Raul said, “That's right.”
The Captain went on, “And there was a similar gathering here last Thursday night?”
Raul nodded. “Except for the two girls on the end there.” He indicated a couple of girls named Susan and Peggy. “Then Archer Block was here, too—he's another writer from the studio.”
Nelson turned to Genova. “And that gathering was your idea, Mr. Genova?”
Genova said testily, “As I have already explained twice, Captain, we got together—Raul, Swallow, Block, some of the cast, and I—primarily to go over the shooting script of ‘Jungle Girl.’ I can't expect you to understand"—here Captain Nelson frowned a little—"but we're already running over our budget and have five more days of shooting. It was imperative that we discuss ways of cutting expenses. That's all there was to it.”
Captain Nelson sighed, then looked slowly over all of us. “All right,” he said. “It's pretty obvious that Miss Zoe Townsend came to this house last Thursday night, while most of you were gathered here, and was murdered. She's been out in that pool ever since. And yet none of you knows anything about it, none of you even saw her, you don't even know why she'd come here in the first place.” He paused and looked at Raul. “Anybody feel like adding anything to that? Anything at all?”
Nobody spoke for a moment, then Genova said, “I don't have anything to add, but I hope none of my people will be tied up. I couldn't afford—”
Nelson interrupted him. “Mr. Genova. Whether you can afford it or not, if any of your—your people hold out anything they'll be tied up. For quite a while.”
Genova looked sick. King had been sitting quietly, with one hand kneading his throat gently. Now he said a bit hoarsely, but belligerently as always, “How about the papers? So help me, if this gets into the papers...” He didn't finish, but glared around the room. He let the glare stop on me. We were back where we'd started. Now he had company: Genova gave me a glare too.
Nelson didn't reply to King—there wasn't much he could say, as reporters had already come and gone—but he flipped his notebook shut. “O.K. If nobody has anything to add, you can all go home. You know what I told you—we'll likely want to talk to all of you again.”
There were three or four simultaneous sighs. The girls got up as I walked over to Captain Nelson and outside with him. I knew him pretty well; not nearly so well as I know Captain Samson downtown, but well enough to talk to. We walked out toward the pool and I said, “Incidentally, Ben, I wasn't even here Thursday night.”
He grinned at me, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered me one. I lit them for us and he said, “I don't figure you knocked off anybody, Shell.”
“Thanks. You figure she got it Thursday night?
“Or Friday morning. Not much doubt about that, but we'll know more after the autopsy. Job was done in a hurry, too.”
I knew what he meant. She'd been strangled by somebody's hands, then wired to the heavy grill of Raul's barbecue and dumped in the handiest spot quickly available: the pool.
I said, “What's this about her coming here? And I understand you talked to most of these people here yesterday.”
“Not me personally; Sergeant Price from Missing Persons did, though.” He looked at me. “Gal named Lola Sherrard reported this Townsend dame missing on Saturday morning. Missing as of Thursday night. Said this Townsend took off for here—your friend's place—about eight P.M. or a little before on Thursday. Never came back. Well, now we know why.”
“Yeah. Anybody here know she was coming?”
He shook his head. “Not so far as we know. Apparently none of them did. She just up and came, uninvited.”
“What for?”
“God knows. We'll dig into it deeper. Maybe the roommate can help us. You know how it is with most missing-person beefs, Shell. But we'll check it now.”
“Uh-huh. Well, be sure to let me know if you want me, Ben.”
“Don't worry.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Say, you're not on this thing, are you? Officially?”
“No.” I thought about Genova and King warning me, and King slugging me, and I added, “But I'm getting interested.”
He grunted and headed for the pool. I went back into the house. A couple of the girls had left and Swallow was just leaving. Raul was mixing drinks, so I went over to the bar and took the bourbon and water he handed me. He looked as unhappy and harried as I'd ever seen a man look.
Helen walked slowly across the room, a fur coat draped over one shoulder. “How about one for me, Raul? I need it. I need a double.” Then to me, “Hello, Shell. Glad you came?”
