The crew was ready for that scene now, and I watched, very attentively, as Cherry ran, in fetching deshabille and simulated panic, from the monsters clacking behind her. . . .
NINE
Natasha's Dance.
Finally.
If it was any better than Cherry's running, I figured it should be the high point of the movie. Maybe even the high point of my day.
Natasha seemed to have recovered completely from her recent fainting spell, or whatever it had been. Now she stood in the midst of a whole lot of hairy people, the hairiest of whom was Gruzakk.
The other, I understood, were his rebellious white soldiers, who had captured the black Venusian queen and brought her to their chief; they looked very disgruntled, as if thinking they would rather have kept her. I didn't blame them. With the sunlight behind her pouring through the filmy veiling she wore instead of earth clothing, she nonetheless looked pretty earthy. The warm light limned the outlines of her long, sensationally curved body like the dark cloud's silver lining, and she stood with her head thrown back, black hair crumpled on one shoulder.
Gruzakk, dressed in some kind of hairy animal skin — not his own — sat on a mound of earth covered with more animal skins, his back to me. One hairy arm rested on his hairy thigh, and from his hand a gleaming sword slanted downward to the ground before his feet. Of course, three cameras were turning, there were men standing barely out of camera range holding foil-covered reflectors and a mike boom, Phrye was riding a camera boom, and about fifty other people were massed in the area watching, but if I concentrated hard I could almost believe it was a real movie.
Gruzakk raised his sword and gave it a casual flick through the air. That was the signal. Natasha had to come on strong or Gruzakk would say "Fooey! Off with her head." I hadn't seen the script so I couldn't be sure that was the actual dialogue, but I'd have laid eight to five it wasn't far off the mark.
Well, she came on strong.
She started slowly, and there was nothing weak even about that part, but then she moved that gorgeous torso in a fluid wiggle, and a willowy shake, and then a sort of figure eight, and then maybe a nine, and finally what I guess was about a sixty. Anyway, she was going like sixty, and not like a gal all alone out there, but as if she were with company she liked a lot.
Well, there's only so much a woman can do in a dance, and there's only so much you can say about a woman dancing. But I'll say this: If Natasha had done that dance in Pasadena she'd have defrosted refrigerators in Glendale. Or, rather, vice-versa — you can't dance like that in Pasadena.
When the sequence ended she was standing with her back to the cliff, below her the Lake of Fire — lighted again, of course — sun hugging her wonderful body. A veil dropped. And I figured she'd been wearing only two veils to begin with. A camera was dollying in for a close-up — though without that other veil I figured this shot might wind up on the cutting room floor or in the producer's private library — and Natasha stood quite still with her arms thrown wide, head back, breasts thrusting forward deliciously. Toward Gruzakk.
He was leaning forward, as if about to fall onto the butt of his sword, as if about to make up unrehearsed dialogue — not "Fooey! Off with her head!" but rather "Off with her head? Fooey!" Or something equally appropriate.
I was, for that brief moment, eyeing Gruzakk.
So I missed it.
I did hear the scream.
It wasn't much of a scream. More like a loud, high-pitched sigh. I didn't even know at first that it had come from Natasha.
But when I flicked my eyes toward her again she was falling.
She just dropped back over the cliff's edge and out of sight, arms collapsing as she fell.
It was so quiet in those next few seconds that I heard — we could all hear — the splash as she hit the flame-covered water forty feet below.
It might have been in the script. Might have — but I didn't think so. She hadn't fallen gracefully backward; she'd fallen awkwardly, turning, arms bending in, elbows akimbo. If it was in the script, the scene was about to be ruined — because I was about to ruin it. As I ran forward I peeled off my coat, slapped my gun from its holster, and dropped it and the coat halfway to the cliff's edge.
At the edge I slid to a stop. I couldn't see Natasha. But below me in the smoky red flames boiling over the lake's surface was one spot free of fire, an irregular ring where the water still churned. As I watched, the ring of fire closed still more.
