by P. N. Elrod
“Jealousy’s a damn good motive. And though it’s just possible that you could have talked him into letting you come up with him to Kitty’s flat, Stan wouldn’t have been dumb enough to turn his back on you. But you wouldn’t have stood behind him and used an iron skillet and then a carving knife to make sure of the job, you’d have simply smashed his face in.
“But none of that happened. Someone else killed Stan. It wasn’t Kitty, all she did was walk in and run out. Not smart, but the kid was too scared to think straight. The only others with a motive are the Pierces.”
Summers’s heartbeat, already high, jumped higher.
“Sebastian Pierce wanted the bracelet back; he hired us to get it. That could have been a move to provide him the cover he needed to murder Stan and avoid being a suspect. But I don’t think he’s the type to try anything complicated. Besides, he’s got enough money and connections to order up anything he pleases and have the job done right. If his goal had been to kill Stan he’d have been a lot more efficient about it. That leaves us with Marian—”
“No it doesn’t. She didn’t do anything.”
“Then it won’t hurt if I speculate about it—just so we can eliminate her from things.”
Summers subsided, all but growling, and glared at something inside him. He wasn’t going to like what I had to say but hadn’t worked up to the point of stopping me before I said it.
“This started out as a theft, with us hired to recover the goods, but Stan was a blackmailer, not a thief. Suppose he didn’t steal the bracelet, but that it was given to him? You said last night that she went with you because you did some time. Marian likes to break rules, and going out with tough guys is part of the thrill for her.
“Now, Stan had a nasty little blackmail racket going. While he got into bed with any girl who had some money put aside, his partner was in the next room taking photos of all the fun and games. Later on, he’d show the results to the girl, making a convincing threat, and collect his living from them if they fell for it.
“He had a real talent for finding women who liked rubbing shoulders with his kind of lowlife. Maybe Kitty’s one of ’em, I don’t know, but he’d made friends with her and she had the kind of highbrow connections that took him straight to Marian Pierce.
“We’ll leave out the details of how and when and just suppose that he started blackmailing Marian, but for once, instead of cash like before, he decides to go for something really big and demands her bracelet as payment. He gets it, but it’s eventually missed. Her father suspects a straight theft, and we’re brought in to recover it.
“But Marian’s got her eyes open for trouble and spots us, picking me out to pump for information at the club. When she failed, she went to Stan and told him what was going on, and he ducked out. He didn’t go straight back to his hotel, because he had a date with Kitty. I figure he went to the Angel Grill to find her.”
“Could he have not broken his appointment and apologized later?” asked Escott. “The man must have surely been in too much of a hurry.”
“You’ve got to include the stuff I got from his partner.”
“What stuff is that, specifically?”
“That Stan had fallen in love with Kitty. As far as we’ve learned, she’s the only one he didn’t blackmail, though she certainly fits into the pattern he set with all the other women he’s known.”
“Negative evidence,” he cautioned.
I shrugged. “Maybe so, but it accounts for why he didn’t rush directly home to the Boswell to start packing. He went to the Angel, missed her or heard she’d left, then drove home. When he did arrive, Kitty warned him off, and he bolted for her place. Now he and Marian had their heads together at the club, but they didn’t have much time for talk, and Marian probably had a lot to say. Stan could have let drop where he’d be and Marian decided to meet him there.”
“Or Stan could have asked her to follow him.”
“Yeah?”
“To obtain ready cash from her,” he explained.
I nodded. If McAlister had wanted a quick exit from Chicago, he’d have had a hard time trading the bracelet for train tickets. “Okay, so when Stan turned up at Kitty’s place, Marian was waiting for him. They go inside with Stan’s key and eventually end up in the kitchen, probably looking for a drink. Now we’ve got two different things for them to talk about at this point: Stan could be demanding more money from Marian, or Marian could be wanting to get the bracelet back.”
“Or both?”
