The Bamboo Blonde

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  * * *

  The dead-fish voice of the Malibu butler patronized a Long Beach call. She couldn't speak to Oppy. She demanded, "Why not?"

  His voice managed to convey importance without any inflection, "He is in story conference, Miss."

  It was fortunate for the man that she was not within striking distance. Oppy and his butler could cow most of the movie colony but not Griselda Cameron Satterlee. She spoke her name. "Tell him I'm holding the wire." She added, "I expect to speak to him at once."

  The intermediary did not return. Oppy's sputter came almost as quickly as she wished it. "Griselda. It is Griselda. My poor Griselda. And I have heard on the radio your husband is arrested for murder."

  "No, he isn't!" She almost screamed it. The error would be multiplied a thousandfold if Oppy went around saying it and he would. He relished scandal just so long as it was not injurious to his box office.

  "He is not? Good. It is a mistake. And now you will leave that corny Long Beach and come to Malibu where Oppy is and the most beautiful picture we have to do, such costumes—"

  She interrupted firmly. There was no use trying to clarify things for him; he'd only be the more muddled. State her business simply, that was all. "Oppy, I want some information. I want it quickly. What is the name of Sergei Vironova's current mistress?"

  "You ask me this?" He did scream, as if it were beneath the dignity of the great Oppensterner of O.C.H. studios to dabble in such earthy matters. .

  "Yes. I ask you tins." She was stern. He had almost restored her good humor; he was always so Oppy.

  He said mildly, "Let me think now. I have met her. A gorgeous blonde, yes. But her test! It stinks. Wait a minute now. Si Burke is here; he would know. Si always knows their name."

  She heard him speak to the scenarist and Si's voice came over the wire. "What do you crave, Griselda?"

  "The name of Sergei Vironova's latest."

  He drawled, "My God, you ought to know. She was bumped off in your town a couple of nights ago."

  Her heart contracted in cold surety. She was shaking so much that she leaned against the booth wall.

  "Shelley Huffaker." He went on, "Sergei's supposed to be down there now. Haven't you run into him?"

  She didn't answer that. But she asked quickly, "Did he come with her? I mean were they together?"

  He said, "Sorry, honey. He has an alibi of about two thousand lugs. He was on the set when the heartbeat was meeting her sailor in the Park." His voice was kind. "Anything I can do, Griselda. Any of us. No one thinks Con Satterlee had any hand in it naturally. Case of mistaken identity."

  She said, "Thanks eternally for this much, Si. I may want more. No, Con didn't do it. And you might pound into Oppy's ivory dome that there's a difference between being questioned, and being arrested for murder."

  "What do you think I am? Superman?" His roar echoed after the connection was severed.

  She stood there in the booth trying to regain momentum. She had been right. She had made the first step toward releasing Con. She dialed again. Sergei Vironova was registered but he was out. She left her name and number. "When he comes, ask him to call immediately." She drove again to the beach cottage,

  There was a police car at the curb.- It startled her and then there came quick surging hope. They'd brought Con home. They didn't keep a man in jail interminably for questioning.

  Vinnie was at the wheel reading the funny paper. She called, "Good morning," and he saw her.

  He said, "Morning, ma'am, Pa's up there looking for you." He didn't say anything about Con.

  She climbed the steps to the porch. Captain Thusby was leaning against the railing, looking out at the sea. He said, "Morning, Mrs. Satterlee. I was looking for you."

  She felt that he might have been looking for her indoors if she hadn't arrived when she did. She put her key in the door.

  "You're out early this morning seems like."

  She said, "Yes, I had business." She wouldn't tell him, not until she'd talked with Sergei, not until she told Con first. The captain was not her ally.

  He followed her into the house. She made her voice carefree, "You didn't bring Con with you?"

  "No'm, I didn't. Not this morning." He sounded ashamed of himself. "I sort of wanted to run through his things if you don't mind. There's something he told me—" His voice dwindled.

