Murder Mistress

Robert Colby

• Publisher: Prologue Books
• Year: 2011
• ISBN:
  9781440537141
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

Driving to Miami, Scott Daniels paused to rescue a lady in distress. She was in a road house, abandoned by her date, and so Scott offered Valerie a lift. No sooner had they started off, then they spotted the boyfriend's car smashed in an accident. Valerie begged Scott to save her good name by salvaging her suitcase from the wreck before the cops could find it. But no sooner had he done so, then he learned that instead of being filled with pink unmentionables, it was loaded with green negotiables - hundreds of thousands of them.Curiosity being stronger than caution, Scott kept his eye on Valerie after dropping her off in Miami. And thus found himself the only element remaining between a gang of ruthless criminals and the perfect crime.

ONE

AT TEN O’CLOCK that night, Scott Daniels estimated that he was about two hours out of Miami. He had been driving south since dawn with only the dashboard radio for company. In the afternoon, the heat of a merciless July hot spell had begun to wear him down so that the landscape fused and shimmered and the hours of road-jog made him feel strangely unbalanced and light-headed.

He had spun across the middle of the state over Route 27 because the towns were fewer and smaller and he could make better time. Also, there were long stretches of open road such as the one he was traveling now — nothing for endless miles but the flat tangle of the Everglades. He had stopped only once to eat — grabbing a quick sandwich while the car was being gassed and checked.

His haste was not of necessity. He had another six days of vacation and tomorrow would be just a span of idleness with depressing reflections over his failure in New York. But Myra waited in the stuffy little westside apartment. And while Myra waited he wasn’t going to spend another night on the road. Because as his whole bright and hectic success had come tumbling down in a fraction of the time it took to build it, Myra had stood on the sidelines with a certain sadness in her smile but without the least accusation in her eyes. And above all in the world that was left to him, he loved Myra most. So that the urgency which pushed him forward into the night against hunger, against bone weariness, was self-induced.

A half hour earlier the heat had reached a seemingly inevitable climax in one of those massive, broken-dam thundershowers for which Florida is famous. The rain had come smashing out of the sky as though driven by a minor hurricane, visibility had been not much better than a car length ahead, the road was practically awash and Daniels had lost the better part of twenty minutes before abruptly, it ended. Now the highway glistened under the long cone of his headlights, the air which rushed past his window was only slightly cooler and there was a soggy smell and feel to it. Yet, in one sense, Daniels was revived and eager — it was a mere spurt to Miami.

He hadn’t seen a half dozen cars in the last forty minutes, not a single habitation. A lone gas station had been closed. But just ahead there was an intersection where he knew the highway picked up a branch that curved left towards the east coast. He released the accelerator even as he saw the lights of a combined gas station and cafe. It was a long and shoddy woodframe building. White and faded-blue neon alternated, weakly blinking … EATS…. GAS…. EATS…. GAS….

He needed gas. And also food. The place stood squarely to the right of the intersection and had the quality of a bleak outpost in the night. There were two pumps which sat center of an unpaved island. He wheeled his ‘56 Ford into position beside them and waited. When no one came he didn’t blow his horn but cut the motor and lights, took the keys and went inside.

There was a rectangle of dusky room lighted by a trio of low-watt naked bulbs, suspended from ceiling cords. To one side was a scattering of scarred tables and chairs, while opposite these was a bar over which, tacked to a wall, was a hand-painted sign — BEER AND WINE. Next to a door which apparently led to a kitchen was a square serving window. The one touch of color in the room was an immense red-trimmed jukebox. The place had a musty wood smell, seasoned with motor oil.

A paunchy man in a stained white shirt, sleeves rolled above his biceps, leaned heavily upon the bar. He peered myopically at a crumpled newspaper as he rolled a toothpick from side to side in his mouth. If he heard Daniels, he didn’t look up at his entrance.

The only other occupant of the room was an unusually attractive girl somewhere in her mid-twenties. She had dark hair which fell softly to a point just above her shoulders. Her delicately molded features were made up with that mixture of accent and restraint which come only with a natural instinct for artful grooming.

