Dead, She Was Beautiful Page 2

  The flow of traffic from downtown was homeward and the two cars, the sleek MG and the nondescript Ford, were borne with it. Now he stayed bumper-to-bumper with his quarry, fearful of losing her in the gathering dusk. The strangeness he had felt before was intensified in this twilight world which always made things look ghostly, anyway. And he was suddenly obsessed with a desire to see Mrs. Wishart’s face. For almost three hours he had trailed a shock of blonde hair and a mink coat without ever glimpsing her features. Hagen thought, maybe that’s what seems so peculiar; just let me see that she’s got eyes and a mouth and a nose like everybody else and I’ll get over it. When they stopped for red lights, he tried to study her in her own rear view mirror but without success. Despite the approach of night, Mrs. Wishart still wore her dark glasses.

  They returned to Camden Drive. Hagen gradually dropped behind until, when the MG turned into its home driveway, he was a discreet block away. He stopped there, got out and went the remaining distance on foot. He heard the garage door slam down at the side of the Wishart house. Hagen halted and in the shadow of a palm tree made the afternoon’s final notation: Mrs. W. returned home 5.45 p.m. As he put the notebook away, he heard her high heels on the driveway and saw her tall figure cross to the porch.

  Automatically, Hagen stepped back into deeper shadow. And then, abruptly, he halted all motion, even his breathing. Mrs. Wishart had stepped into the pool of amber light that flooded the porch. As she did so, like an actress stepping upon a stage, she turned her face in the direction of her unseen audience.

  She had removed her dark glasses and her face was plainly visible at last. It was this that caused Hagen to freeze. It was a pretty face and Hagen knew it well, as intimately as any face in the world except his own. Three years had changed it not at all, except in the name it bore. Now it was called Mrs. Wayne Wishart. Then it had been called Mrs. Mort Hagen.

  3

  THE last year of the war Hagen had spent on a coral atoll in the south-western Pacific, a bleak and lonely outpost usually referred to by its inhabitants as “Die-Hard Rock.” By actual measurement, there was no woman closer than eight hundred and thirty-two nautical miles. When, by the grace of God and the demob system, Hagen’s captivity finally ended he yearned for the sight of a female figure and the sound of a womanly voice in the same manner that a man dying of thirst yearns for water. It did not occur to him then that a thirsty man who does not use proper judgment when water comes to hand can get a terrible bellyache. It did occur to him later.

  He met Hilda Christy the first week he was home. He married her the second week. The marriage lasted two years and a few months, legally. Actually, it was over considerably sooner than that. He had never expected to see her again.

  And now, through some quirk of fate, he had been hired to follow her.

  Hagen was not a man who dealt in ironies and the revelation left him shaken. He was not so confused, however, that he forgot the mechanics of his job. He returned to his automobile and parked it across the street from the Wishart home in a position of surveillance while he pondered his newly discovered status. And, though he was far from hungry, he forced himself to eat the tasteless sandwiches and drink the coffee, which was now barely lukewarm.

  His first inclination was to call it quits and go home. Twice he started the engine of his car and twice he shut it off. Repelled he was, but intensely curious too. What wild coincidence had brought Wayne Wishart to him, of all people—or had it been coincidence? Yet there was nothing to indicate otherwise, no reason that Wishart should deliberately hire his wife’s ex-husband to entrap her when there were a dozen other agencies to choose from. No, it was obvious that Wishart hadn’t been aware of the connection. Perhaps Hilda had never told him of her previous marriage. It wouldn’t be the first lie she was guilty of.

  It added up, when Hagen considered it for a while, to a pointless joke on all of them. Particularly on Hilda who he didn’t doubt was guilty of everything that Wishart suspected, and more. The question remaining was: what should he do about it? Hagen wasn’t sure but he congratulated himself on his intuitions of the afternoon. Something had been hovering over him all right—his own past—and now he wondered why he hadn’t recognized it instantly. But then, Hilda hadn’t recognized him either so he could be excused. People generally saw only what they expected to see.

