“Oh, I am sorry,” Helen was saying fervently. Then she added, “But in a way I'm glad, Shell. Shell? Look at me.”
I'd been looking around and watching the final preparations for the next scene. I looked back at Helen. She was smiling a little bit again. “Then you really did have to leave, didn't you?” she asked me. “I thought about it till I'd almost decided you just didn't want—to stay.”
“For Pete's sake, Helen. How silly can you get? I thought it was pretty obvious I wanted to stay. Very damned obvious, if you ask me.”
She grinned. “It was. I'm foolish. But, Shell, why didn't you come back?”
Well, damn this woman to pieces. She was still built like something a sex fiend had fashioned, and she had all her beauty and glamour and polish, but she could sure back me into some peculiar corners. She noted my momentary hesitation and, more power to her, kept talking.
“Well, I'm glad nothing serious happened. Oh, how do I look?”
She was in brown slacks and a white blouse, shorter than usual in low-heeled shoes, and she looked very good.
“You look like the star that you are,” I said. “But that's not a ‘Jungle Gal’ costume, is it?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I don't have anything to do until the big scene late today. King jumps out of a tree and rescues me.”
“If he carries you off over his shoulder again, I want to be present.”
She smiled, her lips thinning and getting that smooth, bloodstained look. “He doesn't, but if you'd like to...” She didn't finish it.
“Like to what?”
She'd stopped smiling. “Never mind,” she said shortly.
We talked casually for a while as the next scene was set up, then kept quiet while it was shot. After that the whole kit and caboodle started picking up the equipment and moving off.
“What happens now?” I asked Helen.
“They move around to the right about fifty yards. Farther in the trees, too. Some more scenes there, then the big one.”
“The one you're in?”
“Uh-huh. That probably won't be till almost four, though.” She started to say something else and stopped. She was quiet for a few seconds, then said lightly, without looking at me, “I'll probably go out to the little lake till then. It's so pretty out there.”
“Where's this?”
“Maybe half a mile through the woods.” She told me how to get there, giving rather explicit directions, I thought, then said, “It's such a pretty spot I'm surprised they aren't using it in the picture. But they aren't. They don't even go near it.”
“Oh? Well, how do you like that? Pretty, huh?”
“And quiet. Well, let's follow the crowd. O.K.?”
We walked after the others and around to another clearing farther into the woods while the workers started setting up again. It was cooler in here, and the sunlight filtered down through the trees, thick branches interlacing over our heads. In all the time I'd lived in L.A. I hadn't known of this spot. It was cool and green, and ordinarily would have been peaceful. I could have spent a month here.
Suddenly I thought of something that should have entered my mind sooner. I asked Helen, “You see a copy of this morning's Crier?”
She shook her head and the long silver hair whipped around her face. “Nope. Want me to hunt one up?”
“Let's hunt one up together.”
“No, you wait here,” she said. “I'll bring you one.” She skipped away, merry as a kid on vacation.
In a minute or two she was back with a Crier. “Here you are, sir,” she said brightly.
“Thank you, ma'am.” I flipped the paper open and found “The Eye at the Keyhole.” There was nothing about me in the “Can You Guess?” part, and I skimmed over the rest of the column. Ah, there the little thing was. Fanny Hillman had printed a lovely retraction. Yes, she had. The old hag.
Shell Scott, one of the myriad local detectives, yesterday visited me in my office! The police will be happy to know that Mr. Scott intends to bring the murderer of Zoe Townsend, whom I told you all about yesterday, into my office today! At least, so he told me! Chiefie, look to your laurels!!!
“Why, that slap-happy old bitch,” I muttered.
“What?” Helen said abruptly. Apparently I'd muttered louder than I thought.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was thinking out loud.” I handed her the paper and pointed to the item. Helen read it through and then looked at me.
“Did you? I mean, did you tell her that?”
“Take it from me, Helen, if you read anything in that old goat's hysterical column, your best bet is to forget it.” I frowned. “As a matter of fact, I did and I didn't. She gets just enough truth in her stuff so it's not an out-and-out lie—but there's no truth in it either. If that's possible.” Even from miles away, Fanny Hillman could reach me.
