Way of a Wanton (14 page)

That conjured up a lovely picture in my mind. I grinned at her. “Even in the privacy of your home you wear a swim suit, apparently. If memory serves me...”
 

“I do. I like to know how white I was.”
 

She had something there. I'd like to know how white she was too. We kept looking at each other and the conversation slowed down, faltered, and died.
 

She said finally, “Any more questions, Shell?”
 

“Not about the case.”
 

Helen stood up deliberately, smoothed the red skirt over her hips, then took two steps toward me and sat down on the couch at my side. She turned her back to me, stretched her legs out on the couch, and then lay back across my lap. I put my right arm behind her shoulders and she smiled up at me.
 

“There,” she said softly. “Isn't this better?”
 

“Much. Even nicer than last night, Helen.”
 

“I was pretty angry with you,” she said. “I know it was business, but no woman likes a man to leave her alone in his apartment. Especially not on his bed.”
 

“You'll never know how close I came to staying. I didn't think I'd be gone very long.”
 

She smiled, eyes slanting, and whipped those long lashes at me a few times. “And you thought I'd be there when you got back. Like most men, you wanted to eat your cake and have it too.”
 

“I guess. Another five seconds and I'd never have got out of the apartment, though. You made an awfully pretty picture lying there. The way you were.”
 

“Oh ... yes,” she said. Her tongue flicked over her lips. “I remember. I made myself more at home than I am even now.” She hesitated and then added, “And that's foolish, isn't it?”
 

I didn't say anything. She had been lying in the crook of my arm, her legs stretched out full length, and now she eased off first one high-heeled shoe and then the other. She brushed them to the floor, then put her feet flat on the surface of the couch and pulled them upward along the couch with agonizing slowness, her knees rising and the red skirt sliding over them.
 

Then she stopped, moved one knee gently as I'd seen her move it the night before, and the skirt slithered over her knees and halfway down her thighs, stopping at the edge of her rolled stockings. The smooth flesh swelled from the top of each stocking and disappeared under the skirt's edge.
 

“Wasn't I like this?” she asked me. “But I wasn't wearing hose last night, was I? Shell, take them off for me.”
 

My throat felt tight. I held her closer with my right arm and put my left hand on the rolled top of the stocking. Her skin seemed almost hot under my palm as I rolled the sheer nylon down over her knee, over the length of her firm calf, and off to drop it on the floor. Helen raised her right leg off the couch, toes pointed straight out. “Now this one,” she said huskily, her voice deep in her throat.
 

As I reached across her body my coat sleeve slid up over my wrist watch and I noted, without even thinking about it, that it was nearly eight o'clock. I peeled off her stocking, then brought my hand back along her leg in a long, slow caress.
 

Something about the time eight o'clock was nagging at a corner of my brain even as Helen sighed deeply and turned her body farther toward me. Then I remembered that it was at eight o'clock that I was to see Sherry.
 

It was a peculiar time for it, but I remembered how sweet she'd been right after she'd thanked me for pushing her out of the way when the light had fallen at the studio. And right then, too, out of some dark corner of my mind came a frightening thought. I had assumed all along, with no real proof, that the murder attempt had been for me. But it might just as easily have been directed at
Sherry.
I tried to force the thought out of my mind, told myself that it was obviously silly, but then I remembered other things: that Sherry was Zoe's roommate, that Zoe was dead, that Swallow had undoubtedly overheard Sherry saying he had murdered Zoe.
 

Helen moved against me and I brought my mind back from the frightening place it had been. I told myself I was exaggerating, imagining dangers that didn't exist. Helen's face was close to mine. “Shell...” she breathed softly. Her lips were moist and parted, gleaming in the soft light. I bent close to her, my fingers light on her smooth skin, and pressed my lips to hers.
 

She strained her body to me, fingers digging into my arm as her lips worked on mine. I pulled her to me, touching and knowing her, trying to lose myself in the feel of her skin and her lips, drown the nagging worry in my brain.
 

Finally she pulled her mouth from mine and let her head rest on my arm while she looked at me, her eyes narrowed and her lips a little tight. She looked savagely beautiful, and desirable as only a hot-blooded and passionate woman can look.
 

For long moments neither of us said anything. Finally I spoke, and I felt even better as I told her, “Honey, since I'm locked in, I'd better make a phone call. A short call,” I added hastily. “Much as I hate to mention it.”
 

Her brows furrowed slightly, then her forehead smoothed again. “Why?”
 

“I'm supposed to be somewhere"—I glanced at my watch—"right about now. I really should call and—put it off an hour or two, maybe.”
 

She smiled faintly. “Put it off till tomorrow.” Then she added, “Do you
have
to?”
 

“I'd feel better. Seriously. Mind?”
 

She sighed. “Well, if you must.” She frowned again. “But remember what happened the last time you used a phone.”
 

I grinned at her. “I'll remember.”
 

The French phone was on a stand at the far end of the couch and Helen sighed again, pulled herself up on her knees, and scooted to the far end of the couch. I was reminded of that first scene I'd watched filmed this morning and I came very close to forgetting about any calls. But Helen grabbed the phone, scooted back, and handed it to me.
 

I dialed the number Sherry had given me. While I waited for her to answer I watched Helen. She pursed her lips and blew me a kiss. I heard the receiver go up at the other end of the line. This was a lot better, I was thinking, than just letting Sherry sit in her house alone, wondering why the hell I hadn't at least let her know I wasn't coming. I got a picture in my mind of her sitting in a chair, tapping her foot, that small pout on her lips.
 

“Hello,” I said. “This is Shell.”
 

There wasn't any answer. “Hey, hello. Hello,” I said again.
 

