And kill once more Page 5

  "You said you'd check your records, Doctor," Toland reminded him mildly.

  "One examination. It was years ago, but I can look it up."

  "Maybe we'll ask you to do that later," Toland said blandly. "Now as I get it, you're up here as a guest. Just a personal friend of Engle. That it?"

  "That's right, Sheriff."

  "And how about you two?" Toland asked, turning toward the Pilchers. "Just weekending here?"

  "Yes." In the absence of a toothpick, Pilcher had found a blade of grass and now it was firmly rooted between his thick lips.

  "What do you do, Mr. Pilcher?"

  "Wholesale supply. Metals. That type of thing."

  "Where?"

  "Los Angeles."

  "Uh-huh. And now Mr. Bowman." I saw Pilcher's heavy wife tilt her nose a little higher as all eyes turned my way. But I wasn't worried. I just told him about being a lifeguard and where I'd worked and a lot of other things he could check. Then I tapered the end of it and fit it into being a friend of Miss Weston and said I'd come up for a few days as sort of a guest of a guest. In a way it was a little humorous, because I knew that the blonde thought I was dishing out a phoney background. She must have thought that Gregory's agency provided their men with an airtight backdrop.

  "A lifeguard. Maybe you can help us, Bowman. You saw George Engle swimming earlier in the day?"

  "We all did. He was fond of the water and went in often."

  "Sure, sure." Toland was patient but determined. He gave me a smile and said, "Still, you being a professional around pools, I'd like your opinion. Would you say that Engle could have just up and drowned himself?" "You're forgetting the heart, Sheriff." "That's the doctor's angle," Toland said easily. "I want to know what Bowman thinks."

  "He was a good swimmer. Damn good, for a man his age. But most of the people who drown in the surf are strong swimmers, Sheriff. Anyone can get a cramp. Anyone can bump his head on the bottom of a pool and pass out in the water. If no one happens to see him, it's just tough. Still, you've got no worries, Toland. The autopsy will show whether he drowned, or not."

  Toland put a heavy thumb to his chin and thought a moment, then let me off of the hook. With a few pointed and direct questions he established that the servants were both in their own quarters, the man of all work resting before his nightly session of draining and filling the plunge, his wife off for the day. From Elsa Doyle, Toland got a production. He tried to shut off the publicity campaign several times but she gave him every detail—childhood to her latest "achievement" —the reluctance to push herself I'd noted earlier had vanished since George Engle was no longer with us. I wondered about that as we listened to her life story. And it wasn't without interest entirely. She'd worked as a bathing cutie and decorative ornament in the Florida cypress gardens as a teen-ager. Then into a USO show five years ago and from there to the films. About what the publicity department would whip up for any other starlet they were promoting. It made good copy.

  That left Kate and when Toland asked what she did for a living she touched a tongue to her lips and watched me while she answered.

  "I work in women's apparel. Weston's. It's in Hollywood, Mr. Toland."

  "Oh?" He said it lightly and I was thinking about a lot of things just then. The big Cad she drove and those fancy clothes. Pretty lucky, this kid. Her family owning a clothing shop and all. She was probably assistant manager or some other such title and it reminded me of the guy

  who said he started at the bottom of the company and in six weeks worked his way up to first vice president. Owed his success, he claimed, to hard work, diligent attention to detail, study, and the fact that his father owned the business. Now, watching Kate answer To-land's questions, I had to admit to a small bit of envy for some of those money families.

  There wasn't anything I hadn't found out on the trip up here, and when Toland finished with Kate he favored us all with a kindly look. "Everything seems all right except one little item, folks." He swung back to me and added, "I guess we can clear that up in short order, Bowman. It looks like you were the last to see Engle alive. Teaching him to dive, you said. Anything special about his dives?"

  "No. Just a simple jackknife." "And how do you practice a jackknife?" I met his eyes and said, "Can you give me a little more on that? Exactly what do you want to know, Sheriff?" "Where the money comes in, Bowman." "What money?"

