Chapter 6
That afternoon Lieutenant Prine of homicide paid me a visit. It was not a social call. Prine never paid social calls on Private detectives, and especially on certain private detectives.
"I'd like to talk to you, Sly," he said, adding: "alone."
"Sure," I said. "Let's go into the library."
We went into the library and closed the door behind us. For a moment, Prine wandered around, looking at the pictures and the books. He picked up a gold cigarette box from the grand piano and examined it, then set it down gingerly.
"Nice place," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"How'd you manage to con yourself into a sweet setup like this?"
His attitude annoyed me, as it always had, but I tried to be patient.
"I was picked," I said. "For my talents."
He grunted in amusement. Then he sighed and sat down in an overstuffed chair. "It's not fair," he said. "I work and slave on the force for years pounding a beat before I even become a detective. Then more years before a promotion-"
"Shall I put on some violin music?" I said.
"-and you get the gravy," he went on, ignoring me.
"Life is cruel," I admitted. "Did you come all the way up here to tell me the sad story of your life?"
No, I came all the way up here to see what you know about the murder of Frank Sheldon."
"Frank Sheldon?"
"The private detective who had this job before you arrived," Prine explained. "He was here about ten days, and then they found him in the swimming pool with four .38 bullets in him."
"I don't know anything about him," I said. "Only that he was killed. Sorry I can't help you."
"I thought that possibly, since you carry a .32, you might have killed him so you could take over his job here."
"Very funny, Prine." I said. "You'd like to pin a rap on me, wouldn't you?"
"I'd love to," he said. "Unfortunately, I don't think you did this, but if I find one that you did-"
"Well, you won't," I said, trying not to show my exasperation.
He shrugged. "We'll see. Meanwhile, what about Frank Sheldon?"
"What about him? I've told you all I know."
Prine rose from his chair and walked across the room. He was a small man with a large manner. His blond, greying hair was neatly parted over one eye and combed back with precision. He turned.
"Sheldon made a lot of enemies in his work. A lot of people would have liked him out of the way, perhaps even to the extent of killing him to accomplish that. But there's another angle."
"What's that?"
"His job here, the same job you now have. What is there about this job that could have killed him?"
I forced a laugh. "Lieutenant, this is a simple bodyguard job, except for the fact that the bodies number seven and they're all very lovely."
He shook his head, unsatisfied. "No. The situation smells like a fish market. You're up to something, Sly, and I want to know what it is."
"You've got an active imagination, lieutenant, but you're wrong." I thought of adding: "as usual" but I managed to restrain the impulse.
"You know," Prine said slowly, "sometimes I wonder if we're both playing ball on the same side, or if we're playing the same game. You seem to have the glamorous notion that you're a big shot private investigator who can take the law into his own hands. May I remind you that I'm a policeman hired by the citizens to protect them, and your persistent lack of cooperation only makes my job more difficult."
"You certainly may," I said, "and I want you to know that us taxpayers really appreciate the fine job you're doing."
He glared at me silently for a moment. "Okay, Sly," he said slowly. "One of these days you're going to be in trouble, and I'm going to be there to put in the thumbscrews. Remember that."
"I'll think of it constantly," I said.
He turned, paused at the door. "I don't believe you're telling me the whole truth," he said, "but we'll leave it for the time being. I wonder, though, if you've considered that if Frank Sheldon was murdered because he had this job, that you may be in line for the same treatment."
"Wishful thinking, lieutenant. There's no big mystery here. The only .38s the girls carry around here are on their chests."
He grunted. "I'll see you later."
"Anytime, lieutenant," I said. "Always happy to see you."
Annette showed him out, and I thought about what he'd said. I'd already considered the possibility of it. Sheldon could have come close, or even have discovered who Carol Rutledge was. The Mafia could have done him in, or even Carol herself to prevent the detective from telling anyone. In fact, it was more than possible: it was likely.
Worse, there was a disconcerting but somewhat inevitable conclusion to be reached. If I got close-and I certainly expected to-the murderer would undoubtedly try to do the same thing to me!
"Monsieur?"
I looked up from my thoughts to see Annette standing in the open doorway, looking very pretty and uncomplicated.
"Dinner, monsieur," she said.
"Be right there," I said.
One of the girls at the table would be Carol Rut-ledge. If I'd had any doubts that she was among the "seven deadly sinners," the doubts had been dispelled by the disappearance of her photograph. Apparently, she had listened in on my phone conversation with Oscar Devlin and had become suspicious enough to search my room while I was with Janet Hooper. It showed, at least, that I was hot on the trail.
