We made it and Laurel said breathlessly, “What happened?”
“Somebody took a shot at us, that's what happened. Stay here.” I sprinted toward the sloping hillside, then turned left and ran back toward the spot from which the shot had come. Laurel called after me, but I kept going. Whoever had tossed that bullet up here would have been down below us, in line with the entrance to the pool, and probably in among those trees I'd seen earlier. Right at this moment I'd be hidden from him—if he were still there—but there was a lot of empty space between me and those trees.
When I could see around the hill to the trees again, I flopped onto my stomach and peered down toward them, but nothing moved. Nothing that I could see. For a couple minutes I lay there, staring until my eyes watered; then I got up and ran, bent over, toward the spot where I'd seen that glint of light. I knew that whoever had taken that shot at us must be long gone, but my flesh crawled anyway, and after fifteen or twenty strides I flopped onto my stomach again.
Then I got up and ran clear to the trees and in among them. There wasn't anybody in sight, but by walking a few feet to my right I could see uphill into the V, see the small raised spot where Laurel and I had been sitting, even part of the rock Laurel was behind. At least, I guessed she was still behind it. I knew the guy must have fired from someplace near where I stood; farther back there'd have been too many trees in the way for him to get a clear shot.
He obviously wasn't nearby at the moment. Traverse Road was only another hundred yards or so away, and I tore over there, leaned on the fence, and looked left and right. If a car had gone over that dusty road in the last five or ten minutes, there'd still have been a cloud of dust visible above it; but the air was clear. Nobody'd hightailed it down the road. Not in a car, anyway.
I prowled around a little longer, thinking about cartridge cases, but not really expecting to find anything. Then at an opening in the trees I looked east, and for a moment I thought I was seeing things.
Several miles away was what looked like one of King Arthur's castles. I blinked at it, almost expecting it to go away. But it stayed there, the closest thing to a medieval castle that I'd ever seen outside of those knight-happy movies. I gave it a final blink, then trotted back up toward the little lake and Laurel.
She got up from behind the boulder and walked toward me as I got close. Her face was drawn, sober. “Did you see anyone?” she asked.
“No.”
She bit deeply into her lower lip. “This about settles it, doesn't it?” she said slowly. “This was no accident. You've got to help me, Shell. Someone just tried to kill me again.”
I didn't say anything. The little grass-covered knoll we'd been sitting on was a few feet to my right. I walked to it, sat where I'd been before, then looked down to the spot in the trees where I'd been, then in the opposite direction, up at the cliff. I could still see the spot where the slug had drilled into the clayey earth, near a patch of clinging green growth. A line drawn from the trees below uphill to that spot high on the cliff's surface wouldn't have met any obstruction on the way—except my head.
Laurel had been lying on the grass. From the spot where I'd been minutes ago, she'd have been barely visible, if visible at all. But my white hair would have stood out like a blond bull's-eye. And, though I liked my thoughts not at all, I started wondering a little about Laurel Redstone.
If I hadn't leaned toward her just before the shot was fired, it would sure as hell have killed me.
Chapter Six
What are you doing?” Laurel asked me.
I walked over to her again. “Just trying to put a couple of things together,” I said. “The guy had all the time in the world to get lost. He probably hightailed it away right after that one shot.”
“Shell, I'm scared.”
“That makes sense. I'm starting to get a little jittery myself.” I looked at Laurel, thinking again that for everything she'd told me, I had only her unsupported word; even for the item that she was Mrs. Redstone's daughter, come to think of it.
“What are you looking at?” Laurel asked me.
I'd turned from her and was peering up at the cliff face. “Looking at the place where the bullet dug into the dirt up there,” I said. “I'd like to get my hands on that slug.”
She followed my gaze. “You'd be looking for a needle in a haystack, wouldn't you?”
“I saw where it hit. The only problem is how to get up there.”
It looked impossible. There wasn't any place to put a ladder except in the pool, which was no help, and the slug was about sixty feet above its surface. Even a rope let down from the cliff's top, a hundred feet or more higher, wouldn't have worked, because the cliff's top jutted out so much farther than the place where the bullet had dug in.
I said, “Might as well forget it. The only way I could get up there would be to float up, which is a talent I haven't developed yet.” I looked at Laurel and said, “How come you chose that knoll—” I pointed to where we'd been sitting—"for our conversation?”
She looked puzzled. “It's pretty, and we'd know there wasn't anybody listening. And there's such a nice view. Why do you ask?”
“We had a nice view, all right. So did that egg with the rifle.”
She frowned. “I'm sure you don't mean what that sounded as if you meant. So I must not understand you.”
I dropped it. “We'd better get back to camp. I've got to get out of here, anyway.”
“You mean you're leaving? After this?”
“That's right.” We started walking.
Laurel didn't have much to say on the way back. Halfway to the buildings I said, more to break the silence than anything else, “Laurel, when I was down there in the trees I saw something funny. A kind of castle east of here. Was I in shock?”
“Maybe. But there is a castle out there about four or five miles. Castle Norman.”
“A Norman castle? That's pretty silly.”
