Over Her Dear Body

by Richard S. Prather

  “I can't come back aboard like this,” she said. “So run and get it and give it to me, will you?”

  “Trust me. I'll do it,” I said. “Hold tight. Don't go anywhere ... don't ask anybody else!”

  I heard her laugh again, but I was racing toward the stern. Alongside the dancing people I slowed down, walked on past the bar. I didn't have any trouble finding the bikini. The red and white striped wisps of cloth were in deep shadow behind some kind of chest affixed to the deck on my right, close to the edge. I picked the two small pieces up, wadded them in one hand and started back to the bow.

  And now, at a time when I was in no mood for delays of any kind, there was a delay. In fact, two delays. And at least one of them was trouble.

  It all happened in about a minute. As I turned and headed forward again, I saw the lovely dark-haired gal in the white dress, whom I'd earlier been admiring, step from the edge of the dance floor and walk up the darkened alleyway down which I'd just rapidly traveled. The whiteness of her dress was visible in the darkness as she walked twenty feet or so along the corridor and stopped.

  It seemed more than a coincidence; there was, I thought, a chance she was waiting there for me. At any other moment I would have been overjoyed by that possibility, but at this moment I merely felt a slight queasiness come over me. Maybe, though, she was just getting some fresher air, watching the lights. I didn't get to ask her.

  As I passed the dance floor and reached the alleyway a man behind me said, “Hey, you.”

  I didn't know if he meant me or not, so I kept on going. He said sharply, “You. Scott.”

  I was out of sight of the dancers, a few feet into the corridor's relative dimness, and I stopped and turned around. Walking toward me was a tall, thin, hawk-faced guy. I'd never seen him before. But he knew my name; and it came out of his mouth as if he didn't like it.

  “Yeah, you,” he said, walking up to me. “You are Shell Scott, aren't you?”

  “So?”

  “So what the hell are you doing aboard?”

  His voice was nasty. In fact, most things about this egg impressed me as nasty, unpleasant. He was about an inch taller than I, but very thin, and his face was sucked in at the sides of his mouth, his hairline high on his forehead, the nose hooked and sharp over a thin black mustache. Some women might have thought him sort of sinisterly handsome, but to me he looked emaciated, unhealthy. Hawk-faced, but as if the hawk were moulting.

  I said quietly, “I could think quite a while without thinking of any reason why I should tell you.”

  “A smart guy,” he sneered. “I heard you was a smart one, a tough boy.” He was asking for it. He went on, “There's no room on the Srinagar for no private eye, no peeper. Especially not you, Scott.”

  “Well, maybe I can make room.” I took a deep breath, still managing to keep my voice calm and quiet, “So good-by.”

  “Yeah, good-by all right. You're leaving, jerk.” He frowned at me, straight black brows drawing down over his eyes. “But first you're gonna tell me what brought you here tonight, of all nights.”

  “What's so special about tonight?”

  He chewed on his lip. “Never mind. You want to go now, quiet like, in the launch? Or all of a sudden, over the side?”

  “You don't look much like the skipper of this tub. Or the guy throwing the party. Or a guy who can toss me over the side, for that matter. So maybe I'd better wait until somebody else tells me to blow.”

  I was guessing. For all I knew he might have been the yacht's owner; but my guess was apparently right and he was just a punk throwing his weight around. Why, I didn't know.

  He swore softly and said, “Let's say I'm a friend of a friend. And I'm telling you, beat it.”

  I was tired of this egg. Guys like this one I get tired of very fast. I started to squeeze my hand into a fist, and felt the cloth in my hand. I'd forgotten the bikini, and automatically I glanced down at it. So did the hawk-faced guy.

  “What in the hell—” he said explosively and grabbed at the cloth. The red and white wisps were jerked from my fingers, and he glared at them, then said, “Why, you bastard! That's Bunny's bikini. What the hell you doing with Bunny's bikini?”

  He didn't know it, but that was the last time he was going to swear at me. I said softly, “Friend, watch your language. Or I'll wash out your mouth with your teeth. And who's Bunny?”

