Kill All the Young Girls

by Brett Halliday

  “All right, Mr. Shayne. We’ll do it like this.”

  She signalled with a movement of her head. A rumpled man with ears that had taken a battering in the prize ring separated himself from the drinkers and closed in on Shayne.

  “We want to use the office, Louis,” Mandy said. “If there’s anybody there, ask them to step out for a minute.”

  He tapped on a closed door and looked in. A small, glistening man in a tuxedo came out, moving sideward to get out of Mandy’s way.

  “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Shayne and the girl entered a small room which was filled to capacity with two people in it. Like all offices of this kind, like certain restaurants and celebrity barber shops, all four walls were crowded with framed, inscribed photographs of entertainers, few of them of any particular luster. Any new additions would have to go on the ceiling.

  She perched on a corner of the desk and waved him to a leather sofa.

  “I did this to establish something.”

  “Okay,” he said agreeably. He had brought his drink. He shook it in his glass to raise the bouquet and drank. “What do we talk about?”

  “This is the Oscar situation. He doesn’t want anybody to think he’s really trying. But you know, don’t you, that he didn’t build Oscar Olson Enterprises out of thin air without a certain amount of application? He worries, like the rest of us. He’s been worrying about this vote. He’s committed a good deal of capital. Now if he stays up the rest of the night worrying about Kate Thackera, he won’t be able to look casual at the meeting tomorrow; and that would be out of character.”

  “Maybe he ought to worry. There are things he could be doing tonight.”

  She pushed her glasses back on her nose. “He’s put Consolidated-Famous out of his mind. He’s had sex. As soon as he gets his testosterone shots and a massage, he’ll drift off. Now if you barge in and jolt him out of this routine—and he decides it wasn’t necessary—he’ll brand me and cut off my ears. On the other hand, if I’m overly cautious, that can be bad, too. That’s why I have to hear about it.”

  “He sounds like a pain in the ass. Why do you work for him?”

  “An interesting question, and you don’t really want to know the answer. From all I can gather, if Marcus Zion didn’t happen to be the son of Larry Zion, he’d be the manager of a supermarket or a CPA. If we take over the board, he’ll be given thirty days notice; and he knows it. You’re not necessarily an enemy? Of course you’re an enemy, and I think the reason you want to talk to Oscar may be to unsettle him and knock him off balance so he’ll make some mistake tomorrow.”

  “How well did you know Kate Thackera?”

  “Not at all. She had two conversations with Oscar: one in San Francisco, one here. I talked to her before she got in, the way I’m talking to you. A trifle unstable, wasn’t she?”

  “She tried to give that impression. Was she blackmailing Olson?”

  “I haven’t heard that word in years.”

  “It’s called different things. This was delivered to Kate at the hotel this afternoon.”

  He unfolded the composite Brannon-Thackera nude torn from her employer’s magazine and let her study it.

  “The face is Kate’s. You may not recognize the body, but Oscar will. It’s Keko Brannon. You hadn’t even started to menstruate when this was taken.”

  “And you’re hoping to sell it to him?”

  “It’s not for sale. I just want to see what kind of rise I can get out of him. You did it very well. Very cool. No vibrations at all.”

  “Why should I vibrate? It means nothing to me.”

  She pushed off from the desk and sat down beside him. “I’m not catching much of this, as a matter of fact. You do realize that I’m a girl?”

  “You made sure I’d realize that by frisking the top of my socks and not wearing a bra.”

  “Oscar writes editorials against bras. He enjoys the aesthetic harmonies of a moving breast; and when the breast starts to sag, he loses interest in the lady it’s attached to. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”

  “What are you telling me? That in addition to a great figure, you’ve got a mind?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, still poker-faced. “Did that sound pretentious? I just don’t think the size and shape of the female breast is the only thing that matters. Shall we start again?”

  “How far back?”

  She removed her glasses. Switching around on the couch so she faced him, she touched his leg and said in a completely different voice, almost whispering, “You’re a Taurus, aren’t you? That wonderful combination of strength and gentleness.”

