The Bamboo Blonde

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  She found it. She went through the file of soiled scribbled-over envelopes and she found it. Tucked into the unpaid bill from the Madison and Fifty-fourth dispensary. He'd made that much effort to hide it.

  It was important but it wasn't dangerous. It was dated Thursday, June fifth, four days before Mannie Martin disappeared. Sent air mail it would have reached Con in time, had he been in New York not Hollywood. She deciphered the scrawled handwriting with care.

  Dear Con:

  I'm on the trail of something big, too big for me. Could you wire Garth to lend a hand? He's here but impossible to get to. Better yet grab a plane and join me. It'll be a Pulitzer for you. I have all the dope. I'll wait to hear from you.

  There was a postscript:

  The poor fish hasn't caught on but he's responsible for a lot.

  The postscript she didn't understand. Who was the poor fish? Not Garth. Pembrooke? Kew? Poor distressed Sergei? Or Mannie himself?

  She read the letter again with relief. Obviously Con did not have the documents that Pembrooke wanted. Mannie hadn't heard from Con, and after four days he hadn't waited longer to hear from him. He'd gone ahead on the trail, ahead to oblivion.

  She replaced the letter where it had been. It couldn't endanger Con to have someone else find it; it might help if Pembrooke could discover how little Con knew of his affairs. She'd like to tell the major herself how wrong his assumptions were. But even if she had the courage to seek him out, would he believe her? And she couldn't be certain that Con hadn't involved himself since their arrival here.

  Kew telephoned at six. "I'll be delayed about an hour. And what do you say we drive down to Laguna, have dinner at Victor Hugo's?"

  She was pleased at the idea of leaving Long Beach behind for a few hours. It wasn't a sinister town; it was a solid, law-abiding, friendly place where families lived and other families came with their children for a summer vacation. But she was afraid of it now. She wanted desperately to get away. Every creak of the cottage in wind and tide quivered her nerves as she dressed, wishing the smoky chiffon printed with pale golden poppies were for Con not Kew. Not that Kew would not appreciate it—and the black horsehair full moon of her hat—far more than Con. The only thing Con ever noticed on a woman was a bathing suit or a nightgown.

  It was past seven-thirty before Kew arrived. He said, "I telephoned. We'll be served no matter the hour. I couldn't get here earlier. Washington had me on the wire." His face was set with anxiety but he erased it as he said, "You're exquisite, Griselda. I wish we were ten thousand miles from California."

  "And I."

  There was a moon but the mist was already rolling up an obscuring fog. They drove down the beach road.

  "Tedious day?"

  "Yes. Let's save shop talk until after we've had dinner. I could do with forgetting it a little. Couldn't you?"

  "Rather." Yet she wasn't disheartened as she had been earlier. It might be leaving the Navy town behind; it might be the harmless letter; it might be in recalling Con's optimism. Con wasn't worried; why should she be? He hadn't even mentioned the missing shells. They couldn't be important as she had thought.

  There was comfort in dining with no familiar faces identifying the landscape. After dinner they moved to the cliff garden overhanging the moon-veiled sea. There was peace here but it was necessary to shatter it, to find out what progress Kew had made.

  He sighed. "Kathie is no help at all. I called it naiveté once, I recall, but it's nothing but sheer stupidity. Unbelievable, because you can't realize that anyone can be as unconscious and still function. She's like an animated doll."

  She asked him then. "Did you know Shelley, Kew?"

  "No. I told you that."

  "Sergei said that you did." His look was swift. "She lived with him." She repeated the director's incident.

  Ken was searching memory. "Perhaps I did run into her in Hollywood. I can't remember. You meet so many of the type. You know."

  She agreed. "That's how I figured it. She might have met you in New York and considered it a friendship. That type again."

  Kew said, "I can only just recall meeting Vironova. Although he greeted me at the St. Catherine as if we were old friends. How did you happen to lunch with him?"

  "I figured he might be the man in Shelley's life and I checked. He has a perfect alibi for the murder. He's doing exactly what we are, Kew, trying to find out about it." She asked, "Do you think the whole thing is tied up with Mannie Martin?"