I picked a spot two or three yards from that closing ring, sucked my lungs full of air, and jumped.
I could feel the heat on my hands and face as I went down. My shoes hit the water with a slap, and before my head plunged beneath the surface I was sweeping my hands down and to the sides, trying to slow my descent.
I never did hit bottom. Enough sunlight came through the oil and flame on the water's surface to provide dim illumination when I opened my eyes; it mingled with the flickering redness of the burning oil and turned the blurred scene into something out of a watery hell, a red-tinged darkness that pulsed and billowed, moved like something huge and alive around me.
And in that pulsing movement I saw her, saw Natasha. She was below me, to my left, dim and dark, not yet on the lake's bottom. One arm floated alongside her, bent gracefully at wrist and elbow; the other hung almost straight down beneath her. She was turning slowly in the water, turning toward me. Her mouth was open.
I kicked hard, swept my hands through the water, moved next to her. I could barely see them, but her eyes were slitted, the lids not quite closed. My heart was starting to pound, lungs straining for air. I got an arm around her, beneath her breasts, and started swimming, staying under the water.
I had to breathe. As I went up to the lake's surface I swept my free hand back and forth above me, then, when my head broke through I swung my arm in a circle, splashing the burning oil and water from me. I could feel the heat. The wetness of my face kept it from burning the skin, but I could feel it in my lungs as I filled them with gulps of air. Sweeping my arm away from me and then stroking with it, I pulled Natasha the few feet remaining to the lake's shore. When my feet touched the soft bottom I picked her up and stumbled onto dry ground. She hung very heavy in my arms, limp, her head dangling.
Even before I placed her on the ground I saw the blood.
TEN
The blood welled from a small hole beneath Natasha's left breast.
When I took my left hand from her back it was smeared with sticky redness. I turned her over gently, though there was really no need for gentleness. The hole in her back was an inch or two lower and several times as large as the one beneath her breast. The exit wound always is much larger.
She'd been shot. And, of course, she was already dead.
Sweet, warm Natasha. Her eyes were still slitted, and I pressed the lids down. Over those hot black-velvet eyes — eyes that had been hot, had been glittering, burning, and a little brazen, eyes like none other; just parts of her dead flesh now.
As I stood up, Slade, Ed Howell, Phrye, and another man were coming down a path slashed in the side of the cliff. Dozens of other men and women were grouped above them looking down at us. Ed was the first to reach me. He went right by and dropped to his knees by Natasha. Then Slade arrived, panting from the climb down.
"What the hell happened?" he half-yelled. The too-high voice seemed as thin and taut as the voice of a woman about to have hysterics.
"She's dead," I said.
"Dead? Dead?"
"That's right. Somebody shot her."
"Shot? You're a damned . . ." His voice trailed off. He was looking down at Natasha. "Oh, my God," he said.
Ed held one of Natasha's hands in both of his own. His eyes were wide, staring, and his lips looked dry. Walter Phrye was with us now, babbling something at me. But I wasn't listening.
I sprinted to the path in the cliff, ran up it as fast as I could. It was steep, and my lungs hurt a little when I got to the top.
I looked at th
e spot where Natasha had been standing — the men and women were grouped there now, men in animal skins, women in gauzy stuff and in normal clothing, even the damned oysters and beetles — then I turned my head left, toward the spot from which the shot must have come.
The bullet had been traveling downward, had sliced through her ribs and come out lower, near her spine. There were two places, two hills or mounds of earth where the rifleman — it must have been a rifle — would have been. He wouldn't be there now.
Far to my left, a mile away on the dirt road I'd come down an hour or more ago, a plume of dust rose into the air just as dust had billowed behind my Cad earlier. I couldn't tell what make or model the car was, not even whether it was a coupe or sedan.
The crowd at the cliff's edge moved toward me, surging this way as if one of them had moved and the others were following automatically. I trotted to them. As I reached the group and turned, movement on my left caught my eye. Somebody running this way from the parking lot — Cherry. I could recognize her now, even though she was dressed in street clothes. That was right, she'd gone over there to change.
