the ice cold nude

“Danny”—Myra smiled sweetly at my frozen face— “this is my husband James. I don’t think a handshake is necessary, but it would be polite if you turned around and gave him another viewpoint, don’t you think?”

“The introductions can wait, Myra,” Rutter said crisply. “I think we should go into another room and leave Mr. Boyd to dress.”

“All right,” she said indifferently. She swung her feet onto the floor, then stood up. “I’ll freshen up the drinks while we wait, Danny.”

Right then I would have liked to say something—anything at all—but my vocal chords were still completely paralyzed along with the rest of me. I heard the faint rustle as Myra picked up her swimsuit and I heard them walk out of the room. The door closed after them, and all was silence except for the sound of my knees knocking together. Then I suddenly came to life in one convulsive tremor, and made a dive toward my clothes.

I was knotting my tie when I heard a couple of sharp, rapping sounds from somewhere else inside the house. Maybe a minute later I was fully dressed, so I stepped out of the guest room not at all sure exactly what awaited me, like a brace of loaded pistols.

Rutter was waiting for me in the living room. A tall, huskily built guy who looked like he could go fifteen rounds with about anyone you cared to name. His thick black hair was streaked with gray, and the gray was repeated in his eyes, which held all the warmth of a tombstone carved out of granite. He was massaging the back of one hand with a set of well-manicured fingers when I came into the room.

“Sit down, Boyd,” he said almost cheerfully. “I want to talk with you.”

I sat on the edge of the chair and fumbled for a cigarette while he still massaged busily.

“Just hurt my hand,” he said casually. “Shows what can happen when a man loses his temper for a moment and hits his wife too hard, eh? Must be an object lesson wrapped up in that someplace—don’t you agree, Boyd? I’m afraid Myra won’t be joining us for a while, but I know she’d want me to apologize for her and make sure you’re quite comfortable. Can I get you anything?”

“Not one single thing,” 1 said thinly.

He shrugged easily. “Oh, well. I guess you’ve pretty much helped yourself to everything available already?’* “You caught me with your wife,” 1 said tautly,” so I guess you’re entitled to play the whole bit if you insist. But don’t shove it too hard, Rutter, or I could get real mad and maybe wind up hurting my own hand a little.” “Don’t waste any sympathy on Myra,” he said harshly. “She’s a tramp from way back. You’re only a number in an arithmetic progression as far as she’s concerned. Tomorrow she won’t even remember your name, and next week she won’t even remember you!”

I got to my feet again. “So now you’ve talked with me,” I snapped. “If you want to call me a few names on the way out, that’s fine—be my guest.”

He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth in a gesture of irritation. “Sit down, will you? I haven’t started to talk yet!”

“I’ve heard all I want from you about your wife, friend,” I said as patiently as I could. “Drop me a postcard, huh?”

“This has nothing to do with Myra,” he grated. “This concerns me—and you.”

The look of surprise on my face must have shown as I slumped back into the chair. Rutter glared at me for a little while, then ran his fingers through his hair in a frustrated gesture.

“Look! I wasn’t going into the plant at all today. I had a long interview with a certain police lieutenant downtown and I figured that was enough. Then I changed my mind and went into my office for an hour after lunch. I talked to Machin and he told me about your visit—the questions you asked. After that I called Elmo and asked about you. He said you came highly reccomended from Lieutenant Schell, no less.”

“So what do we have to talk about?” I growled.

The back of his hand wiped his lips a second time as he still glared at me intently. “Louise Lamont was murdered last night. You found her body, right?”

“Sure.”

“Schell seems convinced there’s a direct link between the tiara theft and her death. What do you think?” “Who the hell cares what I think?”

“Please!” He made a tired, downward gesture with his hand. “I’m not playing games, Boyd. This is important to me.”

“She was shot,” I said. “Whoever killed her put a tiara on her head, then left her in the shower with the water running. Sure I figure there’s a direct link.”

“So?” He pursed his lips tight. “Schell didn’t bother to tell me about the tiara.”

“It wasn’t the real one,” I said, “just another fake.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “That makes a clear-cut obvious connection between the theft and Louise’s murder. That gives me quite a problem, Boyd, because there’s a direct link between Louise and myself!”

“I know,” I said shortly.

The gray eyes searched my face with cold purpose. “Just how much do you know about that?”

“She was your confidential secretary until a few months back,” I said. “Then she called your wife, said she was your mistress, and demanded money to keep the fact quiet. Your wife told her to go to hell, then called you. There was a screaming fight between you and the Lamont dame which resulted in you kicking her out of the office with a ‘Never to return’ label hung around her neck. Then you came up with the brilliant idea of holding a beauty contest to gain publicity—and coincidentally Louise turned up as one of the contestants. Even more coincidentally she became one of three finalists and, the way I hear it, had openly boasted she was going to win the contest from the day she first entered. Like the implication was somebody had rigged the contest her way.”

“You haven’t wasted your time since you got here,” he said with grudging respect in his voice. “You know the way that damned lieutenant has things figured out?” “No,” I said confidently, “but I can guess.”

“So guess,” he said sharply.

“He figures Louise blackmailed you into creating the contest so she could become a contestant and win it. Then maybe she forced you into the publicity deal with Elmo so she could steal the tiara. It built up to breaking-point with you—came the time when you couldn’t take it any more, so you killed her. Is that what Schell thinks?”

“It’s close enough not to make any difference,” Rutter grunted sourly. “Do your have a different theory?” “Right now I don’t have any theory—period!” I told him.

He turned away from me and stalked up and down the room a couple of times, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a look of deep concentration on his face. Finally he stopped, facing me again.

“If you want to find that tiara for Elmo, it looks like you got to find out who killed Louise first—right?” he asked abruptly.

I shrugged. “Could be—I don’t know yet”

“How much is Elmo paying you?”

“Expenses—five thousand when he gets the tiara back.”

“I'll make you a proposition, Boyd.” The gray eyes bored deep into my skull. “You come up with Louise’s murderer and Fll pay you another five thousand.” “Even if it’s you?” I queried innocently.

“Sure,” he grated. “I know damned well I didn’t kill her! I think it’s a reasonable proposition. It doesn’t cut across Elmo’s interests—the reverse, in fact. What do you say?”

“Okay, I’ll accept it,” I said promptly. I would have been out of my mind to refuse. “So now you’re a client of mine, right?”

“Repugnant as the thought is”—he closed his eyes for a moment—“yes, I am.”