Blondes are Skin Deep

by Louis Trimble

  I felt silly. It was empty.

  I returned more slowly to the apartment. I could feel warmth trickling down the outside of my leg. When I stopped and looked I could see a rip in the cloth where the knife had sliced through. It was fairly high toward my hip.

  I shut the apartment door, throwing over the night chain this time, and walked slowly into the living room. It was brightly lighted. Edna Loomis stood by her bar, pouring a drink with hands that shook a little. I could hear the mouth of the bottle rattling against the edge of her glass. I was surprised to see fright so stark in her eyes when she turned to me.

  “Too late,” I said. “He knew the elevator trick, too.”

  She licked her lips with a quick flick of her tongue. “Was that it?”

  I had to follow the line of her gaze to see what she meant. I was still holding the knife, my fingers wrapped around the hilt. I laid the knife on the sideboard. There was only a slight smear of blood on the thin, sharp blade.

  “That’s it,” I agreed. It was deadly looking, though the whole thing measured little over six inches.

  She said, “Did it …?”

  I nodded. “It did.”

  She turned away long enough to pick up her drink and gulp it. She took it straight, and followed it with another, shorter one. She was still trembling when she set down the glass.

  “Who?”

  I moved so I could look full into her face. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know? I …”

  “It wasn’t meant for me,” I said. I prodded the knife with one finger. The blade moved, catching light and shooting it into her eyes.

  She nodded her head at me. “I know it wasn’t meant for you.” She seemed to be seeing beyond me, looking into something I couldn’t follow.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered half to herself.

  “I don’t either,” I admitted. I was feeling surprisingly cheerful. The thought of getting that knife a few inches higher and a few inches in toward my middle bothered me, but outside of that I felt fine. I took a neat drink for myself.

  She grabbed the bottle away from me. It was a fifth and had been full when we came. I wondered just how much she could hold. I said, “You’d better go easy.”

  “I had, hadn’t I?” She set the bottle down and smiled at me, a lopsided smile. “I might say something.”

  “I expect you to,” I said. I moved away and my foot made a squashing sound in my shoe. We both looked down. My trousers were stained red in one place, and they were beginning to stick to my leg.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  I followed her. She went very steadily, but with her model’s walk slightly exaggerated. She led me through a determinedly erotic looking bedroom and into the bath. It was big, bright, and glittering. There was a footstool by the tub. I sat down on it.

  She brought antiseptic and bandages from a medicine cabinet and placed them on the flat edge of the tub. “If that cut is up by the blood you’ll have to take off your trousers.”

  I said, “I think I can do this.”

  “Don’t be childish,” she said tartly.

  I removed the trousers. The cut was at the lower edge of my shorts. It was a good-sized slash that bled freely but not deep enough to be dangerous.

  “I got it going away,” I said.

  She squeezed some gauze under the running cold water tap; then she used it to clean around the cut. Her voice was a little hysterical. “I didn’t know what to think when you hit me that way. Do you always move so fast?”

  “Once I didn’t,” I said, remembering Chimp’s foot.

  The bleeding had about stopped. I watched her work. She was quite skillful. After pouring on an antiseptic that made me wince, she made a pad and wrapped it over the cut with a good deal of gauze.

  I said, “Next time slip on your night chain.”

  Her smile was a strained effort at lightness. “That was your fault,” she said.

  More malarky. I stood, testing my leg. She said, “It won’t bleed much if you stay still.”

  “I can’t stay still. I have work to do.”

  She cleaned up, not giving me an answer. Putting on my trousers, I followed her into the living room. I had to move slowly and favor my leg. I was surprised to find myself quite shaky, and it was a relief to get onto the divan.

  We used the big one rather than the love seat affair, so she was quite some distance from me when we had settled down. I offered her a cigaret but she preferred her perfumed ones. I lit it for her, then my own, and lay back, inhaling deeply. The shakiness began to go away, leaving me with a rubbery feeling.

  “How did he get in here?” I asked.

  “How did who get in?”

  She was going to be difficult again. “It was Peone, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It must have been.”

  So maybe she wasn’t going to be difficult. I blew a smoke ring and watched it break up. “What has he got against you?”

  “I didn’t know he had anything against me,” she said.

  “He worked for Considine,” I said. “You’ve got over a hundred thousand dollars. Was it the dough Considine had?”

  “I told you, I didn’t have any hundred thousand dollars.”

  She spoke very clearly. It was amazing, considering the amount of rye she had absorbed. I said, “All right. Maybe I won’t be around the next time Peone wants to practice knife throwing.”

  She smoked in silence a while, as if thinking it over. Finally, she said, “What are you after, Mercer?”

  “Considine’s murderer.”

  “Is that all?”

  If she wanted to spar around, I was willing. “Isn’t that enough?”

  She leaned forward, tapping her cigaret against the rim of an ashtray. Without looking at me, she said, “And you think the person who killed Joe has the money?”

  “I didn’t say that.” My leg was beginning to throb. “Let’s stop playing pattycake. You saw what happened tonight. This business isn’t being done for marbles. I can walk out of here now and Peone will probably see me go. If he comes in again he won’t make the same mistake. He won’t miss a second time.”

