She walked almost in terror until she had reached the far side of the pool. There flagstones gave way to dirt, and the lights from the house had blended with the darkness of the moonless night and there was nothing but heavy blackness.
She paused bravely in the angle of the pathway and listened, to prove to herself that she held no fear. At first there was only the thumping of her blood pumping past her ears, and the thrumming of her heart and the pacing of her breath in short, sobbing gasps, but finally she subsided to normal breathing and her heart slowed to more even pumping and then she could hear the sounds from the house.
The tinkle of ice in glasses through an opened window. Who had opened a window on such a hot night to let the cool air out? That went through her mind idly as she strove to place other sounds. A burst of short, brittle laughter. Maybelle, it sounded like. Or Mr. Grant. She couldn’t tell which. His laugh was so high, so cynical that she was never sure. The sound of footsteps came to her, and she stiffened; but they were on cement, so she knew someone was at the swimming pool. They faded after a moment, and a door slammed. She eased the tension from her muscles and smiled at the dark.
“See,” she said to herself. “I’m not afraid.”
She walked more quietly now, up the path and to the house. The door was unlocked, as always, and she pushed her way inside, into the hot darkness of the living room, smelling of furniture, and of stale food where her father had left something on the table by his chair, and of wallpaper sweating with the heat. She cursed him angrily as her first thought was he had turned off the cooling system. She found the light switch, and the room leaped into a blinding glare that mellowed as her eyes grew accustomed to it. She walked across the room, the door eased shut behind her, and switched on the air cooler. The hum of the fan gave her a sense of security. In the thick silence it was a familiar friend, a warm thing. But even the buzz of a fly or an angry mosquito would have been welcome.
For a moment she stood in indecision; then she locked the door and crossed swiftly to the hallway, through to the tiny kitchen, and that door she locked too. She drew a heavy sigh of relief. Now she was safe, and the house phone hung on the wall if she lost that feeling of security.
With a shaky laugh she went to the radio and switched it on. It burst with static, but the night brought distance fairly clearly, and she caught a dance orchestra in San Diego.
Humming to herself, she half danced, half walked to the kitchen. She put the tea kettle on to boil, measured six spoonfuls of coffee into the top of the drip pot and set a cup, saucer and spoon out for herself on the enameled-top table. She debated whether or not to eat. She had had very little appetite at dinner time, and the fear had left an empty, hungry place inside her. She opened the refrigerator door and took out an egg. An egg sandwich would taste wonderful.
She was busy with the breadbox when the door opened. The radio was playing loudly, and the sound of the fan blended harmoniously, so she did not hear the thud as the key fell to the rug before the door, nor the click of another key being turned in the lock, nor the sound as the door eased open and shut just as silently. Nor the padding of feet, very light, very sure and definite. She heard nothing, sensed nothing until the moment she felt another presence near her. Then she whirled, and the egg fell from her hand and smashed on the floor, the yellow yoke oozing across the linoleum so that when she stepped back involuntarily, one heel slipped a bit in it.
Catrina’s breath was in her lungs. Why wouldn’t it come out? She wanted air. Desperately, she needed air. She opened her mouth wide and struggled for it. It came slowly, agonizingly.
“I didn’t tell,” she gasped. “I swear I didn’t. I won’t tell. I—Please—”
The words were cut off. She felt a hand, hot and moist, over her mouth, over her nose. She felt herself lifted, and carried across the kitchen and into the bathroom, and she could not scream because of the hand over her mouth and nose, and breathing was terribly difficult.
And the last thing she remembered, the last thought that flashed across her mind as her head was raised, her nose and mouth freed and then her head dashed against the back of the bathtub, concerned her coffee.
“The water will boil away and ruin the tea kettle,” she thought.
Chapter XIV
MARK went into the yard and climbed into his coupé. A whirl of the starter, and the motor rumbled protestingly. He swung it around and headed out the alley, toward Myra Cartwright’s little bungalow.
