And kill once more (12 page)

I saw a leer working its way across Pilcher's face. He shifted his toothpick with his tongue and asked, "How big a present, Miss Doyle?" Toland frowned at Pilcher but the redhead didn't need his protection.

"Considerably less than a call girl rate would buy," she said evenly. "And you should see a doctor about those thoughts you're having—a good one, not a Hollywood specialist."

Pilcher turned a deep pink and bit a little harder on

his toothpick as Toland absorbed Elsa's information. When he had, he mentioned that he'd have a word with Mrs. Engie, and that he'd see us later. He waved an arm and started toward the house. -

Twenty minutes later I lay on the bed in my room and idly shuffled the six slips of paper with the names I'd written last night. I stood one step ahead of Toland; he had. seven because his list would include Marty Bowman, and I had to admit to myself that some of the others were making out better than I at the moment. Still, I knew I hadn't done it.

I shuffled the slips again, then crumpled one and dropped it into the waste basket. Mrs. Pilcher just wasn't clever enough, intense enough, or anything else enough to kill George Engle. I was sure she wouldn't figure very strongly in anything more dire than a P.T.A. installation of officers, and if Danny boy had a finger in this pie it was neither with her knowledge nor her help. It had to be that way.

So there were five. Three beautiful Jills and a pair of overweight Jacks. A full house and one card was willing and able to commit murder if the motive was strong enough. Had already turned the trick, in fact. I smoked in silence and tried to see in and around and under those five people, but there wasn't a single loose end to get a grip on.

The cigarette warmed my fingers and I lit a fresh one from its ember, then ground out the butt. A slow onceover of Elsa's pitch to Toland helped a little. It could have been one hundred per cent opportunism, capitalizing on given facts and building herself into the framework that was already at hand. Toland's observation that she had really added nothing to what Kate had given was well taken—Els a may simply have carved a spot for herself out of the fact that Sandy was strictly confined to the campus. When she pointed out that George

Engle was providing company for a shut-in wife, she had come up with the most logical deduction of the day.

But why would a man pick this assortment of odd-balls for his weekend guests? Why, besides the cash he could have asked them to drop off at his L.A. office, did Engle invite Cronk? And why Pilcher? Doyle I could understand, and Kate too, assuming she was kidding a little and George was putting the bite on her, but Cronk and Pilcher? Where was this circle of friends the Engles once chased around with down in the city? Where indeed? Who had decided that of them all, only Kate Weston should share the hideaway in the hills overlooking the desert? I kept sliding the facts around and trying to arrange them into some sort of pattern, and when my smoke burned low I ground it against the side of an ashtray, dropped the stub on top of the pile already there, and went toward the door. Before I got my hand on the knob a set of hard knuckles rapped firmly on the wood. When I opened up I was looking at Sheriff Toland.

"Come in," I said, and stepped back. I gestured to a chair, then closed the door and parked on the bed. "You look like a man with something on his mind."

"Not much, Bowman. A very modest amount, to be quite truthful. One buck."

"Oh?"

"Just called my office and the report has come in on that coin Engle had in his hand. A silver dollar, Bowman, with your prints showing through. And don't tell me you and Engle were matching money by that pool at midnight. You can do better than that, I hope. At least, you'd better try."

I tried to grin, then decided there wasn't going to be any way other than telling him the truth. I told him about flipping the buck to decide on a swim before hitting the sack—about going out and all the rest, and then about how I came up here to get into some clothes after Engle

was dead and found the dollar missing. We stepped out onto the walk leading around the building on the side next to the hill and I pointed out how someone might have slipped in and picked up the coin. I gave it everything I had, but Toland didn't seem too inclined to buy it, a fact which was more than understandable. When I finished he nodded toward the door and we went back inside.

"Sure, you're wondering why I didn't dash down there and tell you about losing the dollar," I said seriously, "but put yourself in my place for—"

"I'd hate to do that at the moment, son," Toland said grimly.

