"I worry about not getting kissed," she said.
She looked up at him from under her long sweeping lashes, with bright impudent eyes and red lips tantalisingly parted. The Saint had been trying conscientiously not to look for trouble, but he was not made out of ice cream and bubble gum. He was making good progress against no resistance when the crash of a shot rattled down the canyon over the chattering of the water and brought him to his feet as if he had actually felt the bullet.
6
HE RAN up the side of the brook, fighting his way through clawing scrub and stumbling over boulders and loose gravel. Beyond the bend, the stream rose in a long twisting stairway of shallow cataracts posted with the same shapely palms that grew throughout its length. A couple of steps further up he found Freddie.
Freddie was not dead. He was standing up. He stood and looked at the Saint in a rather foolish way, with his mouth open.
"Come on," said the Saint encouragingly. "Give."
Freddie pointed stupidly to the rock behind him. There was a bright silver scar on it where a bullet had scraped off a layer of lead on the rough surface before it riccocheted off into nowhere.
"It only just missed me," Freddie said.
"Where were you standing?"
"Just here."
Simon looked at the scar again. There was no way of reading from it the caliber or make of gun. The bullet itself might have come to rest anywhere within half a mile. He tried a rough sight from the mark on the rock, but within the most conservative limits it covered an area of at least two thousand square yards on the other slope of the canyon.
The Saint's spine tingled. It was a little like the helplessness of his trip around the house the night before-looking up at that raw muddle of shrubs and rocks, knowing that a dozen sharpshooters could lie hidden there, with no risk of being discovered before they had fired the one shot that might be all that was necessary ...
"Maybe we should go home, Freddie," he said. "Now wait." Freddie was going to be obstinate and valiant after he had found company. "If there's someone up there-"
"He could drop you before we were six steps closer to him," said the Saint tersely. "You hired me as a bodyguard, not a pallbearer. Let's move."
Something else moved, upwards and a little to his left. His reflexes had tautened instinctively before he recognised the flash of movement as only a shifting of bare brown flesh.
From a precarious flat ledge of rock five or six yards up the slope, Esther called down: "What goes on?"
"We're going home," Simon called back.
"Wait for me."
She started to scramble down off the ledge. Suddenly she seemed much more undressed than she had before. He turned abruptly.
"Come along, then."
He went back, around the bend, past the pool, past Ginny, to where they had left the horses, hearing Freddie's footнsteps behind him but not looking back. There were no more shots, but he worked quickly checking the saddles and tightнening the cinches. The place was still just as picturesque and enchanting, but as an ambush it had the kind of topogнraphy where he felt that the defending team was at a great disadvantage.
"What's the hurry?" Ginny complained, coming up beside him; and he locked the buckle he was hauling on and gave the leather a couple of rapid loops through the three-quarter rig slots.
"You heard the shot, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"It just missed Freddie. So we're moving before they try again."
"Something's always happening," said Ginny resentfully, as if she had been shot at herself.
"Life is like that," said the Saint, untying her horse and handing the reins to her.
As he turned to the next horse Esther came up. She was fully dressed again, except that her shirt was only half buttoned; and she looked smug and sulky at the same time.
"Did you hear what happened, Ginny?" she said. "There was a man hiding up in the hills, and he took a shot at Freddie. And if he was where Simon thought he was, he must have seen me sunbathing without anything on."
'Tell Freddie that's what made him miss," Ginny sugнgested. "It might be worth some new silver foxes to you."
A dumb look came into Esther's beautifully sculptured face. She gazed foggily out at the landscape as the Saint cinched her saddle and thrust the reins into her limp hands.
She said: "Simon."
"Yes?"
"Didn't you say something last night about-about being sure it was someone in the house?"
"I did."
"Then . . . then just now-you were with Ginny, so she couldn't have done anything. And Lissa isn't here. But you know I couldn't-you know I couldn't have hidden a gun anyнwhere, don't you?"
"I don't know you well enough," said the Saint.
But it was another confusion that twisted around in his mind all the way home. It was true that he himself was an alibi for Ginny-unless she had planted one of those colosнsally elaborate remote-control gun-firing devices beloved of mystery writers. And Esther couldn't have concealed a gun, or anything else, in her costume-unless she had previously planted it somewhere up the stream. But both those theories would have required them to know in advance where they were going, and the Saint had chosen the place himself . . . It was true he had mentioned it before they started, but mentioning it and finding it were different matters. He would have sworn that not more than a handful of people besides himself had ever discovered it, and he remembered sections of the trail that had seemed to be completely overgrown since they had last been trodden. Of course, with all his watchfulнness, they might have been followed. A good hunter might have stayed out of sight and circled over the hills-he could have done it himself...
Yet in all those speculations there was something that didn't connect, something that didn't make sense. If the theнoretical sniper in the hills had been good enough to get there at all, for instance, why hadn't he been good enough to try a second shot before they got away? He could surely have had at least one more try, from a different angle, with no more risk than the first ... It was like the abortive attack on Lissa -it made sense, but not absolute sense. And to the Saint's delicately tuned reception that was a more nagging obstacle than no sense at all...
