The Bamboo Blonde (5 page)

"East or west end? Junipero or Cherry?"

Con figured it out. "The Belmont side. That'd be east."

Thusby nodded. "Junipero."

Vinnie wasn't as startled this time. "She was found on the Cherry side, Pa."

"I know it," Thusby said placidly. He was as garrulous as the son wasn't. "This kid, Tip Thenker, has been squirting sodas up a ways on Cherry at a drug store. He goes to college." That evidently impressed Thusby. "He and a friend were on their way home, going to cut across the park, when they saw her foot there in the shadow under one of those fat palm trees. It sure scared those kids." He chortled and then his eyes fixed. "They ought to been scared. It's a wonder they weren't mowed down too. Whoever killed her couldn't have been far away. The blood was still running."

Griselda asked, "What time was this, Captain Thusby?"

"About one-thirty, ma'am. One-thirty-three when they called us. And they didn't waste no time doing it." He chortled again.

Con was safe. Even with his fingerprints he was safe. He'd been home by midnight. But she didn't know how long the blood would run. And he'd gone out again; where, he didn't say. She moved closer to him. "How did you happen to come to talk to my husband about it?" She didn't want them to get back to the gun.

He was very polite. "Trying to trace what she was doing last night, ma'am. She left the Bamboo Bar with him. Mr. Alexander Smithery told us that."

"Chang," Con informed her, and explained, "I call him Chang."

Thusby came in again. "Where was that place you stopped?"

"I couldn't tell you the name," Con repeated. "On the way to Seal Beach. Ed's or Ray's or Andy's—something like that."

Griselda inserted, "He was at home by midnight." She wouldn't even think of his being called out later.

Both of the Thusbys took that in silence, and the father asked again, "Now about that gun?"

"She had one, yes," Con admitted. Griselda tightened. "Are you sure she was murdered?"

"Sure," Thusby stated. "Why?"

"Because she was going to kill herself last night."

Griselda hadn't been mistaken in the captain's eyes. They could snap like mouse-traps. They did. And then he was mild again. "Well, she couldn't have, Mr. Satterlee. You don't shoot yourself through the back. Can't be done."

Con lit a cigarette easily. "Who identified her?"

"Her cousin. There was a porter first said he thought it was this girl visiting in his apartment house and turned out he was right. We got hold of the cousin and she finished up the identification for us."

Con let out three perfect smoke rings. "I'm an old newspaperman. Cap'n, and sometimes I get kind of wondering about things." He drew in smoke again. "Why wasn't the cousin's name used in the newspaper story?"

Thusby said, "Admiral Swales asked me as a favor not to give it out. No reason to. She wasn't here and couldn't have done it. It wasn't the kind of publicity the Admiral would want."

Vinnie's cocker ears were ruddy. "She's new here, doing interior decorating stuff for Admiral Swales' daughter."

Griselda cried it for the second time that day: "Dare Crandall!" and then she stiffened and felt her heart turn over bitterly. They were all looking at her, three pair of eyes, and none of them were mild.

"That's the name." Captain Thusby's eyebrows were fuzzy gray as his half-moon hair. "You know her, Mrs. Satterlee?"

Griselda nodded. She couldn't speak.

"And you knew Shelley Huffaker?"

"No." She denied truthfully but too quickly. "No." She spoke for Con, too. "We've never heard of her." And she added, "We used to know Dare. We haven't seen her for years." Neither officer believed her. She herself didn't know if it were true for Con.

Thusby asked, "But you knew she was in Long Beach?"

Before she could explain, Con was speaking. What he said kept her mouth open. "Yes, we knew that." No more. She didn't continue her explanation of Kew Brent only this morning informing them. For some reason Con didn't want that mentioned. He'd stepped in to keep her from saying it. She didn't know why.

"But you didn't know Shelley Huffaker was visiting her?"

Con shook his head. He answered firmly and his eyes didn't move from Captain Thusby's. "We didn't even know of Shelley Huffaker's existence. We haven't seen Mrs. Crandall. She's been on a party at Avalon."

