The Zebra-Striped Hearse Read Online Free

house with a peaked roof, and knocked on the heavy weathered door.
    A man’s voice grunted at me from inside. I knocked again, and his grudging footsteps padded across the floorboards.
    “Who is it?” he said through the door.
    “My name is Archer. I was sent to look at the house.”
    He opened the door. “What’s the matter with the house?”
    “Nothing, I hope. I’m thinking of renting it.”
    “The old man sent you out here, eh?”
    “Old man?”
    “Colonel Blackwell.” He pronounced the name very distinctly, as if it was a bad word he didn’t want me to miss.
    “I wouldn’t know about him. A real-estate office in Malibuput me onto this place. They didn’t say it was occupied.”
    “They wouldn’t. They’re bugging me.”
    He stood squarely in the doorway, a young man with a ridged washboard stomach and pectorals like breastplates visible under his T-shirt. His black hair, wet or oily, drooped across his forehead and gave him a low-browed appearance. His dark blue eyes were emotional and a bit sullen. They had a potential thrust which he wasn’t using on me.
    The over-all effect of his face was that of a boy trying not to be aware of his good looks. Boy wasn’t quite the word. I placed his age around thirty, a fairly experienced thirty.
    He had wet paint on his fingers. His face, even his bare feet, had spots of paint on them. His jeans were mottled and stiff with dried paint.
    “I guess he has a right, if it comes down to that. I’m moving out any day.” He looked down at his hands, flexing his colored fingers. “I’m only staying on until I finish the painting.”
    “You’re painting the house?”
    He gave me a faintly contemptuous look. “I’m painting a picture,
amigo.”
    “I see. You’re an artist.”
    “I work at the trade. You might as well come in and look around, since you’re here. What did you say your name was?”
    “Archer. You’re very kind.”
    “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He seemed to be reminding himself of the fact.
    Stepping to one side, he let me into the main room. Except for the kitchen partitioned off in the corner to my left, this room took up the whole top floor of the house. It was spacious and lofty, with a raftered ceiling and a pegged oak floor that had been recently polished. The furniture was made of rattan and beige-colored leather. To my right as I went in, a carpeted flight of steps with a wrought iron railing descended to the lower floor. A red brick fireplace faced it across the room.
    At the far end, the ocean end, on the inside of the slidingglass doors, an easel with a stretched canvas on it stood on a paint-splashed tarpaulin.
    “It’s a nice house,” the young man said. “How much rent do they want from you?”
    “Five hundred for the month of August.”
    He whistled.
    “Isn’t that what you’ve been paying?”
    “I’ve been paying nothing.
Nada
. I’m a guest of the owner.” His sudden wry grin persisted, changing almost imperceptibly to a look of pain. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to work. Take your time, you won’t disturb me.”
    He walked the length of the room, moving with careful eagerness like an animal stalking prey, and planted himself in front of the easel. I was a little embarrassed by his casual hospitality. I’d expected something different: another yelling match, or even a show of violence. I could feel the tension in him, as it was, but he was holding it.
    A kind of screaming silence radiated from the place where he stood. He was glaring at the canvas as if he was thinking of destroying it Stooping quickly, he picked up a traylike palette, squizzled a brush in a tangle of color, and with his shoulder muscles bunched, stabbed at the canvas daintily with the brush.
    I went through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The gas stove, the refrigerator, the stainless steel sink were all sparkling clean. I inspected the cupboards, which were well stocked with cans of everything from baked beans to