Way of a Wanton (15 page)

I was in a bad spot and I knew it. I'd sprinted and rolled far enough away from the back of the house so that I was afraid to shoot again. I might send a bullet into the house, or into God knew what else or who else that was around here besides me and the other person behind a gun. But I couldn't sit still and do nothing while I was being shot at.
 

And that damned moonlight. It was faint, but there was still enough light to trace shadowy outlines in the darkness. I was in the shadow of something, the shading leaves of some kind of tree with the thick trunk barely distinguishable a few feet from me. I hoped to God it was a tree trunk. I couldn't hear a sound in the night. I felt on the ground near me for a rock or clod, something I could throw in hope of drawing fire. There was nothing. As quietly as I could I swung out the cylinder of my gun, took out the empty shell, and pressed the cylinder back in. I flipped the empty shell away from me and it hit with a small rustling sound, then rolled a few feet.
 

In the silence I heard, from clear out toward the street, the sound of somebody running, feet slapping rapidly against the sidewalk, the noise getting fainter. I got my feet under me and sprinted around the side of the house.
 

My eyes were accustomed enough to the darkness now so that I could see the outline of the wall, and I raced alongside it to the front and across the lawn as the sound of a car motor being ground into life came from half a block down the street. I turned and ran on the sidewalk, and dimly, in the light of street lamps, I saw the car pull away from the curb and roar down the street away from me. I stopped and watched it go. It raced to the corner and turned right, headlights off all the way—and that settled it for me. Whoever it was had got away.
 

I thought of Sherry, still all alone in the darkened house. I turned and ran back to the open front door and inside. I hurried toward the bedroom, banging my shin against a chair; then I was at the bedroom door, feeling around it for the light switch.
 

The light blazed on, almost blinding me with its sudden brilliance, and I saw Sherry. She was standing just inside the door, wearing a pink pullover sweater and black skirt, and holding something in both hands high over her head. Her face was twisted and frightened, and she stepped toward me with her mouth open, swinging her weighted hands down toward me.
 

“Hey!” I yelled, and ducked. “Hello, woops, watch it!”
 

She stopped just in time. Sherry had come very close to busting my skull with a bed lamp. She recognized me and wrenched the descending lamp away at the last moment. She bent over from the force of the blow, then straightened, holding the lamp in her hands. She looked at me for a moment, then let the lamp slip from her hands to the floor and stood facing me, her arms hanging limply at her sides. She just stared at me, half-sobbing through her open mouth, and there was such a mixture of fright and surprise and almost tearful confusion on her sweet face that it brought a lump to my throat.
 

I stepped toward her and automatically put my arms around her, pulled her gently to me as she sobbed, “Oh, oh, golly, oh, golly,” over and over.
 

“It's O.K., kid. Relax, honey,” I told her. “Take it easy. No more trouble, Sherry.”
 

She put her arms around my waist, buried her head against my shoulder, and stood there holding tightly to me and trembling. It occurred to me in a moment of rare perception that it was worth getting shot at if this happened every time. But then Sherry raised her face, one shiny tear track running down each cheek, and looked at me with wide eyes. She bit her lip and stepped back from me, looking frightened again.
 

“What's the matter?” I said. “What's wrong?”
 

She was still recovering from shock, still bewildered, and she looked from my face to the gun still in my hand. I'd forgotten about it. God, she didn't think
I
was the one who'd sapped her.
 

“Whoa, there, honey. Relax.” I put the gun back in its holster. “I'm on your side. Simmer down, sweetie.”
 

Suddenly she sighed heavily, then walked to the bed and slumped on it. “What happened?” she asked me. “Shell, what happened?”
 

I walked over and pulled a chair up to a spot where I could sit facing her. Even shaken and bewildered, she looked like all the sirens. The pink sweater, I noticed, used up an amazing amount of material getting from her waist up to her neck. This Sherry had to be seen to be believed.
 

I brought my thoughts back in order and said, “I don't know for sure what happened, Sherry. Looks like somebody slammed you on the head. Why, I don't know yet. I called you around eight and thought something was funny, so I charged over. You were out cold and somebody was in back. I took a look around, but whoever it was got away.”
 

She shivered, put a hand to the side of her head, and winced. Then she looked at me and gave me the first weak smile. “Somebody did—slam me on the head, Shell. When I came home there was a light on in the bedroom.” She looked around her. “In here. I ... I thought it was you.”
 

I grinned at her. She was still shaky, and I figured she could use some light conversation. “Now, what the hell would I be doing in your bedroom, Sherry? I know, but do you?”
 

She laughed softly and I said, “That's better. Tell me what happened.”
 

“I wondered a little bit myself, Shell—about the light in here. But you said you'd come around eight. I called your name and walked in. I didn't see anybody. I don't even remember if I felt anything. That's just the last I remember.” She frowned. “Until—until I woke up. I thought I heard guns or something. Shots.”
 

“It was guns, all right. Just a minute.” I walked to the bedroom window, shut it, and pulled the shade, then went and latched the screen and back doors. There wasn't much I could do about the busted door lock, but I turned on the living-room lights and propped a straight-backed chair under the knob. I went back to Sherry.
 

“All locked in,” I said lightly. “And you'd better stay that way for a while. Those noises were shots. The character who sapped you was out back when I got here. We had a war, but it was a draw.” I got serious. “Give a good listen to this, Sherry. Whoever it was meant business. There's not much doubt in my mind that the guy who sapped you is the one who killed Zoe. And there must be a good reason why he was here—particularly carrying a gun.”
 

She swallowed and sat quietly for a moment; then she said, “It was a man?”
 

“I suppose so, but I don't know. It seems likely. But right now, how's your head?”
 

