The Killer Touch (5 page)

Dazed, Burt walked in and sat down. “I said I wasn't coming. Why did you expect me?”

“Because you are what you are, Sergeant.”

A physical shock tingled along Burt's nerves. His mind whirled for an instant, then he remembered he'd been out four hours. “You went through my things.”

Rolf shrugged. “I checked your identification. Wouldn't you have done the same to me?”

Thoughtfully, Burt had to admit to himself that it was true. “It isn't the same thing—”

“Why not? Are you on duty now? Do you carry any warrants?”

Burt frowned at Keener. The subject of his status had been dragged into the conversation by the scruff of the neck; Burt wondered why the man had been so eager for that piece of information.

“I'm not on duty, Keener. But if you found out I was a cop, why the big act with Joss?”

Rolf nodded. “You're good. Very sharp. I put on that act because …” He shrugged. “I like to keep as many people as ignorant as possible.”

“But you let me know. You didn't have to.”

Rolf closed his eyes a minute, then opened them. “That confuses things even more, doesn't it?”

He gave a hollow laugh which sent a prickle of dread up Burt's spine. Here was a man not entirely in control of himself; a man who could work himself into a corner where he'd have to shoot his way out. You never knew what would seem a reason for killing, to a man like that, and Burt began to feel jumpy. He couldn't remember ever having been afraid of a man before, but Rolf came close to filling the bill.

Something else. The silence between their words was filled with the rustle of a mattress, the scrape of sandals on concrete, the crackle of a match. Burt smelled cigarette smoke through the closed door. Mrs. Keener was awake and attentive, but apparently he still wasn't to see the woman of mystery.

“Tell me about the detective business,” said Rolf abruptly.

“Tell me about your business.”

Rolf smiled. “I'm an importer. Very interesting the way I got into it. I don't suppose you were in World War II …”

“I was a kid,” said Burt. “I sold war stamps and collected paper.”

“Yes,” the man smiled benignly. “Well, I was in the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS. I happen to be of European extraction, I suppose you detect the accent.”

“No.”

“No? Well, it's been a long time. In the OSS I commanded a group which went into occupied countries to organize partisan groups. We sometimes used the local currency, but usually we carried a more negotiable commodity, gold, jewels, that sort of thing. To buy guns, food, and allies. It was often necessary to kill men, you understand—”

“It goes without saying in wartime,” said Burt. “Why say it?”

“Because … I have a point to make.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Every man has a killer inside him, March. With some people it's weak and easy to hold down. With others it's strong; you try to hold it down and you can feel it snarling and growling inside you.” He leaned back and smiled. “I call it the beast.”

“I see,” said Burt.

“I'm sure you do.”

The words came as a shock, and Burt wondered if the other had read his thoughts. For the talk of war spun Burt back to Korea, to those long nights on the parallel when one patrol had followed another, night after night, until death and danger had become a part of We like eating and sleeping, and almost as necessary. One night he'd gone out alone and come back with his knife bloody, and all he would remember afterwards was that a Chinese loudspeaker had played
Sentimental Journey
.

“Go on, Rolf,” said Burt in a tight voice. “You were telling about World War II.”

“Yes. I let my beast out in those days. I let him rage and snarl and gorge himself; I was a hero, a patriot, but I was never foolish enough to think that society would let the beast run loose when there was no longer any need for him. So after the war I threw the chains on him.”

“Did you?”

“Ah, you're thinking about our fight.” Rolf reached for the bottle and poured a drink, thoughtfully watching the liquor rise in the glass. He proffered the bottle to Burt, but Burt shook his head, waiting. Rolf capped the bottle, then raised his glass and smiled. “Well, March, you have to feed the beast from time to time. Someday you may need him to save your life.”

