"It would be spraying broken crankshafts all over the Holland Tunnel."
"Cars have only one crankshaft apiece and it's the Lincoln Tunnel."
"Tunnels all look alike. What's the difference?"
I let that one go. "And who the hell ruined my car?"
She regarded that crack as irrelevant. She said, "You never told me anything about the case. Did you find out about the fingers?"
"Yes."
"You mean you found out who she is?"
"Yes."
Her voice softened with anguish. "The poor, terrified woman-" she began, but I cut her short roughly.
"The poor terrified woman! The poor terrified woman distorted her medical reports, recommended completely unnecessary operations, then referred the scared patients to an unscrupulous surgeon, was dumped by the surgeon, married another doctor on the rebound, and when ordered to do so, killed her husband and then faked the death certificate."
"She loved him."
"Yeah, sure." I had sense enough never to argue with any woman who said things like that; they believed that love is a sort of a hunting license permitting the holder to do anything that comes into its thick lover's head.
"I can't prove any of what I said," I went on, "unless both of them confess. That's going to be hard to get, since they're both very intelligent and know the law. What I do know is that I can grab him right now on a felony- mutilation. I get him on that and using the mails to send his nasty little packages. If she will testify against him we will have the problem that his lawyer will say she made it all up because she's jealous of his love affairs."
She was looking at me oddly. "What are you going to do?"
"Arrest him."
"Suppose he doesn't want to be arrested?"
"Then I use just enough force to overcome his resistance."
"He seems like a very tough, very smart psychotic."
My feelings exactly.
"So you think he'll use maximum resistance?"
"Probably."
"What will you do?"
This kind of talk made me nervous. I didn't need this kind of questioning but I wanted to keep my manners.
"Don't know."
"But really?"
"All right. I'll get behind him when he isn't looking and I'll get him in a half-nelson, first warning him of his constitutional rights. That's the safest way."
"Are you nervous?"
"Oh, shut up!"
She said thoughtfully, "You know, I just realized you might get killed tonight and here I sit sulking because you wouldn't stop for my shoes. You probably despise me."
I didn't.
She blew her breath softly against my cheek. "You need a shave," she said. "You always need a shave." She bit my earlobe gently. She told me my ear didn't need a shave. She ran her hand over my knee. Very slowly. She dug her fingernails into my thigh until it was almost painful. She let her nails drag her hand slowly upwards. She was inching towards home plate. It was very distracting and if we had been in heavy traffic a lot of fenders would have been crumpled.
She bit my ear again. She kissed it. She kissed my mastoid process. She kissed my neck. I took my hand off the gearshift where it belonged and put it on her knee.
"It's about time," she said.
As usual, she wasn't wearing stockings. I slid my fingers over the tendons and stroked the back of her knee.
I started to stroke the brown silk of her thigh.
She darted her tongue into my ear. "You smell very good," she whispered. "What is it?"
"It's called soap."
"No, it's soap plus you. If you ever use cologne or aftershave lotion or any of that junk I'll kill you."
Wrong word. She sensed my chill. "Sorry," she said. "Shall I put it on ice?"
"Freeze it."
I put my hand back on the gearshift where it belonged at one hundred. She clasped her hands together on her lap. They belonged where they had been but it would be wiser to put them on ice.
In a few minutes we came to Lambertville. I dropped to the legal speed limit. We went through the sleepy little town. When we came to the bridge over the Delaware I dropped to fifteen miles an hour.
From now on I was going to play it the way porcupines make love.
Very, very slowly.
30
BELOW ME I SAW THE DARK MASS OF THE Delaware as it flowed to the sea. It was clean. The lights from the bridge showed it, green and clear, no garbage. When it got near Philadelphia it would become dirty. But here it was nice to look at. It smelled good.
Where the girders crisscrossed, most of the diamond-shaped spaces were filled with spider webs. They could be seen waiting for any insects that might come along. It was a natural.
I made a right as soon as I crossed the bridge. The maple trees grew close together and met above the middle of the street. Bugs were flying around the street lights and banging into the globes. That was the only action in town. New Hope went to bed early. Things might be different a couple miles out.
In a few blocks I began to smell the dampness of the canal. I could tell by the treetops that the wind was blowing from the east, and carrying the wet smell of water across the west bank of the Delaware.
The road went on past a farmhouse on a hill. The lights were out. Funny, at times like these the ordinary things become terribly noticeable. I suppose it was because the realization had suddenly come to me that I might never see anything again as simple as a farmhouse with its lights out and everyone inside sleeping.
There were no cars on the road. Then there came a big grove of trees surrounding a little lake on the left. Then more big trees. Then a big sign SLOW DANGEROUS CURVE. The road made a ninety-degree turn to the left. I made the right turn described by the police sergeant over the phone.
I drove slowly till I came to a little bridge. I turned out the lights and drove up the slope of the bridge.
On the downslope the road curved gently to the right and downhill. In the moonlight I could see the roof of a stone house standing up over the trees.
I said, "From now on, whispers only."