  He certainly had never expected to see Hilda in such a luxurious setting. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking on his part. Yet there she was, plainly visible every now and then through the huge lighted windows as she passed from room to room, obviously the mistress of the house. There were other women present too, a grande dame whom Hagen took to be Wishart’s mother, and a younger woman, probably the secretary. He couldn’t make out their faces very well and didn’t pay them much attention except when they provided a background for Hilda.

  Grudgingly, he had to admit that she fitted into her new background nicely. There was a poise he didn’t remember, an assurance in her walk that helped explain why he hadn’t recognized her earlier. Money made a difference, all right. Hagen grinned nastily, speculating on how long her poise would last if she knew who was watching her, and for what reason. He was not generally vindictive but in this instance his imaginings were pleasant.

  So he continued his lonely vigil, still undecided on his future actions, while the Wishart menage went through their accustomed evening routine under his steady gaze, like exotic fish in an aquarium. Cocktails were served and dinner followed and the television was turned on. The elder Mrs. Wishart settled down to watch it, all the while stabbing some instrument into her lap as if she was chipping at stone handiwork. The secretary disappeared somewhere but no new lights came on to show where she’d gone.

  Hilda wandered restlessly to and fro on the main level and Hagen thought, she hasn’t changed completely, she still gets bored in a hurry. Right now she’s spoiling for an argument. He well remembered her quarrelsome side and often thought of her as Hilda of the Arguments, like a character from the heraldic age. He sat up a little straighter in anticipation as he recalled another possibility. He had witnessed that pacing act on evenings in the past when it portended other than verbal outlets.

  “Seven to five she’s got a date,” he murmured. “Or intends to have.”

  As if to justify his words, Hilda stopped her pacing. She glanced at her wrist watch, shot a quick look at the older woman and left the living room. A moment later, windows lighted at the rear of the sprawling house. Hagen couldn’t witness her actions now but he guessed that she had gone to her bedroom to dress, preparatory to going out. He put his thermos bottle away and flexed his fingers, his decision made. Since he had come this far on the job, he would go a little further just for his own amusement. When the lights of Hilda’s bedroom were extinguished, Hagen started the engine of his car and slowly backed up the dark street to a more advantageous position.

  His preparations were in vain. The woman who left the Wishart house was not Hilda. Judging by the silhouette, it was Wishart’s secretary who was at the wheel of the crimson MG, and as she passed Hagen he could see little but that she was alone in the vehicle. Of Hilda there was no sign at all.

  Disappointed at the failure of his own logic, Hagen alighted and walked back to his former sentry post. Hilda had not returned to the living room, either. The old woman still sat before the glowing screen, placidly punching holes in whatever she held out of sight in her lap. Hagen looked at his own wrist watch. It was barely eight o’clock.

  “She couldn’t have gone to bed,” he muttered. “Not her own bed, anyway.”

  As he stood there, wondering, the answer was supplied. The grounds at the rear of the mansion were abruptly bathed in light from low-angle flood lamps. The diffused beams made the glass brick wall glow as if it were phosphorescent. Hagen didn’t hesitate. He crossed the street, and following the pavement, circled the barrier, hoping to find a gate. He found one but it was as tall as the wall itself and he couldn’t reach the latch on the inside.
From within the enclosure came the faint sweet strains of an orchestra. Hagen was reminded of an enchanted castle, complete with beautiful princess—although he couldn’t recall any fairy tale in which a divorce detective had figured.

  “Might as well write my own,” he said aloud. He could put his hands on top of the wall; he did. Digging his knees into the bumpy glass surface, he was able to pull himself up to where he could see, at least a little. The grounds were lushly verdant, a small jungle of tropical foliage that grew right down to the diving platform that overhung the pool. At the shallow end, closest to the house, a redwood cabana stood, outfitted with patio furniture and umbrella tables. An archery course had been laid out on the grassy area alongside.