He leaned back and drank, closing his eyes as though the liquor were a delicious elixir. “Ah well, so I chained up the beast and searched for a socially acceptable occupation. I'd seen millions of dollars' worth of war materials all over the world; now it would never be used. Mile-long rows of airplanes, tanks, jeeps, command cars, rusting on islands, in deserts, mountains. Why not remove the smaller units, radios, optical instruments, electronic gear, ship it home and sell it? You may know how that turned out; the men with government contacts and money covered the deal like a blanket. I made a few thousand, the others made millions before the stink reached the public. Then I thought of Europe, fugitive Nazis with their little caches of jewelry, gold, and art objects. I had the cash, and contacts who could provide them with new identities, and a safe hiding place—”

“You helped Nazis?”

“I'm a businessman, not a patriot. Others took their money and denounced them to the authorities, but I fulfilled my contracts. Is that unethical?”

Burt shrugged; he couldn't get rid of his distaste for Rolf. The man was likable enough; handsome, worldly and friendly. That was it. He was a good deal more friendly than the situation warranted.

But Rolf was telling how fugitive Nazis had led him to South America. There he'd seen an untapped reservoir of wealth in Indian artifacts; gold, silver, jewelry, pottery, and objects of art. For several years he'd moved the stuff out by bribery and smuggling, selling it to private collectors and museums in the States. But there'd been no limit to the money-hunger of South American
politicos;
the overhead had risen and finally wiped out his profit margin. So he'd liquidated the business and was now at liberty, so to speak, looking for new opportunities.

And he needs a cop, thought Burt. Here it comes.

Instead Rolf said, “Your turn now, March.”

Burt realized that the effort of trying to stay ahead of Rolf Keener had amplified his headache into a throbbing agony.

“I'll have to save my story. This headache—”

“My wife can cure that. Ah … Tracy?”

Burt turned, half-expecting to see Mrs. Keener in her usual all-concealing attire. But she came out the door bareheaded, and in the pale yellow light of the kerosene lamp her face shone faintly with skin-cream. Her nose was short and faintly tilted on the end. Black hair billowed around her shoulders. He tried to see her eyes, but they were squinted as though she'd come out of total darkness. Her beach coat reached only to mid-thigh and somehow suggested that there was nothing beneath it. That was an unwarranted conclusion, Burt decided; something about the island kept a man on the edge of criminal assault.

“Tracy, can you give Burt March one of your headache treatments?”

“Of course.” She smiled a polite smile that held no warmth. There was a poised smoothness about the way she walked toward him; the studied glide of a model in a high fashion show. He tightened up as she walked behind him, then he was enclosed in the aura of her perfume, and her cool fingers began drawing the pain from the back of his neck.

Rolf looked on with the benevolent manner of a father. “She told me how she cooled you this afternoon after you returned her purse. Then I gave you the business in your cabin. You've been treated badly by the Keener family, and we'd like to make it up.”

The words made Burt feel prickly, uncomfortable. He leaned forward, away from the woman. “This isn't necessary. I've got aspirin.”

“Let her,” said Rolf. “She doesn't mind, do you, Tracy?”

“Of course not,” said the voice behind him. Her warm breath caressed his neck.

How do you deal with this friendliness, wondered Burt, particularly when you don't think it's real? The whole scene had the unreality of a poorly acted but carefully rehearsed play. The lines were perfect, but there were those very small split-second errors in timing. Rolf, particularly, had the manner of a man reading a script; sometimes he forgot to smile, sometimes he remembered at the wrong time …

All right, Burt decided. Play along. You don't learn if you don't listen. He leaned back and let the fingers continue their work. She had achieved an even rhythm which Burt found vaguely sexual. It was difficult to keep from sighing with pleasure. How could a man sit there and let his wife do that to another man?

Wind ripped through the palm trees. The surf thundered; the house trembled. The fumaroles moaned.

“Tide going out,” said Burt.

Rolf stood up. “I'll see to the launch. Don't leave.”

And Burt sat, aware that there must be method in Rolf's madness of leaving him alone with his wife. Better relax and see what kind of approach she used.

She didn't keep him waiting long. The screen door had scarcely closed when her treatment ceased to be therapy and became a caress. Her fingertips tingled along his jaw, up behind his ears. She blew softly on his neck.

