Strip for Murder

by Richard S. Prather

  “That's where you come in, honey. I'll climb part way up and tie this line"—I showed her the small rope in my hand—"to the thick line the balloons are tied to. You take the other end and walk around to the far side of the pool. While I'm on the ladder, you pull until I tell you to stop. You pull me out over the water, and I climb up or down the ladder till I'm where I want to be. Simple?”

  “I guess. Or else you're simple.”

  “Young woman, this is sheer genius. The balloons will pull straight up; you pull toward you. I'm right there at one point of the triangle, happy as can be. It has something to do with geometry. Or is it algebra?”

  “OK, Einstein. Let's see you operate.”

  I went up the ladder, carrying the Coleman lantern and a shovel. By that time Laurel was at the opposite side of the pool. Soon, with her pulling gently, I was exactly where I wanted to be. I wired the lantern to one rung of the rope ladder over my head, then started scraping at the earth side of the cliff with my little shovel.

  Getting the slug itself was nothing after all the preparation; in fact, it was anticlimactic. When I'd first got into position I could see the day-old bullet hole in the cliff, and it was just a matter of scraping at it till I got in deep enough. I'd sway out from the cliff occasionally, or get out of position because those balloons weren't rigid up there, but there wasn't much to this part of the operation.

  “Tell you what, Laurel,” I said while I dug. “We might use this idea in the Long Beach Pike. Fix up a spot in the amusement zone like the surface of the moon, strap balloons on people so they're light, and they can jump around like crickets.”

  “Swell,” she said. “We'll give them membership cards, enlisting them as moon people. You get the first membership. You know why nuts are called lunatics, don't you, Shell?”

  “Yeah. But—woops. Wait a shake, baby.” I'd dug deep enough. I could see the dull gleam of the slug and in another minute I had it in my hand. The point had expanded and folded back on the jacket like a beat-up metal mushroom, but the ballistics boys downtown wouldn't have any trouble identifying it and comparing the marks on its barrel with another bullet. And I had little doubt that they'd identify this one as a Silvertip .30-.30 slug. I went down to earth again.

  Laurel trotted around the pool, her body a pale glow in the darkness, getting more substantial—and prettier—as she got closer. She ran up and stopped before me, smiling slightly. Then she sobered and, in mock surprise, said, “Where in the world did you come from?”

  “From there,” I said solemnly, pointing up. “My God!”

  “Not at all. I am Eekle from there.” I pointed up. “I claim this joint in the name of Arcturus. I have traveled many light years. I have very light vehicle. I claim you in the name of Eekle. Argle zoop slangslop.”

  “What's this argle something?”

  “Language Arcturus. My language. I bright as hell, speak all kinds slop.”

  “Oh, argle yourself. Let's go back to the cabin.”

  “I've got to get this slug downtown.” I grinned. “But after that I'll be back, and I mean to framblot you.”

  “What's that?”

  “Old Arcturian custom. Come on, let's go.”

  We went. I just left the stuff there, balloons and all. Tomorrow the nudists were going to be surprised when they saw it. At least, that's what I thought then. If I had known the truth, I'd have slashed my wrists.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  At the central station I gave the bullet to the boys in SID and they started checking. I left the envelope containing the bits of Norman's carpet with them, too, then drove to City Hall.

  I talked to the detectives on the night watch in Homicide, phoned Samson, woke him up, and jawed awhile. I told him all I knew and suspected about Bender. Also what I'd guessed so far about Ed Norman, Andon Poupelle, Vera, and the collection of hoods. Samson got dressed and came downtown.

  We were still drinking coffee in his office when he said, “OK, Shell, I want you to sit tight, don't make a move from here on in unless you get word from me.”

  “But, Sam, I've got a couple—”

  “Listen to me.” He looked at a bunch of papers spread over the top of his desk. “One, that paraffin test on Mrs. Redstone was positive; she fired a gun. But this wouldn't have been the first time a killer wrapped a stiff's finger around a trigger and let go a second shot, and two empty cartridges were in that little .32 of hers. So we had the crime-lab engineer make up a scale drawing of the room and windows. Only one window was open. An imaginary line from the chair Mrs. Redstone was in, passing out that window, went right to a couple of trees. The slug was in the base of one of them.”

