The Bamboo Blonde

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  He asked, "May I order you a liqueur?"

  "If you please. Cointreau."

  He summoned the waiter, gave the order, and smiled at her. But the smile was false. After that momentary lapse, he had returned to his emotionless norm. "I am sorry that you and your husband left our party Saturday night. We had a pleasant cruise. Mr. Brent and his little friend were delightful companions."

  She was casual. "Kew told me you had the party flown back. Do you keep a plane as well as a boat, Major?"

  The softness of his voice was frightening, "One is available to me. I find Catalina extremely hospitable. But America is such a hospitable country."

  "Sergei was not of your party?"

  "No. Unfortunately he had pressing business on Sunday. We set him ashore shortly after you left."

  Her eyes blurred. It must have been Sergei who had been receiving the brunt of that stateroom conversation. No wonder he feared.

  He said, "We'll cruise again whenever you wish, Mrs. Satterlee. The Falcon is at your disposal."

  She lied, wishing it were true, "I'm afraid it won't be possible for us to have that pleasure. We can't stay much longer. I have a job in Hollywood and my husband must go where he is assigned. His vacation is only for a month; almost three weeks of that have already slipped away."

  His face was a mask now. "He has been released?"

  The careful casualness went from both of them. He had joined her with a purpose in mind; he was moving toward it. He would move wisely but not slowly; he would crush.

  She answered, "Not yet. But the charge is ridiculous." She added firmly, "I am seeing him this afternoon."

  Con was not incommunicado; Major Pembrooke need not think she was unprotected.

  He said, "Murder is a serious affair."

  "He did not murder anyone. I told you the charge was ridiculous. He didn't know this girl."

  "No?"

  "No! He'd never even seen her until he offered to take her home that evening. She needed help."

  "Quixotic." He made the word a blot.

  "Or civilized." Albert George might be British but his viewpoint was something else. There was no doubting that. She hated him as much as she feared him. She wanted to get away. But he was not releasing her.

  He said, "Yes," as if civilized ideas were as stupid as Con's picking up Shelley Huffaker that night had been.

  She hated him and the hatred allowed her without trepidation to ask what she wanted to find out, "Did you know Shelley Huffaker?"

  "I?"

  "Did you?"

  "My dear child, no!" He was amused as well as emphatic. "How could you think I would know her?"

  She said, "You were in the Bamboo Bar that night."

  He replied evenly, "I was anchored off Catalina long before the murder took place, having a drink with Mrs. Crandall and the Swales."

  With a plane available. She hung on stubbornly. It would solve things if he had killed Shelley. And he was certainly capable of doing it. "You had heard of her. You knew she was Dare's guest."

  He smiled. "Dare did not mention her guest until the police telephoned the evil news to her."

  He was granite. But he had considered an alibi. It was presented without asking and had doubled its value by adding the witnesses' names. And he couldn't remove the available plane from the picture.

  She posed another question, "Did you know Vironova before?"

  "No." His lip curled. "I'm afraid I don't care for that sort. I don't quite understand how he became one of our party, particularly since both Mrs. Travis and Mr. Brent later disclaimed all responsibility for him."

  She made her voice pertinent, "Do you understand why he joined the party, Major Pembrooke?"

  His eyes held hers. "Perhaps he wished certain information. Russia is extremely interested in what your country and mine will do in the East."

  Without reasoning she rose to the protection of Sergei. "But he's not a Russian. I mean not in that way. He's been over here for years. He's a movie director not a politician."

  He asked coolly, "Are you certain, Mrs. Satterlee?"

  She couldn't in all honesty answer yet. But she had to protect Sergei if possible from this man. He was too weak to be pitted against this adversary. She spoke with seeming conviction, "Certainly I know that. I've worked with him at the studio. I doubt if he's even sympathetic to the new Russian policy." He had been a supporter of Communism. The art in his propaganda films was what led Oppy to import him from Moscow. But she seemed to remember that he had publicly broken away when Russia invaded Finland. She repeated, "I doubt it very much. He's no spy." She had wanted to avoid that word in Pembrooke's presence but it came out. "He's an artist."

