And kill once more (2 page)

She met my eyes, then looked straight ahead. "First let's be sure we know what you're not expected to do. My hiring a man to go on a house party could look like something—something it definitely isn't. Let's be sure to remember that I called a detective agency and not a gigolo service, shall we?" She blew a cloud of smoke to one side and kept her eyes on the sleek hood out front. I drew on my own smoke and scratched around for an answer, then saw a small cafe coming into sight at the next bend. I braked the big car with a loss of a couple of miles of rubber, wheeled off onto the gravel parkway, stopped next to a cream and brown Pontiac hard-top, and turned off the ignition.

"Coffee stop, your ladyship," I said shortly. "And while we're getting everyone in his place let's not lose sight of one important fact. You came to us. I wasn't out nosing around for a little Miss Gotrocks." I started to get out of the car but the blonde reached over and caught my arm.

"It isn't like that, Marty. I mean it's just that—"

"You're blonde and beautiful," I cut in, my voice jumping a little. "Your chassis would put you in the front row of the chorus or set you up as a free-lance model if you had to make a living, but this wagon we're sporting around in says you don't need the dough. Which brings us to your point—you're not the type that has to hire boy friends. Now let's see about that coffee, shall we?"

"I'm sorry, Marty. It did sound cheap, I guess."

I looked hard at her and ran my hand over the soft gray leather of the big Cadillac. The idea trying to form

itself in my mind for the last half hour finally took shape and this wasn't my day to be coy.

"Kiddo," I said softly, "could this all be a gag? A lot of people with too much money and not enough amusement and one of them says, 'Why doesn't someone bring up a private eye next weekend? We'll give him something to investigate just for laughs. We'll have us a ball.' If that's the way it is, Kate, just say the word. We'll scoot back to San Fernando and pick up a double-billed cap and give 'em a real belly laugh." I watched her face, saw the sudden flush of anger, edged by a hint of fear.

"Of course not, Marty. Mr. Gregory assured me that you'd be specially careful not to let anyone know. You were to go as a friend."

"Then why not keep all the mystery on the other side? Just between friends, what's wrong up here? So far all I've got to go on is that someone called Sandy Engle hasn't been going out much lately, and that there's always a flock of guests."

Kate ran a slow hand over her temple, then let the hand fall to her lap and pluck nervously at the band of her tiny watch.

"Marty, there are really two things at the Engle Ranch that just don't add up. First there's Sandy—Mrs. Engle. I've known her ever so long, since we were children, and she's the type that loves to see and be seen, as the phrase has it, and yet in the two—" She broke off as the screen door of the cafe slammed. A man and woman came heavily down the wooden steps. I felt Kate stiffen against the leather seat.

"The Pilchers," she whispered. "They'll probably be guests up there this weekend. I've seen them there twice."

Tney were both big people, though not too many years over thirty. The woman gave us a quick glance, faltered as recogmton came to her, then went on without a word.

She was brown haired and going to hips and might have looked a little less pudgy in something that fit rather than straining the seams of a dress two sizes too small. But it wasn't a cheap dress.

Her husband did a double take when he saw the blonde beside me, then ambled our way. He had a red baseball cap cocked back at a jaunty angle, a toothpick between his thick lips, and a brothers-in-misery sneer on his kisser. He folded his elbows across the chrome window trim on the Cad, shifted his toothpick a little and grinned at the girl.

"Hell of a note, isn't it, Miss Weston?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Mr. Pilcher," Kate said evenly. "You said something like that once before, up at the ranch, but really I—"

The brotherly grin turned to a sarcastic look and he backed off from the Cad.

"Hell, I forgot. You're the one that comes up here to smell the sagebrush. 'Scuse me all to hell."

I slid out of the big car and went around just as he was working his fat can behind the wheel of his Pontiac. I pulled the door out of his hand and put a foot along the floor trim.