  “The second slug. That pretty well kicks out any idea of suicide. All the more reason why I should—”

  “Wait a minute. Until a little while ago the newspapers were taking it easy on us, figuring it probably was a suicide. But they know different now, and if Mrs. Redstone as a suicide was front-page news, Mrs. Redstone murdered is a whole circus. All hell is about to bust loose. First thing in the morning.” He paused. “Mrs. Redstone's killer naturally hoped, and undoubtedly expected, that the kill would stay a suicide—that nobody would be looking for a murderer. If it hadn't been for you, Shell, I think that's the way it would have been. But he'll soon know positively, if he doesn't already, that he's in plenty of hot water. He'll have to make a move, one way or another, in a very short time.”

  “Uh-huh.” I thought of something. “Nobody's told me yet, Sam. How about Kid? Did the coroner check—”

  “Right. Skin and blood from Three Eyes’ face was under Kid's nails. I said this one's hot, but it's going to get hotter. Everybody from the Mayor down through the Commissioner is jumping up and down on the Chief, and he may eat me alive as it is. We haven't been able to locate Poupelle and his wife since they were down here that one time. Looks like they've skipped. Until we know more, you'd better sit tight. We mess this one up, I'm dead.”

  We were quiet for a little while. I'd given Sam the report I'd filched from Norman's office. Two things in it had been of interest to me. First, it was dated June 14; and secondly, it proved that Yates had discovered Laurel's presence at Fairview. Yates had put a tap on Mrs. Redstone's phone and heard a conversation between her and “Sydney” at Fairview, whereupon he'd gone to a spot near there and snapped some pix using a telephoto lens on his camera. It was also rather interesting that the report to “Client” was dated one day before Yates's report to Mrs. Redstone, which report had played up Poupelle as God's gift to angels.

  Sam's phone rang. He talked to somebody for a while, said, “You haven't got anything on that carpet fuzz yet? OK, let me know as soon as you do. Yeah, I'll be here all night.” He hung up and looked at me. “Well, there's your slug. Identical with the one that killed Yates. From the same rifle.”

  “Bob Brown. That helps.”

  “Helps plenty. Only we haven't got Brown. Whoever he is.”

  “Norman's in this.”

  “All the more reason to make damned sure before we move. Shell, don't barge around and mess anything up until we've got a tight case.”

  “If you find Bender, you might have one.”

  “That's my point. Wait till we know. You simmer down and I'll give you the word if anything breaks. I ought to clap you in a cell.”

  “I'll stay out of sight. No cell necessary.”

  “Where'll you be?”

  I thought a minute, then gave him the Fairview number. We jawed a few more minutes, and I left.

  Morning found me at Fairview, a lowercase shell of Shell Scott. What with framblotting and everything, I had got very little sleep. And I'd spent over two hours at City Hall before coming back to join Laurel, who was still asleep beside me. Right now detectives in Reno, Las Vegas, and all over Nevada were looking for Brad Bender. Or his body. More were hunting for the so-called Bob Brown. There was quite a bit of activity—but as Sam had made clear, there was now little for me to do until I heard from him. Or Nevada. A
s long as I was supposed to sit around and wait, this seemed as good a place as any other. Laurel sighed softly in her sleep. A better place, I thought.

  She opened her eyes and blinked at me. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “What time is it?”

  I turned, looked at the clock on the small table. “Almost five.”

  “Oh, we'd better get up. Big day. Calisthenics, breakfast. This is July 3, you know. Convention starts today.”

  “So it does,” I mumbled.

  “You going to be here? I can tell you everything the health director was—is—supposed to do.”

  “I'll be here a while. But is it so damned important that you have a health director?”

  “Oh, no tragedy if we don't. But it would be so much nicer, Shell. Really it would. I talked to Mr. and Mrs. Blore last night and they want you here.” She grinned. “They said you'd be better than nothing. And you might enjoy it. You'd have to judge the games and races—and the beauty contest.”

