Free Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton Page B

Jim. Murdered!”
    â€œMurdered?”
    â€œYes, and it’s her fault. I know it is!”
    â€œMrs. Rosten? Why would she kill him?”
    â€œI didn’t say she killed him. I said it was her fault.” Teddy glanced at me, somewhat hesitantly, and went on, “I think—I think her husband killed him in a fit of jealousy. Don’t laugh. That’s the way it must have happened!” She drew on her cigarette defiantly.
    I studied her for a moment. I was realizing, rather belatedly, that I was dealing with a screwball. It changed the situation somewhat.
    â€œI’m not laughing,” I said. “I’m just panting, trying to catch up. You’re leaving me way behind.”
    She said, “Well, it’s logical, isn’t it? She’s beat on that poor man for years. He’s definitely unstable, anyway. Anybody can see that. She’s flaunted her lovers in his face, time and again. Everybody knows it around here. I think it finally just got too much for him and he went off his trolley.”
    â€œHave you got any evidence for all this?” I asked. “Or are you making it up as you go along? Half freshman psychology and half TV?”
    She said, “Well, if Papa isn’t dead, where is he? I think there was a dreadful scene of some kind, and Louis Rosten went haywire and killed him. Then she helped her husband cover up to avoid the scandal of a murder trial that would have crucified her. Why is the Freya hidden in that creek? Why is Louis absolutely terrified of his wife? Why did that private detective drop the case after coming down here? She either bought him off or threatened him with political influence; her family’s been big stuff in this state since Lord Calvert founded Baltimore.”
    â€œLord who?” I asked.
    â€œCalvert,” she said. “They pronounce it Caulvert around here.”
    â€œSo you came down to get the goods on her?”
    â€œWhat else could I do?” Teddy shrugged her small shoulders under the silk pajama coat. “1 hoped they’d invite me to stay at the house out on Long Point, but I guess they knew I meant trouble. They gave me some story about remodeling the guest wing and got me a room here. Then they had me to dinner with this creepy Thunderbird character. One of them was watching me every minute I was in the house, either Louis or her, and I wasn’t too sure about Thunderbird. He’s some kind of relative. And then we came back here to go swimming— swimming, with the temperature nudging absolute zero! They just had to dream up some excuse to get me out of there and back to the motel.”
    â€œAnd you saw me,” I said, “and after you’d learned who I was, it came to you in a flash that I was just what you needed, even if you had to lie like a trooper to get me.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “Of course. There wasn’t any point in trying another private detective; she’d have got to him, too.”
    â€œSo what can Lash Petroni do for you that a private dick can’t?”
    â€œThe police said you were a hoodlum, a gangster. You don’t talk like a hoodlum. Not all the time, anyway.”
    I chided myself for being careless, and put on a grin. “What’s the matter, small stuff? Just because I happen to know that Freya was the goddess of love and Circe turned men into swine—ain’t it allowed for us criminal classes to read a book between hits?”
    She flushed. “I didn’t mean—what’s a hit?”
    â€œA hit,” I said, “is like when you’re sent to take care of somebody who’s bothering somebody, and that’s enough stalling around, pint-size. You pried me loose from the fuzz; you got me here. Now tell me what the hell you want and what’s in it for me, or I’ll be on my way.”
    She hesitated, still watching me closely. Then she crushed out her cigarette, got to her feet and came