round. Water from the bathing suit dripped to the floor.

  “Well, honey?”

  He lay back on the couch. She stood for a moment, then turned and went on outside again, and the screen door slammed behind her.

  For some time he lay staring up at the raftered ceiling, where faint cobwebs bloomed. A bird called softly from outside bushes, then tiny feet rustled against the eaves. There was no wind. The sun fashioned a stark yellow path through the front door, and seethed slowly, inching hotly across the room until he felt it creeping up his legs.

  He began wandering around the cabin. Suppose somebody

  saw her out there? Suppose somebody began asking questions, or for that matter—suppose somebody didn’t bother asking questions and just phoned the police? What then? By now there was a good chance her description and the story of her disappearance would be on the radio, too.

  Something else occurred to him.

  He’d been fired from the lumber company yesterday. The company was owned by Harper. He had voiced plenty of bitterness against the man, here and there around town when he was getting drunk early last evening. People might remember.

  What kind of girl was she? What could have started all this? Was Franklin Harper himself to blame? The girl was a tangled mess of rotten emotions.

  He didn’t want to admit to the fears that grew larger, overlapping and building within him, mushrooming like gluttonous cancers that fed on each pin-point trepidation in his mind.

  In the bedroom, he found she had brought along an array of clothes, as well as another large suitcase. It lay open at the foot of the bed, packed with towel-wrapped bottles; gin, whisky, and rum.

  He tried the radio, found nothing.

  She came in and mixed herself a drink, looking at him without speaking. He stood in the kitchen, got himself a glass of water, not knowing what to say, where to begin. He heard a soft step and looked up. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb, the wet bathing suit taut across an outthrust hip.

  “You hungry, Gary?”

  He said nothing.

  “Landlady—I had her fill the cupboards, you know, when I made arrangements for this place. Name’s Mary Lowell. She might come around today—you talk to her, huh?” She sipped her drink, watching him. “Having fun?”

  He brushed past her into the living room and slumped down on the couch.

  “We won’t contact Daddy for a couple of days, yet. Then you can phone and tell him I’m safe and we’ll start discussing ransom. Let him worry some, first. Let them all worry.”

  He did not look up. She went into the bedroom, and returned shortly, wearing a white blouse and black shorts, toting her drink. Her eyes were half-lidded now, her lips a bit lax. He heard her bare feet bump softly across the floor toward him, then saw her feet down by his own and her knees touched his. He looked up at her. She rocked above him, moving one knee back and forth against his leg. She giggled.

  “Anything you’d like?” she said. She took a quick sip from her glass, then held the glass down along her thigh and slapped it lightly against the round, smooth flesh. “Not mad at you any more, Gary. May as well tell you—I’m not averse to having a little fun, just to pass the time.” She leaned closer, reached out and ran her palm up along his cheek. “I get to thinking about it, I get hot all over. I’ve been thinking about it all morning, ever since you woke up. I could make you forget your troubles, I bet.”

  He did not move. He was sick, and it was like a dream. She leaned down and muzzled his throat with her lips. “Please, honey,” she whispered. Her mouth opened and pushed against his, wetly. Her body moved close and he heard her tight breathing. She slid onto his lap, holding the drink in one hand, circling his neck with the other arm. Then, eying him slyly, she set the glass on the floor, unzipped the side of her shorts, hooked her thumb into the tight rim and began yanking them down over her hips. “Come on, baby,” she said. “Help me.” He gave a violent lunge and stood up. She crashed to the floor and began cursing him obscenely. He strode into the kitchen. There was half a fifth of gin sitting on the table at the far side of the room and he grabbed the bottle and gulped the raw stuff down. It seethed in his throat, set up an uproar in his stomach. He heard her cursing in there and something happened to him. He set the bottle very carefully on the table and returned to the other room.

  She still lay there, loosely awry, monotonously saying, “God damn you—God damn you—God damn you—” her eyes narrowed, face flushed, red lips spread across her teeth.