"You're picking a hell of a time to be funny, Sheriff," I said sharply. "Let's think about last night. There I was — I'd pulled Engle out of the pool, I'd given him artificial respiration against what we then assumed to be a doctor's advice that he was past help. Moreover, Pilcher and Cronk had lined up against me solidly—had me just about under and I was looking for a way to get my head above water. How could I add to my own troubles by shouting that the thing you found in George Engle's fist was mine? Would you have?"

Toland tried for humor again. "We're not concerned with what I'd have done, lad. I'm about the only one here who has a reasonably good alibi for the time Engle was killed. I was down in Newhail."

"You cheer me, Sheriff," I said without smiling. "If I ever have to organize a minstrel show I'll hire you for an end man."

"Uh-huh. You just let me know what night son, and I'll try to make it. Quite a drive—all the way up to San Quen-tin, which is where it looks like you'll be. But I'll see what I can do because I wouldn't want to let you down—even then."

"Damn it, Sheriff!" I raged. "You're—" and then the

heat left me, because he was getting through to me now. He'd set out to tilt me a little and he almost made it. I'd been working up to quite a temperature but now I caught the pitch. I gave him a long look, then flicked a thumb toward a chair and flopped out on my bed.

"You've had it, Toland," I said matter-of-factly. "There isn't anything I can add. If you've got any more questions, fire away. If not I'll get a wink or two. The siesta, you'll remember, is an old California custom and I'm strictly a local boy."

Toland glanced at the chair I'd indicated but he didn't sit down. Instead he put a heavy hand on the door, then adjusted his hat. "All right, Bowman. We'll let that do for the present. I'll be running down to Newhall for a while —want to check a few things and get some reports cleared up—but like I mentioned to the others, it wouldn't be a good idea for you to decide to leave here in a hurry. It wouldn't be healthy if Bob Widdle was to hear a car easing down the road—and he'll hear, because they found a room for him over near the garage side of the place. You get the point?"

I said, "Stop trying to put ideas into my head."

"Be either tonight or in the morning when I get back up here, and maybe by then I can pinpoint things and get this over with."

"Take your time." I grinned. "I'm comfortable—and getting paid, remember?" I reached for a magazine on the night stand, then looked up again. "What did the Engle woman say about not getting away from here for the last two years, Sheriff?"

Toland laughed. "I wouldn't want to disturb your siesta, Bowman. See you later today or maybe tomorrow." The door closed after him. I listened to his measured footfalls, then dropped the magazine on the floor and stood up, eased out the back way, and padded over to

Kate's door. I tapped softly, then stepped across the threshold as she swung the door open.

"Hello, Marty." She smiled, but it was definitely not a gay affair. I looked past her and saw Sandy Engle sitting on the white bedspread, her legs drawn up under her, and her white pleated skirt spread over most of her pale legs. Black patent-leather pumps lay on the floor near the bed. I nodded to her and noticed signs of recent tears in her face.

"Could we include one more?" Kate asked, looking at Sandy. "I'm sure Marty wouldn't worry about—about anything." I glanced at Kate, and back at Sandy. She searched my face for several seconds, then lowered her eyes.

"Go ahead. It's all right, I guess."

"Now wait a second," I said good-naturedly, "I didn't mean to break in on anything. I'll just—" I was backing toward the door but Kate slipped a hand into mine and gave it a quick pressure.

"No. I want to tell you about Sandy because maybe you'll have an idea or two. Toland knows. None of the others, though, because the sheriff was afraid they would all seize it as an excuse to demand that he let them go immediately."

"Seize what as an excuse?" I asked softly.

Kate sat down on a small studio couch along the wall and I parked next to her. "A lot of things have cleared up in the last few minutes," she said quietly. "The reason Sandy hasn't left here in two years is simple—and unfortunate. In fact George built this home for her—two years ago, when a routine medical check-up showed a positive chest X-ray."

I leaned back against the wall and let a slow, low whistle escape. "How bad, Sandy?" I asked. "What's the present situation?"