Even sitting at the bar, her long legs and the slender sweep of her waist spoke of tallness. Her white skirt seemed immaculate. She wore a pale green blouse. It was plain, short-sleeved, open at the throat and had the look of expensive silk. Strapped over her shoulder was a handsomely tooled alligator bag. Though her attire was casual, the total effect of her made her surroundings seem the more shabby.

As Daniels entered, she was already turned to face him, easing off the stool and peering at him intently, expectantly. He paused in the doorway, a little caught by the unexpected sight of such beauty apparently intent upon his arrival. Now she came towards him a step. But then as he moved and fell under the light, something went out of her face and she turned away immediately, remounting the stool and giving her undivided attention to the coffee in her cup.

The paunchy man looked up at last and said, “Something for you, mister?”

“Gas,” said Daniels. “If that’s in your department.”

“What’s that?”

“I said, fill ‘er up. With regular.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” said the man, folding the paper and shoving it aside. “You want regular, don’t ya?”

“What have you got to eat?” said Daniels, sighing and approaching the bar.

“Kitchen’s closed.”

Daniels frowned. “That’s bad news,” he said. He studied the man. “I guess it is, anyway.”

“What’s that?”

Daniels sat down but didn’t answer.

“Got some crackers, if you’re hard put. Peanut butter or cheese.”

“Cheese,” said Daniels. “And a beer to wash it down.”

“What brand you like?”

“Just so it’s cold.”

The girl got off her stool and went to the open doorway, peering out. There was tension in her every movement.

“Hell of a bad rain awhile ago,” said the barkeep. “Goddamn skies busted wide open and fell right on top of us. You get caught in it?”

“In the middle,” said Daniels absently, turning slowly to watch the girl who was still gazing out the door and pulling nervously on the strap of her bag. Nice, he thought. A sweet bundle. And right out in this wilderness — in this gas and eats joint.

There was a time, before Myra, when he would have made much of such an event. At thirty-two he was lean and darkly handsome. But two hours away, restless in the heat, Myra would be waiting. Listening for the sound of him at the door, running to comfort him, to hear him out with tender patience.

No, even if this one were willing, there was nothing in him for the old game.

The barkeep set the beer in front of him with the crackers. “Now I’ll go out and gas you up,” he said. “Check under the hood?”

“Just the gas,” said Daniels. “And the windshield.”

At the doorway the girl gave way for the man and after a final look into the darkness went to the jukebox and made much of selecting a number.

The music blared too loudly, too jarringly in the silence of the narrow room.

Still watching the machine, the girl tapped her foot. But it seemed more like a release of pressure than any real pretension of keeping time. In a minute, she came back to her stool. Tasting the cold coffee, she made a face and pushed the cup away. At that moment, she turned and their eyes met. He smiled pleasantly but without the least overtone of meaning. She smiled back, she glanced at her watch, then out the door.

It must be a guy, thought Daniels. And I wish he’d come. I get nervous just watching her.

The record died.

There was a rumble and the sigh of air brakes. A big trailer truck rolled to a stop on the other side of the pumps. The girl swung to the sound, startled. More on edge than ever, she clamped teeth on lower lip and began to drum the bar surface with the pink petals of her nails. Her fingers paused, then spread out rigidly. Decision reached her face. She turned to Daniels with a set expression.

“Which way are you headed?” she said quickly.

“Miami,” replied Daniels.

“On twenty-seven?”

“That’s right.”

“I wonder, then, if you would be willing to take me along? I seem to be stuck here.” She didn’t smile, offered none of the feminine charms of persuasion.

“Someone was supposed to meet you,” said Daniels. “But didn’t show. Is that it?”

“That’s it. And, of course, I have no way to get in touch. There was a very definite arrangement and I’m worried. I must get to Miami.”

“Well,” said Daniels, who liked to understand the logic of a situation, “there was a storm, there are all sorts of mechanical troubles which could crop up and your friend may have been delayed. How long have you been waiting?”

She looked at her watch. “Exactly twenty-two minutes.”

“Twenty-two minutes! Well, excuse me. But I really don’t think you’ve waited long enough. People can be that late meeting you on a street corner.”

She shook her head positively. “No, I’m afraid you don’t understand. And I don’t particularly care to explain … if you don’t m...