Color Him Gay: The Further Adventures of the Man from C. A. M. P. (8 page)

In his eagerness to escape from the woman Jackie failed to notice the train that had come loose from his skirt and was trailing behind him. The doors of the elevator glided shut, catching the fabric. The material tore and the sudden jerk sent Jackie off balance and nearly caused him to fall.

“Damn,” he exclaimed angrily under his breath.

The exclamation brought an expression of shock to Miss Romney's withered face, followed by one of glee. “Oh, you do speak the language?” she exclaimed happily.

Jackie groaned inwardly. Things were getting out of hand. Ahead of him a door opened and someone paused to finish a conversation in a foreign tongue. He had picked the right floor for the princess, but now he was in danger of being exposed as an imposter.

“Of course,” he answered Miss Romney in a falsetto voice that he had used with success in the past when a case had necessitated his impersonating a woman. “And I'll be happy to grant you an interview.”

If Miss Romney was surprised by the reversal, she was also quick to seize the opportunity. “How wonderful,” she exclaimed, piloting him deftly back into the elevator. “It won't take but a minute.”

As the doors of the elevator closed behind them Jackie had a glimpse of one of the Indian entourage staring after them in bewilderment.

Miss Romney's suite was on the top floor of the building. As they entered it, Jackie wondered briefly if he might be able to exchange his costume for one of Miss Romney's, but he quickly discarded the idea. He would hardly have an opportunity to make such a change and get away from Miss Romney without some alarms being raised by her. Even so, changing into a Western style costume would leave him in need of a wig and other items to conceal his masculinity.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Miss Romney asked when they were in the living room of the suite.

“Yes, thank you,” Jackie answered in his falsetto.

“I'll order them sent up,” Miss Romney said, going toward the phone. “They're very quick here.”

“Sherry for me, please,” Jackie said. As he spoke, he crossed the room quickly. Miss Romney's back was to him as she dialed the phone but she was nearer the door than he and he could hardly bolt down the hall with her in pursuit.

The second room of the suite was a bedroom but there was no door opening into the hall. Jackie glanced about wildly. The only other exit was the open window. He stuck his head out that and peered down. Fourteen stories below, the street was alive with evening traffic. He shuddered as he imagined falling that distance.

Only a few inches below the sill of the window, however, was a narrow ledge that encircled the building. It was not the safest looking means of escape but it was the only readily available route.

Miss Romney was still on the phone, her back to him. Jackie yanked his skirt up and hoisted himself quickly up and over the sill. Balancing himself precariously, he inched away from the window. As he made his way slowly and cautiously along the ledge he could hear Miss Romney behind him ordering drinks from room service.

His trembling hand touched the glass of another window and he examined it stealthily. It was open and the room inside was dark. Steeling himself for any encounter, Jackie raised himself to the sill and scramble over, dropping into the room. He landed, not on the floor as he had expected but across the width of an obviously occupied bed. Two figures jumped to sitting position.

A girl's voice gasped. The man croaked hoarsely, “My God, we're caught red handed. It's my wife.”

“Excuse me,” Jackie whispered in his feminine voice, trying to free himself from the tangle of limbs. “But I'm not your wife at all.”

“You're not?” The voice was doubtful.

“No, I'm not, and I must say, I'm glad of it.” He managed to get one foot to the floor and struggled to free his hand, which had somehow become pinned beneath a rather heavy posterior.

“Well then, what the hell are you doing pouncing upon us this way?”

“Poopsie, what's it all about?” the woman's voice whined.

“I didn't pounce upon you, I fell.” The other foot reached the floor but his hand remained trapped. With a burst of inspiration, Jackie pinched at the weight upon it. The weight responded with a wriggle.

“Poopsie, stop that. Not until we find out what this is all about.”

“It was such a lovely night, I decided to get some air,” Jackie said sighing wearily. “And as soon as you give me my hand back, I'll be on my way.”

With a shrill cry, the woman moved and Jackie found his hand free at last. He stood quickly, straining his eyes into the darkness. “Which way is out?”

“Would you like to use the door or would you prefer another window?” the man asked caustically.

“Never mind, I'll find it.” Jackie shuffled into the blackness and collided with a wall. “Damn!”

His hand found the light switch. He flipped it on in exasperation, flooding the room with light.

