5
I looked around, but after twenty minutes I hadn't learned anything new. People in a couple of houses admitted hearing the gunshot, or “backfire,” but that was as close as I got. I did use the phone in one of the houses and called the Westlander Theater. When Mr. Dent came on and I asked for Johnny Cabot, he exploded.
“What'd you do to him? What's happening? All of a sudden my star singer's gone. Right after you talked to him he lit out and I ain't seen him since."
I told him I hadn't done anything to Cabot and got him calmed down. Finally he promised to keep it under his hat that I'd called, if Cabot did arrive. I told Dent I'd be phoning him again, then drove into downtown L.A. and spent some more time trying to locate Johnny Cabot or Ilona, without success. I checked again at the Franklin, where Cabot still had his apartment, but he hadn't turned up there. The twenty bucks I left with the desk clerk, however, assured me of the clerk's prompt cooperation if and when Cabot or Ilona showed up.
Cabot had said he'd spent most of last night, or rather this morning, with a gal who worked at the Grotto. If that was true, he couldn't very well have slipped the cyanide into Ilona's milk. I headed for the Grotto.
It was a long, low, gray building on Beverly Boulevard. Shortly before eight p.m. I turned my car over to the parking attendant and went inside. The first thing that caught my eye was a colorful poster in its glass-covered case alongside the checkroom.
It was a large photograph of a busty mermaid resting on her back at what seemed to represent the bottom of the sea. Diving down through the water above her was a muscular male in a pair of bikini-type trunks. The mermaid was, typically, fish from the waist down, but from the waist up there was nothing fishy about her. Long hair streamed through the water like black seaweed, and the whiteness of her skin glowed phosphorescently in the greenish water. A shaft of light fell from above her and touched the white, prominent breasts.
Painted letters that looked like seaweed at the poster's top announced that the Grotto proudly presented “The Neptune Ballet” in the Underseas Room. At the bottom of the big card, more seaweed letters announced that Dan Thrip was the Sea Satyr, and Ilona Betun was “Neptuna, the Venusian Mermaid."
Ilona?
Ilona.
Well, I thought, I'll be damned.
I looked at the shapely mermaid again. If the poster hadn't been a photograph, I might have thought the artist was an advertising man accustomed to ludicrous and enormous exaggeration, but this was a photograph, and this gal was quite obviously not my Ilona, not my client. It is sometimes possible for a reasonably attractive gal to appear uglier than a dead skunk merely by removing all makeup and failing to put up her hair. Add a drab dress and a frown, and the lovely of the night before often becomes the goon of the morning after.
But taking it off is one thing, and putting it on is another. What this mermaid had, gals cannot put on; they have to grow. And grow, and grow.
Almost reluctantly, I turned away from the poster and looked around. Several people sat at the bar and tables, drinking and talking. Near me a young couple was having dinner, thick steaks sizzling on metal platters. A haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
I found the manager in his office. He was about five-ten, thin, white-skinned, with receding brown hair and an empty cigarette holder stuck in the side of his mouth.
He was scribbling on a paper before him. “Yeah?"
“My name's Shell Scott. I'm a private detective.” I showed him my credentials. “You're the manager?"
“Yeah. Joe Grace. Detective, huh? What you want with me?"
“It's not you personally. I'd like to talk to Ilona Betun."
“Uh-huh. You're the second detective that's been in here wanting to see her. This wouldn't just be a gag to get close to the doll, would it?"
“No. Who was this other detective?"
“Guy named—Welch, I think it was. Like on a bet."
“Do you know what he wanted to see her about?"
Grace shook his head. “Didn't tell me. Went up and talked to her, that's all I know about it.” He looked at his watch. “Just about show time now. You want to talk to Ilona, you'll have to wait till after the show.” He paused. “Join me at my table in the Underseas Room if you want to. We'll catch the show from there."
