This Girl for Hire (13 page)

“But that's the strange part,” Rod said uneasily. “I didn't plan to go home at all until Ann Claypool told me Swanson faked his disappearance in order to meet me at my cabin.”

I recoiled, “You're joking!”

“No. She said he wanted to talk more about the show. I asked her how long he'd been waiting and she guessed about two hours. I really blew my top when I heard that.”

“Did you go to your cabin then?”

“Of course. But Swanson wasn't there, so I waited around thinking he'd come back.”

“How long did you wait?” I demanded.

“All evening. I got back to
Hell's Light
a short time before you did.”

“And you mean to tell me you never noticed
your lab equipment was gone from the kitchen table?”

“No—no, I didn't,” Rod stammered. “I don't think I even went into the kitchen. That's why I was so surprised when you said the portable case was gone.”

I felt like tearing my hair out by the roots. Why hadn't I thought to ask someone if Rod had been missing during the evening. Clements had talked to him aboard the yacht, but neither Mark nor I had bothered to ask what time that discussion occurred. Could it have been early enough for Rod Caine to swim unseen to the boat cave and steal aboard the
Clementine
?

“I know it sound suspicious, Honey, but—”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?” I demanded, suddenly on the defensive again.

“Because I figured Ann Claypool and Swanson decoyed me to the cabin to try and hook Aces' murder onto me. But it didn't add up somehow. I wanted to talk to Ann before I spilled the story to you.”

I climbed over the bar into the pool. “All right. Let's visit Miss Claypool and get her version of the story.”

“You don't expect her to admit anything if she's mixed up in this, do you?”

“I don't know what to expect,” I said angrily. “Do you want to come along while I ask her?”

Rod vaulted over the rail into the water. “You're damn right! I'm getting tired of being the fall guy around here!”

We went to Ann's cabin. There were no lights. I knocked gently. No answer. Rod banged. Still
no answer. He tried the knob and it turned. We entered and switched on the light. The bed was turned back, but Ann wasn't in it.

“She's gone,” Rod said. “Skipped. Does that answer your questions?”

“No!” I opened the closet. Her clothes were still there. Then I heard Rod's voice from the bathroom. It sounded twisted, as if someone had gripped him about the throat.

“She's in here,” he said.

I entered the bathroom where Rod was bent awkwardly over a pink tub. In the water, Ann Claypool floated face up, stark naked, long black hair curled around her face like thick strands of seaweed. Her bright green eyes were wide and watery and she stared up at us for a long moment before Rod straightened up.

“She—she's dead,” he managed. “What in hell could have happened?”

I leaned over the tub. Two livid thumb prints were on her white neck. There was no point in answering Rod's question. It was too obvious.

S
TRANGULATILON IS A BRUTAL WAY TO DIE, BUT IN
death Ann Claypool seemed quietly and beautifully resigned to her fate.

Her bathroom was a dismal wreck. The medicine
cabinet was half torn from its hinges. A cocktail glass was shattered on the floor. Broken fragments lay glittering in tiny pools of water that had spilled over the side of the tub as she apparently had struggled with her killer. An ashtray and several lipstick-stained cigarette butts floated around the lifeless nude body.

Rod Caine stood beside the tub, arms limp at his sides, eyes riveted on Ann. “I don't understand,” he murmured. “This isn't possible.”

“Why not?” I asked quickly.

“Well—I don't know,” Rod stammered. “This just doesn't make sense. Who—who'd want to kill Ann?”

“Maybe somebody had to.”

“What do you mean?”

We walked out onto the
deck. The black sea was growing amber with the coming dawn. I looked at his unshaven face. “Maybe she was about to reveal the killer's identity.”

“Honey, quit looking at me like that! I didn't do it. How could I? I've been with you all night.”

“I'm not blaming you,” Rod, I said, shaking my head. “I'm blaming myself for being so dumb. For not sticking to my guns.”

“About what?”

“About a certain theory I had concerning Sam Aces.” I glanced toward Ann's stateroom. “Listen, Rod, after the police arrive I'm going into Avalon. For the next twenty-four hours you must not leave this yacht for any reason. Do you understand?”