  "Engle had a coin in his hand when he died. It's still there. He wouldn't need that to practice a dive, would he?"

  "Hell, no. But he might have gotten one out of his pocket to horse around a little. Kids dive for bottle caps. Maybe Engle was diving for a coin."

  "There aren't any others in his robe pocket, Bowman. And when I talked to his missus a few minutes ago she didn't recall that he's ever been addicted to diving for coins."

  "Include me, Sheriff," I grinned. "You're the one that's talking about money. I didn't see Engle have any either."

  "Well, we'll see. I guess—" He broke off as the sound of a heavy car laboring up the grade came through to us. "Excuse me, folks," he said. "I'll be back directly.

  It might be a good idea for all of you to be around as I'll probably want to see you later."

  "Mind if I change to some clothes?" I asked, pointing to my bathing trunks. "This looks like a long night coming up."

  "Go ahead, Bowman. And come back, huh?"

  Then he was gone. I glanced at Kate and said, "You heard the man. I'll be right back."

  Walking down the corridor, I turned into my room, shucked out of the still damp trunks, and stepped into the shower. Cold water spattered over me as I went over the details at hand. So maybe Engle had pushed off before his time and one of those gathered was strictly dangerous people. But who? And why? I toweled myself, pulled out clean shorts, climbed into slacks and found a sport shirt. Socks and shoes, and then I combed my hair and went over to the dresser to put on my watch and scoop the change into my pocket.

  But I didn't touch my money. Instead I stood for several seconds looking at the top of the dresser. Then I pulled it away from the wall and got down on my hands and knees for a search of the rug, but I didn't find anything. Standing up again, I pushed the dresser back and felt for my cigarettes. Now I knew about the coin in George Engle's hand.

  My silver dollar was missing.

  Six

  Fumbling through my pockets, I came up with a match and struck a light. Easy, boy, I told myself. Let's be sure. I laid the cigarette on the edge of a glass ashtray and got down on all fours again. No luck. Then I

  went through my other pants, knowing by now that it was a waste of time. My silver buck was gone. Picking up my smoke, I went to the door leading out to the narrow walk on the side toward the hill. I hadn't snapped the lock on that door. Someone had been watching. Someone saw me go for the swim and someone made a short tour through my room and picked up the silver dollar.

  I smoked in the darkness and thought about it for a while. Toland was going to try to run that coin to earth and he'd certainly end up pointing the ringer at me. Six possibilities on who could have pushed Engle over the line and a thousand on how it was done. Dive in after him and hold him under. A strong swimmer could have done that—the cypress along the far side would have been ample hiding place to wait for the right moment. Wrap a beach towel over a hammer or pipe or any heavy object and you have another way. Tap Engle on the head and boost his unconscious body in to drown. But in any case, fold those brown ringers around that silver dollar of Bowman's. Sure, they had to have a fall guy from somewhere and I'd been elected. But I had one advantage. Toland was still in doubt; I was sure it was murder and it would give me a head start.

  My cigarette was burning low. I dropped it on the concrete, stepped on it, and went back inside. In a drawer I found some paper and a pencil. I laid out six sheets and wrote a name on the top of each. Dan Pilcher, Mrs. Pilcher, Dr. Cronk, Elsa Doyle, Sandy Engle, and Kate Weston. I thought about the two servants, then decided against including their names. The
re was going to be little enough I could find out about the others and if the Philippino or his wife were trying to get rid of George Engle—well, I could add a couple of slips if anything in the way of evidence came up. The pressing need of the moment was to get something worth while on the

  six I had. One by one I dropped them on the bed. Kate. Kate, the only one for which I had a single item. Kate Weston had felt that something was wrong. She had brought me up here to help her find out about Sandy Engle.

  Or maybe to be an alibi.

  I folded the sheets together and went back down to the Engle living room, my mind made up that one of the six was going to have to be promoted. Marty Bowman didn't enjoy being the number one candidate and as of the moment that's exactly what he was.