There was a light throwing soft gleams of yellow on the front porch and the walk. He sniffed roses and sweet peas as he walked up the porch steps. It all smelled fresh and very far from death.
The door opened under his brief fingering of the bell, and Myra stood framed in the light. She wore a pale marine slack suit that set off her blonde hair, and her smile took the blunt edges from the sharpness of her features.
“I was wondering when you would show up,” she said lazily. “Come in.”
He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. “I sleep occasionally,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “I was just on my way to the Manders’ place. I’ve been busy at the shop arranging for the sale tomorrow.”
“What is up there for you?” He relaxed on a chintz-covered couch, and absorbed the cooling air from a blower directly across from him.
“After all, I was there until almost four o’clock this morning,” she said. “Remember? I expect the police will want to question me. Besides, there might be something I can do.”
“For Idell?”
“Yes. I imagine she’s terribly upset.” She took a cigaret from a silver box and lit it from a ball table lighter. She sat on the couch beside him, one knee flung so it rubbed against his leg. Her eyes were green in the glow of the single lamp set behind them, and she regarded him coolly. “I heard you were playing detective. The whole story is all over town. How Idell found him and everything about it.”
“The name of the murderer too?” he said. He leaned forward and tapped ashes from his pipe into the ashtray, and then settled back, letting his leg lay full against hers.
She smiled at him but did not move. “Not quite,” she said. “There are theories, though.”
“I expect so,” he said. “You weren’t worried because the police didn’t call, were you?”
Her eyes veiled and she laughed teasingly. “Now you’re playing detective with me.”
“What do you want me to play?” he asked. He leaned slightly toward her, half turning his body so that he faced her.
She crushed her cigaret into the ashtray with a slow, deliberate motion. “I’ll make a blueprint,” she said. “Tonight.”
Mark shrugged. “If you want to wait while I grab a bite to eat, I’ll drive you up to the Manders’.”
“And bring me home?”
“And bring you home,” he said, his eyes on her face.
“I’m ready,” she said, and stood up. When he rose, she elevated her face as if waiting for him to kiss her.
He looked at her expression, her sharp features softened by slumberous passion, her eyes closed lightly so the light showed tiny veins in the lids, and at the long sweep of her lash caressing the cheek. Yet he scarcely saw her moist, half opened lips, or noticed the swift rising of her bosom. He said:
“I wouldn’t want to spoil your lipstick just yet.”
“A woman scorned—” she said with a light laugh, dropping her head. “Come on. I want a drink.”
He laughed and helped her into the car.
Mickey’s was crowded with early evening drinkers when they arrived. Mark found a small booth, and they sat down. He ordered porterhouse steak, medium rare, and a bottle of ale. And two Scotches and sodas first.
“Two double Scotches and sodas,” Myra corrected. “I think we’ll need them,” she said.
“If Babe thinks I’m passing her joint up for any reason but business,” he said, “I will need it.”
“What really happened up there?” she asked. “All I’ve gotten i
s rumor.”
He sat silently until the drinks were brought, then touched the rim of his glass to hers. “More and merrier murders,” he said. He drank, emptying the glass in two swallows. “Frankly,” he said, “your rumor is probably as close as I can come to it. Idell found Link in the swimming pool. He had been poisoned and taken there. She called me; I called the police. The poison was in some dates Link had eaten.”
He saw her forehead furrow at mention of the location of the body. “How odd,” she said. “Why should he be poisoned and then drowned?”
“He was dead before he ever touched the pool,” he told her.
Myra finished her drink and set it down. She beckoned to the waiter and ordered another. Mark refused. She said, “Do you mean someone poisoned some dates and left them in his room, hoping he would eat them?”
“Not hoping,” Mark said; “knowing. Link ate a package of dates a day. It was pretty certain he would eat some again.” He said nothing more on the subject, disclaiming further constructive knowledge, until his steak was eaten and the ale drunk. Then he rose, paid the check and tossed a quarter on the table.