“No, I don't. Why can't I go with you?”

“Because I've got a hunch,” I said. “A real big hunch that somebody else is going to die and the killer will want you in the vicinity when it happens.”

“You mean Avalon?”

“That's right. You've got to be able to prove you were aboard this yacht. I don't care whether you get a death warning, a secret message or a vision—don't leave this ship!”

Rod grinned. “Honey, what's going on? What'd you find in there? A death image in Ann's eyes? An important clue? What?”

“I'll let you know when I get back from Avalon. Maybe I'm crazy. But, believe me, I'm going to find out.”

Glittering spray danced in the brilliant
morning light as the patrol boat sliced through the waters outside Avalon Bay. Chief Clements sat beside me, his wrinkled mouth closed in stony silence. He'd been that way ever since in the bathroom, when he looked into Ann Claypool's wet staring eyes. Three murders in one night had been too much for the old police officer.

I chipped through his marbelized exterior with a question about Decker.

“We haven't been able to find him,” Clements admitted wearily. “After dropping Lieutenant Storm at the airport last night, we searched Decker's yacht. We found absolutely nothing.”

“How's Avalon as a hideout?”

The chief scowled. “Best this side of the French Riviera. You know the setup. Hundreds of cabins in the Villa, homes on the hill, homes in the canyon, all sorts of ocean caves, two piers, the casino—it's endless. If Decker's on the island, it might take us a month to blast him out.”

“And if he's aboard another yacht?”

“Then it's hardly possible unless we get a strong lead. Yesterday there were almost three hundred boats anchored in Avalon Bay.”

The red-tiled roof of the huge casino building appeared out of the swirling spray. Over the roar of the police-boat engines could be heard the hillside chimes, pealing from the white tower above the bay.

I asked the chief if any efforts were being made to retrieve Sam Aces' body.

“Two divers have been down exploring
the reefs at Little Harbor since dawn,” Clements said. “Frankly, I doubt if we'll ever find the body.”

Our boat swept past a fabulous triple-masted schooner. The police officer pointed at the words,
Decker's Dilemma
, painted on the side of the huge sailing vessel. Obviously, the ship belonged to Man Mountain Max. That gave the two of us something in common. A dilemma. It was my job to find a
dead
man before he committed another murder.

I phoned Mark from the Avalon police station. He hadn't slept all night and admitted he was up to his ears with the Nelson case. “We still haven't located this suspect, Walker,” the lieutenant said. “He seems to have vanished into thin air.”

Mark was jolted when I told him about Ann Claypool. “Holy smokes!” he roared. “We're dealing with a maniac!”

“A clever maniac,” I said.

“We've got an APB out on Swanson,” Mark told me. “The same goes for Decker. But it sounds to me like they're still in your vicinity. Has Clements found Aces' body yet?”

“No. And he's not going to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't believe Sam Aces is dead.”

“Here we go again!” Mark cried. “Where do you get these ideas?”

“It all fits a pattern, Lieutenant,” I said angrily. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Go ahead.”

“Aces murdered Herb Nelson.”

“Why?” Mark demanded.

“I don't know yet,” I said hesitantly, “but when I find him I'll know the answer to that question.”

Mark Storm groaned
wearily. “Before you waste any more of the taxpayers' money on this telephone call, let me tell you something.

“What?”

“Remember the blood-sample scrapings I took from the trunk?”

“Of course I remember. They don't match with the stains on the jacket, do they?”

Mark swiftly squashed my theory. “They match perfectly. In fact, from corresponding medical samples we've proved conclusively the blood stains in both cases be longed to Sam Aces. You want to know something else?”

“Go ahead.”

“You won't believe this, Honey, but Herb Nelson wasn't the little white god we all thought he was. For the past few years he's been pushing heroin.”

“You're lying!”

“I wish I were,” Mark said. “This morning we picked up a couple of jokers in the vicinity of Nelson's apartment. They had needle marks clear up to their armpits. They admitted Herb's been selling junk to them and dozens of other punks for years.”