Burt jumped, and she laughed. “Are you one of those men who let a woman do it all?”

The fact that he'd half-expected it didn't dull the surprise of hearing it spoken. She was, if not making a proposition, unmistakably inviting one. What the hell did this island do to women, anyway?

“I was wondering,” said Burt, “if you found everything intact in your purse.”

“Certainly,” she said in a disinterested voice. Then, curiously: “What has that to do with it?”

Burt shrugged. Of course she wouldn't mention the heroin, and he'd better drop the subject before she suspected that he knew. Strange that the woman showed none of the drug's stigmata; still, it was hard to pick a well-fed hypo out of a crowd, unless she happened to be on the nod or badly strung out …

“You understand about this afternoon,” she said, leaning forward in a way that brought a soft double-pressure against his back. “I wanted to invite you in for a drink, but I knew he was coming. I didn't want him to find—”

Burt laughed.

“What's funny?”

“I've seen women who come on strong when their husbands are near, then turn cold when it's safe.”

“Oh?” Idly, her fingers stirred the hair at the back of his head. “You think I'm one of those?”

“I think you enjoy the game, yes. I could die of old age waiting for the pay-off.”

“Tell you what you do, Sergeant March. You know the island. You name it. Time, place, everything. I'll meet you.”

Burt stopped laughing. “I think you're trying to set me up, Mrs. Keener. Don't.”

She was leaning on him, her chin gently gouging his shoulder. Her breath was warm in his ear. “What are you afraid of, Sergeant March? I thought cops weren't afraid of anyone.”

“That's enough. I'm leaving.” Burt started to get up, but her arms slid around his neck and pulled him back. The soft breath against his ear became wetness, then sharp, biting pain. He twisted and overturned the chair. He fell and felt her soft form rolling beneath him. He struggled to his feet and put his hand to his ear. Warm blood trickled down his neck. He felt foolish and resentful, as though he'd been tricked into performing in a slapstick comedy.

“Damn!” Burt looked down at the woman. Her beach robe was in drastic disarray, but she didn't seem to notice. She was laughing, and there was a bright red wetness on her lower lip.

“You need a good beating,” he told her.

“Really?” She sat up with her arms braced behind her, stretching her long muscular legs out on the concrete floor. “Go ahead, Sergeant. Do your duty.”

“Oh hell—!” He whirled and tore open the screen door. Behind him her laughter trilled high above the sound of the surf. As he walked back to his cabin, he realized this was almost the same scene he'd walked out on earlier. Except that Joss had no ulterior motives; or if she had, they were hidden even from Joss herself. Mrs. Keener had a sick thing going, and Burt had a feeling her husband was a part of it.

He took a shower before going to bed. It helped a little.

THREE

Next morning Burt found a shining new padlock on the door of cabin two. He shoved his hands into his pockets and regarded it with a feeling of frustration; he had merely glanced toward the cabin as he walked along the beach, feeling normal curiosity, and now … now he felt an aching desire to go in. The detective syndrome, he thought; you see a locked door and you want to look behind it. Or is that a burglar syndrome? Maybe there wasn't much difference.

He walked toward the club. It was a gray day, and a steady east wind carried moisture in such fine particles that he didn't know it was raining until he found his hair damp. The lagoon was like a blanket being shaken; the surf washed over the jetty and made tentative passes at the pilings which held up the beach club. Rolf's launch was gone, and Burt could hear Joss's voice raised in shrill anger behind the kitchen.

He found her standing over Coco, who was squatting on the ground, sullenly picking a scab on his instep.

“What's wrong?” asked Burt.

Joss turned, looking sheepish. “This ignorant ass let the rowboat drift away last night.”

Coco looked up. “Mist' March, I leave it on the beach where the surf do not reach.”

“Let's go see.”

In front, Coco showed him the boat's keel mark in the sand. It extended three feet above the line of coral, driftwood and coconut husks which marked the high-water point.

“She lie here when I go to sleep,” said Coco. “Not here this morning.”

“You must have moved it,” said Joss.