“A nice little place your boss has here,” I said, flinging myself onto the bed—a tradition in strange rooms similar to kicking the tires of a used car.
“Our boss,” she reminded me. “And don’t get too comfortable, you’ve got to get unpacked and then get ready for the party tonight. You’ll be on duty.”
“What party?” I asked sitting up.
“Mr. Bartlett is having a small party, sort of a business and social get-together. Just a couple hundred guests.”
“Only his closest friends, huh?”
“Despite the fact,” she said, ignoring my wry remarks, “that we were unable to get you a tailor-made wardrobe like Mr. Bartlett’s, we still were able to match your clothes with some degree of accuracy.”
“Isn’t that cozy?”
“Therefore, Mr. Bartlett prefers that you dress as closely as possible to what he’ll be wearing. He feels that this will help confuse any would-be assassins.”
“We wouldn’t want people to talk, though, would we?”
“Mr. Gould!” she exclaimed, slamming the dresser drawer where she had been unpacking my clothes. “You should learn to take this matter much more seriously. After all, a man’s life is at stake—and a very important man at that. I can honestly tell you that I don’t know why he ever hired you in the first place. I know I would never put my life in your hands.”
“What would you put in my hands, Miss Stephens?”
“Just this,” she said and tossed a light blue shirt onto the bed. “And wear your new beige suit with the tan tie. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get myself bathed and dressed.”
“You mean you’re not going to dress me?”
“Only if I have to,” she said sternly.
“You’d make a great den mother.”
She smiled and opened a door on the far wall next to the dresser.
“What’s in there,” I asked, “another bathroom?”
“Of course not. This leads into my room; we have adjoining bedrooms.”
“You mean you live here too?” I said springing to my feet.
“Certainly. Mr. Bartlett likes to have his staff with him at all times.”
“I suppose that means Barnum and Bailey also live here,” I said.
“Who?”
“You know, Mutt and Jeff, Pete and Repeat, Farrow and Putnam.”
“Yes, they live right down the hall next to Mr. Bartlett’s room.”
“Charming,” I said, gathering my party outfit.
“Don’t let them bother you, they’re perfectly harmless,” she assured me, then added, “I’ll see you later at the party, Harry.”
“Harry? I thought you said it was only Harry when I wasn’t wearing my pants,” I said as I moved toward her.
“So I did,” she grinned. “So I did.”
Chapter Eight
Although the party began at 8:30, nobody was actually killed until 9:30.
The result of that was that those who arrived on time witnessed the entire incident, and during the weeks and parties to come were able to offer vivid accounts of the disaster to the delight of guests and hosts alike; those who arrived fashionably late complained that if they had known something so dreadfully exciting was going to happen, they would have made a point of coming earlier. Unfortunately, the only person who knew what was going to happen neglected to tell the rest of us.
The evening had started innocently enough. Heather came into my room through the connecting door and announced that one of her shoes was missing. “I must have left it here this afternoon,” she smiled. I raked it out from under my bed, shared a quick kiss with her and ushered her quickly back to her own room so I could finish dressing to Mr. Bartlett’s specifications. I felt a bit flashy with my diamond cuff links and tie clasp reflecting tiny splinters of light all around my room, but I didn’t own another pair. Besides, it would be a nice gesture to Mr. Bartlett, Heather and the boys.
In the privacy of my room I was finally able to adjust my shoulder holster and practice a few awkward quick draws until I realized my only hope was if somebody was going to take another shot at Mr. Bartlett, they would be more accurate this time. In fact, the gun felt so totally foreign in my hand I even considered leaving it behind. After all, I reasoned, what could happen at a party with more than two hundred people? However, I knew it would upset Mr. Bartlett if he discovered me not wearing the gun and that if he was upset, then that would upset Farrow and Putnam; and if they were upset, they might decide to upset me. So, once again, guns were my business.
It would surprise a lot of people to know that just because a person is a crook, it doesn’t mean he has anything to do with guns. I’ve been a crook for more than seven years and I’ve never once during that time used a gun. In fact, most of the people I know in our business never have anything to do with them. It’s not that we’re especially nice crooks, it’s just that either there is no practical use for guns in our particular racket or we don’t want to take the chance of getting picked up with them in our possession. They may pick you up a hundred times a week on suspicion of a thousand crimes and most of the time they have to let you go right away, but if they ever catch you carrying a gun, they’ll put you away so fast you won’t have time to figure out which is your trigger finger. That’s why the only guys that carry guns are either professional strong arm men or born suckers.
I was neither. Nevertheless, nestled snugly under my left arm was a .38 police special with which I was supposed to protect the life of a man whose last bodyguard—despite the fact that he had been one of the best shots in the state—was now dead. Not that I was completely helpless when it came to firearms; I had shot a woodpecker once when I was fifteen with my .22, although I did spend the next two days sick to my stomach.
I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror before leaving the room. Satisfied with my appearance, I checked my watch and decided it was time I began my duties as bodyguard. The hallway on the second floor was covered with the kind of lush amber carpeting that immediately makes one self-conscious about the possibility of having stepped into something embarrassing on the way in. However, since I was wearing new shoes, my only problem was not to slip and fall on my gun, thereby shooting myself in the left armpit.
