And kill once more Page 13

  "How did you know, Marty? You said we'd see if I hadn't maybe been okay for a while, but you didn't really mean that. You weren't surprised when the man said I never even had so much as scar tissue showing."

  I gave her a quick wink. "It's a gift. Some have it and some haven't." Dropping one of Gregory's twenties on the change tray I stood up, flipped a thumb toward the phone booth and said, "Be right back."

  The doc's line was busy. Standing in the booth, I glanced idly around the bar, my eye stopping on a washed-out blonde near the far side. She'd had just enough to loosen her tongue and so had her escort, a situation mildly humorous to the semicircle of grinning patrons lining the bar, but it wasn't humorous to Bowman. It gave him an idea. I got my call through to the M.D., apologized and said we wouldn't be able to make it after all, heard him thank me for letting him know, and then hung up. Toward the rear were two doors, each with a picture of a dog. One was a black-and-white pointer, the other an Irish setter. I lingered by the phone booth until I caught the bartender's eye, signaled him and went in with the pointers.

  "Something wrong, Mac?" he asked as he came in.

  "Yeah. With my tummy. Got an ulcer and she's kicking up a fuss but I hate to be a spoil-sport. You know how it is."

  "Sure, Mac." He was grinning now.

  "I'm ordering daiquiris. I think the one already on the table will be about all I can handle. Let's make the rest of them a weak limeade, shall we?" I fished out a five that had come back in change from one of Boreland Gregory's bigger bills and crossed the barkeep's palm with green.

  "Limeades, it'll be, mate. A weak splice for the main-brace."

  He folded the five and tucked it into a slit in his white jacket, gave me a half salute, and went out. Damn, I thought, these dry land sailors! He probably had all of sixteen months in the service and fifteen of them on some shore base, but from that day forward the walls were bulkheads, the floors were decks and he never spat to windward.

  When I got back to the table Sandy had her white fingers around her drink and my daiquiri had worked up a nice dew on the glass.

  "Health," I said, sliding in and lifting my drink.

  "And the bright lad who showed me I still have it," Sandy added. We sipped cool liquid, then looked across at each other.

  "You were going to tell me how you knew, Marty. And let's be honest with each other; it was definitely more than a hunch."

  "Call it an informed guess. An odd here and an end there—they made a pattern."

  "Then let's talk about odds and ends."

  I touched a finger to my glass and ran it all the way around the rim. "This could get pretty intimate, Sandy. Sex figures in the picture here and there, and the whole thing is a wee bit—delicate. Too delicate to discuss on a single daiquiri."

  "If you're suggesting a vote on a second round, count me among those in favor," she said smiling. We looked

  at each other through the bottoms. I stalled while we downed another, this time without the rum, and on the third I let her pin me down to facts.

  "First we take George Engle. Smooth as a beach pebble but under it all very egotistical, as suggested by the diving tower that wouldn't be put up until he was an expert. Nobody was going to show George up at anything if he could help it. He had to be the top man. Which brings us to the guests he invited up to the estate. The red-headed babe has been with you several times but none of the males here impressed her very much. And the same with Kate Weston. She couldn't recall a single one very clearly. Which points to the fact that none of the guests were what we might call eligible men. No, the fat and bespectacled Cronk and his running mate Pilcher were a fair average sample of the male contingent around here. You get the idea that any handsome gents under forty that Engle might have had on the string were making their payments in his L.A. office, not up here where Mrs. Engle would see them. George was mighty sure that anyone he invited would add to the attractiveness of G.E. by direct comparison. Catch?"

  Sandy nodded, smiled. "Sharp."

  "Actually, no. It took me a while to catch on. Take this noble business of his of building your desert hideaway. The milk of human kindness has usually curdled in a man, I'd guess, before he can bring himself to blackmail someone, yet wholesale blackmail is certainly more than suggested. It made me wonder about his being the kind who would give his all for a wife—even one with lovely black hair—and many other attractions."

  "Thank you kindly, sir. That last part is appreciated. But you needed three drinks to tell me this?"