“Let’s go.” He noted by the watch on her wrist it was fifteen minutes after eight.
On the way across the highway and while going bumpily over the railroad tracks, he was silent. Not until they reached the front of the house, illumined with a single porch light, did he speak. He drew up in back of the Chief’s car and switched his engine into silence. He sat for a moment, sucking on his pipe. Finally he said:
“Where were you going at four-thirty this morning, Myra?”
In the reflection in his windshield he could see the spark of her cigaret grow larger as she dragged smoke into her lungs, and the glow showing her face, turning slowly toward him.
“At four-thirty?” she repeated quietly. “I was in bed, sleeping.”
Her statement was too pat, too sure. “A witness saw you walking across the tracks at that hour,” he said.
Her fingers reached out and closed over his arm caressingly. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked. “To warn me before we go inside?”
Mark swallowed a chuckle. That had not been his purpose, but it was ready-made. He leaned close to her, his lips scant inches from hers. “Don’t you think that is better than having the Chief throw the question at you?”
“Very much,” she murmured. Her lips were no longer inches away, but on his. He felt their warmth, their electric tingle even more consciously than he had at four that morning. Her hands were against the back of his head, the nails digging into the flesh at the nap of his neck, the pressure of her palms forcing his lips bruisingly against hers.
“You have ruined my lipstick now,” she said, drawing away. Her laugh was shaky.
“But I haven’t changed your story?” he asked. “I’m afraid you had better do it quickly.”
“What if I was?” she said almost angrily. “Can’t a woman take a walk without being suspected of murder?”
“No one said anything about murder,” he reminded her.
“You intimated I was going toward the Manders’ ranch,” she said.
“Weren’t you?”
“Yes, I went within a few hundred yards of the western edge. It’s desert there. I love to walk on the desert at dawn. It’s the closest desert to walk on.”
“You were restless?”
“Worried,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep. I tried.”
He didn’t remind her she hadn’t had time to go to bed, rise, dress and be at the tracks at four-thirty. He said, “Worried over what?”
“Really, I have some personal things.”
Mark’s fingers brushed the hair that curled alongside her ear. “I’m not the Chief, sweetheart.” His lips bent and touched the lobe of her ear. She stirred. “And I’m no bogey man,” he said.
She laughed and pushed him away. “Business worries,” she said. “Financial. And stop that. If we’re going to that house, let’s go. If we’re not, let’s turn around and go back.”
Mark kissed her quickly, dropped his hands and then reluctantly opened the car door. He had got more than he had bargained for.
Idell opened the door almost before the sound of the bell had died away. “I heard you come up,” she said, her laughing eyes on Mark. “Welcome to the chamber of horrors. Professor Rourke and the waxworks to your right.” He saw the bantering, light mood had come over her again, and he wondered what fear or worry she was covering this time. He and Myra followed her into the living room.
Chief Rourke was there, comfortably ensconced on a divan with a huge mug of light beer in his hand. Next to him Leona Taylor leaned back idly and watched the room through her sleepy eyes. Grant was there, Mark saw in slight surprise, and looking remarkably well and quite sober. He nodded to them as he walked across the room and dropped into a chair next to the Chief.
“Where is everybody else?” he asked in a low tone.
The Chief removed his face from the mug and wiped foam from his lips with the back of a sweat-streaked hand. “They were all in here drinking out of them fancy little glasses after dinner,” he said. “Farman said he was going down to the billiard room for some pool, and that big guy Jeffers went with him. Miss Farman has a headache, and she went and lay down. The Uncle is prowling in the garden.”
“Prowling? With a broken leg?”
The Chief grinned. “Maybe he’s just sitting. Anyway, he went out there.” He tilted the mug again. “Try some; it’s good.”
“I just ate,” Mark said. “With Myra.”
It was the Chief’s turn to look interested. “Yeah?” he said. “What’s up?”
