No, I wasn’t stumped. I just didn’t exactly know how to go about it.
I hated to do it, but after some serious thought I called the Medina police. Farley was in charge of the Webley Alden case, and I had to talk to him. It wasn’t pleasant.
I told him that the witness to the crime, the girl I’d mentioned in my statements last night, was one of the twelve girls featured in Wow!, and explained how she could be identified by those four vital freckles. Even as I said it, my words got slower, weaker, and sort of limped one after the other. Put into blunt words, to Farley, it sounded most peculiar even in my own ears.
He roared at me for half a minute, then said, You damned maniac! I guess Im supposed to go all over California pulling pants down, huh? Youll have to figure out a better way to make me look like a raving idiot —
You figured that out yourself years ago. All you have to do is get a police matron to —
Drop it, Scott. If I hear even one word out of you again I swear Ill lock you up. For vagrancy if I have to. Obstructing justice. He snorted for a few seconds, then shouted, For perversion! He was losing his grip, but after a struggle he controlled himself. He said slowly, heavily, Scott, whered you get this idea, anyway? Whatre you trying to pull? Whatre you really trying to pull?
I started to tell him, then stopped suddenly. I could not tell Farley about the photo I had. I’d neglected to mention removing the film holder from Webb’s camera last night; and if I now told him I’d sneaked into Webb’s home today and stolen that film from under the eyes of the police . . .
I said, It — I just know it, that’s all.
Sure. Like you knew Webb was married. His bride kidnaped. Probably a jealous husband shot him. I checked personally with Honolulu — even though I knew you were lying. Theres no record Alden was married there. Believe me, Scott, any more of your games and youll play the games in a cell. A padded cell.
Webb didn’t actually say he’d been married in Honolulu, Farley, but in the Islands. He might have tied the knot on one of the other islands —
I told you to drop it, Scott. Listen, I got a call from Wow! saying you’d been bugging them. I warned you — He broke it off as if something else had occurred to him. It had. He said slowly, I also got a report somebody busted into Aldens place at nine-thirty this morning. Where were you then?
Knock it off.
You got sprung at nine. It could have been you.
Sure. It was me. Of course. I want to go back to your cozy clink. Your big boniness figured it out.
The heavy sarcasm didn’t quite convince him, but he dropped the subject. I was starting to feel as if walls were closing in on me. When he began chewing my ear again, I hung up.
Well, I’d known it even before the call. But it was a sure thing now. I would get no help, no cooperation, from the Medina law; trouble I would get, no more. Anything that had to be done I’d have to do myself. Okay. So be it.
I turned to the issues of Wow! again. Beneath each featured shot was one name identifying the model. On an adjacent page was further information about the shot, including the full name — or at least professional name — of the girl. Starting with September, the models were: Sue, Jeannette, Eve, Raven, Loana, Dottie, Janie, Alma, Gay, Candy, Pagan, and Charlene.
I checked the info on the adjacent pages of the magazines and started transferring it to a blank piece of paper. When I got through I had a list including the twelve months and twelve names:
{September: Sue Mayfair
Autumn
{October: Jeannette Duré
(brunettes)
{November: Evelyn Jans (Eve)
{December: Raven McKenna
Winter
(black hair)
{February: Dorothy Lasswell (Dottie)
{March: Janie Wallace
Spring
{April: Alma Vellor
(blondes)
{May: Gay Bennett
{June: Candice Small (Candy)
Summer
{July: Pagan Page
(redheads)
{August: Charlene Lavel
When I’d finished my list, I looked it over. So far that was all I knew about them. Except that one of them had four freckles. The problem now was to find them.
I did know where one of the twelve girls could be found, since I knew that following her month in Wow! each girl spent the succeeding month at the Algiers in Vegas. This was August; thus Miss July would be appearing at the hotel. I checked my list, called the Algiers, asked for Miss Pagan Page. It was too early in the day for any of the showgirls to be present, so I left my name and number, with a request that Miss Page phone me when she came in.
I found one of the names in the L.A. phone book, another in the City Directory. These gals could be scattered all over, I was thinking; there ought to be an easier way . . . and then a name floated into my thoughts: Orlando Desmond.
If anybody knew where all twelve of the girls were currently, he would know. The Wow! Anniversary Party was, or at least had been, scheduled to come off in about a week, and Desmond was the boy chosen to oversee all the dandy activities. He had been chosen by vote of the twelve Wow girls themselves — which will give you an idea that the instinct Desmond brought out in women was not merely the maternal instinct — and had, therefore, been in touch with all of them during the last few days and weeks getting things lined up for the ball.
Desmond lived in Medina.
So that’s where I was going — back to Medina. I decided to take my color picture along.
On the way out I put some fat, live daphnia into the neons tank; nourishment for mama and papa. Or mama and mama. Or papa and papa. Some detective. I peered sourly at them and went down to the Cad.
Orlando Desmond was called, in some circles, Dream-Eyes Desmond. He was a young and handsome bachelor who made feminine hearts go pitty-pat in a chorus like bongo drums stretching dear across the land. He’d made three movies in Hollywood, been in a couple of teleplays televised live from New York, and two or three times a year he guested on one of the numerous specials, singing a song or two and mentioning his latest movie or play seventeen or eighteen times.
