The Bamboo Blonde

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  She didn't believe him. Con couldn't have seen him after the arrest. But she set down her bag. He did have one of Con's in the middle of the floor and he had been taking things from the bureau drawers.

  He continued, "I had hoped to be away before you got home but I wasn't able. Some of the things he wants are in that bag there."

  She said stupidly, "Not this one. The one in the other room." She stood aside like an automaton while he went past, brought Con's grip into the bedroom. She stood watching while he opened it, transferred razor, toothbrush, and daily necessities.

  Although it was obvious that he knew for what he had been sent just as if the list were in his hands, she still wondered at the professed innocence of his presence. Suspicion heightened. And she asked, "Why didn't you come out when Vinnie Thusby was here'"

  He said, "I didn't know who was coming in with you." He almost grinned, a simian grin. "But I wouldn't have wanted him to know. Con didn't want anyone to know I'd been here."

  She didn't believe a word he said but she couldn't tell his lies as she could those of young Thusby. She started nervously at the sharp sound of the clasps made fast, and trembled just a little as he straightened up, lifted the bag. She stepped further aside.

  He said, "You won't tell anyone I've been here."

  She was afraid of him, even of his apparent respectful demeanor.

  "Con wouldn't like it if you did."

  She assured him with quirk breath. "No, I wouldn't tell anyone."

  She stood in the doorway while he walked across the living room. At the door he said, "Good night, Mrs. Satterlee. I'm sorry to have troubled you." His eyes met hers with no touch of servitude. "If there's anything at all I can do for you while Con is away, don't you hesitate to call on me. You can reach me through the Bamboo Bar any time."

  She waited until he was gone before moving to lock the door. Her fingers remained on the cold of the key. She had been right in her previous assumption. A bent hairpin would open any door in the rickety cottage. She had neglected to ask Chang how he had entered. It wasn't by means of the house key: Con had given that to her; that was now moist against her fingers.

  She hadn't removed her hat or her gloves as yet. She was undecided; she could go to a hotel. Why had Vinnie and Chang both thought it necessary to offer assistance to her? She pulled off one glove, then quickly the other. Con had told her to stay here; he had made a point of it before he was arrested. He wouldn't have asked it if it meant danger in any way. She proceeded into the bedroom, ignoring the creaking of the floor at every step, flung her hat on the bureau.

  She stared at it where it lay, half-shrouding a revolver there on the yellow-white of the scarf. She touched the weapon gingerly, then grasped it. She wouldn't leave now, not even if fish-eyed Albert George Pembrooke came proffering assistance. There was not the slightest reason why she should. She could protect herself.

  She wondered what mention of the network would have done to Chang's composure. Not a thing. He probably would have afforded an even more thorough and plausible explanation of its necessity than the British major.

  The program changed before she could return to the radio. The inevitable news broadcast. And she heard with stark clarity the commentator announce, "Con Satterlee, well-known New York air reporter, was taken into custody tonight by Captain Charles Thusby, chief of the Long Beach police, for questioning in the Bixby Park murder—'' She almost ran to silence the machine. Her uneasiness at being here alone was momentarily gone in her unmitigated fury at the stupidity of this business of thinking Con was involved. Con had never fired so much as a BB gun in his thirty-plus years. And she would prove it. She and Kew. Kew would obtain the information necessary to show up the Long Beach police for the utter fools they were, and Barjon Garth for the Judas into which he had degenerated.

  The cottage resumed its rustling with the radio stilled. She switched the radio on again, found music, not words. She finished undressing with the revolver at hand, returned to the living room with the feel of comfortable metal on her palm. She blocked the front door with the one overstuffed chair, established herself in the comfortless cane-bottom rocker. Magazine and the dial, the pressure of steel in her hand, would keep her eyes open. She wouldn't sleep this night; not with the broadcasters announcing to the continent that she was alone, presumedly unguarded.

  CHAPTER 5

  Kew said, "I don't understand it."

  He was pacing. He certainly didn't understand. He behaved as if this were plainly a personal insult to his intelligence. He'd come rushing over breakfastless, although fully and well dressed, at her call. His eyebrows hadn't released that frown of puzzlement since he'd entered.