She looked at me and blinked her blue eyes. “It hurts.”
 

I took a look at the bump on her head, but the skin wasn't broken. I was all for calling a doctor, but after some argument during which she insisted she was O.K. and didn't want a doc, she won. We hunted up a couple of aspirins, and that seemed the best we could do. Then I said, “You got any liquid anesthetic in the house? Anything to drink?”
 

“I've got gin,” she said brightly. “Gin and orange juice.”
 

I stared at her, aghast. “Gin,” I echoed. “And orange juice. You sure you wouldn't rather have your head hurt?”
 

She laughed. “It's not too bad—the head, I mean.” She winced. “Not too good, either.”
 

I spent the next five minutes mixing a couple of perfectly foul concoctions and chatting casually with Sherry while she got back to normal. Then I said, “O.K., let's get down to business.”
 

She smiled impishly and said, “O.K.”
 

I grinned at her. “Finish what you started to tell me at the studio—when Swallow walked in. And believe me, it's important now.”
 

“I believe you.” She thought a minute, then went on. “Well, I told you Zoe hated Swallow, but that was just lately. They were fairly close for a while. Then—well, then he didn't treat her right.”
 

I interrupted. “Sherry, the police told me Zoe was pregnant. That have anything to do with it?”
 

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, it did. That was"—she looked at me—"Swallow. He didn't want anything to do with her after that. And Zoe naturally—you know.”
 

The woman scorned, I was thinking, mad at the world and the focus on Swallow. Probably the greatest hurt was to her pride, I thought, but that's as deadly a hurt as any. Incongruously I thought of Helen.
 

I said, “So she was out to get even and found something she thought would do it. That brings us to Thursday night. You don't know what she was up to?”
 

“No. But she said Swallow wouldn't be around town any more. She wouldn't have to look at his silly face.”
 

“She was still working for him, wasn't she? I mean as his secretary?”
 

“Uh-huh. Right up till the last. Sort of an armed truce till she ... could get even with him. When she didn't show up Friday at the studio, I was worried. That's why I asked Genova for her job till she showed up. I still thought she'd show up. But I wanted to be where I could see how he acted.”
 

We talked some more and I learned only that both Zoe and Sherry had been doing stenographic work at the studio when they'd met, liked each other, and rented this house together. Sherry had been sipping on her orange-colored drink; I'd been afraid to try mine so far. I took a cautious sip. Wasn't bad. Tasted like orange juice. I'd put two jiggers of gin in the things, I remembered. Still tasted like orange juice.
 

“Well,” I asked her, “now what? We're up to here and now. Why this business tonight? The guy must have been looking for something in the house. Probably in Zoe's things. Any idea what it would be?”
 

She shook her head. “I haven't any idea at all.”
 

“Let's take a look around. You feel up to it?”
 

She upended her glass. “I feel surprisingly good, considering,” she said. She beamed at me.
 

She also looked surprisingly good. She looked soft and lovely and warm. Not to mention that amazing development of hers. She stood up right in front of me and pulled the sweater down tight over the amazing development. I stared. When I remembered the way this case had started at Raul's, and what had followed—Helen, Fanny, the studio, Dot, Helen again—it was brought home forcibly to me that I was about as close to exploding from various kinds of frustration as a man can get.
 

“Say,” I said. “Haven't you got an old bathrobe or something similar you could slip into? A thick, lumpy old bathrobe?”
 

She looked down at me. “A bathrobe? Why, yes, but—” Then she laughed mischievously. “Now, Shell, stop it.”
 

“To tell you the truth,” I said, “that pink sweater makes conversation difficult.”
 

She laughed merrily. “I can't help it,” she said. “And I can't take it
off.
”
 

I came very close to getting into a pleasant argument with her then and there. But she said, “Come on, Shell, let's look at Zoe's things.”
 

Hell, I wanted to look at Sherry's things. But I got up and said, “You lead the way, honey.”
 

She frowned. “I don't know what to look for.”
 

“Frankly, neither do I. But apparently that guy was looking. He had to have some reason for sapping you.” I added seriously, “If he'd wanted to kill you, Sherry, he'd have done it. It would be all over by now. So he must have been looking for something.”
 

“Look,” she said. “I hadn't paid any attention before.”
 

She pointed to the dresser. The top two drawers were pulled out and the things inside had been disarranged, but none had been tossed onto the floor. We went through all the drawers but found nothing that meant anything to us. Then Sherry led me into the front room and stopped in front of a bookcase.
 

“About half of these are Zoe's books,” she said. “And those are her magazines and letters in the bottom.”
 

We went through all the books, flipping the pages as if expecting a clue to leap out, but nothing happened. I pulled the stack of magazines from the bottom shelf. The bunch of letters fell to the floor and I put them back on the shelf for the moment. “These magazines hers, Sherry?”
 

“Uh-huh.”
 

There were a couple of old pulp magazines, science fiction of the old school with lurid and sensational covers. The rest were recent slicks. Sherry left for a moment and came back with two more orange drinks. I hauled off and had right at mine this time. Still tasted like orange juice.
 

“You put any gin in this?”
 

“You'd be surprised.”
 

I wondered how this would mix with that handful of bourbon. Seemed to be mixing O.K. I was sitting on the floor in front of the bookcase and Sherry stood over me. I grinned up at her, then picked up Fanta Science, one of the pulp magazines, which depicted on the cover an eight-legged monster chasing a busty, half-naked lovely over hill and dale.
 

“Ah,” I said, “for the life of an artist. Uh, if I learn to paint, will you pose for me?”
 

Her lips twitched slightly and she looked at the cover. “Like that?”