  "No. They were for the next part. Like the reason he drummed up to hold you here where attractive men

  would be practically non-existent. You were supposed to take it real easy, he said. No violent exercise. No hikes in the hills or such. Tell me, Sandy. Were there any other —exercises—in which our boy George—well, suggested that you'd better cut down a little. I've got the odd notion that, at great personal sacrifice, he may have excused you from some of your wifely duties," I finished with a grin.

  Sandy took a sip of her drink and leaned toward me again. For several seconds her eyes went back and forth across my face and then she nodded. "When Marty Bowman looks into the crystal ball he really gets the picture," she breathed softly. "I—can't imagine how you—I mean —" She let it trail off and I took over.

  "I'm young and healthy—" I smiled—"and if I wanted to hibernate with a chick I'd scoot off to a tropical isle or find a mountain retreat or maybe even a layout like yours up there, but there's one thing I wouldn't do and that's dream up a dodge which would keep the better half from leading an active life.

  "Not that this angle on George came out of thin air," I went on. "It didn't. The night he was—he died—I had been reading while I had a snack. There was a page missing from a physical culture magazine and I found that the other side had one of those rejuvenation ads. Or at least every other issue had that advertisement. The whole page had been neatly cut out and I thought then that someone visiting you people had felt the need of a little extraneous inspiration. Today, though, when Kate and I were sunning ourselves by the pool, I was watching Bob Widdle and he had one of those muscle magazines in his lap and all at once I began to think about that ad. Looked at in the light of George's death and his other odd behavior, I began to be more than a little sure of where that coupon went. George was a lot older than

  you, but not that much older, so it wasn't too obvious, but it could fit. Maybe it wasn't the years but the way he lived 'em. At any rate it got around to looking like he'd had a little difficulty and found a smooth way out of it—put you on the shelf with little or no embarrassment to himself. Real cool—he even appeared noble in the doing."

  Sandy let her eyes fasten on me again. "George. George Engle—that clever, clever rascal." She said it carefully, each word pronounced slowly. Too slowly, and it was the sign I had been looking for. I pushed my empty toward the center of the table, scooped the remaining bills and coins out of the silver tray, dropped a single for the tip and pointed to Sandy's glass.

  "We've had it, kid. That was the one for the road." I started to slide out of the booth but she leaned across and put a hand on my arm."

  "Now, listen, Marty. Little Sandy has only had three of these—in two years."

  I said, "That's the part we're worrying about, baby. The water wagon gets higher every day and you've been riding it a long time. When you fall from that far up you hit pretty hard. Now be a smart girl and let's get some air. If we're dying of thirst when we pass through Palm-dale we can stop for a booster shot. Deal?" I patted the white fingers on my arm, then eased her hand off and stood up.

  Sandy picked up her bag, scooted to the open end of the booth, and then tipped up her glass and sucked the last few drops out with a gurgling sound. Her mouth opened, closed again, and she licked her lips. "Oooo, Marty!"

  Grinning, I gave her my arm and on the way out to the car she leaned a little heavily a time or two. I swung the door for her, then hurried around to my own

  side,
hopped in, and wound up the engine. I'd had an idea. Toland seemed to have figured Sandy might be holding out on him about those envelopes with the blackmail evidence. I thought so too, and figured that a few drops of oil applied to the lovely brunette's tongue would loosen it sufficiently to get us on a buddy-buddy footing and she'd cut me in. But I had to pour the lubrication with care, because nothing would be more useless than a boozed-up babe who could pass out on my hands. I was going to watch this pigeon with a sharp eye. Even three might have been too many after so long a drought.

  "Oooo, Marty!" she said again. "I'm getting all warm inside." She squealed like a teen-ager standing in the cold surf, then wiggled across the seat and snuggled up against me.

  We passed the city limit of Lancaster and I put a bit more weight on the throttle. The Cad responded like no car of my own ever has and we sped toward Palmdale. "A little earlier," I reminded the girl, "we formed sort of a partnership. Something about discussing the odds and ends and filling in for each other on the blank spaces. Remember? So just to paint a better background into the picture, how about a look at this thing from the wife's angle? You could start with the first time George mentioned that you should have an examination."