  "If you only knew, Griselda, it doesn't make sense. It simply doesn't add."

  She was almost amused. "Don't you think I know that?"

  His eyes saw her then, her cinnamon flannel skirt, her brass-colored military coat. He didn't know about the crick in her back from sleeping all night in that rigid excuse for a chair. Her eyes must have closed before she'd read a paragraph.

  "Of course, of course. Yes, of course," he said. But he wasn't thinking of what he said. His mind was miles away. He did know more than she, and knowing more, he was steeped in certainty that Con should not have been arrested. She saw that in the scowl, in the incessant pacing, in the preoccupation with his own knowledge.

  She spread her fingers on the couch beside her. "Sit down, Kew. I want to say some things. And I want you to hear them."

  He came out of his shock this time; he even tried to smile at her but his linked eyebrows defeated that. "I'm sorry, Griselda. But you don't know how impossible this is. You do, yes—but you don't know." he stressed it and then saw he had been afar again. This time he did smile at her. "I'll listen." He seated himself, carefully tending the creases of his olive-drab gabardine slacks.

  "Really listen." She smiled back. "Please."

  "I will," he apologized. "I'm lucid now. See?" He projected his hand, grinned. "Not a quiver. Except for slight coffee-nerves. Forge right ahead, Griselda. When did all this happen? We flew back about two this morning with no news."

  "You and Kathie?"

  "And Dare and Albert George. Special job. Major Pembrooke's gift to the laboring class." He stopped to light a cigarette. Something was awry in what he had said. "You can judge what a shock it was to have you wake me to the fact that Con—Con of all people —was arrested."

  "That's just it." She seized upon it. "Con of all people. You know he had nothing to do with it, and I know it, but those disgusting Thusbys think he's involved. And Garth."

  "What about Garth?" he asked quickly.

  "I didn't tell you that?" She was surprised that she hadn't poured out the X head's perfidy. But Kew had cut her off the minute, "Con's been arrested," was off her tongue. She said now, "Thusby, the young one, claims his father had a wireless from Garth authorizing it or something."

  Kew said, "That's impossible." The lines about his mouth betrayed bewilderment.

  "That's just it. It is impossible. Garth is on a fishing trip. He couldn't possibly have heard."

  "By radio?"

  "But he couldn't know Con was involved. That hadn't been broadcast. His name wasn't even mentioned in the papers."

  He decided, "There's only one explanation. Thusby wirelessed Garth."

  "Kew, you can find out these things," she said. "That's why I'm asking you to help me to get Con out of this."

  "You think he needs help?"

  "But certainly he does." She was impatient to the point of irritation. "What makes you think he doesn't need help? He's in jail, isn't he?"

  Kew said, "They can't keep him. Picked up for questioning, the papers say." He'd brought them; they lay on the table. "Con can talk his way out."

  "He'd told them everything he knew about it." That wasn't quite true but he had told them as much as was needful. "Evidently they don't believe him or why should they arrest him? Don't you see, Kew, it's worse than it seems, far w
orse. They've questioned him; they knew he was available here at any time, yet despite all that Thusby went to the effort of going to Wilmington to make the arrest."

  "He did?"

  "Arrested him as we came down the gangplank." Just as if he were a common criminal trying to escape. She was furious again.

  Kew asked soberly, "What do they have on him?"

  She made flat statement, "Nothing!"

  He smiled with tolerance. "Darling, what, do they think they have? Or do you know?"

  She said, "I'm sorry. I'll try not to bite you. Yes, I asked Vinnie. young Thusby. He drove me home from Wilmington. Con went with the captain as if he were a Christian slave." She took a breath. "They have him with her that night. You know about that. And they have his fingerprints all over the gun."

  Kew whistled and he looked grave.

  She said angrily, "Of course, his fingerprints were on the gun. He took it away from her and unloaded it. He gave it back to her there on Junipero when he let her out. He was home with me hours before she was killed." But she broke off weakly. She couldn't mention that Con had gone out again. He had suppressed that in his version to Kew. It had been deliberate suppression. "He was home at midnight. I noticed the time because I'd been asleep and he woke me to tell me about it. Kew, how long would there be blood? It was one-thirty when she was found. He has an alibi, hasn't he?"

