“I don’t know anyone else who’d want it.”
“What’s in it more precious than rubies?”
She turned her head away. “Photographs.”
“Why’d your brother have ’em, if they were yours?”
“He had a peculiar streak in him. He seemed to enjoy embarrassing me.”
“Oh. That kind of photos.”
She looked at him quickly. “There’s nothing really wrong about them. Mostly snaps taken while we were on the road in the act. But there were a few Ned took while I was — sun-bathing.”
“Oh.”
“It wouldn’t be so good to have the wrong people get hold of them.”
“You haven’t any ideas on who does have the case, now?” It hadn’t been a shadow that Pedley’d glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. But something had been moving between the light and the bathroom mirror; it was still there.
“No. If I’d known there was going to be all this commotion about it, I wouldn’t have asked Chuck to hunt for the case at all.”
“Gaydel must be a pretty good pal of yours. For you to trust him with intimate pictures like that.” He took a few casual paces toward the bathroom.
“Chuck’s one of the best— Oh!”
Her warning came too late. Pedley pulled out his service special, stepped to the bathroom door, leveled the gun close to his hip.
“Come on out. Let’s have a look at you.”
Chapter Eleven
Unexpected Reactions
It was a look worth having. The man who sauntered out was striking in several respects.
He was about twenty-four or five — darkly handsome, after a gaunt and somewhat haggard fashion. His brown eyes were deep-set, brooding. His nose had the hawklike sharpness of the outdoorsman. His skin was tanned until it was almost a match for his close-cropped hair. There was something the matter with his left hand; he kept opening and closing his fist with a nervous, jerky motion. He wore shaggy gray tweeds, a heavy blue flannel shirt; his shoes were thick-soled brogans.
He paid no attention to Pedley’s gun, brushed past the marshal so close his coat caught on the revolver’s front sight. He went straight to Leila.
“Sorry, shugie. I must have made a noise or something for Old Sleuth to get wise.”
“Be careful, Bill.” She flopped out of the bed and her bare feet fumbled for the fuzzy mules. “Anything you say may be held against you.”
“Leila,” he said. A slow grin spread over his lean face as he watched her hurry to the closet for something to cover the sheer black net.
She shook her head in mock reproof. “Pardon my poor emilypost. Lieutenant Conover — meet Mister—?”
“Pedley,” said Pedley. “I don’t like to intrude on this tender scene. But where do you fit in here, Lieutenant?”
Conover said, “Uh—”
“Bill and I are engaged,” Leila filled in, quickly. “It hasn’t been announced yet, but I suppose you’ll fix that, Mister Pedley.”
“I’m no keyhole snooper.” The marshal slapped Conover’s hips by way of precaution, put his own gun back in the holster. “I’m not interested in anybody’s private life except as it may concern the fire that was touched off at the Brockhurst. I’ll admit to a little curiosity as to why the lieutenant thought it advisable to skulk in the john.”
“Simple.” Conover slouched, loose-limbed, toward the living-room. “Terry Ross phoned Leila you were hellbent on arresting her. I stuck around to make sure you don’t do it. I figured I’d stand a better chance if it came to telling you where to get off, if you didn’t know I was here. How’s about letting the lady have a little privacy until she’s decent?”
Pedley followed, turned back at the door. “I don’t know what your doctor’s orders were, Miss Lownes. But if they were to stay in bed, you’d better follow directions on the bottle. You don’t feel the worst of those fumes for a while after you inhale ’em. They anesthetize the throat so you can’t tell how hard you’ve been hit.” Conover was standing, straddle-legged, in front of the fireplace, holding out his hands to the heat.
Pedley asked, “Mind filling in a few blanks, Lieutenant? Name, status, so forth?”
“William T. Conover,” the youth at the mantel answered, without turning. “First Lieutenant, Paratroops, U. S. Marine Corps. Honorably discharged nine weeks ago.”
One of these supertough youngsters, Pedley thought. Kind of kid they trained to do work no man could stand up to. Postgraduate course in the fine art of annihilation. Specialist in sudden death. Now he’d come back to the States and the Lownes girl. Maybe Ned Lownes hadn’t liked the idea of Conover’s marrying his sister. It was something to keep in mind.
The lieutenant chafed his hands together, affably. “Prometheus’s gift,” he said. “The oldest friend of man.”
Kim Wasson, at the concert grand, let her fingers fall on the keys in a howling discord.
Pedley leaned against the stone mantel so he wouldn’t have to talk to the lieutenant’s back. “That the way you feel about fire, Conover?”
“Naturally I wouldn’t expect a fireman to feel the same way.”
Here’s another one of these lugs who figure all you need to be a fireman is a strong back and a little luck at pinochle, Pedley. Never stopped to think — these birds whose lives we protect at the risk of our own — that a fireman has to know something about the physics of hydraulic pressure, the chemistry of fire. The scar-tissue on Pedley’s face whitened a little, but the anger didn’t show in his voice. “Feel pretty good about the fire, don’t you, Lieutenant? How you think Ned Lownes felt about it?”
“I never gave it a thought.” Conover swiveled around to stare blandly at the marshal. “Selfish about it, I suppose. That bonfire saved me a lot of trouble.”
“Why?”
Conover balanced on his toes, hunched his head forward truculently. “You never saw Ned chivvy Leila, or you wouldn’t ask. If you’re looking into this thing and are half-smart, you’ll find it out, anyway. So I might as well tell you. I’d threatened to fix Ned’s wagon for keeps.”
“Did you?”
“I wouldn’t admit it, if I’d done it — so you won’t believe me if I say ‘no.’”
“Lownes jealous of your attentions to his sister?” If Pedley had pulled the pin on a hand grenade and tossed it at Conover’s face, it couldn’t have resulted in any more unexpected reaction. The lieutenant recoiled, swung on his heel, strode away from the marshal so rapidly he was almost running. He went swiftly to the concert grand, stood beside it, his face drained of color, his voice shaky. “Play something, Kim! Anything! Loud! Quick!”
The arranger nodded, poker-faced. Her fingers moved over the keys; the instrument reverberated with a boogie version of “Stomping at the Savoy.”
With both fists, Conover began to pound on the piano top in rhythm. His face strained up toward the ceiling so the cords in his neck stood out sharply.
The beat of the music brought Leila. She was wearing lime-colored lounging pajamas of some filmy material; the top was fastened high around the neck but the back was cut so low she was practically naked to the waist. Whatever she wore beneath the pajamas wasn’t enough to hide what showed suggestively through the thin fabric.
“Bill!” She flew to him. “What’s the matter?”
He acted as if he hadn’t heard her, kept on with his ferocious fist-banging.
Pedley rubbed his chin. “I said something that touched the wrong chord. What is he, mental instability discharge?”
“Don’t use that term!” She spoke bitterly over her shoulder, while she clung to the lieutenant’s arm. “Bill had a nervous breakdown, that’s all. After twenty-eight months in the Burma Theater, what can you expect!” The music became “St. James Infirm’ry”; the pounding kept on.