Dead, She Was Beautiful

  THE MURDERED WOMAN

  WAS NO STRANGER

  * * *

  Once Hagen had loved her. Once he had hated her. Lying dead beside the expensive swimming pool, she was just as beautiful as when she was alive.

  Only the dead girl knew who had wanted to kill her. But Hagen needed to know, too—and he needed to know fast.

  Because the only guy who looked like he had a motive was Hagen. And the cops were giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

  WHIT MASTERSON

  * * *

  DEAD, SHE

  WAS BEAUTIFUL

  * * *

  a division of F+W Crime

  1

  AT first, it looked like a joke. But the sign was real enough. Bill-board size and freshly painted, it proclaimed proudly, This is Oakmar, A Modern Community for Modern Living. On all sides of it the sagebrush stretched away, unbroken.

  Mort Hagen didn’t laugh, not being easily moved to mirth, and not seeing anything humorous in the signboard’s boast, anyway. On this hot October morning, Oakmar was fit only as a home for rabbits and lizards, a tangle of mesas laced with tortuous canyons and blanketed with grey sagebrush. But Hagen knew that, should he drive this way six months from today, the boast would be literally true. He had seen it happen before, the miracle that could be wrought by an onrush of population. All Southern Californians had.

  He looked around, visualizing what was to come. Already a grader had passed back and forth, gouging scars where the streets would be. Small sub-division flags marked the outline of house-sites. A tarpaulin-shrouded stack of water pipe sat by the side of the paved highway. Oakmar’s gestation period had begun. Perhaps, after six months—and several million dollars—even the name might have real significance, although at the moment the only oak was scrub-oak and the ocean, several miles distant, was permanently blocked from view by the hills. But trees could be planted and Hagen wasn’t too sure that the hills couldn’t be levelled, either.

  For this was a Wayne Wishart Development, and Wishart was a name to be reckoned with locally, a synonym for the southland’s mushrooming growth. Hagen had never met him, although Wishart had been his client since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. Mort Hagen was a private detective.

  He didn’t look much like a detective or much like anything else either, which was a great advantage to him. He was just above medium height with ordinary brown hair and ordinary brown eyes and a face that was neither handsome nor ugly but generally expressionless. Hagen cultivated this ordinariness diligently, even to his suit and the automobile he drove, both of which were brown also and somewhat nondescript. Yet the car and the man himself were capable of greater speed and endurance than appearances would indicate.

  The dust boiled up from his wheels as he nosed the car down the freshly levelled street. He drove slowly and vigilantly, since his instructions had been vague, stopping now and then to let a huge tumbleweed scud by. A hot dry wind was blowing in off the desert, sending the mercury soaring unseasonably. It was known locally as a Santa Ana condition, just why nobody could say. Hagen would have liked to remove his coat but didn’t, since he was here on business.

  He slowed in front of the tract office, the only building on the sub-division. It was a small structure but pretentious, a pseudo-castle of grey stucco with towers at each corner decked with pennants. It sat on concrete pilings and could be carted off to the next Wayne Wishart Development once its function here was fulfilled. It was open for business but not doing any in the heat.

  Hagen continued on, following the path that the grader had laid out for him, past an occasional sign that indicated the future location of a super-market or a school or a branch of one of the city’s banks. When at last he reached the end of the street, out of sight of the sub-division castle, he stopped the car. The man who had been waiting for him there got up from his seat on a large rock by the roadside.

  Hagen put on a professional smile and got out. “Mr. Wishart?”

  “Yes. I presume you’re Hagen.” He took the business card that Hagen proffered, studied it intently and then threw it away. He was a tall spare man in his fifties, with iron-grey hair and sunken cheeks. “Good. Anybody see you come out here?”

  “A rabbit or two maybe.”

  Wishart gave no answering smile. His manner was brusque and commanding, as if he owned the world. Hagen reflected that Wishart did own this particular corner of it. “Then listen closely. I don’t have the time to repeat myself. You’re a divorce detective, I believe.”