I gave her a small smile. “Well, yes and no. But it hasn't all been unpleasant.” The three of us chatted idly, sipping our drinks. It was pretty deadly. Finally I said to Helen, “Cheer up, for God's sake. A long face won't help anything.”
She brightened a bit, then took a long swallow of the scotch and soda. She made a face, then gave me one of the pre-pool smiles. “Better?”
“Much. Now I go for you.”
“I'm disappointed in you, Shell.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. You didn't pull out a single hair.”
I was looking at Helen, but I heard Raul choke on the last of his drink. “Give me time,” I said. “Say, how'd you get here?”
“With King.”
“Uh ... you know what I'm thinking?”
“Well, hurry up, then. I've had enough of King, I think.”
I turned to Raul. “Look, chum. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure, Shell. Sorry about ... well, everything.”
“Don't be. Hell, I'm on your side, if that's anything.”
“It is.” He gave me a grin. “Beat it.”
I walked Helen to the door, then stopped and helped her put on her fur coat, primarily so King wouldn't think we were sneaking out. But all he did was rise a little out of his chair, then sink back down into it.
Helen and I walked to my Cadillac and climbed in. She lay back against the cushions and relaxed on the drive into Hollywood, and we chatted casually, working the depression further out of our minds and getting back nearly to normal. Helen commented on my Cadillac, a new black job that I'd bought to replace the sick-yellow convertible I'd driven for ten years until it got blown up in Las Vegas along with a hell of a fine guy. This was a convertible coupé, too, but nice as it was, I sort of missed the old buggy.
As our spirits rose a bit, the conversation began getting more like our earlier exchanges, and finally I had Helen nearly convinced that she hadn't lived till she'd seen the tropical fish in my apartment.
“Fish?” she asked me. “Why fish?”
I looked at her. The Cad's top was down and that beautiful hair of hers streamed in the wind like silver threads. She didn't seem to mind the wind. I said, “They're pretty and a lot of fun. All colors—some even like your hair. Some like your eyes.”
“Oh, Lord,” she groaned. “That's the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.”
“That's not what I meant. I mean these fish are pretty colors. Regular riot. You really should see them. All kinds of tropical—”
She broke in, “All right, Shell. I'll come see the things if you'll just stop talking about them.”
I didn't even get to tell her about my new Rasbora heteromorpha. But we found other things to talk about until I pulled up in front of the Spartan Apartment Hotel on North Rossmore. When I opened her door she got out and smiled at me, then waved toward the Wilshire Country Club grounds across the street. “Isn't that where your sun worshipers are said to worship?”
“Yes, indeed. Shall we reconnoiter? Perhaps we can have a subcult of moon worshipers.”
She gave me a low ha-ha and walked around the car. I picked up my key at the desk and guided Helen up to my combination living room, bedroom, kitchenette, and bath. My phone was ringing as I unlocked the door, but it stopped when we went inside and I flipped on the lights.
I told her to make herself at home, and headed for the kitc
henette and bourbon. Behind me she let out a little squeal and said, “Oh, they are pretty.”
I turned around. The two fish tanks are just inside the living room at the left of the door. The aquarium lights were still on as I'd left them earlier, and Helen was bent over, peering in at the riot of colors.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “The goddamn fish.”
She smiled wickedly at me, then returned to contemplation of the tanks. I went to the kitchenette, returned with two highballs, and handed her one.
“Just happened to have some scotch and soda,” I said, then spent a couple minutes explaining what she was looking at, and led her to the oversized chocolate-brown divan in front of the ersatz fireplace.
“Aren't you going to tell me more about fish?” she asked, smiling.
“Later, later.” I sat down beside her. “How do you like the place?”
“Nice. What I've seen of it.”
“I'll show you the rest in a minute.”
She sipped at her drink, then placed it on the low black coffee table, leaned back against the cushions of the divan, and stretched her long legs out in front of her, high heels sinking into the thick shag nap of the gold carpet. Her eye caught the bright nude on my living-room wall and she said, “That looks like something painted at Raul Evans's pool.”
“Doesn't it? Not nearly as nice, though. Say, Helen, you were at Raul's party Thursday night, huh?”
“That's right. It was a much milder party; mostly business.”