One thing was certain: the girl I was after was not Janet. She'd proved that very graphically by showing me a place on her trim body that didn't have a birthmark. The memory of that slim, youthful figure was still fresh in my mind, and it was a shame that it would go to waste. Her skin was smooth and her curves, while not spectacular, were sleek, and outwardly she seemed to hold the promise of many pleasures. It was mismating of design and function, like a sports car being used as a garbage truck.
I wondered if there was something in the photograph that was a legitimate clue to what Carol Rutledge looked like. Perhaps a subtle tilt of the corners of the mouth during a smile, or a crinkling around the eyes, or maybe something unnoticed because it was too obvious. Or more likely, she'd stolen the photograph merely to be on the safe side.
Dinner passed as had lunch, with idle and aimless chatter. Mary Ellen Cuthbert sat next to me this time, and busied herself asking me questions regarding my profession as a private detective. She was a demure Southern girl with an accent that almost required subtitles, but she had medium length brown hair and a pretty face and had on a red and white crinkly dress with a tight bodice. I made up a few exciting stories for her, mainly to avoid looking at Janet Hooper, who was busy making a point of avoiding me. I caught Naomi's gaze at one point, and I could sense she knew something was up.
Annette had apparently inherited a wealth of culinary knowledge, for the meal was delicious. She was a very talented girl, and I wondered how far her talents extended. I watched her move about the room and decided she'd look very nice without her clothing. I might even look into that-if I had time, which was beginning to seem rather un-likely.
The phone rang, and Annette went off to answer it. She returned, saying it was for "Monsieur Sly," so I excused myself and went into the library to answer it.
"Hello, Chris," a masculine voice said, "this is Dave. How are things?"
"Not bad," I said. "I've been trying to generate some good will. So far I've eliminated one out of seven, though."
"Not bad, for the first day. I assume you checked it thoroughly."
"Thoroughly enough," I said.
He laughed. "Need any vitamins?"
"I may," I said. "It would help' if there were some other pictures." I didn't want to tell him the one he'd given me had been stolen. "How are things from your end?"
"About the same. The insurance company's anxious. Oscar is anxious; time is running out and he expects the world to end. By the way, Oscar said you phoned him earlier today."
"I got a little anxious myself. I understand the former bodyguard was killed."
"I told you the job was dangerous," he said. "Their-organization I mentioned isn't going to let a simple murder stand in its way."
"If it was the organization," I said. "Another theory occurred to me, that maybe the other bodyguard was getting close and one of the girls did it."
There was a sharp intake of breath that wasn't Dave Keller's. I didn't waste time on preliminaries. I just dropped the phone and ran out of the library. The kitchen or upstairs? I wondered. I chose upstairs. None of the girls were in sight. Apparently, they had adjourned. I took the stairs two and three at a time and rounded the curve where the phone was. It was on the hook.
Disappointment flooded me. Either I'd made the wrong choice, or whoever it was had decided to hang up and beat it. I took the phone off the hook.
"Chris, hello, Chris, are you there?" Dave Keller was saying.
"Yeah, Dave, sorry," I said. "Someone was listening in from another part of the house."
"Did you discover who?"
"No, but I will." I noticed that a nearby door was ajar slightly, and I wondered if there was someone behind that door listening, someone who perhaps had been listening in and had heard me coming and ducked into the room.
"Yell, if you need help," he said.
"Right. I'll get in touch with you if anything new develops."
I hung up and stood silently for a moment in the hallway. On the other side of that slightly ajar door someone was moving, making only the slightest of noises. With swift, silent strides I crossed the hallway and threw open the door.
It was a room very similar to Janet Hoopers. And standing in the middle of it, with only the bottom part of her bikini on, was a very surprised and puzzled Eva Slater.
We both stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Eva's long black hair hung down her back, with the dead white streak traveling all the way from forehead to where the hair ended. She had a solid body, with large breasts standing out proudly, unrestrained. Her waist was narrow, flaring to spectacular hips, tapering thighs, smooth curves of legs. There was no baby fat left on Eva Slater. She was all solid, functional, well-designed woman.
Her dark eyes regarded me quizzically, but she made no move to cover her nakedness.
"I was about to go for a swim," she said finally, "unless you have some other suggestion."
I closed the door behind me. If it was Eva Slater, or even if it wasn't, this seemed like it might be a good time to find out.
"I have another suggestion," I said, moving toward her.
"Then I suggest you lock the door, so we won't be interrupted," she said calmly.
She was right. An interruption would not be welcome. I locked the door, turned back to her. She was smiling at me, but it was a smile of defiance.
"One thing, however," she said. "I'm used to having men make love to me, men who know what they want and take it no matter what. If you're an amateur, you can just leave now and we'll forget it."
