This Girl for Hire (11 page)

Mark nodded. “How'd you happen to find us?”

“Important message came through from L.A. for you. I decided to run it out to
Hell's Light
myself. They told me you'd been gone since noon, so I thought I'd scout around a bit.”

“We're certainty glad you did,” I said.

Clements continued. “About three miles out from Little Harbor we sighted a small boat's lights. She didn't respond to my blinker, so we let her go by.”

“That was the cruiser, Chief,” Mark said grimly.

“I realize that now,” Clements said. “How'd the bandit get possession?”

“I figure he was stowed away somewhere during our trip around the island. As soon as we'd anchored and gone ashore, he took off.”

“We'll find him,” Clements assured us.

“I hope so,” Mark answered. “He got away with my clothes, my revolver and a very important piece of evidence. A typewritten message Aces sent to a former associate named Caine.”

Clements wiped some spray out of his eyes. “Did you say Caine? That's the man I talked to aboard
Hell's Light
. This man, Caine, said the TV people were worried about their big television star—what's his name—Swans-down!”

“Swanson,” I corrected. “Bob Swanson.”

“Yeah, that's the one,” Clements agreed. “Caine said this Swanson disappeared about four o'clock while they were shooting a picture at White's Landing. Nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since.”

Mark looked at me, gripping the edge of his upper lip in his teeth. I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. We had arrived at Rod's cabin about six o'clock. Bob Swanson had vanished on the beach around four. During that time he could
have gone to Rod's cabin and planted the note, then waited around for our arrival and stowed away aboard Chief Clements' boat.

Mark asked the Avalon police chief about the urgent message from his Los Angeles office.

“They want you back tonight,” Clements said. “A new lead has turned up in the Nelson case.”

“That's what I thought,” Mark said, glancing at me. “We've been tracking down some of Herb's old pals. One of them, Ed Walker, was seen going into Nelson's place an hour before the murder.”

The stern lights of Aces' yacht shone in the dark night. It was after midnight and I was tired and suddenly angry because Mark hadn't taken me into his confidence about this new twist in the Nelson case. I started to complain when something stopped me. Chief Clement's racy cabin cruiser was tied up at
Hell's Light
's boat landing.

“Well, what do you know?” Mark said. ‘This is going to be easier than I thought. Maybe we can wind this case up tonight before I go back to L.A.”

Everything aboard the
Clementine
was intact, except the typewritten note we had found in Rod's coat pocket.

Mark dressed quickly and we went aboard the yacht. Max Decker met us in the passageway outside the swimming-pool bar.

“Now see here, Lieutenant,” the TV magnate roared, “I've had just about enough of your
stalling tactics—”

“Where's Swanson?” Mark interrupted.

“I haven't seen him all day,” Decker said. “He went to White's Landing to shoot an important scene and he hasn't returned.”

Mark pushed the fat man out of the way. “I know he's somewhere on this ship. Now where is he?”

“I told you, he didn't come back—”

Rod Caine walked out on deck. Mark pounced on him. “Where's Swanson?” the lieutenant asked.

“You got me,” Rod said. “Haven't seen him. Nobody has. There's a scouting party over at White's Landing now.”

Mark pointed to the cruiser. “That cabin job pulled in here sometime in the last hour. Now who was at the helm?”

“I don't know,” Rod said flatly. “I was in the bar. I didn't even hear the boat arrive.”

People poured out of the bar. One of them was Lori Aces. Mark repeated his questions, but no one would admit having seen the cruiser tie up at the boat landing.

While Mark, Chief Clements and two Avalon policemen searched for Swanson, I changed from my torn suit and blanket into something more practical. Lori Aces followed me to my cabin. She broke down when I told her about Sam's jacket.

“I've got to tell the truth,” she said. “I've really never loved Sammy. But he's such a nice guy, you got to like him. Do the police really think
Sam's been murdered?”

I nodded and went back to the bar. The music, laughter and whiskey were still flowing. It made me sick. Sam Aces might be dead but nobody seemed to care.

