No Coffin for the Corpse Page 13

  Safer? Half a second later I knew that a lion’s cage would have been preferable. There was a quick rush of movement in the dark behind me. Something lunged heavily against my back. An arm hooked around my neck and squeezed nut-crackerlike, jerking my head up and back, strangling the startled cry that I had begun.

  I staggered, off balance, trying to twist from the tightening grasp and face my assailant. I didn’t have a chance. Something hard and heavy struck my head, and a shattering burst of pain exploded and blotted out all else. A milky way of shifting, giddily swirling light specks danced in Surrealist confusion before my eyes and I dropped swiftly into nothing.

  Falling, one faint memory lingered for a moment—the rough prickly feel of my attacker’s bearded jaw as it scraped along the side of my face!

  Later, how much later I had no way of knowing, I struggled upward again and felt the chill night air against my face and a throb of pain pounding in my head. I seemed to be upside down, arms dangling, a heavy weight pressing against my thighs. Somewhere, behind the waves of pain, a warning rang and brought a swift flooding of awareness.

  I was lying, for the second time that night, face down across a window sill, my body half out and within a scant inch of toppling over and down.

  Reflex action jerked at the muscles of my legs and my hands tried vainly to reach the sill. I felt a constricting tightness about my ankles and, at the same instant, the grasp of two hands that gripped my legs and lifted them, tipping my body forward. The rough stone of the outer wall scraped against my face as I somersaulted out and hurtled down.

  My mind raced in one last frantic burst of activity, deducing from the sudden jerk at my legs and the rushing acceleration of my downward plunge that a weight was fastened to my ankles. Then the breathtaking shock of the icy water that surged up and closed over me brought the blackout down again.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Frying Pan into Fire

  AFTER THE INITIAL PARALYZING SHOCK, the icy stinging cold burned like liquid fire and set a thousand alarm bells clanging furiously in my brain. Escape in sleep was impossible. I had to wake.

  I doubled, my knees against my chest, and strained to reach the encircling stricture that held my ankles. It was wire—electric-light cord—tied in knots that my stiff aching fingers could not possibly untangle in the few remaining seconds that were left.

  I pushed with panic-stricken haste at my shoes, jerking them off, and then tore at the circle of wire, trying to shove it down over my heels. I didn’t really expect to succeed. But the tying job had apparently been hasty. There was just enough slack. One foot slipped free. And then, as my tortured lungs rebelled against the agonizing pressure, I kicked the other loose. I shot upward, the pain in my chest easing as I exhaled.

  My head broke the surface just as the salty water began to rush in, and I choked, half strangled, gulping air and water. As I struggled to lift my head up above the choppy waves that rose and slapped my face perversely each time I tried to get another mouthful of air, I saw that there was light in the study window. And slowly, as I fought the water and the hampering weight of heavy winter clothing that made any real swimming impossible, I realized that the window was more distant than it should be, that the outgoing tide was carrying me away from house and shore at an alarming rate.

  Frantically I kicked, lifting myself to get a halfway decent lungful of air. Then I sank down once more toward Davy Jones’s locker as I tried to twist out of the overcoat that clung as tightly and obstinately as any strait jacket.

  Next time, given a choice, I’ll go overboard in a sealed coffin rather than take another chance in the completely refractory entanglement of a wet overcoat. The thing snagged once, pinioning my arms behind my back. I gave up, or thought I did. But my arms and shoulders, feeling as though they belonged to someone else, struggled desperately and finally tore loose.

  I gained the surface again none too soon, and began to swim in a dazed automatic fashion. I was dimly aware that I could no longer see the lighted window, but I took a dozen strokes before the fact really penetrated. Then I turned and saw that I had been going in the wrong direction. I tried to rest a moment by floating on my back. But the effort was nearly as great as swimming. I rolled over and struggled on, heading for the black outcropping of shadow at the left of the house where a sun deck extended out above the water.

  I had covered half the distance when the shots came—two sudden reports close together.

  My first thought was that my attacker in the study had seen me and was trying to finish me off. But then, looking up, I saw the black crosshatched lines of the leaded panes. The study window was closed and its yellow square of light was empty.