He was a Personality and actor, but primarily his fame grew from his singing. At least that’s what it was called. Young women squealed and old women slobbered when he went bee-bee-bee — he didn’t go boo-boo-boo — but to me his songs sounded like a small cat being crushed between two dogs. Or maybe I simply have no appreciation for the finer things.
The house was barely inside the Medina city limits, two stories of rock and redwood, striking and attractive. I’d heard there was a protected swimming pool behind the house somewhere — it was rumored that he swam there with lovelies, if not in the raw at least in the medium rare — but the pool wasn’t visible from the front door. Orlando was, half a minute after I rang.
He looked sleepy and tired, and he blinked at me while I told him I was Shell Scott and wanted to talk to him. Finally he said, Shell Scott? You’re a detective, arent you?
That’s right. I’d like a little help from you, if you don’t mind.
His expression said he did mind, but he opened the door wider. Is it in connection with Webb’s death?
Yes. You heard about that?
Papers had it this morning. And the police just left here. I got rather tired of being questioned — by the police.
I didn’t say anything. Desmond led me inside, up a flight of cantilevered steps into a really beautiful living room. In the rea
r wall huge sliding glass doors opened onto a tiled patio roofed over with bamboo strips, sunlight slanting down through them onto the colored tile. A massive couch squatted next to a modern black fireplace on my right. Beyond the patio, through a lot of big green leaves and fern fronds, light glinted from the surface of a swimming pool.
I told Desmond I liked the room, the whole place in fact, and he thanked me without scowling. He seemed almost pleased, as if his shorts had just stopped pinching. If he wouldnt sing, we probably wouldnt actually come to blows.
He was a handsome devil, there was no denying that. About thirty, my age, possibly two or three years older. He was a couple of inches over my six-two, slender but well put-together, tanned the color of mahogany and with thick brown hair waving dizzily over his scalp. He wore a white chenille robe belted loosely around his waist, and open leather sandals.
We sat in comfortable brocaded chairs and he said, Well, what is it, Scott?
There was a splash in the pool then, several yards out past the patios edge. I squinted that way but caught just a glimpse of black, and what looked like a swinging arm. Or leg. Into my mind, leaping wildly, came those rumors I’d heard about Desmond.
I pulled my eyes back and said, I understand you’re sort of in charge of the Anniversary Party set for next week. Or is that off now?
He shook his head. No, its not off. The magazine will continue to be published. Without Webb, unfortunately. The decision was made to go ahead with the party, at Mr. Whittakers home here. Ill be there.
Then you’ve been in touch with the twelve — twelve stars of the party. Know where to reach them. He nodded again and I said, Could you give me their addresses?
Well . . . I could, he said slowly. Its information usually kept quite restricted.
All I want to do is ask each of them a question or two. As I said, its in connection with Webb’s death. I might get a lot of help from one of them.
He frowned for a while, then said, Well, in that case I suppose its all right. He stood up. Let me get my little black book.
As he walked out of the room there was another splash from the pool area, but I couldn’t see much through the massed ferns and tropical plantings. In a moment Desmond was back. His little black book was red, and about the size of an L.A. city directory. I got out the list I’d made from Wow!s pages. Desmond read off the addresses and phone numbers and I jotted them opposite the names of the models.
Then I took the four-by-five color print from my coat pocket, handed it to him and said, Would you do me a favor and take a look at this?
He casually glanced at the picture. But then his eyes sort of riveted upon it and after a few seconds he said, Do you a favor?
Expectantly I asked, Do you know who it . . . she is?
He shook his head, seeming slightly dazed. Ah, these men, theyre all the same. No . . . but I’d like to. He paused. What prompted you to ask if I knew her?
Well, I think shes one of the Women With Wow, and since you’ve been in . . . communication with all of them for some time, I thought, oh, one of them might have . . . dropped a hint.
That, I decided, was unclear even to me. But Desmond got it. Ah, he said. Ah, no. But possibly I could help you with a few discreet . . . inquiries.
An excellent idea.
I presume you want to talk to each of the girls?
That’s right.
Well, he smiled finally, at least I can help you there. Give you a start, that is. He looked toward the pool and called, Raven!
Raven? On my list was Raven McKenna — December.
Right then I discovered something about my thinking. I had by now memorized the list of names and, whenever I thought of one of the gals, into my mind popped the corresponding photo of her which had appeared in Wow! I’ve mentioned that in none of those photos was the girls face showing. So, horrible thought though it may be to some, each of those lovely girls was, to me — a fanny. Whenever I thought of one of the names, bang, that’s what flashed into my mind.
How could it have been otherwise? It was all I had to go on. Believe me, friends, it could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to you.