  He seemed to be laughing at her. "The two are not incongruous. The business of spies does not interest you, does it, Mrs. Satterlee?" There was impact behind the laughter.

  She said quickly. "No, of course not." She was ashamed of her nervousness.

  "Nor interest your husband." His stone eyes belied his conversational tone.

  "Why should it?" Her laugh was artificial. "That isn't his business. He's only a reporter, for the air not the press. All he ever wants is a story—" She broke off at the solidifying of menace in those eyes. She had said the wrong thing.

  He didn't overlook it. He was quiet. "He does not go prying after stories. He would not employ information which does not belong to him. He is not what you call a crusading reporter, not in these dangerous times?"

  She wasn't allowed to speak, to deny that Con ever had any interest in uncovering a story, to assure this man that he spoke on the air only what was written for him. Any and all lies to divert Major Pembrooke's, attention from Con.

  His teeth were sharp. "I am certain that Mr. Satterlee is shrewd. He would not have attained the unique position he has on the air waves if he were as foolhardy as so many reporters." He spoke with grisly quietness. "Some you hear of—they are like rockets, one blaze and where are they? Perhaps cadging drinks in some third-rate bar, perhaps in a sanatorium 'resting.' perhaps they are not seen again. I have known many reporters. I respect the newspaper profession in its proper place."

  She had gathered her bag while he spoke; she wasn't staying here longer. But her very fear generated a last flung banner of courage. Her hands pressed flat on the table. "And what is your profession, Major Pembrooke?" she demanded quietly.

  His eyes met hers. He kept her waiting as if he were considering what answer to extract from a well-filled dossier. He lighted his cigar insolently. He was laughing at her. "I am—" His lips baited her. "I am a spy."

  She was already half out of her chair and she didn't hesitate longer. She didn't look back at him as she crossed to the door, overpaid the headwaiter, hastened to the elevator. If you called yourself an English officer and were a spy—you couldn't be spying for Britain. She pressed the button a second time without realization, stood there shivering as if winter had suddenly come upon Long Beach.

  CHAPTER 6

  Con didn't resemble in any respect a man locked in jail. He sat tilted back in Thusby's own chair, waving a cigarette, grinning all over his horsey face. He said, "This is a hell of a honeymoon."

  "I've known that a long time."

  "And you never told me! I always say the husband is the last to know."

  She had moved to the desk as soon as the captain pegged out of his private office. She sat there above Con, as near as possible. She wasn't jittery now. Luncheon hour seemed long ago and utterly fantastic.

  He was shaven, and cleaned and pressed better than usual. Chang must have packed well. There was so much she wanted to ask, so much she wanted to tell, but she didn't know how safe it might be. Thusby might be given to dictaphones or keyholes. She patted Con's lapel. "You look lovely, darling. Who's your valet? The same one who packed your bags?"

  There was only the slightest shading crossed his face. He said, "You're a good little wife sending me all this stuff. Didn't fool me a bit. You wanted me to be dressed up when I was mugged
, didn't you?"

  "That's right." She accepted the warning. She'd let him set the key of the conversation. "You so seldom do. you know. And I didn't want you looking like a passport in the postoffices all over the country. What would your friends think?"

  "Unprintable epithets as usual. I can't repeat them. You're too young." He dropped ashes on the floor. "What you doing with yourself these days?"

  That was a keyed question, spoken unconcernedly but a look went with it.

  She sounded casual, "Keeping amused. Kew came by this morning. He'd just heard the news of you and simply refused to believe it."

  "Good old loyal Kew," he murmured, blowing smoke at the captain's ink-spattered penholder. "Probably out shopping now for the proper duds to wear at the arraignment. The I'd-rather-be-dressed-right-than-President boy."

  She reprimanded. "You're never fair to him." She couldn't tell him Kew was helping her, not outright. She hoped he might guess. "We conferred a bit this morning, we're going to have another conference tonight."

  "When the husband's away the Kews will play. He takes his cue—if I had time I'd think up a pun. That all?"

