Murder Queen High (6 page)

“That’s young Conover,” hissed Mr. Trim.

“Of course,” said Thelma Loomis exasperatedly.

The girl patted the yellow tiles beside her and Conover sat down awkwardly, folding his legs beneath him.

Robottom surfaced and blew out water. He looked for applause from the girl. Then he saw the man with whom she was engaged in fascinated conversation. The expression on his face was impossible to catalogue.

John Henry had no more than determined how to pursue his course of clever questioning when Miss Jordan said matter-of-factly, “I suppose you’re here to find out how I got your cottage.”

“Uh-well — no,” he managed.

“Oh, sure you are,” Miss Jordan told him confidently. “Your wife probably sent you.”

“That’s not true. In fact, she — ”

The girl’s round eyes brightened still more and she leaned a smooth shoulder closer to him. “Why, Mr. Conover!” her voice caressed his ear. Conover’s stomach tingled. He felt as if he could warm his hands at her purple eyes.

He glanced around hurriedly. Sin wasn’t in sight. A muscular middle-aged man was flailing up and down the pool, apparently disgruntled over something. And at a table on the other side, Mr. Trim and the fan magazine writer had developed sudden interest in the Sunday comic section.

“Now, Miss Jordan — ” John Henry edged away from the white knit hip.

“Call me Faye.”

“Now, Miss Faye — ”

“Faye! With an ‘e’ like in ‘easy.’”

“Now, Faye, with — ”

“You’re improving — Johnny.”

“Now — ” said John Henry and forgot what it was. The girl had slid along the yellow tile so that her bare knee nudged his leg. He couldn’t retreat any farther without falling into the pool or actually getting up.

John Henry started to give the whole thing up when he saw the card tucked into the waistband of her swim suit. Too large for a calling card, it evidently had some engraved letters on the side that was against her flesh. At least, the engraving had dented through onto the blank side in places. What was she doing carrying the card around in her bathing suit?

“Let’s talk,” he suggested, torn between retreat and curiosity.

“Intimately,” Faye amended. “You start.”

“No — let’s talk about you.”

“All right. Do you know why I think you’re cute?”

“No — ”

“It’s because you give a virile impression, as though you could — ”

“I mean — no, let’s you tell me about yourself.” The fingers with which John Henry intended to steal the card from between her bathing suit and her stomach were turning hot and cold alternately. He fiddled casually with a belt loop on his trousers, wishing his hand wouldn’t perspire so.

Faye put her crimson lower lip out. ‘Oh, you didn’t want to see me at all! You’re just trying to pump me, squeeze me dry and throw me away. If you don’t build me up, I’ll go talk to that cute boy in the pool.”

She turned her head toward the white-haired swimmer for a second and John Henry saw his chance. He streaked his hand for the mysterious card. And she turned back.

“Oh, don’t!” he murmured desperately and dropped his hand. Faye stopped pouting and her small full mouth curved into a wise smile. “I wouldn’t think of it now,” she giggled.

John Henry had dropped his unsuccessful hand on something warm and firm; he suddenly realized it was her bare leg. He drew back his fingers as from a hot iron. Faye put her face up close and whispered, “Are you a policeman?”

He didn’t see any connection immediately. “Is that the way — ”

“I’ll bet you think I had something to do with the murder.”

“What murder?” He had her now. John Henry breathed deeply, trying to discern the odor of spilled peppermint. All he smelled was overpowering jasmine which made him sneeze.

“You know what murder, Johnny. It was in the paper this morning.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten about the newspapers.

“Do you think I did?”

“Well, did you?”

Faye Jordan shook her black braids disconsolately. “I wish I had. Nobody ever thinks I’m criminal. It’s not exciting. Nothing’s exciting.” Her eyes strayed down to the end of the pool where the athletic man was resting, his brown arms flattened across the tile, the bulk of his body still submerged.

John Henry considered the engraved card again and was baffled. It had slipped down inside her white knit trunks. He said suddenly, “Why did you insist on changing cottages with us, Faye?”