  “I don’t like to think about it,” she said.

  “He has a key,” I told her. “My guess is that he got it from Considine’s office or out of his pockets.” Someone, I remembered, had cleaned Considine’s pockets before I found the body. “He might even know how to work the night chain loose. That isn’t too tricky a job.”

  Rising, she went to the windows. She took a lone time to look at Portland spread out below her. With a sudden gesture she drew the draperies shut and returned to the divan. “Another drink, Mercer?”

  “No. Neither of us.”

  She sat down abruptly. “What do you want to know?”

  “A lot of things. First, why did Peone try to kill you?”

  “I don’t know that. It’s one thing I really don’t know.”

  She sounded as if she might be telling the truth. But I held a reservation on it. I said, “What was Johnny doing here tonight?”

  “So you were really outside hours ago.”

  “Me and the cops,” I said.

  Her nod was a little jerky. “We saw them. Did they …”

  “I doubt it. They didn’t act as if they did.”

  She stirred, seeming a little relieved. “Johnny just came up to talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “Joe—Considine.”

  “And brought Nelle along? Why?”

  “For protection, maybe,” she said. “Johnny doesn’t like me any more.”

  It wasn’t what she said, it was the way she said it. “He did like you once?”

  “Very much.” Her voice had a reminiscent croon to it. “Very, very much.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just after we met at Joe’s. A few days before he was killed. I liked Johnny too. He’s cute.”

  Which was about as far as the average woman’s percepti
on of a man’s worth went. Johnny had used his personality to get information out of Edna Loomis. Then, in his impulsive way, he had fallen for Maretta. That meant he had probably dropped Edna. She wouldn’t be the type to appreciate that.

  “I gather you followed Johnny north,” I said.

  Her smile was slow. “Hardly. I never followed any man. I never had to.”

  She stood up again. I watched with interest as she stopped at the bar and lifted the bottle, judging the contents.

  I said, “By the way, why did you take me out to the brush and leave me?”

  She didn’t look at me but her voice was very frank. “I wanted some information out of you.”

  “On Johnny’s orders?”

  She did look now, and there was a contemptuous smile on her face. “He doesn’t give me orders, Mercer. Let’s say, at Johnny’s suggestion.”

  “But you didn’t get any information from me?”

  “No. You passed out.”

  “What did you want to know?” I asked.

  “I wanted to know how much you knew about the case.” She turned back and studied the bottle again.

  “At Johnny’s suggestion,” I said.

  “He worked for me,” she said.

  I jumped in with both feet. “If that’s true, why did you tip the police that he was back in town?”

  She poured a small drink and downed it before answering me. She said, “Did I tip them?”

  “Lieutenant Powers says so.”

  “I don’t know Lieutenant Powers.”

  She was drying up. I could feel it. Any information I got from now on would be strictly accidental as far as she was concerned. I didn’t say any more, just watched her. She was measuring the bottle some more. It was almost empty.

  “Mercer,” she said suddenly. “How would you like to make ten thousand dollars?”

  “How?”

  She turned and even at that distance I could see distinct surprise on her face. “Are you fussy?”

  “Very fussy.”

  She paused, resumed her study of the bottle, sighed a little, and poured a small drink. “I want you to drop everything and find Joe’s killer for me.”

  “That’s what I’m doing now.”

  “But just that alone—for me.”

  I watched her down the drink in a gulp. She dropped the glass to the carpet and walked toward me. She was becoming unsteady. The nearer she got, the more I could see that she was drunk. Very drunk. It was as if someone had pulled a stopper and let the liquor she had consumed run down into her where it could hit all at once. Shock had sustained her until now. But the shock was going.

  “Just for me,” she said, coming close.

  She sat down so that she leaned on me, her back propped against my good leg, her arms around my neck. “Not for Hall,” she said. “Not for the cops. Just for me.”

  She repeated, “Just for me,” slurring it a little. She punctuated it with a kiss. She was hanging to me so hard that I found it difficult to break away.

  After a while I didn’t want to break away. When she shifted her weight to my lap and the pain hit my leg, I barely noticed it.

  16

  I WAS deeply engrossed when I suddenly realized that Edna Loomis was no longer with me. Her arms had fallen from around my neck and she sagged back so that her head rested limply against the side of the couch.

  She was out cold.

  It was hard work but finally I got out from under her and onto my feet. I lifted her and started for the bedroom. She was surprisingly heavy and my leg was beginning to throb by the time I had her laid on the bed. I sat beside her a moment to wait for the pain to subside.

  I used the time to stare down at her. She was beautiful. With her facial muscles limp the edge of hardness she wore was gone, and I could see the shape of her features beneath the deliberate make-up she affected. She was beautiful and rather child-like; it was a damned shame someone hadn’t caught her younger.

  Rising, I limped into the kitchen. It took me a while to find my way through the glitter to the coffee making equipment, but finally I had the pot on the stove. When the coffee was done, I took it, with two cups on a tray, and returned to the bedroom.

