Dead, She Was Beautiful Read online

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t tell your husband anything.”

  “What is there to tell?” She rose, shedding the mink. “I’m going to take a dip. The heat’s been awful, hasn’t it? There are some spare swim trunks in the cabana if you’d care to join me.”

  “I’m going home. I’m not used to rich living.”

  “It’s the only way to live, actually. At least, have one more for the road.”

  Hilda sauntered away toward the diving platform, putting on her bathing cap, tucking her golden hair up under it. She strolled slowly and hippily, as much on display as a fashion model. Hagen hesitated, admiring her self-assurance despite himself. Hilda had been more nearly right than he would admit: there still was an attraction, even after everything. It was a good thing he had already decided to give up this case; there was no use in reopening old wounds.

  Abruptly, he turned his back on her as she ascended to the diving board, simply because she expected him to watch her. She had enumerated her possessions earlier to incite his envy; now she was doing the same thing with her body. Hagen didn’t intend to give her the satisfaction of posing for him. He filled his glass instead, just as if he enjoyed her too-sweet cocktails.

  “Pour one for me, too, Morton!” she called down the length of the pool, prompting him to look. “I’ll be right there!”

  He didn’t turn and, a moment later, heard the splash. He didn’t wait for her to join him but downed the manhattan in a silent bitter toast to the house that had cost seventy-three thousand five hundred, without furniture. She was welcome to it, and it to her. He intended to make that his goodbye.

  But when he finally turned, there was no one to hear it. The surface of the pool was bare except for tiny ripples that spread in ever-widening circles. Hilda had not come up.

  4

  FOR a moment longer he thought it was a joke and that Hilda was trying to worry him by holding her breath below water. Once he went to look for her, she would emerge, laughing at him. That would be just like her. But, after another full minute had passed and still no Hilda, Hagen was suddenly gripped by a cold premonition. He hastened to the edge of the pool and looked down.

  Hilda was plainly visible through the shimmering water, which was lighted from beneath. She lay on the bottom at the nine foot depth and she was beyond playing pranks on him or anyone else. In the bare flesh of her back, squarely between the shoulder blades, stood the feathered shaft of an arrow. From the wound a thin ribbon of blood weaved upward to the surface, coiling like smoke from a cigarette.

  Hagen stood at the water’s edge, stunned, gaping downwards at the shocking sight. His mind at first refused to accept it as reality. It groped instead for some saving explanation. But it found none and suddenly he realized what had happened and he ran along the pool side toward the deep end, shedding his coat as he went. “Got to get her out,” he muttered. “Got to …”

  He had kicked off his shoes when reason returned, and he stopped. He was too late. Hilda was beyond rescue. Hagen had seen other dead persons in his time and the signs were evident here even to an untrained eye. Going in after her body would only ruin his clothes without helping her—or the police, who would want to see everything just as it was so they might find her killer.

  “Killer!” Hagen said aloud, because it was a new thought. The arrow had come from somewhere; some human hand had directed its flight. The archer must still be within the walls.

  Hagen cast a quick glance around. Nothing moved. “Arrow was in her back,” he said. Hilda had been shot while on the diving board. That meant the arrow had come from the shrubbery at the far end of the yard, the direction from which Hagen himself had entered. He ran that way.

  It did not occur to him that there might be more arrows and that he presented an inviting target. Hagen possessed no sort of weapon himself; he did not even own a gun, and did not miss one now. At the moment, he was preoccupied only with proving the correctness of his deductions, preferably by discovering the identity of the bowman.

  He found the bow instead. He stumbled over it immediately after stepping off the tiled area around the pool. It was a long bow, tautly strung, with painted tips that indicated it was part of a set. It leaned against the thick bole of a palm tree, so close to the diving platform that whoever had used it must have had an almost point-blank shot at Hilda’s back.

  Hagen’s hand went out to seize it, then halted in mid air. Partly it was because of professional caution; there might be fingerprints. But mainly it was because at that instant he heard a new sound, the sound of a gate being softly closed at the rear of the garden. Someone was leaving the grounds. Scorning caution, Hagen charged after, raising his voice in a shout.

