“Swim ... by yourself ... here?"
She nodded.
“Well, that's—interesting.” I changed the subject. “I'd like to talk with this Welch. You know where he lives? Or where his office is?"
“No."
“He a local man?"
“I don't know that for sure, either. But I think he was from out of town. We just had a real short talk, and he didn't tell me much except his name—I remember he said his first name was Harry. Harry Welch."
I thanked her and went out. Downstairs again I hunted up Joe Grace and asked him, “When Welch—the other detective—came in and talked to you, was he alone."
“Let's see. Was when he talked to me. But I think he came in with a younger guy. Yeah, they watched the show and had dinner."
“Do you remember what this other guy looked like?” He shook his head, and I showed him the picture I carried of Johnny Cabot.
“Sure,” Grace nodded. “I remember now thinking he was even more tanned than Dan Thrip. And them pale blue eyes—yeah, that's the one it was. What about him?"
“I was just curious. I'm real anxious to see him. Thanks again. I'll send in some customers."
He grinned at me as I left. Well, Cabot had hit the Grotto, then, in the company of Detective Welch. The longer this day lasted, the more puzzled I got. But a ray of light was beginning to filter into my thoughts now. There wasn't anything especially strange about there being three—or even three hundred—gals named Ilona in Los Angeles. But it seemed odd indeed that Johnny Cabot should know all three of them. More—he worked with one, dated another, and was married to the third. My running into one Ilona after another had sort of staggered me for a while, because I'm extremely leery of coincidence. But when I ignored coincidence, the light began to filter.
The reason that Cabot knew three gals named Ilona, obviously, was because he'd made it his business to meet them and get to know them. Two of them, anyway. He'd been working with the Hungarian Hurricane for a while, and that would explain his knowing her. But the other two he had managed to run into on purpose. On the 15th of this month he had met Ilona Betun. On the 17th he had met Ilona Green—whom I now thought of as the “right” Ilona—and on the 23rd he'd married her.
There was food for thought in those items, and mainly it made me anxious to find Cabot and his bride—and Harry Welch. I put in a call to the house on Robard Street, but there was still no answer there. Dent was still fuming at the Westlander. A call to the desk clerk at the Franklin got me the information that Cabot hadn't been in.
Harry Welch wasn't in the L.A. phone book or City Directory. I called half a dozen detective agency heads whom I knew personally, and several other investigators I knew by reputation, but none of them had ever heard of Harry Welch. The Bunting Orphanage, at least, was easy to find. The phone book listed it as at 7230 Orange Drive.
It was only eight-thirty p.m., so I phoned the place and talked to a Mr. Simpson. Judging by his voice, Mr. Simpson was about a hundred and eighty years old, and ready to give up the ghost. It was a voice always on the verge of saying good-by. But Mr. Simpson said, sure, he'd given a detective named Welch some information and yes, it would be all right for me to come out and talk to him.
I parked at the curb and walked up a cement path to steps before the wooden porch. The stairs creaked like rheumatic bones, sighed softly as I walked up on to the porch. At the right of the big door, above the push button of the bell, a small weathered brass sign said, “Bunting Orphanage Home."
Mr. Simpson answered my ring. He was little over five feet tall, with accents of white hair on his pink scalp, and a narrow face, but with brown eyes that were still alert and merry. I told him that I was Shell Scott, the man who had just phoned him, and explained why I was here. Yes, he remembered about the other detective. After a few questions, to get him started, he told me all he knew about Welch and the detective's purpose in visiting the orphanage. It fitted well enough into the pattern that had so far developed.
Welch had told him, Mr. Simpson said, that on April 7th twenty-two years ago, a seven-month-old girl had been turned over to the Bunting Orphanage. The detective wanted to know what had happened to the girl and where he could find her now. Mr. Simpson went on, in his quavering, soft voice, “Well, I checked the records and found the one he was after. Baby was brought here by the mother, Mary Lassen. She killed herself."
