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      “I am interested,” said Peterman calmly.

      “You might ask Jan one question. Ask him if he got his courage to interfere in Malcolm’s affairs because he knows that Malcolm is already dead.”

      “My word!” Peterman was shocked. “Is he?”

      “I’m betting on it,” Barney said.

      “See here.” There was a pause. “See here. Please, Forbes. Do what you can. And try to avoid any peccadilloes.”

      “Peccadilloes,” Barney said. “Yes.”

      “Precisely.”

      Barney hung up.

       5

      THE HUNTER estate sprawled on the west shore of the lake, a rambling Tudor house with exposed beams, slate roofs, many gables. There was a velvety green lawn, rhododendrons, a formal garden, a high iron fence surrounding the acreage. The lawns sloped down to the lake front with a miniature of the manor house serving as a boat shed. There was a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, and moorings for a plane. There were terraces with striped umbrellas, a fine imported sand beach, towering oaks and spruce, and an air of desolate emptiness as Barney was admitted through the high iron gate and drove up the winding drive.

      A man waited, scowling in the sun, on the terrace between carefully trimmed privet hedges. The man remained where he was while Barney walked up the shallow flagstone steps toward him.

      “Forbes? I’m Felix Branthorpe. Estate manager.”

      They did not shake hands. Branthorpe was about thirty, medium height, with enormously wide shoulders, a flat, tanned face. His blond hair was cropped in a stiff brush, close to his skull. He gave an impression of physical power that was not lessened by his thin voice. His eyes were a cool, hostile gray.

      “I told Mrs. Hunter about you. I advised her that you would come here and I also advised her not to see you. But she insists that you be given a chance to say your piece. For my part, you’re not welcome here.”

      “Since when does your job as estate manager give you the right to pick and choose Mrs. Hunter’s visitors?”

      Branthorpe flushed. A muscle jumped in his heavy jaw. “I’m a friend and adviser of the family, as well as an employee. My sole interest is in protecting Malcolm Hunter’s property.”

      “By way of keeping his wife incommunicado?”

      Branthorpe’s hands closed into fists. “I didn’t say that.”

      “I think you’d better get out of my way,” Barney said. “Go stand in front of a mirror and make muscles at yourself. I’m too busy to argue.”

      Branthorpe’s rage was poorly concealed. For a moment, Barney thought the man would not move. He weighed well over two hundred and from his lightly balanced stance Barney guessed he would not be easy to handle, one way or the other. He was in no mood for unnecessary trouble. He looked at Branthorpe’s glacial eyes and the man stared at the lake, jerked his square jaw to the left, and said: “On the back terrace.”

      “You first, Felix,” Barney said.

      The man’s mouth curled. Then he turned and went up the shallow steps three at a time. The tall Gothic doors of the house stood open to the lake breeze. There was an entrance hall of red Belgian tiles, a huge stone fireplace with carved griffins standing guard, and suits of armor in wall niches. On the paneling was a collection of hunting bows, old English longbows, arquebuses, crossbows of every size, including one that was distinctly Chinese, inset with an intricate ivory design. Branthorpe’s shoes made no sound at all as he led the way through the house, past a tall stained-glass window, and through French doors to a terrace in the rear.

      A hedge of yellow Pinocchio roses made a splash of color against tidy yews and arbor vitae. The slate terrace came in subdued pastels. The bees were busy. Under a candy-striped umbrella was a redwood lounge chair with an aquamarine sun mattress lashed to it with yellow cords. Branthorpe spoke in a harsh voice. “Jan’s snooper is here, Evelyn.”

      The woman on the lounge chair said: “Thank you, Felix. You can leave us alone.”

      “I’d rather not,” Branthorpe said. His neck was red.

      “Please, Felix.”

      “Mal wouldn’t like it.”

      “Mal isn’t here. Do as I say.”

      Branthorpe hesitated, eyes hot and furious. His fists clenched, then his hands went slack. He turned on his heel, his shoe making a brief squealing sound on the tiled terrace, and slammed back into the house.

      Barney stood as he was. For a moment, when he first saw the back of the woman’s head, the length of her legs, he felt an unholy pounding in his heart against his ribs, a quick tremor and a frantic denial shouting in the back of his mind. It was as if he were seeing Lily again. The way she held her head, the same trick of tying a blue ribbon in her hair, the way she lay with her long legs outstretched. The same silky shine of black hair, shoulder-length, the same deep, calm voice. He was badly shaken.

      Then he walked around to take a chair where he could look clearly into her face. She wore dark sunglasses with jeweled bows like butterfly wings. She wore a yellow sunsuit the color of melted butter, with big ivory buttons. Her face was the same, yet not the same. He felt relieved and then he felt disappointed and then he told himself to put it out of his mind. Lily was dead. He could not go on seeing her every now and then in various women he met or passed. She would not have wanted to haunt him so, he told himself.

      “What is it, Mr. Forbes?” she asked.

      He had not realized he was staring. “You reminded me for a moment of someone I once knew. I’m sorry.”

      “Sorry I’m not she?” Evelyn Hunter smiled.

      “In a way. I’d rather not—”

      “Of course. You’re the man Jan hired, aren’t you, to look after Mal?”

      “Yes, I am.”

      She said: “Jan was always fussy, unable to see the true picture. It is Malcolm who always looks after Jan. Jan means well, I suppose. But he will not be thanked for sending you here. Malcolm has always been able to cope with his own problems.”

      “I’ve come to realize that. But this problem may be murder.”

      “Don’t say that.”

      “It must be said, Mrs. Hunter. Until one or the other or both men turn up. Ferne Kane is crying murder, and it has to be answered.”

      She was silent. There were tiny beads of perspiration on her short upper lip. Her mouth was soft and Barney received an impression of sadness. When she took off her glasses and he looked at her dark blue eyes, the sadness was still there. She looked defeated, as if something had broken inside her long, long ago.

      “I don’t like to bother you, Mrs. Hunter,” Barney said. He spread his hands. “But I must find your husband and talk to him. If СКАЧАТЬ