One
“i thtnk he's already murdered my brother,” she said in a low-pitched voice. “Now he’s planning to murder my sister. You have to stop it, Mr. Boyd!”
I looked around the comfortable, air-conditioned, dimly lit bar. The Madison Avenue buccaneer at the next table was complaining bitterly that nothing came higher on his expense account than free love. I figured if I could hear him right, I must have heard her right.
She hadn’t wanted to come to my office, she’d told me over the phone, so could we meet in a bar. From the tense, watchful expression on her face, she wasn’t enjoying either the atmosphere or her drink.
“Something in back of me bother you?” I asked.
“I know he has me followed the whole time,” she said. “I can feel it.”
Her legs were beautiful, and crossed casually to show the dimpled knees, but no more. She was tall and slender, with dark hair and eyes. Her face was beautiful, elegant and arrogant. Any guy in his right mind could follow her around all day. Given a ten degree drop in the outside temperature, I’d do the same myself.
“I bet you had a college education,” I said.
“A brilliant deduction!” Her voice was cold. “What’s that got to do with—”
“Radcliffe, or Bryn Mawr?” I interrupted.
“Radcliffe, but—”
“And 1 bet you wear plain white underwear and think all men are beasts, really,” I pushed my hunch.
Her lips tightened. “Don’t make me a target for your
sexual frustrations, Mr. Boyd,” she said. “If you’re not interested in working for me—”
“I’m interested,” I said truthfully. “If it pays enough.” “That’s what I heard,” her smile was a half sneer. “See Danny Boyd if your problem is delicate, and worth a lot of money to have fixed.”
“From what you said about your brother and sister, you've got a problem all right,” I agreed. “It doesn’t sound delicate—it sounds more like dynamite.”
‘Then you’re interested?”
“Maybe,” I said cautiously. ‘Tell me some more first. Like am I right about the white underwear?”
The look on her face said I was something that had just crawled out from under a rock which hadn’t been moved in the last ten years.
“My name is Martha Hazelton,” she said crisply. “My sister’s name is Clemmie, my brother’s name is Philip. He’s been missing for the last three days.”
“Have you told the police?”
“I’m the only person who thinks he’s missing,” she said evenly. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”
1 lit a cigarette and wondered briefly if she was crazy. But the diamond pin in the miniature straw boater on top of her immaculate hair-do looked real; the kidskin jacket and fine wool skirt were definitely Fifth Avenue and exclusive. If she was crazy, she was also crazy rich, and that’s my kind of client.
4*Who is the guy you figure has murdered your brother already, and is all set to knock off your sister?” I asked carefully.
“My father, of course.” She sounded mildly surprised. “I thought I’d told you that before.”
I finished my gin and tonic and crooked a finger at a slow-moving waiter.
“No,” I said. “You didn’t tell me it was your father. Does he have a motive—or maybe he’s shopping around for a new kick?”
Her rye on the rocks was untouched, so I told the waiter to bring me a new gin and tonic with a slice of lemon, not lime. Lime is strictly from the birds—check with any sea gull.
Martha Hazelton leaned forward slightly in her chair. ‘Tm deadly serious about this, Mr. Boyd,” she said. “He has an excellent motive—money!”
“It’s the nicest word in my vocabulary,” I agreed. “Go on.”
“When my mother died, her estate was worth two million dollars after taxes,” she said forcefully. “The money was put into a trust—to be administered by my father for ten years, then equally divided among her three children. The ten-year period is up in two months* time.”
“You figure your old man doesn’t want any of you to collect?”
“I wonder just how much there is left to collect, Mr. Boyd,” she said dryly.
“So he’s killing you off one at a time to stop you from ever finding out?” I asked in a wondering voice. “He’d be real crazy to figure he could get away with a deal like that.”
The new gin and tonic arrived and Boyd was safe from malaria for another ten minutes.
“Crazy or not, that’s what he’s doing,” she said in a decisive voice. “Are you still interested, Mr. Boyd?”
“Why don’t you call me Danny?” I suggested.
“Because it’s a name for a bellhop,” she said coolly. “I have no wish to know you socially, Mr. Boyd, just professionally.”
“This private detective label is just a gag,” I said. “My true profession is rapist, and I figure white underwear is real nervous.”
Her lips tightened again. “Will you please stop fooling around? I don’t have much time—we’re probably being watched even now. Will you take the job?”
“What is the job—exactly?”
“I want you to rescue Clemmie—get my sister off my
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father’s farm before she disappears, like Philip has. It’s worth two thousand dollars, Mr. Boyd. Take her away from that farm and hide her where she’ll be safe, until after the facts about Mother's estate have been revealed.” “Where would I hide her?”
“That’s up to you,” she said irritably. “Anywhere—so long as it’s safe. I’ll pay all expenses, naturally. I’m offering two thousand dollars simply to have Clemmie rescued from that farm. It wouldn’t take more than a few hours, Mr. Boyd. It’s a generous remuneration, surely?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
She sipped her rye on the rocks cautiously, with a faint expression of distaste on her face.
“I’m glad that’s finally settled,” she said. “Is there anything more you need to know?”
“The name of the farm, and where I contact you after I’ve snatched your sister?”
“The farm’s called ‘High Tor’ and it’s twenty miles south of Providence. You’d better not try to contact me —I’ll call your office.”
“O.K.,” I shrugged. “1*11 go to Rhode Island first thing in the morning.”
“Why not today—now?” she asked impatiently.
“It’s afternoon already,” I said. “It’s hot and the wrong kind of weather for the fall, tomorrow may be cooler.” She looked at me for a long, brooding moment. “I wonder if I’m doing the right thing?” she said slowly.
“If you don’t know now,” I said, “call Radcliffe and ask for your money back.”
I stayed in the bar for another half-hour after Martha Hazelton had left, wondering if she was a refugee from Nutsville, the way she sounded. But then all my clients are a little nuts—why else would they come to me in the first place?
It was around five when I got back to my office. In the three months since I quit the Kruger Detective Agency and founded Boyd Enterprises, I’ve picked up a few
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things along the way, like an office with blondwood furniture and white leather chairs, some clients and some money. The latest addition is a secretary who sits behind a desk in the closet I optimistically call the reception area.
Her name is Fran Jordan, and she’s a redhead with gray-green eyes that have a pensive look in them, mostly. She also has a will of her own and a figure which makes her fully entitled to it
“Hi, Fran,” I said. “Any calls?”
“No calls—one caller,” she said dryly. “He’s waiting inside your office.”
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say. His name is Houston, he told me.” She lifted her eyebrows fractionally. “But he’s not my idea of Texas.”
“Maybe he’s got a wildcat oil well he wants to sell cheap?” I said hopefully. “I’ll go talk with him. You doing anything tonight, perchance, peradventure?”