The Bamboo Blonde

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  She waited sleepily for the conclusion of the telephone call. Con was using his newspaper voice; she couldn't hear what he was saying. He returned whistling and he didn't look pleased. He picked up his shirt from the bureau, began buttoning it on again.

  "Con—" she cried it. "What—"

  "Simmer down." He came over to the bed, pushed her onto the pillow with his right hand. But his left hand was fastening buttons even when he kissed her. "Got to go out for a little."

  "Why, Con?" She wouldn't be treated like a small child, put in her place with no explanation.

  He grinned. "If you must know, there's a fellow coming in to town that won't be happy until he sells me a dog." The grin was gone. "Darling, it has nothing to do with the blonde business, I assure you. I'll be back in an hour."

  He kissed her again and was gone. He hadn't said it had nothing to do with a frozen Major Pembrooke or a missing radio executive. She couldn't ask him that. She couldn't introduce those names until she was certain they were not unknown.

  * * *

  She tried to sleep but the ocean was malting so much thunder it was hard to hear other sound, a door that might be opening, footsteps that wouldn't belong in this beach cottage.

  She listened until she was certain; someone noiseless was in that next room. She faltered, "Con—" She had forgotten the vagaries of this bed; it clanked as she stirred. There was deeper silence preceding rustle. A door clicked.

  She didn't dare move. There was no use trying to pretend she wasn't scared now; she huddled under the covers, counting not sheep but steps that came endlessly, ruthlessly after her. Who had entered the cottage, stealthily, left with stealth? She didn't know why anyone should be trailing her; she hadn't done anything to anyone.

  CHAPTER 2

  Con hadn't returned. It was nine and the sun was quick on the deceptive peace of the Pacific. She must have slept or morning wouldn't be. here. Her heart was clenched within her, wondering where he might be. One radio man had already disappeared. And then she heard his voice.

  There was no accent of trouble in it; she'd been worried over something she herself had invented.

  "Of course you'll have dinner with us. Sure you will. Meet you at the Hilton at seven, Kathie."

  That Kathie again. She called out, "What's it all about?"

  He came into the bedroom. He hadn't slept; his eyes were weary. He wore an old checked cardigan over bright blue bathing trunks, the same dirty sneakers, and carried a tall glass of orange juice.

  "For me?" she asked.

  "Hustle your own." But he handed it to her, kissed her nose, and said, "Made a date for us tonight with the Travises. I want to see Walker. You'll like them."

  He was himself this morning, not alternately jittery and deceptively quiet like the ocean outside. He said nothing of where he'd spent the night, stretched himself long on the bed. "Your turn to get me a glass."

  She ignored him blissfully. "Give me a cigarette. What makes you think I'll like the Travises?" She doubted it very much.

  "You will. I like them. So will you." There was something in the way he spoke made a small frown on her forehead. It wasn't optional that they like the Navy Travises. That much was clear. She asked, "Where did you meet them, Con?"

  "Garth knew them," he said.

  Why hadn't he mentioned them before? But she hadn't time for further questions. Someone was rapping at the door.

  She pushed Con. "That's probably Kew. Entertain him while I shower." She whispered, "And be nice."

  He growled something but she heard his greeting through the closed bedroom door and it was hearty. "How you, Kew, old man? Come on in. Great to see you," more of the same.

  Griselda showered quickly, put on the white satin bathing suit with the magenta fish splashing on it, purple clogs on her feet, her gilt hair smoothed back of her ears. The shells patterned on the crocheted dresser scarf. She brushed them into Con's handkerchief drawer before she went into the living room. Con was on the couch reading the morning paper, Kew in the chair. Both held glasses but it was only orange juice. She hoped only orange juice; it was too early to put gin in it.

  Kew was Esquire's best again, the rough white terry robe and scuffs, the white trunks against the California golden brown of his body. He greeted Griselda the special way he always greeted pretty women, an under-ripple of tenderness. Doubtless another of the reasons Con didn't like him.

  Con said softly. "Well, what do you think of that?"

  Griselda looked at him quickly. She knew that voice. "Con! What?"