“It's a night club. Drinks, gambling, dinners, floor shows. Owned by a man named Ed Norman. That's where the name comes from.” She seemed a little cool.
Now I remembered hearing something about the place. I'd never been there in the months since it had opened, but I'd picked up a few reports about the “delightfully unique” new club. I didn't think any more about it. We walked back the way we'd come, through the trees and then into the big clearing where the camp was. Only now there was an appalling amount of activity.
“Lunch must be over,” Laurel said idly.
“It must be digested.” Even from here, at the clearing's edge, I could see splashing in the swimming pool and a dozen or so people playing volleyball. In fact, there seemed to be almost every game except leapfrog. And that slightly amusing thought combined with another that had been in my mind. I'd been wondering about that shot at me, and if I might have been lured out here, so to speak, so that somebody could have a try at knocking me off. It seemed like a screwy place for any kill attempt.
But from another angle maybe it was a damned good place for a killing, especially if I were the guy killed. If headlines had blared, “Shell Scott Shot in Nudist Camp,” L.A. and Hollywood would have laughed themselves into helplessness. There'd have been more attention paid to who got killed and where it had happened than the actual fact of my being bumped, and much of whatever investigation was made would have been obscured by waves of wild laughter.
Maybe. It also occurred to me that the same reasoning could apply to Laurel Redstone. There was also the possibility that I was goofy.
Laurel struck out across the open area toward the main building. I caught up with her.
“Where you going? I've got to get my clothes—and my gun.”
“You ought to at least sign in. Even if you sign right out again.”
“Everybody in camp on records here?”
She nodded. “All the names are in the records, plus the dates of entry. There are photos—portraits—of all of us, too. You can understand why we're careful about who joins the group. The
Council wouldn't want to get any curiosity seekers, insincere guests, voyeurs, and so on.”
She was still aloof, so I grinned at her and said, “I forgot to tell you. I'm a voyeur. Just a crazy, mixoscopiaed kid.”
“Did you want to look at the records?”
“I'd like to.”
“They're in the Council Room.” We walked toward it.
There were about a hundred people at Fairview now, half of them male, and there seemed a chance that one of the fifty might well be my boy. There was at least a possibility I might learn something from their names and faces. I felt very queer indeed, walking across that bare area so bare myself, but everybody else was obviously in the same fix and nobody pointed or anything.
The Council Room was empty. Laurel went to the green filing cabinet, pulled out a manila folder, and handed it to me.
Inside it was a sheaf of papers and photos. I spread them on the big table, sat down, and went through them. On the left of each sheet was a list of names reading down, next to them addresses consisting only of a city or town name, and lastly the date of admission to Fairview. Another set of papers, one for each day of the month, showed signatures of those who had signed in or out of camp during that day.
Laurel, looking over my shoulder, said, “The daily lists are mainly routine, to show who's here, how many to cook for, and so on. Mainly for the benefit of the cooks. And the health director.”
“Yeah.” She was not only looking over my shoulder, but sort of brushing against it, and it was disturbing. I concentrated on the pictures and papers. They didn't tell me much except that there were a hell of a lot of Browns and Smiths at Fairview.
This was July first. Laurel had me sign the sheet for this date, with the time of my entry, and underneath it I signed “Out” and the time, one-thirty P.M. In the month of June only three couples were listed as entering camp: A Mr. and Mrs. Brown on June third, another Mr. and Mrs. Brown on June 15, and a couple of individualists named Waltzinki on June 29. Most of the names had been entered in May.
I mentioned that to Laurel and she said, “Camp really opens May first. May through September is the season. We get a few new guests each month. Of course, some of us belong all year round, come out on the nice days, stay in town the rest of the time.”
I looked over all the names but found only what I'd expected; none of them was familiar to me. The pix were no help, either. Laurel put the stuff back and we went together to what I thought of now as the undressing room. In the men's wing I climbed into my clothes, checking my gun to make sure it was as I'd left it. Then I walked back into the main room. Laurel was sitting on the same couch where she'd sat earlier.
“Shell,” she said, “can't you stay? What if ... You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I can't stay, though. I told you that before.”
The only thing I knew for sure was that somebody had tried to kill me here; and I wanted out of Fairview until I was able to get at least half an idea why. I didn't think I'd find out here. I hadn't recognized any of the photos or names, and I couldn't see asking fifty nudists if they'd taken a shot at me.
The kill try hadn't been for Laurel, and there was a chance she was in no danger at all. Even if somebody had tried to kill her before, it didn't seem likely he'd try again today. Besides, there was no help for it; I had another job to do. I wanted to talk with the old health director. And I wanted to talk with Mrs. Redstone about her daughter Sydney.
Laurel said, “Will you be back?”
She was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap, clear blue eyes fixed on me. Well, I thought, a man has to sleep someplace; I could spend the night here just as well as in my apartment.
“I suppose so,” I said.
She stood up.
“Hell, yes,” I said. “What made you think I wouldn't be back?”
Her lips twisted into a smile. A small smile, but the first I'd seen for about half an hour. “I wish I could figure you out,” she said.
