Strip for Murder (20 page)

“I hope so.”

“You know what? I kind of hope so too.”

She gave me a big smile as I left, but I hadn't said that to please her.

In the main part of the club I looked around, but my husky chums weren't in sight. Even Babe was gone now. I headed for Castle Norman.

Heading there was one thing; getting in was another. My first visit with Ed Norman had convinced me that dire things would happen to me if I were foolish enough to go back. And the way things were shaping up, I had a hunch Norman might shoot me on sight. But there was a vague idea dangling from one convolution of my brain.

If I could ever get inside the castle without being recognized, I might make a little progress tonight. But it would take some doing, and I'd need some help. I would need some help from Sardine Lambert.

Chapter Nineteen

Castle Norman was brilliantly lighted, and when I'd parked in the lot and walked a little way toward the drawbridge and entrance, I could see that silly knight sitting on his horse.

I didn't want him to see me, however, so I walked to my left onto the green lawn fronting the castle. Out a few feet from the edge of the moat was a big bush that would hide me from Sardine while I watched the guy for a while to see what his actions were. In case I had to duplicate them.

A man and woman arrived, then another couple, but Sardine didn't do anything fancy, just sat at the rear of the drawbridge, his lance pointing toward the sky, a red cloth dangling from the end of it, the color matching a red plume sticking up from his helmet.

I'd seen enough. I waited until he was looking away from me, then walked to the moat and into it. The water was only about three feet deep, but wet, and the goo on the bottom was sticky as glue. I walked along the side of the moat next to the wall around Castle Norman, and from here I couldn't even see Sardine—or whoever was in that armor.

I checked my holster, to be sure the Colt Special was handy, then bent over and walked to the drawbridge and crouched under it, waiting for a moment when Sardine's back would be turned to me. A car pulled into the parking lot, lights flicking over me, and I ducked a little lower. It was sure sloppy. In a couple of minutes four people walked from the car and into the castle, laughing and making cracks about Sir Lancelot as they passed the mounted knight.

Sir Sardine looked after them as they went out of sight, turning his horse around—and his back to me. I straightened up, grabbed the wooden drawbridge's edge in my hands, and hauled myself onto it as silently as I could.

No one seemed to be in the small courtyard, and I hoped to hell nobody else showed up for a few minutes.

I straightened up, took two steps toward Sardine—and he heard and jerked his head around. He recognized me, all right, and started to yell, but he only half finished yelling because when his head had started to turn I'd started running toward him.

Sound came out of his throat as I jumped at him. One of his gauntleted hands came up as I crashed into him and his horse, but I grabbed his arm and jerked as I slid down. He tried to bring his other fist around to slug me, dropping the long lance, but he was on his way down by that time. He landed with one hell of a crash on the wooden flooring beneath us and for a second I thought he was going clear on through. He didn't move after he landed. He was breathing, but he was out cold. The horse shied away, snorting.

I bent over and grabbed Sardine beneath the shoulders and hauled him over to the big bush on the lawn where I'd hidden for those few minutes. It took a while to figure out the combination, get the armor off Sardine, then bind and gag him, but I managed it. Hunks of metal were laid out before me like pieces of a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, but I'd noted how the armor came off and thought I could get it onto me. Sardine was about my size. This stuff was not authentic Golden Age armor; some of it tied on, some of it just slipped on, and a couple of items were equipped with canvas and zippers, probably so that Sardine could dress himself. I started struggling with it.

Finally I was in. I knew I had on a helmet, a gorget, and gauntlets, plus roweled spurs for my feet, on my own shoes, but the rest of it I had probably never heard of. The part over my chest and back was in one solid piece that I'd had to wriggle into like a stiff girdle. The helmet's visor moved up and down, and when it was down I couldn't see too well, looking out through vertical slits, but at least nobody could look in at me, either. There were metal shin and thigh guards, plus some other doodads. I started creaking back toward the drawbridge. The white horse didn't seem leery of me now that I was suitably attired, and stood quietly as I walked toward him.