  "No. I had lunch with Sergei Vironova." This she could say; the police knew. "Shelley Huffaker was his mistress."

  "Yeah." He knew it then too. "What did he spill?"

  "You want it all? Now?"

  He nodded without hesitation.

  But she kept her voice muted. "It occurred to me this morning. I don't know why I've been so obtuse. I suppose you knew it all along."

  "Not quite. Matter of fact it didn't occur to me until I was shaving at the St. Catherine before we left Sunday afternoon. Always get my best ideas shaving."

  "You should shave more often, dear."

  He put his teeth on her knuckle. "I was figuring how maybe this was a personal murder not political —and Vironova fits."

  "He has a solid alibi. He was on the lot all that night. He says he's here to find out who and why. He seems more curious than heartbroken. I suppose he has a waiting list."

  "Sounds like a good idea," he allowed absently.

  She struck at him lightly and lowered her voice further, "He is scared green of something, Con. He ran out on me at lunch when I started popping questions. Said he had a date."

  "Scared?" He was trying to figure it out. "Does he think the murderer is out for him too?"

  "I don't believe so." Logically he should. The murderer wouldn't know how much Sergei knew about Shelley Huffaker's life, how much she had revealed to him of the reason why she was killed. She hadn't been murdered for her money or her jewels; it wasn't a discarded suitor if she'd been living with Sergei for three years; it must have been for some knowledge she possessed, something that threatened someone else. Anyone would suspect that Sergei wasn't entirely outside her confidence. And yet" He seemed quite at ease in his role as sleuth. It was the mention of Mannie Martin that started the jitters, more than jitters, Con. He was terrified." Was it because he'd seen Major Pembrooke?

  He scowled again.

  She concluded with an ease she didn't feel. "After he ran out on me I finished lunch with Albert George Pembrooke."

  Con came to life on that. "You what?" He shouted it. "Where did he pop from?"

  "The bar, I think." Her voice was a blur, "I don't like him. He—he disturbs me."

  "Then what the hell were you doing lunching with him?"

  "He joined me. I couldn't help it. Finally I ran out on him." In as sheer funk as Sergei had run. She knew it now. Major Pembrooke had known it then; he had believed that he had frightened her into quiescence. He'd even been amused by his success. She set her chin. He didn't know her; he would learn.

  Con said, "What are you deciding now, angel?" There was genuine concern underlying the words.

  "Nothing. I was just thinking."

  "Of Albert George." He laid his hand on her knee. "Lay off him, Griselda. He's poison."

  "He's poison to me."

  "You're not smart enough to play his game. You don't have enough blue chips. I'm telling you. lay off. Let someone his size sit in." His words were a definite order. "You—lay—off."

  She leaned over and kissed his worried forehead. "All right, sweetheart." But if she had an opportunity to show him up she would do it. He couldn't make her scurry like a rabbit and then laugh at her. You didn't always have to be the same size as your adversary. Little David had done pretty well with a pebble.

  "What did he want? Weakness for beautiful blondes?"

  She spoke solemnly, "He wanted to tell me that reporters who meddle in business that doesn't concern them end up as bar-bums or seeking a cure or on the missing persons list."

  She waited until he finished cursing and asked,

  "Did he have any more tender messages for yours truly?"

  "No. That was all." She added, "He told me he was a spy."

  "My God!" He left his mouth open.

  "I asked him what he did and he said he was a spy."

  He repeated softly, "My God! He must have a sense of humor. Not that we didn't know it—but it can't be proved yet."

  "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.

  "There are some things I can't tell even you," he said, and she thought to herself, "Some things! Practically everything!" but she didn't say it out loud. Con went on, "Wouldn't the higher-ups like to catch him admitting it!"

  She was eager. "Could I do any good?"

  "No. He'd deny saying it and prove he wasn't. You're to stay out of this."

  "Con." How could he continue in his idiocy? "You keep saying that just as if I weren't in it to the teeth."

  "What do you mean you're in it?"

