Songs in the Key of Death by William Bankier

shoulder and she began to drive ahead slowly. As they passed the laneway, he noticed something on the pavement. “Stop!” he told her and when she did he jumped out. By the time she parked and joined him, he was examining a dark wet smear on the concrete. He touched it and lifted his stained finger. “Blood,” he said.
    “Oh, God, get the police.”
    “I have to know. Have you got a flashlight in the car?” She ran away and brought it to him. He aimed its dim light at the ground and walked down the lane. Anitra kept close enough to touch a hand to his back every now and then.
    They came to an out-building. The main house was a dark mass to the right. He saw grass, a concrete birdbath, rose bushes. The door was open in the shed beside him. As Birtles moved into the doorway, he smelled the pungent odor of a stable. He flashed the light over the board partitions of a stall, a leather harness on a hook, brass fittings, a saddle—then, on the stone floor, the body of a horse lying on its side. The animal was not quite dead—a leg kicked convulsively.
    “Stay back.” Birtles moved in closer, felt beneath his feet the pool of blood that Monty had tracked to the street, saw the gaping opening where the broad chestnut neck had been cut through. “Insane,” he whispered. They’re both insane...”
    When they were driving again, he told Anitra to take him back to the hotel. She wanted to get the police but he said he was only concerned about his daughter and if they wasted one minute they might lose Feather and Monty. “I think they came out here to do this and now they’ll be on their way.”
    “That must have been her own horse. Why would she kill it?”
    “I don’t know. In the pub she said, ‘I was riding her a couple of days ago.’ I thought she meant arguing with Barbie.” Birtles nursed his fear as Anitra gunned down quiet roads.
    When they arrived at the Candide, they found the Volvo parked outside. Anitra pulled in and idled. “The police?” she said plaintively. “Can we have the police now, please?”
    “O.K. I’ll get out and watch. You drive to the police station—there must be one near here. If you see a cop on the street, stop and tell him.”
    Birtles got out and positioned himself where he could watch the hotel entrance. The Mini wheeled down the street and turned the corner. Almost immediately, the glass door was pushed open by Monty carrying a couple of expensive-looking suitcases. Lucy Feather followed with a zippered flight bag. Monty loaded the luggage expertly, closed the trunk, and went to join Lucy in the front seat.
    Birtles had to make up his mind. He ran forward, opened the back door, and slid inside just as the car pulled away.
    Lucy glanced at him in the rearview mirror as she moved into traffic. “You again! What gives?”
    “That’s what I intend to find out. Why did you kill your horse?”
    Her voice hardened. “Take care of him.”
    Monty turned and gave Birtles a look of admiration. “Were you out there tonight?”
    “I’m looking for my daughter. I’m convinced you two know where she is.”
    “Why do you think that?”
    “Because I found a Candide Hotel envelope in her room with some pot in it. And when I came down here I ran into you and Lucy. Lucy visited Barbara a few days ago—I heard them arguing in her room.”
    “He’s quite a detective, Lucy. He’s a determined man. I like that.”
    “All right,” Lucy said. “I gave Barbara some stuff when I went to pick up the book. We argued because I wanted her to come with us but she wouldn’t.”
    “End of story,” Monty said. “We know nothing about your daughter, Mr. Birtles.”
    “I think you do. Anyway, we’re going to have it out. My girl friend went to get the police.”
    Lucy gave him a contemptuous glance. “That’s pathetic. Do you know who this is? I told you Ezra Monty—his real name is Eric Merlot. You know the book I got from Barbara? It’s about him.”
    Birtles had read the book, had