“Either way it ends up in a fight. Stan makes the mistake of turning his back on her and she hits him with the first thing that comes to hand, which was an iron skillet. It must have killed him outright. She might not have known he was dead, but she was mad enough to kill him.”
Escott shook his head once, not as a denial of what I was saying, but as a caution not to say it. Summers was hunched low over the table. He didn’t need to hear the details of the knifing that had been done to make sure McAlister died.
“She searches the body and finds Stan’s wallet and the gun his partner said he carried. She takes them and closes up afterward with his key, leaving Kitty to find Stan, and us to find Kitty. Then Marian runs like hell. She ran right to you, Harry, because she knew you’d give her an alibi….”
Summers had at last worked up to his breaking point, only now he was far beyond just telling me off. He swung the ice-filled towel, using it like a cold, wet blackjack. I’d been expecting something like that and dodged. It hit my shoulder instead of my face. The towel came open and ice exploded across the kitchen. I made a grab for his arms, but he was too fast and, twisting the other way, made a lunge for the counter.
Correction: he made a lunge for the ice pick on the counter.
He got it.
He was too crazy to do much beyond blindly striking out at anything that moved, which included Escott. Escott aborted his attempt to grab at the ice pick and hauled himself back just in time to avoid a stab in the chest. Summers started after him.
“Harry!”
My shout got his attention. He turned and sliced air in my direction. His expression was fixed midway between red-faced fury and helpless frustration. With or without the bruising, he was unrecognizable. My idea of calming him down and talking him into dropping the ice pick was not going to work. He gave me no time to try, anyway, and rushed toward me.
The kitchen wasn’t that big a room and only got smaller with the three of us playing tag around the table and chairs. The ice pick made the place positively claustrophobic. I was too busy watching it to see where my feet were going. My leg bumped a chair over while I backed away. It toppled in the wrong direction and I nearly fell on it. Summers turned my distraction into an opportunity for himself and went in under what little guard I had left.
The point of the damned thing missed the underside of my chin only because Summers’s foot skidded on a piece of ice. I caught his arm just below the wrist, turned him fast so that I was behind him, and grabbed his other arm. He shifted his weight automatically like a dancer and rammed an elbow into my stomach. It didn’t do me any good, nor did his heel when he raked it down my shin and onto my foot.
Escott cut in, fastening onto Summers’s left arm. I let go and put all my concentration on the hand with the ice pick, using both of mine to slam it down hard against the old oak table. Nearly an inch of the business end embedded itself into the wood. Summers’s hand shot past the handle. He let out with a roar of outrage when it connected with a muffled crack against the hard wood. The roar went up the scale, lost its force, and died off. His knees abruptly gave way and he sank to the floor. The knotted muscles in the arm I held went as limp as wet rope. The incident hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. His encounter with Kyler had left him too sore to fight for long and he was puffing like an Olympic runner. Between gasps, he called us every name he could think of, and a few more besides before finally winding down.
Escott was breathing hard through his teeth. It was more from ange
r than from physical need. He wasn’t used to having homicidal maniacs tearing around his house. “At least we know just what led up to his beating earlier tonight,” he said.
“Yeah, he and Kyler both have short fuses.”
“I cannot say that I’m terribly sorry over it.”
“Is that how it happened, Harry?” I asked.
“G’ta hell,” he moaned.
I let go of my grip and stood away from him. He continued to kneel, leaning on the table as though in awkward prayer. Escott released him, curling his lip disapprovingly at the ice pick. With a slight effort, he removed it from the table to put it away in a drawer. He’d forgotten his compulsive neatness for once and the omission had nearly cost us both. Knowing him, he was probably more embarrassed than anything else. I decided to forget about it, since it was a cinch that Escott wouldn’t.
“You were saying something about Marian Pierce?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I looked down at Summers’s bowed back. He was going through hell and I knew exactly what he felt like. “She killed him, Harry. And she told you all about it, didn’t she?”