I ground my teeth together, entertaining pleasant visions of Fanny getting hit by a train or run over by wild horses. Then Helen patted my arm.
“Well, I'll see you later, Shell. If ... if you get bored, come out and look at the little lake. But make a lot of noise if you come up. I might be swimming.”
“Oh, sure. Fine, honey. Maybe I'll see you.”
She stood by me for a moment longer, then wandered off. I decided to get away from the spot I was on. I wanted to be at least fifty feet behind the cameras when they started rolling. I spotted King talking to Raul; King was in his leopard creation again. Then, beyond them, I saw Oscar Swallow. He had on a cream-colored casual jacket today, with a maroon shirt buttoned at the throat, and light green slacks. He was talking to a couple of cute jungle girls in animal skins and their own. I walked toward them.
Swallow spotted me when I was ten feet away. “Ah, there, Scott, old man,” he bellowed heartily. “You're getting to be quite a fixture, what?”
“What, indeed,” I said. “Tally-ho, you old rotter, you.” Some perverse impulse had up and grabbed me. I even surprised myself. Swallow's face slid around like underdone Jello for maybe half a second, then it sort of congealed with a slightly sour expression.
He searched for a couple of words, examined them, then let them out like pearls before swine: “The detective.”
I had never before heard the words sound quite so nauseous. Then he added, “What brings you here, Scott?” He paused. “Old boy.”
“You, for one, Swallow. I'd like a word with you.”
“Certainly, certainly. You may have all my words; all my lovely words.”
I'd had very nearly all his lovely words I could stand without becoming ill. I said, “Let's find a place not so crowded, shall we?”
The two cuties had been watching this exchange in silence, swinging their little heads from Swallow to me to Swallow. He reached over and patted the nearest one gently on her behind and whispered something to her. She smiled and nodded. Swallow turned and we walked off a little way from the others.
He leaned back against a tree trunk, one rubber-soled suede shoe drawn up under him against the bark. “Now,” he said, “what is your pleasure, Mr. Scott?”
I didn't expect to learn anything important; primarily I wanted to see if he had any trouble with his expression while I talked to him. I said, “For one thing, I'd like to know where you were last night, Swallow. About eight o'clock.”
He lifted his left eyebrow half an inch over the right one. That was all. He'd probably have done the same thing if I'd asked him what day it was. “That's odd,” he said slowly. “I was home. Watching television, if you must know. Is it important?”
“I thought maybe you took a shot at me.”
He didn't answer for a moment, but his expression lost some of its usual striving for an effect of lofty cynicism. Then he said, “Shot at you? Why, great Scott, why would I do that?”
I didn't much like the way he said “great Scott.” I let it ride. “I'm not sure,” I told him. “But I thought I'd ask. There was a chance it could have something to do with Zoe Townsend.”
His lips curl
ed slightly. “I thought we had eliminated me from your ... examination.”
“That was before I learned from the police that she was pregnant.”
“Oh.” He nibbled at his upper lip for a moment. “And what does that have to do with me?” He wasn't quite so poised now.
“Oh, come off it, Swallow. You know damn well what it has to do with you. I don't give a damn about your morals, but I am interested in the fact that Zoe was pregnant by you. Considering the further fact that she's dead.”
“Now hold on,” he said, and he drew in his breath for a little speech. “I deny categorically that there is any truth in your statement. There is obviously no proof. If Zoe was pregnant, that was certainly as much her doing as anyone else's—wouldn't you agree? And while I quite frankly admit, Mr. Scott, that the thought of my dandling a drooling monster on my knee is utterly repugnant, had I been responsible for what is euphemistically referred to as Zoe's ‘condition,’ I should have done what is rather laughably called the ‘honorable’ thing. I should have made a dishonest woman of her.” He paused as if expecting applause.