  "What do you think? You're in custody. I'm your wife, in case you've forgotten." Saying it made her realize her danger. The true murderer would be watching her, waiting to see if she uncovered information favorable to Con, unfavorable to himself. Major Pembrooke had already made it clear that his dealings with Con would be conducted through her. Doubtless there were others who would work through her. She controlled her voice, "I'm—I'm closed in tight on it."

  He was solemn. "Not if you're a good girl and do as I say."

  She was slightly irritated. "And what do you say now?"

  “All I ask is that you play house and remain uncurious." He was pleading beneath jauntiness. "I told you before, if you don't know anything, no one can hurt you."

  He was so wrong. It wasn't true. She could be in stark danger from what she would be presumed to know.

  Her irritation flared. "You mean play house in that splendid mansion by the sea?"

  "Exactly that. And remember what I asked you before. Be as dumb as you're not. Try to he dumb, baby."

  She smiled suddenly at him. "I'm very dumb, darling. If-I weren't, do you think I'd let you treat me like a case of mental deficiency?"

  He kissed her without warning and with decision. "Be good, Griselda, and let who will be sleuths. Go easy on the conferences. Will you?"

  She didn't answer. She patted his ears. "Do you know who killed Shelley Huffaker? And why?"

  "No. I don't know where she fits at all."

  "She wasn't spying on Mannie Martin for Sergei?"

  His mouth was lean. "You're thinking too much. But if it will help you to take my advice, she wasn't so far as anyone knows conscious of the fact that Mannie Martin was anything but a rich exec who went for glamour girls. She wasn't a spy. And that's why it doesn't make sense. Now will you be good?"

  She kissed him three times. "I will. If you'll come home in a day or two." She slid from the desk. "But if anyone—even your precious Garth—tries to pin this Huffaker thing anywhere near you, I'll find out the who and the why." She put her hand over his mouth. "You needn't waste your breath, my sweet. If that girl wasn't mixed up with Pan-Pacific, there'll be no danger for me." She went on without breath.

  "I know your worry for me is some way concerned with that, with the information which was lost with Mannie. I don't know about it. I don't want to. I don'
t want to have anything to do with that." She shivered suddenly. She didn't want anything to do with anything that meant contact with Albert George Pembrooke. "But, my darling, if you think I'm going to let you be railroaded on the murder of a Hollywood bim, you're just not smart."

  He held her by her elbows. "Griselda, I'm not going to be railroaded on anything. Will you kindly give up and stop worrying? I'm one-hundred-per-cent safe and sound and sane and I shall continue to be." He spoke in dead seriousness. "If you'll only promise to stay out no matter what ideas you may develop, then everything will be okay and we'll have that honeymoon and—"

  The door opened to Captain Thusby's sheepish moon face.

  Con said, "Well, Commodore?"

  "Sorry to rush you but you've got another visitor getting sort of restless."

  "Not at all." He gave Griselda a husbandly kiss. "Thanks for the hacksaw and the files, darling. I'll be home soon." Under his breath and with his eyes deep, he added, "Please do as I ask."

  She nodded, her smile bright, but Con hadn't changed her decision. If Captain Thusby didn't send him home by tomorrow, she would continue her own investigations with redoubled effort.

  Entering the dreary cottage, she remembered one investigation she had to make. Go through Con's pockets.

  She had no doubt that the cottage had been entered to gain possession of that letter. Even now someone might be watching: she jerked her head quickly but there was no one on the porch. She needn't be afraid to search her own quarters. She raised the couch cushion and she stood staring, staring at little rolls of dust, broken peanut shells, a paper clip.

  It had been Chang's gun; he must have returned for it. That was fair. But it had been hidden; he couldn't have found it easily; he would have had to search. Her heart thudded noisily. Her own search might be too late. She moved with rapidity now, made fast the front door, rumbled a heavy over-stuffed chair against it for greater security. She didn't want to be surprised by anyone at this. The kitchen door was secure, and, feeling a little foolish, she tilted a chair under the knob.

  She went to the bedroom. What suit had he been attached to in Hollywood? The navy serge with the dim red pin-stripe, the one that made him look too thin. It had been her weariness with that wintry suit that had made her heckle him into buying the camel's-hair jacket in Beverly.