Corpses in the Cellar (15 page)

As he kissed them, mouthed them, their firmness seemed to yield, and they softened, became like velvet, and now his hands
were on them too, impelled there, revelling in what they felt. Her hands were in his hair again, fingers like snakes, writhing,
while her body strained against his, pushing hard, rubbing.

He felt a buzzing in his ears, his hands all over her now, imagined the blood in him rushing, roaring through his body, the
buzzing becoming louder, louder. He pulled her tighter, his mouth savage against hers, quickening as she moaned and responded
like something primitive and wild.

And then his hands slowed down, and he felt himself concentrating, not on her, but on the sound.
Was
it passion that was causing it? His eyes flicked open, and he found she was staring at him. He remembered the drink. Had
she doped it?

Her eyes widened as he rose, uncertain as to what he meant to do. He ran his hands over his face, past his ears, then gripped
his head. His mind was clear, and yet the buzzing continued.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her breasts gleaming with moisture.

He said nothing, listening.

“What’s wrong?” she asked again, like a little girl who was afraid she’d unconsciously committed a crime, a crime that meant
nothing to her but would forever condemn her in the eyes of grownups. One of her hands slid up along his thigh. “Don’t stop
now. Please.”

He barely heard her, moving a few steps to the left, then to the right. Next, he advanced toward the open doorway near the
couch. The buzzing intensified.

“Where are you going?” she cried, as he went through the door. “Please!”

Now the buzzing increased, increased till the level could go no higher. He was standing in a bedroom, one furnished in masculine
taste. A solid mahogany dresser stood in one corner, a massive bed dominated the center of the far wall, a desk and chair
to the side of it, heavy, all of it, but obviously well-crafted. The walls were copiously decorated with exotica: oriental
masks, African sculpture, paintings of ships and locomotives, weapons from around the world. Mack Grand’s bedroom.

He saw where the sound was coming from now, and strode to the other side of the bed, already knowing what he was going to
find.

He was halfway around when he saw it, and it stopped him in his tracks, despite his expectation, despite his foreknowledge.
The body looked tiny, almost like a doll, although it was the body of a man, an old man, an old man whose bald head was almost
obscured by the swarm that surrounded it, the thick clouds of humming houseflies partaking of the sticky red liquid that covered
it and had flowed to the carpet below. It was Mack Grand.

The detective advanced, waving his hands at the insects, fighting them off, as he lowered himself beside the body. It had
not yet grown completely cold, a faint warmth meeting his open palm as he pressed it against the dying flesh. Mack Grand.
Debbie’s husband. Lying here, all this time, while in the next room, he and—

He heard the faint rustle of silk slicing through the drone of the flies, and turned, then wrenched his body to one side in
split-second timing, the gleaming knife tearing through his suit coat, and sliding down along his side.

“Stop!” he called, as already the knife was raised again, but his assailant paid no heed, the long blade in the small pink
hand slashing down once more, only to be stopped in midthrust by his unyielding grip.

“Debbie! Give it up!” he cried, but she was like a madwoman, screaming at him, eyes witchlike, veined with red as she struggled
toward the detective, her teeth snapping at him as if she were a mad dog going for his throat.

He gathered up all his strength, gripped her, and slowly rose, shaking her as still she tried to tear at him, wrenching an
arm free and clawing at him, gutteral sounds ripping out of her throat.

The small hand slashed at his eye, catching in the flesh, and instinctively he threw his arms out, and thrust her across the
room, her small, compact body flying over the bed, landing near a bookcase at the far wall. Before he reached her, her hand
had seized at the curved Malaysian sword that hung from the wall, and she held it out toward him, her breathing quick, uneven,
like that of a rabid dog.

“Debbie! Don’t! It’s too late now. There’s no way you can save yourself,” he told her, but she stood her ground, her face
a distorted mask, exuding evil.

He advanced toward her, and still she stood there, waving the sword, snarling.

“Debbie, put it down.”

If he had been less agile, that would have been the end of it. Her dancer’s body thrust forward, the sword slashing at him,
missing him by inches.

His pistol was out of its spring holster now, and he pointed it directly at her. “Put down that sword.”