  She motioned to the bedroom. "Go right ahead, Captain." She didn't mind what he did today. The information she was withholding gave her secret jubilance. She was on the right track: he couldn't hurt Con now. And he wouldn't run across her revolver and wonder. She'd hidden it under a seat cushion of the couch.

  He pegged into the bedroom and she lighted a cigarette. She didn't have any doubt that Con would be released by nightfall. But the captain returned, his face sober-limned. He said, "I can't find them."

  "Find what?"

  His gnarled hands were empty. "Those shells, ma'am. From her gun. He says they're here."

  She jumped from the couch. "They must be there!" From his look she knew it was essential they be. She-ran into the bedroom, began tearing apart the drawer. He followed her, searching systematically after her upheaval.

  The telephone rang. She cried, "Wait a minute," and hurried to answer. It was Sergei, now at the wrong moment. She hadn't time to be diplomatic, to make her voice other than worried. She demanded, "Meet me for lunch at twelve at the Hilton."

  He tried to say, "But Griselda, I've promised—"

  She cut him off. "I'm busy now. Can't talk. Be-there." She rang off before he could say more.

  Captain Thusby raised eyebrows at her but he didn't ask. Together they searched. They were without success. It was in hopelessness that she sank on the couch again. Another mark against Con, another mistake.

  She insisted stubbornly, "There were six of them. That night there were. He showed me." She could see them on the bureau scarf the next morning. She said dully. "I'd like to see Con. Is that permitted?"

  He thrust his still empty hands into his pockets. "Any time you say. This afternoon?"

  She kept her voice steady, "I don't want to see him in a cage."

  His face was red and shiny as a tomato. He mopped the bald spot with his hand. He boomed, "You come down, Mrs. Satterlee, and I'll fix things up for you. Right in my private office. Fix you right up."

  She tagged after him to the door.

  "If you like Vinnie can come out and get you, drive you down. He's not very busy."

  She smiled. "Thank you very much but I'll be in town anyway. I've a luncheon date." He knew that; he didn't know with whom.

  She watched him away, returned to the bureau for another helplessly futile search. Six shells couldn't just walk away—but her hands stilled. Chang had been in this room; he had been in this, Con's drawer, last night. He must have taken them. Her heart was sick within her. They hadn't been mislaid; they had been stolen deliberately to throw more seeming guilt on Con. And with more sickness there came realization of another possibility. She hadn't gone into the bedroom at first with Thusby. He could have taken the missing shells himself to complete his frame. Had there been more rattle than his wooden leg would make when he pushed himself up from the chair? There was only he or Chang to suspect. One of those two had the shells. Con might have a hunch which one; if it were Chang something could be done. If it weren't—her mouth quivered. Other innocent men had been railroaded, even without the encouragement of the X chieftain.

  She couldn't stay quiet. She straightened the drawers, replaced them and changed for luck. The white knit Con liked, the swashbuckling white pirate's hat. The reddest red for her mouth. She would appear gay, not disturbed; no one would know it was no more than a Hollywood makeup. She had as yet a half hour to fritter; she drove to the hotel, parked, and strolled on Ocean until twelve, buying for Con: cigarettes, carton; pipe tobacco, pound; magazines, pulps to slicks; newspapers, coast to coast; and what he must be missing, a quart. She didn't know if the latter would be allowed but she would attempt
to give it to him. Not that he wouldn't be better off without it but it would help him pass the time. She put down ruthlessly the suggestion that her purchases seemed for a man to be away longer than Con would be. A couple of days in custody would seem long: he'd like a few minor comforts.

  Sergei wasn't in the lobby. Five and ten minutes passed; he might have been stating fact not trying to avoid her when he'd suggested he couldn't make it. There could be a message for her at the desk. Before she could move to ask- Kew and Kathie Travis saw her. She wouldn't allow them to intrude on this luncheon date.

  Kew asked, "What are you doing here. Griselda?" He didn't wait for answer. "Will you join us for lunch?"

  She said, "No," and saw the first tolerance of her on Kathie's face. Kathie didn't want to share him. "Sorry but I've a date."