Thusby kept saying, "Yes." No more. But he knew more than that. Maybe he even knew that Con had seen Dare. Then he said, "Long Beach is a law-abiding town, Mr. Satterlee. Don't suppose I've ever had a real grade-A murder before to deal with. Hardly know how to go about it. I don't read detective magazines like Vinnie here. I prefer Dickens for my reading, always have. Bet I know Little Nell by heart almost. Can't teach an old dog new tricks.'"

He stood up and tapped his peg-leg on the floor. "Don't suppose you knew Mannie Martin either?"

Griselda hoped that none of them was looking at her. She hadn't controlled herself when that name was spoken. And she was ice when Con answered, "Yes, I knew Mannie."

"Figured you might," Thusby said. "But you didn't know Shelley Huffaker?"

Con said, "No. I haven't seen Mannie." But he'd given it away that he knew this Martin was missing; he'd used the past tense to speak of him. "I came to California on pleasure, not business. Haven't gone near a studio." He asked then, "What's the girl got to do with Mannie?"

Thusby's eyes half-mooned. "Don't know that yet, Mr. Satterlee. But her getting killed and him missing—things like that don't happen around here every day."

His voice suddenly boomed out and Griselda started. Con put his hand on hers. "Fixing to stay here for your vacation, Mr. Satterlee?" He didn't wait for an answer. "That's a good idea. No prettier place on the southern coast than Long Beach."

He wasn't doubling for the Chamber of Commerce. It was warning not to leave. Her hand under Con's was cold. She didn't move when he went with the police to the door nor when he returned, opened the music cabinet, clattered forth a whisky bottle, poured himself a sturdy one. He finished it, looked across at her and stated, "Sometimes you don't have a lick of sense."

"Con—" She wanted to tell him he was in danger of arrest; he was innocent but he was involved. He knew it but she wanted to emphasize it, to make him be careful. She only said, "You shouldn't mix gin and whisky so early in the morning."

He didn't pay any attention to her remark. He sat down beside her and eyed her coolly, steadily. "You're young enough to stick to being seen and not heard."

She shook her head, puzzled, trying not to be hurt that he was relegating her to being no more than a doll wife again, just as he had when they were married before. "What did I say wrong? What did I do?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you let me do the talking?" And then he stared at her as if something had just occurred to him. "My God, baby, you didn't think I came to Long Beach for my health, did you?"

She didn't answer right away. Then she said, "I thought we came for our honeymoon."

He waved an abstracted hand. "We'll take care of that later."

She knew then, knew what she had been fighting to keep from knowing all through the sleepless hours of the early morning. Con was working with Barjon Garth. Con was getting into danger. Panic was in her voice. She couldn't quell it. Nor could she keep from asking stupidly. "Con, you didn't kill her?"

"Kill her?" He came out of his fog on that. "Kill Shelley Huffaker? God, no." He put his arm around her. "Are you going nuts, baby?"

Her cheek touched his sleeve. "I knew you didn't. But who did? Why was she killed?"

"I don't know the answer to either of those. I'm going to find out." He took his arm away, went over, and poured another. "Don't tell me it's too early," he warned the look in her eyes. "I'm thirsty and nobody but a native son could stomach the fish juice that comes out of those taps." He swallowed, said, "I'm going to find out. Who and why."

It was necessary that she speak now. The man who had introduced himself to her last night could have killed Shelley Huffaker in cold blood, deliberately and with less emotional reaction than he would scratch a horse at the paddock. She asked, "Do you know anything about a Major Pembrooke?"

He turned on her quickly. "Who's been talking to you about him?"

"I met him last night."

He looked at her disbelieving, and then he repeated, "You met him last night? Where? How?"

"He was at the Bamboo Bar."

He was wracking his brains, unsuccessfully.

She said, "The man with Kew at the far table."

He was quick. "How did you know that was Pembrooke?"

"He stopped to talk to me. After Kew left."

Con sat down then too quietly. He didn't touch his glass. He said to himself with disappointment, almost anger, "I could have met him if I hadn't been so damn curious about that blonde." He doubled up his fist and thumped his forehead.

She spoke with hushed insistence. "You don't want to meet him, Con. He's—" She searched for a word. "He's—ugly."

Con looked at her under his scowl. "You think I've been inhabiting that bar to improve my mind? It's Pembrooke's favorite hangout."

Difficult as it was, she kept her voice quiet, not frantic, "And who is Pembrooke?"