  He was too late. When he reached the wall the gate was latched as before. In the distance Hagen could hear the receding sound of running feet. He fumbled with the latch and when it proved stubborn, hauled himself up to the top of the glass brick wall. Pursuit was out of the question. He was in his stockinged feet and his car keys were in his coat, back at the pool side. The best he could hope for was a glimpse of the intruder.

  In this he was partly successful, but only partly. A block away, a street lamp cast a lonely glow. Through its circle of light, momentarily passed a man’s legs, running hard. The upper half of the man’s body was obscured by the drooping branches of a pepper tree. Hagen was too far away and the glimpse too brief, even to be sure of the colour of the man’s trousers. Immediately afterwards, he heard an automobile engine grind to life.

  Hagen swore in exasperation. The car noise faded away; the murderer had made good his escape. Frowning, he lowered himself to earth and slowly tramped back the way he had come. He had stubbed his toe but, during the chase, had not paid any attention to it. Now it began to throb.

  He forgot it again immediately, however, as he reached the lighted area of the pool. He was no longer alone. The elder Mrs. Wishart, drawn forth by his shout probably, was standing in the shelter of the cabana. She was holding a telephone receiver to her head and Hagen could hear her voice plainly.

  “Yes, murdered,” was what she was saying. “There’s no question about it. Please hurry.”

  She heard Hagen’s approach and she turned her head to stare at him. Neither her arrogant expression nor her voice changed. She drew up her hand as if for a dagger-thrust and light flashed from the tool she held. It appeared to be a four-inch awl, a leather punch. Some belt-like strips of unworked leather were draped around her neck, and they seemed to establish her mysterious stabbing gestures while watching television. She said into the telephone, “I believe I have the murderer right here. I’ll hold him for you until you arrive.” She hung up and stood looking at Hagen.

  He said, “Do you mind if I sit down? My feet are killing me.”

  “By all means,” she said coolly. “But I’d like to warn you that I can scream very loudly.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said, although his first impression was that Mrs. Wishart had never done much screaming, loud or otherwise. Bellowing seemed to be more her forte. She had a bluff indomitable face, well-tanned, with hard grey eyes. Her hair was grey too, but there was nothing aged about her bearing. She wore black slacks, held up by a fancily carved leather belt, and a ruffled blouse. She looked too young to have a son Wayne Wishart’s age. “By the way, Mrs. Wishart, my name is Hagen. Mort Hagen.”

  “Since you already know who I am, that takes care of introductions.” Mrs. Wishart stepped forward vigilantly, holding the sharp awl outthrust, but Hagen was only bending over to put on his shoes. “Why did you kill Hilda?”

  He gestured at the jug of manhattans. “She forgot the Angostura.” The idea that he might be suspected struck Hagen as amusing, nothing more, and he refused to take it seriously. He wasn’t afraid of the old lady but he didn’t intend to be punched up like leathercraft, either. He finished lacing his shoes and then, seeing her still standing on guard, said, “Oh, come on now, relax. I didn’t kill her or anyone else, and I don’t
intend to start with you.”

  “You just sit there,” she warned. “And no tricks.”

  Hagen shrugged and didn’t argue, since it didn’t matter what she thought, anyway. He didn’t speak again until he heard the sirens in the distance, coming fast. Then he rose and said, “We’d better let the boys in.” Wary of the awl and Mrs. Wishart’s threatening expression, he went to admit the police.

  Two uniform cops were the first to arrive in a prowl car. They were followed by a detachment of plain-clothes detectives from Homicide, and shortly afterwards Captain Troge himself showed up. A murder involving the wife of Wayne Wishart was important enough to rout even the homicide chief out of his easy chair. Hagen expected that the district attorney would be the next arrival.

  It turned out to be the police surgeon, together with a deputy coroner and a contingent from the crime laboratory, photographers and fingerprint men. Within the space of twenty minutes the quiet Wishart mansion resembled a small factory, except that there was no visible product.

  By this time Hagen had repeated his story twice, to ascending echelons of authority. He was beginning to worry a little, since he knew cops rather well. Nothing had been said to him; no accusations had been made. Everyone had been very polite—too polite, he thought. Was it possible that the police were going to react in the same manner as Mrs. Wishart, that nobody was going to believe him? It was in this disquieting frame of mind that he finally reached the top echelon, Captain Troge himself.