I told him okay, and he led me out of his office and into the room I'd noticed earlier. The Underseas Room was dimly lighted, not large, and probably held no more than fifteen tables or so, but every table was occupied. Imitation seaweed hung from the ceiling, and ornamental nets adorned the side walls. The entire wall directly opposite the door was glass, except for about three feet at the wall's base, and as we got closer I could see that the space beyond that glass wall, extending in for six or eight feet, was filled with water. It was like a high, wide, but narrow aquarium, a room of water.
Soft greenish light filled the room-aquarium, fell on seaweed moving slowly as if touched by delicate currents, on the rippled sand that formed the aquarium's floor. Joe Grace's table was almost against the glass wall, over toward its left side. As he sat down I climbed into a chair opposite him and he asked me what I'd like to drink. I told him bourbon and water, and he sent the waiter off for our highballs. The drinks arrived almost before I could get a cigarette lighted, and I had a gulp of the barely watered bourbon as Grace said, “Ah, here we go.” Right after his words I heard a soft chord from the band on a small, raised bandstand inside the entrance. A man's voice was saying that we were about to witness the first show of the evening. He told us in hushed, intimate tones that the Sea Satyr and Neptuna would cavort in the Underwater Ballet for our pleasure, and finally finished with, “...the Grotto is proud to present the lovely, the luscious, the exciting—Neptuna!"
There was a fanfare from the combo, then sudden silence. In the silence a figure plunged through the water of the tank, trailing silvery bubbles in its descent toward the floor of sand. Music began again, softly, a weird melody unfamiliar to me, and the figure slowed as it neared the sand.
From her waist down, Neptuna wore a closely fitted fish tail, dark green and apparently covered with metallic scales. From the waist up she was nude, her breasts brazenly thrust forward, bare and whitely gleaming.
Neptuna, or Ilona, swam through the water with surprising ease and gracefulness, despite the fact that her legs were held together by the rubber costume. I couldn't guess how tall she might be, but she was beautifully proportioned. The green rubber costume clung tightly to flaring hips, and above them was a sharply indented waist that accentuated both her hips and the heavy breasts. She arched her body slowly, easily, twisting in the water, curling around a black rock and then through the thick grasses.
Two or three times she swept her arms back and rose to the water's surface, then twisted around and swam down again. After the last trip up and down again, as she approached the side of the tank where Joe Grace and I sat, she swam almost touching the glass and I got my first good look at her face.
I had never seen her before, but I was looking forward to seeing her again. It was a very pretty face, and what I could see of the body was sensational, and if the legs were even halfway nice, this was a tomato who could model for lipstick, brassieres, hose, or harems.
What I'd thought a big gray rock lying on the sand turned out to be a giant artificial clam. It opened up as Neptuna swam near it. As she rolled over on her back and neatly maneuvered her tail fin past the edge of the clam's shell, it closed suddenly on her and held her captive.
It was neatly done, and there were even a couple startled or frightened yips from women in the audience. Neptuna twisted and jerked as if in a panic, throwing her body from one side to the other, and her white breasts shivered, rolled on her chest, quivered in the water as she jerked and turned.
Then there was another silvery stream of bubbles as a guy in flesh-colored bikini trunks—the Sea Satyr—dived through the water. His part of the rescue didn't take long, since Neptuna had been holding her breath for quite
a while, but he hammed it up for fair in the time he had. I was forced to admit, though, that he looked strong enough to handle a dozen giant clams, even with a couple sharks and a swordfish thrown in. He knifed the clam, which freed Neptuna, whereupon she zipped to the surface for air, then down alongside the guy again. She swirled around him and rubbed up against him, and the sight of those big white breasts sliding against his sun-darkened chest was a good deal more sensual than the pictures in movie magazines.
Then the lips of the two undersea dancers met in a kiss. The lights in the tank went out and it seemed as if the water suddenly turned to ink.
Grace said, “How'd you like it, Scott? Pretty good, huh?"
“Yeah. I'll come in and pay the cover charge next time. Thanks for the vantage point and the drinks, Grace.” I got up. “By the way, how do I get up to your star's dressing room? I hope I don't have to swim—"
He interrupted, chuckling, “No. I'd better show you, though.” Grace led me to the rear of the club and up wooden stairs to the second floor. Three or four doors opened off a hallway there, and he took me to the third one, where he knocked.