Her wide-eyed stare was innocent. Conover sought in vain for deception behind the purple eyes. “I didn’t, Johnny.”

John Henry pounced. “Mr. Gayner said you did.”

Faye rubbed the back of her fist against her chin reproachfully. “You don’t trust me.” Her generous lip trembled.

“Sure, I trust you, Faye. We — no, I just wondered — and then Gayner said — ”

“Johnny,” she crooned throatily, “I don’t care what cottage I have. I can sleep anywhere. But that Mr. Gayner insisted that I move to Cottage 15.”

“Oh-ho!” John Henry said. He heard a sniff from the direction of her turned-up nose, so he patted her shoulder paternally. “That’s okay. I believe you, Faye.”

She sniffed more happily and stretched her figure toward him as if she expected to be stroked. Her hand rubbed her hip about where John Henry estimated the card had slipped to. “I’m impressed,” Faye whispered. “I’ll bet we’ll be as close as friends can get — darling.”

John Henry gulped.

Sin clenched her fists hard. She said to herself: now look here, St. Clair, you are not — positively not — going to lose your temper. Across the pool, Miss Jordan was smiling sleepily up at John Henry’s attentive face. Sin closed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth. Now look here, she began again.

But she was on fire, from the dark red page-boy down to the crimson toenails that peeked out of her suede sandals. I don’t look so bad, either, she thought. In fact, I look darn good. She was wearing the filmy white blouse that her husband liked — “you know, Sin, one of the ones you can see through” — and the full peasant skirt. The ensemble chopped at least five years off her age and made her look a saucy eighteen again. Anyway, not like a cast-aside wife of three year’s standing.

She speared another angry glance at the couple across the pool. John Henry was helping the Jordan girl to her feet. Her husband flashed a guilty look at Sin and then the brunette seized his hand gaily and started to drag him along the jagged path toward the guest cottages. Sin’s lips pressed out flat in a thin red line and she clenched her fists.

The reluctant Conover was pulled out of sight between screening palms. A few paces away, Thelma Loomis and Mr. Trim were nodding and talking — probably about John Henry. Sin flushed at the thought.

Two brawny hands appeared on the tile bank at her feet. Sin moved out of the way to let the swimmer hoist himself from the pool. She kept going, her mind made up. Fists still clenched, Sin marched determinedly after her husband.

On the other side of the palm trees, she felt the grip on her elbow, a cold wet hand. Sin shied away, startled.

A toneless voice said, “We had better have a talk.”

Towering over her was the swimmer who had climbed from the pool at her feet. His short hair stood up in wet silver barbs. Water still trickled down his lean hard face and over the wiry muscles of his darkly tanned body. Only the girdle of muscle around the waist was beginning to soften into middle-aged heaviness.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Sin said. Annoyance began to weave into her surprise. “I have to catch my husband before he — ”

Iron fingers tightened on her elbow. “Talk first,” the man said flatly. “One short warning before it’s too late.” His voice didn’t match the vibrancy, the keen aliveness of the rest of him. The words came from between his white even teeth with scholarly precision. But his factual intonation made them colorless words, dead words.

The damp hand urged her off the main path onto a shady graveled way. “Who are you?” said Sin faintly. Jealousy of the seductive Faye Jordan had vanished. The cold tight hand on her elbow spread by implication to the rest of her body.

“A person who permits no interference,” was the man’s answer. “I’ll make you see the reason of that.” Sin found herself trotting to keep up with his long strides. They were headed for a huge brick and screen building that loomed through the tropical foliage. She thought of screaming just as he stopped.

“Call for help all the help you like,” the white-haired man intoned. “No one will notice another noise from this direction.” He folded his arms and his hawklike mask was intent, fierce.

They stood before the building. Its four corner pillars were bare adobe bricks. The rest was wire mesh that curved up until it seemed to melt into the bright sky.

Inside the aviary, hordes of bright-winged birds darted and soared in whirlwinds of color, enraged at the disturbing visitors. They flapped and cawed and screamed piercingly, flooding the air with outcry. It was inhuman noise, full of jungle menace.