  His mouth was firm. "I don't know. I do believe that Mannie found out something that meant curtains." He was suddenly not at ease and he spoke as softly as if there were listeners on the terrace, "I learned today that Pembrooke came here direct from Tokio. Vironova must be in it for Russia, if he's in. There's no division of purpose at this time. It Pembrooke and Vironova were on different sides, Shelley might well be some minor tool that fell by the wayside. But it doesn't make sense this way."

  She demanded fiercely then, "Who is Pembrooke really representing. Kew?"

  "I don't know."

  Her heart sank. "You don't know?" Kew knew everything.

  "I'd like to know."

  She saw his face in the moonlight. She accused him, "You knew Pembrooke before."

  "I met him in Washington."

  "Before that." She was certain.

  He spoke softly after a moment, "A lot of the boys are back home, Griselda. Some have been kicked out for filing too much; some have been hauled back before the kickoff. They're full of yarns. I heard of a man, top of his field, one who always plays, the highest bidder, and who is sure to be on hand whenever there's a really delicate job to be handled. This man was in Rumania before Carol's last abdication. He commuted between Berlin and Moscow before the pact was signed. He was in Spain before Franco made a move, in London before Munich. He's no secret. But he changes bosses too often to keep track of who the current one is."

  She didn't say anything.

  "I don't even know his name. But I do know there are important foreign agents on the coast. Garth wouldn't have been here otherwise. And I do know that some nations would prefer that the proposed Pan-Pacific network not go through."

  It gave the major a motive for the disappearance. If England believed he was working for her, he could sabotage, without suspicion falling on him. Martin would not return. And if Con came too close to the truth, he, too, would vanish. She clenched her hands.

  Kew asked quietly, "When is Garth due back?"

  "I don't know." If Garth hadn't sold Con out she'd wish he would return. He could help if he were on their side. She shook her head impatiently. Con would be home in a day or two and she would insist they leave Long Beach. He certainly wouldn't be helping Garth out any longer, not after what had been done to him.

  Kew was tensed, chain-smoking from the white plastic case. Suddenly he spoke, "Has Con ever given you a hint as to what Mannie found out, Griselda?"

  She opened. her eyes wide at him. "He doesn't know. Kew. He didn't see Mannie."

  Kew came over from his chair with suddenness.

  "He must know, Griselda. The letter. And Con hasn't forgotten what was in it. No one believes that."

  She said then, "I've read the letter."

  He didn't move.

  "I found it. It didn't tell Con a thing."

  He loomed above her. "What did it say?"

  She repeated as she remembered. She flung out her hands. "There's nothing harmful in that, is there?"

  He didn't answer and she didn't like his eyes. She asked a little frantically, "Is there?"

  He said, "Nothing. Save that it links Con definitely with Mannie on this. And it states implicitly that Con is Number One with Garth."

  She hadn't thought of it that way.

  He caught her hands suddenly. "For God's sake. Griselda, for his sake and yours, make Con go back to New York as soon as Thusby sends him home. Will you do that?" Intensity solidified his face.

  She was frightened. She whispered, "Kew.' What do you
mean? What do you know?"

  He looked around slowly at the deserted terrace. If he hadn't been a big man she would have believed he was trembling. He said, "Let's start back to town. I want you to get rid of that letter tonight, before it's too late." He was visibly frightened, the way that Sergei had been. It wasn't by accident that he examined the rumble seat before starting on their way.

  She had to ask again as they began the drive slowly through the thickness of the fog, "What do you know, Kew?"

  "I know Con's life is in danger, Griselda, if he stays on here."

  Maybe she had been wrong; maybe Garth had had him taken into custody to protect him until the secret-service chief could return from the high seas.

  "How do you know that?"

  He seemed reluctant to speak, as if he feared that even here on the highway his words might be overheard. "Major Pembrooke is a ruthless man. Griselda. He won't fail. He will never fail because he will never let anything or anyone stand in his way. Particularly he won't let one of Garth's men stand in his way. Forget what I'm saying. I'll deny it for self-protection if it is repeated."

