Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (32 page)

"No, our set isn't working."

"Too bad," Waverly said. "Fine speech."

"Damned fine speech," Benson agreed.

I don't care about Barker's speech, Tarrant thought. I don't care one goddamn little bit about Barker or his goddamn speech.

But he smiled and nodded and took the women's wraps and put them away in the hall closet. The pain in his head was furious. The evening went badly. He and Fran were paired against the Bensons in the first rubber, the Waverlys kibitzing, and he could not keep his mind on his own cards, much less the bidding around the table. He played stupidly, sweating in spite of the air conditioning, ignoring Fran's annoyed glances.

They lost the rubber, of course, and the Waverlys took their places. Tarrant went into the kitchen and drank a glass of lukewarm water from the tap. After a few seconds Fran came in.

"What's wrong with you tonight?" she snapped. "You played like a novice and you bit poor Mrs. Benson's head off twice for no reason. Why can't you act decently tonight, of all nights? Don't you care about my feelings at all?"

Tarrant didn't respond. He opened the screen door and walked out onto the dark patio. It was quiet there; summer insects and the distant hum of an electric drill in somebody's workshop were the only sounds.

The temperature had dropped slightly, but the air was still choked with humidity. Tarrant lifted his face to the sky, drawing the heavy air into his lungs, his thoughts random and dreamlike. He held that position for more than a minute—until the gentle sucking sound reached his ears.

He jerked around and stared through the screen door. Fran was standing at the sink, head tilted back, eyes closed. Her expression in the bright light of the kitchen was ecstatic—hideously, obscenely ecstatic.

She was drinking a glass of buttermilk.

Tarrant's fingers knotted into fists, the nails digging into the flesh of his palms. Sweat flowed on his body; he had difficulty breathing. The pain in his head raged out of control. He trembled, trembled—

And suddenly the trembling stopped. Suddenly he was calm.

Through the screen he watched Fran as she smacked her lips over the last of the buttermilk, then rinsed the glass and went to the door to the living room. When she was gone he crossed the patio to the garage. It took him less than two minutes to remove his hunting rifle and a box of cartridges from the storage cabinet. Deliberately, he loaded the rifle. Then he put the rest of the cartridges in his pocket, left the garage, and reentered the kitchen.

The smell of buttermilk was overpowering . . .

MAN GOES BERSERK, KILLS SIX PEOPLE

A Shady Port man went berserk last night and shot his wife, four guests, and a police officer to death with a hunting rifle. During the two-hour reign of terror, some fifty shots were exchanged before police SWAT team marksmen succeeded in mortally wounding Stanley L. Tarrant, 36.

Described by friends and neighbors as a quiet, easygoing person, Tarrant had no history of violent behavior. Authorities were at a loss to explain what triggered his murderous rampage. . . .

L
ehman was relaxing on the balcony of his mountain cabin, smoking his pipe and watching the graceful silver thread of the river that curled through the redwoods in the valley below, when the knocking sounded at the front door.

The sudden intrusion made him frown. He hadn't been expecting anyone this afternoon, and almost no one dropped by without calling first, because he had made it known that he didn't like unexpected visitors. He considered staying where he was, ignoring the summons, but whoever it was was persistent. At length, he got up and went through the cabin and yanked the door open.

The man standing on the porch wore a toothy smile, a fancy new hairpiece, and a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit. His name was Dave Pardo. He'd come alone, Lehman saw, which was even more of a surprise than his coming at all. The big Cadillac limo parked next to Lehman's jeep was empty.

Pardo said, "Long time no see, Hal. What's it been? Four, five years?"

"Six," Lehman said.

"You look good—fit as ever."

"I keep myself in shape."

"All right if I come in, talk a while?"

Lehman stood aside to let Pardo enter, then closed the door. Pardo glanced around at the rustic furnishings, the framed hunting prints on the unvarnished redwood walls. "Nice place you got here," he said. "Nice little hideaway."

"What's on your mind, Dave? You didn't come all the way up here just to say hello."

"No, you're right," Pardo said. "I need a favor."

Lehman relit his pipe, got it drawing evenly before he said, "I figured it was something like that."

"Fact is, I'm in a spot. I wouldn't ask you, there was anybody else I could trust."

"I'm out of the business," Lehman said. "Retired six years now. I'm getting old, Dave. Sixty-four my next birthday."

"Sixty-four's not old."

Lehman didn't say anything.

Pardo said, "We were pretty good friends once. I did favors for you, remember? Plenty of favors."

"I remember."

"I'm not asking you to do this for nothing," Pardo said.

"Your usual fee, plus five as a bonus. Hell, make it ten."

"Money doesn't mean that much to me anymore."

"Hal, listen—"

"I'm retired and I want to stay retired. I got enough put away to live comfortably. And this cabin here, these mountains—I never been any place I liked better. I don't travel any more, I don't go anywhere except four miles down to the village for groceries once a week. I don't want to go anywhere, not even for one day. Peace and quiet, that's all I'm interested in. You understand?"

"Sure, sure. But this spot I'm in, it's a bad one. There's a power struggle going on, heads rolling left and right, people switching sides. That's why I can't trust anybody."

Lehman's pipe had gone out again. He paused to touch another match to the bowl.

"It's between Nick Gault and me," Pardo said.

"I figured. Nick's the favor you want?"

"Yeah. Nick."

"He and I were friends once, too, you know."