  "A murder in our peaceful little town."

  She knew she went whey-colored. Why she should have connected it with last night she didn't know. But she was frightened.

  She took the paper from him. Woman's body found in Bixby Park. Dressed in light blue slacks. College boy returning from his job as night soda jerker about one-thirty A.M. saw the girl's body under a tree. She was identified as Shelley Huffaker visiting from Hollywood. There was a picture. A pretty blonde girl. "A dime a dozen in Hollywood." Griselda hadn't seen the girl's face. It had been only midnight when Con said, "Are you awake?"

  She wasn't going to be disturbed about it. Even if it should turn out to be the same girl, Con had nothing to do with it. Someone would have been with her later. Someone would have been a murderer, would have taken pains not to be seen! She wouldn't worry about Con. He could take care of himself. She laid down the paper as if it didn't matter. "Shall we swim?" and then she noticed the two men. Behind cover of their orange juice, their casualness, they were watching each other. Kew was looking at Con in just the way that Con was looking at Kew. They didn't seem to have heard her.

  Con asked, "Did you know her, Kew?"

  He laughed without really laughing. "Of course not. Whatever made you think I might?"

  Con tapped the paper. "Says Hollywood. Understand the studios have been bidding on your pen."

  Kew almost seemed to flush. "Nothing so attractive, I fear. Only a nibble." And then he set down his empty glass on the table, reached out for the sheet. He studied the cut. "She looks rather like the girl you took home last night from the Bamboo. She isn't the same one, is she?"

  Con said easily, "Yes, she is."

  Griselda didn't breathe. She'd known it but she didn't want to hear it said. She watched him lounge across the room as if it weren't important, open the old-fashioned music cabinet, take out a bottle that wasn't water. He'd had plenty in the house last night then; it had only been that he was restless, wanted to go out. He poured lavishly into Kew's glass and more lavishly into his own. Kew hadn't spoken; he had dropped the paper to the floor. He didn't look surprised or curious; there was no expression save handsomeness on his face.

  Con added orange to Kew's glass. "But I didn't take her home."

  He shouldn't be telling this, not even to Kew. The brown eyes opened wide.

  Con grinned at him. He said, "She didn't want to go home. She wanted to go to Saam's Seafood Place. Ever hear of it?"

  Kew smiled tolerantly, "Afraid not."

  Griselda noticed again, they were still watching each other behind their eyes, their smiles, their words. And she knew for the first time with startling certainty that Con hadn't come to Long Beach aimlessly. He was here for definite purpose. That purpose, insanely enough, was mixed up with a murdered girl and Kew Brent. That purpose might well be mixed up with the missing man a British officer was seeking. She shivered. More bitterly than ever she knew that Con was marching into the teeth of danger.

  Kew repeated, "Afraid not," and took a scroll of white plastic from his pocket, extracted a cigarette mysteriously from its narrowness. "What's it like?"

  "Like any other beach dump," Con said. He was Jesuitically lying to Kew; she didn't know why save that Kew was newspaper and Con evidently didn't want the truth to be published.

  "You left her there?" Kew asked as if amused.

  Con said, "Well, I couldn't stay out too late, could I?" He put his hand on Griselda's knee. "The
little old lady wouldn't like it if I stayed too long with a beauteous blonde, would you, baby?"

  She tried to smile, a sickly imitation. But she put her hand over his tightly, as if by so doing she could hold him to her side and away from this new menace in which he'd involved himself.

  Con reached for his glass. "Drink it up, Kew, and I'll get you some more orange juice."

  Griselda pleaded, "Not so early, Con."

  He patted her leg. "Read in the papers where you can't be over-vitaminized. California. Land of oranges. Got to be loyal. How about it, Kew?"

  He said, "I'll take another." They were pretending they weren't conscious of each other now. Con shuffled into the kitchen, returned with a milk bottle more than half filled with orange. "How about it, Grizel? Want to sit in this time?"

  "Without the gin," she told him.

  He said, "Women are peculiar people," and to Kew, "You haven't told me, friend, what you're doing in this neck of the waves."

