Lay Her Among the Lilies
( Vic Malloy - 2 )
James Hadley Chase
A thrilling plot that involves a wayward heiress, an antagonistic police official, numerous shady characters and at least three murders…
James Hadley Chase
LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES
Chapter I
I
It was one of those hot, breathless July mornings, nice if you’re in a swim-suit on the beach with your favourite blonde, but hard to take if you’re shut up in an office as I was.
The sound of the mid-morning traffic on Orchid Boulevard, the drone of aircraft circling the beach and the background murmur of the surf drifted in through the open windows. The air-conditioning plant, hidden somewhere in the bowels of Orchid Buildings, coped efficiently with the rising temperature. Sunshine, hot and golden, made patterns on the office rug Paula had bought to impress the customers, and which always seemed to me too expensive to walk on.
I sat behind the flat-topped desk on which I had scattered a few old letters to convince Paula if she should come in suddenly that I was working. A highball, strong enough to crack concrete, hid behind a couple of impressive-looking law books, and clinked ice at me whenever I reached for it.
It was now just over three and a half years since I founded Universal Services: an organization which undertook any job from exercising a pet poodle to stamping on a blackmailer feeding on a client’s bankroll. It was essentially a millionaire’s service, as our rates came high, but then, in Orchid City, millionaires were almost as numerous as grains of sand on a beach. During those three and a half years we had fun and games, made a little money and had a variety of jobs: even murder we had taken in our stride.
For the past few days business had been as quiet as a spinster eating a bun in a lecture-hall. The routine stuff was coming in all right, but Paula Bensinger took care of that. It was only when something out-of-the-way reared its head that I and my leg-man, Jack Kerman, went to work. And nothing out-of-the-way had reared its head, so we were just sitting around waiting and punching holes in a bottle of Scotch and making out to Paula we were busy.
Sprawled out in the armchair reserved for clients, Jack Kerman, long, lean and dapper, with a broad streak of white in his thick black hair and a Clark Gable moustache, rubbed the frosted glass of his highball against his forehead and relaxed. Immaculate in an olive-green tropical suit and a yellow and red striped tie, his narrow feet gaudy in white buckskin shoes with dark green explosions, he looked every inch a fugitive from the pages of Esquire.
Out of a long, brooding silence, he said: “What a dish! Take her arms off and she’d have knocked Venus for a loop.” He shifted into a more comfortable position and sighed. “I wish someone had taken her arms off. Boy! Was she strong! And I was sucker enough to think she was a pushover.”
“Don’t tell me,” I pleaded, reaching for my highball. “That opening has a familiar ring. The last thing I want to hear on a morning like this is an extract from your love-life. I’d rather read Krafft-Ebing.”
“That old goat won’t get you anywhere,” Kerman said scornfully. “He wrote all the nifty bits in Latin.”
“And you’d be surprised at the number of guys who learned Latin just to find out what he said. That’s what I call killing two birds with one stone.”
“That brings us right back to my blonde,” Kerman said, stretching out his long legs. “I ran into her last night in Barney’s drug store…”
“I’m not interested in blondes,” I said firmly. “Instead of sitting around here talking about women, you should be out trying to hustle up new business. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I pay you for.”
Kerman considered this, a surprised expression on his face.
“Do you want any new business?” he asked eventually. “I thought the idea was to let Paula do all the work, and we live on her.”
“That’s the general set-up, but once in a while it mightn’t be a bad idea for you to do something to earn your keep.”
Kerman looked relieved.
“Yeah; once in a while. For a moment I thought you meant now.” He sipped his highball and closed his eyes. “Now this blonde I keep trying to tell you about. She’s a cute trick if ever there was one. When I tried to date her up she said she didn’t run after men. Know what I said?”
“What did you say?” I asked, because he would have told me anyway, and if I didn’t listen to his lies, who was going to listen to mine?
Kerman chortled.
“Lady,’ I said, “maybe you don’t run after men, but a mousetrap doesn’t have to run after mice, either.’ Smart, huh? Well, it killed her. You needn’t look so damned sour. Maybe you have heard it before, but she hadn’t, and it knocked her dead.”
Then before I could hide the highball the door jerked open and Paula swept in.
Paula was a tall, dark lovely, with cool, steady brown eyes and a figure full of ideas my ideas, not hers. She was quick on the uptake, ruthlessly efficient and a tireless worker. It had been she who had encouraged me to start Universal Services, and had lent the money to tide me over for the first six months. It was entirely due to her ability to cope with the administrative side of the business that Universal Services was an established success. If I were the brains of the set-up, you could call her the backbone. Without her the organization would have folded in a week.
“Haven’t you anything better to do than sit around and drink?” she demanded, planting herself before the desk, and looking at me accusingly.
“What is there better to do?” Kerman asked, mildly interested.
She gave him a withering stare and turned her bright brown eyes on me again.
“As a matter of fact, Jack and I were just going out to beat up some new business,” I said, hastily pushing back my chair. “Come on, Jack. Let’s go and see what we can find.”
“And where are you going to look—Finnegan’s bar?” Paula asked scornfully.