“Mary Lassen committed suicide? When was that?"
“About a week after she left the infant here. Baby was born out of wedlock, and the way I figure it, the daddy didn't want nothing to do with either of them. Not then. Must of been somewhat of a strain for the woman. But the funny thing is, the father's the man that set the detective to looking up the girl."
“Who's the father?"
“Well, he's a man named William Grant—that is, he was. He's been dead and buried for some weeks.” Mr. Simpson went on to say that it was because of Grant's death—he thought, but wasn't sure—that Welch had come looking for the girl. Unfortunately, Simpson said, he hadn't been able to give Welch much help, because some of the orphanage records had been destroyed about ten years ago, and among them were the records of the girl's adoption. Thus Mr. Simpson had been unable to discover the name of the people who had adopted her.
“How about Welch?” I asked. “Did he tell you where he was from? Or where he was staying in town?"
Mr. Simpson shook his head. “Didn't tell me anything."
“Do you remember when he was here?"
“I checked after you called and asked about him. It was the twelfth. That was a Monday, little over two weeks back."
I had just one more question. I knew the answer, of course, but I asked it anyway, for corroboration. “You still haven't told me the girl's name."
“She didn't really have a last name till somebody adopted her. But her first name was Ilona."
7
I got back to my apartment a little after eleven p.m., having tried again, without success, to locate Johnny Cabot or his wife. I parked across North Rossmore from the Spartan Apartment Hotel, crossed the street, went inside, and trotted up the steps to the second floor. And as I reached the top I heard what sounded like somebody else trotting behind me.
I turned around in time to watch Carol Austin bounce up the last few steps. She stopped and looked up at me, panting a little. “Gracious, you move fast,” she said.
“Well, hello. What are you doing—"
“You said I could see you. At your office, remember?"
“Yes, but I hardly expected you to show up here. How did you know I lived...” I let it trail off, remembering that this gal might conceivably do almost anything. She still looked as if she were going to a fire; even better, I decided, than she had this morning.
Carol Austin seemed to have dressed with more care, applied her makeup even more expertly, and of course she still had all the items which I had so happily itemized this morning; consequently she was a very tasty-looking dish indeed. So even though I was mentally shaking my head at her, I was lost.
There was a kind of hurt, bewildered look in her wide blue eyes, and she said slowly, “Is something the matter, Mr. Scott? Shouldn't I have come here? I looked you up in the book and got your address, and waited down in the lobby, and you'd said it was all right to come see you even if it wasn't for a case, and I..."
“Oh, that's all right,” I said with enthusiasm. “Anything—everything's all right. Why, I'm happy you could make it."
“Oh, good!"
“Well, there's no point in just standing here, is there? My apartment's right down the hall, so why don't we—"
“Oh, that would be fun,” she said.
The next twenty minutes were, while a bit disjointed, delightful nonetheless. Carol—after a couple of minutes it was Carol—seemed to think mine was a fascinating life, and wanted to know all about my work.
I explained to her that it was well she hadn't come here to hire me, because the case on which I was now engaged
was occupying most of my time.
“What case? I didn't know—Oh, you mean that woman who was leaving your office this morning? You said her name was Ilona Cabot or something, didn't you?"
“Yeah, that's it.” We were both sitting on the chocolate-brown divan in my front room. But we were at opposite ends of the divan, so we were yards apart. The divan is big enough to sleep on, or anything.
“Gracious,” Carol went on. “Weren't you looking for her husband or something? Did you find him?"
“Yeah, and lost him. But let's not talk shop, Carol."
“Would you think I was awful if I asked if you had anything to drink here?"
I sprang to my feet. “What would you like? Bourbon? Scotch? A Martini, Manhattan—"
“Oh, my, I just meant a Coke or something."
“Nonsense. Though I have Coke."
“Well, all right. A Coke."
“But—"
“With just the teensiest bit of Scotch in it."
