Terror comes creeping (3 page)

"It's that simple, I don't believe it," I said. "Pete is a professional."

"Do you want to see some more of the farm, or will we go back to the house now?" she asked patiently. "It's close to lunch time, and I could use a drink. How about you?"

"You read my mind," I said.

Sylvia walked away from me toward the house, and I started to follow, but then I heard Sweet William's obscene noises building up to an alarming crescendo. I figured maybe he'd just struck gold, and against my better judgment I looked to see what the hell he was getting so excited about.

The boar was rooting vigorously in one comer of the pen—churning mud like a mechanical shovel. Already he'd dug a long groove around six inches deep, and was deepening it still further, grunting enthusiastically as he worked.

I watched with a kind of macabre fascination, until I saw why he was so excited. For a moment I didn't believe it; then I leaned forward over the edge of the pen to take a closer look—and had to believe it.

Sweet WUliam had uncovered the thumb and index finger of a human hand. WhUe I watched, he looked up at me for a second, with satisfaction showing in his dull, brutish eyes. His jaws moved slowly in a peaceful rhythm,

then he gave a satisfied grunt. I looked back at the deep groove he'd made in the black mud and swallowed hard. The top joint of the index finger was missing.

I figured if Philip Hazelton had left the farmhouse late on Sunday night he hadn't gone very far.

Th

ree

CLEMMIE HAZELTON'S EYES SPARKLED AS SHE LOOKED AT

me when I walked into the living room.

"I'm glad you changed your mind and decided to stay awhile, Mr. Boyd," she said. "It's nice to have someone visiting."

"Can I fix you a drink?" Sylvia West asked. "We have Scotch, rye, vodka—"

"Scotch on the rocks will do fine," I said.

I lit a cigarette which tasted like the aftermath of Doomsday. Sylvia was busy making the drinks and Clem-mie sat watching me, her hands clasped around her knees.

"Lunch is going to be a little scrappy," she said anxiously. "You don't mind taking potluck, do you, Mr. Boyd?"

"Sounds fine," I said.

"I know we've got a freshly cured ham," she said brightly. "Home-grown, and everything."

My stomach lurched suddenly. "Don't worry about me," I mumbled. "I'm not hungry."

Sylvia distributed the drinks and I swallowed the Scotch gratefully. I closed my mind to the thought of food—any food, and concentrated on the whisky.

"Qemmie was telling me you're a private detective, Danny," Sylvia said. "I guess that accounts for your suspicious mind?"

"It must be terribly exciting!" Clemmie looked at me with wide eyes. "Is it very dangerous?"

"Not as long as you stay out of the pigpens," I grinned at her glassily.

"Pigpens?" It obviously didn't register with Qemmie.

"He's had a close look at Sweet William," Sylvia gurgled with laughter. "Danny is strictly a nature boy from the asphalt jungle."

I thought about a second drink and decided against it —^business before pleasure, as the actress said to the producer when he wanted her to read a script before she relaxed on his couch.

"I figure we'll miss lunch," I said to Clemmie. "We can eat somewhere on the road."

"I beg your pardon?" she said blankly.

"We're leaving," I told her. "I just decided your big sister isn't crazy after all. You've got ten minutes to pack your things."

"You're joking?"

"Not me," I said wearily. "I'm no private eye from television with a couple of scriptwriters in my pants pocket. I have to make up the dialogue as I go along—so no jokes."

"Are you seriously suggesting that Clemmie leave with you, Danny?" Sylvia asked curtly.

"I like the way everybody catches on so quick around here," I said. "Yeah, I'm serious. We're leaving."

Clemmie jumped up onto her feet, her eyes dancing with excitement.

"It sounds wonderfully mysterious!" she said. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you can hide out for a while," I said. "Some place you'll be safe."

"Are you out of your mind, Clemmie!" Sylvia said harshly.

"Maybe!" Clemmie looked at her happily. "I just know I'm not going to miss out on the chance. This is the first really exciting thing that ever happened to me!" She looked back at me quickly. "I'll go pack a bag, Danny, and I won't be more than ten minutes, promise!"

"Fine," I told her.

She ran quickly out of the room, and I picked up my glass and thought maybe I'd have that second drink after all.