There was the sound of bare feet padding across the floor inside, then the door opened and Neptuna was looking out at us.
Grace said, “This's Shell Scott, honey. Private detective. Help him out if you can. Don't want anybody raiding the joint."
“Sure, Joe.” She glanced at him as he turned and left, then looked back at me. “Come on in.” The voice was deep, throaty, soft. Even if she were to shout, I thought, that voice would have warm whispers in it.
She stepped aside and I went into her dressing room. As she closed the door behind us I got a glimpse of a big dressing table with a huge mirror over it, a wall closet with its sliding door partly open, a yellow bamboo screen between the dressing table and closet, and the gleam of light reflected from the surface of water at floor level on my left. But then she'd stepped up beside me and I was looking at Ilona—Neptuna—again.
Up close she looked even better than I'd expected. The big eyes were dark, with black brows above them like smears of midnight on her smooth white forehead. The red lips were full, half parted. She wore a thin white robe and held a white towel on top of her head with both hands. The pose did nothing to ruin the robe's appearance, though it pushed it quite a bit out of shape, emphasizing facets of Neptuna's figure that were already quite emphatic. She wasn't a very tall girl, but she had such an abundance of curves that, even if she'd been six feet tall, they would have been enough to stretch out and cover everything most satisfactorily.
“Mr. Scott, is it?” she said pleasantly.
“Shell. No need to be formal."
“Not in this outfit.” She smiled. All this time she was rubbing the towel over her hair, presumably to dry it, and that caused quite a commotion in the robe, and quite a commotion in me. Thick clumps of black hair escaped from the towel and hung down on one white-covered shoulder.
“I caught your act,” I said. “First time. It was sensational."
“You liked it then?"
“Yes, indeed.” I tried a gentle sally. “Any time you need a new partner—"
“I know. You'll start holding your breath.” She didn't say it in a sarcastic way, though, but rather as if it were something she'd heard too many times already. She was bored with me.
“I imagine you get a lot of offers from people who can't swim."
“I do.” She deftly tied the towel around her head, then cinched the robe's belt more tightly about her waist. She smiled again. “But I turn most of them down."
“Most, huh? How about Johnny Cabot?"
“Johnny? What about him?"
“You do know him, then."
“Sure. Is that why you came up here to see me?"
“One reason. When was the last time you saw Johnny—you don't mind the questions, do you?"
“Certainly not. I saw Johnny last night."
So here it was. Cabot had been telling the truth, or else this lovely was lying, and I didn't like that thought at all. But something was real crazy here; maybe the guy was goofy for Ilonas.
“That would have been after you got off from work?” I said.
“Yes. My last show's at midnight. He picked me up about twelve-thirty and we had something to eat, and talked, you know. Then he dropped me at my apartment at maybe six."
“When did you meet him?"
“Couple weeks ago, about. We went out the night we met, and the next night. But then I didn't see him until last night."
“That's understandable,” I said.
“How do you mean?"
“Well, he got married last Friday, and that kept him busy for two or three nights."
I was watching for the reaction, and it came slowly, but it came. It was, however, normal enough for a gal like Ilona Betun, assuming she wasn't really hot for the guy. She frowned, started to speak, then stopped. Slowly she said, “Married? But he—is this a joke?"
“No. He got married four days ago."
“Well ... what has he been doing with me—I mean, why did he go out with me?"
“I'm curious about that, myself."
She shook her head. “This is a little too much. I thought...” She paused, then went on, “Well, he's been trying to make me believe he's in love with me."
“I wouldn't be surprised if he is."
She looked at me, frowning again. “That doesn't make sense."
“In a strange way, maybe it does. But it's too complicated to go into now. There's one other thing. Did you recently talk to a man named Welch? Another private investigator?"
She nodded. “Sure, I've even got his card around here somewhere. Isn't it funny—you just asked about Johnny, then about Mr. Welch, and I met them both on the same day."