“It’s not her fault,” he insisted. “None of it was her fault. He was coming after her. The son of a bitch was tryin’ to rape her, for God’s sake. It was self-defense.”
Self-defense. I glanced at Escott and saw confirmation of my own disbelief. It was just remotely possible. Summers had accepted her story, but then he was in love with her; he needed his illusions.
“And she asked you for an alibi?”
“She didn’t have to ask,” he snarled.
“No, I guess she didn’t.” I looked at Escott. “My best guess is that when she couldn’t find the bracelet she went to the Boswell, but too many people were there first, and she could figure they were all looking for it themselves.”
“And from the hotel, she began to follow Miss—McAlister’s partner.” Escott was still throwing out a smoke screen to protect Doreen’s identity. I was glad of that.
“Or me,” I added, “until I finally ended up at the studio. While the partner and I were busy at the bar down the street, Marian broke in and searched the place. Again, she came up with a blank.”
“And this is where Kyler comes in.”
“She needed help, so she called in a professional. We don’t know her connection to him yet, but I’m ready to start looking for it. What’s Pierce’s number?”
Escott gave it, his brows drawing together and his mouth falling into a hard, thin line.
I eventually got hold of the housekeeper, identified myself, and asked a few fast questions. The news was good. Pierce, his daughter, Kitty, and Griffin were with the police and had been for most of the evening. Lieutenant Blair was probably doing a thorough job on them, and for once I had reason to silently bless his zealous attitude.
Hanging up, I drew Escott back out of earshot and filled him in. “I’m going over to Pierce’s. Can you meet me there later?”
“Certainly, but—”
I jerked a thumb toward Summers. “You’ll have to take him in to the hospital, after all. I broke his arm, only he doesn’t feel it yet.”
Escott looked surprised again.
Excuses always sound self-conscious. I cut off the one I was about to make and stuck to cold fact. “It snapped when I slammed it on the table. I felt it go.”
The situation was beyond reasonable comment, so he didn’t make one. “Very well, I’ll take him in. What are you planning to do at Pierce’s?”
“A little illegal searching. Kyler’s had a big head start, but maybe I’ll get lucky. That’s the other reason he dumped Harry with us—to keep us busy while he goes after the bracelet. Odds are he’ll want to go after Marian, too, so you’ll have to call Blair, and fill him in so he can keep her safe.”
“Arrest her, you mean.”
Anger that I’d been unaware of and holding down flared quietly with that possibility. “Yes, goddammit. If she’s the one who shot Doreen I want her put away.”
Then his question was suddenly there again. It was the same one he’d wanted to ask a few scant hours ago in his office when he first knew something was wrong for me. Telepathy was not a part of my changed condition, but I could almost hear his “why?” bouncing between my ears. He was asking for something beyond the simple and obvious need for justice; what he wanted was an explanation of my personal motive.
There were dozens, but the top dog of them all was guilt. If I hadn’t been curious or been made drunk and stupid by the easy power the hypnosis granted me, if I hadn’t… hadn’t…
The room seemed very closed up. The silence added to my discomfort. I tried to ease it with talk. “While you’re at the hospital, would you check on her for me? See how she’s doing?”
Then his face went neutral. I winced inside. That bland front meant he was making all kinds of connections now. Once he saw her, he’d have all the proof necessary to turn them into conclusions. I might as well have tied a ribbon around it as a late Christmas present.
“Certainly,” he promised, his voice also carefully neutral.
He had pockets of privacy for himself and was perceptive enough to recognize and respect them in others, but this particular one touched too close to our work to be avoided. He wouldn’t let it pass, not later, when there was time for talk.
He watched my face. God knows what he made of the expression there. Probably a lot more than I ever wanted to reveal. I could have stood there all night telling him how I’d lost control, how sheer appetite and self-indulgence had brought me that close to killing her. The words only clogged in my throat.