  “Baby, time’s passing.”

  “Too fast.”

  She moved her fingers on his leg. The look she was giving him was vague and unfocussed.

  “You’ll try to understand, won’t you? I know it’s absurd, because all I am is a secretary; but I have to screen people. He’s such a tyrant. The chances are he’d go into hysterics and call for the bouncers and have them bounce you down the stairs. And I don’t want any bruises on your sexy body. Talk to me instead. Tell me about it. Maybe I can persuade you to come for a dip in our pool. We swim naked, of course.”

  She moved her hand on up Shayne’s leg and gave him a quick intimate caress. “Would sex be a better way to do it? Would you prefer that?”

  He laughed. “Baby, you’ve got a real chip on your shoulder.”

  She put her glasses on. Her voice was back to normal.

  “I made a mistake about something minor this afternoon, and he gave me a verbal flogging. It’s true I’m feeling a bit militant. I know Kate Thackera saw him. I don’t know what about. But he’s pretty much wrapped up in himself, and I don’t think he’s going to mind that she’s dead.”

  “Have you decided to let me in?”

  “No. What can he do about anything tonight that he can’t do just as well in the morning?”

  “If he talks to me now, if he gives me something I can use, there’s a chance his name won’t be mentioned. Not much of a chance, but he’ll want to take it. I was hired to keep that girl out of trouble. Somebody got past me. That’s bad publicity in my business. It makes me look dumb. The only way to handle it is to blanket it. I expect to be up most of the night. I don’t have to get a solution, just some names for the lead. Keko Brannon’s a good name. So is Oscar Olson.”

  “I don’t see what you mean.”

  “Toss me out, and I’ll call a press conference and show this picture. The newspaper guys can take it from there. Oscar’s magazine. Keko Brannon used to share his wonderful bed. She died. Kate Thacker went to Oscar’s parties and saw him privately, and she died. Oscar has money; Kate needed money. She wanted a part in a movie. Oscar could get it for her if he won.”

  “You think she was blackmailing him and he killed her? You’re insane.”

  “Somebody killed her.”

  “He’s been here all day, and sixty or more people can testify to that.”

  “Did he know what brand of bourbon she drank?”

  “How do I know? What difference does it make?”

  “She opened a gift package of Old Grand-dad, only it wasn’t Old Grand-dad. It was a fragmentation bomb.”

  This time if he had had her wired to a polygraph, all the needles would have leaped into agitated motion. Outwardly she changed very little. A muscle flicked at the corner of her mouth. Some change in her inner chemistry caused her pupils to contract.

  “It blew up in her hands?” she whispered. “How awful. Are they sure?”

  “The cops are still trying to figure it out, but I’m sure. I was there. I was close enough so I got some of her blood on me. We were about to start making love.”

  “Oh, Mike. I’m sorry I’ve been so obnoxious. How awful. I liked her pictures.”

  Chapter 7

  Oscar’s private quarters were reached by going outside to the parking lot and back inside by a separate, unmarked entrance. Whenever Oscar was in resid
ence, the Pussycat flag flew; and all his Miami friends, the friends of his Miami friends, and his friends elsewhere who happened to be in Miami were called to Pelican Island to a party. That didn’t mean that when they arrived they would invariably find Oscar himself. He made his own social rules.

  He provided live music, Pussycat service, plenty to drink and smoke, numerous unattached women. The main party room, on three levels, was large enough to hold a sizable bar mitzvah. The furniture was soft and close to the floor. There was statuary, most of it erotic, and plaster replicas of dirty bas-reliefs from certain Indian temples. As for the food, it was plain but abundant: a ham, a turkey, Polish sausages, black bread. It was always possible that something interesting might happen; and once there, the guests had a tendency to stay.

  When Shayne came in with Oscar’s secretary, heads turned toward them to see if they were famous.

