Kew's eyes followed hers. "Who is it?"
"I don't know." She turned back to him, picked up her tasteless drink. "I've never been here before." But she couldn't keep from looking again at Con and the blonde. She knew how Lot's wife must have felt; it wasn't being curious; it was urgency.
And she heard the bartender say, "I'm sorry. I can't give her another one."
Con's voice was deceptively mild. "I said I'd buy the lady a drink." Every word was distinctly audible in the small, quiet room.
The barman repeated with unshaken stolidity, "She can't have no more."
"No?" Con put his hand on the girl's arm. "Come on, honey. I know where they'll sell us one."
Griselda's eyes widened. She saw Con help the girl away from the bar, brush past Chang-Buck's attempted words, start with his companion across the room. The blonde had a short coat over her arm and she held it with her free hand.
He didn't stop at Griselda's table but he slowed enough to wink at her in passing. Her hands clenched. He couldn't do this, not on their honeymoon. She remembered to close her fish-wide mouth after they disappeared through the door.
Kew was watching. He smiled. "Same old Con," and then he must have noted the distress she was trying unsuccessfully to hide. "I'm sorry, Griselda. You know he'll be right back. You know how Quixotic Con is. He'll take her home and be right back."
She looked away from him. "I won't be here." He said, "Could I run you home?" His watch was crystalline copper. "I'd ask you to do something better than that but I'm late for an engagement now."
She answered, "No, Kew. Thank you. But it's only a step."
She wouldn't go with Kew. She didn't want to make a fool of herself to Con's friends. She'd wait until she could leave alone with no one to look boredly sympathetic if her eyes were moist. She wasn't 'sure she could pretend to be a casual modern wife even for five blocks—she wanted to howl and kick her heels.
He said, "Tell Con I'll drop by tomorrow. I'm at the Villa Riviera. Give him a ring."
She watched him disappear behind the presumedly artistic doors of swinging bamboo. The now solitary drinker at the table where Kew had been, finished his stint and prepared to leave. He hesitated crossing to the door and her eyes were enormous when he stopped at her table. She'd never seen him before.
He introduced himself sparsely, "Mrs. Satterlee, I am Major Pembrooke."
She had met many of him in London, on the continent, in kinder days. The bulldog British breed, stocky rather than tall, red-faced, with a sand-colored bristle mustache beginning to gray: hair, the same, beginning to recede. She had never met one wearing so cold a mask, almost a brutal face. She didn't like him. Instinctively and with no reason for it, she feared him. He had no business knowing who she was. Kew hadn't told him; Kew hadn't seen her until he was leaving that table.
She acknowledged the introduction as sparsely as it was given.
He was standing there looking down at her but he wasn't interested in her. That wasn't in his face. He announced, "I will escort you home, Mrs. Satterlee."
She was suddenly furious at him, a stranger daring to intrude, the straw at the breaking-point of this insufferable day. She jumped up, said with more anger than hauteur, "You will not escort me home. I am not accustomed to being escorted by strangers. Goodnight, Major Pembrooke." She strode head high out of the place, regretting that swinging doors could not emphasize a point.
Con had, of course, taken the car as well as the pick-up blonde. Griselda was always nervous walking alone after dark; short as the distance to the cottage was, she dreaded to turn from the lighted main street for the final two blocks on the one closed to traffic. There was the night-lonely beach of the bay on one side, the drawn blinds of white apartments on the other. She walked in the center of the wide pavement.
It couldn't be that she heard footsteps falling accurately in hers. It was nerves, her usual night nerves. She could glance over her shoulder and make certain it was only imagination but she didn't. She hurried her steps and the relentless echo-steps paced faster. She strolled now; whoever it was behind her could pass easily, she'd rather have it precede her than follow. But the sound steps retained their metronomic mimicry. Without willing, her eyes slid left to the bay and she saw the shadow of a man, not far, not far enough from her own shadow. Her feet began to move swiftly, blindly, forward. She could hear her breath come and go, louder than those insistent pursuing steps still behind her as she began to climb the long stairway leading to the catwalk porch and her front door. She was near hysterical laughter listening—one-two-three-four— those- last steps thwarted, silenced, not accompanied by hers. She didn't know who or what she expected to see but she couldn't turn. She stood there breathing.