Two more cars ripped into the parking lot. People piled out and came noisily in my direction. Like the previous couples, they got a big kick out of the knight and started yelling at me. The main doors of the castle opened and somebody looked out, then trotted toward me. It was the husky boy I'd had the beef with my first time here.

I got ready to slug him if I had to, but he stopped a yard from me and said, “What's the matter with you? Why ain't you on your horse, Sardine?”

I unwound my fist. The laughing group was alongside us by now, and they stopped, watching us. I was sweating more than the armor's warmth could account for, but I said, “Dropped my lance.”

I didn't even know what Sardine's voice sounded like, but my tones were suitably muffled by the helmet—and the customers had hysterics.

“Dropped his lance!” one yelled. “Caught him with his lance down!” Husky allowed himself to laugh with them. There was more laughter while I climbed onto the horse, since the damned armor seemed to weigh a ton—besides which, I'm not accustomed to climbing onto horses. I know nothing at all about plenty of things, but especially horses.

Husky handed me the lance, then talked it up with the customers and herded them toward the castle. But he swiveled his head around and gave me a very dirty look.

I allowed them a couple of minutes to get inside, and used the time to calm myself. Then I got off the horse and leaned the lance against the arched entranceway. I knew that if I just walked confidently inside the castle and through the rooms to Norman's office, I might make it easily. The main thing was to act normal.

I pushed off. I walked straight to the castle and inside as the other armored knight on duty opened the door for me. He said something but I ignored him. A few guests looked at me casually, but knights in armor were old hat to them now and they glanced away. I walked over to the red-draped entrance to the game room. Husky stood beside it and started to say something, but I shook my head back and forth, pointing at the door.

I kept walking straight at it, as though there weren't the slightest possibility that he wouldn't open it, and I clumped by him into the game room. The damned armor was getting pretty heavy, and I wondered if it might not be tougher to get outside than it was to get inside.

At first I didn't see anybody that I recognized in the game room. Then I saw Ed Norman. He was wearing a tux, talking to a man and a woman, and his back was to me. I kept going as casually as I could across the room to the metal door, kicked it gently with my foot.

As the bolt slid back inside I glanced around with a creak. Norman still hadn't noticed me. When I turned back to the door it was half open, and before me stood the Mental Monster. We stared at each other: Metal Monster meets Mental Monster.

“Haw?” he said.

“Yuh,” I said.

“Sardine?”

“Yuh.”

I walked at him like a tank and he stepped aside. So far it had been almost too easy, and I was wondering when my luck and confident air—and maybe blood—would run out. But I wasn't much worried about this character.

He closed the door behind me. I coughed and growled, “Boss sent me for something.”

He slid the bolt home and I clumped to Norman's office. The door wasn't locked and I went inside, shut the door behind me, and sprang into action. Yeah, I could about spring an inch off the floor in this outfit. But I made it to Norman's desk, took off my gauntlets, and started tugging at the drawers. Only the middle desk drawer was locked.

The desk was wood, and not hard to break open. I kicked out the bottom of the drawer, then pawed through the papers that fell to the floor. I found one thing I wanted. Clipped together were three sheets of typed paper: Yates's report to “Client.” Under the clip behind the last page were six photographs, unmistakably of Laurel, and apparently taken at Fairview.

It was a tight squeeze, but I managed to stuff the whole batch under my metal breastplate. None of the other papers looked interesting, though I leafed through them quickly. I stood up, my stomach muscles knotted with tension; I could feel the tightness at the base of my skull and in my neck. It was all I could do to keep from dashing for the door, but I made myself go over to that chair I'd noticed in the corner the night before and knelt down. The stained area had been cleaned, all right, but I felt pretty sure that there'd still be traces of blood in the cloth and nap. I pulled at the carpet with my fingernails, got a little pile of the nap in my right hand. There wasn't any way to get it into my pocket, so I stuffed it down inside one of my socks. That was it. It was time I got the hell out of here.

It was past time.