  Hilda was reclining in a redwood chaise longue. Hagen’s assumption had been partly correct; she had changed her clothes but what she had donned was a bathing suit. Over it she wore, in casual incongruity, her mink coat. She was apparently alone but on the table by her elbow sat a pitcher of drinks—and two glasses.

  The sight of the glasses decided Hagen. He slipped over the wall and dropped quietly into the soft earth of a flower bed. He thought he understood now. Hilda had a date, all right, but in the safety of her own home. Pretty clever, he thought; she gets rid of the secretary and sends the old lady to bed. Very cosy and discreet; she’s learned some things since I knew her. Just how much he was curious to discover.

  It was hard to advance toward the pool without making any noise, due to the profusion of shrubbery, but he did his best. He hoped that the music, drifting out of the amplifiers on the cabana roof, would cover his movements. And when he halted in the shadow of the diving platform to wait for events to unfold, he was confident it had. Hilda was staring dreamily up at the stars, apparently lost in reverie. Hagen quietly sat down behind a clump of lantana and made himself comfortable. This might take several hours.

  It didn’t even take several seconds. Hilda turned her head, looked directly at his place of concealment and called pleasantly, “Why don’t you join me over here, Morton? It’s much more comfortable.”

  For an instant he just sat there, feeling like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Like such a boy, a half dozen impossible courses of action flitted through his mind and came to naught. He had been caught and he would have to take his whipping. Pretending to smile but actually gritting his teeth, he walked the long distance down the poolside to where Hilda sat enthroned, like a queen granting an interview to a subject.

  She smiled too, regally. “How nice to see you again, Morton. Please sit down and have a drink. You can see I brought a glass for you.”

  “Thanks,” he said stiffly but not obeying her. “How’d you know I was there?”

  “When I heard the noise, I guessed it was you. Don’t tell me you weren’t following me this afternoon, Morton?”

  She knew he loathed being called Morton but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. He said, “Nobody could ever tell you anything, as I remember. I guess I’m getting clumsy in my old age.” He considered that a point for himself. Hilda didn’t like to be reminded of the passing of time. Truthfully he had to admit that she didn’t show any signs of deteriorating; in fact, she looked better than he remembered. Her face had always been pretty but added maturity had brought out the striking Nordic features to advantage, the high cheekbones, the slightly slanted blue eyes and the cream-pale skin. Hilda still missed real beauty, though, because of her expression, a tense and watchful look that was engraved on her face even when she was relaxing.

  Hilda was not flustered by his inspection. “You might try straining a point and tell me that I’m looking well.” She casually flung the mink’s folds aside to reveal the long firm lines of her body, enhanced by the clinging white swimsuit.

  “You’re looking well,” he said woodenly.

  “And you also, Morton. Well, aren’t you going to sit down? I made manhattans because I remembered you dislike them so.”

  Hagen sat down because it seemed ridiculous not to. However, he shook his head at the drink she poured. “I’m not drinking.”

  “Same old Morton,” she murmured, sipping her own and studying him over the rim of the glass. “You haven’t changed a bit. Don’t tell me you’re still running that shabby little detective agency.”

  Hagen flushed. “Why else would I be here?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been wondering all afternoon.” Hilda grinned slowly, displaying her white even teeth. “It couldn’t be that deep down in that romantic heart of yours a flame still burns, could it? I’ll bet that it does. You had to see me again because you couldn’t help yourself.”

  “That ended years ago and you know it.”