  He didn't answer. He just pivoted suddenly and swung at me. Not with an awkward right. It wasn't a right, and it wasn't awkward. It was a sharp left hook launched hard and fast at my face with his body pivoting gracefully behind it.

  I didn't quite get out of the way of his fist. I did manage to jerk my head back enough so the blow bounced off the point of my chin. But then I had him.

  I have been hit with just about everything except a Ford's rear axle, and in the process I've developed a number of automatic reflexes. That, added to years as a United States Marine, with the Marines’ emphasis on manual self-defense, with more judo and several ideas of my own thrown in for good measure, made the rest of this practically automatic.

  As his left fist bounced jarringly off my chin I brought up both arms fast, right hand closing around his elbow and left arm slapping the inside of his forearm. I turned left with him, pushing on his elbow and following the force of his blow, and his wrist slid neatly into the crook of my left elbow. With his wrist caught there, I slapped my left hand over the right one as he swung off balance, kept pulling down on his elbow with both hands now as I leaned into him. And I really leaned into him. I heard the bone pop. It hadn't broken—not yet it hadn't—but the elbow bones and tendons, bending the wrong way, were audibly protesting. And so was he.

  It wasn't a loud sound. The noise was a pained grunt growing into a choking gasp. I kept the pressure on, even increased it a little as I bent forward. He was turned clear around, facing almost in the same direction I was, his knees bending. He gasped some more, went down on one knee. His right hand was still free, but he couldn't swing it toward me without breaking the other arm that I was playing with. Or getting it broken.

  But he didn't wilt, or quit, or ask me to stop. He just swore at me filthily, spittle rolling over his lower lip.

  I said softly, “Friend, in about five seconds I can break a couple arms and a couple legs for you, and then you wouldn't have any left. So shut that kisser and take it easy.” I leaned into him a little more and his head snapped back, mouth stretching wide. The mouth was wide, but nothing was coming out of it.

  I held him that way long enough so he wouldn't forget it, then let go and straightened up. For a moment he kept his arm in the air where I'd left it, then slowly he pulled it toward his chest, grabbed it with his right hand. Breathing gustily through his mouth he got to his feet and stood facing me, staring at me.

  “Okay, Scott,” he said finally. “Okay.” He swallowed. “Remember, you asked for it, Scott.” He sighed shudderingly, as if pain and hate and anger were all mixed into the sound, then added, “And you'll get it.”

  Chapter Three

  The hawk-faced guy wheeled and walked away, holding his arm close to him. I watched him go, wondering what that had been about, then bent forward and picked up the two pieces of cloth that had so infuriated him. He'd dropped them about halfway through the elbow-bending bit. I straightened up and started to turn when there was a sound behind me.

  I swung around suddenly, stopped when I saw the white dress. I'd completely forgotten the girl who'd come up here ahead of me. She must have been only a few feet away all the time.

  She said, “How do you do, Mr. Scott. I'm Elaine Emerson.”

  It was the throbbingly beautiful voice I'd heard on the phone. But now, undistorted, issuing softly from her lips, it was a caress, like whispers in front of glowing fireplaces, the softly slurred laziness of a woman's words between kisses, a voice for after midnight, and cocktails, and soft music.

  “Believe it or not,” I said, “I've been hoping you were. Hello.”

&nb
sp; “Hello.”

  “But my hopes were fading,” I said. “When you didn't show up earlier, I figured you were merely the owner of the Srinagar, or something equally depressing.”

  She smiled. Even before she'd smiled, though, her softly modeled mouth had turned up at the corners, as if the smooth red lips were always ready to smile. There was enough light so that, standing this close to her, I could see her face clearly, the parted lips and prominent cheekbones, and the dark eyes. Especially the eyes. They were big and shadowed, deep and dark, almost like the eyes of some women of India, glowing and lustrous as if softly lighted from within. I thought again of fire in ice, but when I was this close to her, the ice seemed very, very thin.

  I said, “Anyway, I'm glad you're my client instead. Or are you now?”

