the ice cold nude

The last time I was in Santo Bahia Td learned the hard way that the guy who's real smart carries his gun under his armpit, and not in the suitcase back at the hotel. Now Td learned it over again from Marty Estell and the lesson hadn't been any easier to come by. So I stopped off at the hotel first, went up to my room, and put on the shoulder harness under my coat. The weight of the .38 was comfortably reassuring as I rode the elevator hack to the lobby again. All in all. the detour hadn't taken more than ten minutes at most and I figured it had been worth it. Not that I expected any real trouble from little Willie, but sometimes you never can tell until it's too late.

The first time I'd visited his apartment house, the peace and quiet surrounding it—both inside and out—had seemed both dignified and elegant. This time I wasn’t too sure. The subdued hush that pervaded the atmosphere was more in keeping with a morgue than a place where people lived-

When Byers’ door opened so promptly to my discreet buzz, I figured maybe he was lonely and I’d get a warm welcome—well, some kind of welcome—almost any damned kind of welcome except the one I got. The door opened wide like WhoooshI and there I was staring down the barrel of a .38 that seemed somehow familiar. With a hell of an effort I raised my eyes and stared into the bloodless death mask that Marty Estell passed off as a face.

“Come right on in, pal,” he said tightly. “We’ve been expecting you right along.”

I did like I was told—who argues with the wrong end of a gun?—and he slammed the door shut behind me. The gigantic Pete stood solidly in the middle of the room, soiling its elegance, while the flamboyant, sprawling nude still dominated one wall.

“You were expecting me?” I said blankly to EstelL “How? You have a crystal ball, maybe?”

“The phony address didn’t fool me one minute,” he said coldly. “But I knew the name was right—it checked out with the broad—so we looked in the phone book before we took off. Then once we got here and found what you’d left for us, pal, I knew it had to be either you or the cops knocking on the door. And cops make a hell of a lot more noise than you did.”

“It’s like I’m confused, Marty,” I said honestly. “Figuring out the address was a phony, I can understand. Whatever it was I left for you here, I don't understand. How you knew I’d get out of those straps that Pete tied so tight he nearly severed some arteries—this I don’t understand, either. Or the optional bit about it had to be me or the cops?”

“I guess Pete softened you up more than I figured,” he said. “Maybe we should refresh your memory, pal?” He gestured with his gun toward the bedroom door. *’In there, huh?”

In there was the bedroom and it contained all the things you expect to find, including a bed. The unexpected lay on the bed, flat on his back, legs neatly together, fully dressed, one arm outflung, the other in a crooked position, the hand near the head, the gun on the pillow, and the bullet hole two inches above his right ear.

In death, Willie Byers looked even less impressive than he had in life, which was saying a hell of a lot. The graying brown hair looked like chaff the cattle had rejected a couple of weeks back, and the vacant expression on his face was a memory to keep even a morgue attendant awake nights.

“You think I killed him?” I said incredulously.

“Who else?” Marty said flatly.

“I wish I could remember what it was I ever did to you, that you hate me so much?” I said feelingly.

“It was real neat,” Marty said. “If the phony address worked, we’d be gone long enough for you to figure a way out of that bathtub. If we were smart and found the real address, we wound up with a corpse—so we’d beat it fast and keep right on running. Or you could have pulled a switch, called the cops and let us be taken right here with a body in the bedroom.”

I took another look at the mortal remains of Willie Byers. “Don’t you think he suicided?” I asked cautiously.

“Like I said, real neat,” he repeated. “You told us the whole bit, remember? Louise and Byers pulled the job between them. Then he knocks off Louise for all the reasons you said—his nerve cracks and he puts a slug into his brain. Real neat. Only one thing missing, pal, and that’s the ice. Where’s the tiara, huh?”

This time there was nothing I didn’t understand and it made me feel kind of nervous. Marty had me figured as the mastermind who double-crossed his girl, took the tiara away from her, then killed her—and this was only a starter—then knocked off Willie Byers and made it look like suicide. Yeah, there was one more thing— maybe I’d intended to stick him with a murder rap if the cops wouldn’t buy the suicide bit.

“You mind if I have a cigarette?” I asked him.

“Yeah—” he nodded “—I mind. I got other plans for you, pal. Like we’ll go back into the living room and you tell us what you really did with that ice?”

His wish was the .38’s command, so we went back into the living room. “Sit down,” Marty told me, and Pete cuffed my shoulder a second later, sending me backwards at a fast rate until the edge of my knees hit the couch and I was sitting down already.

“Let’s keep it simple,” Marty said. “You tell us, or Pete takes you apart, like before. Only this time there’s no dame—only you.”

There was no chance of convincing him I didn’t know where that damned tiara was, so all I could do was play it cagey. “What’s the percentage in it for me?” I asked him. “What happens if I do tell you where the ice is stashed?” I figured it might help a little if I spoke his language for a while.

“You save yourself a whole mess of grief, pal,” he said. “If you don’t tell me now, you will pretty soon. Nobody can stand up to a workout from Pete for too long without spilling their guts—trouble is you maybe won’t be able to put them back by that time.”

“This I dig,” I said fervently. “But what happens then?” “I owe you for a whole lot of trouble, Boyd.” The side of his face twitched violently. “Like you killed my broad and heisted the ice from under my nose—you know just how much trouble you caused me already. So I pick up the gun from in there” —he nodded toward the bedroom—“use it on you, wipe off the prints, stick it in your mitt, and we walk out.”

“The cops won’t buy it,” I said in a sneering voice. “They’ll have the same problem you got, Marty. Where’s the ice? Where’s the red tiara all this time?”

“It won’t worry me too much if they buy it or not, pal,” he said flatly. “But I think they will—my bet is that’s the gun you used on Louise and the three slugs will match up. So maybe you dropped the tiara over a cliff or something—who’s to know?”

He glanced at the heavy, oversized watch on his wrist. “You got five seconds before I tell Pete to go, pal. And once he starts, I’m not about to stop him even if you’ve told where the ice is stashed five times already!”

In a tactical situation, I didn’t have much advantage with Marty standing directly in front of me, his gun pointing straight at my chest, and Pete standing to one side only six feet away.

“Okay,” I said nervously. “You win, Marty. Now can I light a cigarette while I talk?”

“What difference? But don’t stall, pal!” For the first time there was the faintest animation in his voice.

“I’m not stalling,” I told him, while I slid my right hand gently inside my coat.

“Hold it!” Pete shouted. “Boss—maybe he’s got a gun?”

“Sometimes you’re so stupid I wonder how you ever learned to eat all by yourself!” Marty said bitterly. “What was the first thing you did when he walked into the broad’s apartment?”