"I've had experience," I told her.
Her voice was mocking. "Have you? Prove it, then."
I stepped toward her to prove it. Her attitude was beginning to annoy me, but her body was getting more desirable by the second. It was so close, so smooth and rounded and full. I reached out for her.
She drew back her hand and struck me across the face, laughed and then moved away. I didn't expect the blow, and I got the full force of it, and my cheek stung. I stared at her, not fully understanding.
She wasn't angry. She struck a provocative pose and moved ever so slightly so that her breasts jiggled with the movement.
"Surely you're not giving up?" she said. "You discourage very easily, Mr. Sly."
"Who said I was giving up?" I said determinedly.
I reached her in two strides, grabbed both wrists in my hands. She struggled to pull away, but she made no outcry, and she was still smiling defiantly at me and those deep eyes were busy probing mine.
"What experience have you had?" she said tauntingly. "With drunken high school girls in the back seat of cars? You can't make out when you find yourself with a real woman, can you?"
She wrenched one of her hands free, and made a swipe at my face with her nails. I ducked and automatically swung a fist to block her attack. The fist struck her on the shoulder, and she reeled onto the edge of the bed.
She held her shoulder with one hand, sitting on the bed, her legs stretched out before her. There was no sensation of pain reflected in her face.
"Now," she said in satisfaction, "you're beginning to show some spirit."
I stared at her, the truth beginning to grow on me. There was a theory that all women secretly want to be raped. With Eva, it was neither a theory nor a secret. She'd invited me in, even locked the door to make certain we wouldn't be disturbed. But she wouldn't give me anything. It would have to be taken forcibly, or not at all.
I hesitated.
"Well?" she said impatiently.
I wondered if Nick Matcha would go in for this sort of thing, and I stared at her half-nude tempting body resting on the edge of the bed, the breasts and the stomach rising and falling with breaths of anticipation coursing through her. Rape and the infliction of pain was nothing new to the Mafia, and with Eva Slater around, a member could get in lots of practice.
And whether I liked the method or not, I had to find out if she was Carol Rutledge!
She got up from the bed and turned away. "Forget it," she said. "You're not a man, you're a-"
I sighed. It was something that had to be done. Savagely, I reached out and gave her a resounding slap across her bikini'd bottom. She turned in sudden surprise, and I grabbed her arm roughly and whirled her all the way to face me. I entwined the thin material of the bikini in my fingers and yanked it savagely from her body.-, "Chris-" she said, wonderingly.
I didn't listen. There was a job to do, and I wanted to get it over with as soon as I could. Forcefully, I pushed her down on the bed, and then forced the breath from her with the weight of my own body. She gasped with pleasure at the roughness of me.
I played my part well, although my heart wasn't really in it, and when it was over I was exhausted from the effort.
She propped herself up on one elbow, shook her black and white hair where it had fallen across her forehead, and looked at me.
"Not too bad, for an amateur. You show promise."
"Thanks a lot," I said drily.
"We might even try it again," she suggested.
"We might," I said, but I knew we wouldn't.
Eva was not Carol Rutledge. I'd made certain to check that fact. That left five others, and I hoped the four I hadn't come in contact with didn't have any outstanding peculiarities that would make my investigation as difficult as in the cases of Janet Hooper and Eva Slater.
"You'd better leave," she said.
She was putting her bikini on once again. Cautiously, I unlocked the door and peered into the hallway. I took a last look at Eva, then slipped out into the hall.
"I wondered what happened to you," a female voice said.
I froze, thinking for an instant it might be Charlotte Rice, with either a shotgun or my walking papers. It was Naomi, coming up the stairs, frowning, her lovely body encased in a sunsuit.
"I was just having a chat with Eva," I said weakly.
"I'll just bet you were," she said, unsmiling. "Which was it this time, chains or whips?"
"Naomi-" I said, reaching for her.
"Don't touch me," she said, evading my grasp. "I thought we could have ourselves a relationship, but if you're going in for this sort of stuff-"
She went into her room and closed the door in my face. I heard the lock click shut. Apparently, she meant it. I wanted to say something, but I just stood there dumbly staring at the closed door, knowing there was nothing I could say. I couldn't explain to her why I'd been in the bedroom with Eva Slater, because I still didn't know for certain that Naomi was not the girl I was looking for. There was only one sure way to find out about that, and under the circumstances this was going to be more difficult than I'd thought.
It would be a matter of wooing her back, of winning her confidence-and at the same time seducing four other girls and trying to keep from getting killed by Carol Rutledge and/or the Mafia!