“This Zoe didn't show up?”
She shook her head. “No ... I know you're a detective. Are you working?”
I laughed. “Not on the case. But almost everybody there is good and griped at me for getting the cops in.”
She nodded. “And the newspapermen.” She made a face. “I can't wait to see the papers. They dredged up Dot's yellow bathing suit, you know. The reporters will have a field day with that.”
“Yeah.” Actually I didn't much care about the men at the party, except for Raul. Both he and Evelyn had been damn nice to me in the past, and anything I could do to help either one of them I'd have been glad to do. And, being me, I'd enjoy helping the women. That made me recall Sherry, and I also thought of something Captain Nelson had told me. It had occurred to me that Sherry might very well be a nickname for Sherrard.
I asked Helen, “This Sherry that was in for a little while in the afternoon—what's her full name?”
“Lola Sherrard. Why? You want to look her up in the phone book?”
“No, just wondered. She was Zoe's roommate, huh?”
“That's right.”
“And who's this Bondhelm that everybody likes not at all?”
“I don't know exactly. He's got money in ‘Jungle Girl.’ Anything else, Detective Scott?”
I grinned at her and put my drink on the table beside hers. “I'm sorry. I guess I particularly resent the afternoon's grisly complications because they interrupted a highly entertaining episode.”
She smiled, her lips thinning. “It's a shame we didn't get our swim. You don't even know if I can swim. I might have sunk right to the bottom.”
“No matter. I wouldn't have let you down.”
She chuckled and looked sideways at me from the dark brown eyes. “I'd have died if you had.” She laced her hands behind her head and wiggled slightly against the cushions of the divan. I leaned closer to her and she didn't move, just smiled up at me.
“Well, hell,” I said, “I don't have a pool, but I've got a tub.”
She laughed and wiggled.
Her face was only a few inches from mine; I looked at her parted lips and leaned closer to them and the goddamn phone rang. I thought: The hell with that noise, and kept on leaning. The phone kept on ringing. Helen's eyes widened, then narrowed again, and she unfolded her arms and put them around my neck, still smiling as she eased her body lower on the divan and pulled me down to her. The smile went away as I pulled her against me and pressed my lips to hers. Her arms tightened, pulling me against her with surprising strength, and I could feel the fluid curve of her breasts against my chest. Pretty soon I didn't know if that ringing was the phone or something inside my head. After long seconds she pulled her mouth from mine and frowned.
“Will you turn that thing off, or break it?”
“Come on.” I got up and pulled her toward the bedroom.
“Isn't the phone in the front room?”
“Uh-huh. Extension in here.” As a matter of fact, there was. The lousy phone was still ringing as I turned on the bedroom lights and walked to the thing. I picked up the receiver and growled, “Yeah?”
“Mr. Scott?”
It was a man's voice. I told him I was Shell Scott while Helen scooted up on the bed and lay down with her head on the pillow. Watching her, I listened as the voice said, “This is Peter Bondhelm, Mr. Scott. I've been trying to get in touch with you. I have a proposition that I believe will interest you.”
I almost told him I thought I had a proposition that interested me a hell of a lot more than anything he could offer, but I said, “What is it?”
Helen kicked off her high-heeled pumps and, lying on her back, pulled her feet up under her. The hem of her white dress slid noiselessly up from her knees, baring a long, curving length of golden thigh.
Bondhelm had said something to me, but I hadn't the faintest idea what it was. I asked him, “What was that again? I'm sorry, I missed it.” Helen wasn't looking at me; she lay relaxed, one knee swinging slightly back and forth while she stared at the ceiling.
Bondhelm said, “I want you to come right out to my home if you possibly can, Mr. Scott. It's in connection with the murder of Zoe Townsend. I'd like you to undertake an investigation for me.”
Right now what I wanted to investigate wasn't a murder. I said, “Well, I'm tied up at the moment. Just what is it you want?”
“I'll explain all that here, Mr. Scott. I'm at sixteen-twenty Temple Hill Drive.”
There was a long pause while neither of us said anything. Helen's knee kept swinging gently. Then Bondhelm said, “There should be at least ten thousand in it for you. Possibly more. A great deal more.”
