the ice cold nude

Myra sipped her drink slowly, then shrugged. “I’m disappointed in you, Danny. I was impressed with that act you put on at the pool yesterday. For the first time in my life I thought I’d met a man who wasn’t scared of my husband. Then I found out James used one of the oldest techniques going—if you can’t beat them, buy them—and now you’re just another employee!”

I heard the front door open and close, then the sound of swift, confident footsteps coming down the hall. A moment later Rutter came into the room, saving me the chore of countering Myra’s interpretation of the deal I’d made with her husband.

“Glad you got here, Boyd.” The slate-gray eyes stared at me with their usual arctic warmth. “One thing I always insist on is punctuality.”

“Yes, Mr. Rutter, sir,” I said politely, and Myra giggled suddenly.

His eyes narrowed and a faint flush showed up under his tanned skin. “Are you trying to be funny?” he grated harshly.

“Your wife was just explaining to me, before you came in, that you always like an employee who’s both punctual and polite,” I said easily. “I was on time already, so now I’m trying the politeness jazz because I’m plugging for a raise and promotion to an executive level where I can get to make my secretary on company time.”

“What kind of crap is this?” he rasped. “You don’t work for me and you never will—Hell can freeze over first! We agreed on a proposition, that’s all. If it works out, you get paid—and if it doesn’t, then the hell with you, Boyd! Understand?”

I nodded gravely, then looked at Myra with a deadpan face. “Understand?” I asked her.

“Understood!” She nodded gravely in return, but there was a sudden flicker of interest in her eyes.

“Are you two fried already?” Rutter asked in a bewildered voice. “At midday, by God! Just how long have you been here, Boyd?”

“Maybe ten minutes,” I said, “but I’m a fast drinker.” “But not on stingers,” Myra added. She got onto her feet gracefully and lifted the glass out of my hand. “What would you like to drink, Danny?”

“A vodka martini would be fine,” I answered, “with no fruit or vegetables.”

“You can get me the same,” Rutter growled. He watched her walk across to the bar, the comers of his mouth turning down at the studied deliberation of her swiveling hips. “Why can’t you ever get dressed properly in the daytime?” he asked irritably. “What the hell is that thing you’re wearing, anyway? It’s indecent!”

“It’s a beach dress, darling,” she said, with her back turned toward him as she made the drinks. “An awful lot of people wear them—mostly girls, of course.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” he snarled.

“Just factual.” Her voice was unconcerned. “What would you like me to wear around the house?—a ball gown?”

“Something like most of the other women wear—a blouse and skirt maybe—I don’t give a goddamn, just so you don’t expose quite so much of yourself the whole time.”

“You want me to play Louise Lamont for you, darling?” she purred silkily. “I’m flattered! I guess a girl has to be in a blouse and skirt before she looks sexy to you. If you like, I’ll carry a pad and pencil around with me all the time I’m in the house, and we can make love in shorthand—that’s your special kick, isn’t it?”

“You filthy slut!” he said thickly. “Just keep right on going and you know what you’ll get, don’t you?”

She turned around with a drink in each hand and smiled at him with open derision. “Are you going to be athletic again, darling, and slap me in the teeth?”

I figured this was about where I came in the previous day, and working through that routine again held no enchantment in store.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about anyway?” I asked quickly.

Rutter snatched the drink out of his wife’s hand, then glared at me while he tried to contain his fury. “About what happened last night,” he said finally. “I read what the papers said, but that wasn’t too much. You were right in the middle of it, weren’t you?”

“Too close for comfort,” I agreed.

“So I wanted to hear it from you—in detail.”

Myra put the fresh drink in my hand, then sat down, real close beside me this time, with her thigh pressed firmly against mine. I shifted uneasily, then launched into the story I was getting tired of hearing myself.

Rutter gaped at me for a few seconds when I finally got through with all the detail. “My God! It’s fantastic.” “You’re not telling me a thing,” I said feelingly.

“So all the time Louise was working with this Byers character,” he said slowly. “Then after they*d gotten the tiara, Byers found out she was cheating on him with Estell? So he killed her and last night when Estell couldn’t find the tiara in Byers’ apartment he got so mad about it he killed him. Is that the way you see it, Boyd?”

“It’s logical,” I said. “But where’s the real tiara?”

“How the hell would I know!” he snapped.

“It was a rhetorical question,” I said wearily, “but never mind. What I mean is, you’d expect Byers to have it. The police ripped his apartment into small pieces but they haven’t found it.”

“Maybe he hid it somewhere?” Rutter said vaguely. “The hell with the damn thing. I’m not concerned about that. What I want to know is how the police feel about it? Has Byers being murdered taken me off the hook?” Having lost one client already that morning because he figured he didn’t need me any more, I wasn’t about to create the same feeling in the only client I had left.

“No,” I said shaking my head regretfully. “The way Schell sees it, you killed Louise okay, but she’d already told Byers too much about you and how she’d blackmailed you into the contest deal. So he figures you had to shut Byers’ mouth permanently before he decided to talk to the police.”

“He must be out of his mind!” Rutter said uncertainly. Then a sudden suspicion showed in his eyes. “Wait a minute—if Schell’s so goddamned convinced I did it, why didn’t he question me about it? I haven’t heard from him even in twenty-four hours—he hasn’t even asked me for an alibi for whenever Byers was killed!”

I shook my head admiringly. “That Schell! He’s a very subtle cop. You see how cute he’s playing it? He figures he wants you feeling nice and safe—confident you’ve gotten away with it and all—then at exactly the right psychological moment he’ll jump on you with both feet!”

Some of the color ebbed from Rutter’s face, and he finished his martini in two quick gulps. “The man’s a maniac!” he said thickly. “You’ll have to work fast, Boyd! Either prove that Byers killed Louise and Estell killed Byers, or come up with whoever killed both of them. Either way I don’t give a damn—just prove my innocence, that’s all!”

“I’m working on it,” I said with a hell of a lot more confidence than I felt. “While I’m here, I’d like to check a couple of facts over with you.”

“Sure,” he said eagerly. “Anything, anything at all.” “Yesterday you said the beauty contest was your idea maybe, or maybe it was Louise’s idea in the first place. You didn’t remember, you said, and you got awful vague very quick—like the question embarrassed you somehow.”

“Is it that important—who came up with the idea first?” he snarled.

“I think it is,” I snarled back at him. “But it’s your neck we’re trying to save, not mine!”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “It was an embarrassing question and I guess I’ll have to tell you why. One morning I went to see Machin in his office and he was out. I got talking to his secretary—Patty Lamont— Louise’s sister. She suddenly came up with the idea of a beauty contest as a promotional gimmick and it sounded good to me. I told her what I thought, and she should tell Machin about it. Maybe her boss didn’t rate with her right then, because she kind of giggled nervously, then said why didn’t I tell Machin about it, and pretend it was my own idea. The obvious implication was it would worry the hell out of Machin that he hadn’t thought of it first. So that’s what I did—I have to admit the idea of putting one over did appeal—”