5 Detective Novels Magazine — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

12 ing on his socks. He dressed in the uni- form of the day—sport coat, light- weight gabardine slacks, saddle shoes; skipped his morning shave. The desert air was cold, made him move fast through the long shade pat- terns of the hotel building. He was al- most trotting as he passed the swimming pool. He climbed into the sunlight when he got to the tropical garden that colored the hill below Starr’s private hacienda. The sun felt good on Kelly’s back. From the top of his hill, Baron Starr looked down on the hotel casino and a few thousands of acres of desert valley, ringed by distant, blue mountains. A million-dollar view—particularly the foreground. The Rancho Club. It was a nearly authentic Spanish adobe, built in an L; the south wing be- ing the casino, the north, rooms for Starr’s guests. There was a swimming pool, tennis courts, stables, bungalows for the really big-wheel customers. Also quarters for help, and a garage.. The whole little community had been landscaped to the desert; towering date palms, walks shaded by pepper trees, cactus gardens, flowers. From a dis- tance, it could be mistaken for an early California mission. TARR’S personal eyrie ran to twelve rooms—two-storied adobe-and-des- ert rock, with picture windows shaded by low, overhanging pink tile eaves. Bougainvillea was taking over its lower walls. Apparently, Starr had been watching Kelly Wilson toil up the hill, because he opened the door before Kelly knocked. The old man had on a green silk robe which came almost to the knees of his black silk-striped evening trousers. He didn’t look as though he’d been to bed— in his life. Starr was the gray-fox type—blue- white hair, a sharp face, leathery. He was always deeply tanned. This morn- ing, his color looked a little muddy, splotched, almost as though he’d been bruised in a fight. He said. “Good morn- FIVE DETECTIVE NOVELS MAGAZINE ing, Kelly. Come in.” The front door opened into the living room, a huge, double-storied room with two fireplaces, one at either end. The back wall was cut diagonally by a stair- case made of solid oak timbers, rough, unstained, a bone-white desert bleach. Kelly followed his boss around several islands of furniture and Indian rugs, to the foot of the stairs. He didn’t have to ask Starr why he’d been called. The woman’s body was lying there; twisted, battered. She had on panties and a bra. The skin looked white against the dark wood floor. Her legs were long, had prob- ably been graceful. They weren’t—now. Kelly said, “Who is she?” Baron Starr was standing beside him, hands thrust into the pockets of the green silk jacket. His face was gray, with spots of sick-looking color under his eyes. He shrugged. “I think she told me her name was Doris Mellani.” “IT don’t remember her around the hotel,” Kelly remarked. “Is she a guest?” The boss shook his head. “No. No, she came to see me yesterday afternoon. She wanted a job. Said she’d worked as a shill in Reno and Vegas.” “So you had her stay to talk it over,” Kelly observed grimly. The old man acted embarrassed. “As a matter of fact, I did. We had dinner together, a few drinks.” “IT didn’t see you at the casino last night.” Kelly nodded. .“I wondered about that.” Starr bridled. “Nothing happened,” he declared. “Not what you’re thinking, anyway. I can’t explain this,” he went on, “but my drinks seemed to hit me. I stretched out on the davenport over there by the fire, and—well, that’s the last I remember until this morning and I—I woke up.” He wiped his face witha wiry, sun-browned hand. “To be entire- ly honest, I’d forgotten about the young lady. I had this terrific head, thought I’d go upstairs and get myself an as- pirin. Well, I didn’t. I saw her, called you.” “What havpvened to her other clothes?” MICLOO (C(O) S