  I kept one eye on it as I swam, ready to submerge if necessary. The memory of the coldblooded piratical way someone had trussed me up and dumped me overboard made me mad. I was determined to get back and settle that score, if for no other reason.

  Finally, in a last agonizing effort, I reached the porch and hung, completely done in, to an upright piling that was part of the understructure. It was high tide and I could just reach the porch edge above my head, but there was no strength left in my arms to pull my waterlogged body up. I hung on grimly, trying to regain strength enough to work my way the last dozen yards around to the shore.

  But before I dared let go, someone up above threw open the study window and leaned out. The long beam of a flashlight shot down, swept across the black water, and centered full on me. I waited hopelessly for the shot I was sure would come.

  Instead, a voice shouted, “Sergeant! Outside quick! There’s a man down there in the water!”

  Sergeant! It sounded as though the marines might have arrived at last. I concentrated on holding fast.

  A moment later footsteps pounded across the floor overhead, a light shone down on my face. Then a long arm reached down and a hand grabbed my wrist.

  Merlini’s voice said, “Ross! Are you all right?”

  The feeling of relief was so great that my answer, though weak, was sarcastic. “Oh s-sure,” I said. “C-C-Come on in. The water’s f-fine.”

  Merlini’s voice showed relief then too. “You had me scared for a minute. And completely baffled. When you set out to put on a disappearing act of your own, you certainly go to town, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, and I n-nearly stayed there. G-Get me out of here!”

  The sergeant arrived then and, together, they hoisted me up. Merlini stripped off his overcoat, threw it around me, and then, one of them on each side, they hurried me toward the front door.

  As we came into the light of the hall, the sergeant grunted. “Well, I’ll be—”

  It was my old friend Lovejoy who had booked me on the traffic charge a week before. This time I could have kissed him.

  As they rushed me up the stairs, I heard Phillips’s voice at the phone shakily demanding that Doctor Haggard come at once. And Merlini, as we passed, cut in with demands for blankets, hot-water bottles, and other first-aid measures.

  Someone had fixed the light in the upper hall. Galt and Dunning were there, staring at me, and Kay, after one look, gave Dunning the same set of orders Merlini had thrown at Phillips.

  Before the open door of the study stood the man whose light had found me in the water. He was a wiry, slender individual with a grim look on his face and a coldly suspicious stare in his gray eyes. His voice had the timbre of sandpaper.

  “Who the hell,” he demanded, “are you?”

  “Friend of mine,” Merlini answered quickly. “Explain later. We’ve got to get him—”

  “Guy by the name of Harte, Lieutenant,” Lovejoy said, and then appended a summary of my previous criminal record. “I booked him for speeding just last week.”

  He may have said something more; I don’t know. I was staring past the lieutenant in at the study door. The shock of my icy plunge was no worse than the one I got now. There were two bodies on the floor!

  Dudley Wolff was sprawled face down in a curiously twisted atti
tude. A dark wet stain spread from beneath his body near his chest out on across the carpet. Beyond him, in a pale rose dressing-gown, lay Anne Wolff. The curtains at the open window swayed slightly, the only sign of movement in the room.

  I looked at the lieutenant, at the hard eyes that were as icy cold as the water in the Sound outside.

  “Dead?” I said.

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. What do you know about it?”

  “N-Nothing.” I tried hard to sound confident, but my chattering teeth destroyed that illusion completely. “I h-heard the shots. That’s all. I was busy t-trying to keep m-my head above water.”

  “How’d you get out there? Why—”

  Merlini interrupted. “Lieutenant. He won’t be any use as a witness if he dies of pneumonia. Play your game of twenty questions later. I’m going to—”

  The lieutenant had to concede Merlini that point. He turned, threw open the door of Wolff’s bedroom, switched on the light, and said, “Okay, Sergeant. In here. Thaw him out, but stick with him.”

