Dead, She Was Beautiful Read online

  Hagen’s cheek stung from the unexpected blow and his first reaction was to throttle her but then he couldn’t hold back a grin. He said, “I’ll bet that tropical wall-paper out front was your idea.”

  She had been expecting a more violent reaction. Taken aback, she said, “What do you mean? What has that got to do with anything?”

  “That’s the way you live. The law of the jungle.”

  “You bet it’s the way I live. Don’t you forget it. I pay my debts.” The bruise where Hagen had struck her earlier was just a faint shadowing along her jaw line; the swelling had subsided. “But don’t get the idea that my slapping you settles our account, Hagen. There’s still Hilda.”

  He sighed. “You’re a hard woman to convince. I don’t know why I bother.”

  “Is that why you’re here—to convince me of something? You’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m here to convince myself of something. That you really exist and that you’re what you claim to be. I’ve had some trouble recently with people not being what they claimed.”

  Dagne went around the desk and sat down, leaving him standing. “I’m hardly interested in anything you have to say.”

  “You will be,” said Hagen, “when I tell you that I’m not what I claimed to be myself. Wishart didn’t hire me to follow your sister.” Dagne stared at him and then her hand crept toward the telephone. “If you are thinking of calling the cops, don’t bother. They already know.”

  “What’s your angle, Hagen?” she demanded warily. “What are you trying to gain by confessing that you’re a liar?”

  “That isn’t what I said. I thought if I put my cards on the table, you might see your way clear to help me a little.” Dagne snorted, but he went on calmly, “I need some information badly, information about Hilda and a man she knew, maybe a couple of men. You’d know if anybody would. Maybe you won’t want to tell but if you really want to do something about Hilda, this is the first step.”

  He paused, awaiting her reaction. Finally, Dagne said, “I’m listening. I won’t promise any more than that.”

  “The first man I’ve never seen. I don’t know anything about him, even a name. But three years ago, more or less, he was Hilda’s boy friend and the reason that my marriage broke up. Did your sister ever confide anything to you that—”

  Impatiently, she broke in, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Hilda was the last person in the world ever to be unfaithful. She had very strong ideas on that subject. I resent these insinuations, Hagen.”

  “The word is facts, not insinuations. And I’m more interested in protecting myself than Hilda’s good name, if any.”

  “I’m not.”

  “The second man I have seen,” Hagen persisted. “The name he used was Wayne Wishart but it isn’t his. That’s what I meant earlier.” Succinctly, he described again the impostor who had hired him, meanwhile watching Dagne’s face for any flicker of recognition. There was none. “I’m toying with a crazy theory that maybe the first man and the second man are one and the same.”

  “I got a better theory than that, Hagen. I don’t think there is even one man I believe you’re making the whole thing up to cover your own tracks.”

  Hagen sighed and sat down in the leather lounge chair across from her. “That’s not an original idea, Dagne. The cops have it too. So you won’t help me.”

  “I didn’t promise to do anything except listen. If you’re through, I wish you’d go. I have a class to attend to.”

  “I’m not quite through. My main reason in coming—”

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Dagne called, “Come on in!” and rose. Hagen rose too, to face the newcomer. He was the muscular instructor in the loin-cloth. He came in, saying, “The girls are ready for you, Dag—” He broke off when he discovered Hagen. “Oh, sorry—didn’t know you were busy.”

  “I’ll be right there, Larry,” Dagne said. “Mr. Hagen was just leaving.”

  “Hagen?” Larry scowled. He was a swarthy youngster still in his twenties, with a sullen insensitive face that didn’t reveal any particular intelligence. His development seemed to have taken purely physical lines and his body was awe-inspiring. He looked like a physical culture photo come to life. Hagen assumed that this was Beldorian, Dagne’s partner. “Is this the guy who’s been bothering you, Dag?”

  “He bothers me, yes,” Dagne agreed.

  “Well, well.” Beldorian surveyed Hagen grimly. “I hear you swiped my gun, buddy.”