“Fine. A Scotch-and-Coke coming right up..."
That was such a goofy-sounding drink, like bourbon and beet juice, that it suddenly reminded me of how she'd happened to wind up in my office this morning. I said, “Ah, Carol. How did you make out with Doctor Forrest?"
“Oh, fine. He gave me a pill. You know, to sort of—sort of calm me down."
“And did it calm you down?"
“Uh-huh. I'm fine now. Show me where everything is, and let me mix the drinks. All right? That would be fun."
She got up, took me by the hand and accompanied me to the kitchenette. I watched Carol mix her sticky concoction, then supervised her preparation of a sensible bourbon and water for me. Sensible, that is, except that she managed to slop even more bourbon than I'm accustomed to into my drink.
We got settled again, and I had a glug of my drink and relaxed. There wasn't a great deal of conversation as we finished our drinks, then Carol went alone into the kitchenette to mix a couple more. It seemed to take her quite a while, but I had that much more time to concentrate on problems this case had presented.
When Carol joined me again, I had a small sip of the new highball, then sat it on the coffee table. I was still cudgeling my brain from time to time in the hope of figuring out how I could locate detective Harry Welch. And suddenly I knew.
I'd known all along, if only my memory had functioned. But the salient information had come to me when my mind had not exactly been screwed to the sticking point. I remembered now that while I'd been upstairs in the Grotto, talking to the shapely Neptuna, she'd mentioned that Welch had given her one of his cards. Later she'd said that she had no idea where Welch was staying. But there wouldn't have been any reason for him to leave the card unless his address had been on it. “It's still around here someplace,” she said, I remembered now.
I grabbed the phone, looked up the Grotto in the book and dialed. Carol said, “What bit you?"
Joe Grace answered at the Grotto. He told me Ilona was about to dive into her act, but I explained what I wanted and Grace said he'd check with her, if there was time, before the show.
“Thanks, Grace,” I said. “I'll be down in a few minutes."
As I put the phone back in its cradle and got to my feet, Carol picked up my drink and walked closer to me. Then she handed me the dark highball and said, “Here. Relax and have your old bourbon."
“Haven't got time. I'm leaving."
“Oh, Shell. You can't ply me with liquor like this and then leave."
“I didn't ply you, you asked for it. Besides, I can feel that first one too much already, and I've got work to do."
“The work can wait, can't it? Please, Shell. I'm enjoying myself."
“Sorry. I'm enjoying myself, too, but—"
“I haven't enjoyed myself so much in a long time. And my pill's wearing off.” She stepped close to me, put her arms on my shoulders and looked up at me. I had for a second there thought she probably couldn't get any closer, but I was wrong. She got quite a bit closer. “My pill's wearing off,” she said in a low, husky voice. “I can tell."
“I can tell, too. And don't forget, I haven't had any pill."
She was sort of squirming around, and her hands went up behind my neck and traced little paths of cold in my suddenly heated skin, paths like small fire-breaks in the midst of conflagration, and I came very close to weakening.
She said, “I'm so glad I met you, Shell. I don't want to let you go now."
“I'm practically gone. I mean, here I go—I'm—good-by."
The phone rang. I jumped for it and got away from Carol. It was Joe Grace again. “Scott,” he said, “I just remembered you mentioning that guy who came in with Welch. The guy with the tan, and the pale blue eyes. I just saw him come in."
“He's there now? Anybody with him?"
“He came in alone. Didn't say boo to me. Went upstairs. Probably to see Ilona, but I figured I'd call you right off, seeing how you said you were anxious—"
There was undoubtedly more, but I didn't hear it. I dropped the phone onto its hook and headed for the door. Carol yelled, “But what'll I do? My pill is wearing off."
“Take another one,” and out the door I went.