  Lovejoy and I hurried in. Merlini tried to come too, but the lieutenant stopped him. “Not you. Phillips can help him. I want to know who you are, what you’re doing here, and how come you seem to know so damned much about lockpicking. Why—”

  Then the door closed behind us. “Your b-boss,” I told the sergeant as he helped me strip off my wet clothes, “has a surprise or two c-coming his way.”

  “Yeah?” he said as he discovered the revolver in my trousers, and drew it out. “Maybe he’s not the only one.”

  I had the uncomfortable feeling that the sergeant had said himself a mouthful. But the verification didn’t come until later. For the next half-hour or so I was busy defrosting. After drying me off, Lovejoy and Phillips buried me in the bed beneath layers of hot-water bottles and blankets, and plied me with whisky.

  The rest of the house also hummed with activity. Several times the sound of sirens outside heralded the arrival of official re-enforcements in carload lots. And shortly, a brisk, worried man who turned out to be Doctor Haggard hurried in, okayed the anti-chill treatment, made an additional suggestion or two, quickly examined the bump on my head, and concluded, “You’ll be all right. Get some sleep.”

  I was tired. Every last muscle and bone in my body ached. But sleep was definitely not what I wanted most just at this point. I said so flatly, and, suspecting that Haggard had already had a look, added, “What happened in that study? I’ve got to know—”

  But the Gestapo clamped down. Lovejoy shook his head at the doctor and led him toward the door. I didn’t like his attitude, the whispered conference between them, nor the careful way Lovejoy locked the door as Haggard went out. It looked damned suspicious.

  “Now look here, Sergeant,” I said seriously. “Are you and the lieutenant jumping at conclusions because of that gun I had? Just what goes on? Is this my cue to call for a lawyer?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said just as seriously but not very convincingly. You heard the doctor. He said sleep. Start doing it.” He handed me another dose of the medicinal, twenty-year-old, bonded Scotch.

  “Sleep! Another ten minutes of this and I’ll be as tight as a hoot owl. How can I sleep at a time like this?”

  “Why not?” Lovejoy asked, trying hard to look sly. “Guilty conscience?”

  That gave me an idea. “Yes,” I said. “Something like that. Get the lieutenant in here. I want to make a confession.”

  It worked. His eyes popped. He turned and made for the door. “Get Flint,” he told the uniformed cop who stood outside. “He wants to talk.”

  But the lieutenant, apparently up to his neck in other things, didn’t come immediately. And when he did come, if he did, I never knew it. Ten minutes later I was sound asleep. Lovejoy, as I afterward discovered, had spiked that last drink with Luminal which Haggard had supplied when I showed signs of being obstinate.

  When I awoke, Merlini was shaking me and the cold gray light of dawn was beginning to glow at the windows.’

  “Wake up,” he said. “Morning’s at seven—or maybe a bit earlier—and the hillside’s dew-pearled; the lark’s on the wing, and the inquisition is about to inquisit.”

  Lieutenant Flint was there too, pouring himself a drink from the bottle at my bedside. Both men looked tired and unhappy. Flint, in addition, had a badly frayed temper. I suspected that he had been hearing ghost stories and not liking them. He didn’t look as if that sort of thing was his dish of tea. As I tried to shake the sleep from my eyes, he walked around the room giving it a careful once-over. He eyed the stack of steel file cabinets in the corner thoughtfully, and then went to the window overlooking the Sound. He opened it, put his head out and scowled down at the water.

  I scowled too, remembering something. “Is that burglar alarm on duty at the moment?” I asked.

  Flint turned. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You just put your head out the window. I don’t hear any bells.

  “No,” Flint said. “Wolff apparently didn’t think it was needed on the windows directly over the water.” He paused, then added slowly, “I guess he didn’t figure on a murderer making a getaway by doing a high dive out into the Sound.”

  I tried to overlook that crack. “So that’s why there were no loud alarms when I put out to sea. I was wondering about that.”

  Then Flint pounced like a hungry cat. “So you admit you were in the study? And you dived out the window after the shooting, and—”

  I shook my head energetically. “Hold it! You’re way ahead of me. I was in the study; I’ll admit that. And I did leave by the window, but I didn’t dive out. And the shooting—”

  Flint leaned above the bed like a movie district attorney. He stopped just short of shaking his finger under my nose. “If you didn’t dive out, how the hell—”

  I appealed to Merlini. “Is there any way to make him sit down quietly and listen, or is his St. Vitus’s dance incurably chronic?”