There was a babble of voices. Closest to me was Dale Bannon, an ace cameraman fallen — at least temporarily — to this low estate, actually operating a camera for Slade. I'd known him for a long time. So I talked to him, while the rest listened. I told him what had happened, that Natasha had been shot, that she was dead, and asked if he — or anybody else — had heard anything, seen anything, that might help pin down what had happened.
They hadn't. But, neither had I. I hadn't even heard the shot. There must have been some kind of silencer on the rifle. And that didn't indicate an amateur killer.
A woman — it was big, abundantly curved Vivyan — said in a small voice, "She's dead? Did you say she's dead?"
"Yes. Get it through your heads, all of you, she was murdered. Not just dead — murdered. So if you can remember — "
I didn't finish it. Cherry had run up while I was speaking and, gasping for breath, she said, "What? Murdered? Who — "
Somebody in the crowd wailed, "Natasha, somebody shot her."
Cherry's eyes were wide. "He shot her? Is that what he did? Why, I — "
"Shut up."
I was too slow. Just a half-second too slow.
She blurted it out. ". . . Saw him, I saw him. I didn't know he'd shot somebody, but I saw him running to the parking lot. He got into a — "
"Shut up, Cherry!"
" — Car and went. . . . What?" She turned the big blue eyes on me, not comprehending.
Hell, it was too late anyway. But I said, "Skip that for the moment, Cherry. No need to tell it twice — we have to call the police. There's a radio-telephone in my Cad. Come on with me while I call the cops, O.K.?"
She was looking around at the others, then past the cliff's edge to the four men and still body below. She blinked at me, and I thought — now — she looked a little frightened. "All right, Shell," she said, her voice subdued.
We left the others, headed back toward the parking lot. On the way I said to her, "O.K., you saw the guy — or at least a guy. Tell me what you can about him, Cherry."
Instead of answering directly she said, "I guess I shouldn't have yelled all that — in front of everybody. That's what bothered you, wasn't it?"
"It's probably all right," I said. But then I decided I might as well give the whole thing to her, and went on, "But you'll have to consider the possibilities, Cherry. If you saw the guy who killed Natasha, and he learns who you are and that you can identify him, he might . . . well, frankly, he might try to kill you."
She paled a little, but said, "I finally thought of that. A little late."
"Did you get a good look at the guy? And how about you, did he see you?"
"Yes, he saw me. You know I was changing in my car, instead of going back to the studio with the rest later. I'd just gotten out of my car when I saw this man. He was running toward the parking lot."
"From where?"
We were almost at the parked cars now, and she pointed to one of the two hills I'd been looking at earlier. "There, I guess. He was about halfway between there and me. I was right alongside my car." She pointed to a pale blue Corvette Sting Ray near us. "He didn't see me at first," she continued. "He was carrying — it looked like a little suitcase."
"Uh-huh. Must have had the rifle broken down in it."
"Anyway, he ran to a car, but saw me just before he reached it."
"Where was the car? And what kind was it?"
"I don't know what kind, just a big dark sedan. But it was right there." She pointed to a now-empty space between a Ford and a Chrysler.
"Probably figured a single car all by itself would be too conspicuous," I said. "Parking right in the lot wasn't a bad idea at that. What did he do when he saw you?"
"Stopped and stared at me. That's all. Then jumped into his car and drove off very fast. It puzzled me a little, but I didn't know any . . . he'd shot somebody, or anything."
"No way you could have, Cherry. You didn't hear a shot even from out here?"
She shook her head.
"O.K., what did the man look like?"
We were at my Cadillac, so I climbed in and reached under the dashboard for the phone, called the police while she talked.
"I hardly remember now. I didn't know I'd have to remember."
"As near as you can get it."
"He was tall. Thin, I think. Yes, he was thin, narrow face, too. That's . . . about all."
"How old was he?"