And then the voice spoke, stones dropped on the cold gray of the Pacific beyond. "I would have preferred to escort you home, Mrs. Satterlee."
She turned slowly. The fear she had smelled on seeing this man in the bar was tangible now. There were no neighbors to hear a shout for help. The sea wall extended about the left, the other side of the house. The cottage a sand lot away on this side was unoccupied. She stood at the head of the steps, hoping he would climb no further, hoping she might continue to bar his way. She had her voice now. "What do you want? How did you know I was Mrs. Satterlee?"
"Mr. Brent told me who you were." That was a lie; Kew hadn't even known she was Con's wife again until she told him.
She wanted her heart to stop pounding so hard that it hurt to breathe. She asked, "Are you a friend of Kew's?"
"I knew him in Washington. I didn't know he'd come to the West Coast until I ran into him tonight. I was pleased to find him here. I was also pleased to learn that Con Satterlee was here."
She questioned, "You know my husband?" She wasn't surprised at that; Con was always pulling some astonishing creature out of his bag of acquaintances.
But he said, "No, I wish to meet him."
She stated firmly then, "I'm sorry, Major Pembrooke, but Con isn't here. And I don't know when he will return. If you will call some other time—" It was dismissal but he didn't accept it. Not even his eyes moved. They retained their cold expressionlessness, against hers. He said, "I presume Mr. Satterlee is here for the same purpose as Mr. Brent."
She could speak up now and she did. "Then you are quite mistaken, Major Pembrooke. My husband is here on his honeymoon. I doubt very much that Kew's presence in Long Beach is for the same reason." She actually smiled. The darling bachelor Kew wasn't to be caught by matrimonial entanglements.
Pembrooke was silent for the moment. "Mr. Satterlee is not here seeking Mannie Martin?"
Amazement must have been wide in her eyes. She could feel it there. "Seeking whom?"
"Manfred Martin. Mannie Martin. You know him, of course."
"I have never heard of him." She repeated definitely, "I have never heard the name before."
"Con Satterlee has heard of him," the Major stated.
"Possibly." She didn't know half of Con's freaks.
"Con Satterlee knows him. Martin has been production director of the West Coast division of the broadcasting company."
She remembered then. But she had never met this Martin. Con hadn't even looked him up in Hollywood. Why should he be seeking the man here? Her face must have been a question mark.
Major Pembrooke said, "Mannie disappeared two weeks ago Monday." He explained before she could protest, "It hasn't been in the papers. The studio didn't want publicity unless they were certain it was not a self-induced disappearance. By now, however, not having heard from or of him in that time, his associates are becoming nervous." His mouth was scornful. "By now the trail is cold."
She picked her words icily, "What has this to do with my husband?"
The Major ignored her ill humor. "I was certain Con Satterlee came here to trace his friend. Even as Mr. Brent has come."
She took a deep breath for courage. "What is it to you?"
"Mr. Martin was entering into a partnership with me. T
he contracts are ready but I can do nothing until he is found. And my backers are becoming impatient."
It sounded harmless enough but she didn't want Con drawn into anything that this stone man was a part of. In fact, she didn't want Con engaged in anything now, harmless or not. This was a honeymoon.
She spoke with a forced brightness, "Well, you've made a mistake, Major Pembrooke." Her laughter sounded shallow, ha-ha. "Con isn't here for any such reason. He hasn't even mentioned Mannie Martin. I would advise you to go to the police with your problem."
This time he accepted the dismissal. "The police have been informed," he stated. He turned to descend. "You will tell your husband I called and that I wish to see him. About the letter."
"What letter?" Major Pembrooke must be crazy. But he was leaving.
"The letter Mannie sent him before he disappeared."
Con hadn't mentioned a letter. There could have been one. Neither of them pried into the other's mail.
"I am at Catalina, rather, off Catalina. The Falcon. I can't delay longer. I have guests there. You will tell your husband."