  “Let’s say I’m just holding it in trust.” Despite the other man’s muscular development, Hagen wasn’t particularly alarmed, not on that score. He was more concerned with what Beldorian held in his hands. It was a long-bladed knife, a throwing knife with a wooden handle carved in Polynesian designs. And Beldorian was manipulating it as if he was skilled in its use. He juggled it from one hand to the other as he eyed Hagen, catching it expertly without ever seeming to look at it.

  “I want it back,” Beldorian told him. “Don’t give me any crap, buddy.”

  “You don’t look to me like a man who needs a gun to protect himself,” Hagen said easily. “Not with those muscles—and a knife besides. Mind letting me look at that, Larry?”

  At the quick change of subject, Beldorian appeared bewildered. Then he grinned wickedly. “Catch!” With a swift underhand motion, he tossed the knife in Hagen’s direction. He put no real power behind the throw but Hagen was forced to dodge. Beldorian guffawed. The knife dug into the padded arm-rest of the lounge chair and stood upright, the handle quivering.

  “Larry, you should be more careful,” Dagne chided her partner. “You might have hurt him.” Mockingly, she asked, “Are you going to add that to your collection, Hagen?”

  He disappointed her by not even touching it. “It’s not my type, after all. I’m only interested in hunting knives, the kind that Hilda was playing with just before she was killed.”

  Beldorian was scowling again, his forehead knitted as he tried to follow the byplay. “What’s he talking about, Dag?”

  “It’s not important, Larry,” she said soothingly. “Do me a favour and get the class started until I get there, will you?” It was obvious that Beldorian didn’t want to leave but it didn’t occur to him to oppose her. Hagen didn’t have any doubt as to who ran the show. Beauty and the beast, he thought.

  Beldorian turned reluctantly. “Sure you’ll be all right?” The sleekness of his back was marred by an ugly scar resembling a puncture, high on his right shoulder. “I’ll be glad to throw him out if you say so.”

  “I can handle him myself,” Dagne promised and Beldorian went out, with a final jealous glance at Hagen. “You can thank me for saving you from a broken neck, Hagen. Larry could break you in two.”

  “He didn’t get that scar on his back running toward a fight, I’ll bet you.”

  “Larry was in the war. He got a medal.” Dagne gazed at him coldly. “You’re a great one for thinking the worst of people, aren’t you?”

  “People don’t give me much choice.” Hagen shrugged. “Look, Dagne, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “Whatever it is, the answer is no.” To his surprise, she unzipped the side fastener of her skirt and began to lift it over her head. She wore no slip beneath it, only white tailored shorts. “I’m busy. My class is waiting for me.”

  Hagen thought she had the most beautiful legs he had ever seen, even shapelier than Hilda’s. “My original proposition was that you hire me to investigate your sister’s death.” He grinned. “Now I can think of a better proposition than that, especially since you’ve already slapped my face ahead of time.” She didn’t answer but began to unbutton her blouse, revealing the halter top beneath. “All right, let’s go back to the first one. How about it, Dagne?”

  She finished undressing and then folded her discarded clothing into a neat pile on top of the desk before answering. Finally, she said, “Hagen, you baffle me. I don’t think I understand you at all. Why on earth should I
hire you, of all people?”

  “There’s a good reason—for you as well as me. This morning—”

  The telephone buzzed softly and he stopped while she answered it. Silently, he cursed the interruption. He felt that he was almost on the verge of convincing her, or at least softening her enmity. Now, watching her, he saw Dagne’s face again resolve into grim lines, although her part of the conversation was noncommittal enough. She said, “Yes, this afternoon will be convenient for me. Yes, certainly. I’ll be there.” She hung up.

  “What I was about to say—” began Hagen, starting all over again.

  She virtually spit her words at him. “Do you know who that was? That was the police! They know all about me! Who told them? Was it you?”

  “Of course it was me.”

  She came around the desk like a fury, her eyes blazing. “You had no right! It was my secret, mine and Hilda’s! I’ll …” Her gaze darted about, as if seeking something to throw. There was nothing available except Beldorian’s primitive knife and Hagen put his hand on it, just in case. Thwarted, she flared, “Get out of here!”