  “Yes, of course. At least I still hope you can help me find out what's wrong.” She paused. “That man—the one you just ... discouraged. He knows who you are, doesn't he?”

  “Yeah, but so do a lot of other people. That doesn't mean he can connect us. And I hope he's discouraged.”

  “He should be. That was quite expert, Mr. Scott.”

  “Shell.”

  “Shell, then. It was somewhat unnerving, but under the circumstances I'm glad I—saw you in action.” She smiled. “You do inspire a feeling of confidence.”

  I beamed. This gal was really charming. Not only beautiful, but really a remarkable female.

  She said, “I noticed you earlier, of course. It would be almost impossible not to notice you, Shell.”

  I beamed some more. But then I wondered, Is that good?

  She went on, “A man kept hanging around and I was afraid he might follow me. When he left I took a chance on meeting you. And then that—that awful man.” She looked up at me. “Why was he so anxious for you to leave?”

  “I don't know. I thought maybe you could tell me.”

  She shook her head. “I haven't any idea who he is.”

  “Miss Emerson—”

  “Elaine.”

  “Elaine, it would help if you gave me an idea of what the trouble is. What I'm supposed to do.”

  “I'm terribly worried about Craig—Craig Belden. He's my brother.”

  That puzzled me. Brothers and sisters usually have the same last name—unless the woman is married. I said, “Is it Miss Emerson or Mrs. Emerson?”

  “Miss. Oh, Craig's really my half brother, much older than I. We have the same mother, but our mother divorced his father several years before she remarried and I was born. Clear?”

  “Clear enough. And reassuring.”

  She smiled again, then sobered. “Anyway, we're quite close now, and something's terribly wrong. I don't know what it is exactly, but I do know he's afraid someone is going to kill him.”

  I let that hang in the air for a moment, then asked her, “How do you know?”

  “He told me. Oh, he didn't say it in so many words. He said if he got killed—you know. But he is afraid, and his nerves are in awful shape. He's going to pieces more every day.”

  “Who does he think wants to kill him? And why?”

  “I don't know. I—” She stopped speaking, suddenly turned toward the rail and looked out over the water. Then I heard the steps of somebody on the deck. A couple had left the dance floor and were standing at the start of the alleyway, leaning against the metal bulkhead, doing something. I didn't know what they were doing, but the girl was giggling.

  Elaine said softly, “We can't talk here. I just wanted to have a word with you and identify myself.” She paused. “It's about twenty to twelve now. At midnight Mr. Goss has arranged for entertainment at the dance area. A Hawaiian group from the Islands. So everybody will be there—that would be the best time for us to meet and talk. All right?”

  “Sure. Who's Mr. Goss?”

  “He's your host—he owns the Srinagar. And he's one of the men Craig has been associated with.”

  “As friends? Or—”

  She interrupted, “Oh, nothing like that. I understand they're good friends. I should go back now. At midnight I'll be in Cabin Seven. That's below this deck and on the starboard side. Meet me there then, will you?”

  “I'll be there.”

  “I can't really tell you a lot more, Shell, but at least we won't be interrupted in the cabin.” She turned and started to walk past, then stopped in front of me, close to me, and looked up at my face, light glowing dimly on the smooth cheeks and in her large eyes.

  Then her lips curved in an odd smile, and she said, “By the way. What were you doing with Bunny's bikini?”

  “Huh?” All of a sudden it was as if icy seas were washing over me. I was drowning in a cold ocean of confusion. “Bunny? Bikini?” In my mind's bloodshot eye I could see her going down for the third time. Without me. Cursing me.

  “Oh ... that,” I said, as if it were nothing.

  And there Elaine left it, the odd smile still on her lips. “See you at midnight.”

  She went in one direction and I watched her, graceful, hip-swaying walk—and then I was going in the other direction. When I reached that forward spot and leaned over the rail, the light which previously had been shining from the portholes was out, and for a horrible moment I couldn't see a thing down there except black water.

  “Hello,” I yelled. “You there? Speak to me. Hello?”

  “What took you so long?” It was the same voice, and without salty bubbles in it. “I thought you were never coming.”