“Can they prove it?” I demanded.

“They don't have to. We went up to the apartment, ripped open a few suspicious wall boards
and discovered a hiding place. There were a number of needles, old spoons and H caps. So we made another autopsy on his body about a half hour ago. He'd been using the stuff himself.”

“Oh, no!” I felt for a chair and slumped down.

“Then a few minutes ago,” Mark continued, “I got a call from the San Diego police. They've just made a big roundup of Southern California heroin suppliers at the border. One of them had a junk list.”

“What's that?”

“Names of pushers in various areas and who kept them supplied. Herb Nelson's name was on that list.”

“Who was his supplier?”

“A man named Sam Aces.”

For a long moment I couldn't get my breath, then I said, “It—it couldn't be the same one.”

“We don't know for sure,” Mark said. “There may be another Sam Aces, but I doubt it. Too many strong links; the old friend routine; Sam trying to get Herb a spot on the Swanson show. It all adds up. Honey, I'm afraid your two clients were a couple of bad boys.

“Mark,” I protested, “I can believe it of Sam Aces, he was no archangel—but, Herb Nelson—”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I felt sick when they brought in that stuff from his apartment. I didn't believe it until I got that phone call from San Diego.”

“So where does that leave us?” I asked after a moment. “Well, this suspect, Walker, is a known user. It's my guess he went to Herb's apartment, demanded some junk, didn't have the money and was forced to kill him to get what he wanted. Where we go
from there, I don't know. My theory is that Bob Swanson murdered Aces and then killed Meeler to conceal the crime. He added Ann Claypool to the list when she threatened to reveal her part in the plan.”

I glanced up as Chief Clements came into his office. “Listen, Mark, the Avalon lab is making a set of prints from the thumb impressions found on Ann Claypool's neck. The chief says he'll have them flown to the mainland as soon as they're ready. I imagine they'll do a lot toward straightening us out, once and for all.”

Mark said, “I hope so.”

“When will you be able to get here?”

“Tonight,” Mark said, “at the earliest. But I'll call Clements just as soon as we've matched those prints.”

“Okay. Hey, I almost forgot! How about fingerprints on that butcher knife?”

“Plenty of them,” the lieutenant answered. “All belonging to Mr. Joseph Meeler.”

“Great,” I said. “Now all we have to do is find out the thumb marks on Ann Claypool's throat are her own and that Sam Aces shot himself.”

Mark growled, “Rotten business, isn't it? Well, are you about ready to settle down and get married?”

“Who thinks about marriage when they're having a ball at Catalina?”

Mark missed the humor, swore loudly and said, “Have it your own way, you voluptuous blonde bird-dog. But one of these days you're going to get yourself into a hole six-feet deep and then
nobody's going to be able to dig you out except a guy with a shovel.”

“Remind me to call for Perry Mason.”

He finally softened, warned me to keep on the alert for both Decker and Swanson and ended the conversation.

I walked to the island villas and rented one of the small cabins. The day was hot and the air acrid as if someone had shipped in a slice of Los Angeles smog.

I freshened my lipstick, slipped into a cool dress and walked outside along the front cabins. That was a mistake! One of the doors suddenly flew open and a large hand pulled me inside the room.

Before I could get my bearings I was flat on my back and a big kid with thick reddish hair was trying to get my dress up. I put my heel in the middle of his stomach and he reeled across the room, landing on a small table.

The piece of furniture collapsed, pitching the startled young man to the floor. He got up slowly. I thought about reaching for my .32 but vetoed the idea in favor of some juvenile rehabilitation. The kid couldn't have been more than nineteen.

“What's your problem?” I asked, dusting myself off. “You the island doctor, or was the physical examination just for kicks?”

“I thought you were somebody else,” he said, shaking his head. “I been expecting a girl named Toni. You look just like her.”

“Toni must be quite a gal,” I said.

He had a bad complexion and thick eyebrows. He said, “Don't get me wrong. I didn't want to hurt you. It was all a mistake.”