They got back to the stables, and Freddie said: "I need a drink. Let's beat up the Tennis Club before we go home."
For once, the Saint was not altogether out of sympathy with the exigencies of Freddie's thirst.
They drove out to the club, and sat on the balcony terrace looking down over the beautifully terraced gardens, the palm-shaded oval pool and the artificial brook where imнported trout lurked under spreading willows and politely awaited the attention of pampered anglers. The rest of them sipped Daiquiris, while Freddie restored himself with three double brandies in quick succession. And then, sauntering over from the tennis courts with a racquet in her hand, Lissa O'Neill herself came up to them. She looked as cool and dainty as she always seemed to look, in one of those abbreviated sun suits that she always seemed to wear which some clairvoyant designer must have invented exclusively for her slim waist and for long tapered legs like hers, in pasнtel shades that would set off her clear golden skin. But it seemed as if all of them drew back behind a common barrier that made them look at her in the same way, not in admiraнtion, but guardedly, waiting for what she would say.
She said: "Fancy meeting you here."
"Fancy meeting you," said the Saint. "Did you get bored with your book?"
"I finished it, so I thought I'd get some exercise. But the pro has been all booked up for hours."
It was as if all of them had the same question on their lips, but only the Saint could handle his voice easily enough to say, quite lazily: "Hours?"
"Well, it must have been two hours or more. Anyway, I asked for a lesson as soon as I got here, and he was all booked up. He said he'd fit me in if anybody cancelled, but I've been waiting around for ages and nobody's given me a chance..."
A part of the Saint's mind felt quite detached and indeнpendent of hi
m, like an adding machine clicking over in a different room. The machine tapped out: She should have known that the pro would be booked up. And of course he'd say that he'd be glad to fit her in if he had a cancellation. And the odds are about eight to one that he wouldn't have a canнcellation. So she could make him and several other people believe that she'd been waiting all the time. She could alнways find a chance to slip out of the entrance when there was no one in the office for a moment-she might even arrange to clear the way without much difficulty. She only had to get out. Coming back, she could say she just went to get something from her car. No one would think about it. And if there had been a cancellation, and the pro had been looking for her- well, she'd been in the johnny, or the showers, or at the botнtom of the pool. He just hadn't found her. She'd been there all the time, A very passable casual alibi, with only a trivial percentage of risk.
But she isn't dressed to have done what must have been done.
She could have changed.
She couldn't have done it anyway.
Why not? She looks athletic. There are good muscles under that soft golden skin. She might have been sniping revenooers in the mountains of Kentucky since she was five years old, for all you know. What makes you so sure what she could do and couldn't do?
Well, what were Angelo and his pal, and Louis the Italian chef, doing at the same time? You can't rule them out.
Any good reader would rule them out. The mysterious murнderer just doesn't turn out to be the cook or the butler any more. That was worked to death twenty years ago.
So of course no cook or butler in real life would ever dream of murdering anyone any more, because they'd know it was just too corny.
"What's the matter with you all?" Lissa asked. "Wasn't the ride any good?"
"It was fine," said the Saint. "Except when your last night's boy friend started shooting at Freddie."
Then they all began to talk at once.
It was Freddie, of course, who finally got the floor. He did it principally by saying the same things louder and oftener than anyone else. When the competition had been crushed he told the story again, challenging different people to subнstantiate his statements one by one. He was thus able to leave a definite impression that he had been walking up the canyon when somebody shot at him.
Simon signalled a waiter for another round of drinks and put himself into a self-preservative trance until the peak of the verbal flood had passed. He wondered whether he should ask Freddie for another thousand dollars. He felt that he was definitely earning his salary as he went along.
"... Then that proves it must be one of the servants," Lissa said. "So if we can find out which of them went out this afternoon--"
"Why does it prove that?" Simon inquired.
"Well, it couldn't have been Ginny, because she was talking to you. It couldn't have been me--"
"Couldn't it?"
She looked at him blankly. But her brain worked. He could almost see it. She might have been reading everything that had been traced through his mind, a few minutes ago, line by line.
"It couldn't have been me," Esther insisted plaintively. "I didn't have a stitch on. Where could I have hidden a gun?"
Ginny gazed at her speculatively.
"It'll be interesting to see how the servants can account for their time," Simon said hastily. "But I'm not going to get optimistic too quickly. I don't think anything about this business is very dumb and straightforward. It's quite the opposite. Somebody is being so frantically cunning that he must be practically tying himself-or herself-in a knot. So if it is one of the servants, I bet he has an alibi too."
"I still think you ought to tell the police," Ginny said.
The drinks arrived. Simon lighted a cigarette and waited until the waiter had gone away again.
"What for?" he asked. "There was a guy in Lissa's room last night. Nobody saw him. He didn't leave any muddy footprints or any of that stuff. He used one of our own kitchen knives. If there ever were any fingerprints on it, they've been ruined. So-nothing . . . This afternoon someнbody shot at Freddie. Nobody saw him. He didn't leave his gun, and nobody could ever find the bullet. So nothing again. What are the police going to do? They aren't magicians . . . However, that's up to you, Freddie."