I glanced at Joe Meeler, the writer who had replaced Rod Caine on the Swanson show. He was slumped forward on the bar, apparently sleeping off his good time. That seemed funny. I didn't think little Joe drank.

I waded over to rouse him. He couldn't be roused.

Joe was dead, a butcher knife stuck between his ribs.

After examining the weapon, Mark questioned the drunken patrons at the swimming-pool bar. “How long's he been sitting here, anyone know?”

“Not long,” one of the cameramen answered. “I'd guess a half hour. Maybe less.”

“Did he come in alone?”

No answer.

“Was Swanson in the bar during the past half hour?”

Still no answer.

“What the hell do you people do?” Mark burst. “Pour this stuff on your eyeballs?”

A few inarticulate grunts.

“Did Swanson dislike Meeler?” the lieutenant continued.

“He was always shouting at him,” another cameraman said.

A little red-haired starlet added, “So what? Bob Swan son shouts at everyone on the set.”

“Did they ever argue?” Mark demanded.

Ann Claypool said, “They did today. It was pretty violent. I thought Bob was going
to chop Joe into little pieces.”

“What was the argument about?” Mark asked.

“A sailboat scene,” Ann continued. “According to the script. Bob was supposed to follow me down the ladder into the sailboat. But he wanted to reverse the procedure. I was wearing a full circle skirt—”

“I get the idea,” Mark said. “What happened?”

“Joe called Swanson a twisted lecherous bastard and the sparks flew.”

“Did Swanson fire Meeler?”

“No,” Ann said. “Bob just went haywire, shouting and raving. That's when he disappeared. We couldn't find him after that.”

Mark looked at me and his mouth tightened. I knew what he was thinking. How could Golden Boy have entered and left the swimming-pool area without being seen by one of his television compatriots—much less silently commit a murder which involved something as unwieldy as a butcher knife. Meeler must have been completely unaware that he was about to die. If he'd had any kind of warning, the TV writer surely would have alerted others in the bar.

After Meeler's body was loaded aboard the Avalon patrol boat, I walked down to the float with Mark and Chief Clements.

“The Coast Guard will probably send out an investigating party,” Mark explained. “I got a blood-sample scraping from the chest and will try to match it with the stains on the jacket. I'll be back tomorrow, after I check out this character, Walker, who turned up
in the Nelson case. Meanwhile, stay out of mischief, understand?”

“That's a pretty tall order, Lieutenant, but I'll try. Incidentally, why did you fail to tell me about this guy Walker?”

Mark ignored the question, climbed into the patrol boat, then turned and took my hand. “I understand Decker skipped out on a water taxi while we were searching for Swanson. He isn't out of this by any means. I want him back on this ship by tomorrow. If the Avalon police can't find him, it's up to you, Honey. There are some places a dame can get into that even a cop can't.”

I nodded, kissed his cheek and thanked him for our exciting sojourn to Little Harbor.

“We'll have to do it again sometime,” Mark smiled. “Under different circumstances.”

The patrol boat rocked, kicked up a dark crest that washed over the float and moved away into the night.

“Don't forget the prints on that knife!” I yelled.

“I won't!” Mark called back. “And don't you forget to keep yourself out of trouble!”

I walked up to the main deck, meeting Rod Caine at the top of the steps. He was strangely apologetic about Meeler's death.

“I can't understand how it could have happened,” he said dejectedly. “Joe was a damned good writer. He was doing a better job on the show than I ever did. I'm really sorry about this, believe me.”

“Did Lori tell you about Aces' jacket?”

“Yeah.”

‘Were you surprised?”

“Hell, yes, I was surprised,” Rod said. “I still can't believe he's dead, though.”

We walked to the bow of the ship. Rod lit two cigarettes and handed me one. I thought of
Aces' habit of doing the same thing.

“Did Aces ever send you a note inviting you aboard this ship?” I asked.

“Many times,” Rod said quietly. “I've spent some wonderful days aboard
Hell's Light
.”

“I mean recently.”