  “Beauty contest? That's right. Well, I might be around awhile. A little while. Until, and unless, I get a phone call I'm expecting. Can't do much this early anyway, can I?”

  “Uh-uh.” She was smiling. A moment later she said, “No, no. We've got to get up.”

  Well, I got through the calisthenics without much trouble. I had about two hundred in the class, since a number of conventioneers had arrived the night before and bunked in the green dressing room, where all the convention guests would leave their clothing. Extra cots had been placed in the two other buildings and in the cabins for them. The calisthenics were short and sweet today. And I didn't mind so much this time. I was turning into a real dyed-out-of-the-wool nudist.

  By nine A.M. the sun was warm and it had turned into a beautiful balmy day, with a startlingly blue sky tufted with puffy white clouds. Earlier I'd spent half an hour with the Council, being briefed on upcoming events and my place in them. I'd called the Headquarters a couple of times and talked to Samson, but the status quo remained.

  One odd thing came out in the Council meeting. Between three and four hundred sunbathers from all over the United States were expected. Over the past months Mr. and Mrs. Blore had taken pains to see that printed cards of invitation were mailed to all who had expressed their intention to be here for the big day. Each card entitled two people—one couple—to admittance and would pass them through the gate; much care had been taken to see that only approved naturists, most of them members of the American Sunbathing Association, received cards. Everything seemed set for an orderly gathering, except for one thing: Four admittance cards couldn't be accounted for. That info came out at the Council meeting, but I let it drift from my mind in the hectic hours that followed immediately.

  By nine o'clock almost everybody scheduled to arrive had put in an appearance. Laurel and I had stayed together all morning, and now we were at the center of the clearing in the middle of much jovial conversation and loud helloes as old friends and acquaintances greeted and slapped each other on the back. High on the back.

  Laurel and I stood near a long table that groaned under the weight of fresh fruits and vegetables, cold meats, nuts, and bottles of goop. In its center was an enormous punch bowl of freshly squeezed fruit juices. Several yards away was a wooden platform that I understood had something to do with one of the contests. And all around us were naked people. Half of them must have been men, but all I could see were women.

  To be perfectly honest, the overall quality of the 150 or so females present wasn't as high as I had become accustomed to in these last two days in Fairview. One gal a few feet away had nothing on top but damn near everything on the bottom; it looked like the butt that jokes were made of.

  The scene, needless to say, had never bounced against my eyeballs before, and it made me think a bit. I've spent all my life in Hollywood and I'd about decided that one of the things wrong with the place and its women is deception—which might well have been one of the reasons I was beginning to appreciate Fairview. I've been out with some Hollywood babes whose battle cry should have been “Sham on you,” babes who looked incredible and were. It's like peeling an artichoke to get down to where you're going—girdles, stays, foam rubber. Sometimes there's so much stuff you begin to think there'll be nothing down there but a midget laughing.

  Not here, though. Here was one place you couldn't take it with you unless you had it to begin with. I took Laurel by her soft brown arm and pulled her with me toward the punch bowl.

  “Come on, honey. My throat's dry. Let's have some beet juice.”

  We weaved through the press of people to the big punch bowl and scooped out two cups of the reddish fluid.

  Laurel sipped at her drink and said, “Good turnout, isn't it?”

  “Dandy. More arriving all the time.” I swallowed at my punch and frowned. It wasn't beet juice. It was delicious and cold, and it had a slightly familiar taste. “What's in this?” I said. “Most likely I imagined it, but I thought I tasted something stronger than carrots. About a hundred proof.”

  “You mean whisky?” Her brows pulled way down over the bright blue eyes.

  “Something like that. Whisky, gin, vodka. Hard to tell in all this muck.”

  “Oh, Shell. Nobody'd spike the punch. Not here.”

  I guessed she was right. So I tossed my juices off, and then Laurel and I both had another cup and wandered around looking at the scenery.