  He was shaking with anger and helplessness. He reached down, took her wrist, snapped her to her feet. The loosened shorts fell to the floor. He dragged her over to the couch.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Shut up.”

  He sat down, fought with her, finally caught her pliant waist and flung her across his knees. He lifted his right hand and brought the palm down hard on her round white bottom. The imprint of his fingers outlined redly.

  She fought like crazy, but she didn’t cry out. He whaled her three times, hard, before he discovered he couldn’t go on. Her lush body was a wild, tantalizing force writhing against him. His palm whipped again toward the firmly rounded flesh, halted—the smack turned into a sensual caress. Her head turned around and he saw the glowing eyes and she giggled again.

  He dumped her on the couch, started out of the cabin. Turning in the doorway, he looked back. She lay on the couch, watching him with patient and unastonished eyes.

  Afternoon brought rain. It flashed in heavy pouring bursts, lasting for a minute or two, after which the sun burned yellowly. Rain freckled the lake and bass leaped and mosquitoes purred against the cabin screens, and he tried to think—to find a way.

  It was hot. The ground steamed with the sun. Beardy lengths of Spanish moss streamed, dripped, then swung gently in a sombre breeze and the tall pines moaned.

  “You’ll come around,” she had said. He couldn’t figure her at all. She insisted on telling him more about her father. “How rotten a father he’s been. You can think what you like. I don’t care. He kept me on an allowance. He never let me have any money. He sent me to schools all over the world, Gary, all my life. When I was a kid, I had a governess—she was a bitch. A real bitch. I never had any friends—only what Daddy picked for me. What cheesy lot they were!”

  After a while, she went swimming again.

  He sat on the porch and watched her out on the small wooden pier, lying in the sun now. She was drinking steadily, and he was beginning to be afraid of what she might do, out there where any people around could see her.

  There were two rowboats on the lake, fishing rods gleaming with each cast. Down the way a dog yelped and ran at vagrant reflections in the water. Across the lake he saw a woman in red shorts hanging out some wash on a line. Down the other direction, a man hacked at a pine stump with an ax. And there she lay.

  “Who’ll recognize me?” she’d said. “I’m Ann Black, your wife. We’re taking an annual vacation. You work for the light and power company, didn’t you know?”

  He sat there, worried, a little awed.

  He watched two red ants on the lower porch step, fighting in slow motion over a chip of dried leaf. />
  SEVEN

  ARLENE wore a blouse tucked into a short play skirt that buttoned up the side. Or should have at least. Evidently Arlene didn’t believe in using buttons, because both blouse and skirt were open all the way. It was obvious that she wore nothing under them—blatantly obvious.

  It seemed everywhere he looked, no matter how he tried to avoid looking, he saw some lushly rounded part of her anatomy.

  “You didn’t eat a thing for dinner tonight,” she said. “After I went to the bother of cooking that stew.”

  “Heating it, you mean,” he said. “You poured it from a can into a pan.”

  He paid little attention to anything she said. The thing was, he had to keep her from making the telephone call to her father. It was a cinch he wouldn’t make it himself. She had trapped him this far, but there had to be a way out—if he could only find it. There was no sense ranting and raving about the thing. He had to stay calm, which was easier said than done. And if she did make that call, things would really be bad—it would be legitimate kidnaping then, and he’d never be able to straighten it out. She’d told him she wanted her “daddy” to suffer for a while yet. What did she think the poor guy would do once he learned she’d been kidnaped?

  Apparently she hadn’t considered that she couldn’t force him to make that call. It was his ace….

  They were in the living room. She kept on drinking, her eyes bitterly amused at his conscientious disapproval of her actions. She was stretched on the studio couch, knees in the air. He sat in a chair, leaning back against the kitchen door jamb. Outside, night winds soared in the pines, mosquitoes hummed, and crickets and frogs warred in strident crescendos. Sporadic splashings emanated from the lake.

