“Glad to,” I said, and approached Godiva.
With a stick I eased her hair aside. The chief was right beside me and I directed his attention to her neck. Imprinted there were the unmistakable marks of fingers, blotches that were bluish with deep ridges in the flesh where the fingernails had bitten into it.
“Choked to death,” I commented. “Sure as hell.”
“Obviously,” the chief said. “Then she was thrown into the water.”
“Right. Where she stayed for a while. Question is-what’s she doing here?”
The chief appeared puzzled. “I don’t know, Mr. Hammer. But we’ll get to the bottom of it, never fear.”
I managed not to laugh. I keep a straight face when I said, “If I can be of help, don’t hesitate.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Hammer. Perhaps… perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.”
This time I couldn’t stop the laugh. “Yeah, perhaps.”
Somebody called, “Chief Beales! Come here, please.”
Chiefie walked over to Mayor Holden and they conversed in low tones. Holden was damn worried, that much was apparent.
Velda had my arm. “What could the motive be?”
“Show me that,” I said, “and I show you the killer.”
Despite a sad expression, Velda regarded the dead woman in a manner as business-like as mine. “Gone about a week, I’d say.”
“Me, too, but we can’t be sure. If we’re right, though, she’d have been killed just about the time she disappeared. Come on, kitten.”
“Where are we going?”
“To get the jump on these dumb hicks.”
CHAPTER FOUR
We stopped first at the telegraph office. On a blank form, addressed to Pat at his home, I wrote: CASE HISTORY CLOSED ON SUBJECT OF OUR DISCUSSION. That was in the event the Western Union clerk was another of Holden’s snoopers. I didn’t want His Honor to know I had already contacted the city police about this.
When I finished, I had to wait a while for Velda to come out of a pay booth outside the office. She was making call after call. What was she up to?
I asked her who she’d been phoning, and she said, “The papers.”
“The New York City papers?”
She nodded and said, “Sharron Wesley maintained a New York residence, too, and after that trial of hers, ought to still make good copy. Besides, letting the newsboys in on it right away will only put us in solid with them.”
I gave that the horse laugh. “Me in solid with those jackals? They’d pimp their Aunt Hattie for a headline. You know how they smear me whenever they can, and-”
She touched my sleeve. “Mike, let’s use them for a change.”
I thought about it, then shrugged. “What the hell, let them in on it. If nothing else, it’ll put a bug up the tail of the local PD.”
“And Mayor Holden. When are you going to get around to giving him a little attention?”
“That’ll come.”
I guided Velda out to my heap just as dusk was turning to dark. We got in and headed for the hotel.
“You stake out a stool in the bar and keep an eye out,” I told her. “It won’t take those reporters long to drive out from the city.”
“Roger.”
I checked my watch. “It’s ten after seven now. They’ll be here by ten.”
“Or sooner, if any of them charter a private plane. There’s an airport about fifteen miles from here.”
I nodded. “They’ll swarm over Beales and his boys, and when they come back with their stories, see if you can find out when that body was placed on the horse. From the dampness of the corpse, the stuff in her hair, I’d say she wasn’t there a full hour before we arrived.”
“That would be my guess, too.”
“Hey, maybe our friend the coroner could narrow it down for us. Call Doc Moody and see if you can wrangle a more approximate time of death out of him. It may be necessary to wait for an autopsy, but get what you can.”
“Okay.”
“It’s possible that there was somebody hanging around the park. If anybody’s been taken into custody, find out who. That’s something the reporters would pick up on.”
I pulled up in front of the hotel.
“So,” she said, “that’s what I’m doing. What about you, big boy? Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Out. That mysterious place where all men go off to. Go on-leave me in the dark. That’s where I do some of my best work.”
I wouldn’t mind getting some first-hand experience on that score.
“All right, baby, all right. First I’m going to the Wesley place, then out to see Poochie. He’s had some recovery time and might be ripe for further questioning. I may need you in a hurry, so be where I can reach you.”
“Okay, Mike, I’ll behave. If I’m not in the bar, I’m in my room. And listen… watch yourself out there.”
“Quit your worrying.”
“I can’t help it. You’re strictly a city boy and this is the wilderness. If this case was in the tenement district, I’d feel a lot better, but when it comes to trees and grass, you’re strictly the proverbial fish out of water.”
I leaned over and kissed her, quick but sweet.
“You’re cute,” I said. “Now do what I told you. It’s not like I’m out hunting Indians.”
She gave me a look, said, “Then try not to come back with an arrow between your ears,” and hipped it inside the hotel.
I drove down the highway to the cutoff that led to the Wesley house. I found it after passing by twice, then had to unlatch an iron gate to drive in. I didn’t go the full length of the driveway, but stopped with the house in sight and slid the jalopy up against some bushes to one side. I hadn’t had my lights on, and the motor was practically silent, so if there was anyone here, they hadn’t heard me coming.
I got an extra. 45 clip from the glove compartment for my left-hand suit coat pocket, and also a flashlight. When I hopped out, I checked my rod, then started up the path, staying on the grass to muffle my footsteps. The path curved out into a wide semi-circle that swept in front of an oversized veranda. For a long moment I just stood there. The moon came out and lit the place up in a pale greenish light, accentuating its lines with long shadowy fingers.
On my left was a newer section, obviously built on in recent years. I chose that first and clung to the shadows as I made my way toward it. The new part turned out to be a free-standing garage. But what a garage.
When I lifted the roll-type door, I guided the beam of the flash around inside like I was bringing in small aircraft. The place was big enough for a fleet of taxis. The concrete floor was well-splotched with oil and grease stains, with the skid marks of countless wheels in the dust.
A nifty ’45 convertible Caddy stood light-blue and lonely in a far corner. I stepped over oil puddles to the big beautiful buggy and worked the flash over her chassis. On the driver’s door were the cursive initials, “S.W.”
Sharron’s personal ride.
Well, she wouldn’t be using it now.
I looked inside. The interior was showroom clean, and the glove compartment was filled with the usual road maps, plus one item of interest-a set of car keys. Wasn’t that an invitation to dine. Too bad Velda’s boss was an honest sort, or she might have been driven back to Manhattan in style…
