Джо Горес - Dead skip

Ballard paused in the shadows of the dripping bushes that flanked the walk. No lights showed in the house, but that didn’t mean nobody was home. It was two o’clock in the morning. The bars were just closing and... He gave a little snort. Just seventy-two hours since Bart had gotten it, and here he was, at the killer’s house.

Why, really? Because he wanted to close this one out all by himself? Partially. But also because the murderer might find out that Bart Heslip was still alive. If Griffin was buried here, the killer might have left traces he would hide or obliterate, not knowing that Bart was permanently blacked out on what he had seen when he had been struck.

He shot one glance between sodden leaves back at the car. Just a dim shape across the street. From behind, Giselle’s head would be hidden by the high-backed seat. It made him feel rather secure to know Giselle was there to warn him with a horn blast if anyone fitting the murderer’s description showed up.

Ballard boldly mounted the broad front steps, eleven of them, and gently turned the front doorknob. Locked, of course. It wasn’t the foolhardy maneuver it seemed; he knew his rubber-soled shoes made little noise on the steps or the porch itself.

Door locked, no garage to give possible access. Around in back, then.

The lot wasn’t a great deal wider than the house, even though it was a double, but the property was deep. He had to use his flashlight three times on the journey along the side of the house to keep from tripping over bushes or roots. The ground rose sharply under his feet; a hillside lot, backed up against the broad base of Twin Peaks.

The back door was also locked, although the wood of the frame was so old that it almost gave when he laid his weight against it. Ten seconds with his tire iron would have had it open, but they would have been noisy seconds.

Better to try the windows first. Because of the slope of the lot, the sills of the rear windows were at waist-level rather than far above his head as they had been at the front.

The third one he tried was unlocked.

But it was stuck. He worked on it with the tire iron, digging it into the wood and gently prying upward, and within a few moments it had broken free. He pushed up the bottom half, then melted back into the bushes behind the house.

Ballard had prowled houses before, of course; nobody spent very long in the investigation game without an occasional crude illegal-entry job — through attached garages if nowhere else. Usually it was just curiosity, the almost unnatural interest in delving behind people’s facades that most detectives seemed to have.

Curiosity. What killed the cat. And he was dealing with a killer.

No lights went on, no second-story windows went up, no pale questing faces appeared. After two minutes Ballard moved in again. If anyone was there, he was asleep. Or lying in ambush.

Ashcan that, Ballard. Time to do it.

He wiped his hands down his pant legs before swinging a leg up over the sill, then went in under the white lacy curtains that covered the opening. When he straightened up he was in a disused dining room. A single stab of flashlight showed a heavy oak table, big captain’s chair at the head and lesser chairs ranged down the sides. An immense oak sideboard with a collection of bottles on it. Behind it, a big mirror with an ornate frame.

Ballard wiped his hands again. He was totally illegal now, totally vulnerable. If the bastard walked in on him now and shot him, the cops couldn’t do a damned thing about it except sweep him up and cart him away.

Better not to think about that. If the killer wasn’t in here, asleep, Giselle would give warning if he showed up.

He crossed the room by the flashlight, switched it out before opening the door. The air in the hall was fresher; the dining room, then, was usually shut up. Which suggested a man living alone. He wished he’d had time to research this guy a little.

The hell of it was, he was scared. Heart thumping.

Light from the street came through the heavy etched glass half-panel of the front door despite the fog. By it, Ballard could see that the hallway ran straight back through the house to the kitchen in the rear. He stood in front of the dining-room door, mouth-breathing. No sound, not anywhere in the house. No feel of anyone in the house.

The kitchen was old-fashioned, with a wooden drainboard flanking the stained porcelain sink. Water heater, new icebox, new electric stove. He opened a couple of drawers at random. Silverware. Knives. A heavy-caliber blued-steel revolver. A homeowner’s weapon. Ballard checked it. No shells. He left it there. A tire iron was a better weapon than an empty gun.

Peanut-butter jar open on the table beside the toaster. Small plate, butter-smeared knife, coffee cup with a half-inch of mud in the bottom, everything seen in circular segments by his moving flashlight.

Breakfast remains; so he hadn’t eaten supper here. Hadn’t returned from work, maybe. Which suggested the probability that Ballard had the place to himself but might not for much longer.

So get moving.

The door which opened off the hall beside the kitchen door showed utter blackness and stairs going down. Cellar. Where he wanted to go, after making sure he was alone. Burning sensation between the shoulder blades. He worked his shoulders to ease it. Tension.

Past the dining-room door. Next, same side of the hall, the study. Empty. Next, living room. Empty. Old, heavy, cumbersome, perhaps valuable furniture. Antiques, probably. Probably inherited along with the house. A baby grand piano. Well dusted. Probably had a woman in once a week. He sure as hell could afford it.

The stairway to the second floor was just to the left of the front door as you entered from the street. Wide hardwood treads, so solid they didn’t creak though they must have been there at least half a century. The banisters were also hardwood, polished by generations of hands.

On the second floor the hall ran across the width of the house rather than down its length. Six doors opened off it, three on each side. So dark that Ballard had to use his flashlight, first to guide himself to each door and then to guide his hand to the knob. He was sweating profusely. If anyone was here, on this floor was where they would be.

Bathroom. Empty. Modern fixtures, all redone. Men’s toilet articles. Across the hall to the street-side room. A bedroom, fixed up into a study. New, modern furniture, bright colors, vinyls and naugahyde, Swedish modem desk and chairs. Money had gone into it. Well, he had money, right?

Middle rear, another bedroom, unused. Must have been his as a kid, pennants on the wall, street signs, faded photos of Forty-Niners who had retired. The Lion, Hurricane Hugh, Y.A. An odd monument to an innocent past.

Middle front room, very careful opening the door, single flash of the light to show it was a bedroom with a big unmade king-size bed. Ballard made a quick check of the two walk-in closets. Lots of clothes, all men’s clothes, good ones. Ten pairs of highly polished shoes. He went to the window, checked the street by carefully drawing aside the curtain. He could see the roof of his car. The fog was as thick and wet-looking as before. Everything serene. Everything muffled.

Final rear room was a darkroom, a hell of a good one — all the chemicals, a Zeiss enlarger that looked new, storage racks with photo paper. A photography buff, too.

Which left the sixth door. Ballard tried this cautiously: locked. He looked at the join between frame and door. Dried. A gap there. He inserted the spatulate end of his tire iron and exerted steady gradually increasing pressure against the lock. It gave. The door was open. Spiral stairs led up, which made it the entrance to the third-floor turret room. What the hell. Better make sure.