“Pretend to watch the birds.” The flat voice pushed the command into Sin’s consciousness. He had released her elbow so Sin leaned weakly against the heavy wire screen. A white shape appeared by her head and long claws on wrinkled pink fingers reached through the mesh.

Sin jumped back, face gray. Her captor laughed and the sound was as toneless as his words. He slapped a big hand against the screen and the cockatoo glided away with a raucous screech.

“He merely wanted to be fed,” said the man. “Inside that cage, the birds are confined in a shrunken world. They can’t get away from one another. They constantly struggle for survival. The strongest win — at any price.”

Rick-blossomed trees pressed in from every side. Sunlight through the leaves cast an odd pattern of black and gold over the dripping half-naked man. The din was tremendous. Sin bowed her head and put her hands over her ears. “Let me go,” she begged.

Stronger hands pulled them away again. “Listen to me. My name is Sagmon Robottom.”

The name didn’t mean anything to her. “Let me go,” Sin said again. Shaking her head didn’t lessen the clamor in her ears.

“My business permits me no respect for feelings,” Robottom said. “I get what I seek. I’ve robbed graves and rifled tombs to do my duty — immortalize the dead. I want you to recognize how strongly I feel about this entire affair.”

Within the aviary, a new voice rasped. “Time’s up! Time’s up!”

Sin whirled. A black-and-white bird like a large and ugly crow was sitting in a swing. It cocked its head at her. A flock of green and blood-red parakeets whirled by, making her vision swim.

“ — not going to hurt you,” the toneless voice was saying.

“We haven’t done anything,” Sin said, trying to understand, trying to make the man before her understand. “Why should we be — ”

Robottom cut her off with a savage gesture. “Neither you nor your husband will be hurt,” he said. Then he added, “If.”

The black-and-white bird shrieked, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Time’s up!”

“If what?” Sin quavered.

“If you forget all about this Jones business and go home where you belong.”

Sin backed way, trying to remember who else had mentioned Jones recently. Robottom’s long arm came out, shedding droplets of water. His hand closed over her shoulder.

“You’re hurting me,” Sin protested.

The lean bronzed face came closer. “I’m doing you a service, Mrs. Conover. This race is for the strong. The winner will be strong. Follow that reasoning through and you’ll see you have no chance of winning. Stay out of this, Mrs. Conover.”

“Goodbye! Time’s up!” the bird rasped and made a whirring sound.

Robottom took his hand away. “Apply that logic,” he ordered. “No more Joneses. No more Conovers in Azure. Can I depend upon you to take that message to your husband? Stay away from here and stay away from things which aren’t your business. Briefly, Mrs. Conover — stay away from
her!”

Sin nodded automatically, blindly obeying the hard gray eyes. She started to say, “Who is — ”

Feet crunched in the shady gravel path behind them. Robottom stepped to where he could get a clear view. He left a muddy spot where he had been standing.

He turned back to the aviary, a new mask of dignity replacing the menace. Sin caught a glimpse of Thelma Loomis and Mr. Trim strolling toward the giant cage.

“That is an astonishing specimen,” said Robottom and his voice seemed better suited for a lecture. “The Indian hill macaw. His vocal prowess — ”

Sin left him, slipping down the nearest tunnel between the trees. The leaf-filtered sunlight, the half-human screams of the birds, the suave threatening of the trunk-clad man, had created a cold unreasoning well of fear. For that brief time, their solitude had been the jungle of another age. She had to get out into the open sun and find John Henry and leave this horrible place.

Somewhere behind her, the macaw screeched, “Time’s up! Goodbye!”

It wasn’t until she reached the sunken patio that she realized she was running as if pursued by demons.

THE ROAD was bumpy even in her convertible Mercury. John Henry conned the girl’s profile against the speeding desert. Almost classic, if you liked a nose that regally turned up a little. Then he reached the conclusion that her chin curved toward the delicate throat too soon. It didn’t balance the forehead which arced up to her ebony braids. Faye ruined his analysis with a boudoir smile.

“We’re almost there now, Johnny.”