  Kew took the glass. "Well, I can't exactly say." He spoke as easily as did Con. There was no reason not to believe in their careless vacationer act but she didn't. Even if Major Pembrooke had not told her why Kew was here, she would have been certain they were playing a game. It couldn't have been for her benefit; certainly they were not fooling each other. She didn't comprehend; at that moment she couldn't stop to figure it out. She could only watch and listen.

  Kew said, "One thing, I was hoping to see Garth."

  "Postman's holiday?" Con asked.

  "Maybe," he smiled. "I've got a couple of able subs on my column but Garth is always good for a yarn— and hard as the devil to nab these days, even in Washington."

  He might have said, "… and even by Kew Brent." His expression seemed to say it. Griselda wasn't certain she liked that; in her meetings with Kew, there were always these moments when she wasn't sure that she liked him, when maybe Con was right in his anti-Kew attitude. But when you were away from him you forgot those moments, remembered only his mental keenness, the wit and the brain, the handsome arrogance, the suggestion that you were the most attractive woman he'd ever met—one word covered it, his charm.

  "I suppose you've seen him?" Kew asked.

  "Yeah. He was here when I came. I ran into him."

  It was more falsification. Con might have run into Garth but he'd been closeted with him for days before the yacht trip came up; she had taken it for granted it was renewal of a friendship and the gathering of broadcast material. It hadn't occurred to her then that Con had known Garth was in Long Beach before they arrived, and that Garth had expected him. Real fear trembled Griselda now; if Con were working for the head of the X service again, there was reason for fear. The foreign agents concentrated on the coast were known to be important, to constitute a real menace. She suddenly was cold. If Mannie Martin's disappearance were connected with that—she hadn't thought of it that way. She must speak to Con. If that were it he definitely mustn't look for Mannie.

  She couldn't be certain that he wasn't pledged to Garth again, not with these half-lies to Kew. And this fear dwarfed the one that he might become involved in last night's murder.

  "Garth's gone fishing," Con told.

  "Fishing?" Kew seemed incredulous.

  "Yeah. He needed a vacation badly, y'know. He's been on day and night shift since Poland. Some big boy steamed in on his yacht and rustled up a fishing party. I couldn't go. Stag."

  Griselda caught her lip. He was still regretting.

  Kew asked, "Where are they cruising?"

  "Down in Mexican waters, I gathered. They were heading southerly." Why was he giving Kew all of this information and withholding other seemingly more harmless?

  Kew said quietly, "Another reason that brought me here was an invitation from Dare."

  Griselda cried it: "Dare Crandall?" She couldn't stand that; she'd thought Dare was out of their lives. She hadn't seen her for years, not for more than four years. It was Dare more than any one other thing that had caused the break-up of their marriage the first time she and Con tried it.

  Con asked as if surprised, "Is she here?" but Griselda wasn't fooled. He knew Dare Crandall was in Long Beach; he had known it all along; perhaps he had even seen her. He might have been with her last night.

  Kew said as if imparting important news, "Yes, indeed she is."

  Con said, "What will they think of next?" He drank. "What's she doing here?"

  "Some connection with the Navy."

  Griselda couldn't help saying it, "I suppose you mean she was barred from the Brooklyn yards."

  Both men looked at her. Their amusement wasn't amusing to her. Con said, "How you talk, Griselda!"

  No one had to break the silence. The phone did that. Con answered.

  She said to Kew then, in apology, "What is Dare actually doing here?"

  "She's making over a house for an Admiral's daughter, I believe. You know she's taken up decorating now."

  She didn't know.

  "It's to be all Modern Norse and Chinese Ming and will probably take all summer to fit. She has an apartment on"—he managed to recall the street—"on Junipero until September. I haven't seen her yet. I only came down yesterday morning and she was out all day. Her man said she'd gone to"—again he recalled— "Avalon on some party."

  Con was standing in the middle of the floor now, thumbs in his sweater pockets. They both looked up at him. "That was the Chief of Police," he said. "He's on his way out to see me."

  The silence was so utter, you could hear the sound of the water shivering across the pebble sand.