“That’s a bright idea, sourpuss,” Kerman said. “Maybe Finnegan will have something for us.”
“Before you go you might like to look at this,” Paula said, and flourished a long envelope at me. “The janitor brought it up just now. He found it in one of the pockets of that old trenchcoat you so generously gave him.”
“He did?” I said, taking the envelope. “That’s odd. I haven’t worn that trenchcoat for more than a year.”
“The cancellation stamp bears you out,” Paula said with ominous calm. “The letter was posted fourteen months ago. I suppose you couldn’t have put it in your pocket and forgotten all about it? You wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you?”
The envelope was addressed to me in a neat, feminine handwriting, and unopened.
“I can’t remember ever seeing it before,” I said.
“Considering you don’t appear to remember anything unless I remind you, that comes as no surprise,” Paula said tartly.
“One of these days, my little harpie,” Kerman remarked gently, “someone is going to haul off and take at slap at your bustle.”
“That won’t stop her,” I said, ripping open the envelope. “I’ve tried. It only makes her worse.” I dipped in a finger and thumb and hoisted out a sheet of note-paper and five onehundred-dollar bills.
“Suffering Pete!” Kerman exclaimed, starting to his feet. “Did you give that to the janitor?”
“Now don’t you start,” I said, and read the letter.
Crestways,
Foothill Boulevard,
Orchid City.
May 15th, 1948.
Will you please make it convenient to see me at the above address at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon? I am anxious to obtain
evidence against someone who is blackmailing my sister. I understand you undertake such work. Please treat this letter as confidential and urgent. I enclose five hundred dollars as a retainer.
Janet Crosby.
There was a long and painful silence. Even Jack Kerman hadn’t anything to say. We relied on recommendations to bring in the business, and keeping five hundred dollars belonging to a prospective client for fourteen months without even acknowledging it is no way to get a recommendation.
“Urgent and confidential,” Paula murmured. “After keeping it to himself for fourteen months he hands it to the janitor to show to all his little playmates. Wonderful!”
“You shut up!” I snarled. “Why didn’t she call up and ask for an explanation? She must have guessed the letter had gone astray. But wait a minute. She’s dead, isn’t she? One of the Crosby girls died. Was it Janet?”
“I think it was,” Paula said. “I’ll soon find out.”
“And dig up everything we’ve got on Crosby, too.”
When she had gone into the outer office, I said: “I’m sure she’s dead. I guess we’ll have to return this money to her estate.”
“If we do that,” Kerman said, always reluctant to part with money, “the press may get wind of it. A story like this will make a swell advertisement for the way we run our business. We’ll have to watch our step, Vic. It might be smarter to hang on to the swag and say nothing about it.”
“We can’t do that. We may be inefficient, but at least let’s be honest.”
Kerman folded himself down in the armchair again.
“Safer to let sleeping dogs lie. Crosby’s something in oil, isn’t he?”
“He was. He’s dead. He was killed in a shooting accident about a couple of years back.” I picked up the paper-knife and began to punch holes in the blotter. “It beats me how I came to leave the letter in my trenchcoat like that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Kerman, who knew Paula, grinned sympathetically.
“Slosh her in the slats if she nags,” he said helpfully. “Am I glad it wasn’t me!”
I went on punching holes in the blotter until Paula returned with a fistful of newspaper clippings.
“She died of heart failure on May 15th, the same day as she wrote the letter. No wonder you didn’t hear from her,” she said as she shut the office door.
“Heart failure? How old was she then?”
“Twenty-five.”
I laid down the paper-knife and groped for a cigarette.
“That seems mighty young to die of heart failure. Anyway, let’s have the dope. What have you got?”
“Not a great deal. Most of it we know already,” Paula said, sitting on the edge of the desk.
“Macdonald Crosby made his millions in oil. He was a hard, unlovable old Quaker with a mind as broad as a tightrope. He married twice. Janet, the elder by four years, was by his first wife. Maureen by his second. He retired from business in 1943 and settled in Orchid City. Before that he lived in San Francisco. The two girls are as unalike as they can be. Janet was studious and spent most of her time painting. Several of her oils are hung in the Arts Museum. She seems to have had a lot of talent, a retiring nature and a sharp temper. Maureen is the beauty of the family. She’s wild, woolly and wanton. Up to Crosby’s death she was continually getting herself on the front page of the newspapers in some scandal or other.”
“What kind of scandal?” I asked.
“About a couple of years ago she knocked down and killed a fellow on Centre Avenue.
Rumour has it she was drunk, which seems likely as she drank like a fish. Crosby squared the police and she got off with a heavy fine for dangerous driving. Then another time she rode along Orchid Boulevard on a horse without a stitch on. Someone betted her she hadn’t the nerve, but she did it.”
“Let me get that straight,” Kerman said, sitting up excitedly. “Was it the horse or the girl who hadn’t a stitch on?”
“The girl, you dope!”
“Then where was I? I didn’t see her.”
“She only got about fifty yards before she was pinched.”
“If I’d been around she wouldn’t have got that far.”
“Don’t be coarse, and be quiet!”
“Well, she certainly sounds a grand subject for blackmail,” I put in.