  I breezed into the living room to the babble of half a dozen voices but as soon as they saw me the room quieted down. It happens to everyone at some time or another and there are several ways to handle a situation like that. I stood there and waited for someone to come to life and suddenly three or four of them started talking at once. I put on my best grin and walked toward the fireplace.

  "Let's talk about it, people," I said. "What's the beef?"

  "Some of our friends were pointing out that no one actually saw you bring George out of the pool, Marty. We've been having a small hassel," Kate said.

  I looked around and felt for my smokes. "True enough. So where does that lead? I'm willing to listen. Someone have an idea?"

  Pilcher opened his fat face, then changed his mind and looked away. His wife blurted out, "You said he was diving when you went for a sandwich, Mr. Bowman. How do we know that you didn't knock him unconscious and push him into the water?"

  "A good question. And how do I know that one of you didn't tap George on the head and do the same? The row of cypress is only a few feet from the pool on one side, remember. There is a good half hour unaccounted for, and any one of you could have been stand-

  ing behind those trees when I left Engle to his dives."

  Dr. Cronk shifted in his chair and pointed a thick ringer at me. "But you, Mr. Bowman, insisted on artificial respiraton. A lot of it, even after competent medical judgment pronounced George dead. Could it be that you were hiding something?"

  "What can you hide with artificial respiration?"

  "Plenty, Bowman. For one thing, any little bits of skin or a few hairs or such that they might find on Engle, and trace to you would now be explained. You worked on him."

  "Well, I guess—"

  "And another thing. Suppose you did strangle him or jam a knee into his stomach or any one of a number of things. The marks would be gone. Over forty minutes you pushed him back and forth down there on the grass. Any tell-tale redness in the solar plexus, bruises along the neck, marks of violence of any kind would be lost in the shuffle. Very cleverly obliterated, Bowman." Cronk sat back in his chair and gave me a "let's-see-you-wiggle-out-of-that" glare as he applied a fresh handkerchief to the lenses of his glasses.

  "You forget," Kate said firmly, "that a motive is lacking."

  "As it is for all of us, my dear," Mrs. Pilcher put in sweetly.

  "Hell, yes," Pilcher grunted. "None of us had any reason to do George in."

  I didn't have an answer ready for Doc Cronk but I could silence our fat friend Pilcher. I gave him an innocent grin and said, "Hell of a note, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "Nobody's got a motive. We just come up here to smell the sagebrush. Or at least some of us do. Remember?"

  That cooled his coffee. He'd said too much down in

  front of the cafe earlier in the day, made it clear he was coming up here against his will. He didn't particularly enjoy my tossing his words back at him. I stared hard at him and he looked away. I wondered what he'd shell out to have those words back again.

  It occurred to me that one member of the wake hadn't said anything yet and I looked across at the redhead. The quiet type tonight. She certainly had her moods. I made a mental tabulation of them. She'd been reticent when George Engle introduced her and plugged her career. I'd had her for a bridge partner earlier during the evening and you couldn't ask for a more cool or clever player—she'd stuck strictly to the percentages and we'd come out on the long side of the ledger. Then a full scale color production when the sheriff took her history. Now she was sitting back to listen while we harped at one another.

  You could safely say that Elsa Doyle had a lot more sense then most good young starlets are supposed to possess. I was working on a way to drag her into our huddle when Toland came into the room.

  "The coroner's taking Engle down for an autopsy. We'll call in the morning and it would help if one of you will sort of prepare Mrs. Engle so she'll be able to tell us whom she wants to handle the rites.

  "So far we're going to say he drowned when a heart attack caught him in the pool. Strictly tentative. All of you have said you're here for the weekend, so I won't have to make you stay. It might look bad, though, if after planning to be here a couple of days you suddenly remember pressing business in the city. You get my point?"

  He drew several nods and no objections. "Good. I'm glad you're cooperating. And I have one more detail. If no one has anything against it, I'd like to take prints.