“Good heavens, woman, have you no sense of decency?” the man demanded from the bed.

“Me?” Jackie asked, without looking back. He was already well acquainted with their state of dress—or undress, as it were. “At least I'm clothed.”

The door was to his left and he opened it cautiously to peer out. The hall was empty, the stairwell only a few feet from him. At that moment he heard Miss Romney's voice from the neighboring room.

“Yoo hoo, Princess, are you hiding? It's only me, you needn't be afraid.”

The voice grew louder as Miss Romney neared the hall. Jackie dashed madly for the stairs, leaving the door behind him ajar.

The man on the bed rose angrily, striding across the room to close the door. He had nearly reached the opening when a frenzied Miss Romney appeared in it.

“Excuse me,” she gasped breathlessly, taking no apparent notice of his nudity. “Have you seen an Indian Princess?”

“Good God,” he snorted, slamming the door violently in her face, “does this look like an embassy?”

On the next floor down, Jackie took a chance on the elevator again. This time it was empty and he rode to the lobby,

Although he attracted considerable attention as he passed through the lobby, no one attempted to bother him or stop him. He reached the sidewalk outside and half walked, half ran to the nearest taxicab parked there.

“The Essex,” he snapped in his natural voice as he jumped inside. The cab driver gave him a startled look, but he shrugged philosophically and climbed behind the wheel. He asked no questions on the way and Jackie rewarded his silence with a generous tip.

The entrance into his own hotel was even more of an ordeal since there was more danger here that he might be recognized. To his dismay the elevator operator was his knowing friend. Jackie reverted to his falsetto and, although the operator gave him a few sidelong glances, he did not apparently recognize the figure behind the drapery veil. With a big sigh of relief Jackie reached his room at last.

He shed the costume and without taking time to dress again called Dingo at his hotel. Things were getting out of hand rapidly. He would have to warn Dingo of Steve's betrayal but that was not the sort of thing he wanted to explain on the phone. For the moment his immediate concern was getting Dingo safely out of the way.

To his relief Dingo was in his room. Steve apparently had not yet approached him about the diary. Probably he had been preparing things so that he could disappear conveniently afterward.

“Jackie,” Dingo greeted him anxiously. “What's the news?”

“Plenty,” Jackie answered. “But I can't explain on the phone. I want you to leave your hotel, right now, and come over here.”

“I'll have to wait for Steve,” Dingo said innocently. “He's out just now, but he shouldn't be too long.”

“I'll take care of Steve,” Jackie assured him with sincerity. He had every intention of taking care of Steve, although not in the sense that Dingo would interpret the remark. “Just get over here fast.”

“If you say so,” Dingo agreed. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

With that taken care of, Jackie dressed, again tucking the Derringer into its holster. Once Dingo was safely here he had quite a few chores to be attended to. There was the matter of finding Steve and retrieving the diary. After that there was Fisherman's Wharf, the place that Bruce had mentioned as he was dying. Unless he was sadly mistaken, Bruce had been trying to tell him something about the headquarters of B.U.T.C.H.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later Dingo was still not there. Jackie gave him five more minutes and then called the hotel again. There was no answer at Dingo's room. Cursing himself, Jackie started off for Dingo's hotel, watching the street for any sign of the singer.

“Any idea where I might find Mr. Benton?” he asked at the desk, using the name under which Dingo had registered at the hotel. “It's important that I reach him.”

“He went out a little while ago,” the man at the counter explained. “I'm sure he'll be returning however, if you'd care to try later.”

“Did he leave any messages?” Jackie asked impulsively.

“Only for a Mr. Holmes,” the clerk informed him.

Jackie felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. “I'm Mr. Holmes,” he said quickly. “What was the message?”

The clerk's eyes were wide with surprise. “But you can't be. Mr. Holmes was here just a few minutes ago.”

Jackie stared at him in shock and fear. “I mean,” the clerk went on, frightened by the way Jackie was looking at him. “A gentleman who said he was Mr. Holmes was here. I gave him the message.”

“What did it say?” Jackie demanded.

“Oh dear, I don't know. But he didn't take it with him, I don't think. Wait….” the flustered clerk stooped down and rummaged through a wastebasket. “Yes, here it is,” he said, producing a crumpled slip of paper.

Jackie read the message in one glance: “Have gone to meet Steve at Union Square. He said it was urgent and not to call you. Will check with you later.”