And the worst part was that as much as the experience had shaken and frightened me, the insistent desire was still there, and it was very, very strong.
It wanted—no, I wanted…
Doreen had provided only the merest sample of what the full sensual potential must be. I’d cut off far too soon. She wouldn’t have minded if I’d gone on; she wouldn’t have cared.
She hadn’t cared. The overwhelming pleasure had been there for her as well.
I wanted… to finish what had been started. The craving for her blood was like an itch inside my mind, one that I could reach but didn’t dare scratch. Dear God, it wasn’t enough that I’d raped the woman, I was ready to do it again until she died from it.
I palmed my car key and walked out.
Quickly.
I don’t remember the trip over to the Pierce estate. One moment I was just starting my car and the next I was rolling through a lush neighborhood of tall trees and large, rich houses. It was like the kind of travel that happens to you when you dream, except I was sure I didn’t dream anymore, at least not in a way that could be remembered upon awakening. No real sleep, no more dreams. I wondered if the lack could make me go crazy. Or maybe it was like the liquor in Escott’s cabinet, with no true need beyond what was generated in my own mind.
If 1 could only apply that to Doreen.
No. I don’t want to think about her.
I managed to blank her and everything else out long enough to get to the right address, then my mind shifted over to safer and simpler areas, like how to sneak onto the estate unseen. Easy for me, not so easy for my car—I wasn’t about to leave it someplace and hike.
The entrance to the front drive had big stone gateposts to punctuate the ends of a long brick wall, but no gates hung from them. I ignored the opening and went on to circle the rest of the block. This property took up the whole of it. The brick wall was unbroken until I made my second turning and found another, narrower driveway. Small blue and white tiles set into the cement of the curb spelled out PIERCE LANK. A sign on a second, and less ostentatious, set of gateposts informed me that this was a private drive and to keep out. There were gates on this, the back door, but they’d been left wide open. It was a mixed blessing: I was able to sail right in, but it left me wondering if anyone else had done the same or was about to do so. Kyler was very much on my mind and I was realistically expecting him to
be here ahead of me, and if so… well, I’d think of something.
For starters, I cut off my headlights and coasted forward, going easy on the gas pedal. I was anticipating a quick walk up to the main house, getting inside, and locating Marian’s room. Once there, I planned to quietly tear it apart until I found the bracelet. But that idea got tossed out as I rounded a gentle curve and saw lights on in the guest house.
Some member of the household staff could be doing a little late cleaning up after Kitty’s invasion, but I was too suspicious to take that on faith. I swung the wheel over. The car had just enough momentum to run up the curve in the drive and slot itself next to the guesthouse garage. At least it was out of view from the house. Anyone coming in by way of Pierce Lane would spot it, but cars and garages were a natural pair and hopefully the two blended together enough to be overlooked.
I remembered not to slam the door shut and took my time approaching the house.
The kitchen curtains were the kind that covered only the bottom half of the window. They were still effective, since the uncurtained top hall was some eight feet from the ground. I got around the height problem by going transparent and floating up.
The lights inside were clinically bright to my night-conditioned eyes. It took a second to blink things into focus. I got a fast impression of the usual furnishings plus one guest sitting at the dining table.
Marian Pierce.
She was still in her collegiate costume; draped on the table was a dark overcoat and her purse. Next to them was an ashtray, and from the nervous way she was smoking, she’d have to empty it fairly soon. Everything about her tense, restless posture howled that she was waiting and impatient about it. As I looked on, she glanced twice at her watch, once to get the time, and again because she’d forgotten what she’d seen.
I could wait around outside until whomever she was expecting showed, but that course of inaction was dismissed as quickly as it came to mind. Instead, I went solid, dropped lightly to the ground, and knocked on the back door.
She probably jumped and froze for a few seconds; it took her about that long before her quick footsteps approached. A bolt scraped and the door opened a crack. I bulled in before she could see me and change her mind.