He didn't answer. He was thumping again, muttering, "What a dope I was! Could have met him."

She didn't hide the franticness now. "Con, why do you want to meet him? What have you to do with him? Who is he?

He said, "Pembrooke is a British officer." He hesitated, "I can't tell you much, Griselda. It isn't permitted. But I want to meet him."

That made it definite; he was working for Garth. There was sickness inside of her. "Kew can introduce you."

"I don't want a planned meeting. It wouldn't—look right. Last night would have been perfect if I hadn't been playing the fool." He seemed to see her now. "You mustn't be involved in this. That's one thing I won't have."

"Con." She had to swallow to make her voice audible. "Con, Major Pembrooke was here last night."

Con's eyes were hard and bright. "What for?"

Her voice was weak, "Evidently he wants to meet you as badly as you want to meet him."

"But he knew I wasn't here. Kew's back was to us. Pembrooke must have been facing the door. He'd have seen me leave with the blonde."

She nodded, holding her hands tightly together. She didn't ask how Pembrooke would know Con when they had never met. He had even known her.

"That wasn't it. Why did he come? What did he want?"

She could hear the cold voice. She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe—" She thought hard. "He said you were in Long Beach to find Mannie Martin. He said you and Kew came for that. He wants Martin found. They were to be partners in some business. And his backers are impatient because the contracts can't be signed with Martin missing. He said you had a letter."

“Thorough cuss, ain't he?" She didn't know that fighting-mad expression on Con's face. "Listen. Pembrooke came to you to find out what you could tell him. But you couldn't because you didn't know. I'm going to keep you out of this."

Her voice faltered, "Con, you didn't come here looking for this man, did you?"

He said briefly, "I'd like to find him."

"Con." She went over to him and put her arm tightly through his. "Con. I'm afraid. Let's leave. Let's go up to Malibu."

He only said, "You don't think old Cap'n Thusby was just playing polite host, do you? He's a smart old geezer no matter how he looks. Used to be in Naval Intelligence."

"If he's smart he knows you didn't kill that girl."

"He knows I was out with her just before she was killed. He probably doesn't have the touching faith in my innocence that Garth would have." He finished his drink and started to the bedroom. "Got things to do. I'll get dressed."

She walked to the far end of the living room, stood by the bay window staring out at the gray waves pushing at the beige beach. There must be some method to get Con away before he was—hurt. Someone else could help Garth; Con wasn't a part of the organization. It was dangerous to remain here, dangerous for both of them. And she didn't like danger. It made her feel sick, the way she was feeling now.

She stood there until he returned. He was dressed up and she was surprised. He didn't look like work; he looked like a party. He was wearing the natural camel's-hair sport jacket he'd bought at Desmond's under protest, the pale natural and white-checked flannels. She would have to change. In an old sweater she couldn't go out to lunch with him in his grandeur.

He came over to her and kissed her. "If anyone should drop in, be as dumb as you ought to be with those looks instead of as smart as you are." He kissed her again. "I'm going to see Dare."

She didn't have any answer; her mouth stood open. That casually he said it and went away. She waited until he was gone before she let herself think. He wasn't rushing to Dare because he wanted to; it was because of what had happened. She wouldn't let Dare ever be important enough to her again to disturb her. There was enough trouble here without Dare. But why did she have to decorate Long Beach houses? And why did she have a blonde cousin? Damn Dare Crandall!

* * *

The afternoon wore on, so long and so dull, that she would almost have welcomed some sinister stalker of Con to whom she must play dumb. But no one came, not until almost four and then it was only Kew. He was perfection in blues. "Sorry to bother you again, Griselda. I thought maybe I left my cigarette case here. Have you seen it?"

"I haven't." She looked in the chair, by the table where he'd been, but it wasn't there. "Won't you have a drink while you're here?" Now that he had come, she knew that she had been hoping he would; she wanted to find out what he knew about Major Pembrooke.

"You'll join me?"

She nodded.

"I'll fix them. How about a Tom Collins? Limes?"

"In the box."

He went into the kitchen and she followed with the gin bottle.

"Con out?"

"Yes. You might have dropped it on the beach."

"Dropped—my case. Perhaps. I'll probably find I mislaid it in my room."