Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

We had two highballs each before going out to hunt a place for dinner.

We dined at a place called the White Swan , a roadhouse about a half mile from the tourist court on route 66. The place had an orchestra and after dinner we alternately danced and sat at the bar until two a.m. And every time I took her in my arms, my temperature went up another degree.

I got the impression the closeness of our bodies on the dance floor was beginning to have an effect on her too. Not from anything she said, for we did remarkably little talking during the evening, but each time we danced she seemed to move more compliantly into my arms and her eyes seemed to develop a warmer shine.

When I finally drove the Dodge back into the car port, I was on the verge of suggesting she come into my cabin for a nightcap, but before I could open my mouth Helena jumped out of the car and entered her cabin by means of the car port door without saying a word to me.

Then, as I sat there foolishly looking at her closed door, I experienced a terrific letdown. I was tempted to get angry, but on reflection I realized she hadn’t actually said or done anything to make me think she had been sharing my own cozy thoughts. Maybe she just realized the direction my thoughts were taking, and wanted to leave no doubts in my mind that our relationship was strictly a business one.

Shrugging, I locked the Dodge and went into my own cabin.

Five minutes later, just as I finished pulling on my pajamas, there was a knock at the door. I put on a robe and opened it to find Helena standing there with her suitcase in her hand.

When I had stared at her expressionless face without saying anything for nearly a minute, she asked, “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“Sure,” I said, recovering my wits enough to step aside.

Walking past me, she set the suitcase on a chair, opened it and drew out a nearly transparent nylon nightgown. Then she turned and, holding the nightgown out in front of her, examined it critically.

Her husky but flat voice said, “I’m frightened all alone over there. Am I welcome here?”

I didn’t answer because I was afraid my voice would shake. I merely closed the door, which up till then I had been too stupefied to shut, locked it and unsteadily poured out two substantial shots of bourbon.

The ice in the pitcher had all melted by now, but I needed mine straight anyway.

The next three days were like a honeymoon. We didn’t have a thing to do but wait for the Buick to be repaired, so we simply relaxed and enjoyed ourselves. With Helena doing the housework, which consisted only of making the bed, emptying ash trays and washing our whisky glasses, we weren’t even disturbed by the proprietor’s wife coming in to clean. Daily we slept till noon, then showered, had a leisurely lunch and spent the rest of the day at the beach.

Evenings we spent dancing and drinking at the White Swan.

In looking back I can see that Helena’s attraction for me was almost entirely physical, because except for her beauty and an unexpected fiery passion, she wasn’t a very stimulating companion. We had almost no conversation aside from routine discussions of our plans for each day, and aside from such physical pleasures as sunbathing, dancing, drinking and love making, I don’t believe she had a single interest.

Two things about her puzzled me. One was her disappearance for a short time every morning. I would awaken about eight a.m. to find myself alone, drift back to sleep and a short time later be awakened again by her climbing back in bed. Her explanation was that she had to have breakfast coffee but didn’t want to disturb me, so she dressed and drove down the road to a diner alone.

The other thing that puzzled me was her ability to get ice from the motel proprietor. Both Wednesday and Thursday noon as soon as she was dressed, she left the cabin carrying the china water pitcher and returned with it full of cracked ice. But when on Friday I happened to get dressed first and took the pitcher to the office while Helena was still under the shower, the proprietor gave me an irritated look and told me he’d already informed me once he didn’t supply ice for guests.

When I returned empty handed, Helena took the pitcher and came back with it full five minutes later.

Friday afternoon I had Helena drive me to the Buick repair garage and discovered the convertible was all ready. The bill was a hundred and fifteen dollars.

“I had to put on a new bumper bracket,” the chief repairman said. “Could have straightened the other, but it would have left it weak. I put the old one in your trunk.”

“How’d you manage that?” I asked. “The lock was jammed last I tried it.”

“Ain’t now.” He demonstrated by walking behind the car, inserting a key and turning it. The lid raised without difficulty. He locked it again and handed me the keys.

I tried the trunk key myself and it worked perfectly.

When I drove out of the service garage Helena was waiting for me in the Dodge a half block away. Again I led the way to a quiet side street, where we stopped long enough for me to switch plates back to the right cars. Then I took the Dodge and Helena followed in the Buick while I drove to the car rental lot.

I had thirty-four dollars coming back from the seventy-five I’d deposited.

As we drove back toward the tourist court I said, “We may as well start back tonight. We can have the car back in your garage by tomorrow morning.”

Helena didn’t say anything at the moment. She waited until we were back in my cabin and I had mixed a couple of drinks.

Then she said, “There’s one other little job we have to do before we go back to St. Louis, Barney.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Drink your drink first, then I’ll show you.”

“Show me?” I asked, puzzled. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

“Drink your drink,” she repeated.

She sounded as though she meant I might need it. I looked at her dubiously for a minute, then drained my glass.

“All right,” I said. “I drank my drink. Now show me.”

Setting down her own drink unfinished, she took my hand and led me to the door. Still holding my hand, she led me to her own cabin door, unlocked it and drew me inside. Then she released her grip on me and locked the door behind us.

“It’s in the bathroom,” she said.

Now completely puzzled, I followed her. In the bathroom the shower curtains were drawn around the bathtub and a glittering new icepick lay on the edge of the washbowl. Without comment Helena drew the shower curtains wide.

Three damp burlap bags were spread over something bulky in the bathtub.

For a few moments I simply stared at the bags, the hair at the base of my neck prickling in anticipation of shock. Then I pushed Helena aside and lifted one of the pieces of burlap.

Underneath, cozily packed in what must have been more than a hundred pounds of cracked ice, was the naked body of a man. He lay on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest and his back to me. The back of his head was oddly flattened and was matted with dried blood.

Letting the burlap fall back into place, I staggered out of the room and collapsed in a chair in the bedroom. Helena followed as far as the bathroom door, then stood watching me with curiously bright eyes as I stared at her in stupefaction.

Finally I managed to whisper, “Who is it?”

“Lawrence,” she said without emotion. “My husband.”

I closed my eyes and tried to make some sense out of the nightmarish discovery that Lawrence Powers, who was supposed to be at a banker’s convention in New York City, was actually lying dead in an improvised icebox not a dozen feet away. Surprisingly it did make sense. Like the tumblers of a lock falling into place, various oddities in Helena’s behavior which had been vaguely puzzling me ever since we started the trip began to develop meaning.