She squeezed my hand. I suppose it was more fun than sky diving. I shut off the ignition. The Maserati had been kept in such fine condition that I couldn't hear the slightest squeak or rattle as she coasted downhill as quietly as a moth.
The car came to a halt thirty feet from the house.
There was a tiny sliver of light coming from a closed pair of wooden shutters on the top floor. The rest of the house was dark.
I got out. I closed the door as carefully as a watchmaker arranging a tiny gear back into a lady's wristwatch. I waited tensely.
"What's up?" she whispered as she got out and came around to where I was standing.
"Dog?" I whispered.
We listened. She tilted her head to hear better. I looked at her neck. It was long and the line had the sweep of the edge of a violin. No dog. I decided that if I came out of this all right, the hell with my career. Some things had to be enjoyed and to hell with the consequences.
I bent down and took off my shoes. When I straightened up she was looking at me.
Our teeth grated together with our mutual impact. It was one of those first kisses where both people get the same idea at exactly the same time without any planning, and then they act upon it with speed. They are very rare. I think that was the first time it had ever happened to me.
Her tongue slid in and out of my mouth as her hands ran up and down my back. She dug her nails in. She would tear my back to shreds when we went to bed and I couldn't have cared less. She thrust her torso up and pressed my head against her breasts. I couldn't understand at that moment how I could ever have considered going to bed with nursey when this firecracker was loose. Through the thin fabric of her dress my lips closed over the nipple of her right breast. It swelled under my mouth. She let out a low intense moan.
I clapped my hand over her mouth. It stifled the noise.
A man could get carried away with the Duc
hess. She licked the inside of my palm and then inserted her tongue between my fingers. I admired her ability to adapt intelligently to each new situation. I would have liked to be able to do the same. This would involve getting into the car, starting it, backing up to the main road, and heading straight for my bed in New York.
She pulled out my shirt and stuck her tongue in my navel while her hands began to unbuckle my belt.
It would be a hell of a situation in which to get a bullet in my back. I pulled away, holding my hand over* her mouth. I shoved my shirt back inside.
"Give the lady an inch and what happens?" she whispered.
"I've got to earn my money now," I whispered. "Don't make any noise while I'm away."
"Like a mouse," she whispered. She touched me everywhere. "Bring everything home in good condition. I have plans for them all."
31
THE MASSIVE FRONT DOOR SPORTED A BIG brass knocker in the shape of a revolutionary war pistol. To the right of the door was a flower bed. The end closest to the door was crammed with tiger lilies.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to pick a bunch on your way to the city with your mysterious little packages. Then you could put the lilies in your silver bowl, set them on your Irish hunt table, and tell the dumb detective you had bought them in a flower shop.
I began to work my way around the house. Thank God I was wearing thick socks. I slid my toes around the marigolds and peonies. I liked the acrid, sharp smell of the marigolds. I got lots of the smell because I was crushing a lot of them. I felt apologetic for the damage.
There was a side door under a grape arbor. The grapes were small and green and still had a couple of months to go.
I worked my way out of the flower bed and into the garage at the back of the house. The garage doors were open and a new Triumph with MD plates was inside. A couple fenders had been crumpled and straightened out. The doctor, like most doctors, was probably a bad driver.
Inside the car were three packed suitcases. Even with the banged-up fenders I wouldn't like to leave it behind at an airport. But then again, if I had a lot of money stashed away overseas and a good job lined up as well, it wouldn't be too smart for me to try and sell a car if the cops were after me.
The garage was filled along one wall with garden tools. I came out and padded along the west side of the house. This was the canal side. There were no flowers here. The trees hung over the canal bank so thickly that no sunlight could get through. I looked up and I couldn't even see the full moon.
In the middle of the west side was a window opening into the basement. I kneeled down, took out my jack-knife, and pried away the old, dried-up putty holding the pane in place. The moonlight closer to the house was strong enough for me to see the little metal triangles holding the pane against the framing. The wood was old and damp. I dug the triangles out easily. I inserted the point of my knife at the top edge and levered the pane outwards till it toppled neatly into my hands.
I reached inside and unlocked the catch. But the dampness had swelled the wood and the window refused to go up.
I put my knife on the bottom sill and wedged it against the window frame. As soon as I bore down on it the blade snapped. I cursed quietly.
Maybe it was a sign for me to rouse a local judge out of bed, identify myself, describe the situation in detail, have him issue a warrant, and appear back at the doctor's in an hour or two with several local cops or state troopers.
It was a good idea in the same sense that a delicate operation could be described as a success even though the patient died.
Suppose the time it took to get a warrant issued would be the time necessary for Henley to amputate one more finger and then kill her? I knew he was all set to go early next morning. Maybe he even wanted to get back to New York in time to catch a few hours' sleep or even nookey before he went to the airport. It was possible. No, I couldn't afford to take the chance. To hell with the warrant. I was in enough hot water already. But I kept thinking it would be tempting to come back with several big men and spotlights and tear gas guns. With Henley having a choice of several targets instead of just one New York detective, I would have a much better chance of surviving the night; and the thought of being killed before downing the Duchess was giving me the jim-jams.