  “Domestic investigations is what it said on the card. But have it your way.”

  “I want you to investigate my wife. I suspect her of being unfaithful to me.” He spoke impatiently, as if the subject bored him and he was anxious to dismiss it and get on to more important things. Any questions?”

  “Yes,” said Hagen. Wishart’s bluntness put his teeth on edge. “How about some background, some facts to go on?”

  “Facts are what I want you to give me. If I knew any more, I wouldn’t be hiring you. How much will you charge?”

  “My rates are fifty dollars a day plus expenses. That includes my regular professional services, a written report on my findings and an appearance in court to testify if you wish. Anything else will be extra.”

  “Sounds reasonable enough,” said Wishart, shrugging. From the expensive cut of his clothes, Hagen surmised that fifty dollars a day—or even an hour—didn’t mean much to Wishart. He wore a grey gabardine suit, a homburg and, despite the heat, a black topcoat. “When can you start?”

  “I’ve already started. Or I will when we make it official.” From his inside coat pocket, Hagen drew forth the paper he had prepared and uncapped his fountain pen. “Please sign this down below where it says Client.”

  “What’s this?” said Wishart dubiously, without reading it.

  “The usual form which authorizes me to conduct my investigation. It’s for my own protection, just in case.”

  “I hope you understand,” said Wishart, staring at him, “the precise scope of your employment. I do not desire any publicity. In fact, that is why I’m hiring you—to avoid publicity. Please keep that in mind at all times.”

  Hagen merely nodded and held out his fountain pen.

  “The success of my operations hinges upon an impeccable credit rating,” Wishart continued. “If my wife is behaving foolishly, I must know it before anyone else does—and, of course, take steps to remedy the situation.” As an afterthought, he added, “Naturally, I hope that I’m mistaken in my suspicions.”

  “Naturally,” Hagen echoed piously and put the signed authorization carefully away in his wallet. Still holding the wallet, he said, “It’s customary to give a retainer. Fifty dollars all right? A cheque will be fine.”

  “No cheque,” objected Wishart and gave him a single crisp bill instead. “I don’t want my office to know that I’m in town today. They believe that I’m in Los Angeles. That’s why I had you meet me out here.” He correctly interpreted Hagen’s glance around. “A taxi brought me. You can give me a ride to the station. I’ll catch the noon train.”

  “Sure. Where you staying in L.A.? I might have to contact you.”

  “No, you won’t. I’ll be coming home tomorrow and I’ll call you then. What time is it? I don’t want to miss my train.”

  Hagen glanced at his wrist watch. “We’d better mosey along. You can fill me in on the vital statistics on the way.” As Wishart moved around the car to occupy the passenger’s seat, Hagen noticed his client’s shoes. They were high-topped army brogans, comfortably old and well-worn, in sharp contrast to his expensive clothes. As he slid in behind the wheel, Hagen commented on it. “I see you wore your walking shoes. Afraid I might not show u
p and you’d be stranded?”

  Wishart snapped, “When you’re my age, you’ll learn that you can do as you please and nobody cares. There’s a lot of things more important than style.”

  Hagen wondered if that applied to wearing a topcoat on such a hot day, but he kept his mouth shut. He had no wish to lose the job, which he needed, and a rich client’s peculiarities were his own business. He started the car back toward the highway, avoiding the tract office.

  When they were on the paved road and headed for the city, Wishart seemed to relax a trifle, as if a distasteful business were over. He stiffened again though when Hagen asked if he had brought a picture of his wife.

  “No, I didn’t. Why? Is it necessary?”

  “It always helps. Give me a description, anyway, so I won’t make any mistakes.”

  “Well,” said Wishart grudgingly, “my wife is younger than I am, considerably so. She’s rather tall. Blonde hair. Quite handsome by ordinary standards.” There was no affection in his voice; he might have been describing a stranger. “She generally wears a mink coat when she goes out.”