Nicely phrased, I was thinking, but none of it very new. I waited for him. He said, “And it really makes little difference whether or not you believe me, Mr. Scott. As for last night—” He went ahead and described in detail the television show he had watched, explaining that even if he couldn't prove his statements, because he was alone, neither could it be shown he was anywhere else. Precisely, he pointed out, because he was home. He finished, “And finally, you must have forgotten that I could not possibly have killed Zoe.” He shrugged. “And as for shooting at you—great Scott, I've never shot at a thing.”
I'd have liked it better if he'd said he had never shot at anybody. But he had, it would seem, spoken freely enough. I told him, “O.K., Swallow. I'm naturally anxious to learn who shot at me. So I can shoot him.”
He grinned agreeably. “I hope you find him, Scott.”
“I probably will. Oh, something else I've been meaning to ask you. You know, naturally, that Zoe headed for Raul's Thursday night.” He nodded and I said, “What's this about her intention to run you out of town? Doesn't that—”
I stopped. Swallow had, momentarily, lost some more of his poise. At least he looked much less agreeable for a brief moment, but he recovered quickly and smiled. “Run me out of town? I've never heard anything so idiotic. What on earth would give her that idea?”
“That's what I was wondering.”
He didn't say anything. I asked him, “And speaking of shooting, since you're the screen writer, maybe you'd know why Zoe had a ‘Jungle Girl’ shooting script in her things.”
He shrugged and said loftily, “Why shouldn't she have a copy? They're free.” He chuckled but it didn't quite come off.
I didn't say any more, hoping he'd go on, but he merely waited for more questions, if any. We spent a few more minutes talking, but nothing important developed. Finally I left him, to watch the shooting, and Swallow went back to his pouting brunette. The other one was with a bunch in front of the cameras by now.
I waited while the scene was shot, then hunted up Raul again. King was with him, still looking surly.
“How's it going?” I asked Raul.
“Hi, Shell. Smooth enough. Just going over a scene with Doug. Come along if you want.”
King gave me a look that was apparently intended to scare hell out of me, so I said, “Sure, thanks.” I grinned at Raul. “Got to learn more about the business I'm in.”
King spoke for the first time. Obviously referring to my detective business, he said, “It's about time, Scott.”
I ignored him and walked on the other side of Raul as the three of us started walking deeper into what everybody called the jungle. Quite a jungle it was, too. The prop men, carpenters, gardeners, and others of Genova's crew had labored long over one area here, adding trailing vines and brush and clearing “animal” paths through one section. We walked along one of the paths, and as we passed a tall, sturdy tree Raul jerked a thumb at it and said to King, “That's the second tree. There's the rope you'll use, right off that platform.”
I looked up as we went by. Boards had been nailed together to form a platform about twenty feet up in the tree, a bit like tree platforms I'd built when I was a kid. We walked on without speaking until Raul stopped at the base of another huge tree with a wooden ladder leaning against one side of the trunk.
He grinned at me as I stopped beside him. “Your education commences, Shell.”
Then he turned to King and I listened, fascinated, as he talked. “O.K.,” Raul said, “you're getting away from the great apes, see? They're mad at you. You leap up into this tree here and let out one of those aaah-eee-aaah noises.”
So King was going to leap into the tree. I counted the rungs in the ladder: twelve of them. Nice leaping.
Raul continued, “You hear them coming. There's ten of them, too many for you to handle, and besides, you know the cannibals are burning the women at the stake up ahead of you. And you've got to save your mother before her turn to get toasted. You're really in a spot.”
Mentally, I agreed. It would seem that Bruta was going to have a lot on his hands.
“We'll cut in a shot of the women here—they hear you yelling and know they're practically saved, see? Then your mother clasps her hands and sobs, ‘Bruta!’ Then we shoot you"—I was thinking that here was an excellent idea—"and you grab the rope and swing over to that other tree, grab the rope there, and swing off. That takes you right out into the clearing and you let go and drop down by the stake where the doll is burning. OK?”
“O.K.,” said Bruta.