Paula nodded.
“You know about Crosby’s death. He was cleaning a gun in his study, and it went off and killed him. He left three-quarters of his fortune to Janet with no strings tied to it, and a quarter to Maureen in trust. When Janet died, Maureen came into the whole vast estate, and seems to be a reformed character. Since she lost her sister she hasn’t once been mentioned in the press.”
“When did Crosby die?” I asked.
“March 1948. Two months before Janet died.”
“Convenient for Maureen.”
Paula raised her eyebrows.
“Yes. Janet was very upset by her father’s death. She was never very strong, and the press say the shock finished her.”
“All the same it’s very convenient for Maureen. I don’t like it, Paula. Maybe I have a suspicious mind. Janet writes to me that someone is blackmailing her sister. She then promptly dies of heart failure and her sister comes into her money. It’s too damned convenient.”
“I don’t see what we can do,” Paula said, frowning. “We can’t represent a dead client.”
“Oh, yes, we can.” I tapped the five onehundred-dollar bills. “I have either to hand this money back to the estate or try to earn it. I think I’ll try to earn it.”
“Fourteen months is a long time,” Kerman said dubiously. “The trail will be cold.”
“If there is a trail,” Paula said.
“On the other hand,” I said, pushing back my chair, “if there’s anything sinister about Janet’s death, fourteen months provides a pleasant feeling of security, and when you feel secure, you’re off your guard. I think I’ll call on Maureen Crosby and see how she likes spending her sister’s money.”
Kerman groaned.
“Something tells me the brief spell of leisure is over,” he said sadly. “I thought it was too good to last. Do I start work now or wait until you get back?”
“You wait until I get back,” I said, moving towards the door. “But if you’ve made a date with that mousetrap of yours, tell her to go find another mouse.”
II
Crestways, the Crosby’s estate, lurked behind low, bougainvillea-covered walls above which rose a tall, clipped, Australian pine hedge, and back of this was a galvanized cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. Heavy wooden gates, with a Judas window set in the right-hand gate, guarded the entrance.
There were about half a dozen similar estates strung along Foothill Boulevard and backing on to Crystal Lake desert. Each estate was separated from its neighbour by an acre or so of a no-man’s-land of brushwood, wild sage, sand and heat.
I lolled in the pre-war Buick convertible and regarded the wooden gates without much interest. Apart from the scrolled sign on the wall that declared the name of the house, there was nothing particularly different about it from all the other millionaire estates in Orchid City. They all lurked behind impregnable walls. They all had high, wooden gates to keep out unwelcomed visitors. They all exuded the same awed hush, the same smell of flowers and well-watered lawns. Although I couldn’t see beyond the gates, I knew there would be the same magnificent swimming-pool, the same aquarium, the same rhododendron walk, the same sunken rose garden. If you own a million dollars you have to live on the same scale as the other millionaires or else they’ll think you are punk. That’s the way it was, that’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’ll always be—if you own a million dollars.
No one seemed to be in a hurry to open the gates, so I dragged myself out of the car and hung myself on to the end of the bell chain. The bell had been muffled, and rang timorously.
Nothing happened. The sun beat down on me. The temperature hoisted itself up another knotch
. It was too hot even for such a simple exercise as pulling a bell chain. Instead, I pushed on the gate, which swung creakily open under my touch. I looked at the stretch of lawn before me that was big enough for tank manoeuvres. The grass hadn’t been cut this month, nor for that matter the month before. Nor had the two long herbaceous borders on either side of the broad carriageway received any attention this spring, nor for that matter last autumn either. The daffodils and tulips made brown patterns of untidiness among the dead heads of the peonies. Shrivelled sweet william plants mingled with unstaked and matted delphiniums. A fringe of straggling grass disgraced the edges of the lawn. The tarmac carriageway sprouted weeds. A neglected rose rambler napped hysterically in the lazy breeze that came off the desert. An unloved, uncared-for garden, and looking at it I seemed to hear old man Crosby fidgeting in his coffin.
At the far end of the carriageway I could see the house: a two-storey, coquina-built mansion with a red tile roof, green shutters and an overhanging balcony. Sunblinds screened the windows. No one moved on the green tile patio. I decided to walk up there rather than wrestle with the gates to bring in the Buick.
Halfway up the weed-strewn tarmac I came upon one of those arbor things covered with a flowering vine. Squatting on their heels in the shade were three chinamen shooting craps. They didn’t bother to look up as I paused to stare, just as they hadn’t bothered for a long, long time to look after the garden: three dirty, mindless men, smoking yellow-papered cigarettes with not a care in the world.
I tramped on.
The next bend in the tarmac brought me to the swimming-pool. There had to be a swimming-pool, but not necessarily one like this one. There was no water in it, and weeds grew out of the cracked tile floor. The concrete surround was covered with a brownish, burned-up moss. The white awning which must have looked pretty smart in its day had come loose from its moorings and flapped querulously at me.
At right angles to the house was a row of garages, their double doors closed. A little guy in a pair of dirty flannel trousers, a singlet and a chauffeur’s cap sat on an oil drum in the sun, whittling wood. He looked up to scowl at me.
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