  Troge was at the Cabana, smoking placidly while he watched the efforts of his subordinates to bring up Hilda’s body. They were having a good deal of difficulty since the arrow that killed her had driven the breath from her lungs and the body lacked buoyancy. When Hagen reached the scene, a detective in swim trunks was attempting to attach a rope to the corpse.

  “Hello, Hagen.” Troge greeted him pleasantly. He was a big bear of a man with a shrewd affable face and salt-and-pepper hair. Hagen knew him slightly but mainly through reputation. Troge was an efficient man-hunter, with better than twenty years’ experience at his job. “What can you tell me about this?”

  “Pretty nearly everything except who killed her.” Hagen was sure that Troge already knew the story but he repeated it anyway. “I was hired by Wayne Wishart this morning to investigate his wife’s activities. You know the sort of work I do. I followed her all afternoon. Hilda spotted me somehow and pulled a switch on me. I was snooping around the garden and she invited me to have a drink with her. While my back was turned, somebody shot an arrow into her. I got to the wall in time to see his legs running off down the street but that was all.”

  It sounded implausible even to Hagen, the bare facts related in this manner. Troge gave no evidence of scepticism. “She know why you were following her?”

  “I told her.”

  “How come? I thought you fellows had a duty to your clients.”

  “Hilda and I used to be married. I figured that took me off the case.”

  “Uh-huh.” Troge scratched his chin reflectively. “Kind of a funny deal, it seems to me. A man hiring his wife’s ex-husband to follow her around. Doesn’t sound quite human.”

  Hagen said slowly, “I can’t argue with that but maybe there’s an answer. When I first tumbled to who Mrs. Wayne Wishart was, I thought that it was just a funny mistake. A coincidence, a one-in-a-million shot. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “While I was tailing Hilda this afternoon, I had the funny feelings that somebody had an eye on me. Maybe I was watched, to make sure I carried out my sucker play exactly right. So it follows logically that maybe I was picked for this job on purpose. I was hired to be on the scene of the crime, by somebody who knew that a crime was going to be committed.”

  “You’re putting the finger on Wishart. Well, it’s a thought,” agreed Troge noncommittally. He told one of the uniformed men to find Mrs. Wishart. The cop misunderstood and glanced dubiously at the pool. Troge said testily, “Mrs. Rosemary Wishart, the body’s mother-in-law. I know where the body is, for the love of Mike!”

  Then he and Hagen stood aside to allow the photographer to film the interior of the cabana. Hilda’s mink coat still draped carelessly across the chaise longue where she had thrown it. “You didn’t like her much, did you, Hagen?”

  “I’ve never seen a friendly divorce yet.”

  “How’d she feel about you?”

  “The same way. We broke up over another man. Hilda liked to live fast.”

  Troge nodded and greeted Mrs. Wishart, who came through the shrubbery from the direction of the house.

  “Mrs. Wishart, it is Mr. Hagen’s claim that he was hired by your son this morning out at this Oakmar development. Mr. Hagen is a private detective and he says your son wanted him to follow Hilda.”

  “That’s absolutely impossible,” she said, giving Hagen a hostile look. “My son Wayne is in Los Angeles. He wouldn’t hire a detective, anyway. The whole idea is ridiculous.”

  “He’s not in Los Angeles,” Hagen contradicted her. “He’s just pretending to be. Actually, he’s here in town. I don’t believe he ever left.”

  Troge said, “It’s easily checked.” He told the uniformed officer to telephone the Los Angeles hotel where Wishart usually stayed. When the man had gone to obey his instructions, Troge said, “Mrs. Wishart, you say that the idea of your son hiring a detective to follow his wife is ridiculous. Do you mind telling me why?”

  Mrs. Wishart hesitated. “What possible reason could he have had? That’s what I mean.”

  “There wasn’t any trouble between them, then? They had a happy marriage?”

  Again she hesitated before replying. “I suppose so. No marriage is altogether without flaws, you know. But certainly if Wayne suspected anything, he’d be man enough to handle it himself. I don’t know why this is necessary, Captain—you’ve already found your murderer.”

  “Just routine,” said Troge. He didn’t contradict her accusation.

  Hagen said, “Hilda brought out two glasses from the house. She told me that the other one was for me but that just doesn’t figure. She couldn’t have known I’d come over the wall.”