8
I left my car in the Grotto's lot, and raced to the club's entrance and inside. The Underseas Room band was playing the weird number which introduced the show. I ran up the back stairs three at a time and as I got to their top and ran down the hallway toward Neptuna's dressing room I saw husky Dan Thrip, in trunks, standing outside her door, apparently waiting for the musical cue that would be his signal to go in and dive into the tank. Cabot wasn't in sight anywhere.
I sprang past Thrip, opening the door and going through as he yelped, “Hey, what duh—” but then I saw Neptuna. Or rather her tail. She had just dived into the pool and was entering the water.
And then I saw Cabot.
He must have been talking to Ilona until the moment she dived, because he was just turning toward me. Those pale blue eyes got about twice as wide as normal in his dark face when he lamped me but then they narrowed again as I jumped toward him. He balled up his fists, stepped toward me, and launched his right hand at me like a brown rock. He didn't have any intention of starting a conversation, he simply wanted to bust my skull.
But I had not been charmed by Cabot, either, so I felt almost gleeful as I pulled my head slightly aside as I got close to him and that brown-rock fist, bent forward a little, and slammed the knuckles of my left hand into his stomach. Or rather, onto his stomach. It felt like I'd busted my hand. That stomach of his was like a piece of corrugated cast iron.
Cabot didn't even grunt, but his fist whispered past my ear without doing any damage. He staggered back a step, then moved around me, lips pressed together. He feinted twice with his left, then slammed his right hand at me—and he was wide open.
I bent my legs and leaned a bit to the side to let that looping right whistle past my face, then straightened up and pivoted, slammed my right fist against the side of his chin. It made a fine, a dandy noise, and he staggered backward, his arms flying up loosely in front of him. I had him, and knew that just one more punch would settle this altercation if it wasn't already settled. And when Cabot came to, then I'd ask him all the questions about Welch, and his wife, and the other Ilonas, and the shot at me, among others.
But that hard-thrown right hand pulled me around a bit, left me a little off balance, and I moved my left foot back about six inches to steady myself. That was the wrong thing to do. My foot was resting on nothing.
The horrible realization swept over me even as I flailed my arms trying to regain my balance. But it was too late. Almost involuntarily I gave a short hopping movement, and then I was flying backward into wetness. Wetness, and a sickening realization. My eyes were closed, but even without looking around I knew where I was. I knew what I was, too, and it was almost unthinkable, certainly unprintable.
When I opened my eyes I could see quite well, even see the glass wall of the aqua
rium in which I was hanging, sort of stunned and unbelieving. I couldn't see outside, but I could imagine with dull horror the expressions fixing themselves on customers’ faces out there.
Below me was Neptuna, the mermaid. She was swooping through the water and curling around a rock quite gracefully, entirely unaware of what dangled here above her head in wet tan slacks and a sopping brown sports coat. Undoubtedly she had not the slightest suspicion that anybody—especially me—had yet followed her into the water, and she was looking happy, almost smiling, as she arched her back down there and started to glide up through the water.
But she spun slowly around and lamped me and her arms flew up over her head like springs, her mouth opened wide, and her legs split through the thin rubber mermaid skin as if it were Kleenex. She froze in a strained, awkward position, floating there in the water with her arms and legs akimbo, bent into the approximate shape of a swastika, and looking very much like an arthritic Balinese dancer engaged in drowning.
Then she screamed. Bubbles ripped out of her mouth like horrified silver balloons and popped up past her head. In that moment Ilona seemed to gather enormous strength from somewhere, and all of a sudden her arms and legs were moving as if she had six of each. As she shot past me, I came to my senses and took out after her. My head popped up past the surface of the pool just as Ilona was clambering out, inches from me. Only inches. It was a sight that, unfortunately, I couldn't appreciate to the full right at that moment, but it was often going to flash back into my memory and jangle all my nervous nerves like pink lightning.
Then she was on her feet and racing away.
“Ilona!” I shouted. “Wait, it's me. Shell Scott. It's me!"
Three's a Shroud (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 9