  She was on the defense every minute. He had made a forceful attempt at peace, so he could eventually reason with her. Any other way was out; he had learned that. He had to be careful what he said, and it was damned hard, because he was half crazy himself.

  “How old were you when your mother died?”

  “Few years. Why?”

  “Nothing.” He sensed a wrong track again.

  “Going to play head shrinker? Don’t bother. I’ve had it.”

  His voice was bitter. “Anything you haven’t had?”

  “Very little, honey.”

  Looking at her, it was hard to believe she was just a helplessly misinformed child. Anyway, age had nothing to do with the problem.

  “Ever stop to think how you’re making your father suffer, Arlene?”

  “Wish I could watch him suffer. Be invisible, you know?” She sighed and looked across at him. “But tomorrow maybe we’ll telephone him. We’re going to ask for five hundred thousand.”

  He listened, with that same awe and amazement he’d had ever since she’d told him what she was doing.

  “You’ll get fifty thousand,” she said. “The kind of help you’ve been to me, you shouldn’t get anything. Only I’m going to see this thing’s tied up in a neat package.”

  “I don’t want your damned money.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You’ll take it. Then I’m going away—to Europe. I’m never coming back.” She spoke dreamily, and for a brief instant he actually felt sorry for her. “I’ll live in Paris, I think. I’m going to smoke opium and get drunk every night, and never sleep twice with the same guy.”

  “Interesting prospect, little girl.”

  “Don’t call me little girl.” She glanced over at him, then smiled. “Come over here, honey—I’ll prove to you I’m not so little.”

  They sat in silence. It was growing late. Every hour that passed increased his anxiety. He was experiencing a kind of wonder at the whole thing. He had avoided the bottle, meaning damned well to keep a clear head. A few drinks and there was a good chance he’d end up on the couch with her. Immediately he thought of Doll again. He tried to thrust her from his mind. He had enough to worry about without that.

  “It’s almost time for bed,” Arlene said. “We’ll have a big day tomorrow.”

  He didn’t want to listen. Standing, he started for the front door. She reached out and grasped his hand, tugged him toward the couch. Her palm was hot, and he stood over her, looking down into her lazy eyes.

  “I’m lonely, Gary. Honest. Why don’t you—” She smiled up at him, all invitation. “Why not have a little fun? I like it—I just never was the type to avoid what I liked. Why be a hypocrite?”

  A surge of bitterness came over him. Everything seemed hopelessly fouled up, and now this sexed-up brat … And Doll was probably in Miami, busy forgetting him. Oh, to hell with it. He sat down on the couch, his hands moving harshly up her soft arms. She gasped.

  “Damn you,” he said.

  He grabbed her shoulders, drew her to him and her mouth opened, warm and wet, her body twisting against him. Her fingernails bit into his shoulders as he thrust her down, her lips close to his ear, “Yes … yes … yes …”

  He heard the footsteps on the porch, whirled upright on the couch with Arlene clinging to him.

  A man flung the screen door open with a crash and stepped into the room. He was a tall, rough-looking man and he stood in the soft red lamplight, the glow winking in harsh eyes, shadowing beneath a sharply thrusting jaw.

  “Having a little party?” the man asked quietly.

  Gary started to move, but then stopped. It was the man in the blue suit, the one who had stopped in the Dodge sedan and questioned him at the duplex the previous afternoon.

  “Didn’t take my advice, did you?” the man said.

  Gary felt Arlene’s trembling body as she clung to him. Then she began to cry. “Get out of here! Get out!” She slid back against the wall, her face twisted. “Who in hell are you, coming in here like this?”

  The man stepped back and closed the inner door across the screen door, then walked on into the room and stood above them, smiling.

  “My name’s Kryder,” he said. “I’m here to stay, honey. You two can go right ahead and finish what you were doing. I don’t mind. Fact is, I’d get a kick out of watching.”

