The Case of the Vanishing Beauty

by Richard S. Prather

  Screwy, cockeyed caper. And I didn't have a damn thing. There were her last words about "I killed Narda," whoever, or whatever, Narda was. And the fact that she'd gone to El Cuchillo to "scare" somebody, plus the fact that she'd been scared herself. Not much to go on, but it was all I could figure I had. I knew one thing, though: I'd get more before I finished.

  It took less than five minutes for the radio car to get out on Chavez Ravine Road. When it turned off Adobe Street, sirens wailing, I blinked my lights and it pulled over. A big, good-looking radio officer got out and came over. I briefed him in two minutes, answered his questions then took a free ride to Homicide, downtown. It was nine-thirty Saturday night.

  Sam stuck out his sledge-hammer jaw and dug strong teeth into his unlighted black cigar. That's Detective Captain Phil Samson, career cop with most of his years in Homicide. Big, burly, and tough, with iron-gray hair and alert brown eyes, and conscientious as they come. Sometimes he worked right around the clock, but even so, only twice in all the time I'd known him had I ever seen his pink face bristling with stubble. A good cop, and an honest cop if there ever was one. I was proud he was my friend and I know he felt the same way. And sometimes it was a damn good thing for me he was my friend.

  He asked around the cigar, "More trouble, huh, Shell?"

  I pulled one of the wooden, straight-backed chairs over in front of his scarred desk, straddled it, and leaned on the back. "Yeah. Only this one was rough. She seemed like a good kid."

  "They're all good kids. To somebody. Some way. Give it to me from the beginning. Just like it happened."

  I ran through it fast and waited for him. His big jaw wiggled as he chewed on his cigar, then he dug out a wooden match and stuck the fire to the cigar's end. He'd finally got the thing lit—sometimes he never did. He got it puffing, then said, "Last thing she said was she killed this Narda. That right?"

  "That's right, Sam. It was pretty clear. She was about in then, but I'm fairly sure that's right. This Narda mean anything to you?"

  "Yeah. Not much. There's a crackpot runs some kind of religious outfit. Here in town. I've heard the name, that's all. Narda—he's the big wheel."

  "Was," I said. "Not any more, apparently. So Narda was a guy, huh? I wondered; I'd never heard of him. Well, that's one more job for Homicide, Sam. Only this time you get a confession before you even know he's dead. Cute. Guess Georgia wanted to get it off her chest."

  I lit up a cigarette while Sam sent a young-looking kid off to dig up anything handy on Narda. All of a sudden I sat up straight. "Sam. I just thought of something I'd forgotten. In El Cuchillo—the night club—Georgia was talking to the boss, this Maggie, when we had the little beef. She said some nutty thing about 'I got religion' and then went on babbling about hiring me. I thought at the time she was off her trolley, but it makes sense now. It ties in with this Narda's religious business." I slumped down in the chair again. "Whatever the hell that means."

  Sam and I chewed it around till the kid came back in.

  "Nothing on Narda," he said. "I checked around with the boys, though, and got all I could. He's head man of a religious bunch that calls itself the Inner World Society of Truth Believers. Imagine that. Seems like a lot of people think he's either God or runner-up. Not much else I could find out about him. I'll dig up more if you want it."

  "Got his address?" Sam asked.

  "Yes, sir. Right here." He handed Sam a slip of paper.

  "Fine. That's all for now." The kid went out.

  "O.K. if I have that address, Sam?"

  He looked up from the paper and stared at me from under shaggy eyebrows. "You still on the thing?"

  "What the hell, Sam. What do you think?"

  "O.K., Shell. Relax. I know how you feel." He passed me the slip of paper.

  It was an address on Silver Lake Boulevard. I jotted it down on a card from my wallet and passed the slip back.

  Sam said, "We'll go out and check on this Narda. Wonder why it hasn't been reported." He shook his big head. "They never stop."

  I stood up. "About this Georgia Martin. What do you think?"

  "I don't know, Shell. Not yet. We'll find out."

  "Maybe, if she killed Narda, it was a grudge job on her. You know, revenge. Some of his associates or followers. It looks like she scragged him, then came to me trying to build up some sort of phony alibi." It didn't sound right for some reason.