  Kew said, "I don't know. The blood would be something to look into, I should think. That and the shells. If he unloaded the gun, she must have gone somewhere and reloaded it. She must have had more ammunition if the same gun killed her. She could hardly buy any at that hour."

  "That's what Con thought," she admitted. She put her hand on his arm. "You will help me, won't you, Kew?" She had to know that before going on.

  He took her hand firmly. "Yes. I'll do anything that it is possible for me to do."

  'They shook hands as if making a solemn pact. That much was gained. Now she could breathe again.

  He too seemed relieved now that they were in covenant. "What do you have up your sleeve?"

  She spoke eagerly, "You're a newspaperman. You can go places where I can't and ask questions that I can't. With your news sense you'll know if the answers are right or wrong."

  "Any idea where to start?"

  She was definite. "I certainly have."

  He turned to her with new interest.

  "Shelley Huffaker wasn't just going to kill herself that night. She was going to kill someone else too. She told Con that. She was going to 'blow' herself out but she wasn't 'going alone.' That someone else must be the murderer. We must find out who that someone was."

  "But how?"

  She faltered. Con had asked her to know nothing, to say nothing, to be beautiful and dumb. Yet his arrest had changed that status. She couldn't be the simple young thing he had suggested when he was being framed on a murder charge. And she wouldn't speculate to anyone else, but to Kew she must. Unless they talked it over from every standpoint they wouldn't know how to proceed. Her words came haltingly, "I don't know exactly, Kew. But we've hints to go on. We know she was the kind who'd step on plenty of toes getting where she was. That might be a motive. Or she may have been threatened. We have Dare who knew her in New York, and we have Hollywood which simply dotes on spilling the gore when it won't kick back. It should be that easy."

  He stated what she was leading up to, "But maybe it's tied up with the Pan-Pacific deal."

  Her eyes were wide and blurred on the white patch the newspapers made there on the scarred table. "That's what I'm afraid of."

  He spoke slowly, "If that is it, there'll be no emotional aspect to the murder. It will be more difficult to trace down someone acting for an organization."

  "But not impossible, Kew. Not if we could find out if she did evince any interest in the Pan-Pacific plan. We know she hung around the broadcasting studio. She might have heard rumors. Why stay with Dare? She hadn't seen her in years. Maybe she knew Dare was a friend of Major Pembrooke's." She didn't like saying that out loud. She shivered as she spoke, as if that man were listening or had sent some henchman to listen and report.

  "Yes, she might have been a spy. We don't know these days who is in the Fifth Column; they don't sport badges." His face was squared with serious thought. "I've got to ask you a couple of things, Griselda: Off the record, of course. Things I should know before I start out."

  She nodded gravely.

  "Did Con come here to act for Barjon Garth?" He had never said so actually; even to Kew she mustn't speculate on that.

  "I don't know."

  "Truth?"

  "Yes, Kew." She explained. "We came to California for our honeymoon. It wasn't my choice, or his, but I had a picture to finish." She realized suddenly what had bothered her about Kew's story of his chartered plane trip. He hadn't included Sergei in the passenger list. "When I finished it we were going to Malibu. And then Con decided we'd do Long Beach instead. I didn't like the idea but you know Con when he makes up his mind. To Long Beach we came."

  Kew said, "Garth was here."

  She hadn't known he would be. She hadn't suspected that was why they came. "Yes. I didn't see him. Con was out with him a few times, doing the bars presumably."

  Kew said, "Garth came out here for two purposes. One to look into the foreign agents who are digging in. He has to get something on them, even if it's only a misdemeanor, before he can step in and act. Times are too touchy to risk an incident. The other purpose, to find out why Mannie Martin disappeared. Con has worked with Garth before. As soon as I knew you two were here, that's what I thought his reason was for coming. If he's with Garth in trying to find Mannie, and if an unfriendly country is responsible for the disappearance, it might be possible that they have put the frame on him." Kew began to stride the worn carpet again. "But it doesn't add having Garth against him."