“Now,” Raul said, “we've got it all cleared away through here"—he pointed down the line from this tree to the other one—"and we'll shoot from an angle so it looks like you're brushing limbs and having a hell of a time. But there's nothing to it: Just swing, swing, plop, and she's all over.”
“Nothing to it,” said Bruta.
They stood facing back toward the set and talked some more. I wandered off a few feet to their left, looking the place over. I noticed a thinning of the brush ahead of me and my eyes caught a hand-painted sign just as Raul yelled, “Hey, Shell, watch your step. Hell of a drop there.”
I told him thanks and examined the sign, which was a warning to anybody who might trot carelessly through the brush. I went through, carefully, and took a look. Raul hadn't been kidding. There was a natural open space here, and about fifteen feet from the sudden edge of the thick brush the ground dropped down in a sheer, dizzying fall to sharp rocks below. The cavity was no more than twenty-five or thirty feet across, but it was twice as deep, as if the earth had split at this point and been pulled apart. I edged closer to the brink of the cliff and peered over, and the sudden dropping off of solid ground made me feel lightheaded and dizzy.
I looked down to the rocks below, thinking that here was a made-to-order spot for somebody to have an accident. Me, maybe. An unreasoning fear swelled in my throat as I remembered I wasn't armed and that both Raul and King were somewhere behind me. I swung around, staring, but nothing was near me except the edge of brush a few feet away. I could hear the two men talking industriously. I walked back to them feeling silly, but still a little weak in the knees.
When I came up, King looked at me and said, “For God's sake, shamus. You still around? Why don't you crawl off in the bushes? Go fall off a cliff.”
“Why don't you shut your face, King?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “if that don't beat all.” He was starting to grin at me. “I guess we can't be friends.”
He turned and faced me, squaring his shoulders. I stepped up in front of him and looked down at his eyes, an inch or two below mine, and much closer together.
“Listen, friend,” I said quietly, “it's time I squared you away on something. The only reason I didn't mess up your stupid face yesterday is because Genova thinks I'm trying to ruin his goddamn movie. I'd love to put you in a plaster cast, and t
he only reason I don't do it right now is because I don't want to disappoint your public. Even idiots deserve a break.”
He blinked at me, surprised at my sudden outburst, then he grew his sneer again. “Sure,” he said. “Sure. Well, how about right now, us two—”
“Doug,” Raul said beside us, “for God's sake forget it, will you? You too, Shell, how about it? Have a goddamned duel if you want to, but do it next week. God knows we got enough trouble.”
I turned away from King and stepped back. “Sure, Raul. Sorry I popped.”
“You back down goddamn easy,” King said.
I said an unclean word. The main trouble with this boy was simply that he was a boy; he'd never grown up. If he had a problem, he hit it. “O.K., King,” I said. “You got me scared. I'm in a purple funk. Now beat it before I get over it.” I was right on the edge of forgetting all my fine resolutions.
Raul took King's arm and tugged at him. “Come on, Doug. They must be about set up by now. Come on, let's get back there.”
King slowly cleared his throat and looked all around, looked at me, looked around some more, then he spat at his feet. He turned and stalked away, King of the Jungle.
I watched them till they got out of sight, then turned my hands over and looked at them. They were wet, shining with perspiration. The muscles in my face felt tight and drawn.
I turned around and walked in the opposite direction from them, away from the cameras and crew and Genova and King and all the rest of them. I was getting pretty sick of the whole mess; the case, the people, all of it. I walked aimlessly for a while, then suddenly realized where I was headed. I was almost to the lake, the little quiet lake that Helen had mentioned.
I stopped for a moment, then kept on walking, knowing now where I was going.
Chapter Thirteen
I DIDN'T see Helen. Not right at first, that is. What she had referred to as a lake was an oval body of water about fifty yards across and twice as long, and it had another body in it that I didn't spot immediately: Helen's. The lake was surrounded by trees that blocked the water from sight until you were almost on its edge, and this was a cool, quiet spot, as Helen had described it. I walked to a big boulder near the edge of the water and sat down on it, the sun pleasantly warm on my face.
Way of a Wanton Page 13