  "Maybe," Sam growled. "Could be. Could also be a hundred other things."

  "Yeah. I'm going out to see her folks. That's a job I don't like."

  "You don't have to go."

  "The hell I don't."

  He stood up and leaned across the desk and glared at me, his big jaw wiggling on the cigar, "Knock it off, Shell. It wasn't your fault. Take it easy. It's awful easy to kill somebody you want out of the way. You should know that by now. So don't blame yourself. You were just there, that's all."

  "Sure. Sorry, Sam. Thanks."

  I shook his big paw and left.

  Cornell Martin, Georgia's father, was an inch or two under six feet, but right now he looked smaller, shrunken, and at least ten years older than his sixty years. He sat slumped in a big leather chair in the study of his huge home on Van Ness Avenue, little more than half a mile east of the Wilshire Country Club. He pulled with thin fingers at his sharp nose, then raised his head and looked at me from tired blue eyes.

  "I appreciate your sympathy, Mr. Scott, your coming here. I fear I'm not in condition to be much of a host. This has been terrible. I'm rather unstrung."

  I didn't say anything for a moment, then I took the envelope containing five one-hundred-dollar bills from my coat pocket. "Mr. Martin. When your daughter came to my office this afternoon, she gave me this. It's a retainer. I…well, I don't feel that I should keep—"

  "Nonsense!" He cut me off quick and his wrinkled face got stern for a moment. He was tough; he didn't get his million and the big estate by being soft, and it showed now. "Nonsense, sir. You were engaged for an investigation. Unfortunately, and through no fault of your own, my daughter was killed. I trust, however, that you intend to pursue that investigation."

  "Certainly, Mr. Martin. I fully intend to continue. I'll—"

  "I shall pay you well, Mr. Scott. I want no effort spared—"

  I butted in this time. "No fee. I'll do this on my own. And I promise you I'll do everything I can do to find whoever was responsible—"

  "Bosh!" I couldn't finish anything. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, and glared into my eyes. "Sir," he said, "understand me. I can sympathize with your position, appreciate your feelings. However, I am the person mostly concerned in this, and I know what steps I wish taken. I shall pay you. And I want no efforts spared. None, I don't care how it's done, but I want you, or the authorities, to find and destroy completely the person or persons responsible for the death of Georgia and also the disappearance of my other daughter, Tracy."

  That jolted me a little. That was one thing Georgia hadn't been kidding about. I'd almost forgotten about the sister in the last couple of hours. I don't think I'd fully believed that there even was a sister until now.

  "About Tracy," I said. "How long has she been missing?"

  "Since yesterday sometime. I don't know when she left the house. Sometime in the afternoon. She didn't return last night, and although she had never stayed away before, I wasn't too worried. Until this." He paused and swallowed, then went on: "She must be found, Mr. Scott. I am a widower, and Georgia and Tracy were all of the family that were left."

  "I don't like to question you now, Mr. Martin, but if there's anything at all you could tell me that might help, maybe I'd be able to go a little faster."

  "I only wish I could tell you something." He frowned. "There is one thing. Possibly. Georgia had been quite nervous of late. Jumpy and a bit short of temper. Just the last few weeks. One other thing. Both girls had their own bank accounts. For personal expenditures. When Georgia became not herself, I made
it my business to check those accounts. Tracy had been making the normal withdrawals. Clothes, cosmetics, that sort of thing. Georgia had been making sizable withdrawals. Abnormal. That's all."

  I nodded. "That may help."

  "Naturally, I suspected blackmail," he continued. "I said nothing about it to Georgia. My daughters have learned to make their own decisions and handle their own problems. I didn't say anything to her. Perhaps I was wrong." He wasn't talking so much to me as to himself. Suddenly he snapped, "That's all. Good day, sir."

  I got up.

  "One other thing," he said. "I presume you carry a gun."

  "Yes sir."

  "Let me see it."

  I pulled it out of the clamshell holster and handed it to him. I carry a .38 Colt Special with a two inch barrel and the sear stoned down so it's a one-pound trigger pull, and I keep it in good working condition.