She didn't speak. She would tell Con nothing. It would be just like him to take up a wild goose chase like this one to thwart his boredom. And even now that the Major had proved himself legitimate, she didn't like him. She called after him, "If you want to see Con again, please don't follow me. I don't like it."
He apologized without moving a muscle of his face. "I wished to make certain I could speak to you tonight. And you had made it definite that you did not care to be escorted."
She frowned to his receding steps, then fumbled for her key, the kind you bought in the five and ten, rattled it into the lock. She wasn't frightened; she was just cold from standing long in the damp dark.
She locked the door after her, then unlocked it; Con had no key with which to get in. It would serve him right to be locked out but she didn't want that. She wanted him with her. She left the living-room light burning, went into the bedroom, and undressed. She wasn't afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of. There had been no harm in those echoing footsteps, her nerves alone had translated them as such.
She put on the pink-sprigged dimity nightdress that made her look like a Kate Greenaway illustration. Actually there was no point in looking like anything except a deserted wife. She turned out the bedroom light, climbed into bed, and put her face into his pillow.
A fine honeymoon, going to bed alone.
* * *
Con said, "Are you awake?"
It woke her. He was standing by the bed, his hands jammed into his pockets, rattling something. But he wasn't smiling. The light from the living room made half-light here; she could see the disturbance
in his frown. And a little fear without reason came
into her heart.
"Yes, I'm awake." She pushed over halfway to her own side of the bed. He sat down on the edge, pulled his hand out of his pocket. She saw what had made that rattling. On his palm lay a half dozen shells, not the kind you gathered on the beach, the kind that were put into revolvers for lethal purpose.
"Con!" She gasped it, moved back close to him. 'Con-"
He said, "Want to hear what happened?" "Yes. Con—" She stilled the quaver of her voice. After all there was no reason to be panicky just because once before he had been in danger. He wasn't now, not here on vacation in Long Beach. Not with Garth safely gone. She spoke easily, "Give me a cigarette first."
He lit one for each of them and began talking. She could see it as it unfolded.
He'd helped the girl into the old coupe, said cheerily, "We'll go where we don't have to be insulted. What do you say?"
She'd been drinking but she wasn't drunk. She spoke without inflection, as if he were a cab driver. "I want to go to Saam's Seafood Place."
"O.K." He'd started the noisy motor. "Where is it?"
"Down Seal Beach way. I'll .show you."
They drove across the bridge, on down the San Diego highway. He tried to talk to her but she was silent. And then Con wanted another drink as Con usually did. Saam's Seafood hadn't appeared but other places were handy. He slowed at one, said, "Let's have a snifter before we go on. What do you say?"
She said, "All right."
It was then that her coat fell to the floor. It made more noise than a light green fleece should. She picked it up quickly, got out of the car quickly, -and so did he. He didn't know what it was all about, and, being Con, he wasn't going to let her escape until he did. But she wasn't running away. She went into the little place, took a seat in the second booth. He sat opposite her.
He ordered two beers, and eyed the girl. "Now what's it all about?" he demanded. He had an idea maybe she was running dope. There was something dopey about her, he told Griselda. She acted as in a trance. But that didn't disturb him; he was never afraid, not even when he should be. That was why he got involved in things; not scrapes that you could laugh at later, but serious trouble where death whispered, and which you tried never to remember-after.
She did show some spirit now. She said, "I told you to skip it."
"I'm not skipping it." He waited until the beers were set down and paid for, then he said—Griselda could see him lolling back and saying it— "It's a long walk back to town, sister. Either you'll tell me what's up or you can prepare to spend the night right here in this dump."
She wet her lips, looked out again at the opposite booth, and quietly showed him the gun in her coat pocket. She said, "I'm going to blow myself out tonight. But I'm not going alone."
Con said, "Oh no, you're not." He told her, "It isn't that I give a damn if you blow yourself out or how many you take with you, but you're not going to do it tonight. Too many people have seen you with me. I'm here on my honeymoon and I can't be bothered
' hanging around inquests and spouting a lot of fool testimony. Give me the gun."