  Kew finally smiled. "There goes our swim. I'd better run along."

  "Not at all. Not at all." Con finished crossing the room, drained his half-filled glass. "I told him we'd be out on the beach and to holler when he arrived."

  * * *

  Captain Charles Thusby was fuzzy bald and porpoise fat. His right leg was wooden. It was not disguised by modern craft but a delightful replica of the kind pirates wore in childhood story books. He should have been dressed as a seaman; he was instead excessively official in his policeman's blue serge and gold buttons.

  He stood on their cat-walk and hollered, "I'm here, Satterlee."

  Con yelled back, "Be with you right away." He didn't seem nervous but then he wouldn't be. He enjoyed scrapes. To him, obviously, this business was no more than one. But to Griselda it was frightening. Her teeth clicked, and Kew said, "I'll go along."

  "Nothing doing." Con put a wet arm around Kew's shoulders. He was overdoing friendliness today. "Come up and have a snort to warm you up. Besides you ought to meet the folks."

  The captain was in the easiest chair when they dripped in. On the couch in policeman's uniform was an extra-gangly, long-faced lad eating peanuts, putting the shells neatly into his upturned cap. The chief said, "I'm Cap'n Thusby. This is Vinnie. Brought him along to drive the car. I don't drive. No, nothing to do with the leg, ma'am."

  She had inadvertently glanced at it and it did look exactly like Long John Silver's.

  "Never could learn. Can't teach an old dog new tricks." His face regarded his leg with creased pleasure. "Shark took it off down around Hatteras. Neat as a whistle."

  Vinnie said, "Now, Pa," but the captain disregarded him.

  "Wasn't much older'n Vinnie here when it happened." His face was smiles but his faded denim eyes were sharp as an aching tooth. "Which one's Satterlee?"

  "I am." Con touched Kew's shoulder. "This is Kew Brent. You've heard of him."

  "Heard of both of you." He rubbed up his curly halo.

  "And my wife, Mrs. Satterlee.”

  Griselda acknowledged the introduction and said, "I'm freezing. I must get into something warm." She knew that she must before her teeth chattered out loud. It wasn't only from the wet bathing suit.

  She heard Kew say as she went toward the bedroom, "And I'll have to run along. I'll take that drink another time." He was determined now, making his gracious good-byes. She could hear Thusby as the outer door closed. "
Now about this murder, Mr. Satterlee," and she went swiftly into the bathroom beyond to rough herself warm with a towel. She did it quickly; the voices were silenced in this room, and she was trembling with anxiety. Con's prints were on that gun. The police couldn't know it yet they'd come already to him. For him? She dressed rapidly, pullover beige sweater, brown wool slacks. But she took time to open Con's drawer and wad handkerchiefs over and around the shells.

  Con was telling his story, "… and I didn't even know her name until I read it in the paper this morning. I simply offered to give her a lift and when she changed her mind about going to this Seafood place I brought her back to town."

  He wasn't telling all of it. Griselda emerged to sit quietly beside him, between him and Vinnie.

  "Mighty funny," Captain Thusby was saying.

  "Yes, it was," Con agreed. "She didn't give any reason for it. Of course she'd been drinking."

  Thusby asked, "Did she have a gun then, Mr. Satterlee?"

  Now it was coming. Griselda waited, hands unclenched but tight as guitar strings.

  "That's strange. Why do you ask?"

  Thusby said, "On account of her being killed by her own gun. Or at least one she'd brought with her from Hollywood. And so far as anyone knows she hadn't been back to the apartment after you let her out. Where'd you say you let her out?"

  Griselda wanted to warn Con to be careful. She was being absurd; he was always aware. You couldn't trap Con.

  He said now, "I didn't say, Cap'n. But I can tell you. It was on Ocean by that park."

  "Bixby Park," Vinnie supplied and flushed at the unexpected sound of his own voice. It was a tenor toot compared to his father's foggy horn. He put another peanut between his teeth.

  "East or west end? Junipero or Cherry?"

  Con figured it out. "The Belmont side. That'd be east."

  Thusby nodded. "Junipero."