  She lay as I had left her, on her back with her hands loose at her sides, her breathing ragged and heavy. Setting down the tray, I went to work. It seemed a shame to spot her gold gown, so I wriggled it off her. I regarded the achievement as a miracle; the gown had fit like a sheath. Her figure was quite genuine. She wore no foundation of any kind. I located a negligee and got her into it. Then I pulled her to a sitting position and started on the coffee.

  Her mouth hung loosely and her head wobbled. I needed four hands and had but two. Setting down the cup of coffee, I went into the bath and returned with a wet towel. When I wiped it over her face most of her make-up came off, but it did force a little life into her.

  I tried the coffee again. This time some went down. It was still no picnic. She was being very stubborn about coming to. I kept at it steadily, and by the time the cup and half of another had been emptied, some on her negligee, she showed more signs of life.

  Her eyes came open. She was seeing nothing. I reached for more coffee. Suddenly she blinked and seemed to come into focus. She made a noise down in her throat, gave me a push, and headed unsteadily for the bath. I stayed where was, and drank the remainder of the coffee. I could hear her working away industriously. Before long the shower started to run and I knew it would be all right.

  I had three cigaret butts in the ashtray and the coffee pot about empty when she came back. She had discarded the negligee for a heavy, white terrycloth robe. Barefoot, her hair mussed from a shower cap, and all of her make-up scrubbed away, she was younger, and surprisingly naive looking. But she still had a lot of poise, still walked in that graceful way.

  “You come out of it well,” I said.

  “Practice,” she said. She wasn’t smiling. I sew suspicion in her eyes.

  “You didn’t say much,” I told her. “You passed out too soon.”

  “I remember what I said,” she answered tartly. She came up to me. “I’m going to bed.”

  I got up. “You remember what you said? Do you remember what I said?”

  She just stared at me. “About Peone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I made you a proposition, too,” she reminded me.

  I didn’t see that we were getting anywhere. Picking up the tray, I drifted toward the door. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Right now,” she said, “I don’t give a damn. I’m going to bed.”

  I turned to face her. She said, “Thanks for saving my dress.” Pulling back the bed covers, she fluffed the pillows, removed her robe, and slipped into bed. She tugged the covers up to her chin and rolled to look at me.

  “Turn out the light, Mercer.”

  “I’m damned,” I said, and meant it. I took the tray into the kitchen, first snapping off her light and shutting the door.

  She could be giving me the run-around or she could be too bushed to think right now. But I couldn’t see where going to sleep would solve any of her problems.

  I went back to the bedroom. “Look,” I said, sticking my head in, “about Peone …”

  “I’m taking the chance,” she said. “Good night.”

  “Where is Johnny staying?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Look, Mercer, tomorrow is another day.”

  “You aren’t smart,” I said, and closed the door on her.

  I kept right on going, scooping my hat and coat from on top of her wrap where they all lay on the chair. I had the door open, was out in the hall, and had the door shut behind me when I stopped.

  I had wasted the whole damned evening. Not even the rye was good any more; I had poured too much coffee on top of it.

  I eased back inside, then shut the door pointedly and loudly. I left the night chain off. Going around, I turned out all the lights
but the table lamp across the living room. Then I walked quietly back to the alcove and sat by the telephone. It was a small, uncomfortable chair, but it didn’t keep me from getting sleepy. After an hour I was yawning widely. I thought longingly of that divan, of the wide soft bed Edna Loomis was asleep in.

  My watch said two-thirty. I was being a damned fool. Peone would be too smart to return tonight. I argued it all out with myself. It helped me stay awake.

  The building was very still. Twice I heard the faint sounds of cars grinding up the hill, and once an airplane went low overhead. Occasionally there was a creaking, of wood somewhere, and each time it would bring me alert. Each time I was nearly asleep.

  Ideas formed and dissolved, formed again in my brain. The patterns got clearer, and I almost had my finger on something. I almost had it in my grasp. The answer was right there, tantalizing me. I closed my eyes to see it better.

  I couldn’t tell how long it had been. The sound of the door clicking softly brought me out of it. The faint whisper of the lock sliding over, the soft breath of the door passing through air as it was eased open, those things registered. I brought my head up, feeling gummy in the eyes, feeling groggy in the brain. I shook my head in an effort to clear it.

  And someone was coming in. I could see a leg and I came very wide awake. I was still, scarcely breathing, not moving for fear that the chair would creak. The leg became a hip and then an entire body. The light from the lamp came through the opening into the living room. It was feeble this far off but I could see enough. The door was shut very softly.

  I looked at Nelle; neither of us spoke.

  She was motionless, standing at the completion of her turn, her body poised, one leg bent at the knee. She wore slacks and a plaid coat that hung loosely. Her hands were at her sides, the palms open. In the dim light I could see her face. Edna Loomis was far more beautiful. But, looking at Nelle, I wondered why I had ever got a kick out of kissing Edna Loomis.

  The feeling I had been battling for so long, the feeling that Nelle’s absurd, naive actions had pushed back down in me—that all came back, in a rush, flooding me. I felt it hit. If she had said, “Get up and bark,” I would have done just that.

  “You’re working for her now,” Nelle said, and broke the spell.