Take a Step to Murder. Day Keene

watch,” Sourira said. “Right now all the big-town newspapers are rushing reporters and photographers here. By morning this place will be jumping.”

      The reporter glanced through the window and saw Sheriff Prichard and Doctor Flanders coming down the drive and hurried out to amplify what information he had.

      Renner took a deep breath and followed him. The matter was out of his hands now. What happened from here on would depend on whether or not Tamara had kept her head, how much she’d told Flanders and Prichard.

      Doctor Flanders answered the reporter’s questions by saying yes or no when he could. No, the girl wasn’t badly injured. Yes, she’d had a bad shock. No, his examination had revealed no evidence that she had been molested sexually. No, Sourira couldn’t take a picture of her. She was still in a mild state of shock and he had given her a sedative and she would probably sleep until morning.

      Sourira turned his questions on Prichard and learned more from him than he had from the doctor.

      Yes, the girl spoke English, with a faint but decided accent. Yes, he had talked with her. If the information she had given him was correct her name was Tamara Daranyi. She was a Hungarian refugee who had entered the United States in 1956 on a student’s visa. She was nineteen years old and said she had studied voice and piano at the University of Southern California at Los Angeles for a year. Recently however, having run out of money she had been earning her living as a part-time model and entertainer.

      Jubilant, Sourira left to phone in his story.

      When he had gone, Sheriff Prichard looked coldly at Renner. “Now I wonder if we could talk to you, Kurt.”

      Renner led the way back into his office. “Of course.”

      Prichard had recovered the hat box he’d mentioned. He set it on Renner’s desk and opened the lid. As far as Renner could tell the only articles in it were several pairs of nylon stockings, a few changes of lingerie, a cheap evening gown, a pair of high-heeled slippers, a small kit containing theatrical make-up and a large red plastic shoulder bag.

      Renner felt his way. “Miss Daranyi doesn’t seem to be doing so well.”

      “No,” Doctor Flanders said coldly. “What’s more she’s frightened to death of something or someone. That unconscious act was a pose. I suspected it the minute you and Bill got out of the police car. She just didn’t want to be questioned.”

      Renner continued to feel his way. “Just what did she tell you?”

      Flanders lighted a fresh cigar. “To begin with she said she came out from L.A. on a regular Los Angeles to San Francisco bus and got off at Cove Springs to change to the local bus for Mission Bay. But the girl at the bus stop told her the Mission Bay bus had just left. So while she was standing in front of the bus stop wondering what to do and a nice looking elderly gentleman in a good car stopped and asked if he could be of assistance, she accepted his offer of a ride.”

      Prichard took up the story. “She was crying so hard when she did talk it was difficult for me to understand her. But I gather Baron began to make a play for her almost as soon as she got in the car. The usual ‘nasty old man’ routine—driving with one hand and fumbling at her with the other.”

      “Why didn’t she get out of the car?”

      “She couldn’t. He was driving too fast.” Prichard was grim. “Then when he finally managed to pull up her skirt and get his hand on it and keep it there he got so excited he, well, that’s when they went over the cliff.”

      Renner was glad Baron was dead. If he wasn’t he’d probably kill him for having put Tamara through such a nasty experience. He didn’t quite know what to say. He said, “Isn’t that about the way we had it figured?”

      Doctor Flanders said coldly, “Except for one thing, Renner. Are you certain you never saw her before? Are you certain you don’t know the girl?”

      “I’m positive,” Renner lied.

      “Then why should she be headed for here?”

      “She was coming here?”

      “That’s what she said,” Prichard said. He took a worn wallet out of the red plastic shoulder bag and laid two one dollar bills and some change on the desk. “Let’s have it, Kurt. Why should a pretty nineteen-year-old girl, a genuine countess in the old country, according to her story, a girl with practically no clothes and only two dollars and thirty-eight cents in her purse, be headed for a tourist court the hell and gone from anywhere, a court run by a man she claims she doesn’t know?”

      “How should I know? Why didn’t you ask her?” Renner said.

      “We did,” Doctor Flanders said. His voice was distinctly unfriendly. “That’s what makes us so curious. She said she hoped you would give her a job. Just what sort of a job?”

      Renner felt his tensed muscles relax. Tamara hadn’t panicked. Despite missing the bus and becoming involved with Baron, she’d managed to stick to the script.

      “Oh. So that’s it,” he said. “I should have known.”

      “You should have known what?”

      Instead of answering the question, Renner asked one of his own. “Just how well did you search her purse, Bill?”

      Prichard shrugged. “I just checked the money she had and confirmed the name she gave me with the name on the cards in her wallet. I didn’t pry.”

      Renner picked up the red plastic shoulder bag and emptied its contents on his desk. “In that case,” he said, quietly, “let’s pry.”