“This previous health director—name was Elder, wasn't it? Where's he now?”
“Palmer Hospital in Pasadena.” She frowned slightly. “Shell, why did you ask me my reason for taking you to the pool? Sitting on that knoll, I mean.”
I played it light. “Why, I thought maybe I was a better target up there.” I grinned at her. “What else?”
It didn't go over with a bang. No smile, no frown even. Just soft blue eyes staring at me, sober and maybe even a little sad. “I'll walk with you to the gate,” she said.
“You'd better stick here. With crowds, I mean.”
“I'll walk with you. Besides, I have to show you the cabin where you'll sleep if you come back.”
“If you don't sit down, I won't leave.”
She turned and went out. I followed her. Outside the building she turned right, walked around the corner and a few yards toward the nearby trees, then stopped and pointed. “The little white house there,” she said. “See it?”
“Uh-huh. That mine?”
“It's mine. Yours is just beyond it, another fifteen yards or so. I arranged for you to be close to my cabin. In case ... of trouble,” she said.
Laurel had picked up a key to the main gate, which she gave me; then we walked silently to the exit. She told me there was a parking area a little farther down the road and pointed it out. I went through the gate and turned to her.
“I'll see you later.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Maybe I can find out something about our friend in there.” I nodded back toward camp.
“Wouldn't this be the best place to find out?”
“Maybe. Only I don't think so. This is a real funny deal. There are a couple of things I want to check.” I paused. “You don't remember hearing anything at all about a detective named Paul Yates?”
She shook her head. “Is he the reason you're leaving?”
“Partly.”
“What's the other part?”
I grinned. “You sound as if you were the detective.” After a few seconds of silence she said, “'Bye, Shell.”
“So long, Laurel.”
She turned and walked up the path, disappeared among the trees. I watched her go, waited a few minutes longer, then started the car. I drove on down Traverse Road, yellow dust streaming behind the Cad, then turned on Maple and headed back to town.
There wasn't really a good reason to doubt anything Laurel had told me, I supposed. She'd sounded sincere and honest, and had even seemed a little hurt at a couple of my remarks. One thing was certain: I sure as hell wanted to believe her.
Chapter Seven
Andon Poupelle and his bride were staying at the Gorgon, a high-priced apartment hotel on Sunset between Hollywood and Beverly Hills. A couple of blocks from there I pulled into a filling station, and while the car was being gassed and checked I used the pay phone to call Mrs. Redstone. She answered and I told her it was Shell Scott.
“Oh, hello,” she said brightly. “I'm glad you called, Mr. Scott. Have you learned anything?”
“Frankly, I'm not sure. I wanted to ask you about this Sydney you mentioned last night.”
“Sydney? What do you want to know about her?”
“I wanted, for one thing, to be sure it was a her. Last night I thought you were talking about a man.”
“No. Sydney's my daughter.”
“Sydney Laurel Redstone.”
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
“I met her.”
“Not at Fairview!”
“Yes. You knew she was there?”
“Of course. I even talked to her this morning on the phone. As a matter of fact, I mentioned employing you.”
“I wondered about that a little. Lau—Miss Redstone hadn't heard of Paul Yates.”
“I never told anybody, even her, about him. Um.” She paused. “You can understand that I don't talk about where Sydney is. Not that I mind.”
“Sure. How about Vera and her husband? I suppose they know she's a
t Fairview?”
“Vera does, of course. Andon might, if Vera has told him, I'm not sure.” She paused. “How in the world did you learn Sydney was there? I didn't think another soul knew.”
I didn't tell her how I'd learned, but asked her to describe Sydney. Her Sydney and my Laurel—I rather liked the sound of “my Laurel"—were obviously one and the same girl. After answering Mrs. Redstone's queries about the odd events of last night, the bashed Packard and the unconscious Garlic, and saying I'd pay for the damage, I hung up. I hung up after Mrs. Redstone told me to forget about paying for the damage.
Vera Poupelle answered the door. A clerk had phoned up from the sumptuous lobby of the Gorgon and I'd been allowed to intrude my beastly presence. Vera had looked very good last night, and she still looked good, but after a view of her sister, especially as I had viewed her, Vera was just another babe wearing clothes. She had on a gray silk dress with a deeply plunging neckline, but so what? I had just been among the deeply plunging necks, and for a while at least I was spoiled.
Her short blonde hair looked as if it had just been fixed by somebody expensive named Pierre or Artibelle, and her lips were smoothly curved, a surprisingly vivid red against the whiteness of her skin. Vera was the indoor type.
“Hello there,” I said.
“What do you want?”
“Just a friendly visit. Couple of questions. OK if I come in?”
“I suppose so, Mr. Scott.”
She wasn't delirious with joy, but it seemed she was over her mad. She led me to a low divan about eighteen feet long and settled near me.
I said, “How did you know my name was Scott? I don't think I mentioned it last night.”
She smiled slowly. “Some fellow on the hotel phone just told me. I thought you were a detective.”
I winced. “Sometimes I wonder. Now I'm afraid to ask how you knew I was a detective. Same fellow tell you?”
Strip for Murder Page 5