So Steve was already springing his trap. And, far worse, someone else knew about it, someone who had used his name to claim this message. That someone could only be from B.U.T.C.H.

“I hope I didn't do anything wrong,” the clerk was saying in an agitated voice. “I thought…”

“Don't worry about it,” Jackie told him, starting for the door.

Those diaries were dangerous. B.U.T.C.H. might go to any lengths to get them back from Steve. The situation at Union Square could be an explosive one. He ignored the motions of the cab drivers in front of the hotel and began to run down the sidewalk. The park was only a few blocks away. He could be there faster on foot than in a car in the evening traffic.

Union Square occupied one small city block in the heart of the city. Beneath the neat lawns of the park was a multilevel parking garage. He had no way of knowing whether Steve and Dingo would be in the park itself or below in the garage, but wherever they were he had to find them, and fast.

The passersby stared after him as he ran with the speed of a gazelle. Fortunately, as a runner his times equaled nearly every world record. Still, even in San Francisco the sight of a neatly dressed young man racing as though for his life was peculiar. It was not his own life, however, that he was racing for.

He saw them when he was still almost a block away. As luck would have it they were in plain sight, near the end of one of the walks that cut diagonally across the park. Even at the distance he could see that they were arguing and that Dingo was furiously angry. Steve, then, had made his demands and Dingo, hurt by the betrayal, had lost his fiery temper. There was always the possibility that Steve might relent. After all, he had once been fond of Dingo. But there was also the possibility that Steve might lose his temper as well and do something really rash—and he was carrying a .45 automatic.

The trouble, however, did not come from Steve. Even as Jackie was racing toward the intersection of the street that separated them from him, he saw a familiar car reach the corner and slow down. He recognized the driver at once as Bruno Scotto. His two thugs, with him as always, jumped from the car and headed for Dingo and Steve.

Ignoring the traffic light that was against him, Jackie dashed across the street, dodging cars wildly.

The move was a bold one, dependent upon speed and surprise. Only a very few of the people around were aware of what was happening. Dingo was struck and fell to the sidewalk holding his head. The two men grabbed Steve and dragged him toward the open car door.

Jackie caught one of them in a flying tackle that sent both of them rolling across the cement. The man was fast to recover and skilled as a fighter. He broke free of Jackie's grip and started for his partner who was struggling to get Steve in the car.

“Jackie,” Steve yelled. “The diary!” As he yelled he managed to free one arm and threw the briefcase that he was carrying onto the sidewalk.

Instinctively Jackie dived for it. He got it, but he had given the trio of thugs the seconds necessary to make their escape, taking Steve with them. Even as Jackie headed for them again, the car pulled away into the steam of traffic.

Dingo was on his feet and came toward him. A small crowd of spectators had begun to form about them. Jackie opened the briefcase and saw the diary inside.

“Take this,” he told Dingo. “And hightail it back to my hotel. Go to the elevator operator, a homely young man, and tell him you're another of my brothers. He'll understand and see that you get into my room. Don't leave there under any circumstances.”

“But where will you be?” Dingo asked. “And what about Steve? He tried to blackmail me too but I don't want to see him killed.”

“I'll try to prevent it.” Jackie said. He took a notepad from the pocket of his jacket and scribbled a number on it. “Here,” he said, thrusting the paper into Dingo's hand. “This is my local contact here. Call him from the hotel. Tell him you're calling for me and that I've gone to Fisherman's Wharf.”

He didn't wait for further argument, nor was it necessary. As he headed for the curb and an approaching cab, Jackie glanced back and saw Dingo, still looking puzzled but starting obediently in the direction of the hotel.

“Fisherman's Wharf,” Jackie said as he jumped into the cab. He sat impatiently on the front edge of the seat, wishing he had been able to follow Bruno and his henchmen. He had no way of knowing whether they were headed to Fisherman's Wharf also or some other location. And there was no telling what they might do to Steve out of pure anger. Steve had tried to betray them and they had killed Bruce for the same thing.

* * * *

Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco was an experience unto itself. Restaurants and shops lined the water's edge, and the water was crowded with boats of every description: small fishing crafts, sightseeing boats, even an old sailing ship that had been turned into a sort of floating museum. Further out in the bay was the dim outline of Alcatraz Island, once a name to instill fear in the hearts of lawbreakers, now only of interest to the tourists.