“Of course not. I told you I didn't see or hear from Sam from the time I ran out of Lori's bedroom until last night.”

“You're absolutely certain?”

Rod cocked his head suspiciously. “Now what does that mean?”

I flipped my cigarette overboard. “We found a note in your coat pocket.”

“When?”

“Early this evening in your cabin. One thing we didn't find was your lab equipment.”

Rod shook his head dazedly. “You were in my cabin early this evening?”

“That's right.”

“And you didn't find my equipment? Did you look in the metal case on the kitchen table?”

“We didn't find a thing. Not even the metal case.”

“But I left it on the table in the kitchen. Lori'll tell you. She watched me make the tests."

“We found Sam's glass and that's all.”

Rod appeared genuinely dumbfounded. If this was an act, it was a good one. But then, I was
surrounded by a ship full of actors, so his performance didn't convince me entirely.

“Believe me,” Rod said, “that equipment was on the table when Lori and I left. Someone must have taken it while we were gone.”

“Who steals that sort of thing?”

“I don't know.”

“What about the note?”

“I can't explain that,” Rod said. “If there was a note in my pocket, someone planted it there.”

“Let's lay a few things on the line,” I said. “What was Swanson talking about last night when he said you'd know why he got mad in the bar?”

Rod didn't answer for a long time. He pinched out his cigarette and tossed it into the water. “You want it straight?”

“Straight as you can make it.”

“All right. I guess there's nothing to lose now. Swanson found out I was living on Catalina. I don't know how he found out, but he did. He came to see me about three weeks ago. Said his visit had to be strictly confidential. He told me if it didn't remain secret, if his personal dealings with me ever came out in the open, he'd kill me dead in the writing field.”

“What was he after?”

Rod wiped his hands across his forehead. “A personal contract for my services on the Swanson show.”

“I don't understand.”

“I didn't understand at first myself. Then he explained that he and Decker were
planning to force Aces out as producer. They had some kind of gimmick. I don't know what it was, but he wanted me back as writer. I told him I didn't want the deal, that I was happy with what I was doing. Then he really got tough. Promised me nothing but trouble if I didn't sign the contract. So I signed. What else could I do?”

“Now we're getting somewhere,” I said. “You met him that night in the Golden Slipper, not accidentally, but on purpose.”

“That's right. He told me to be there after the show because he wanted to iron out a few last details.”

“And what were these details?”

“I don't know,” Rod said vaguely. “He was crocked when I got there. Loaded to the gills. I told you how he kidded me about the drink he was taking to Aces.”

I nodded.

“Decker was there, too. I tried to get something concrete out of him, but he was flying three ways to the moon himself and I got nothing—except an ultimatum from Swanson to show up in his office on the twenty-fifth.”

“You mean last Monday? The day I signed my contract?”

“Yeah. I know I told you I hadn't been back to town since that time in the Golden Slipper, but I had to lie. Don't you understand? Swanson had me. I figured if I told you everything, it would get back to him. My writing career would have been but the
window. I couldn't take the chance.”

“Okay. I understand. What happened last Monday?”

“Swanson told me Aces would be out inside of two weeks. That meant Meeler, too. I argued. Told him Joe Meeler was doing a damn good job and ought to be retained. I said the same thing about Aces, and Swanson nearly hit the ceiling. He said if he could, he'd send Sam Aces right to the scrap heap.”

“Then Swanson thought you were pulling a fast one when he saw you last night with Aces.”

“Sure,” Rod said. “He probably thought I was breaking his confidence and making a separate deal with Sam. Certainly he never expected to walk in that bar and see the two of us talking together.”

I searched for holes in his story. There was only one opening I could find. “How come none of your old cronies recognized you in the Golden Slipper, or last Monday at Television Riviera?”

“It took a while for the plastic surgery to heal. During that time I couldn't shave so I grew a pretty heavy beard. Swanson didn't even recognize me the day he came over from the mainland. I shaved for the first time the afternoon I found you wading around in my abalone beds.”