The Deadly Desire (Prologue Books)

by Robert Colby

But Macklin did not seem under any financial pressure and so far Royce had met with people who were quite compatible — and sometimes interesting. On this, his third summer at the Tides, Royce had no reason to suspect that in choosing his tenants Macklin had brought together such lethal components that hate would smolder and flare — and at last destroy.

Royce knew at a glance that her laurels had always been men. For the animal pull of her clung about her. She was lust made visible.

“Stan Royce,” he said flatly, looking up but not smiling. He did not like rude or temperamental people and never gave them ground.

He spoke with a wryly humorous disdain about nearly everything his conversation touched. He seemed both uninhibited and moody, affable one minute, brusque the next.

“Of course I’m a little loaded,” she said. “But I can handle it. Bourbon and just a — ” she separated thumb and forefinger a fraction — ”just a that-much of soda.” She smiled in a way that said, You can’t refuse if I put it so nicely. He nodded. “A yard of bourbon and an inch of soda.” He went to the kitchen and made a drink that was almost the other way round, hesitated, then made himself one, too. What the hell. He might as well get her number right from the start. And no better time than when she was a little high.

“You’re from out of town?” “Uh-huh. Cleveland.” “Quite a distance. What brings you so far?” She sighed. “Boredom. It’s like a needle. Keeps jabbing me along. Anyway, I always wanted to see good old Malibu — sin and salt water, movie stars, glamor. God! And then when my husband died, I — well, I — ” Her voice trailed. “I’m sorry,” he said. But they were just words. He couldn’t feel anything for her. “You’re sorry,” she said. “Are you really now?” She got up with the drink and crossed to the window, looked down. “Well, don’t be.” She turned. “It’s just an act with me. People expect it. He was a bastard. Grade A, number one. I hated him.”

She leaned over him a little unsteadily, her drink tilted in one hand, the long spill of her hair so close to his face he could detect what he thought was a faint smell of gardenia. Surprising how perfume in subtle measure excites, suggests. And why should it really? “You’re so damn contained,” she said. “I hate people who are contained. It makes me want to uncontain them. Uncontain — or attain. I don’t know which I mean. What is it with you? A smug quality?”

“Look, Osborne,” he said. “Are you just hunting for someone to fight? Because if you are, if drinking brings out all your cute belligerence, take the gloves with you and go set up the ropes right down in your own little den.” The truth was that his coldness was a defense. He knew that. She was spoiled and willful and … something else, he didn’t quite want to think about. He didn’t like her. And yet, in spite of this, if he didn’t watch himself, he was going to get involved with her. My God, he didn’t have the stone’s resistance to a magnet. But if he got involved with her it would be a sour-sweet, soiled attraction. She would have a quicksand pull on him. He could feel it. And he wanted this month to be free of that sensual bog which muddies the mind. He wanted to be thoughtful and objective.

“Reluctance is intriguing,” she said. Once more she was bending over him. But this time her lips drew closer, then spread over his mouth. He grabbed her and pulled her down. He fell into a vortex of desire. The want of her was brutally insistent.

Watching, he knew then why he had delayed. He could see in her what he had first felt that day on the beach. He had been right. The animal pull clung about her. She was lust made visible. She seemed not so much a woman as a consuming force. And while this had merely disturbed him then, it was almost frightening now. Even so, he was getting up and fumbling with his belt. And she was standing there naked — laughing obscenely.

Precisely, deliberately, he went about the details of shaving, brushing his teeth, taking a shower, combing his hair, dressing. The whole god-damn ritual was a bore. Every day the same repetition until you died.

Satisfied, but by no means elated with his decision, he went out to the beach to see what else the day had to offer besides the magnetic and perfumed evil of Star Osborne.