Along the walks, open stalls offered servings of fresh shrimp and crabs and chowder. The intoxicating aromas filled the air, blending with the ever-present scent of the sea.

Moving along with the evening crowds of sightseers, Jackie was only half aware of the colorful atmosphere about him. His senses were attuned to the scene about him but it was not enjoyment or pleasure that he sought. Somewhere within this relatively small area was the clue for which he was searching, the reason Bruce had sent him here.

He found his clue at last and rather unexpectedly. At one point along the walk a barker was extolling the pleasure of a boat cruise of the harbor. His success was something less than inspiring, due to the lateness of the hour and the chill of the evening air. One of the two launches was just returning with its handful of passengers, while the other was preparing to depart with only four people aboard.

As Jackie neared the gate where the tickets were purchased for the trip he glanced in the direction of the launch that was now landing and his heart skipped a beat. It was none other than Fred, Bruce's assailant, piloting the boat. Quickly Jackie approached the gate and purchased a ticket.

“That's it for tonight,” the manager was shouting to Fred. “May as well call it a night.”

“Fine with me,” Fred called back. He left the boat and headed out through the gate. Jackie paused, looking away as Fred passed so close by him that they nearly touched. Perhaps he had made a wrong move. Fred might even now be preparing to leave the area by car.

As he paused, however, he saw Fred had merely approached one of the food stalls to purchase a late evening snack. Glancing about to be sure that he wasn't being noticed, Jackie decided to gamble. He darted lightly to Fred's boat and, before anyone could see him, he was aboard. A sheet of canvas had been tossed beside the sheltered cabin. Without hesitation he scrambled under it and waited. He did not have long to wait. A minute later the boat bobbed in the water as Fred climbed aboard.

The engine came to life again and the boat began to move slowly, pulling away from the Wharf. Huddled under the canvas, Jackie felt a surge of confidence. Soon they had passed Alcatraz and were moving along at a fast speed.

The engines began to slow. Jackie ventured another look. At first the area around him and the presence of other craft was puzzling. He realized then that they were across the bay, nearing the quaint town of Sausalito, a colorful village that was charmingly European, a haven for tourists and yachtsmen alike.

They were approaching another craft now, a massive, handsome yacht that floated silent and dark in the water. As Jackie watched from under the canvas, Fred cut the engines and drifted alongside the yacht.

There were a few minutes of muffled voices and furtive activity and then silence returned. Jackie guessed that Fred had boarded the yacht. “Should I do likewise?” he asked himself. This could be an important meeting with others from the group or it could be an insignificant visit with friends. If he remained here he would never know what was on board the other craft. But if he boarded the yacht he would be sure to lose Fred when he left.

He reached his decision. Slipping from beneath the canvas, he crept stealthily along the wet dock. There was only silence above him. If a guard were posted he would be walking right into a hornet's nest. He removed his Derringer from the holster and tensed for action, boarding the yacht.

There was no one in sight but now that he was closer he could hear the faint sound of low-pitched voices. They were in the cabin, talking rapidly but quietly. A dim light gleamed through one of the portholes. Crouching low, Jackie moved slowly toward it. He caught a glimpse of someone silhouetted against the sky: the guard, standing near the entrance to the cabin. Jackie froze, waiting until the man had moved slightly away, circling about the cabin. Then Jackie moved forward again.

He reached the porthole. Raising his head slowly, he peered inside. Fred was talking to someone with many gestures. His listener had his back to the opening so that Jackie saw nothing of him but leather-clad shoulders. Bruno Scotto was there too and his two sidekicks. And, Jackie saw with relief, so was Steve. Bound and gagged, he lay huddled on the floor of the cabin, his dark eyes bigger than ever with fright.

There was a call from behind him and for the first time Jackie was aware of the approach of another launch. Crouched where he was, he was trapped between the newcomer and the cabin. His eyes swept the deck for some place to hide and saw nothing.

Behind him the guard had gone out to greet the newcomer and was helping him aboard. Jackie risked another glance inside the cabin. This time though, he was spotted. Ironically it was not Fred, but Steve, who saw him first. Steve blinked and his body jerked with surprise. Fred saw the reaction and turned toward the window in time to see Jackie's face before he ducked.