  He looked at it, snapped open the cylinder, and spun it.

  "A good revolver," he said. "Do you customarily keep only one unfired round in it?"

  "No. I fired the others tonight. At the car that…"

  "Yes. Well?"

  "I might have hit the car. I don't know if I did, or if I got anyone. Probably not."

  "I suggest you load this, Mr. Scott."

  "I intend to."

  "It's a fine gun. Don't hesitate to use it. Good day."

  I'd taken a taxi out to the Martin place this time, but my Cadillac was where I'd left it earlier when I picked up Georgia. The Cad wasn't as fancy as Georgia's had been, but it was a 1941 convertible with a hundred and fifty horses to haul it along, and painted what has been unkindly described as a "disgusting canary yellow." Yeah, I know; it's kind of a distinctive car for a private eye, but I like it. Besides, I use it for other-than-business purposes.

  I tooled the Cad back up toward Sunset Boulevard and stopped at a drugstore on Western. I put in a call to Homicide and got through to Samson.

  "This is Shell, Sam. Get any dope?"

  "On the Martin thing?"

  "Yeah."

  "Sure. We checked this Narda guy."

  "He was cold, huh?"

  "Yeah. Cold to us. All got up in flowing robes and a towel around his head. But he was strutting around big as life itself."

  I gawked at the mouthpiece and let that sink in for a few seconds. "He's not dead? You mean Georgia didn't kill him?"

  "If she did, he was resurrected. Oh, he was smooth. He checked out on Miss Martin, too. Said certainly he knew the girl—no doubt about that part. He said she'd been interested in the Master Plan or some damn thing of the secret ritual. Outside of that, he says he knew nothing about her. No idea why anyone would want to kill her."

  "Screwy."

  "You telling me it's screwy?"

  "Look. Sam. I'll probably want to go out there myself. What's the setup?"

  "I don't want you messing anything up, Shell."

  "You know me."

  "That's the trouble. I know you too well. Here's one thing we got. He holds some kind of sunrise services every morning half an hour before the sun comes up. Out in back of what they call the temple—that address you got. There's a real fancy show every Sunday morning. Maybe you can get converted."

  "Maybe. I talked to Georgia's father. He was a little worried about her before this happened. She'd been digging a lot of dough out of her bank account. The father thinking about blackmail. Looks a little like that to me, but it doesn't make sense yet. Neither does anything else."

  "We'll dig into it. If anybody was bleeding her, we'll find out about it. Phillips and Rawlins are on it. They'll cover it good. You got any idea why anybody'd be bleeding her?"

  "I haven't got any ideas, period, Sam." I looked at my watch. Eleven-thirty, and still Saturday night. But in four or five hours I could go to church." Thanks, Sam. I'll see you." I hung up.

  The rain had stopped and it had cleared up a little, but it was still smoky and steamy inside El Cuchillo. I'd stopped by the office and given my gun a quick cleaning. It nestled against my left arm now, fully loaded, as Mr. Martin had advised. The place was still packed, so I waited till I could squeeze in at the bar and ordered a bourbon and water. Halfway through it I spotted Lina and walked over to her. She had on the black skirt and the white, billowy blouse.

  Her eyes opened wide when she saw me, and she gave me a big smile. "Ooh!" she gurgled. "Quick you came back. You missed me, no?

  "I missed you, no. Where can we talk?" I looked around for a vacant table. There didn't seem to be any.

  Lina looked a little puzzled, but she said, "You wish to sit and talk to me?"

  "Yeah. Seriously."

  She took my hand and led me to a dark corner of the room. Two men sat alone drinking highballs. She marched up to one of them and asked, "Could we sit here for one little minute? Then you can come back, all right? I would appreciate, very much."

  There was no trouble. Except that they both wanted to hold a chair for her. She sat down and thanked them, and they tottered off.

  I said, "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

  "I do not understand."

  "Not much you don't understand."

  "Well, we are here. What did you want to talk about with me?"

  "After we left earlier—Miss Martin and me—anything out of the ordinary happen? Anything funny?"

  "Ahh! That Miss Martin. I do not like her."

  "Never mind that. How about after we left?"

  "Nothing. Everything was the same. Why?"