I looked up and down the hallway trying to decide which room was Mr. Bartlett’s. The corridors were hopelessly long with stairways at either end curving down to the first floor and up to the third floor. The hallway consisted of a light amber wall along one side and a waist-high railing along the other, overlooking the front door and huge reception hall as well as the entrances into the adjoining rooms. Along the wall were my bedroom door and three more doors just like it; if you faced the wall, there was a door to the left of mine, then mine, Heather’s and one to the right of hers. At either end of the hallway, short walls jutted out with large gold and white ornate doors, flanking either stairway. One of those doors led to Mr. Bartlett’s bedroom, but I wasn’t sure which one. Trusting to instinct and the fact that it was closer, I marched down the left wing of the hall and delivered three short bodyguard-type knocks.
No answer.
Three nervous knocks.
No answer.
I tried the door, which was unlocked, and slipped in with a sudden shivering apprehension that something may have already happened to him. Perhaps the assassin had already struck, sinisterly timing his attack when Mr. Bartlett was certain to be alone. In that case, he might still be here, and if he was, what was I doing in the same room. I quickly fumbled for my gun while glancing around the room in a tense professional crouch, like Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. It was a huge room, twice as large as mine, with one of those fancy canopy beds that always finds its way into my fantasies. Fortunately, the room was empty—except for me, that is.
I looked cautiously at my gun and gave a loud sigh of relief just as a slender teenage girl strolled in from the bathroom completely naked, except for the towel with which she was drying her hair.
“You must be looking f
or my father,” she said with a quick glance at my gun. “He’s at the other end of the hall.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to look embarrassed out of respect for her age. I shoved the gun back into its holster and started for the door.
“By the way,” she called, still rubbing her hair, “are you the new bodyguard or are you here to kill him?”
“Does it matter?”
She paused a moment to consider that, then shrugged and said, “Not to me.”
“Cute,” I said and left.
Apparently not everyone under Mr. Bartlett’s roof shared his concern over his safety. It also occurred to me for the first time that I hadn’t known before that he had a daughter. And if he had a daughter, where was his wife?
I marched back up the hall and delivered three more short bodyguard-type knocks. My fist was still in knocking position when the door suddenly swung open and I was staring into the curled pulpy lips of Farrow.
“Come in, Harry. Come in, my boy. We’ve been expecting you. No doubt you’re anxious to get started.” My. Bartlett stood poised in front of the mirror knotting his bow tie and talking to my reflection. Farrow had taken up his position to the right of the mirror and Putnam to the left. “I don’t mind telling you that I just may be needing you tonight. There will be quite a few guests here and not all of them especially anxious for me to remain alive. However, business is business, eh, Harry?”
I nodded.
Having finished with his tie, Mr. Bartlett brushed his sleeves a few times and pulled his cuffs down so they peeked appropriately from the sleeves, revealing a pair of cuff links identical to mine. He flicked a speck from his shoulder, tugged his bow tie and smiled his warm friendly smile into the mirror, which returned a chilly imitation. Satisfied that God was in His heaven and all was right with his looks, Mr. Bartlett spun around and faced me, his warm friendly smile still intact. “Well, Harry, you and Miss Stephens did a wonderful job this afternoon.”
“Sir?” I gulped nervously with an involuntary glance toward my bedroom.
“A wonderful job of selecting a new wardrobe. That’s a beautiful suit, even though it’s not exactly tailor-made. I see Miss Stephens passed on my request concerning which clothes to wear. We almost look like twins. Isn’t that right, boys?”
“That’s right,” they said in a staggered chorus. Either they were beginning to speak more clearly, or constant exposure was enabling me to understand them better—a dubious achievement either way.
“Now, Harry, you understand what the plan for tonight is?”
“Yes sir, I think so. I’m to stick as close as possible to you during the party. The fact that we are similarly dressed might confuse any would-be assassin.”
“Well, you’re half right. It’s true that I expect our dressing somewhat alike to be a confusing element; however, I don’t want you to stay with me. I think the confusion will work more to our advantage if we are apart, giving the assassin two separate targets. Our only hope is that this kind of confusion may give your trained senses a chance to spot him and, well, as they say in your business, eliminate the danger.”
“But don’t you think you’d be safer if I was right there with you? After all, he might just jump out from the crowd and plug you.” Being a separate target was not exactly my idea of a fun party.
Although I was certain he had already made up his mind, he paid me the courtesy of appearing to think that possibility over.
“That’s a good point, Harry,” he agreed, thoughtfully nodding his head. “However, there are several reasons for my decision to have us separate. First, we have to look at the way our friend operates, his M.O. as the police would say. Now, take that unfortunate incident with Mark Bendix. Mark was shot with a high-powered rifle with a telescopic lens. Even after Mark was shot, the sniper could have taken a few more shots at me, but that would have risked his getting caught. As a result, we know that not only does he want me dead, but he also wants to get away with it. That omits his jumping out of the crowd and shooting me.