  She spoke in fear, "You do know Pembrooke, Kew."

  "Too well. He's threatened Con. But he hasn't been sure Con was working for Garth; the arrest made him doubt. If he should have proof—Con had better get out."

  She was chilled to the bone. "What happened on the yacht after we left. Kew?" Had he been the man in the stateroom; had there been further threats?

  He said, "It was utterly normal."

  "He put Sergei ashore."

  "Sergei wanted to leave. Right after you did. He said he had pressing business. He told us that, with his face the color of moldy cheese and Pembrooke watching him like an eighteenth-century sadist." He added, "I wanted to shove off myself but I couldn't leave Kathie there unprotected. And Albeit George wanted Kathie on board."

  She asked quickly, "Why?"

  "I've told you he isn't a man that misses. She's an important element. Walker could have those documents and furthermore could keep them till hell freezes over. You can't search a battleship. Moreover, Walker is one person who could know their contents without possessing them. He is an ever-present danger to Pembrooke."

  "But Kathie knows nothing." That was obvious.

  "She could find out." His hands were clenching the wheel. "She's stupid as hell and Pembrooke is smarter than Lucifer. He could maneuver her into a position where she would be forced to find out what Walker knows, and sell him out." He added too quietly, "Or to deliver her husband into the major's hands. That's why I'm keeping my eye on her."

  She thought aloud with sudden horror, "Dare. Do you think he's using Dare that way?" Dare to get information from Con. To deliver Con. Because she could do what she would with him. She meant that much to him; he would never be able to see her as a potential enemy, even if he were warned.

  He said slowly, "I don't think so. I don't know exactly what Dare's doing with him. Maybe she's looking for business. She's strapped—and stubborn as hell." There was a bitterness in his conclusion and she looked at him curiously.

  He seemed to sense the turn of her head. He said, "It's no secret. I've been trying for years to get her to marry me. But I'm not her type evidently. I suppose she's—" He hesitated. "I suppose she's still torch-carrying for that rotten Crandall."

  She wasn't. She'd never loved Crandall. She married him because she couldn't have Con. She was still holding out for Con. She'd never get him.

  "I could help her out, at least I could give her a comfortable life. And I'm not actually repulsive to her." He did break off now decisively. laughed, a short sound. "Kew Brent bares his heart. Forgive and forget. I'm shaky tonight."

  He turned the car toward the ocean front and it occurred to her. She clutched his arm. "Kew!"

  He swerved almost onto the curb. She was frightened at his lack of nerves, frightened and without understanding. She said, "I'm sorry if I startled you. I just wanted to ask you something."

  He drove slowly. "Yes?"

  "Kew. you said that Kathie was important because she could get information from Walker. If Con already has that information, isn't he more important?"

  They were in sight of the cottage. He slowed the car to a crawl that his answer might be spoken before they were parked. "He is," he said. "Mannie told him in that letter where to go for it."

  She faltered, "I don't understand."

  He said. "The Navy in private refers to Travis as the poor fish. Knowing Kathie, you can understand why. There must have been previous correspondence between Mannie and Con."

  Garth had introduced the lieutenant to Con, left Con to act for him while he went fishing. Kew wouldn't be the only one that knew Con had been dealing with Walker. Major Pembrooke was thorough.

  "He can't have all the dope yet or the government would have acted. That's why I tell you to get him away from here the moment he is free. Take him away before he gets the whole story. Save his life."

  Silently she climbed with him up the steps to the dark cottage. His words had given her a dreadful fatalism that couldn't be glossed over. It would be there until she could get Con away. She took the letter from the blue suit again, passed it to him without words. He read it before flaring his lighter, burning it to ash. He took his handkerchief, touched his forehead, warned, "Don't ever let anyone else know you read this. Don't let anyone know you even saw a letter."