"Getting a little near-sighted, aren't you neighbor? That was a lady you were talking to." I said it softly and waited. Chubby squinted up at me, his eyes shifting over me as he weighed the possibilities. I didn't think I ought to leave any doubt in his mind. I gathered a handful of shirt, gave it a half twist and hauled him out onto the gravel, then let him straighten up. He stood there blowing hard breaths through his thick lips and I measured him with a watchful eye because there's no point in leaving yourself open for the sucker punch. If he so much as tightened a face muscle I was going to hang one on him. He looked away, turned back, didn't see any change in my eyes, and faced the big Cad.

"Sorry—Miss Weston. I made a mistake," he said.

I watched him wiggle back into his car, fire it up, back around and gun out onto the highway. He headed north and disappeared around a bend as I opened the car door for Kate.

I grinned. "I still want that coffee, Kate."

We found a booth. A tired gent in a white shirt and apron was busy cutting the day's delivery of pies near the front. Kate and I settled, ordered coffee when the man came over, watched him leave, and looked across at each other.

"Thanks, Marty. I'm not sure you should have, but thanks."

"You were going to tell me a couple of things that were out of step up at the ranch," I reminded her. "The first had to do with Sandy Engle." I shook a couple of cigarettes loose and held the pack across the table, then struck a mach from the folder on the ashtray. She puffed quickly and glanced nervously toward the distant waiter.

"Well—it looks like you got the second part first. As guests at the ranch, Pilcher isn't the exception, he's the rule. They all have one thing in common. They resent being there. They give the impression they are forced to come and bullied into making believe they like it."

Two

The waiter brought two steaming cups, slid one in front of me, made a production of arranging the other for Kate and went reluctantly back to subdividing his pies. I offered sugar, tipped a half spoon into my own cup and gave it a slow round-and-round.

"That brings us to me, Kate," I said quietly. "I haven't

asked to be invited either—but what about you? You're a guest up there quite often, or so you say." I made it sound like a question. Two blue eyes caught mine and held on, and when she spoke her voice asked for a small measure of confidence.

"Would I hire you to find out something I already know?"

I didn't answer but I remembered a couple of years back a blonde babe pushing thirty, trim and wearing forty dollars worth of bathing suit, came down to the plunge in one of those swank Las Vegas hotel pools. I had the duty and this chick decided to take a few lessons. She started out by sputtering and thrashing the water and in half an hour I had her paddling across the pool. I was feeling real proud of myself until it crossed my mind that she'd learned just a little too fast and it came out later that this was one hell of a way from her first dip. There was something about her being on the 1948 Olympic swimming team and we had a good laugh over it in the bar later that evening. Looking across at Kate, I reminded myself not to bite down too hard on everything she handed out. It might not all be candy. I sipped hot brown coffee and sifted a few possibilities, then leaned forward and swept salt and pepper shakers, the sugar bowl, ashtray, and napkin holder over to the wall. Except for our cups that cleared the table.

"Let's dive in and get wet all the way, Kate," I said. "You think something is off the beat up at the Engle ranch. Okay, we'll start with what we have and see where it leads us. So far we've agreed that people don't want to go up there but they do go and what's more, they try to make believe they like it. But not you. Right? You're not in the general setup." I brought the sugar bowl back and put it in the center of the table. "That's point one. Now what's different about you? What sets you apart from the other guests?"

She drummed polished fingernails on the shiny table and thought it over. "I really don't know. There doesn't seem to be any place to start."

"Who invites you, George or Sandy?"

"Sandy of course."

"Well, does she know the other people or are they friends of his? I mean did she know them before they came up there?"

Kate's eyes widened and for several seconds she stared at me. When she answered her voice was tense and I could see the glow of excitement rising in her face.

"I can't be sure about Sandy, but I haven't known a single one of them before George and Sandy moved up here. And for several years before she married we ran together quite a bit. They shouldn't all be strangers to me, should they?"

I brought over the salt shaker and put it beside the sugar. "Another small point," I grinned. "Maybe we're going to get a yard or two here. How long have they had this desert hideaway?"

"Almost two years."

"How often do you park your suitcase in their guest room?"

"Actually," she laughed, "Sandy and I don't stand on formal invitations. I drive up whenever I feel in the mood, maybe every six weeks or so, but not on a pre-arranged schedule. They have plenty of guest space and I just phone and say I'll be there."