  Hagen didn’t move. He said, “Not till you think this out, Dagne. I need you for my client. But now I think you need me just as much.” He forced her to hold his gaze. “You’re in this thing along with me now. Maybe Troge will buy your story, peculiar as it is, and maybe he won’t.”

  “If he’s a man, he’ll buy. I’ve got a sweet face.”

  “A lot of people are going to wonder, anyway, because it just doesn’t sound natural, even though it’s true. The papers will have a field day. If that’s what you want, okay. I’m no publicity hound myself. I’m the old-fashioned type who believes that a reputation is important. I can protect yours—and mine—if I can get to the bottom of this. But I can’t do it alone.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Here’s another angle. I think it’s a fifty-fifty chance that you need some protection. You and Hilda looked exactly alike—except for the hair colour. But when she was killed, she was wearing a bathing cap.” He paused. “Maybe the archer made a mistake, Dagne. When the story about you hits the papers, he’ll know it.”

  “But—” she faltered incredulously, “but that’s impossible! I don’t have any enemies.”

  “I have it on good authority that Hilda didn’t have, either. But she’s dead.”

  Dagne sank back against the edge of the desk. She tried a smile and finally one stuck. “You’re trying to scare me, Hagen. Aren’t you?”

  “Sure. I need the job.”

  “But what can you do that the police can’t?”

  “For one thing, I can find the fake Wayne Wishart faster—and he’s the key to the rest of it.”

  Dagne said slowly, “You know, you’ve almost got me believing in you. Almost, I said. Do you really think that nobody will believe it about Hilda and me?” She didn’t wait for an answer but chuckled suddenly. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Both of us keeping it a secret all these years, and now the whole world will know.”

  “Does it really matter?” asked Hagen, touched by her sudden helplessness. “You’re free now.”

  “No,” she corrected softly, “I’m alone now.”

  “Not necessarily. We’re together. We’re after the same thing.”

  She raised her head. “Maybe you’re right, Hagen.”

  “Then I’m hired?”

  “Let’s not go so fast,” she replied, suspicious again. “Let’s say that for the present you’re just on approval.”

  “That’ll do—for the present.” He pushed her pile of clothing along the desk toward her. “Get dressed. I’m going after the fake Wishart and this time I want a witness.”

  She objected, “But I’ve got a class—and these are just old clothes …”

  “Let Muscles run the business until you get back. And don’t worry about what you’re wearing. You’ll be right in style where we’re going.” Hagen grinned. “Or do you object to a little slumming?”

  8

  THEY ate lunch at a café that didn’t have any tables, just a row of stools at an open-air counter that was screened from the hot noon sun by a tattered awning. They munched hot-dogs piled high with sauerkraut and sipped beer from frosted mugs, and Hagen found it all very pleasant, including the presence of the pretty girl at his side.

  Dagne seemed more amused than anything else. “I’m glad my figure control class can’t see me now. This lunch is hardly on my recommended list.”

  “I noticed that you ate two hot-dogs.”

  “Well, I’m not likely to meet anybody I know down here.”

  “I suppose not,” said Hagen. “I wish I could say the same.” He fitted into the surroundings a good deal better than the girl who, even in her simple blouse and skirt combination, obviously didn’t belong there. On all sides of them flowed the shabby traffic of Fathom Street, the main artery of the city’s disreputable district. It was a squalid neighbourhood of chili parlours and flop-houses, war surplus outlets and all-night movies. At night, the multitude of gaudy neon obscured the grime and softened the faces of the men and women who lived there. By day, there was no pretence at all.

  Seriously, she said, “I still haven’t figured out why you brought me along.”

  “It’s a cheap date,” he said and paid the bill, which amounted to fifty cents. “Oh, I have my reasons, Dagne. Like I told you, I may need a witness when I round up this fellow. Besides, I figure it’s safer to have you around where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Safer for me—or for you?”