Her voice was high, maniacal. “You wouldn’t shoot me! You don’t have the guts!” And slowly she began to advance on him, the
razor-sharp blade out-thrust.

He fought off the temptation to end it all, to put a bullet in her, to drop her for good. He wasn’t there to kill.

She was within a few feet of him now, the sword whistling back and forth as she continued to advance, the motion controlled.
If she were an amateur at this, she’d learned damn fast.

She came on, and slowly, he retreated. He had to stop her. Stop her, but not kill her. He could try to wing her, hit her in
the arm, in the leg, but one shot might not stop her, and while he concentrated on the shot, the sword could come slicing
in at him.

His mind worked desperately, and then it came to him.

“Screen test!” he cried. She stopped in midmotion. “If you do this, you’ll never have a screen test!”

His instinct had been right. He’d got her where she lived, distracting her for just the briefest of moments, and as she stood
there, uncertainly, his hand reached back for the photo on the desk, and then hurled the object at her like a ball of shot,
the heavy metal frame heading straight for her face.

Even as her arm came up to shield herself, he was on her, raising her arms high, spinning her around, and then, his body tight
against hers, smashing her against the wall. The sword faltered, then dropped, and he spun, pushing her toward the bed and
then down, wrenching her around, so that as she hit, she was facing him, stunned, her bare chest already reddening from where
it had been crushed. Her nose was bleeding, her chin was rubbed raw from the wall.

“It’s all over,” he told her, holding her down, pinning her there till he could feel her acknowledge her defeat, her body
going limp, her eyes closing, lids clenched, and then reopening, the madness no longer there.

He stepped back from her.

“Why did you do it, Debbie?” he asked. “Why?”

She looked up at him, imploringly. “Please,” she said. “Please. Anything you want. Anything you want from me, anything you
want to do to me. You can have it.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“Please. Money. I’m worth a lot of money now. Will be, if you’ll go along. You and me. Or you can have all of it. Anything
in the apartment. Me. My body. All of it.”

“No dice.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “Don’t let them take me. Don’t let them put me away.”

“It’s too late now, Debbie, too late.”

She flung herself over onto her stomach, burying her face in the bedding, crying. Only this time, he realized, the tears were
real.

He looked down at her, dispassionately. “Why did you do it? You might as well tell me. It’ll all come out in time, anyhow,”
he told her, reholstering his pistol. He knew he wouldn’t need it now.

She wheeled toward him, and her eyes filled with hate.

“Why? I’ll tell you why?” She spit the words out, and for the first time, he found himself feeling sorry for Mack Grand, knowing
what Grand must have seen in his wife’s eyes in those few final moments. And perhaps even before.

She had slid down to the floor, sitting there, back against the bed, her hellion’s face turned up toward The Hook. “I hated
him, that’s why! He came to me with all sorts of promises, with flowers, with gifts, like a rich man, like a man who knew
his way around, and he lied to me! Over and over he lied to me!”

She broke off, and after a moment he asked, “What lies?”

“He told me he’d make me a star! Told me he had big connections in Hollywood! And I believed him! Fell for it! When he told
me I could have everything I wanted—all of it—if I married him, I swallowed it all. The son-of-a-bitch!” Her voice was full
of gutter sounds now, the all-American girlishness stripped away for the moment, and perhaps forever.

“He never delivered,” he prompted her.

“Never delivered?” she cried. “He never even
tried
to deliver! Once we were married, he ignored all of that. I’d try to get him to do something, get me something, even a simple
little screen test, and he’d just laugh and walk away. And then at night—at night—when he’d try to come near me—when he’d
try to make me do those things—” She looked sick now, revulsed by the memories.

“So you decided to kill him for the insurance.”

“Yes. I couldn’t live with him anymore, but I was damned if I’d let him off cheaply. He owed me. He really owed me. And I
knew he was too broke for alimony.”

“How did Eddie Black come in?”

Something changed in her face, and she fell silent a moment, musing, her lips slowly twisting into a mirthless smile. “Look
at me, Mr. Lockwood. Look at me. I’ve got something, don’t I?” she asked.

He stared at her, waiting.

“Something for some men, anyway,” she said, her small shoulders hunching up, then down. “There are some men who will do anything
for me. Anything. Anything at all.”