They sat there arguing, fortified by beers. How long Con didn't know. The girl and he were both adamant. She wouldn't give up the gun; he wouldn't drive her to Saam's until she did. He could have reached over and taken it but he was afraid she might get it first, he said, and choose him to accompany her on the voyage out.
Finally he compromised. "I can't sit here all night. I have a wife waiting for me."
"You actually remembered me?" Griselda asked. But she didn't say it acidly. She was holding tight to his hand now, pressed close against him.
He kissed the top of her head. "I never forget you, kitten."
He told the girl, "I'll take you back to town if you'll let me hold the baby until we get there. Then I'll give it back to you. You can get someone else to drive you to Saam's joint."
She agreed to that. "I'm going to powder my nose first." She was a little unsteady when she stood up.
He waited for her to reappear. When she did, she had the coat on and he could see the gun wasn't in her pocket.
He demanded, "What did you do with it?"
"I flushed it down the toilet," she said.
That made him mad; it might have been the beers but he was mad. He said, "I may look like a cretin but I'm not. That's scientifically impossible."
He marched into the Women's Room without any bones about it. He found where she'd hidden it, beneath paper towels in the wastebasket. He didn't know why or what she'd hoped to gain by it, but he unloaded the gun, put the shells into his trousers pocket, the gun into his coat pocket.
She was waiting docilely by the door when he returned. She said without spirit, "You will give it back to me? I was afraid you wouldn't; that's why I hid it. I have to have it."
They went out to the car. He asked, "So you can kill yourself and some rat?"
She said, "It's none of your business," and she didn't say any more on the ride back.
He let her off where she directed on Ocean Boulevard, handed back her gun, said, "Good night," and drove away, leaving her there on the walk.
"Then I came home to you, baby," he said.
That was Con's story.
; * * *
Griselda breathed again.
Con stood up, yawned, said, "Mind the light?" turned it on, flung the shells on the bureau, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
She asked blankly, "But what was it all about, darling?"
"Damned if I know." He yawned again. "Screwiest performance I ever heard of."
Griselda wondered, "What was her name?"
"She wouldn't answer that one."
She shook her head hopelessly. "Was she pretty?"
"Might have been on the Congo. I've seen too many of her lately. Blondes like that are a dime a dozen in Hollywood. You know. She didn't even have a mole to distinguish her."
Griselda shook her head again. "Why do you do these silly things, Con? Why did you go out with her?"
He laughed. "I don't know. Curiosity, I guess. Ye olde newsy instinct. I couldn't understand why Bennie refused to serve her. I know now, of course. He'd seen the gun."
She said soberly, "Some day you'll get yourself in a mess.”
"Won't be the first time, angel face.”
He creaked down on the bed to untie his sneakers. "What did your fancy friend Kew have to offer? What's he doing here?"
"He's your friend, not mine," she said. "I don't know. He's coming by tomorrow, and Con, you have to behave. After all he is your friend."
He said sleepily, "I'll hide first. I'll dig a hole down to China. I'll lie about my age and enlist. I'll—"
"Con!" She broke in sharply, sitting bolt upright.
He turned to put an arm about her. "Aw, I'll be good, honey."
But it wasn't that. It was fright that had come over her, rational fright now. "Con, if she should do anything—your fingerprints would be all over that gun!"
His voice was uninterested. "I thought of that. But I figured it was too late for her to get any more shells tonight. And even if she should, she'd have to get someone else to drive her out to this Seafood dump. There'd be someone seen with her later than I—" The phone in the living room began insistent ringing. Con said, "What the hell—" Sock-footed, he padded to answer.
Griselda remained bolt upright in the bed. Con had accuracy in getting himself involved. She couldn't let him step into danger again when he was only so recently free of it. Tomorrow she would insist they leave this place, return to Hollywood's civilized community. Deliberately she had refrained from mention of Major Pembrooke. Con had done enough to conjure trouble tonight without adding a disappearing man to the brew.
The Bamboo Blonde Page 2