I was kneeling on the floor, pulling my gauntlets back on, when the door opened behind me. Somebody said, “What in Christ's name are you doing?”

It was Norman. My back was to him, but I recognized his voice. And there were a couple of other voices. I got up slowly and as I turned to face the doorway I took one step toward it. Norman stood just inside the room, staring at me, a frown on his thick, scarred face. On his right was Husky, and beyond them in the hallway, peering past them, was The Brain.

I took another step forward and said, “Somebody busted in here Lookit the desk.”

Norman didn't cooperate. He kept looking at me, his frown deepening. The sound of my voice had puzzled him, and suddenly he said, “You—” and his right hand slapped down and behind him to his hip. It came up with a snub-nosed gun, but by that time I'd taken my third step and was swinging my right fist, plus a couple of pounds of metal, up at his chin.

Husky yelled something and started toward me as my fist landed with a horrible crack on Norman's chin. His head snapped back and he spun sideways and fell soundlessly to the carpet. I went down a little way with him, just about as far as Husky's middle, then pivoted toward him and my left fist sank in, and in, and in. He made a great whistling sound and bent over with his arms sticking out ahead of him. He fell, groaning horribly, and as I straightened up, The Brain came jumping toward me.

I raised both hands and he stopped jumping and actually backed away. That perplexed expression spread over his craggy face again—and this time he had good reason to be perplexed. I realized then that I had quite an advantage. The only way any of these guys could slug me was at the risk of breaking their hands clear up to their ears.

Brainy drew back a great big right fist, his face a montage of flickering emotions. Then his mouth dropped open, way open, and he just stood there, gawping at my gleaming armor.

All that took only a second or two, and just as he said, “What the crud—” I raised one metal-covered fist over his head like a hammer. He actually lifted his eyes to it, sheer hopelessness in his expression. And then,
splat,
I hammered him good on the forehead. His face got a peaceful look and his eyes flickered partly shut and tried to merge. I had finally met someone looking himself in the eye. He was gone away from here before he hit the floor.

I jumped over him. That is, I meant to jump over him, but I just clanked and landed on him. Then I clumped to the door, slid the bolt back, and hightailed it for the game room. Things looked normal in here, and I began to think maybe I'd make it out. But then the reaction from what I'd gone through started to catch up with me. Sweat covered my body and I could feel a thumping pulse in the hollow of my throat, and at my temples. I clumped through the game room, out through its now-unguarded door, and headed for the exit. I felt as if I were carrying a mountain on my back.

I almost made it. I was ten feet from the door when a hoarse, weak shout rang out behind me. “Stop him! It ain't Sardine!”

I glanced around to see Husky hanging to the open door, a hand pressed to his stomach. Then he fell—and when I turned my head back a brother knight was coming toward me. This was different from the last brawl; we were starting out on even terms. But I guess I was so accustomed to slugging guys and having them go all loose that I thought the same thing would happen this time. Sometimes a confident air isn't enough.

I hauled off and slammed a hard right to his chin and crossed with a chopping left to the breadbasket:
Clang-clang!
He didn't go loose, but my knuckles felt as if they'd spread about eight feet. The knight staggered a little, then swung back gamely and slugged me a couple of times. He had no more sense than I did.

There was one hell of a lot of noise, guys yelling and women screaming, but ringing loud and clear over everything else was the clamor of battle. All we needed was a band playing the “Anvil Chorus.” We sounded like two streetcars at the same crossing.

Old Ironsides had his right fist drawn back, and when he launched it at me I jerked my head aside. As it whistled by me I reached out with my left hand, pushed up his visor, and hauled my right fist around in an arc that ended on his chops. It damn near ended his chops. Teeth went every which way and the only clang this time was when he landed flat on the floor.

Boy,
everybody
was screaming. I glanced over my shoulder as I went at a staggering half trot out the door into the courtyard. People were spinning around; Husky had fallen by the far door, apparently passed out. I made it to the drawbridge and the white horse—and then really I started to quake in every limb.