“That is a little funny.” I asked her to describe Welch, and it was the same description I'd got from the Hungarian Hurricane. I said, “What did Welch want to see you about?"
“The funniest thing. He asked me if I'd ever been in some kind of orphan's home. Of course I hadn't, and I told him so. He asked my age and where I was born and I told him.” She shrugged. “And he left. What's it all about?"
“I'm not sure. But I'm getting an idea. This orphanage, could it have been the Banting?” I purposely mispronounced it.
“Yes...” She nodded slowly. “That's about—Bunting. That's what it was, Bunting."
“You remember what day it was that Welch came here? And that you met Cabot?"
She thought a minute. “It was either the fifteenth, or not more than a day off either way."
“That's good enough. Johnny knew this Welch, then, huh?"
She looked a little puzzled. “Not that I know of."
“Then you didn't meet them at the same time?"
“No. The detective came here before my first show. And I met Johnny after the last show."
“Welch ever explain why he asked you about the orphanage?"
She shook her head. “He was up here only a couple of minutes. I had to shoo him out so I could get ready for my act. He did say that I was the wrong Ilona, then he thanked me and left."
So both the Hungarian Hurricane, and Neptuna, had turned out to be the wrong girl, the wrong Ilona. That pretty well told me who the right Ilona was.
6
Now that our interview was about over, I looked around again. Two or three inches below floor level, at the left side of the room, water moved gently. It seemed quite strange to see a room with part of the floor wet and liquid, which was the impression I got. I said to Ilona, “So that's the stage for the floorshow. It looks a good deal different from down below."
“I'll bet it does. You know, I've done that act hundreds of times, but I don't know what it looks like."
“Logical enough. Take my word for it, though—you look gorgeous. The whole act is terrific."
“Such enthusiasm!” She smiled. Then she said, “It's almost two hours until the next show, and I don't usually sit around in nothing
but a robe.” I felt sure that she had purposely emphasized the word “nothing.” “So do you mind,” she went on, “if I get into something more comfortable?"
“No.” I was grinning. “Of course not."
Her own smile was pretty close to a grin as she turned and walked away from me. My hopes were pretty high, but then I remembered the bamboo screen. I remembered because Ilona went behind it, then turned to face me. The top of the screen came just an inch or two below the tops of her shoulders. And now I noted, too, that the strips of bamboo were not right up against each other. That is, there were small spaces between them. I could see little strips of white that were her robe. Then, with one easy movement she pulled the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her.
Before, I had seen little strips of white that were Ilona's robe. Now I could see little strips of white that were Ilona's.
It wasn't an awful lot, but it moved. Ilona stepped a short distance to one side and reached for something, then bent down and stepped into it. She reached again and slipped a blouse over her head, then reached once more and stepped into what was obviously a skirt. I counted very carefully, however, and she reached only three times.
Then she stepped out from behind the screen and walked barefoot a few feet from the screen, and even if I had not counted, I would still have known she'd reached only three times. Suddenly Ilona stopped, put her hands on her hips, and looked at me. “Well,” she said, “you look like a man who plans to come back for the second show."
That snapped me out of it. “No, ma'am, I have work to do."
She chuckled. “Don't be stuffy. I was hoping you did plan to be here. I thought I might put in one little fin flip just for you."
“It might be your fin, Ilona, but it would be my flip."
She smiled. “That's better."
“Seriously, I do have a lot to do in the next few hours, but—well, a man can't work all the time. Perhaps we could—” I stopped as a thought struck me. “Johnny Cabot isn't planning to pick you up tonight, is he?"
“I should say not! After what you told me? Nothing was said about it last night, anyway. Besides,” she added frankly, in music to my ears, “I'd much rather be with you.” She paused, then went on slowly, “I'll be around a while after two. Just in case you get all your work done.” She smiled widely. “Sometimes, you know, I wait till the club is closed and locked, and nobody but me is here, and I have a little swim all by myself. Practice the new act."
Three's a Shroud (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 8