  Must be a cold-blooded family, Hagen thought. Aloud he said: “Mrs. Wishart is home now?”

  “She’s supposed to be. You’ll find the address in the phone book. Camden Drive.” He didn’t give the number. “My mother lives with us. Also my secretary. Neither of them is blonde however, so there should be no confusion.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “A cook—and there’s a Mexican girl who comes in twice a week to clean.” Wishart stared at him. “I hope you’re not intending to question anyone in my personal household. I wouldn’t like that.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Let me be perfectly clear. I’m not asking you to gather evidence that will stand up in court. There will be no divorce, no matter what you find. I don’t care what my wife does, as long as it doesn’t become known. All I want is a complete and continuing report on her activities.”

  Hagen nodded, pleased with the profitable prospect. He had been in the domestic investigations business too long to speculate on motives. Wishart professed to be devoid of jealousy but Hagen wasn’t ready to buy that, not yet. Very few men, particularly those with young wives, would own up to their true reasons, even to themselves. And no matter what the truth was, it still added up to fifty dollars per day for Hagen, with no undue strain that he could foresee.

  Hagen made a couple of remarks about the unseasonable heat to which Wishart responded curtly and, aside from that, they conversed no more until they pulled up in front of the big railway terminal near the harbour.

  “I’ll call you when I come back from L.A.,” said Wishart as he left. “I’ll expect you to have some information for me.”

  “I’ll get on it this afternoon,” promised Hagen and watched Wishart’s tall figure march away into the station. The big army shoes looked almost comical viewed from a distance. Hagen wished he were wealthy enough to afford idiosyncrasies and abrupt manners.

  His next move was not routine, but simple curiosity. He found a parking place near by and walked back to the station. Unobtrusively, he circled the waiting room. Wishart wasn’t there. Outside, the noon train was poised, ready to depart. Hagen stood inside the terminal for a while, studying the passengers boarding it. He did not see his client.

  Finally, murmuring, “It’s only money,” he crossed the bricks to the train and swung aboard. Deliberately, he walked the length of the train, from observation car to diner. When he descended, just ahead of the conductor’s warning shouts, his face was as expressionless as ever. But his eyes were thoughtful.

  Wayne Wishart had not taken the train to Los Angeles. Why not? And where had he gone instead? Hagen waited until the diesel slid away and he was alone by the tracks. Then he walked slowly back to his automobile to begin his job. He couldn’t help but wonder. However, Hagen was careful not to wonder more than fifty dollars worth.

  2

  CAMDEN DRIVE was a quiet meandering street in the city’s oldest, and still most respectable, residential section. The Wishart home was the newest house in the area and, as Hagen anticipated, a show place. It was extremely modern in design, with much plate glass and polished redwood, a low house that achieved an effect of height by being built on several levels. The front yard was negligible but the back yard was tremendous, since the house occupied an entire block. The rear was shielded from view by a high wall of glass brick but Hagen could see a diving platform, which indicated a swimming pool, and a wire backstop, which indicated a tennis court It was not the sort of home that appealed very much to Hagen but the overall effect spelled money, and this Hagen liked a great deal.

  He took up his position shortly after noon, pausing only long enough on his way from the railroad station to eat lunch and to check the address in the telephone directory. At the drive-in where he ate, he purchased several cold sandwiches and had his thermos bottle filled with coffee; from experience, he knew he might have a long wait.

  Hagen didn’t care much one way or another. He was a patient man and he enjoyed his work, within limits. Even when he didn’t, the pay was good and any job had certain drawbacks, after all. Sometimes, in a mood of self-criticism, he would admit to himself that he was in a dirty business but even then he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do. Or that he was qualified to do, for that matter.

  The army had given him his start, by assigning him to Intelligence where he had eventually risen to the rank of captain. Before that, he had had no career to speak of and he had taken to Intelligence eagerly. He enjoyed fitting pieces of information together. The significance of the picture didn’t matter to him; the parts were more important than the whole. Given the proper training, Hagen would have made a good research chemist or engineer. Instead, at war’s end, he had moved naturally into the field of private investigation. Soon he discovered that most of the cases coming his way involved divorce and because he had an orderly mind he decided to specialize.