  When I phoned I had Ed—he's doing the coroner work for us this year—stop by my office and bring the works. So if you'll let me have your fingers here for a second—"

  Toland had plenty of brains behind that weather-beaten face of his. He'd gone ahead on the assumption that no one would object and he hadn't exactly given anyone a chance to refuse. Twenty minutes later he said good night, reminded us that he hoped we'd all be a-round in the morning, and let himself out. There wasn't any good reason for starting the bickering over again. I had a few ideas myself, but there would be time enough later to go into the Pilcher-Cronk friendship. Instead I thought about the doctor and his quick and final judgment on Engle, and most of all I thought about the things he didn't do.

  Those summers in the lifeguard tower, again. You pull someone out and go to work, but the call is sent and in short order you get equipment and a doctor on the scene. And he doesn't grab someone's wrist and say let's go home. Not by a long shot. You get activity, but good. From Cronk we got a performance that a first class boy scout would have been ashamed of. I rubbed my chin and thought about that a while, and then I looked at Kate.

  "Let's get some air, shall we?" She stood up, but before I turned away I said to Cronk, "I hear there's a good moonlight view of the valley from one of these paths. Place called McBurney's point. You know where it is, Doc?"

  "No."

  That was short and final but I gave it one more boost. "I thought maybe being up here before you might be familiar with it. Doesn't it strike a chord?"

  "No. Never heard of it and I'm certainly not going in search of it tonight, Bowman."

  I nodded to Kate and we went toward the door. Bright moonlight falling on the hillside flooded the grounds and lit the concrete walk leading toward the plunge. We stopped some distance away and watched the gardener at work, and I glanced at my watch.

  "Two o'clock, Kate. I guess you could say the staff here is well trained." She looked up at me and we went on toward the pool. It was empty now, and the Philippine, working in sneakers and faded denims was hosing down the bottom. A hazy vapor drifted up from the stream of water playing over blue tile and the film of brown melted away, swirled through the big stainless steel drainage grill and disappeared. We watched until he turned off the hose and went down the path to close the drain valve. A fresh supply of water began to splash into the clean pool. Kate took my arm and we walked on again.

  "Marty, what do you think? I mean do you think George really had a heart attack?"

  "Who can say?"

  "In a way it looks bad. I went to the Gregory Agency and hired someone to come up here, and now George is dead. I know it would almost seem that I knew what was going to happen, but actually—"

  "Sure," I said, and manag
ed a reassuring pressure on her arm linked through mine.

  After a while she said almost hesitantly, "Marty— did it appear to you that Dr. Cronk didn't really want to do anything for George? You tried, at least, but—"

  "I know how it looks, Kate. But maybe the real reason Cronk didn't do something wasn't that he didn't want to."

  "And?"

  "The collection of people around this place puts a strain on your imagination, Kate. At least two of them

  are as phoney as a lead life preserver."

  "Cronk?" she asked.

  "I don't know what his name is," I said slowly, "but if he's a doctor I'm Esther Williams. I'm sure that one of the reasons he didn't do anything for George is that he didn't know what to do. No shot for the heart. No attempt even to see if George was breathing. He didn't even seem to know that all accidental deaths have to be reported." I stopped and faced her. "And one more thing. McBurney's point went over his head like a full moon. Didn't register. But any first-year medical student would have tumbled to that one. In fact you don't have to study medicine. There must be a million people who have had their apendixes chopped out and most of them would remember McBurney's point. It isn't out here; it's on your tummy. Between the hip bone and the navel on the right side. It's the place they press when they're deciding whether or not you're a candidate for an incision. Like to see my operation?"

  "You think—"

  "I don't know what I think—except that Cronk is not a doctor. Now why he should pose as one up here is hard to say. Maybe the answer to that would simplify things a little."

  We started walking again, not saying anything for a few yards. Then she asked quietly, "You said there were two phonies—who's the other?"

  "Me," I said miserably. "I'm not a detective. You're stuck with something left over from amateur night, Kate. The details I handed to Toland are the McCoy. I'm a beach boy or a life guard or a drifter from pool to pool or whatever you want to call me but as a detective, this is my first time out."