“Good. Where?” She lowered her lashes enigmatically. John Henry couldn’t get an answer for that particular question. Back at the pool, Faye had suddenly told him he would be interested in seeing a fascinating place — a secret place. Curious, but inwardly hesitant, he had allowed himself to be carried away from the Las Dunas, through Azure and out across the rolling plains to the south. A mile or so back, Faye had wheeled the Mercury off on a dirt road, still holding to a speed that made the conservative John Henry shudder.

The sun was midway to the meridian. Already the day promised to be hot. Heat waves were beginning to shimmer up from the mesquite and sagebrush-matted hillocks, dotted with yucca and an occasional tamarack tree. The road, though twisting and turning, hugged the Santa Rosa foothills.

Faye had changed her bathing suit for a play dress, pink with a faint horizontal white stripe, full skirt, low-backed and with a bare midriff. The exposed stomach bothered John Henry some; it always did in a street length dress.

What bothered him more was the card. He could see the white edge of its stiff cardboard protruding from the skirt pocket on her left thigh. Why did she carry it in everything she wore? But he wasn’t going to try for it again — not right away. It was all John Henry could do to stay on his own side of the car, the gay way she took the hairpin curves.

“Why don’t you slow down a little,” he suggested tentatively.

“Don’t you like going fast?”

“What’s the big hurry?”

“What’s life? What’s death?” Faye asked rhetorically, her eyes immense. “They answer themselves —
what?
The hurry is a matter of life and death. You have to keep ahead of time for excitement. Don’t you ever read books?”

“I guess I haven’t been getting enough out of them.”

The Mercury leaped ahead faster than ever and Faye laughed exultingly. John Henry hunched down in the red-leather seat. Sin had been right. He should have taken her advice. It would be tough on her when she heard.

He hoped they’d have sense enough to break it to Sin gently.

“There it is,” Faye announced happily and John Henry realized he had his eyes shut. He opened them now.

The Mercury had topped a slight rise in the desert and was rolling headlong down the incline on the other side toward a barbed-wire fence which vaulted the road in the form of a log archway. The swinging sign spelled out Bar C Ranch in twigs. Beyond the fence, man’s dissatisfied hand showed. The mesquite, sagebrush and greasewood had been banished. In their place sprouted feathery green tamarisk trees, rows of pink and white oleanders and, of course, the omnipresent palms. An attempt to maintain grass had met with only mixed success.

A hundred yards back from the archway rested the bulk of the large house. It was low and rambling, devoted more to length and breadth than to height. Wings sprang forth haphazardly to the right and the left. Much of the frontage was taken up by a long porch, shaded by a continuation of the shingled, slightly sloping roof. The ranch house was evidently constructed of adobe, plastered with a beige stucco. It had been deliberately aged in spots by allowing the adobe bricks to peep through. The pseudo-western air had been carried through with heavy beams which supported the roof and with wooden shutters on the windows. But behind these shutters, John Henry could see shiny metal Venetian blinds.

“Isn’t it darling!” Faye breathed as she forced the Mercury to a jarring stop. “Oh, I guess I’m supposed to park over there.” The car lunged again, pursuing the circular gravel driveway to a small parking lot. The lot was already occupied by a silent herd of automobiles.

When they made their last vibrating halt, John Henry clamped a decisive hand on the girl’s wrist. “Now, before we go any farther — ”

“Now you’re talking!” purred Faye. She got up on her hands and knees on the seat cushions and thrust out her face toward him.

John Henry sank behind a determined shoulder and said, “None of that. Just what is this place and what are we doing here? What’s so secret about a dude ranch?”

“You’re so pent-up,” she sighed and reached across him to open his door. Then she crawled over his lap and slid to the ground. “It’s no dude ranch,” she added.

Dubiously, Conover followed her. Faye Jordan had the mysterious card palmed in one hand now.

Within the semicircle of the driveway, a lavish flower bed had been established and rust-gold poppies spelled out the name of the ranch in capital letters. As they crunched through the gravel to the big front door, John Henry noticed that bridles and branding irons hung from the huge supporting timbers of the porch. A weathered broken wagon wheel leaned theatrically against the low cement and tile porch. Off to one side a hitching rail now tethered, not horses, but a gleaming chrome-plated racing bicycle. Faye banged at the door with the heavy brass knocker.