He paused, swung her around to face him. “Listen, don’t give me any of those cute little veiled threats. Big bad men don’t scare me, let alone neurotic little girls with prize-winning chests. Why, for God’s sake, we hardly know each other. One night together and you act like you own me.” “But what a night, darling. And how lightly you take it.” “It was offered lightly and I took it lightly.” “Don’t fool yourself, Stanley. I’m perfectly serious and always was. I never start anything I don’t want to finish. I told you to be careful and think twice — remember? Never mind, I’ll sew the buttons back on. But that won’t change a thing.”

too attentive, when he lost some of that gruff exterior with which he covered his affection and especially when she saw he was troubled about something and trying to conceal it. Rod didn’t conceal trouble. Sooner or later he always talked it out with her, explaining, seeking advice, or if she had none, just using her as a vent. In this facet of his personality alone, there had been a basis for a special understanding between them.

Well, Muriel could see that the girl was young and attractive in a flashy sort of way. She would have sex appeal, and not much else. So Muriel felt worse and, at the same time, better. Because Miss Tedesco wouldn’t last. She had a spark that set Rod on fire but the fire would go out if it was left alone and there would be nothing but the ashes of a cheap little affair. So Muriel had the detective put her in a cab, she went on home and said nothing about it.

It was Muriel’s belief that Rod was already conscience-stricken and full of self-condemnation. The very worst thing she could do was to accuse him and when he denied it, show her proof with righteous anger. In that case, one of two things might happen. Caught in the act, embarrassed and contrite, Rod would despise himself. And every time he looked at Muriel, he would see her, not as his loving wife, but as a walking accusation, a reminder that he should loathe himself. And probably loathe her more for making him feel the guilt. There might be a widening and permanent breach. Or, on the other hand, he could become so angry at her spying and discovering, he might be driven still deeper into the arms of Miss Andrea Tedesco.

Jay had always owned some part, a big part, of everything he touched — both people and things. Some people were the owners, the havers. The others were the have-nots, the serfs who took what was left when the master’s table was cleared. All his life Bruce had been one of the have-nots, not even a has-been, but a never-was. He had owned nothing. But now he owned that twenty per cent. It wasn’t much, but he did have that. What he didn’t have and wanted most now was a woman. His woman.

Her eyes drooped and closed again. Even in repose there was a trace of sneering impatience about her abundant mouth, an angry set to her soft-hard chin.

Royce looked out to sea, pursing his lips. There was a hard clarity and strength in his profile, a classic refinement. Lindquist decided he was a pretty decent guy. “Well, I don’t know,” said Royce. “I was never very good at the sex post-mortem stuff. Even in bull sessions. On the one hand you’re bragging because you caught the brass ring in the sex merry-go-round, and on the other you’re accusing the ring for allowing itself to be caught. Even the tramps, so-called, are entitled to a little privacy. Everyone bows to their own god of indulgence, even if it’s just being a self-righteous bastard.”

torpid

By this time the pattern was clear to Royce. He knew Rod Lindquist would be next. And he was right — up to a point. For though she tried at every opportunity to at least get Lindquist into private conversation, he remained aloof. Royce was certain this was not a matter of choice, but rather self-protection. For Muriel was never far away. And deep in her placid face, her eyes were moving and watchful.

Then when she found he wasn’t ready to grab his things and run, she displayed the temper and driving will of a woman who had to possess, who had seldom if ever been scorned. But with so many other conquests behind her, she must now have forgotten him.

Long afterward Royce observed that all might have gone reasonably well. But there was too much hate. And too much love. And far too much alcohol. And these were not ingredients for anything but disaster.

“Is it because she has such a nice figure, Rod? Is that it? Is that all you men ever care about? What about love and companionship and understanding that it takes years to build? I suppose to a man, all of that isn’t worth one cheap thrill.” “Christ. Oh, Christ! No, there’s nothing in the world like a good cheap thrill. Especially if it’s cheap.”

Lindquist had never seen a more pitiful, a more lost and lonely human being. At that moment he was more wretched than he had ever been in his life. The thought of all they had been to each other welled inside him. He crossed to her and put his arm around her, pulled her gently to him. “There, there, sweetheart, I didn’t mean it. Not a word. I lost my temper. We all say things we don’t mean to the ones we love most. And I do love you, Muriel dear. Don’t feel empty, little girl. You always, always, have me. And this whole thing is my fault.”

voluble

And then they did stop with a little sobbing sound and fell apart like loathsome spiders. And he turned and walked back without knowing where he walked and in what direction.