"You can't mean this?" Sylvia said. "It's kidnapping! Ill call the police, I'll—"

"Why don't you do something useful, like make me a drink?" I suggested, and tossed the glass at her.

She caught it awkwardly, then walked over to the bar and began to fix the drink.

"You must be mad!" she said tensely.

"Crazy like a fox," I said.

She brought the new drink across to me and I took the glass out of her hand. There was a worried look on her face as she stood in front of me, biting her lower lip gendy.

"Listen," she said finally in a low voice. "I'm not really a housekeeper or a companion, I'm a nurse."

"I bet that made all the difference to the pigs," I said thoughtfully. "Knowing that, they can sleep nights."

"Mr. Hazelton hired me to look after Clemmie!" she said in a harsh whisper. "She doesn't know, of course. But he's worried about her mental health. He hired me to watch her, look after her. She's easily excited—^you can see that for yourself. If you take her away with you, there's no telling what could happen!"

"No telling what can happen if she stays here, either," I said.

"How can I make you understand the importance of this!" she said desperately. "There's a history of insanity in the family—^that's why Mr. Hazelton's so worried about her!"

"There's also a history of administering estates in the family," I said. "I'm looking forward to meeting this Hazelton creep—he must be a real nice guy. Martha hires me, so he sends his lawyer around to tell me she's

got fungus in the attic. He hires you and says the same thing about his other daughter. I wonder if a head-shrinker's had a look at him lately?"

It didn't mean a thing to Sylvia West—she wasn't even listening.

"I can't let you do this, Danny!" she said in a tight voice. "I'll stop you leaving with her."

"So you want a fight?" I said resignedly. "O.K.—I'll let you throw the first punch."

She stared at me for a moment longer, then turned suddenly and ran out of the room. I heard her footsteps race down the hallway and the front door slam shut behind her. Then I heard her calling frantically, "Pete! Pete!"

I finished the new drink slowly and thought the hell with Sylvia West and the hell with Pete—she could go fimd him, he was no special problem.

Clemmie Hazelton came back into the room a few minutes later, carrying an expensive-looking grip in natural hide.

"I'm all packed, Danny," she said. "Where's Sylvia?"

"She just remembered she had to see a guy about another guy," I told her. "I think we'll go."

We walked out of the house and there were the two of them waiting for us. Pete stood a few feet in front of the car, his arms folding their muscles across his chest, looking like something out of an old De Mille epic, with the sun hitting him full in the face. Sylvia stood to one side, watching anxiously, her whole body tensed.

"Is there something wrong?" Clemmie whispered nervously.

"Nothing I can't take care of," I told her. "They don't think you should go with me, that's all. Let me handle it. Don't worry about what happens, just go sit in the car and wait for me, huh?"

"Sure, Danny," she nodded quickly. "Whatever you say."

We kept on walking until we got close to the muscle-man.

"You're not leaving, buddy," he said coldly. "Not with Miss Hazelton, anyway!"

"Pete!" Clemmie said in a shrill voice. "You don't know what you're doing—I'm leaving of my own free will with Mr. Boyd and—"

"Sorry," he said flatly. "Miss West don't think it's right, and neither do I. You go on back to the house, Miss, and I'll take care of this guy."

"Move over, Pete," I told him. "Before you finish up a heap of pigfood."

"Not this time, buddy," he said with an ugly grin on his face. "This time I'm ready for you."

He started to walk toward me slowly, his arms held out in front of him—anybody who didn't believe m evolution needed just one look at Pete right then to be convinced. I remembered those tiny white scars across his eyebrows as I watched his hands change into fists and saw him come up on his toes as he swayed toward me like a ballet dancer. He was an ex-pro all right, and my guess was he knew all the dirty tricks along with the rules laid down by the Marquess of Queensberry.

So I had a choice. I could raise my own fists and try to prove I was a better fist-fighter than he was—and I wasn't for sure. I could let him slam at me a couple of times and wait, hoping to get close enough to him to give him a judo chop or a stiff-fingered jab where he'd remember it for the next few days. Or I could be a lousy sport and not get hurt at all.

I reached inside my coat and pulled the .38 out of the shoulder holster, eased off the safety, and pointed the gun at his stomach.

"Relax, buddy," I said. "Or I'U blow a hole through your guts."