“Are they expecting you?” Conover asked.

“That’s no fun.” The latch rattled and the door swung open smoothly, revealing dim cool reaches beyond. A battered face peered at them from the gloom. Crushed lips grated, “Won’t you come in?”

Faye stepped blithely forward and John Henry followed. He squinted in the reception hall, his eyes accustoming themselves to the murkiness. The man who had opened the door teetered on squeaky patent leather shoes. He was dressed in a black double-breasted suit with a black bow tie. There was a lot of him. John Henry’s reaction was: what a well-groomed ape.

“Are we late?” Faye asked him, admiring his barrel chest.

The man bowed his square head and said, “Never.” John Henry realized he was either butler, bouncer or guard. Possibly all three. “Your card, madame?”

Faye flipped her fingers and the husky man caught the card deftly. John Henry had his chance to see it — and he was disappointed. The drop of his stomach let him know his self-appointed investigation had been based on pretty flimsy grounds.

For the card bore no queen symbol. Whorls and lines of patterned engraving followed the edge like those on a bond or a bank note. In the center was simply a straight black line followed by a large C.

“Certainly,” the butler said rustily. “You will forgive these precautions — ” his pin-point eyes cased the pair “ — but they have been found to be necessary. My name is Sidney, madame.”

“I’m Miss Jordan, Sidney. And this is Mr. Conover.”

Sidney bowed again and waved them farther into the dimness. He walked silently behind them down the long hall. It got darker and darker.

“Can you see?” Faye whispered excitedly.

“Of course not.”

“I can,” she boasted.

Along the gloomy hall on each side were irregularly spaced recesses with impressive round-topped doors. Only one of them was open and Sidney pulled it to swiftly as he passed it. But John Henry had gotten a peek inside. It seemed merely a sumptuous living room with low-slung furniture and a carpet as thick as the one they trod. The room was empty.

“If you please,” said Sidney. Conover stopped short and the butler stepped ahead of him. It was the end of the lengthy corridor and there was nothing there but a heavy drape.

Sidney pulled the material aside and beneath it was another of the large curved doorways. John Henry rubbed his ear. The music had sneaked up on him. Beyond the door that Sidney was opening, a band was playing furiously, brassily.

The butler brushed by him again and John Henry had the impression that quick hands had patted over his coat. Faye squealed.

The stark fluorescent light that poured down from the ceiling of the room beyond blinded him at first. Faye’s impetus sent him through the doorway and John Henry blinked around.

After the lonely gloomy entry the place was a shock. It was a big square room, low-ceilinged and almost completely functional. Occasional sporting prints on the beige stucco had been the only compromise with decoration. The complete absence of windows made the walls seem blind and faceless.

“Uh-huh,” grunted John Henry as he began to catch on. Near the door through which they had entered stood a bank of slot machines — stubby iron pillars from whose heads dials of lithographed fruit pictures peered. Opposite them were a series of chuck-a-luck tables with hour-glass cages of dice. Packed close down the center of the casino were faro and poker tables and at the far end was the long green board and dark disk of the roulette wheel.

“Isn’t this fun?” Faye bubbled at his side. “Give me some money.”

Automatically, John Henry dug a quarter out of his pocket. Though it was barely eleven o’clock, the wheel was in full spin. Men and women of all ages bordered the board. The card tables gripped another quota of gamblers, amateur and professional. Counterpointing the rhythm of the incandescent red juke box, an interminable hum of comment filled the room, punctuated by nervous laughs, the twittering of women and the monotonous drone of the croupiers.

The haze of cigarette smoke was being attacked by ceiling ventilators that sucked at it hungrily. Through the faint bright mist roved the excitement hunters, the wealthy visitors to Azure, dressed in the typical Azure garb of loafer suits, slacks and play dresses. The clothes seemed crassly out of place in a setting where tradition called for evening dress.

