chapter six
When I arrived outside her apartment, the door was half-open, but being real polite 1 pressed the buzzer and waited.
“Mr. Boyd?” Patty Lamont’s voice called from somewhere inside.
“Sure,” I called back.
“Please come right in—the door’s open.” Her voice sounded shrill with the hysteria still hovering around the edges.
I pushed the door open a little wider and stepped into the apartment. A runaway truck slammed into the back of my neck and sent me sprawling onto the floor. Before I had a chance to think, it circled around and slammed into my ribs a couple of times, rolling me across the carpet, then came to a sudden stop sitting on my chest. Fingers like steel hooks ripped open my coat and explored under each arm with ungentle thoroughness, checked all my pockets, then patted my legs like they were granite to be sculpted with a couple of hammers. While I was still wondering if anybody had gotten the number of the truck, the weight was suddenly lifted from my chest.
“Okay, Marty,” a sandblasted voice growled. “The punk’s clean.”
I sat up quickly, which was a mistake, and waited for the room to stop jazzing around. When it finally did, I got
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a clear glimpse of the two guys looking down at me with concentrated venom in their faces. One I recognized already—the runaway truck that masqueraded as a human being and was named Pete. The other one I hadn’t met before.
The second guy was around average height but so thin it made him look taller. His gaunt face, with its hollow cheeks and bloodless lips, looked like a textbook illustration of malnutrition. The deepset eyes were pale blue and I wondered for a moment if he’d stolen them from a morgue. There was a wiry thatch of red hair on top of his head and it didn’t help the overall picture at all. The most charitable thought 1 could come up with right then was his doctor must have ordered him destroyed at birth, but somebody goofed.
“How do you like that, wise guy?” Pete asked happily. “And I ain’t even started yet.”
I hauled myself onto my feet, then noticed for the first time that Patty Lamont was sitting on the couch, watching me with fear-frozen eyes. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Boyd,” she whispered. “They just pushed their way in here and they made me call you. I didn’t want to, but the big one—hurt me!” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed convulsively.
“Shut up,” the cadaverous character said, without any particular inflection. “Or if you don’t, I’ll have Pete arrange it for you.”
Patty managed to stifle her sobs down to an incoherent murmur, and he nodded, apparently satisfied.
“You must be Marty Estell?” I said.
“Sure,” he said, nodding. “And you’re the flip private eye from the East. I’ll tell you a funny story, pal. When Pete claimed he’d found this guy beating my time with Louise, I didn’t believe it, even.”
“I got into town the same day Pete and I had the argument,” I said easily. “I pride myself on being a fast worker—but not that fast!”
“So—” he shrugged his thin shoulders indifferently— it’s old friends and that kind of jazz— who cares? Louise figures to get real smart and double-cross me, so she needs help.”
“Maybe you’re not right out of your mind?” I suggested pleasantly. “Just got a couple of hinges loose?”
Pete moved fast for all his bulk, and a hamlike fist buried itself in my solar plexus. For a timeless moment I figured I was about to die—and for another timeless moment worried in case I didn’t. Bent double, with both arms wrapped across my middle, I managed to stagger to the couch and flop down on it beside Patty Lamont.
“How do you get that way, being rude to the boss?” Pete asked in an aggrieved voice. “Ain’t you got no respect?”
“I’m not even sure if I’ve got insides,” I wheezed painfully.
Marty EstelTs face twitched suddenly. “Let’s get to the point, shall we?” he said in a flat voice. “I’m not here for my health, Boyd. I want the tiara.”
“Don’t we all?” I wheezed.
Pete started lumbering toward the couch, his eyes staring greedily through the coarse black hair that hung down over his forehead.
“Lay off!” Estell said curtly, and the giant came to a reluctant stop. “There’s plenty of time for that,” Marty continued. “Maybe Boyd doesn’t realize his exact situation?”
“Have Pete slam you in the gut the way he did me,” I suggested balefully, “then ask a stupid question.”
“You and Louise double-crossed me out of that tiara,” he said, ignoring my suggestion. “Then you double-crossed her, grabbed the ice for yourself, and gave her a bullet between the eyes in ever-loving memory.” He shook his head slightly. “Do you think that was nice, Boyd?”
“I found her body in the shower, with the tiara sitting on her head,” I snarled.
“Oh, sure.” His face twitched again suddenly. “You played it real cool—the real tiara in your pocket and the fake on top of her head—then call in the cops and walk out of there while they’re still busy looking for clues or something.”
The volcanic eruption in my insides had quietened down to an occasional spurt of molten lava, so I managed to straighten up slowly.
“You’re”—I stopped suddenly when I saw the gleam in
Pete’s eye and quickly rephrased the words—“mistaken. I only came into Santo Bahia because Elmo hired me to get back his stolen tiara. I had a list of all the people who were in the room when the switch was made. Louise’s name was on that list. It so happened I called on her while Pete was there and he didn’t wait to hear any explanations. That’s all there is to it.”
Estell stood, his face expressionless, as if he was considering the reasonableness of my explanation. For a few moments I figured the Boyd logic might prevail, even, but then he shook his head again.
“The way Pete tells it, you were real nervous and jumped him first opportunity you got, when he wasn’t looking,” he said. “I don’t believe in coincidence, pal. So I had Pete keep an eye on your hotel—and who does he see real cozy in the bar last night but you and this snotty-nosed broad!” He gestured contemptuously toward Patty.
“Then you’re the guy that finds Louise’s body and the stolen ice yet—only the way it turns out it’s not the genuine tiara after all. You spent all day running around in that fancy convertible, then you’re back in the bar again, only with a different broad—that redhead from the jewelry store. It all stacks up to a hell of a lot more than coincidence, pal.”
“Coincidence or no,” I snarled at him, “it’s the truth.” “Maybe I should take him apart a little more, boss?” Pete asked hungrily. “See what falls out when we open him up a little?”
“It would be a long and tedious process,” Estell said in the same flat monotone. “We don’t have the time. There’s a quicker way.” His right hand slid inside his coat and reappeared holding a .38, and a moment later I was looking straight down the barrel.
“Don’t think I won’t use it, pal,” he said easily. “You don’t want to believe me, that’s fine—just remember you can only be wrong once.”
He didn’t need to convince me. From the first time I’d seen those pale blue eyes that had been dead for a long time already, I’d picked him for a psycho killer, which is one stage worse than a pro. However uncomfortable, at least you know where you are with a pro—these are mostly the competent guys who kill for money and take an assignment the same way a photographer would. But a psycho like Marty Estell would likely kill his mother if she didn’t have his dinner ready on time.
“Yeah,” he said flatly, still watching my reactions. “I can see you’re about to take my word for it, huh, Boyd?” He didn’t bother to look in the giant’s direction. “Pete!” “Yeah, boss?”
“Work the broad over,” Marty suggested evenly. “Maybe the big private eye will get a real kick out of that.” “This is the kind of work I call real pleasure,” Pete said throatily.