"Oh, older than you. Maybe forty, or forty-five."
"Dark hair, light, bald? Mustache? Anything unusual?"
She shook her head again.
"Clothes? Unusual coat or hat or anything?"
"No . . . he wasn't wearing a hat. And he wasn't bald, so he had hair — I can't remember whether it was dark, or anything. I'm sorry."
"No reason to be sorry. But if you think of anything else, any time, let me know right away." I hoped she did think of something else. So far it was a tall thin guy with hair.
I completed the call, informed the answering officer about what had happened, and gave the location. As I hung up, I said to Cherry, "Incidentally, if you should want to phone me, call this number." I scribbled it on a piece of paper.
She took it and said, "Aren't you in the book?"
"Yeah, one of the phones is. But there's another in the bedroom, unlisted."
She smiled slightly. "In the bedroom?"
"It's a sort of special phone. . . . I mean, most of the people who have that number are guys who might call me any time of day or night. Even when I'm in the bedroom. Asleep in the bedroom. With information, I mean." I wondered why I got so sort of flustered when Cherry mentioned bedrooms. "Call me with information, I mean," I went on. "Sometimes I just let the front-room phone ring. But I answer the bedroom phone very rapidly. See?"
She smiled, and I said, "Are you going to stick around? Of course, you'll have to stay at least till the police get here."
Her smile went away. "Well, I do want to talk to Ed. He's probably shaken up by this. He liked Nat a lot, you know."
"Yeah, that's right. What happened to them? They had quite a thing going for a while, I thought. Then, zoop, it cooled."
She shrugged. "What happens to anybody? I don't know."
In a minute she walked back toward the movie company, and I walked to the hill she'd indicated. I approached its crest from the opposite side and did not stomp around all over the place, but it wasn't difficult to find the spot where the killer had been. Not only were there marks in the soft earth, in a kind of depression at the hill's top, but I spotted five cigarette butts. Interestingly, each one was smoked clear down to the filter. Even if I'd gone closer, or picked them up, I wouldn't have been able to make out the brand. But I didn't go closer.
A private detective is a private citizen, and police officers — as I'd told Rawlins, who already knew it, last night — take an exceedingly dim view of private
citizens who barge about fiddling with evidence.
So I just stood a few feet off and looked down at the people near the cliff. It had been a damned good, or lucky, shot. But he'd probably had a powerful rifle with which he was thoroughly familiar, and telescopic sights. Too, it was a still day, no wind to worry about.
Anyway he'd killed her. Natasha was dead.
So, finally, I asked myself: Who? Who had wanted her dead?
And a somewhat disturbing thought started nagging me. Probably Natasha couldn't have told me much, but at least she could have said whether or not she'd been with Waverly last night. And, if she had been, she might have been able to tell me what that original call was all about. Mainly I'd hoped she could corroborate the story my client had given me.
She couldn't corroborate it now.
And did that leave Waverly smelling like a rose, or something else? Somehow, at least for the moment, he didn't smell so sweet to me.
ELEVEN
It was another forty-five minutes before I got away from there. The police arrived, I told them what I knew — and what Cherry had said in front of about fifty other people — and told the investigating officers who I was and where they could reach me.
Then I drove back to town.
I had to stop at my apartment — to wash off the dirt and oil, change clothes, and clean my gun, which had bounced in the dirt a bit before I got back to it — so while there I used the phone to check again with the men and women I'd called last night.
Jim Gray wasn't at his number but he'd left word where I could find him and that he wanted to see me; from the rest, nothing.
Gray was at a small bar on Brea a couple of blocks from Sunset. I found him there on a stool drinking beer, caught his eye, and jerked my head. He met me outside and climbed into the Cad.
I drove down Brea and said, "Got anything for me, Jim?"
"Maybe a little. You asked about this Pike or Waverly and Gant or his boys. Well, I didn't hear nothing about this Pike — except he's dead." He grinned. "You were sure right about that, huh?"
Kill Him Twice (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 6