This wasn't quite as intriguing as Helen's thigh yet, but it interested me; over there on the bed, though, was something inflation hadn't affected. I forced myself to look somewhere else. That helped, and almost immediately I wondered how it happened that Bondhelm already knew about the murder. There weren't any papers on the streets yet and I was pretty sure it wouldn't have hit the radio or TV broadcasts this soon.
I asked him, “Ten thousand what?”
“Dollars, Mr. Scott. Nice, fat dollars.”
“Not so fat these days. How about a cost-of-living differential?”
He let out a little sputter. “I don't understand your attitude, Mr. Scott.” His voice hardened a little. “I'm offering you good money to conduct an investigation.”
I kept my eyes on the ash tray by the phone's base. I wasn't my usual self; ordinarily a ten-thousand-and-up fee would have sent me scampering. And I was curious to know what Bondhelm's interest in this was. I was trying to figure out how much I'd have left after taxes, and if, considering everything, it was worth it, when Bondhelm said impatiently, “Mr. Scott! I am going to hire an investigator. I had hoped it would be you. However, I want somebody tonight. Well?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Five agonizing seconds went by. “O.K.,” I told him. “I'll talk it over with you—if it won't take too long.”
“Fine. The time it takes depends on you. Sixteen-twenty Temple Hill Drive. I'll be expecting you.”
He hung up. I slowly replaced the receiver and walked over to the bed. I sat down beside Helen and worked up ten per cent of a grin. “Honey,” I said, “I give you my house. I've got to take off for a few minutes. Won't take long. Be right back. You sit tight. Yessirree.”
She kept looking at the ceiling and sighed. I said, “I'm about to make lots of money. I'll wine you and dine you. We'll throw money away. I'
ll buy you some fish.”
I still hadn't moved her. I said, “You relax. Freshen up. Look the place over. Have a drink. Huh?”
“Get lost,” she said.
Her knee stopped moving. I reached over and gave it a small push, hoping that would start it going again. It didn't. I patted her knee gently, then bent and kissed the smooth skin just below it. Right away I knew that was a mistake, and I got up. “Be right back,” I said.
She finally turned her head and looked at me. She smiled a little, but it was apparent she wasn't hilarious. “Don't be too long, darling,” she said softly.
“I'm practically back.” I hadn't worn my gun to the afternoon party, so now I went to the bureau drawer and took out the short-nosed .38 Colt Special and the leather holster. I took off my coat, strapped on the gun with great deliberation, then put the coat back on.
“See,” I said. “Important business. Very hush-hush. Secret Service.”
She smiled a little more broadly. “All right. But, as I said, don't be gone all night. I've got a big day on ‘Jungle Girl’ tomorrow.”
I wouldn't have minded a big day on Jungle Girl myself. I said, “Don't go ‘way,” blew her a kiss, and took off.
The address Bondhelm had given me was a two-story stucco building on the corner of Temple Hill Drive and North Beachwood Drive, about three miles from my place. I made it there in four minutes. A man opened the door when I rang.
“Mr. Bondhelm?” He nodded, and I said, “I'm Shell Scott.”
“Fine. Come in, please.” He was a monstrous man, perhaps an inch shorter than I, but with the kind of fat that usually comes more from glandular trouble than over-eating. He shut the door, then walked ahead of me into a room off the hall we were in. He walked ponderously into the room, turned around in front of a mammoth overstuffed chair, aimed his gigantic fanny at it, and fell backward. Air whooshed upward from the cushions as he let out a sigh, then looked up at me from eyes half hidden in the folds of fat in his cherubic face. Perspiration gleamed on his pink cheeks and forehead. So this was Peter Bondhelm. He made me think of a slug.
He was slow-moving, but he was fast when it came to explaining what he wanted of me. He nodded me to a chair already placed opposite his, and when I sat down he said with surprising rapidity, “I know of the night's events and that you were present when Zoe Townsend's body was discovered. I want you to find out, if possible, who murdered the girl, and report to me. The sooner the better. I'll pay you well.”
Way of a Wanton Page 4