  "Anybody leave right after us? Anybody at all?"

  "No. Nobody. At least, nobody left that I know about. What is it, all these questions?"

  "That woman you don't like. Miss Martin. Somebody shot and killed her right after we left. She's dead."

  She half-smiled, then looked puzzled when she realized I wasn't kidding. Her black eyes grew wide and she gasped, "No! Oh, I am sorry. But you—"

  "Not a scratch. I was lucky. But you can bet it was luck."

  "But why? Why would anyone wish to do it? I am sorry. I did not like her, but it was just that she was a woman."

  "I don't know why. That's what I'm trying to find out. I hoped you might help me."

  "I wish I could help. If I can help you, you tell me and I will."

  "Thanks, Lina. Maybe you can later."

  "This is the first time."

  "First time what?"

  "That you have called me Lina."

  "I haven't had much chance to talk to you, Lina."

  "We must find more time. I think you are very nice, Shell. Your name, too, is for you. You are big and strong, and even with the nose and the ear you are nice. Yes. A little mean-looking, maybe, but most nice. But you must let your hair grow. So pretty. You will let it grow for me, no?"

  "No,"

  She cocked her head on one side and frowned at me. "But why?"

  "I like it this way."

  "Poof! Well, you are still nice. You think I am nice?"

  Did I think she was nice? Brother! My tongue was starting to stick again. I grinned at her. "You'll do."

  "Do! What kind of talk is this? Men say to me, 'You are like a goddess, Lina; your eyes are like the heavens,' and other things they say. You say, 'You'll do. I missed you, no. Put on the brassiere.' What is the matter with you?"

  "Maybe I'm scared of you."

  "Scared." She narrowed her eyes and peered at me. "Well, Mr. Scott, you wait. I will scare you to death."

  I didn't say anything.

  "The brassiere," she said. "I did not put it on. You are old-fashioned. This blouse." She sat up straight so I could get a good look.

  I got a good look.

  "You like?"

  I nodded. I was all wound up like spaghetti.

  "Look. It is a peasant blouse. I can wear it like this"—she pulled the top up high around her neck; looked good, too—"or I can wear it like this." She pulled it down over her creamy shoulders, down, down. Good God! Was she never going to stop? Down. "So. You like, Mr. She
ll Scott?"

  I used up half my store of French. "Oui," I sighed. That's one word you can say when your tongue's stuck.

  "Oh!" Her eyes sparkled. "You speak French?"

  "Oui."

  "Ooh. Merveilleux! Quel homme remarquable, Monsieur Scott. Quels autres talents cachés avez-vous?"

  "Uh, oui."

  She frowned and looked at me strangely. "Comment? What a remarkable man you are! So well you speak French, you must also speak Spanish, no?"

  "Si."

  "Eres un marrano cochino. Verdad?"

  "Si, si."

  She laughed lightly, leaned forward across the table, and said, "I just told you, Mr. Scott, that you are a dirty pig. You are a big faker, no?"

  "I'm a big faker, yes. Please, not a dirty pig."

  She tossed her head back and laughter rippled out of her throat and past her red lips. Guys at the next tables turned and looked at me as if they wished I'd dissolve. Lina stopped laughing and said, "We will have fun."

  "Sure. Tell me something, Lina. How come you're working here, letting a guy toss knives at you? You and Miguel been working together long? You a team?"

  "No team, Shell. That Miguel!" She screwed up her face in disgust. "It is like this. I am a singer. I come here to work—oh, two months ago. This Miguel and a Ramona, his partner then, they do the knife act. One night Ramona is not here. Later we find she had run away with a man and she is married. The husband will not let knives be thrown at her."

  "A logical development," I said.

  "Then Maggie says will I do the act? I tell her no, but finally she says I will get twice the money—from fifty dollars to one hundred dollars. For one week. So I say all right. Well," she shrugged her shoulders, "it is so good for the crowd they have me stay—but I make Maggie give me one hundred and fifty dollars. Six weeks now we have done the act. I do nothing; just stand there."

  "Doesn't it scare you?"

  "No longer. At first, a little, but not now. Miguel, he is at least good with the knives. Always just so."