  She said, "Not an examination, Marty. Looking back and considering what we've found out tonight, I can see that it fits together loosely in places. But at the time I didn't—well, take the very beginning. I was tired one night, we'd been on the go all day, but George didn't think I was up to par. He suggested that we both have a chest X-ray just for the comfort we'd get out of knowing that things were all right. He made appointments for us at a regular laboratory and we went down. Then he picked up the films later and we went to a local M.D. for

  a consultation. As you say, he must have switched plates, though, and—" Sandy went along for a while, adding little that I didn't already know.

  "Now about the year you two lived in wedded bliss, Sandy, that first year. How were you getting along? No troubles I guess—like you making eyes at a neighbor or anything?"

  She gave me a shrewd side glance and a smile. "Look, old pardner-pardner. You aren't working on a one man Kinsey report are you?" I laughed and she did too. "There might have been a friend or two in our set that I liked a little but I didn't play around any. It might have been in the offing, though, if we hadn't shifted to a hermit's life."

  "And George had it figured, I'll bet. He wasn't a damn bit slow in the head, George Engle."

  "No, but he wasn't the loving husband either, not all the time. You came close when you mentioned his having to be the center of attraction on every occasion. We had our tiffs. Plenty of them, but when I had my trouble —or he made me think I did—he was so darn nice about it. Building that place in the hills and having people up every week end or so and going into the pool with me. Oh, I was sold on him then all right. God! Two years of my life down the well."

  We cruised along and Palmdale loomed ahead. I was vaguely aware that a small game of footsie was developing down around the accelerator. A tiny high-heeled shoe was resting next to my right foot and every now and then an ankle in sheer nylon pressed against the cuff of my flannels. I blew a soft breath and wondered if she could be talked into discussing those white envelopes, then decided that now wasn't the hour. Her glow had been short-lived and needed a recharge; I wanted to get her back on the "Ooooo, Marty!" basis.

  "Last chance, Sandy. You seem to handle it with ease

  and if you'd like that parting shot—" She gave my arm a warm tight squeeze. We found a likely-looking oasis and when we were comfortably installed in a booth I said "Just one. Then we're on our way. Agreed?"

  "Agreed, Marty." And then to the waitress: "I'll try a whiskey cobbler. I used to like the things." I ordered another daiquiri and brought out smokes, my mind running over the routine. I'd drive slow and give that oil a chance to soak in, then apply the pump and find out how much had really gone up in the fire and whether or not she'd done any reading before she put the torch to the evidence. Our drinks came and I paid the tab.

  "To the new life," Sandy said. "May it start soon."

  "New life," I echoed. We sipped the cold liquor and I thought some more about Sandy Engle. It was obvious that she'd tired of George rather quickly, probably had mistaken an infatuation for the real McCoy in the first place. He may have had the charm of an older man, but they were sadly mismated. He'd won back lost ground by being considerate during her supposed illness—now, that business exposed, she loathed the thought of him.

  But he had been murdered and someone was a killer. Idly, I played with the idea that Sandy Engle had somehow found out about these things before tonight, knew George had consigned her to exile needlessly and for his own selfish motives. The concept certainly put her into line as a strong candidate for Toland's list. I wondered if—and yet I had been quite sure that the news our talkative doctor had given her had really been that.

  Then she said it again. "Oooo, Marty!"

  Her glass was almost empty but the reaction had been a little fast for a jigger of whiskey. Wait a second, I told myself. Sandy has switched.

  "What in the hell is a whiskey cobbler?" I asked.

  "One drink, Marty. Thats all little Sandy had—one drink. You said I could have one drink, Marty." She said

  it gleefully, like a child who has tricked an adult. The waitress was clearing away the booth behind us. She straightened up long enough to answer my question.

  "Cracked ice, a bit of sugar, orange slices for decoration—that and a glass of whiskey."