  Near the green dressing room was a long table loaded with all kinds of fireworks, everything from ladyfingers through skyrockets and Roman candles to aerial bombs. A box of extra-long waxed matches, together with sticks of punk, was on the table's edge. I knew that they were for tonight's wind-up of the first day's convention festivities, and rather hoped I'd be here to see the show. I'm crazy about fireworks. I was looking at them when I thought I heard something odd.

  “What's that?” I said. “Was that something tootling?”

  “You mean the music? The Sacramento group's band must have started playing. Hard to hear in all this conversation.”

  There was a constant muffled roar of voices beating against my eardrums all the time, but I listened. “There it is,” I said. “Another tootle.”

  “I heard it. Good, the band's going to start.”

  Suddenly what she'd said got through to me. My eyes snapped open wide and I found myself grinning. “Band? Music? You mean dancing!”

  “No, silly. There isn't going to be any dancing. It's a band, not an orchestra. You know, tuba and piccolo and bass drum and so on. It's for the community sing later, and just for fun. Besides, in all this noise there has to be something loud to signal the start of each event.”

  Even though I was disappointed that there wasn't going to be dancing, I had to admit that the oompah-oompah added that extra something to the general hilarity. Then, for the merest fraction of a second, everything went slightly out of focus. Pain flickered inside my still tender skull.

  I shook my head. “Honey doll,” I said, “this beet juice has fermented. I think.”

  She gave me an odd look. We'd both finished our second cups of punch, and as if by common consent we walked back to the bowl. There wasn't a great deal left, but we got some more, and now the fermented taste was really strong. I swallowed and grinned widely at Laurel. “What do you know? Some fiend did spike the punch after all.”

  There was a great blast from the band.

  Laurel said, “There it is. Hurry. You've got to be there.”

  “Where, where?”

  “There. The race.” She turned and trotted away from me, weaving through the crowd.

  “What race?” I yelled, and started weaving after her. I really was weaving. Then I remembered. She'd told me about it. This was a foot race to choose Miss Speedy of the Fairview Convention.

  We burst out from the edge of the crowd and I noticed a great mass of women gathering in a straight line about fifty yards to my left. More women were running toward them, getting into position. Laurel ran to the ri
ght.

  I caught up with her when she stopped, but she said, “This is the finish line, Shell. You stand right here. I'll be there"—she pointed—"and Mr. Blore, the third judge, will be there.” She pointed in the opposite direction. “You'll be in the middle.”

  “I'll ... be in the middle?”

  “Yes. We'll all three be right here on the finish line.”

  I noticed a string laid out on the ground at our feet. Laurel pointed again, at right angles to the line and toward what was now a seething mass of women. There were at least fifty of them. I could hear them squealing and shouting even though they were at least a hundred yards away. On our left the nonparticipants were forming another mass to watch.

  Laurel went on, “You'll be in the middle, where you'll have the best chance to see which girl wins, but Mr. Blore and I will be at opposite ends of the finish line in case a girl close to us crosses the line first.” She paused and blinked. “I feel woozy.”

  There was another blast from the band. It terrified me. I gasped. “You mean I'll be in the middle—and they're going to run at me? What if they run me down?”

  “They won't.”

  “I don't know about that. They might run me down and trample on me. I can think of better ways to get massacred.”

  A bugle blew, cracking on the high note.

  Laurel said, “That's the warning. Next one is the start. Get ready.” She ran away.

  I looked dazedly around. Mr. Blore was already in place, and Laurel had reached the far end of the finish line. A bugle sounded again, loud and clear.

  There was a monstrous, blood-chilling shriek from my left and I snapped my head around. I stared. A mountain of flesh was in motion, coming at me. At first it was a pink landslide, a volcanic lava flow of flesh rolling this way to inundate me; then I began to pick out individual segments of the mass: women. Women, all running as if each absolutely had to win, arms flying, legs pumping, everything doing something.

  It was appalling. Never in my wildest moments had I ever dreamed of anything remotely like this. There was a sound of thunder like buffalo stampeding; a trumpeting as of elephants stuck in swamps.