  He knew a few people. Somehow the Omaha plumbing supply salesman he had met in the parking lot earlier had made it. He was delighted to see a familiar face, having been persuaded by Shayne himself that Shayne was an old friend. He was enjoying himself immensely, he told Shayne, looking not at Shayne but down into Mandy’s shirt. Shayne made the introductions, and they moved on.

  Two well-dressed young men, clearly not guests, lounged in a doorway. They moved aside and let Shayne and the girl pass into another series of rooms. She took him along a carpeted corridor and into a narrow, windowless cell, where Oscar’s inert body was being handled by two pretty girls. In pajama bottoms, he lay face down on a narrow rubbing table, apparently asleep.

  Mandy motioned the girls aside. She stooped beside him, laying one hand familiarly at the base of his spine, and whispered to him. Shayne heard his own name; and as she continued to whisper, he saw her hand tighten slowly until she had him in a fierce grip, her fingers digging into the relaxed flesh through the pajama fabric. She was telling him in this way that what she was saying was serious, and he should tighten up and come back.

  “Get me a drink,” Shayne said to one of the young girls. “Four fingers of cognac in a snifter, and bring me some ice water.”

  She was used to orders from men. She bobbed slightly and left the room. When Shayne started a cigarette, the other girl said in a shocked voice, “Nobody’s permitted to smoke in here.”

  “Nobody?” Shayne said.

  He blew smoke over the rubbing table. The smell of burning tobacco had an immediate effect on Oscar. His nostrils wrinkled. He pulled out of Mandy’s grip, rolled over, and sat up.

  “Put that out.”

  “In a minute.”

  People around the publisher usually jumped when he spoke. He looked more puzzled than angry. His hair, which lay flat on his scalp, was possibly dyed. Several days had passed since he last shaved. His skin had a spurious look—like the blush on artificial fruit—the result of massage as a substitute for willed movement. He had a narrow, imperious nose, a compressed mouth.

  He looked at Mandy for an explanation.

  “This is Mike Shayne, dear,” she said. “The private detective. He’s working for the Zions. The first thing he said to me was that he’ll listen to any reasonable offer.”

  The words didn’t seem to penetrate. “What time is it?”

  She told him. “He has some news for you, and he finally persuaded me that you’d want to hear it. He seems to think that if he’s not going to get any sleep tonight, nobody else should either. He has a photograph to show you. Kate Thackera has been killed.” She repeated gently, laying her hand on his shoulder, “Oscar… Kate Thackera has been killed.”

  Her employer did nothing but breathe in and out.

  “Wake up now,” she said. “He promises to make trouble if you don’t talk to him tonight. I believe he can do it. Oscar…”

  She put her mouth against his, her tongue in his mouth. She worked on him silently for a moment.

  “Oscar, he’s trouble. You have to talk to him. Listen to what he says. Don’t answer right away.”

  “This guy is a zombie,” Shayne observed.

  “No, he’s coming.”

  “Tell him a bottle of bourbon blew up in the girl’s face. That got a good response out of you. Blood, brains, flesh, hair. Kate Thackera,” he said, leaning forward and speaking distinctly, as though to someone barely able to understand English. “Old Granddad. She wanted a nightcap, and the damn thing went off and spattered that nice face all over the room.”

  Oscar’s eyes worked. He pushed feebly at Mandy’s hand on his back.

  “Stop it. Who are you talking about?”

  Shayne repeated Kate’s name, and it finally woke him.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  They went through that again while Oscar breathed more quickly and flexed himself back into daytime shape.

  “Do you want something to drink, Shayne?”

  “I’ve already ordered.”

  “I’d better have the inhaler,” he told Mandy.

  She nodded and left the room. Oscar swung down from the rubbing table. He was short, lean, and compact. He passed both hands over his hair. The remaining girl held up a rough bathrobe, and he put his arms in it.

  “What’s happening to that drink?” Shayne said; and turning abruptly, he walked out.

  The carpeted hall was silent and empty. Mandy had gone to the right. He tried the first door and found it locked. From the other side of the door, he heard the faint stutter of a telephone dial. He wasn’t ready for this to happen.

