The Killer Touch by Ellery Queen Page A

your name was?”
    â€œBurt March.”
    â€œMarch. Whaddaya do?”
    â€œI sell insurance. And I’ll give you five seconds to move that gun. One, two, three—”
    â€œSmith!” Rolf’s voice cracked. “You’re not the only one who’s armed. Do what he says.”
    Ace looked surprised, then shrugged and smiled at Burt. “Insurance salesman, huh? The island’s full of tough nuts.” He slung the gun to his shoulder. “I came here to shoot pigeons, and that’s what I’ll do, as long as people leave me alone.”
    He turned and walked up the hill, ostentatiously scanning the sky. Burt turned to Rolf. “I’d thank you, but I think you had your own reasons. You had to let him know I had a gun, didn’t you?”
    â€œI figured it would save his life. Or yours.” Rolf smiled. “Why so disappointed? Did you want to kill him?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have killed him. He was standing too close; it wouldn’t have been hard to disarm him.”
    â€œYes, and when he came at you with his bare hands? He looks strong as a gorilla.”
    â€œI can defend myself.”
    Rolf shook his head slowly. “I’m glad I didn’t decide to be a cop. You’ve tied your hands, haven’t you? You have to let the other man make the first move.”
    He turned and started away, but Burt called after him. “Rolf, are those the men you think will kill you?”
    Rolf paused and waved up at the peak. “Take a look. You think he’s hunting pigeons?”
    Burt followed his gaze and watched Ace settle himself on the lookout rock with the gun across his knees. He was looking down, his hard face impassive. Burt was reminded of the guard on a prison farm.

SEVEN
    The afternoon sizzled by like a slow fuse. Rolf said something about fouled plugs and began dissecting the innards of his cruiser, managing to get romantically grease-stained in the process. Burt had the chilling thought that he was deliberately putting his boat out of action. Joss sat in a wicker armchair at the corner of the club, scanning the sea through her ancient tripod-telescope.
    â€œO’Ryan should be here if he’s coming,” she told Burt.
    â€œDoes he come when it’s rough?”
    â€œNever has, but he might.”
    Bunny came out into the open without her dark glasses, wearing a halter and short-shorts which lacked a couple of inches of doing the job they were meant to do. She paced the beach like a caged tigress for a half-hour, went for a swim in the lagoon, then emerged to lie on her stomach in the sand. She unfastened her halter strap to leave her back bare. Burt could see two inches of milk-white flesh between the top of her shorts and the faint pinkness of her back. There was an engaging dimple on each side of her lower spine.
    Burt wasn’t the only one who noticed: Ace sat on the steps of the club flicking bits of coral at the sand crabs who scuttled sideways across the sand. He wasn’t watching the crabs; he was watching Bunny through lowered bushy brows, like a fullback about to charge the line. Hoke had taken his place on the tower with the gun across his knees.
    Joss left her telescope and walked behind the bar; she stood there glaring in Bunny’s direction and sneaking quick gulps of rum. Boris stood beside her, pretending not to notice.
    Burt tasted the bile of frustration in his throat. What can you do? he wondered. We’re prisoners, but does Joss know it, or Boris and the boys? One of them might make a false step and trigger the violence. Well, he thought, you can’t hold them all in the palm of your hand. Best you can do is quarantine them.
    He went to Joss and persuaded her that she was tired and sleepy, then he walked her up to her house and left her stretched out on the bed with her glass beside her. He took Coco and Godfrey to the south shore of the island and asked if they’d noticed anything odd