terror comes creep

The fist remained poised in the air for a second, then it quivered a little.

Clemmie stood there, her eyes closed tight, her whole body shaking with excitement.

“Kill him, Danny,” she repeated stiffly through

30

clenched teeth. “Shoot him in the stomach—he asked for it!”

The truck jockey dropped his arm back to his side | and took another look at her. A trickle of sweat ran [ down one side of his face and he wiped it away with I the back of his hand absently. Then he looked at me i again.

“Whatsa matter with this dame?” he asked hoarsely. “She lost her marbles or something?”

I loosened my coat so he could see the butt of the .38 protruding from the leather holster, then widened my | eyes so the whites showed.

“There’s nothing with the dame, Mac,” I said in a I grating voice. “Just figure you made yourself a lucky ! break and you’ve still got your marbles!”

The trickle of sweat down the side of his face rapidly changed into a steady stream. He backed off a pace 1quickly, with his coordination not functioning a hundred ; per cent, so he bumped another guy on the way.

“I guess a guy can make a mistake,” he said in a jerky | voice. “Sorry.” Then he walked rapidly toward the door.

Gemmie giggled suddenly. “I didn’t really think you’d shoot him, Danny, I was just hoping!”

“I should drape you over that counter and tan the hide off you,” I said sourly.

An interested gleam came into her eyes. “You horrible j man!” she said warmly. “I bet you know I just might I enjoy it.”

What was the use—I quit. The steak sandwiches arrived and she attacked hers with a startling primitive ferocity.

“I have to make a phone call,” I told her. “Just try and behave until I get back—don’t go assaulting any of I these truck jockeys, huh? They’re all married men and they love their wives!”

“Your sandwich will get cold,” she said indistinctly through a mouthful of steak. “No, don’t worry, it won’t. rU eat it.”

“Wear it in good health,” I grunted.

I got inside the phone booth and pulled the door shut behind me, then checked the directory. I called the State Police headquarters and said I wanted to report a murder. I gave them the name and location of the farm; the exact location of the pigpen and a description of Sweet William; I told them the farm was owned by Galbraith Hazelton and I suspected the body was that of his son, Philip Hazelton.

The guy on the other end of the line was most interested in the whole deal. 1 answered one question before I hung up on him.

“And what is your name, sir?” he asked politely.

“Houston,” I told him. “I am Mr. Galbraith Hazelton’s attorney.”

It’s a hard world here below and most of the time you’re too busy kicking the next guy’s teeth in before he does the same to you, but once in a while comes along the chance to do something nice for the next guy. I stepped out of the booth, feeling I’d done my good deed for the day, and if it got Houston into any real trouble, I’d be happy to recommend a good attorney.

By the time I got back to the counter, Clemmie was finishing the last mouthful of my steak sandwich. I got that smell of frying bacon again and right away lost my appetite and settled for a cup of coffee.

WE CAME INTO NEW YORK AROUND FIVE-THIRTY THAT evening. I parked the car on the block where I live on Central Park West, then carried Clemmie’s grip for her into the building.

When we got inside the apartment, she walked over to the window and looked down into my back yard, or Central Park, as other people call it.

“You have a beautiful view, Danny,” she said. “I’m going to like it here.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll fix us a drink.”

The phone rang when I was halfway to the kitchen. I answered it, and a cool, remote voice said, “So my wandering boy finally came home. I’m still sitting in the office like a good secretary should—is there anything I should do before I start out on my Midwestern investments project?”

“Not a thing, Fran,” I said. “Any calls—or callers?” “I was getting around to that,” she said. “Don’t jump me—not in the office, anyway. Callers—there was that Houston man this morning. He seemed almost annoyed that you were out and I didn’t know when you’d be back. . . . Then early this afternoon, just after lunch, there was a Mr. Carl Tolvar to see you. He’ll be back probably tomorrow, he said.”

“Tolver?” I repeated. “I never heard of him.”

“He said the two of you were in the same racket,” Fran added in a bored voice. “From the way he looks it must be white slavery. If you’re thinking of selling me off to an Eastern potentate, Danny Boyd, I warn you now, you’ll only get a ten per cent commission on the deal, and that’s my last offer.”

“How about phone calls?” I said.

“I was getting around to that, too,” she said patiently. “This is where it gets real exciting, so hold onto your insides. A bitchy-sounding dame called about three times during the last hour. She wouldn’t give her name, but the last time she called, she said she’d see you in the same bar where you met yesterday, and she’d wait there until six-thirty. That make any sense?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m glad for you, Danny,” she said gently. “I hope it gets to be an exciting evening—but from the sound of her 33

voice I think you should take a horsewhip along with you. I’ve met her type before.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, Fran,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

“Depending on how my investments pan out tonight, slaver,” she said. “Give the anonymous dame a nice, savage nip from me.”

I hung up and went out into the kitchen and made a couple of drinks, then took them back with me to the living room again. Clemmie sipped her drink appreciatively, and stopped looking at the view and looked at me instead.

“I feel so wonderfully immoral, Danny,” she said happily. “Are you going to make violent love to me now or wait till it gets dark?”

“I have to go out for a while,” I said quickly, “but I should be back in an hour.”

“Would you like me to get dinner ready while you’re gone?” she asked earnestly. “Or just slip into a negligee and wait?”

“Dinner sounds like a wonderful idea,” I said. “There should be some food in the icebox. Why don’t you do that?”

“You think you might bring back some champagne with you, Danny?” she asked wistfully.

“I’ll make a note of it,” I promised her. “Just one thing—don’t answer the phone if it should ring. If I want to call you, I’ll let the phone ring three times, then hang up and dial again right away.”

“I haven’t had so much excitement since that time at school when one of the gardeners chased me around a hedge.”

“Did he catch you?”

“No,” she sighed gently. “It wasn’t my fault—I’d slowed down a lot, but the French teacher’s wife came around the wrong comer at the right time and he caught her instead. Neither of them were ever quite the same afterwards.” “They fired the gardener?”

She shook her head. “He quit to go and work full time at the French teacher’s house."

I came into the bar at quarter after six, and it took me a while to spot Martha Hazelton in the crowd. Then finally I saw her at a table tucked away in one corner and went over.

She wore a cocktail dress, black and white silk, with a 1 widely-scooped oval neckline. There was a blue fox stole with golden glints in it, draped carelessly across her I shoulders. I sat down beside her, relaxing in the uphol-| stered comfort of the bar, and signaled a waiter.

“I was just about to give up hope that you’d get here,” j she said. “I called your secretary—if that’s who she is I —three times, but she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me i anything.”