  By the time I squired Sandy to the car she'd given out with a couple more "Oooo, Marty's" and when I closed the door after her and went around to my side she had scooted so far to the left I had to squeeze myself in. Good Lord, I thought, if she's warped out of shape when we get back to the house it's going to be one hell of a job keeping her quiet! I opened a windwing and channeled a stream of cool night air over her face. She pressed tighter against me and didn't bother with the footsie—we teed off on a game of kneesies. Now I'm just as human as the next guy and I've never had the kind of trouble George Engle was plagued with, but there are ethics about little girls who have been nipping out of the bottle. You're pretty far down that road if you have to ply a babe with strong drink to set the mood. My campaign of the evening was going to be short and direct—play along until I got a little information, but that's all I wanted to get.

  "Baby, we're really going places, you and me. We've discovered a lot of things tonight while Sheriff Toland is sitting around on his duff. Right? And I think there's more the good sheriff has missed. An envelope or two that didn't get into the fire? If we're going to be partners you wouldn't hold out on me, I hope."

  "Oooo, par'ner. Put your arm around little Sanny."

  That left one hand on the wheel. "And you read a few of those dossiers?"

  "Ol' par'ner wants some envelopes," she giggled. "OF par'ner can't find any envelopes. OF sheriff can't either. Jus' little Sanny." She giggled again and turned sideways to give me the benefit of a gentle pressure that was all

  feminine but sex was fast losing to that loggy Umbo an overdose of whiskey will bring. There's a thin band, a zone of time when a rosy glow and a playful attitude follow the right amount of alky but on the other side the senses are dulled and the drive gone. The barhop had said a cobbler was a little of this and that built around a glass of whiskey, not a jigger. Too much and too fast. My cute brunette had been right on the edge before she downed her cobbler and unless I missed badly she wouldn't be making much sense before long. I wheeled the Caddy over on the shoulder and braked to a stop.

  "Oooo, Marty! You bad boy." She said it willingly, but didn't contribute much in the way of fire. I figured we'd be able to handle it.

  "You tell ol' Marty about the envelopes, Sandy, baby."

  "Not fair. Defin'ly not fair. George was a stinker—a bad ol' stinker and I burned his papers."

  "But you were a sharp little cookie," I prompted gently. "A smart little girl
and you looked through some of 'em first."

  "No time, ol' par'ner. But little Sanny's got 'em put away. A smart little par'ner you got, Marty boy ol' par'ner."

  "You tell Marty boy where. You just whisper in ol' Marty's ear, Sanny girl," I urged and tightened my arms around her.

  "Defini'ly not fair," she repeated thickly. "All but one has to be burned. Sanny'll read 'em all and find out which one to keep for sheriff Tolan'—then a big ol' bonfire. Jus' one. One to give—"

  She was slipping off fast and I cut in with "How many, Sandy girl? How many have you got and where are they?"

  "Jus' not fair, ol' Marty, jus'—" She went a little limp then and I eased her back toward the corner of the seat

  and slipped back under the wheel. We pulled out on the road again, driving slowly, because I hoped she'd snap out of it by the time we rolled up to the estate. I needed some more information and she'd stashed some of the evidence away. I wanted to be among those who saw it first and to do that would mean get her around enough to talk some more. Then another idea hit me. Toland had searched the room and his clerk had gone over Sandy's person; a limited number of possibilities remained. I sifted then carefully for a few miles, then put my foot down on the gas and let the big hack race ahead.

  Now I couldn't get Sandy home fast enough because I wasn't going to need much help locating her treasure and it would be a damn sight easier to get her in quietly if she was feeling no pain. We sped through the night and when the gravel was under our wheels and we started up, I cut the speed and doused the headlights. Nearing the estate, I dropped the hydromatic into low, let up the gas, and eased gently and quietly around a few bends and onto the parking apron, then cut the ignition. Sandy rested against the door on her side. I opened it carefully and caught her shoulders sliding out, then put an arm under her knees, lifted her clear, working the car door into place with an elbow, bumped it shut with my fanny, and started toward the house.