And I remembered December. Ah, how well I remembered December. Raven McKenna was, in the December fold-out photo, shown in the act of climbing from a swimming pool. Nude, as all the models were in such shots, she was going up the ladder, and the photographer had obviously been in the water, cooling off and shooting up. Lets be honest. There are myriad kinds of beauty. Sunsets and sunrises, a schooner on a blue sea with its spinnaker billowing, forests, mountains, all those wonders of Nature. But a shot like December has a natural attraction all its own.
I remember when I first lamped that shot I had thought: if that’s December, therell be no winter this year. And now from the pool a clear feminine voice answered: Yes?
Just a second, Scott, Desmond said. Shes probably all wet, cant come in. He walked out. I sat there, thinking. Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
Then Desmond called, Scott?
Yeah?
Come on out. Might as well talk here at the pool.
I sprang up and zipped from the living room into the patio, across it and along a path of redwood rounds set in green dichondra, huge philodendron leaves and fern fronds slapping at my arms, and into the cleared area where Orlando Desmonds swimming pool was. Overhead was a latticed roof, to keep the direct rays of the sun out — or to beep people living above from staring in. The pool was free-form, large, the water clear and sparkling, blue-tinted from the reflection of the pools tiled walls.
Desmond sat in one of several deck chairs next to a round metal table, and standing near him, facing me and leaning back against the table, was Raven McKenna.
Let me tell you. We have come far from the day when a sight to drive men into frenzy was a girl with her shoes unlaced. We have come far — and I’ve come farther than most. But the sight of Raven McKenna in a black one-piece swimsuit was enough to make men come unlaced. She was tall, the mass of lustrous hair, heavy with water now from the pool, as black as the back of beyond; with bright lips and sparkling black, eyes, a question in the eyes and the answer on her lips; and she was curved in so many directions she looked sprained.
When Raven McKenna was born and the doctor said, Its a girl, he hadn’t known the half of it. The doctors massive understatement had been made, I guessed, about twenty-two or twenty-three years ago, and it had been just long enough.
Desmond waved a hand casually at the girl and said, Raven, Shell Scott.
She smiled brilliantly and stepped toward me. The swimsuit she wore was different from most others I’d seen, and looked as if it were made from jersey. Jersey is not like most cloths, not thick and concealing; jersey is usually used for blouses or dresses, not for swimsuits; jersey is thin, soft, clinging; jersey should be used for swimsuits. Even dry that cloth would have molded itself to Ravens body, but now soaking wet it seemed almost to follow the delicate contours of each pore, to melt into the skin.
Then Desmond finished the introduction. Scott, Raven McKenna.
I remember December, I said. I mean, I remember Raven — How do you do, Miss McKenna?
Mr. Scott. She smiled, teeth brilliant in the deep tan of her face. How do you do? Wont you sit down? Orlando said you want to talk to me.
We sat around the metal table. Raven crossed her legs. Both Desmond and Raven waited for me to get on with it. Quite suddenly the type of interrogation I’d previously planned for the Wow girls assumed new and appalling dimensions. It had been much easier with Orlando. I cleared my throat.
Miss McKenna, do you — I stopped. I couldn’t go through with it. Besides, shed probably deny it anyway. I took another tack. Can you tell me anything about Webb’s marriage?
She frowned slightly. Webb’s what?
Marriage. Two days ago, in Hawaii.
Married! We
bb? Webley Alden? She seemed to think I was joking.
Uh-huh.
Why, no. Are you sure?
Yeah. Im trying to find the woman he married. Thought I’d start here with you.
Frowning, she said, Why in the world me?
Desmond broke in then. That why you wanted the addresses of the twelve girls featured in Wow! this past year, Scott?
That’s right, I said. At least that’s part of it
And Ravens one of the twelve, of course.
I nodded.
Raven said, He certainly didn’t marry me. Suddenly she laughed, looked sideways at Orlando. They exchanged a glance, a private thing that didn’t include me, as if they had a secret I didn’t share. Undoubtedly they had plenty of secrets I didn’t share. Then, still appearing amused, she said, I assure you, Mr. Scott, it couldn’t have been me.
Can you prove it? That, for example, you werent in Hawaii two days and more ago?
Of course I can prove it — if I have to. I’ve been with Orlando much of the time. That glance between them again. Is it so important?
Pretty important.
The eyes stopped flashing and she smiled at me. Let me know when you want proof.
Im not sure what I might have said then, but Desmond interrupted. He was looking at me with dawning comprehension on his handsome face. Scott, he said slowly. That photo . . . I recall now you said it was — one of the twelve, you thought?
That’s right.
Yes, I see. Well, its not . . . Raven. He smiled with what I thought unnecessary smugness. Couldn’t be, old man. I can guarantee it.
He could, could he? Old man, was I? He was still smirking, sort of dopily, I thought. I felt the faint stirring of an atavistic impulse, the waggling neurons of deeply buried racial memory, a cave-mannish instinct, a faint urge . . . . A faint urge to hit him right in the mouth.
But he was going on. Hope that makes your job easier, Scott. And, naturally, if I — learn anything, Ill let you know, old man. He was talking down to me now. On the other hand, if you get to the bottom of this — ah, settle the matter yourself, I’d be interested in knowing what you . . . what the answer is.
Dance with the Dead (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 5