  She stood at the door, heard his motor receding, leaving her alone with fear. She wanted to call after him, to beg him to stay. He couldn't hear her now if she shouted at the top of her lungs. She set her teeth hard. There were lights across the sand at the new neighbors'. It wouldn't hurt to go over there, look upon kindly faces, let them look upon her, know that she was alone and—not frightened, alone. It was early yet. She could make excuse, borrow a little coffee for her breakfast. The impulse was necessity. She took a chipped cup from the chipped cups in the kitchen cupboard, left the lights glowing, ran down the steps.

  The wind billowed her sheer black cape, flung back her hair, hatless now, as she made slow progress through the sifting sand. The whole idea seemed absurd before she was half across the waste. But with silly stubbornness she kept plowing on. She was out of breath when she reached the opposite porch. There was no answer to her knock. But someone was there; lights were behind the drawn blinds. She pounded now. The door opened an abrupt width. The woman she had seen earlier blocked it. She was big and square and her face was as rigid as soap.

  Griselda began brightly, "I saw your light—" but she faltered. It wasn't that there was no answering response in that face; it was that there was no response at all. And at that moment, the lighted blind was made dark.

  She tried to make her voice normal, to explain the reason she had evolved for intruding. But she was speaking to a void. And without warning the door was shut in her face.

  Her halting words gaped to silence. The cup fell into ghost shards at her feet. She turned to go but, incredulous, swerved back again. She must be certain: it could have been a whim of inhospitable wind.

  The door was a block of wood. The blind had moved. Who or what was peering at her from behind it? She stumbled to the warped steps. She couldn't run across the sand; it wasn't sand; it. was evil spongy hands pressing her heels backward into the creeping shadow of that strange cottage. The wind too was evil, twisting her golden hair across her eyes. Her breath came in whimpers as she struggled on to her own lights, a haven now.

  She shut the night outside, shut and locked it out with an insufficient key. She muted the radio, dance music was an anachronistic dream. She wanted Con. She wanted to feel the strength under his blue shirt, to listen to the strength under his flippancies. She had known that he was involved more deeply than he had told, in a matter far more dangerous than a girl's murder. He had been ordered to obtain the information Pembrooke wanted to suppress. When he had it complete, he would be killed even as Mannie .must have been killed. Garth was safe, vacationing on the sea. Trav
is was sale, guarded by the Navy, possessing but part of the knowledge; the postscript implied that. It was reckless Con on whom the major would converge.

  Weakly, she wanted to cry; if he didn't come soon she would cry. She couldn't go on alone. She could be brave about Albert George Pembrooke in Thusby's office with Con near but not in this unprotected beach house.

  She heard the rattling but the wind had given false alarm too often. She ignored it until it became staccato insistence. She went shivering to the door. No outer light to turn on, no hook on the screen to ascertain what menace was without. She called before opening, "Who is there?"

  "It's I."

  Dare edging in, holding the door closed as it pursuers were after her. Too many in this with shattered nerves, Dare, Kew shying at shadows, Sergei, even Con prowling and jittering until they locked him up. The incongruity was that none of them should have this reaction. It didn't fit any of them, it didn't match their customary range from cocksureness to arrogance.

  Dare's tweed Burberry was buttoned under her chin, the collar upturned to her checks. Her brown riding hat shaded her face. She kept on her driving gloves. "Where's Con? I've got to see Con immediately." Her green eyes were bright as baubles.

  Griselda said. "He's in jail." She laughed after she said it. What was the proper way to announce a husband's incarceration? But she didn't want to laugh.

  Dare looked at her as if she were lying. "What for?"

  "For being seen with Shelley Huffaker." She asked Dare's shocked face, "You mean you didn't know it?"

  "I've been away. Just came from the airport now." She sat down. "Tell me about it quickly."

  Telling, it seemed invented incident, the Wilmington Terminal, an author's set.

  "Who's responsible?"

  She started to answer, "Thusby," but she went deeper into truth. "Barjon Garth."

  Dare said, "I don't believe it. Rot." She stood up again. "I've got to see him no matter where he is. Do you suppose they'll let me in?"