“The second point is simply that if we’re together, it severely limits your opportunity of spotting him before he makes his move. So you see, while I don’t especially anticipate anything happening tonight, I think that this is the best method of preventing the possibility. Don’t you agree?”
I had to admit that I did. It certainly seemed the more professional approach, while mine obviously had been the more amateurish. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice my blunder, at least not vocally.
“It’s about that time, boys,” Mr. Bartlett said with a quick flash to his watch. Apparently I now came under the general heading of “boys”, an honor not unlike being appointed assistant bell ringer to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. “Let’s go.”
Mr. Bartlett led the strange procession out of his room and down the hall toward the stairs. I lagged behind, taking up a post along the second floor railing so I could observe the guests as they arrived, handed their minks and cashmeres to Henry, and wandered gaily into one of the adjoining rooms. I had been there about fifteen minutes, listening to the band tuning up, when Mr. Bartlett’s daughter slipped her hand through my arm, her hair completely dry and her body completely clothed.
“I guess you’re the bodyguard after all,” she said playfully. “I’m Melinda Bartlett; what’s your name?”
“Harry Gould,” I said without looking at her.
“Ugh, that’s horrible!” she gasped, wrinkling her nose distastefully. “Aren’t those the creatures that eat dead bodies?”
“Those are ghouls. My name’s Gould.”
“Oh,” she said as if that wasn’t much better. “You don’t look much like a bodyguard.”
Besides hurting my pride, that observation tended to increase my nervousness several degrees. I had almost convinced myself that I could do the job tonight without getting either myself or Mr. Bartlett killed. Or at least myself.
“Then that should make me good for the job since no one would suspect me.”
She considered that for a moment. “I guess you’re right.”
“How old are you?” I asked, turning to look at her for the first time.
“Eighteen,” she announced. Her short dark hair added a gentleness to her eyes that confirmed her answer, but a slightly cynical turn of her mouth and revealing cut of her dress firmly denied it. Her hand lay on my arm with a careless pressure that both aroused my imagination and made me feel guilty for it. “How old are you?”
“Too old for you,” I forced myself to say.
She snorted, her mouth creasing cynically. “I’m only five years younger than Heather, and from what I gather, you’re certainly not too old for her. Are you?” she added suggestively.
I studied her face with mock concentration, slowly surveyed her body, then remarked with a knowing grin, “Five years can make all the difference.”
She frowned at me, withdrew her hand and trotted down the stairs to join the party.
“Don’t you think you were a little rough on her?” Heather asked as she came out of her bedroom and leaned on the railing next to me.
“I’m on duty and I don’t have time to be seduced by the boss’s daughter.”
“Well,” she said with some surprise, “that’s nobility I didn’t expect from you.”
“On the other hand, if she would make the same play later when I’m off duty, I may just teach her the facts of life,” I added with a grin.
“Oh?” Heather said quietly, her body stiffening. This was not the reaction I had expected. I had been kidding (at least half kidding) and figured she would just shrug and toss me a smug comeback. Instead she acted jealous, which both confused and annoyed me.
“Tell me about Mr. Bartlett’s family,” I said, trying to change the subject. “How about his wife?”
She hesitated, with the expression that women always get when choosing the implements of punishment. At first I thought it was going to be the old reliable “silent treatment,” against which the only known defen
se is going on a three-day bender. However, she finally decided on “the brisk clipped speech,” with which I’ve had some experience at handling.
“What. About. Her?” she squeezed through tight lips, staring intently at arriving guests.
“Well, for openers, where is she?”
“Dead.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Car accident.”
“So there’s just the kid and him left, huh?”
“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really should join the guests.” She lingered a few seconds as if expecting me to say something, then hurried down the stairs. I didn’t know what she expected me to say, but it wasn’t my fault if she couldn’t take any kidding. I don’t know why it is, but it’s been my observation that through some strange process, the moment you go to bed with a woman, she immediately loses her sense of humor. It’s like some kind of science fiction movie; you go to bed with a warm smiling fun-loving girl who’s always joking, and when you wake up in the morning her body’s been taken over by some alien creature without a sense of humor. Zap! Just like that.
I continued to keep my post at the railing for another fifteen minutes before drifting downstairs to mingle with the guests. I decided it wouldn’t look good to Mr. Bartlett if he caught me drinking, so I just kept moving, looking at everyone suspiciously. I even started bumping into different men so I could check them for guns, but I had to abandon that tactic after the first few times as people were beginning to whisper and nod in my direction.
Occasionally I would come close to Mr. Bartlett and he would slip me a quick wink which I neglected to return on the assumption that people had enough to whisper about as it was. Heather managed to ignore me politely whenever I came towards her, so I wiggled my way through the distinguished gray and tinted blue heads until I was leaning suavely against a fireplace mantel with a “Tennis anyone?” expression on my face.
Melinda spotted me on one of her trips to the bar and decided to join me, her long blue gown sizzling a warning of her approach.
The Goulden Fleece Page 4