  Kathie wasn't deft. She put her hand on Kew's beautifully tailored gray flannel coat sleeve. "We might as well go eat then." Her hand remained on the gray as if she believed it belonged there. Obviously she didn't know Kew well.

  He didn't move. "Any more news of Con?"

  She shook her head briefly. She wouldn't tell him of Thusby's discovery before an outsider. But her eyes tried to convey more than her words. "Nothing that won't keep."

  Kathie edged closer to him. "I was sorry to learn of your husband's arrest." Her voice was too soft. "I know he had nothing to do with it. Not a man like Con." Something special in her great eyes always for a man.

  "Technically it isn't an arrest, Mrs. Travis." Deliberately because she neither liked nor trusted this girl, she added, "I'll see you later, Kew."

  He nodded, "I'll phone." Kathie's mouth was a rim.

  Sergei must have been hiding behind a pillar waiting until the elevator closed on the others. He was taking a new part today, more Hollywood, more natural. "It's so good you should waste your time on poor Vironova. I have been lonesome, yes, for a friendly face in this Long Beach. No one I know here. No one to talk with." His hand waved like a wand. "We shall have lunch now. Yes?"

  He jerked toward the exit but she stated, "We might as well eat in the Sky Room."

  His lip quivered. "It is up too high. It upsets the stomach."

  She looked into his eyes. "You needn't worry about Kew or Mrs. Travis bothering us. She'll see to that."

  He agreed miserably, "All right. I go." He retained wariness.

  She maneuvered the headwaiter to a table far from the others, safe as possible from ears that might prick. She didn't begin on Sergei until the order was taken. He might have been lulled into security but he clicked to alertness when she opened bluntly, "Why did you come to Long Beach?"

  "Why do I come to Long Beach? Why do I come to Long Beach?" He was stammering for time to evolve an acceptable answer. "It is for rest." He could see that wasn't going well. "For research." He jabbed his finger upward into the air. "For research, yes. To do a grrreat picture on the Navy. Yes. On the Navy."

  She let him elaborate before she spoke again with knowledge and decision, "You came to Long Beach because Shelley Huffaker was murdered."

  His mouth was a static O.

  She said, "I called Oppy this morning."

  His eyes flicked with nervousness. He wet his lips.

  "Why have you kept quiet? Why did you let my husband be taken in by the police while you said nothing?"

  His voice was muted. "The police, they know this."

  "The police know?" She was incredulous.

  He bobbed his head. "Already I have talked with the police. They have been seeking me in Hollywood. But they do not want me. I was not here when she is murdered."

  She knew that his alibi was real. "She was your— good friend?"

  "Yes. For three years, yes. I have the good friends more beautiful, perhaps, and more—" He tapped his beret. "But none who knows so many people. She is smart. Even if she do not have the right brain." His breath expelled like wind. "She is dead now."

  Griselda repeated, "Why did you come to Long Beach?"

  He waited until the waiter had placed the bouillon.

  He looked cautiously over one shoulder and then the other before speaking. "I will tell you that. I come because I am curious." His face was peaked as a goblin's. "I am curious to know who killed Shelley and why did they do this." If he spoke truth, and she believed he did. their purpose seemed identical. He attacked the soup sibilantly. "She did not come to be killed," he announced without interest.

  She leaned across the table quickly. "Why did she come?"

  His head wagged sadly. "That I do not know, Griselda. She do not tell me that. She say she wish to drive down the coast. I am at the studio so perturbed over the big scene. The chauffeur come to me and say Miss Huffaker will stay in Long Beach a few days to see the good friend. She tell him to go home; she will telephone him when to come back to her. To me. she tell nothing." He souped. "But she knew she would stay. She had taken the bag with her."

  "Did you know she had a gun with her?"

  "No. It was my gun. She borrow it. That is how the police look for me. They trace the gun and then they look for me." His whole attitude was that of nothing to hide but he was nervous. Even as he ravished the food he was casting his eyes, scarcely restraining the urge to peer behind him.