“And Eddie Black was one of them.”

“One of them. Yes. Oh, he needed a little coaxing, but I knew how to get at him.”

“Hollywood?” Lockwood asked, more of a statement than a question.

She stared up at him. “How’d you know?”

The detective shrugged. “He was American, wasn’t he? It’s 1938, isn’t it? Everyone wants to be a movie star.”

“Bastard,” she breathed at him.

“And Eddie Black had the looks,” Lockwood continued. “And the narcissism. You probably smelled all that the first time you
met him.”

She nodded, grimly, against her will. “All right. Yes. You’re right. So I led him on. Made him promises.”

“Let him have your body.”

“Bullshit!” she snarled up at him. “I
never
let him! Just like I never would have let you! It was all a come-on.”

“Promised
him your body.”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not? That was the hook. I knew he’d stay on that hook as long as I kept him dangling.”

“So you told him about the $100,000 policy. Told him he’d get a share if he burned down the club, with your husband inside
it. Told him you’d go to Hollywood with him.”

“Sure. The poor sap. He knew I’d been in a Broadway show. To him that meant I had big show business connections.”

“He wasn’t the only sap.”

Outrage showed in her stare. “Don’t you dare call me that! I’ve got talent, you son-of-a-bitch! With $100,000 in Hollywood,
I’d of been on my way. $100,000 can buy the right clothes, the right house, the right manager, the right agent!”

“$100,000, eh? Then Eddie wasn’t going to get any of it.”

Her eyes went opaque. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“So Eddie torched the place, and killed all of those people, killed them, then opened up the front door, and pulled their
bodies downstairs, to make it look like fire, not arson. Only Mack wasn’t one of those people. Mack wasn’t there.”

She shuddered. “The bastard! The bastard! Every night I thought he was working late. And then—I found out—”

“You knew?” he asked, surprised.

“No,” she said. “Not then. Not till today. When I was holding the gun on him, laughing at him. And then he told me what he’d
done—told me about the diseases that whore has probably given me—” Her hands clutched at her breasts, fingers digging down
into them, pulling.

“So your plan didn’t work. Mack was still alive. He was going to get the insurance. But why kill Eddie then? Why not try Mack
a second time?”

She thrust out one leg, the limb shimmering in the silk that sheathed it. “I got scared. If anything happened to Mack, it
would have looked too suspicious, what with the fire.”

“But why Eddie?”

She looked up at him, and for the first time he saw she had the eyes of a killer. Cold, passionless. “He was getting too nervous.
I didn’t think I could trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

“So you met him somewhere, he was probably expecting a tryst, and then as he reached out his arms to you, you put a bullet
into him. With his own weapon.

She regarded him a moment, wonderingly. “Exactly,” was all she said.

“How did you get his gun—the Baby Nambu?”

Her eyes glittered. “Simple. I told the poor sap I was afraid of Mack. Afraid he’d find out and try to kill me. Asked Eddie
if he could lend me his gun.”

“And you were the one who tried to shoot me those two times?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I was afraid of you, even more afraid of you than of Eddie.”

“Why?”

She looked at him and he saw a little fear in her now. “Because you’re so—so relentless. I could sense that in you, see it,
hear it. I knew you’d never rest till you found out exactly what happened. I had to kill you.”

He nodded for her to get up, and she slowly rose. “But Len Claypool—how did he become involved?”

She smiled a smile that was more like a sneer. “I told you I can get some men to do anything I want. He was one of them.”

“You gave him the Baby Nambu, set up the meeting with me, concocted that false letter—”

She nodded, numbly.

“And you made it seem as if he were shooting at you, screamed for help so that if anyone were near, or if anything went wrong
and he was caught—”

“Right. I had to seem innocent, so that if he was caught—” her laugh was harsh. “I didn’t worry about him squealing if he
did mess it up. I knew he’d never tell on me. Not as long as I promised to wait for him.” They were in the living room now,
and she was pulling on her brassiere, ugly welts running across her breasts. “You would have been dead if that fucking no-talent
had been any kind of shot. And I’d have been in the clear. The same bullet in you would have been found in Mack. The people
in the restaurant would have testified I couldn’t have done it, that I was just on the sidewalk screaming my lungs out.”