"Two spots. One large and one quite small. I've had regular checks since and there doesn't seem to be any change, no activity since we came up to the high desert air. I hope you won't think I've been heartless—exposing people to something like this but—"

"Now, wait." I grinned. "We're not going to worry over that. The average person doesn't think about it often, but every time you get on a crowded bus you can count noses and bet that several of those present have at one time had a spot or two. Inactive, sure, but the scar tissue will still show up on an X-ray. Actually, I understand that the chances of passing it aren't too great if reasonable care is taken. All of us have been exposed to active cases at one time or another, of course, and—"

"I know," Sandy said miserably, "but it wasn't a nice thing to think about. When we found—this condition, George and I went down and discussed what to do and how treatment is handled with the doctor. I couldn't face those months, maybe years in a sanitarium, Marty. It almost seemed better to live in town and settle for a shorter time, than go into isolation like that. Then George decided to build here and see if it would help. He sent me to a place for a few weeks and spent a fortune getting immediate construction underway up here. And we didn't tell anyone. George invited people from time to time, but always someone from his business, I thought. I mean I had no idea that his clients were—"

"And then?" I put in, hoping to keep her away from an attack of the weeps over the blackmail business.

"Well, he had these friends come up and we played bridge and sat around the pool, but I didn't get close enough to any of them to—hurt anybody."

"Except George. He wasn't worried?"

"No—he loved me, Marty. A very great deal, I guess, to do what he did. And I let Kate come up. George said that was all right. 'Just the two of us,' he'd say, 'the

ones who love you enough not to feel worried—' and that's the way it was. Kate was so healthy and I made certain that I didn't touch her or—"

"Sure," I said.

"You poor dear," Kate said softly. "Of course it didn't matter. You must have felt pretty much left out of things, staying up here alone."

"But I was careful. Please believe me, Kate. I let those friends of George visit us, and you, but—"

"I know," Kate said softly. "You didn't even use the pool except after everyone else had finished."

"Yes. Sometimes at night, just before the water was changed, I'd take a dip. George didn't worry about it; he went in with me, but we never used the pool except at those times. And of course I did very little of that. No violent exercise, you see. I have to conserve all of my energy, the doctor said, and not exert myself."

For one brief moment an idea skittered across the surface of my mind. "Did our friend Cronk do your X-ray work?" I asked quickly. And almost before I finished asking I knew that the facts wouldn't fit—couldn't possibly be consistent.

"No. It was a Hollywood place, Marty. Why?"

"Nothing, I guess. Just an idea that didn't jell." But I kept trying to rework the thing, make a case out of it, because some little facet I couldn't quite put a finger on was beginning to bother me. "You've had X-rays since then, you say? They show no advance?"

"None. The threat is there—always over my head— but I've taken excellent care of myself and George looked after me. I've taken it easy, extremely easy, and the only times I've left here were every three months for a short ride to Newhall. As soon as I was through with the X-ray we came back up here."

"Yeah," I said softly. "You've followed the rest and relaxation routine all right. For sure."

We talked along, and I gave the whole thing a light treatment, tried to keep it on the level of something not the least bit important. By the time I left, Sandy Engle was in a reasonably comfortable frame of mind and at the door Kate flashed me a look of appreciation. "See you later, Marty," she said. "We could take a dip in the pool if you like."

"Sure," I said. "After siesta." Then I went back to my own room but I had no idea of corking off. Instead I wanted to lean back with a cigarette in my hand and blow smoke rings at the ceiling and work over the new information. No, Sandy wasn't being kept up here. She was a victim of something any one of us could stumble into, only George Engle had the dough and enough love for his wife to make things as painless as possible.

But that called for a measure of kindness in Engle, a compassion which was singularly lacking as far as the rest of mankind was concerned. It could be that Engle had focused his love a trifle more than most men do, put it all in one basket and to hell with the rest of the world. I wondered about that too, as I opened the door of my own room and let myself in, then stopped short.

Elsa Doyle was sitting on the arm of an empty chair.

Twelve

Very carefully, I closed the door behind me.

"Hello," I said softly. I'd have liked to come up with something sharp, but I couldn't seem to manage it. She'd decked out for the occasion, a set of sheer nylons, spike heels, and a strapless deal in chartreuse that didn't leave you with the least doubts about what was holding it up. She lounged lazily across the arm of the overstuffed, a cigarette carelessly held in the fingers of her left hand as she looked up at me. She put the smoke to her lips and took a long and deliberate drag, then blew the white cloud to one side.