  He came to this decision in a bitter moment but he never regretted it later. It coincided with the break-up of his own marriage for the reason most familiar to him, infidelity. So specialization in marriage failure seemed to him to be ironic retribution, a repayment to the world generally. It was also a punishment for himself since marriage was the one thing he had never been able to make sense of. He still sought some all-inclusive answer in every case he handled. But he hadn’t found it yet.

  Hagen doubted if his present assignment was going to supply it, either. On the face of it, Wayne Wishart’s wife should be the last woman in the world to stray. Wealth, position, security … they were all embodied many times over in the mansion Hagen scrutinized. That left out love, of course, but Hagen was convinced that love was a vastly over-rated commodity; it hadn’t stopped his own marriage from foundering.

  “Might as well admit it,” he murmured aloud, coming to the same old answer. “People are screwy.” But since one particular person was screwy enough to pay him well for sitting here in his car, Hagen had no real reason to complain. So Hagen sat and waited.

  His patience was at last rewarded. He had begun to doubt that he would accomplish anything this afternoon. The Wishart house basked somnolently in the hot embrace of the Santa Ana, with nothing to indicate that life existed within. About three o’clock, however, the wind fell off to be replaced at once with a cooler breeze from the ocean. As if this had been a signal, Mrs. Wishart appeared.

  From his position across the street, Hagen couldn’t make out her features. She came down the driveway at the wheel of a crimson MG roadster, her back to him. She wore rakish dark glasses and a beret. But Hagen saw that her hair was blonde and that a mink coat was thrown capelike over her shoulders. She fitted the description Wishart had given him. He started his own car and followed the MG off.

  The chase gave him no trouble; he was skilled in trailing through traffic and the crimson car was a vivid target. He kept discreetly behind, never closing to within a half-block. His job w
as to observe without being observed, to observe and then to report. Success depended upon the quarry remaining unsuspicious.

  At the end of an hour, Mrs. Wishart still seemed completely oblivious to his presence but Hagen had little to report, either. From her home, she had driven directly into the heart of the city’s business district, left the MG in a parking lot and struck off on foot. A distinctive figure with her yellow hair and mink coat, she presented no problems for her pursuer. It was so easy that Hagen stayed a considerable distance behind barely keeping the woman in sight. It wasn’t an unpleasant task; he liked Wayne Wishart’s taste in women more than his taste in architecture.

  But, though Hagen meticulously noted all her movements, the record was prosaic. Mrs. Wishart was shopping, nothing more sinful. Her path, an erratic one, led from drugstore to department store to millinery shop, with many side excursions to scrutinize window displays. Once she stopped to shut herself in a telephone kiosk and make a brief call. There was nothing suspicious in this, nor in any of her actions. Mrs. Wishart acted nothing at all like a lady with mischief to hide.

  Just the same, Mort Hagen carried a vague uneasiness within him, nothing tangible, just the stirring of some intuition as yet beneath the level of consciousness. It nagged at him, like a forgotten name. He couldn’t pin it down but at least twice during the afternoon it translated itself into the weird sensation that he himself was being followed, that he was not the pursuer but the pursued. He laughed at himself but he looked over his shoulder every now and then, anyway. He saw nothing amiss, just as he expected, and he blamed the Santa Ana for making him jumpy.

  The first store lights were coming on when Mrs. Wishart turned back toward the parking lot. Her last stop was at a sporting goods house where she lingered for a time studying the window display before entering. The window featured archery equipment, bows and arrows and brightly painted targets. But when the woman reappeared she had not purchased anything so large—or anything at all that Hagen, loitering across the street, could discern. While she waited for her car, Hagen reclaimed his own from a nearby loading zone. He had not received a ticket; he bought commercial licence plates every year for just this reason, although the cost was somewhat higher.