  EIGHT

  GARY freed himself from Arlene’s clinging hands and started to rise. A large hamlike hand caught him off balance and shoved him brutally in the face. He slammed back against the couch.

  “Sit tight, buster,” Kryder said. “Do like I told you.” His eyes traveled over Arlene, his lips drawing back across his teeth. “She’s a hot little bitch—go ahead and take what you wanted. You may as well—it don’t matter, now. She’s young and ready, aren’t you, Arlene?”

  “Damn you,” Gary said, trying to rise again.

  And again Kryder slammed him back. The way he moved was ruthless, his shoulders heaving powerfully. He had enjoyed the moment of catching Gary off guard.

  “How many times you and her done it since last night?” Kryder said. “Well,” he said. “I was lying when I told you over at your place she was just a kid. She isn’t just a kid, Dunn—she’s a sex-ridden little handful. And when I say ridden, I mean just that. She’s been ridden by plenty.”

  Arlene suddenly came off the couch. Gary made a wild grab for her, but she was free. She dove at Kryder and Gary saw the man’s quick, tight, lopsided grin and heard the brutal smack of hand to face, twice. Arlene stumbled and sprawled across the edge of the couch, narrowly missing the radio.

  Kryder shook his head slowly, his eyes on every move Gary made. Then he laughed. He turned his back and walked into the kitchen, and flicked on a light. “Nice place,” he called. “Where you keep the liquor, Arlene, baby?”

  “You know him?” Gary said.

  “Don’t be a fool! Of course I don’t know him.”

  “She don’t know me, Dunn. Neither do you. But both of you will in a minute.”

  He returned to the living room, walking heavily, carrying a bottle of whisky and a thick-edged jelly glass. He lowered himself into the straight chair Gary had been sitting

  in and leaned back against the door jamb. He poured the glass half full of
whisky, leaned down and carefully set the bottle on the floor. Then he held the glass up in a silent toast, and drank sparingly. He smacked his lips, looked calculatingly at the glass, then at them.

  “Not bad.”

  He stood, put the glass on the chair, slipped his jacket off and hung it over the chair’s back. A revolver butt showed in a shoulder holster, the black straps damp against his shirt, bunching the cloth. Kryder was bull-shouldered, the white shirt ready to split at the seams. His throat was like a side of red meat jammed into the tight collar of his shirt.

  Picking up the glass, he sat down again, loosened a white tie, unbuttoned his shirt collar, breathed lazily through his open mouth. He took another drink and sat watching them, nodding a little to himself.

  “Go ahead,” he told them. “Like I said, I enjoy watching. Especially her.” He drank with steady unconcern, then began to hunch his shoulders. Reaching up, he unbuckled the shoulder harness, slipped it off and hung the harness and gun over the back of the chair. He grinned at them, took the gun and jammed it into his back pocket. “Uncomfortable,” he said softly. “But—” He shrugged.

  “Who are you?” Gary said.

  “Just a guy,” Kryder told him. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to play with her any more?”

  “Get off it.”

  “Gary,” Arlene said, leaning close to him, but speaking loudly enough so the other would hear. “Call the cops!”

  “Yeah,” Kryder said. “Call the cops, for Christ’s sake, Gary. Get on your horse. Let’s see some action.” He drank, not looking at them, his eyes swiveling alertly around the room above the rim of the glass, taking everything in, tabulating, defining. “She dress like that all the time around here?” he said to Gary. “She does, maybe I’ll take a crack at it myself.” He turned to her and winked. “But, then, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, honey? We could tie old Gary up, maybe—and take a turn in the bedroom? How about that?”

  She spat at him.

  He didn’t move, just sat there sipping his drink.

  “Well,” he said. “It’s all up with you two.” He set the glass on the floor, stretched, rubbed his eyes and leaned back again. He yawned until his jaws cracked and his eyes watered.