John Henry caught up with Faye. She was angrily shaking a slot machine a few paces away. As he looked around apprehensively for interference from the management, there sounded a violent click. Silver jangled.

“I won, Johnny!” Faye scooped a double handful of coins from the machine’s torso. “Here’s your quarter back. Yea, team!”

“Thanks,” said John Henry wryly, wishing she’d lower her voice. “Now tell me, what’s the big idea dragging me out here?”

“Aren’t you having fun? I’m having fun!” Faye tried to find more pockets on her dress as storage places for her quarters.

“I mean, how did you know about this? Where’d you get that ticket that got us in?”

“Connections,” she said and winked. “Only exclusive people like us get a magic card.” Faye was skittish with excitement as she scanned the hall for new fields to conquer. “I met a cute fellow and talked him out of his.”

She found her goal. “What we need is a drink,” Faye announced confidently. She grabbed his hand and tugged him along an aisle between tables toward the polished wood and burnished metal of the bar across the casino. John Henry protested against what he knew was a bad idea.

“It’s too early.”

“Better early than never. What if we were struck by lightning?”

John Henry dismissed that conjecture and went along. He began rehearsing an explanation for Sin.

The bar was quasi-separated from the square gambling room by an archway which cut off some of the juke-box loudness. Its only lights were the pink neon facings on the big mirror. A solitary man hunched on one of the leather-topped bar stools. The mess-jacketed bartender was polishing glasses and softly whistling the opening strains of the Orpheus in Hades Overture.

Faye banged a small fist on the bar. The whistling choked off and the bartender blinked. “Yes, madame?”

“I’m buying. What’ll you have, pardner?”

“I don’t know. You order,” said John Henry, avoiding the bartender’s accusing glance. He hoped for something light and delicate.

“Two rye. Straight,” said Faye.

Conover looked among the flushed faces of the milling gamblers in the main room. “What gets me,” he mused, “is how they do all this. It’s against the law, you know.”

“But it’s thrilling!” Faye chortled and snuggled up close, shivering.

John Henry edged away. “I’m surprised the police haven’t cracked down. Don’t tell me they don’t know this place exists.” He grunted exasperatedly and spun around to the drinks on the bar. “Just what I’ve thought since last night — they’re a bunch of crooked cops.”

He looked in the bar mirror at the eyes of Lieutenant Lay.

“Morning, Mr. Conover,” said the lanky police officer sardonically. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” He sat beside John Henry, one stool removed. Close enough, Conover realized sickeningly, to have heard every syllable.

“Morning,” he replied shamefully and seized the rye. Faye had already downed hers and was regarding Lay with interest.

She asked, “What’s your racket, stranger?”

“This is Lieutenant Lay of the Azure police, Faye,” said John Henry, digging an elbow in her ribs.

She giggled. “I like policemen. I never get a ticket.” Faye whispered confidentially and loudly to Conover, “He’s cute.”

“Well,” said John Henry nervously, “good to have seen you again, Lieutenant. Now, if you’ll excuse us — ”

“Don’t run off,” said Lay evenly and his tone made John Henry sink back onto the bar stool again. “I haven’t seen you playing out there, Mr. Conover. What could you be doing here? Here, of all places.”

“Go ahead, Johnny,” Faye urged. “Tell him.”

“It’s very simple,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“See!” Triumphantly, she downed the second shot glass of rye which the barkeep had quickly refilled. After a moment’s consideration, she also drank Conover’s fresh jiggerful.

“You wouldn’t be figuring on following up Anglin’s killing, would you?” asked Lay. He toyed with the tall glass of beer that glinted before him on the bar. The pink neon made his impassive face even more red.

John Henry’s pulse raced. “Why? Do you think this is the place for it?”

“I didn’t say that. I was just surprised to see you without your wife.”

“Oh, she’s back at the hotel.”

“Convenient,” said Lay and took a sip of beer. Speculatively, he eyed Faye Jordan, who was ogling the man behind the bar. “Most wives aren’t that understanding.”

The policeman interpreted Conover’s quick frown of worry and chuckled. The bartender refilled the two small glasses again, But when John Henry reached for his it was already empty.