  “No,” agreed Troge, “that is, unless you’re not telling us everything.”

  “Who was she expecting?” argued Hagen. “That secretary, what’s her name, Avis Gill? Or a lover? Or maybe even an enemy?”

  “Hilda didn’t have an enemy in the world,” said Mrs. Wishart quickly.

  “She certainly had some peculiar friends then,” said Hagen, waving at the pool where the diver was working. “She was carrying a hunting knife in the pocket of her coat. I know because she showed it to me. That isn’t the sort of thing a woman generally carries around for no reason.

  “Hilda had no enemies,” Mrs. Wishart repeated stoutly. “Except you.”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly seen you shedding any tears,” he snapped.

  Mrs. Wishart bristled but her reply was prevented by the return of the uniformed officer Troge had sent to telephone. He reported to the homicide chief in low tones and then departed again. Troge said to Hagen, “Wayne Wishart is registered at the Biltmore, has been since yesterday.”

  “You see?” crowed Mrs. Wishart. “What did I tell you?”

  “Did your man speak to him personally?” persisted Hagen.

  “No,” admitted Troge. “But we’ll keep at it until we do. Any other thoughts, Hagen?”

  Hagen hesitated, casting about for fresh ideas. He was aware now, if he hadn’t been before, of the precarious position he occupied. And he thought that his best defence was in suggesting new lines of inquiry, pertinent or not, to divert attention from himself. His gaze fell upon the archery course alongside the pool. “I’d be interested in knowing who around here knows how to shoot a bow-and-arrow.”

  Troge looked at Mrs. Wishart. She shrugged. “The whole household has dabbled with it, off and on. The only person who was really any good at it was Hilda herself. She took it up in college, I
believe.”

  “Ping pong’s my game,” said Hagen. “I wouldn’t know one end of a bow from the other. Whoever shot Hilda knew his stuff.”

  “If she was shot,” mused Troge. “No reason why an arrow has to presuppose a bow, is there? Though we did find a bow in the bushes, of course. But it might be possible to use an arrow like a sword. You know, for stabbing.” He smiled slightly. “You would know one end of an arrow from another, wouldn’t you, Hagen?”

  “Not if I’m as dumb as you think I am.”

  “I’ll tell you. On one end there’s feathers, on the other there’s a steel point. And your Hilda wasn’t tickled to death.”

  “Don’t call her my Hilda. How about the fellow I saw run away?”

  “There’s a call out for a man with legs, driving a car,” said Troge blandly. “But how do you expect the police to catch him if you couldn’t? No connection, of course, but how many manhattans did you have at this party?”

  At that moment there came a shout of triumph from the deep end of the swimming pool where two detectives hauled at a rope like fishermen reeling in their catch. Hilda’s body had broken the surface. With the shaft sticking out of her back, the sight reminded Hagen of a small harpooned whale being dragged ashore. He felt a little sick. Mrs. Wishart reacted in the same manner. She turned quickly away with a muttered, “If you don’t need me any more, I think I’ll …” She went toward the house, her bearing not quite so indomitable as before.

  Troge alone had no particular reaction. He said to Hagen, “Let’s go take a squint.” It wasn’t an invitation; it was a command. Hagen followed silently, having no choice. The detectives, their task completed, moved aside and the police surgeon and deputy coroner took charge of the dead woman, while the photographer waited patiently for his turn to come.

  Troge leaned over the medic’s shoulder, observing impassively and occasionally glancing at Hagen out of the corner of his eye. Hagen kept his own face expressionless, though he was far from calm inside. The dead woman stretched out beside the pool was no stranger and he had loved her once. And once he had hated her but it was harder to remember that now while she lay wet and helpless, her bare limbs and full figure exposed to the brutal winking of the flash bulbs. Dead, she was beyond hate, and even Hagen, armoured in his personal bitterness, could feel a little sorry for her. The arrow had to be removed from her back before she could be turned over for more pictures. The steel point dripped blood on her bathing suit. Her pretty face had relaxed as it never quite had in life and to Hagen at last she was the ideal he had married long ago, not the reality he had become familiar with. The tenseness had gone from her mouth, the watchfulness from around her eyes. Hilda’s argument with the world was over. Dead, she was beautiful.