Erickson crept upon him without reply. At that moment, Royce was thinking that there was nothing more violent than the weld of friendship broken and turned to hatred. The force of hate had subjective heat which gathered power from the very personal elements which had produced its opposite.

In spite of the weather it seemed unnatural to Royce that everyone should remain indoors — until he remembered the party. Then he wondered if in this place at this time there ever would be a semblance of collective spirit. He didn’t think so.

Royce closed the door and moved across the room, paused, listened. The silence was uninhabited. There was the feeling of emptiness. He went through the little hall to the bedroom where he had found the clipping. The door was open and there was the same kind of silence. He stepped in and flicked the switch. A glare of light sprang from the ceiling fixture.

Dried blood, the color of shellac, ran down her thighs.

When Detective Lieutenant Moyer and Sergeant Wurdack were seated in Royce’s apartment, Moyer said, “Now, Mr. Royce, would you first tell me your full name, your occupation and home address.”

Great names

“This tells us something,” said Moyer excitedly. “It looks like trouble — big trouble — was a habit with her. I think if we trace back far enough, we’ll find a pattern. And maybe somewhere in that pattern, trouble was following her. And according to this clipping she was playing with another guy even while she was married. Her husband catches her in the act in a Cleveland hotel room. He beats the other guy unconscious, but then, if we can believe Star Osborne’s testimony here, he thinks the rival is not just unconscious, but dead. So what does he do? He jumps out the window, eleven stories, leaving his poor widow thirty-six thousand dollars and knick-knacks. Now that’s no J. P. Morgan estate, but it would buy a lot of cookies.”

Lieutenant Moyer surveyed the scene, then stood for a moment puffing his cigarette and looking out to sea. “Well,” said Wurdack beside him, “whatta you think?” “About Royce?” “Yeah.” “I like him. He seems a pretty straight joe. But a lot of guys I liked are in stir now. And some went to the little smoky chamber with the green door.”

Hard boiled

Humphrey showed the palm of his hand. “Now wait a minute, Sergeant. Just wait one minute before you jump to any conclusions. Maybe I did hate her — some. But hate means different things in different cases. It’s a big word and it has as many degrees as a compass. Before I would risk my neck to kill anyone they’d have to upset my little world a lot more than Star Osborne, or the kid either.”

Moyer sighed heavily. No matter how many of these investigations came and went, in the beginning, until the human debris was cleared and the routine set in, the bitter-sad stuff of life was a sour fermentation inside him. It never quite jelled and hardened into the cynical cement that walled away the ones like Wurdack.

Somehow Humphrey’s stoical calm, his glib answers, irritated Moyer. You met all kinds on homicide cases and yet the bland, nerveless or jaunty ones never ceased to amaze him.

She wore twice the usual make-up, carefully accented and piquantly applied so that her mouth seemed fuller, her eyes wide and bright.

She didn’t answer but stood peering below with a peculiar fixity.

I was dreaming an old dream over again and I invited just what I got.

For a long time he couldn’t sleep. He berated himself for being a dumb bastard with too much of the wrong wisdom. And too much heart and not enough animal grab. Grab it and the hell with it.

“It’s better to breathe a little stale air than none at all, Mr. Royce. Keep all windows that can be reached closed and locked. Meanwhile we’ll tighten up the patrol around there.”

The pictures slid backward and stopped at Erickson. Where was he? He hadn’t appeared all day. Was he closed in that little room with his secret torment? How long could you stay folded in a box with the fetid melancholy of your own naked thoughts?

“Well,” said Rod, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, “let’s have it.” He seemed only mildly concerned, had the slightly sardonic look of someone who is about to hear a ghost story. But as Royce launched into the incident, his eyes narrowed with interest.