  “Well, I'm back. Here I am. I—”

  Then I could see her, dimly. She was swimming from farther to my right, almost from the point of the bow. She stopped below and said, “I forgive you.”

  “That's good. I'm glad you didn't ... drown or anything.”

  “Did you find my bikini?”

  “Yeah, here it—”

  “This is so silly. After you raced away I tried to call you, but I guess you didn't hear me. You can't hand the bikini to me, and if you threw it I'd probably miss it and it would sink. And then I'd be in an awful fix.”

  “We'd both be in an awful fix.”

  “So you'll have to roll over a ladder.”

  “Ladder?”

  “Yes, one of those rope things with wooden steps across it. There was one back aft when I jumped in earlier, but it isn't there now—I swam back and looked. There's the landing where the launch unloads passengers, but it comes up right by the dance floor. I knew I couldn't climb up there, could I?”

  “I wouldn't advise it. Especially not the way they're dancing.”

  “So roll over a ladder. Is there one near you?”

  “Just a minute.” I ran back and forth along the rail, stooped over, looking. I was looking everywhere at once, but there wasn't any ladder. There wasn't even any rope.

  I went back to my place on the rail. “We're in a hell of a fix,” I called down. “No ladder. I'll have to leave you and find one.”

  “All right. But hurry.”

  “I'll go like the wind. You won't ... sink or anything?”

  She laughed that merry laugh again. “I could swim for hours. I can hang on the anchor chain again if I want to.”

  Anchor chain. That would be near the point of the bow. “That's where you came from, huh?”

  “Yes. And when I was back aft, I sat on the screw for a while.”

  “You ... what?”

  “Sat on the screw. The propeller. You know, the thing that goes around and makes the ship go.”

  “Yeah.” Probably I could have figured that out for myself, I thought. It occurred to me that this little gal and I were almost old friends by now; I certainly felt friendly. We'd carried on practically enough conversation for a whole evening, but I still didn't know what she looked like. I knew what part of her looked like, but that's not a whole woman, no matter how you look at it.

  “Say,” I said, “are you Bunny?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I got waylaid by a guy who recognized your bikini.”


  “Oh, that must have been Joe. José Navarro. He's my partner.”

  I said suspiciously, “What kind of partner?”

  “In the act. We do an act together.”

  “He swims?”

  “No, we do a dance—I'll tell you when I get up there.”

  I squinted at my watch. Eleven-forty-five p.m. I had fifteen minutes left. Only fifteen minutes. That wasn't nearly enough time for all I'd planned to do. “I'm off!” I yelled, and then, for the second time tonight, I was racing toward the stern.

  Not yet had it occurred to me that this was a kind of madness, that nights shouldn't be like this, that there was an unreal quality about all these activities. Later it would occur to me; but right now nothing mattered but that ladder.

  I found the bartender. “Where's a ladder? A ladder?”

  He eyed me coldly. “Now how in hell would I know where is a ladder, Mac?” He turned back to a drink he was stirring, then stopped and slowly bent his head around to look at me again. “Ladder?”

  But I was gone. I went all around the rail of the Srinagar, but there was no ladder. I knew the kind of thing Bunny had meant, the rope-and-wood affairs which can be placed, rolled up into a ball on deck and then shoved over the side when needed. But none were in sight, and I didn't want to ask too many people. This was the kind of operation where you don't need a crowd, all throwing over ladders.

  Just aft of amidships, steps led down to the enclosed deck beneath. I went below and searched around for a minute or two without success, then realized there had to be some kind of storeroom here, in which items usually up on deck might have been temporarily put out of the way. So I walked along the dimly lighted alleyway until I came to a door different from the usual staterooms. It looked like a storeroom. It wasn't.

  I tried the door and it opened. I started to step inside, then noted that the room's interior was lighted—and occupied. Occupied by four men, in fact, all suddenly frozen into motionlessness by my sudden appearance. Four frozen men, with four frozen faces. And one of them was the hawk face of the guy I'd bent around up on deck. Nobody had to tell me I wasn't welcome.