I felt very acutely the dampness soaking into the knees of my pants.
I might have just gone for the warrant but I suddenly realized that the noise of the engine starting up would alert him. So he would be ready for us when we came back.
He might think it was only a couple of kids who had chosen his isolated driveway to do some necking. But then he might be primed to move fast at the sign of anything unusual. It might be just enough for him to finish up fast without the amputation and then get out fast. I didn't know what he would do, come to think of it. The guy had no M.O. He was unpredictable. People without M.O.s made me nervous. I didn't have a good feeling about it at all.
The safest thing to do-correction-the best thing for me to do if I wanted to have Dr. Lyons survive the night was for me to jump him as soon as possible.
Maybe the solution of how to get into the house came to me because I was kneeling. I remembered the garage wall was crammed with garden tools hanging on pegs. I went back and found a pair of hedge shears. I poked around and found a can of motor oil. I opened it with the tip of one of the blades. I tiptoed back to the window.
I poured the oil down each side of the window frame until the wood was soaked. Then I slid the closed ends of the shears into the bottom sill and levered the window upwards very gently.
The window slipped upwards as easily as I would slide my hand up past the Duchess' knee later on if all went well. It didn't make a sound. I put the shears down. I turned around and slid backwards into the basement, my toes feeling as delicately as a moth's antenna for a box, or chair, or the floor.
It was a box. It was sturdy. I stepped down from there and stayed there five minutes until my eyes adjusted to the thicker darkness.
I saw a staircase at the far end. I went up, testing each step very carefully. There were no squeaks. At the top there was a door. I bent down and looked through the old-fashioned keyhole. There was a dim light falling from what I took to be the upstairs hallway. A radio was playing quietly upstairs. He probably liked the music to drown out her cries. It was playing the songs from My Fair Lady. I opened the door very carefully. No squeaks.
I was in the kitchen. More light. The moonlight flooded the room. I moved into the living room. A big stone fireplace with a fire that had burned down to a few glowing logs. Two big logs resting on the andirons. Two big easy chairs. It was a nice house. For a moment I thought I would have liked to rent it myself. No one would ever trace the Duchess here if she left that shy little violet of a Maserati behind and came out in my Olds. She would also have to ride out in the trunk. There was no other way for her to escape everyone's fascinated attention. It was a hell of thing to think about at this critical stage. I really should have been devoting all my attention to the next few moments, because they were going to be very, very important to my future.
A flight of stairs going up, to the left of the fireplace. At the top of the stairs, a closed door and a light on the other side leaking through the keyhole and from around the door frame. The radio was singing to me that it could have danced all night.
I climbed very slowly and carefully. I got to the next-to-the-last step. I took out my .38. I complimented myself on the cleverness of leaving my shoes behind. I took the last step and heard something whooshing through the air.
My mind told me several things. One: Henley was smart, oh, very much smarter than I was. Two: What was coming down with that whooshing noise was being held by him. Three: It was either a gun butt or a piece of firewood. I hoped it was wood, preferably pine. Pine is softer than most other woods. And last, but not least, the last bit of information being fed into my data collection center told me that it would hit me before I could possibly turn and fire.
&n
bsp; I was correct on all counts.
32
"GOOD OF YOU TO VISIT, MR. SANCHEZ," Henley said. He put down the ammonia bottle he had been waving under my nose. I stopped choking and began breathing normally.
His fingers swabbed my throbbing head with a pad of cotton that he had dipped in alcohol.
"Small cut, lots of blood, no stitches necessary." He stood back and looked at it appraisingly. "I did smack you just right," he added. "And just in the right place."
"I like to be struck by doctors," I said. "No wasted motion."
He chuckled. I tried to feel my wound. He grinned at my expression of surprise when I found I was tied up. It was the first time in my life I had ever been tied up. I didn't like it.
I was sitting in a massive easy chair. Both hands were tied behind the back of the chair. Against the wall was a bureau near the door. On top of the bureau was my .38.
I began to look around. I was facing a big double bed. It was covered with a rubber sheet. On top of the sheet was the lady I had been looking for.
"Mr. Sanchez. Dr. Lyons."
"Hi," I said.
She stared at the ceiling.
"I prefer to give her her maiden name," Henley said. "It is a kind gesture on my part. It keeps her from thinking about her foolish marriage."
Her face was without expression. She was on her back. The right wrist was lashed firmly to the metal side frame of the bed. What remained of the left hand was bandaged and resting on a bedside table he had converted to a small operating table. The wrist was tied to a rope that went completely around the table so that it could not be moved from side to side. The table also held a hypodermic syringe, a scalpel, a needle, and sutures.
"She's drugged," he said genially. "It saves wear and tear on my nerves. No screaming. The first two times she screamed. I had to gag her and she bit my hand."
I noticed a bruise on the back of his right hand. The skin was puffy.
"She is a mannerless bitch," I said.
Ladyfingers Page 17