Very faintly, as if done with extreme care, I heard the phone replaced on the receiver. I pulled the phone away from my ear, looked at it, then pressed the receiver with my fingers and held it down for a moment.
 

“What's the matter, Shell? You look so strange.”
 

I blinked at Helen. “I don't know. Somebody answered over there—I mean somebody picked up the phone and then put it back. But there wasn't anything said.”
 

I dialed the number again, the fears I'd had a moment before growing in my mind, assuming almost terrifying proportions. The phone rang and kept ringing. Nobody answered, nobody lifted the receiver. I hung up, my mind spinning. I thought back to the conversation between Sherry and me at the studio when I'd arranged to see her at eight. We could easily have been overheard by almost anybody near us. I couldn't remember who had been close by on the set. I dialed the operator and got the number of Joseph's Restaurant from Information, and dialed it.
 

When the phone was answered I said, “There's a Lola Sherrard who eats there a lot. She's either there now or left a little while ago. Do you know her?”
 

“Yes, sir. She left only a few minutes ago. Who is this?”
 

I hung up and turned to Helen. “Honey,” I said, “I don't like to say this, but I've got to go.”
 

She didn't get angry, or even object. But she said, “What is it, Shell? Sherry? Was that who you called?”
 

“Yeah. I was supposed to see her about the case. And I don't know what's wrong.” I got up. “But I'm afraid...” I didn't finish it. I didn't want to finish it. I turned around and started for the door, then Helen called to me, “Shell, wait.”
 

When I turned around I saw her reach down the front of her blouse and pull out the key she'd playfully dropped there. She walked by me, unlocked the door, and opened it, then looked at me.
 

“Good-by,” she said listlessly.
 

“'By, honey.” I went out. I trotted to the car and jumped in, started it and wheeled around in the street. I jammed the accelerator down, fear growing inside me.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

SHERRY lived in a small house on Cypress Avenue about four miles from the Lexington, where Helen lived. I had the accelerator pushed against the floor boards most of the way. I let up on the throttle and slammed on the brakes to skid around corners, then jammed the accelerator down again on straight stretches. I was scared to death now. I was afraid something had happened to Sherry, or that it was happening now and I'd be too late. I didn't put into words what I was afraid of, even in my own mind, but the sight of Zoe's twisted body and distorted face was in front of my eyes all the way. I decided I'd care a lot if anything happened to Sherry.
 

Finally I could see her house and I skidded to a stop in front of it, leaped out of the car, and ran up the steps. I jumped to the door and tried to turn the knob. It was locked.
 

I banged on the door and listened. It was quiet, but I thought I heard something moving inside. No one came to the door. The fear in me had mounted almost to panic now and I walked back across the porch, then threw myself against the door, my shoulder splintering the panels. Once more and the lock gave and I crashed into the room and fell to my knees. I was in the living room and there was no light on in here, but light spilled from an open door in back. I scrambled to my feet and ran toward it and inside.
 

Sherry lay face down on the floor, her left profile visible to me. I stopped and stared at her, not even thinking that somebody else might be in the room or somewhere in the house. I couldn't tell if she were breathing or not, and I was half afraid to touch her to find out. Finally I stepped forward, knelt beside her, and felt for her pulse. But even before I found it I could tell she was breathing. Color was still in her face and she breathed through her partly open mouth. Relief, a surprising surge of relief, flooded through me when I knew she was alive. I put my hand on her silky dark hair and felt a bump there close to her ear.
 

Only then, with the knowledge that Sherry had been sapped, did the logical sequence of thought enter my mind: Somebody else must have been here to sap her—and not long before. I looked around me, but we were alone; at least we were alone in this room. Sherry moaned softly—and then I heard something else. Something, or someone, had moved at the back of the house.
 

I got up, straining my ears, reached to my shoulder, and pulled the .38 from its holster. Straight ahead of me was an open window in the bedroom wall, the frilly curtains moving restlessly in a faint breeze, and even as I realized how perfectly visible I would be to anybody looking in from outside, I heard a sound out there again, near that open window.
 

I whirled around, jumped to the light switch on the wall, and brushed my hand over it to plunge the room into darkness. I stood still for a moment, listening, keyed up and tense, hearing nothing except the drum of my heart, then slipped out of the bedroom door and began feeling my way toward the rear of the house. As my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness I could see a faint patch of light through a room beyond me. I walked toward it, reached it. This was the back door, with faint moonlight filtering in through its window, and beyond was a small enclosed porch with what appeared to be a screen door leading outside from it. I turned the doorknob in front of me and pushed the door silently open, then stepped through.
 

A shiver raced up my spine and my stomach muscles jerked. I didn't like a bit of this. I was sure that somebody—almost certainly the one who had hit Sherry—was outside, or had been outside. Or could even now be no more than a few feet from me. I gripped the checked butt of the gun hard in my right hand and stepped softly across the wooden floor of the porch to the screen door, then placed my left hand against it and pushed gently. The hinges protested, squeaking with what seemed incredible loudness.
 

I stopped moving. If anyone was still out back, he knew where I was. I made up my mind, pushed the screen door outward as I drew back one step, waited an agonizing second as the hinges squealed in my ears, then lunged forward and slammed into the door as I sprinted outside.
 

Fire lanced at me from twenty feet on my right and the heavy boom of a large-caliber gun crashed against my eardrums. I dived for the dirt, twisting to land on my left shoulder as I snapped my gun up and squeezed off a shot toward another spit of flame that lanced at me, and my gun kicked in my hand, its sound blending with the roar of the heavier gun. I hit the ground rolling as I heard the whine of an angrily ricocheting bullet. I kept rolling, over again and then awkwardly up on my knees, the gun still gripped in my right fist. I froze, holding my breath and listening.