  If only he knew why Shelley had come. He could know even if the girl hadn't told him. He could have pieced it together from living with her. He was shrewd; he wouldn't tell Griselda anything important, anything that the police didn't know. He was cognizant of the fact that she was searching for any and all outlets for her husband's safety. She knew now that she wasn't going to find out much here.

  But she asked, "Who was the good friend?"

  He shrugged. "It must be Mrs. Crandall, yes? I do not think Shelley go to Long Beach to see Mr. Brent. She could see him in Hollywood. He is much in Hollywood."

  Kew hadn't said he'd known Shelley before. He had implicitly denied it. She couldn't believe. "Was she a friend of his?"

  "Oh my, yes." He seemed well pleased. "I tell you she know the important people? When we meet him at the Hollywood party she say, 'Don't tell me, let me guess.' " He tittered. "Jokey always she was."

  She pressed it. "Had she known him in New York?"

  "But necessarily. Or when they meet in Hollywood—"

  She wasn't certain. She knew the Shelley Huffakers, insinuating friendships; remembering faint occasions that others had long forgotten. She asked, "What about Major Pembrooke?"

  His mouth snapped. "She did not know Major Pembrooke." His eyes were curtained. That subject was stamped taboo.

  "Sergei, whom did she come here to kill?"

  He spread his fingers. "She do not come to kill."

  She said, "I suppose she carried a loaded revolver to do a little duck-hunting along the way."

  He looked carefully all about again. "Maybe she was afraid somebody would kill her." He added simply, "And so they did."

  Griselda hadn't thought of the gun as self-protection for Shelley. She might have been afraid of an old friend, or of a new one that Sergei didn't know or wasn't speaking about. She switched abruptly on him. "What about Mannie Martin?"

  His lizard eyes were terrified.

  "I know nothing of him. Nothing I beg of you."

  "You seemed to Saturday."

  "Nothing I tell you. I know nothing."

  "Where did your information come from?"

  He tried not to show fear but it was still staring out of his eyes. "I hear nothing. Maybe someone say. I do not know. Maybe I read in the newspaper—"

  He hadn't been afraid this way at Catalina. Something had happened to him during the intervening hours.

  He fluted hysterically, "I do not know. I do not know nothing."

  It was unfair to pursue someone as weak as this. But it was necessary. It was for Con. She made her voice strong. "Why were you watching me at the Terminal Saturday? Why did you miss your boat and fly across? To get there first. You wanted to meet Con. Why?"

  He was shaking as with palsy wh
ile she spoke. His eyes were almost popping out of his face. He kept cramming more and more of the torte in his mouth until crumbs were patterning his chin. When she halted he washed the mouthful down with a gulp of coffee and was on his feet. "I forget. I must take someone to lunch. It is a lady. You do not know her. We will meet again."

  He was gone. She didn't try to stop his flight. When they met again she would do better with him. He could not hold out for long; no one as terror-weakened would have the ability to resist. Moreover, Kew, or Con when he was released, could put on the pressure better than she.

  "Your companion rushed off in a surprising hurry."

  She knew who it was without turning. The amusement in the words was cold as rain. And that cold was transferred into her veins as he came in front of her.

  She attempted in her manner of answering to convey her will that this would complete their conversation, as well as her belief that it was none of his business. "He had a luncheon date."

  The ludicrousness of the picture of Sergei rushing off for further lunch with his mouth practically full and the overflow on his chin must have touched some human strain in the major. He actually chuckled, a real not simulated sound. She didn't laugh; in his presence there could be no normal reaction save fear.

  He said, "Mind if I sit down?" and took the empty chair. He hadn't been in the dining room when they arrived nor had 'she seen him enter during their luncheon. But Sergei might have watched his approach, that would be the cause of the director's fright. She couldn't rebuff him again; she didn't want him to know how much she feared him. She could retain some strength with which to fight him if he did not know.

  He continued, "Perhaps it is a new Hollywood idea he is introducing, two luncheons a day. A reaction to the overdieting which has gone on there. But he didn't look hungry."

  "He'd forgotten a previous luncheon engagement." She tried to speak normally; if she didn't think about him, it wasn't too difficult.