Mark’s voice was so low Leona would have needed exceptional hearing to hear him. “Let’s take a look at some of the upstairs rooms,” he said. “I want to take a look at that stairway, too.”
“In the dark?”
“Why not? I thought of something.”
“Okay.” The Chief drained his mug reluctantly and rose.
Grant Manders was wandering toward the door. “I’m going to read myself to sleep,” he said generally. He shuddered, not facetiously.
The Chief said, “He’s taking it hard.”
They mounted the stairs in silence. At the top, Mark said, “Little Myra took a walk at four-thirty this morning.” He told the Chief what Babe had said to him.
The Chief whistled softly. “That makes everything simple, huh?” His voice was heavy with disgust and sarcasm.
Mark said, “I’ve been trying to line this thing up in my mind, Chief, get the time elements straight and all. And I would like to find those dates that had the poison in them.”
The Chief grinned in the dusky light from a single dim globe in a niche in the stairway. “You wouldn’t figure them we took out of the guy’s room to be the poisoned ones, huh?”
“Would you?”
“No, and they wasn’t,” the Chief admitted. “We searched the rooms this afternoon, too, and didn’t find a damned thing. Whoever did this is a smart boy. He covered up everything nice and pretty. No good fingerprints, no poison left around his rooms—nothing like that at all. Riverside reported on the prints, and no luck.” He sighed heavily.
Mark said, “You examined that outside stairway?”
“Sure. Too rough for prints. The adobe top of the balcony’s the same way. There wasn’t any on the door, either.”
“Did you find any wet sand on the stairs?” Mark asked. “Any little bits that could have come off a man’s feet?”
“We found dry sand. Wet that had dried on the steps along the edges. But if there was footprints around, we missed ‘em. And the only place it ain’t paved is right under the balcony. If there was prints, the guy was smart enough to run ‘em away.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that,” Mark said. “I was thinking about finding some of the sand in the vacuum cleaner. It isn’t sand, really, sort of a sand and loam mixture.”
“Anybody could have tracked it in,” the Chief said. “There
’s plenty around.”
“How many,” Mark demanded dryly, “go walking where the sweet peas grow or get off the paths into the flower beds? I think the gardener would take care of that.”
“What you driving at?”
Mark said, “The garden soil in this part of the country is imported, Chief.”
The Chief mopped his face with his handkerchief. “My wife makes me buy enough,” he complained.
“Okay,” Mark grinned. “The soil around the date palms and in the driveway where the guests might walk isn’t the same as the soil put around the flowers. So look for sandy loam on a rug. On a bathmat would be more my guess.”
“Bathmat, huh?”
“The person who put Link in the pool had to go down too. He had to dry off.”
“That Farman kid! He faked that shower.” The Chief grunted. “Hell, that Taylor woman told me she heard it running. But he could have faked it, huh?”
“He could have,” Mark said. He switched tactics, having got what he wanted. “Look, Chief. You searched every room carefully for those dates? The closets, too?”
The Chief’s glance was withering, and the expression on his round, sweaty face indignant. “I ain’t a punk, Mark. I learned my business good.”
“Sorry,” Mark said.
“Hell,” the Chief grunted, “there ain’t a trace of them dates. We checked on all the dates lying in everybody’s rooms, and they ain’t got poison in ‘em.” He chuckled. “But ain’t nobody eating them, that I can see. I guess they been burned or buried.”
“They couldn’t have been burned,” Mark said. “Not without causing suspicion, since the Queen sees to the incinerator, but they could have been—” He stopped at the top of the landing, one foot poised in mid-air. It came down slowly, automatically. “Chief.” he said, “what was Catrina burying today?”
“A canary.”
A suspicion was forming in Mark’s mind, a suspicion that sent a chill of dread down his spine. Catrina burying a canary on the edge of the grove. Her nervousness before the Chief’s questions. Little Catrina, who never sidestepped a chance to earn a dollar any way she could. Catrina burying a canary …
Date for Murder Page 10