"And you sometimes find a friend to bring?"

"No. This is the first time—but Sandy was more than glad to have me invite someone."

I reached for the napkin holder. "Then there is this business about Sandy Engle not leaving the old homestead. What about that, Kate?"

"That's the thing that really worries me, Marty. As I said, Sandy and I have been one-two for a lot of years.

We traded school girl secrets in junior high and compared notes on dates when we were in Beverly Hills High School and all the rest. Same sorority at USC and I was the maid of honor when she and George went down the aisle three years ago and if there's anyone in California that I know especially well it's Sandy Engle. She's a girl who likes to get around and always has. Yet in the two years that she and George have had their estate up in the canyon, she hasn't left the grounds once. Not once —and I've got to know why."

"You mean that literally. She's never been outside the fence—if there is a fence, that is."

"There's a fence, and it isn't locked but it might as well be as far as Sandy is concerned," Kate said grimly.

I set the napkin holder down. "That's good enough for point three until a better one comes along." I grinned. "Who shops for the necessities like beer and mink coats and an occasional loaf of bread?"

Kate ground out her cigarette and searched my face with a puzzled eye. "You're joking of course." She smiled thinly. "Sandy has the mink all right, and the things that go with it, all except one. A mink coat isn't of much use unless people see it and to see Sandy's fur you have to drive up to the desert."

"Does she hint that she'd like to break out? What does she offer as a reason for her exile?"

"Now that I think of it, she doesn't let the subject come out in the open. She never talks about it or anything, just sits on the nest. Whenever I invite her to my place in Hollywood she makes some hasty excuse and turns to a different subject." Kate looked down and her fingers twisted together nervously. They stopped and she looked up. "This may sound silly—but her eyes haven't gotten the word, Marty. She wants to get away. I'm sure of it. Sure enough to have looked up the Gregory Agency in the yellow pages of the phone book. She couldn't have

changed, Marty. Not Sandy. Not that much. She's—she's somehow a prisoner, and yet—"

Across the counter the old fellow had finished dividing the pastry and was sliding the pieces into a mirrored display case. I caught his eye long enough to order a couple of more cups of coffee and went back to the chore at hand.

"You wouldn't have gone this far without having come to a conclusion of some kind," I said easily. "Coming to Gregory is costing you money. What have you decided?" She glanced up, then gave me a meaningful look and toyed with the spoon until our coffee refills spilled into the cups. When we were alone again she bit her Up and looked away.

"Some way George is keeping Sandy there. I mean I think he is and—"

"How could he?" I asked quickly.

"I don't quite know. Still—if he isn't, somebody is."

It wasn't much, and I said, "There's a constitutional amendment against that sort of thing. If she's being held against her will we'll get her out."

The blonde flashed me a dim smile that said she wasn't completely sold. I wasn't, either. I let the conversation wither while we went through the second cup of coffee, then dropped a half buck on the table and ushered her out to her expensive collection of chrome and gray leather. One thing for sure, if this was a gag someone had gone to a lot of trouble building it.

We eased out onto the highway and rolled north, the big car logging the miles pleasantly and silently. I went over the facts again and tried to get a foothold—not only on what she'd told me, but the small aura of involuntary information that clung to her and the rest of the setup. The one common denominator was money. Where there's a lot of it, there're usually people eager to get their hands on it. In this case that could get to include me.

And what about Sandy's staying so close to the family circle? I thought about that and a different light fell across it, dim and obscure, yet perhaps touching on possibilities. If she didn't leave, she wouldn't be any place else— maybe she had a reason for staying at the ranch against her will. In short, Sandy Engle could be hiding up in these hills—I tossed a sidelong look at the blonde, wondering if the same thought had occurred to her.

The sun was beginning to make itself felt. I touched a button and rolled the rear windows down into their wells. It didn't help. Then the blonde put a finger on the buttons on her side and rolled all of the windows back up. Tight. Then another button and somewhere a soft motor hummed to life and settled back down to near silence as it attained speed. The car began to cool. I blew a slow breath through rounded lips and shook my head.