  She knew one thing, knew it with cold terror stifling her heart. If he had been working with the X and had made a mistake, the organization could and would repudiate him. She almost cried out. But he couldn't, not in a billion light-years, be guilty of murder.

  Kew stopped abruptly. "Do you think we should get a lawyer for Con?" He laughed then. "I'm going too far now. You're so deadly serious about this, Griselda, that I'm thinking in terms of a murder defense already. After all, Con isn't arrested for murder; he's just being questioned."

  "Yes. That's all."

  He frowned. "But I would like to know what was in that letter from Mannie. You didn't see it?"

  She said truly, "I didn't know he'd had such a letter, Kew." There had been so much to think about, she'd forgotten to look for the letter. But she wouldn't mention Con's pocket-habits to Kew, not until she had first read what Mannie had to say. She didn't trust Kew that blindly. The message must have some import. Too many did not dismiss it as Con had.

  His frown went deeper. "If he only hadn't thrown it away—" He erased the frown, coming to her. "I'll run along. We might make dinner tonight. And I'll get busy and have something to report."

  She went with him to the door. "You don't know what a load off my mind it is to have your assistance. Kew."

  He smiled down at her. "I'd always help you, Griselda." And then he grinned. "I might let that no-account husband of yours rot in jail but I'd never turn you down."

  She laughed with him. And she remembered again the omission. "Kew, you didn't mention Vironova on your return trip. Wasn't he with you?"

  "Thank God, no." He was hearty. "He wasn't hanging around Sunday. Is he included on your list of suspects?"

  She shook her head, drew out the "N-n-n-o. Only I don't understand why he was clinging. Or just who he was trying to hang on to."

  Kew said, "My own hunch is that he was just being himself, and trying to get in with the most important party."

  She agreed, "Yes," but the explanation didn't satisfy her. After Kew was out of sight she stood looking at the sails winging on the bay, and wondering. Sergei had used Kew and Kathie for a wedge at d
inner but after he was installed he hadn't been comfortable at being in the group. He had been nervous; definitely he'd been afraid of their host. His self-esteem had oozed away so thoroughly that he was nothing but a beret and a fluty voice. Still he had hung on. He had turned down the invitation to the yacht, but without urging had changed his mind and accompanied the others. His purpose hadn't been to cruise the Avalon coast. What had it been? Was he a spy; was he attempting to sabotage the proposed network? He couldn't be. He was one of the truly high-priced directors of Hollywood, with an assured place, for there was a touch of genius in the unpleasant little Russian. There would be no reason for him to threaten what he had by the crudities of spy-work. There must be some other purpose for his leeching to the party.

  Suddenly she saw it. Sergei Vironova. His cheap blondes. Hollywood. Shelley Huffaker. What Dare had told Con. The girl had looked for a golden bed. She had found it. With Sergei it would be of solid gold with minks thrown over it. Steady employment. Sergei hadn't been trying to insert himself into a radio circle. He was watching those definitely connected with the Huffaker girl. Dare, Con, Kathie, herself by reason of being Con's wife. And Albert George Pembrooke?

  It explained Sergei's persistence. If he had killed Shelley, he was trying to find out what they knew. If he hadn't killed her. he was looking for the one who had. Griselda was going on the assumption that Shelley Huffaker had been installed as Sergei's latest blonde; she had no information. That was what she must acquire.

  Oppy would know. He knew everything about his staff. If he didn't know, he had ways to find out. She went immediately to the phone but she didn't lift the receiver. This wire might be tapped; not that there was any reason for such police precaution, but she wouldn't take a chance. And others than the police might be listening in. She would go to a public phone booth, and quickly. She caught up her bag, locked the flimsy door.

  A big house-dressed woman was standing on the porch of the cottage across, shaking out a rug. Griselda felt relief. Neighbors at last, a place she could flee for help if it became essential. She hurried to the street-front garage. She almost expected to be stopped before she could drive away. Her mission was that important, for if her hunch was right, she could gather intimate information about the girl. The murderer wouldn't like that.