  “Do I? Still—here you are. Well, perhaps it was just vulgar curiosity then. You wanted to find out how I’ve done for myself.” She waved a negligent hand around at her surroundings. “Well, Morton, what do you think? How have I done?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I’ll tell you. This house cost seventy-three thousand five hundred, and that’s without the furniture. I’ll bet you didn’t know there was that much money in the whole world. And that’s just the house—”

  Hagen stared at her as she went on enumerating her possessions and their price, ticking off the items on her slender fingers. He wondered how he had ever conceived himself to be in love with her. Hilda had always had the soul of a tramp and the dollar sign was her hallmark of value. That had been their trouble from the beginning—money. The unfaithfulness had only provided the final excuse they both needed to end the marriage. He had discovered that she was receiving presents, expensive bits of costume jewellery that hadn’t been purchased out of his meagre commissions. One bleak evening he had made the direct accusation; she admitted it; he moved out the same night. After the legal formalities, she had drifted away, since that was her nature, presumably in search of bigger game. And she had found it as Wishart’s wife.

  He interrupted her abruptly. “How long has it been going on, Hilda?”

  “Wayne and I were married last year, in Las Vegas.”

  “I mean how long have you been playing around?”

  Her blue eyes narrowed and she slowly put down the cocktail glass. “And just what is that supposed to mean? If you’re trying to be funny—”

  “I’m not laughing. Your husband knows that you’re two-timing him. He hired me to get the facts.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “That’s your department, not mine. I’ve got his retainer in my pocket and if you’re around tomorrow you’ll see me give it back to him. I didn’t know who Mrs. Wishart was when I took the job but now that I do know I don’t want any part of it.” He smiled slightly. “I don’t think it’s quite ethical for a man to be trailing his own ex-wife.”

  She leaned forward to seize his knee and her nails were sharp. “Do you really mean what you’re saying?” she demanded, staring at him. “Wayne hired you to follow me? Mort, I haven’t done anything!”

  He disengaged her grip. “Baby, this is me you’re talking to. Save the wide-eyed act for Daddy Warbucks.” He reached for the jug. “And since I’m no longer on the job, I’ll have that drink now, thanks. I could use it.”

  “You don’t believe me. You think it’s true.”

  “People don’t change much, I’ve found. When you’ve got a weakness, it usually comes out, sooner or later. Just how much does Wishart know about you, anyway?” Hagen chuckled at a new thought. “Pardon my vulgar curiosity, but Wishart isn’t the one from before, is he?”

  Hilda looked bewildered. “Before?”

  “Three years ago. The guy who gave you that jewellery.”

  “Of course not. That was—well, you’ll never meet him, you can be sure of that.” She laughed abruptly, a brittle sound. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering to talk to you, really I don’t. If there is the least bit of truth in what you’re saying you’re twisting it around simply to hurt me.”

  “That’s right,” h
e agreed mockingly. “Your husband really hired me to protect you. He’s worried about your safety.”

  To Hagen’s surprise, she seemed to accept that explanation. The frown that had contorted her forehead erased itself and she actually smiled. “Why, of course. Wayne was concerned because I’m alone so much. How sweet of him—but he needn’t have worried.” From the pocket of her mink coat Hilda drew forth an object that glittered in the light. It was a hunting knife, shiny and new. “You see, I can protect myself in case I’m attacked.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  Jokingly, she waved the gleaming blade back and forth in front of his eyes. “You’re not going to attack me, are you, Morton?” Her composure had returned; she was using his full name again. “I warn you that I’ll fight to the death.”

  Her tone was light but he didn’t think she was joking. He didn’t move back from the knife. He said slowly, “Let’s understand a few things. When we got our divorce I washed my hands of you. That still goes. I’m not going to upset your applecart because I’ve got a strong hunch you’ll do that without any help from me. So you can put the knife away.”

  She didn’t argue for a change but did as he suggested. “You’re really a dear boy. You know I wouldn’t hurt you, anyway.” He knew no such thing. Underneath her flippant sophistication Hilda possessed a vicious streak which occasionally manifested itself violently. Once she had thrown a pan of boiling water at him during an unimportant quarrel. He suspected she was capable of more violent action when something vital—like her present position—was at stake.