He didn't relax, he stood very still for a moment, looking at the gun. Then he lifted his head slightly and looked

at me, and it wasn't hard to keep up with his mental calculations.

"You're kidding!" he said finally. "You wouldn't dare use that rod, buddy!"

"If I wouldn't use it, I wouldn't carry it," I said easily. '*But you go right ahead, buddy, if you want to find out the hard way."

"You wouldn't dare," he repeated, but he didn't sound quite so sure the second time.

"Get in the car, Clemmie," I said, without looking at her.

I took a couple of steps toward Pete and he stayed right where he was.

"You shoot me, it'd be murder!" he said thickly. "In front of two witnesses, buddy! You wouldn't stand a chance!"

"I don't need to kill you, Pete," I said conversationally. "Smash a kneecap maybe, shatter a wrist."

He was a one idea at a time man, and this was a new idea so he had to think about it. While he was thinking about it, I took another step and that brought me up real close to him.

"How about this for another idea, Pete?" I said. Then I slammed the gunbarrel hard into his stomach, into the softness just below the rib cage, and the air came out of his lungs faster than a dame who's just realized it didn't say ladies on the door after all.

He started to bend in the middle and I lifted the gun high, out of his way, then laid the barrel across the side of his head just above the ear. It made a kind of thunk-ing noise when it hit, and I would've felt sorry for Pete right then, except I never could feel sorry for a guy like Pete. I stepped back as he hit the ground with his face, and stayed there limp.

I saw Clemmie's white face staring at me from inside the car and grinned encouragingly at her. Then I walked across to where Sylvia stood with a white face.

"He'U be O.K.," I told her. "A sore head for a couple of days, that's all."

"That was the most brutal thing Tve ever seen!" she said in a low voice. "You're nothing but an animal!"

"I'm taking Clemmic somewhere where she'll be safe until aftef her mothei^s estate is cleaned up," I said. "You can tell Old Man Hazelton that, and tell him she'll be where he can't find her."

"You won't get far!" she said icily. "I'll call the police right away—now."

"Sure," I said. "And while you're talking to them you might mention that new feed you're giving Sweet William —now there's something that is real nervous!"

"What are you talking about?" she said blankly.

"You mean you don't know?" I shook my head dubiously. "Well—if you really don't know—there's one easy way to find out. Why don't you go take a look?"

I turned around and walked back to the car. As I slid in behind the steering wheel, Clemmie looked at me with her eyes glittering.

"That was the most exciting moment of my life!" she said in a shaking voice. "Did you kill him , Danny? Did you? Is he dead!"

"Just knocked out," I said. "Take it easy, will you?"

I started the car rolling down the tracks toward the gates, and fumbled for a cigarette.

"I was worried," she said breathlessly. "Pete's awful strong and everything. But when I saw you had a gun I knew it was going to be all right."

"I'm real glad you had faith," I told her thankfully. "It made all the difference."

I swung the car out onto the road with its nose pointing toward Manhattan and trod down hard on the gas pedal.

"Would you have shot him if you had to, Danny?" she asked in a mufiled voice.

"I guess so," I said absently.

"I knew you would!" Clemmie sounded almost ecstatic. "I knew you would—I kept saying it over and over to myself all the time—'Danny will shoot him, Danny will kiU him!' I wish you had!"

"You what?"

"I wish you had killed him, Danny." There was an urgent, demanding note in her voice. "I've never seen a man killed before."

"You figure it's something every growing girl should see?"

"It would have been like growing up aU at once," she said wistfully. "Like the moment of truth at the bullfights, but this would have been so much better, Danny, don't you see? This would have been a man who was killed, not just an animal!"

She started to cry suddenly, starting out in a soft whimper and finishing with loud, dry sobs. Her fist pounded my shoulder in an unsteady rhythm as I drove.

"You should have killed him, Danny," she wailed. "I wanted so much for you to kill him!"

Thirty minutes later I stopped at a roadside diner and we went in for lunch. Since the hysterics, Clemmie had been quiet, almost sullen, but she brightened up at the thought of food. I ordered steak sandwiches and coffee, and tried hard to ignore the smell of crisping bacon that sneaked up on my nose.

"This is terribly exciting, Danny," Qemmie whisf>ered loudly in my ear. "I've never done anything like this before."