Free Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton Page A

cigarette on the dresser, lit it, and sat down on the bed facing me, smoking bravely.
    â€œThe jib’s the little triangular sail up front. I know that much,” I said. “And Freya was the Norse goddess of love and beauty. And an eighty-footer is a lot of boat, for a private yacht. And who did you hire to do what, Teddy?”
    â€œA private detective from a New York agency. I’ve been working in New York. When Papa disappeared—”
    â€œDisappeared?”
    â€œHis letters stopped coming. I called his lab in Washington and they said he was taking a vacation, but he hadn’t written me anything about it. They said he’d come down here. They sounded—well, funny. So I called her long distance—”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œYou know. You met her. The horsy aristocratic lady with the sharp, sharp eye.”
    â€œMrs. Rosten?”
    Teddy nodded. “And she said he was off cruising somewhere, like you just told me. She’d lent him the schooner, she said.”
    â€œI see. Well, I wish I had a handsome lady friend who lent me eighty-foot yachts. So your daddy used to call you doll, but he doesn’t any more, because he’s off cruising the seven seas in a schooner that’s tied up in a creek twenty miles from here with the name painted out. And you sent a New York private eye to investigate, and he came back with his tail between his legs. And just where the hell does this Rosten dame come into the act, anyway?”
    Teddy hesitated. “Papa—well, Papa was crazy about her,” she said reluctantly.
    â€œTsk, tsk,” I said. “A married woman? How did she feel about it?”
    â€œFeel?” There was sudden viciousness in the little girl’s voice. “What makes you think she’s got feelings, that female vampire? Don’t flatter her, Jim!”
    â€œIn other words,” I said, “you don’t like her very much.”
    â€œShe’s a monster!” the girl said fiercely. “Who was that ancient character who turned men into swine?”
    â€œCirce, I think,” I said. “She wasn’t ancient at the time, as I recall.”
    â€œWell, this one is,” Teddy said. “God, she must be almost forty, and she had Papa making a fool of himself like they were both kids in their teens!”
    â€œThink of it,” I said, “an old hag like that. Almost forty!”
    She glanced up quickly. I don’t exactly qualify as a dewy juvenile myself. She had the grace to look embarrassed.
    â€œI didn’t mean—anyway, it’s different with a man.”
    â€œSure. Men age better.”
    â€œWell, they do. I—I just couldn’t understand it. What he saw in her, I mean. It wasn’t as if she were pretty or anything, or even very bright. I mean, all she can talk about is horses and dogs and boats, real sexy conversation. The only thing I can figure is, she must be good in bed, but she doesn’t look it.”
    I said, “And you don’t like the idea of her being good in bed with your papa, anyway.”
    â€œWell, should I?” she snapped. “I tried to tell him, to warn him. Somebody had to tell him he was making himself utterly ridiculous! We had a terrible fight about it, and I packed my things and moved to New York and said I wasn’t going to set foot in the house again until he’d made a clean break with that woman.”
    â€œThat’s known as polite blackmail,” I said. “Impolite blackmail is when you ask for money.”
    She flushed. “I had to do something! I couldn’t just stand by and let him ruin everything. I didn’t even answer his letters. He made me so mad! He kept writing to me as if I were a child who just didn’t understand. I understood, all right. I just thought it was disgusting!” She drew a long, ragged breath. “And now—and now he’s gone.” She paused. “I think he’s dead,