"Sure, I know. But I told you, I'm desperate. I got nobody else to turn to. Besides, you worked for anybody had your price in the old days. You never let personal feelings stand in the way."

"This isn't the old days."

"You could get to him, Hal. Easy. The way things are now, you're about the only one who can."

Lehman smoked and said nothing.

Pardo said, "Give it some thought, will you? At least do that much for me."

". . . All right, that much."

"Good. Good."

"How about a drink, Dave? You look like you could use one."

"Yeah, I could."

"Still bourbon-and-water?"

"Right."

Lehman crossed into the kitchenette, mixed a bourbon and-water, and brought it back to Pardo. "Aren't you having one?" Pardo asked him.

"Little early for me. You want to come out on the balcony, take a look at my view? Nice out there this time of day. Good place to talk business."

Pardo's eyes brightened. "Then you'll do it?"

"Maybe. Come on."

They went out onto the balcony. Lehman asked, "Some view, isn't it?"

"Nice. Nice, Hal."

"It's one of the reasons I fell in love with this place, first time I saw it. You can see for miles from up here."

Lehman moved over to the far railing. Pardo joined him, looked over and down, and said, "Jesus, there's nothing but empty air down there."

"Five-hundred-foot drop," Lehman said. "You can't tell from in front, on account of all the trees, but this cabin's built right on the edge of the mountain."

"Yeah. Listen, about Nick—"

Lehman clapped him on the back, said, "Relax, Dave, enjoy the view," and let his hand remain on Pardo's shoulder.

Pardo lifted his glass, started to drink from it. He was standing with his thighs touching the top bar of the railing.

Lehman backed off a step, slid his hand down into the middle of Pardo's back, and shoved hard.

Pardo's arms flailed as he pitched forward. The glass flew from his hand, arced outward into space. An instant later, with an assist from the railing, Pardo followed it—over and down.

He fell in long, twisting turns, screaming the whole way. But there was no one to hear him except Lehman, and the sound of screaming had never bothered him in the slightest.

Lehman stood looking down until Pardo disappeared into the sea of greens and browns far below. Then he went inside to the telephone, took a card from his wallet and dialed the long-distance number written on it.

A low, wary voice said, "Hello?"

"Nick?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"Hal Lehman."

"Hal! You change your mind about my proposition?"

"As a matter of fact," Lehman said, "I did."

"Hey, that's good to hear. But how come? Last time we talked, you made a thing about not leaving that retirement place of yours even for one day."

"I don't have to leave," Lehman said. "The job's already done."

"What?"

"I'll explain when you bring my fee and the bonus you mentioned. You might send a removal team at some point too. No hurry, though. No hurry at all."

R
oehampton Estates was one
 
of those residential districts where the homes are of redwood or stone and glass, the yards are rustically landscaped, and the streets wind and curl and double back on themselves through wooded acreage. In a phrase, Roehampton Estates was middle-class affluence.

I parked my rental car in front of 244 Tamarack Drive a few minutes before eleven of a pleasant spring morning. Stepped out, straightening my tie, and stood for a moment looking at the chunk of lacquered redwood suspended on gold chains between two redwood posts at the foot of the drive. The Curwoods—and below that, Peggy and Glen—had been etched into the wood, and the words had then been painted with a gilt that would probably glow in the dark. I smiled. Good old Glen, I thought.

I followed the drive to a path and the path to an arbored porch grown thickly with honeysuckle. The house was low and made of redwood, with a fieldstone facade—nice looking and well kept up. Next to the door was a plaque similar to the one by the drive, but much smaller, and under that was the doorbell. Twenty seconds after I pushed the bell the door opened and a woman looked out.

She was about thirty, tall and slender, wearing a bulky orange sweater and black flared slacks. Honey-blonde hair curled under at the nape of her neck. Very attractive lady. Ingenuous blue eyes looked at me questioningly.

"Yes?"

"Peggy? Peggy Curwood?"

"Yes?"

"You're even prettier than I expected."

"I beg your pardon?"

I laughed. "Is Glen home?"

"No, he's at work."

"Sure he is," I said. "It's the middle of the week, right? I don't keep regular hours myself and sometimes I forget that others do."

"Are you a friend of my husband's?"

"You might say that," I told her, grinning. "Glen and I have known each other for more years than either of us cares to remember. I haven't seen him since . . . oh, way before the two of you were married."

Her eyes widened. "You're not . . . Larry? Larry Byers?"

"None other than," I said.

"Well, for—! Well, we thought you were in South America, in Maracaibo! I mean, Glen said the last he'd heard a couple of years ago, you were down there on some of kind of wildcat oil deal."

"So I was. Right up until last week."

She touched her hair in that self-conscious way women have, looking at me with color in her cheeks and her head cocked a little to one side. "I just can't believe it," she said.

"Larry Byers! Glen's told me a lot about you."

"All of it good, I hope."

"Well, not all good."

"That's Glen for you. I'm not sure if I ought to be flattered or insulted."

"Flattered, by all means," Peggy said. "How did you find out where we live? You and Larry haven't been in touch in so long . . ."

"Oh, I've got connections."

She had a nice laugh. "Are you back in California to stay now? Or just visiting, or what?"

"Fund-raising, you might say. Arranging finances for a venture in Saudi Arabia."

"Oil again?"

"Uh-huh."

"What happened in Venezuela?"

"Politics," I said.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

I shrugged philosophically. "It's a hard world sometimes."

"Well, you can stay for a while, can't you? You don't have to rush off? I'll phone Glen—"