  “No comment,” he said and helped her down from the stool. “Ready to take up the scent?”

  “Do you really know what you’re doing, Hagen?” Dagne looked distastefully up and down Fathom Street. “This is about the last place I’d begin to look for the type of man you described to me.”

  “You’re thinking just like the cops. Troge thought this phoney Wishart character sounded like a high-class confidence operator, and I’ll bet he’s got his men checking all the better hotels right now. He’s judging by the clothes and that’s my waste of taxpayers’ money because I didn’t tell him about all the clothes. I didn’t tell him about the shoes. Or the wrist watch.”

  “What about the shoes and wrist watch?”

  “He wore old army shoes and passed them off as a rich man’s whim. But what if the shoes were the real person and the rest was salad dressing? In which case you have a heel-grifter, a bum, maybe a wino who’s seen better days. Quite possibly an ex-actor, considering how he took me in. As for the wrist watch, he didn’t have a watch of any kind. He had to ask me the time. In other words, somebody hired a tramp to impersonate Wishart, which is no compliment to Wishart’s appearance.”

  “Or to your intelligence.”

  “You’re so right. That’s why I’m trying to be so brilliant and make up for yesterday. Suppose somebody did hire this guy. The job was to be an impersonation only—you don’t hire a killer out of the gutter, not if you want the job done as well as this one. No, the archer hired the bum for the first act only. And it was the archer who was following me around yesterday afternoon while I was cleverly tailing Hilda. End of second act. The third act was last night when Hilda took her farewell dive with the arrow in her back. It was the archer, not the bum, who I saw running away afterwards. Now do you understand about the shoes?”

  “No.”

  “The archer gave the bum, say, a hundred bucks to buy some fancy clothes. Suit, shirt, tie, hat—and shoes. But the bum looks to the future. He can use all of these things except the dressy shoes. He doesn’t need style in shoes, he needs endurance. So he spends the shoe money on a topcoat which an old man will need just as soon as the weather changes. That explains why the fake Wishart was wearing a topcoat on a hot day. He probably didn’t have any safe place to leave it. His buddies around here would steal him blind. Or maybe he bought a topcoat instead of shoes because a topcoat is easier to pawn for drink money.”

  “But would
n’t whoever hired him make sure he left town afterwards?”

  “You bet, they’d try. Maybe the archer bought him a train ticket. But tickets don’t have to be used. They can be cashed in. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened and that our bum is still hanging around town. I just hope we reach him before the archer does.”

  Dagne said slowly, “You started out by saying you thought that the man who pretended to be Wayne Wishart was Hilda’s lover. Now you’re saying he was just hired by somebody else. You can’t have it both ways, Hagen.”

  “I’ll be happy if I can have it just one way. Right now, I claim that the bum was hired to pose as Wishart because the archer didn’t dare face me himself. That must mean that I’m in a position to recognize the archer sooner or later. Of course, I’m supposed to be safe in jail on a murder charge—that’s what the killer intended by assigning me, Hilda’s ex-husband, to the scene of the crime. See, the police were supplied with not only a murder, but with an ideal suspect. I was supposed to be the archer’s smokescreen. So if I don’t keep moving, I’m dead.”

  “You’re awfully convincing,” she said. “Maybe too convincing to be believable. I don’t know. Every time you’re cornered, you’ve got some logical excuse. At least, it sounds logical until something else comes along and then you’ve got another answer for that. I still don’t trust you, Hagen—even if you did buy my lunch, for which I thank you.”

  “How about dinner? Under soft lights I look darn near honest.”

  “No,” she said but she accompanied her refusal with a smile, then changed the subject before he could pursue it. “This is a big neighbourhood. Wouldn’t it be easier if I took one side of the street and you the other?”Her smile went away as he hesitated. “I guess you don’t trust me either, do you?”

  “That isn’t the question. This job isn’t easy and, furthermore, it’s all new stuff to you. Maybe you’d do it up brown but I’d be wondering all the time and I’d probably end up doing it all over again, anyway. Understand?”