Kiss and Kill by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online

…”
    â€œWho asked you to? Now the guys who stowed him in there are hunting for something. I want you to look around and see if anything’s missing.”
    â€œWill I have to … to go back in there?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œI can’t .”
    â€œYou won’t have to look at him. I’ve covered him up. Besides, there’s nothing to see. He’s lost his face.”
    Arthur gagged, and they waited.
    â€œCome on, Artie,” said Barney. “Make believe you’re walking into a butcher shop.”
    Arthur gagged again. “The smell …”
    â€œI’ve opened the windows.” Barney put his hand in the youth’s armpit and hauled him to his feet. “You can hold a handkerchief to your nose.”
    Arthur dutifully produced a handkerchief and applied it to his rather prominent nose. He braced himself.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “If you insist.”
    They found evidence of an expert search. Panels had been pried out and hammered back in place. Tiny scratches indicated where locked drawers had been forced open and closed again. An occasional crumpled sheet in the files testified that they had been searched, too.
    Barney tried to reconcile the surreptitious search with the fact that the body had been left on the premises. Probably too heavy to take away, he reasoned. Also, had the driver been murdered before the search or after; and in either case, why? Most important of all, had they found what they were after?
    He followed Arthur into Claire English’s carpeted private office, dominated by a free-form desk. While Arthur searched the desk and filing cabinets, Barney’s eye was drawn to a series of nude female studies occupying an illuminated recess in the wall.
    â€œWho took these?”
    â€œMiss English,” said Arthur.
    â€œShe’s a hell of a photographer.” The photographs were of a slender woman posed in various outdoor settings: in tall grass, beside a stream, in a forest glade, with daggers of light pinning down the nude figure. “But the model’s the one I’d like to meet.”
    â€œThey’re self-portraits,” said Arthur.
    Barney was entranced by the lithe, clean beauty of the figure. There was no superfluous flesh; the body was all functional.
    â€œYou mean she took these photos of herself?”
    â€œYes. She used a self-timer.”
    â€œHow much does she sell them for?”
    â€œThey’re not for sale,” said Arthur in an outraged lisp, as if Barney had inquired the asking price of the Washington Monument.
    Barney tried to recreate the scene in his mind: Claire English—Miss Fashion-Plate, Liz Tollman had called her—driving out into the country, taking off her clothes, setting up her camera, running over to pose, taking the photos, all for the purpose of hanging them in her private office, for her private pleasure. He had never run into that form of narcissism before. He studied the photos closely, but her face was invariably hidden by a shadow, a hat, a leafy branch, or her hair.
    â€œWhat does she look like? I mean her face?”
    â€œShe’s called beautiful,” said Arthur, “but really, I’m no judge. I’ve always thought her features are rather sharp, but I suppose that’s because she’s so often sharp with me,” and Arthur giggled at his little joke. Then he said, “She’s a kind of dark blonde. Personally, I think she uses a rinse.”
    â€œIf you say she uses a rinse,” said Barney, “then I’ll bet my bottom dollar on it. I understand she spends a lot on clothes.”
    â€œWell, of course . She’s a businesswoman, and a good one. With a high-class clientele. I could show you more portraits of big shots—Oh! They’re gone!”
    Barney’s eyes narrowed. Arthur was staring panic-stricken at an empty space in one of the file drawers.
    â€œWhat’s gone, Arthur?”
    â€œThe