Man on a Leash by Charles Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

like?”
    Romstead jerked his arm away. “I don’t know how old she is.” He got the instrument back to his ear to hear the chief deputy bark, “—the hell is going on there? Dead woman in whose bathroom—?”
    “Captain Romstead’s. She broke in a window.”
    “We’ll be there in five minutes. Stay out of the house!”
    He dropped the phone back on the cradle. Bonner lashed out at him, “God damn you, what did she look like?”
    “I don’t know,” Romstead said. “Except she had red hair.”
    The big man wheeled and ran for the doorway. “Brubaker said to stay out,” Romstead called, but he was gone. The front door slammed. Before he and Paulette could reach the walk outside, there was a snarl from the Porsche’s engine and a shriek of rubber, and he was tearing down the drive. They got into Romstead’s car and ran down the hill onto the highway. By the time they’d turned in through the cattle guard the Porsche had already come to a stop, and Bonner was running in the front door. He stopped behind the other car, but they did not get out. When he looked around at her, there were tears in her eyes.
    “Maybe it’s not,” he said.
    “Yes,” she said. “She was one of the most beautiful girls I ever saw, and she had dark red hair.”
    “Was she on drugs? There was a needle in there.”
    “He was afraid she was.”
    “Where did she live?”
    “San Francisco.”
    “She knew the old man?”
    “Yes. How well, I don’t know, but she was with my husband and me on that sailboat when he picked us up at sea. Could you tell what happened to her? Did she fall in the tub and knock herself out, or what?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “But my guess would be an overdose.” He told her about the packet of heroin, or whatever it was, and the way the dresser had been ransacked.
    “I don’t get it,” she said, baffled. “I just don’t believe it—”
    She broke off then as Bonner emerged from the house and walked slowly toward his car. They got out, but there was no need to ask.
    “I’m so sorry, Lew,” Paulette said.
    He made no reply. He leaned his arms on top of the Porsche and stood, head lowered, staring at the ground. It wouldn’t do any good, Romstead thought, and he might be just asking for it, but he had to say something.
    “I’m sorry, Bonner,” he said. “I’m sorry as hell about it.”
    Bonner spoke without looking around, his voice little more than a ragged whisper. “Don’t bump me,” he said. “Don’t crowd me at all.”
    * * *
    It was hot in the room, and there was a strained, tense silence as they waited for Brubaker and the others to finish in the bedroom. Romstead had drawn the drapes and opened the sliding glass door to get a movement of air through it, but it didn’t help much. Bonner stood with his back to the others, looking out at the terrace. Paulette Carmody was smoking a third cigarette. Romstead stared at the rows of books without seeing them. The coroner had gone now, as well as a deputy with a camera, the picture taking completed. Two men came out through the vestibule carrying the sheeted figure on a stretcher. Brubaker was behind them. He watched the body go out to the waiting ambulance, his face bitter.
    “Junk,” he said. “Goddamned junk.”
    Bonner spoke without turning. “Nice she knew where to find it.”
    Romstead said nothing. What could he say? He asked himself. There was no use trying to kid himself or anybody else the girl had had the stuff with her. She hadn’t walked four miles in the dark and illegally broken into a house to take a bath. There was no use even conjecturing on how it had got here, but there it was. The girl was dead because of it, and Bonner was running very near the edge, so this might be one of the really great opportunities of a lifetime to keep his mouth shut.
    “It looks like just another overdose,” Brubaker said. “There are no marks on her of any kind, she didn’t fall and hit her head, and there’s no evidence