  “It’s chronic and epidemic,” Merlini answered. “I’m latching it myself. Will you please—”

  Both men were even more upset than I had realized. Flint turned on Merlini and exploded. “Will you sit down and shut up? Okay, Harte, talk fast and make it hold water.”

  “Water? Don’t mention it. I’ll have a relapse. I was in the study and I went out the window, but I didn’t dive or jump. I was thrown out with a weight tied to my ankles!”

  That stopped him. I couldn’t have rocked him harder it I’d hit him on the head.

  Merlini closed his eyes hopelessly. “There you are, Lieutenant,” he groaned. “The mystery of the missing andiron and light cord explained. I was afraid of this. And I have an awful premonition that Ross’s story isn’t going to help matters a bit. It’s going to make them worse!”

  Flint, recovering somewhat, ignored him. “And just who,” he demanded, “threw you out?”

  I reached quickly for the bottle of Scotch. This wasn’t going to be any fun—not if I told the unvarnished truth. And I didn’t see what else I could tell—not without sticking my neck out even farther than it projected already.

  I looked at Merlini. “He’s heard about our haunt, I suppose?”

  Merlini blinked at me and nodded. “Yes. He has. But he doesn’t care for it much. You’d better treat the subject gently, if at all.”

  “It didn’t treat me gently. It tried to murder me. It knocked me out, tied me up, and threw me in the drink.”

  “The ghost?” Merlini looked at me as though I were one.

  “Yes. And for a frail, half-transparent, ectoplasmic wraith, he packs a hefty wallop.”

  “Now look,” Flint growled in an I’ve-had-enough-of-this-nonsense tone of voice, “start at the beginning and give me one thing at a time. And without ghosts.”

  “All right. I don’t think it’s a spook anyway. It’s a homicidal maniac. Merlini and I—” I stopped short and threw Merlini a quick questioning glance. I didn’t know how much he had told Flint about our burglarous entry into the ho
use.

  He saw my difficulty. “I’ve confessed all, Ross,” he said. “You do the same.”

  That was a lot easier said than done. But I let Flint have it, the whole story, from the moment I backed in through the study door until Merlini and the sergeant had fished me out of the water. Flint refrained from interrupting, but I could see his questions accumulating by the dozen as I talked. When I had finished, he looked at Merlini.

  “Well, you wanted to hear his story. You’ve heard it. Are you still insisting that he’s in the clear?”

  “Afraid so,” Merlini said. “You see I’ve known him long enough to know that if he were the murderer, he’d have cooked up a better yarn than that one.

  I growled. “That is certainly a lulu of a left-handed character reference!”

  Flint said, “He is going to have to cook up a better yarn than that one.”

  “Hadn’t you better check this one first?” Merlini asked. “It shouldn’t be hard. Mrs. Wolff’s evidence ought to tell us—”

  I jumped. “Did you say Mrs. Wolff? Do you mean that she’s alive—that she wasn’t—”

  “Yeah,” Flint said. “And maybe you’d like to make some changes in that movie scenario of yours before she blows it apart?”

  I ignored him. “Merlini, tell me—”

  “Anne Wolff wasn’t shot,” he explained. “She fainted. We brought her around, but the lieutenant hasn’t questioned her yet. Doctor Haggard says she’s suffering from nervous exhaustion.”

  “Both bullets in Wolff?”

  “Yes. One got him in the chest, the other, apparently fired after he fell, in the back. The angle of the shots indicates that the murderer was standing between him and the window. A third bullet hole in the wall above and to the left of the fireplace was apparently fired from near the door.”

  “A third? But there were only two shots.”

  “I know. I only heard two myself. But there was a bullet in the wall just the same. Twenty-five caliber like the ones in Wolff.”

  “Now that,” I said, “is interesting. And has the lieutenant here noticed that the gun his man Friday found on me was a .38?”