  He knocked sharply and called, “Mandy, are you in there? I’ve got to talk to you.”

  The dialing stopped, and there was a rush of water. The door opened, and Shayne saw a glowing Princess phone in a recess in the wall, on a long cord so it could be moved within reach of anyone in the tub or on the toilet.

  Mandy was holding a plastic hood and a large benzedrine inhaler. “Mike, you shouldn’t be out here. He doesn’t like it when people whisper behind his back.”

  “He still doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. Now that I’ve seen him, I want to know how far I can push him. In this take-over thing, is he going to insist on a clear-cut win? If it begins to look shaky, will he take a deal?”

  She shook her head. “Mike, will you please remember who I am? I’m a minor female employee. I don’t get let in on the strategy. But I’ll tell you one thing. He was tough once. Don’t be fooled by the manner.”

  “Baby, you’re kidding.”

  “No,” she insisted. “When he started out, he had to battle for space on the newsstands; and I mean that literally. Trucks were tipped over. People were slugged and shot. I can’t advise you where to draw the line. My policy with Oscar has always been to tread carefully. Now for God’s sake, let’s get back.”

  Oscar and his little party had moved on into his bedroom. He was lying in state in a huge, round bed The hangings were white. All the surfaces were either very hard or very soft: terrazzo floor and a thick white goatskin rug, a glass-topped table, low upholstered chairs. There was one conspicuous piece of sculpture on a tall stand lit by a beam from a concealed spotlight. Shayne recognized it only after a second look. It was a phallus carved out of an elephant’s tusk.

  One of the girls handed Shayne his drink. He sat down and lit a fresh cigarette. Oscar threw his inhaler aside after taking a dozen deep shuddering breaths. He looked much better.

  “Do you absolutely have to smoke? The smell is offensive to me.”

  “The air conditioning’ll take care of it.”

  At a sign from Oscar, the two lesser girls drifted out.

  “Now,” Oscar said to Mandy. “Condense it for me. What’s he want?”

  “I don’t believe he could tell you himself exactly what he wants,” she said crisply. “It seems to me that he’s improvising. He wants to stir things up and see what comes to the surface.”

  “Now, about Kate.”

  “She’s dead, Oscar. Shayne was there when it happened, and it’s possible that he’s going to be suspected of hav
ing something to do with it. I imagine the police are anxious to get hold of him. He says his client is Marcus Zion. He came to you because he has a gatefold from an old issue of the magazine. I think he’ll show it to you in a minute. He made it clear to me that he considers this a bidding situation, but I think that was partly to get me to wake you up.”

  “I also told you,” Shayne said, “that I’m not sure I have anything to sell.”

  He handed Oscar the photograph, and Oscar’s eyebrows came together over the fierce nose.

  “Keko.”

  “I told Mandy you’d recognize her.”

  “What does it have to do with me?”

  “I’m hoping to find out.” Once again he repeated what Kate Thackera had told him. “I had to leave the magazine. Everything in that room is going to get close attention, and somebody’s going to notice the date and wonder about it. But not tonight, probably.”

  Oscar retired under the hood for more help from the inhaler. Coming out, he told Mandy, “No need for you to stay up. Go to bed now.”

  She rose obediently. Shayne said, “No, I want her here.”

  Oscar swung around. Shayne explained, “Nobody likes to be sent out of the room just when things start getting interesting. Look at it from her point of view. Either she made a mistake waking you up, or she didn’t. If she guessed wrong, it’ll cost her her job. She doesn’t want to wait till morning to find out.”

  “God knows I wouldn’t get much sleep,” she said.

  “And if she’s as important as she’s been trying to tell me, there may be some questions I’ll need to ask her.”

  “If you want me to leave, Oscar,” she said, “you know I don’t mind a bit.”

  Shayne laughed. “She’ll burn.”

  “Then stay, for Christ’s sake,” Oscar said irritably. “I have a feeling that we won’t be going very far beneath the surface.”

  She sat down again, her knees together and her hands in her lap. “Give me a cigarette, Mike.”