"They could ask people questions," Esther said hopefully.
"So can we. We've been asking each other questions all the time. If anybody's lying, they aren't going to stop lying just because a guy with a badge is listening. What are they going to do-torture everybody and see what they get?"
"They'd put a man on guard, or something," said Ginny.
"So what? Our friend has waited quite a while already. I'm sure he could wait some more. He could wait longer than any police department is going to detail a private cop to nurseнmaid Freddie. So the scare blows over, and everybody settles down, and sometime later, maybe somewhere else, Freddie gets it. Well, personally I'd rather take our chance now while we're all warmed up."
"That's right," Freddie gave his verdict. "If we scare whoнever it is off with the police, they'll only come back another time when we aren't watching for them. I'd rather let them get on with it while we're ready for them."
He looked rather proud of himself for having produced this penetrating reasoning all on his own.
And then his mind appeared to wander, and his eyes changed their focus.
"Hey," he said in an awed voice. "Look at that, will you?" They looked, as he pointed. "The babe down by the pool. In the sarong effect. Boy, is that a chassis! Look at her!"
She was, Simon admitted, something to look at. The three girls with them seemed to admit the same thing by their rather strained and intent silence. Simon could feel an almost tangible heaviness thicken into the air.
Then Ginny sighed, as if relief had reached her rather late.
"A blonde," she said. "Well, Lissa, it's nice to have known you."
Freddie didn't even seem to hear it. He picked up his glass, still staring raptly at the vision. He put the glass to his lips.
It barely touched, and he stiffened. He took it away and stared at it frozenly. Then he pushed it across the table toнwards the Saint.
"Smell that," he said.
Simon put it to his nostrils. The hackneyed odor of bitter almonds was as strong and unmistakable as any mystery-story fan could have desired.
"It doesn't smell like prussic acid," he said, with comнmendable mildness. He put the glass down and drew on his cigarette again, regarding the exhibit moodily. He was quite sure now that he was going to collect his day's wages without much more delay. And probably the next day's pay in adнvance, as well. At that, he thought that the job was poorly paid for what it was. He could see nothing in it at all to make him happy. But being a philosopher, he had to cast around for one little ray of sunshine. Being persistent, he found it. "So anyway," he said, "at least we don't have to bother about the servants any more."
7
IT WAS a pretty slender consolation, he reflected, even after they had returned to the house and he had perfunctorily questioned the servants, only to have them jointly and severнally corroborate each other's statements that none of them had left the place that afternoon.
After which, they had all firmly but respectfully announced that they were not used to being under suspicion, that they did not feel comfortable in a household where people were frequently getting stabbed at, shot at, and poisoned at; that in any case they would prefer a less exacting job with more regнular hours; that they had already packed their bags; and that they would like to catch the evening bus back to Los Angeles, if Mr. Pellman would kindly pay them up to date.
Freddie had obliged them with a good deal of nonchalance, being apparently not unaccustomed to the transience of doнmestic help.
After which the Saint went to his room, stripped off his riding clothes, took a shower, wrapped himself in bath robe, and lay down on the bed with a cigarette to contemplate the extreme sterility of the whole problem.
"This o
ught to learn you," he told himself, "to just say NO when you don't want to do anything, instead of making smart cracks about a thousand dollars a day."
The servants weren't ruled out, of course. There could be more than one person involved, taking turns to do things so that each would have an alibi in turn.
But one of the girls had to be involved. Only one of them could have poisoned Freddie's drink at the Tennis Club. And any one of them could have done it. The table had been small enough, and everybody's attention had been very potently concentrated on the sarong siren. A bottle small enough to be completely hidden in the hand, tipped over his glass in a casual gesture-and the trick was done.
But why do it then, when the range of possible suspects was so sharply limited?
Why do any of the other things that had happened?
He was still mired in the exasperating paradoxes of partial sense, which was so many times worse than utter nonsense. Utter nonsense was like a code: there was a key to be found somewhere which would make it clear and coherent in an inнstant, and there was only one exact key that would do it. You knew that you had it or you hadn't. The trouble with partial sense was that while you were straightening out the twisted parts you never knew whether you were distorting the straight ones . ..
And somewhere beyond that point he heard the handle of his door turning, very softly.
His hand slid into the pocket of his robe where his gun was, but that was the only move he made. He lay perfectly still and relaxed, breathing at the shallow even rate of a sleeper, his eyes closed to all but a slit through which he could watch the door as it opened.
Esther came in.
She stood in the doorway hesitantly for a few seconds, looking at him, and the light behind her showed every line of her breath-taking body through the white crepe negligee she was wearing. Then she closed the door softly behind her and came a little closer. He could see both her hands, and they were empty.
He opened his eyes.
"Hullo," she said.
"Hullo." He stretched himself a little.
"I hope I didn't wake you up."
"I was just dozing."
"I ran out of cigarettes," she said, "and I wondered if you had one."
The Saint Goes West s-23 Page 5
