The Bamboo Blonde (3 page)

It sounded harmless enough but she didn't want Con drawn into anything that this stone man was a part of. In fact, she didn't want Con engaged in anything now, harmless or not. This was a honeymoon.

She spoke with a forced brightness, "Well, you've made a mistake, Major Pembrooke." Her laughter sounded shallow, ha-ha. "Con isn't here for any such reason. He hasn't even mentioned Mannie Martin. I would advise you to go to the police with your problem."

This time he accepted the dismissal. "The police have been informed," he stated. He turned to descend. "You will tell your husband I called and that I wish to see him. About the letter."

"What letter?" Major Pembrooke must be crazy. But he was leaving.

"The letter Mannie sent him before he disappeared."

Con hadn't mentioned a letter. There could have been one. Neither of them pried into the other's mail.

"I am at Catalina, rather, off Catalina.
The Falcon.
I can't delay longer. I have guests there. You will tell your husband."

She didn't speak. She would tell Con nothing. It would be just like him to take up a wild goose chase like this one to thwart his boredom. And even now that the Major had proved himself legitimate, she didn't like him. She called after him, "If you want to see Con again, please don't follow me. I don't like it."

He apologized without moving a muscle of his face. "I wished to make certain I could speak to you tonight. And you had made it definite that you did not care to be escorted."

She frowned to his receding steps, then fumbled for her key, the kind you bought in the five and ten, rattled it into the lock. She wasn't frightened; she was just cold from standing long in the damp dark.

She locked the door after her, then unlocked it; Con had no key with which to get in. It would serve him right to be locked out but she didn't want that. She wanted him with her. She left the living-room light burning, went into the bedroom, and undressed. She wasn't afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of. There had been no harm in those echoing footsteps, her nerves alone had translated them as such.

She put on the pink-sprigged dimity nightdress that made her look like a Kate Greenaway illustration. Actually there was no point in looking like anything except a deserted wife. She turned out the bedroom light, climbed into bed, and put her face into his pillow.

A fine honeymoon, going to bed alone.

* * *

Con said, "Are you awake?"

It woke her. He was standing by the bed, his hands jammed into his pockets, rattling something. But he wasn't smiling. The light from the living room made half-light here; she could see the disturbance

 in his frown. And a little fear without reason came

into her heart.

"Yes, I'm awake." She pushed over halfway to her own side of the bed. He sat down on the edge, pulled his hand out of his pocket. She saw what had made that rattling. On his palm lay a half dozen shells, not the kind you gathered on the beach, the kind that were put into revolvers for lethal purpose.

"Con!" She gasped it, moved back close to him. 'Con-"

He said, "Want to hear what happened?" "Yes. Con—" She stilled the quaver of her voice. After all there was no reason to be panicky just because once before he had been in danger. He wasn't now, not here on vacation in Long Beach. Not with Garth safely gone. She spoke easily, "Give me a cigarette first."

He lit one for each of them and began talking. She could see it as it unfolded.

He'd helped the girl into the old coupe, said cheerily, "We'll go where we don't have to be insulted. What do you say?"

She'd been drinking but she wasn't drunk. She spoke without inflection, as if he were a cab driver. "I want to go to Saam's Seafood Place."

"O.K." He'd started the noisy motor. "Where is it?"

"Down Seal Beach way. I'll .show you."

They drove across the bridge, on down the San Diego highway. He tried to talk to her but she was silent. And then Con wanted another drink as Con usually did. Saam's Seafood hadn't appeared but other places were handy. He slowed at one, said, "Let's have a snifter before we go on. What do you say?"

She said, "All right."

It was then that her coat fell to the floor. It made more noise than a light green fleece should. She picked it up quickly, got out of the car quickly, -and so did he. He didn't know what it was all about, and, being Con, he wasn't going to let her escape until he did. But she wasn't running away. She went into the little place, took a seat in the second booth. He sat opposite her.

He ordered two beers, and eyed the girl. "Now what's it all about?" he demanded. He had an idea maybe she was running dope. There was something dopey about her, he told Griselda. She acted as in a trance. But that didn't disturb him; he was never afraid, not even when he should be. That was why he got involved in things; not scrapes that you could laugh at later, but serious trouble where death whispered, and which you tried never to remember-after.

She did show some spirit now. She said, "I told you to skip it."

"I'm not skipping it." He waited until the beers were set down and paid for, then he said—Griselda could see him lolling back and saying it— "It's a long walk back to town, sister. Either you'll tell me what's up or you can prepare to spend the night right here in this dump."

She wet her lips, looked out again at the opposite booth, and quietly showed him the gun in her coat pocket. She said, "I'm going to blow myself out tonight. But I'm not going alone."

Con said, "Oh no, you're not." He told her, "It isn't that I give a damn if you blow yourself out or how many you take with you, but you're not going to do it tonight. Too many people have seen you with me. I'm here on my honeymoon and I can't be bothered

 ' hanging around inquests and spouting a lot of fool testimony. Give me the gun."

They sat there arguing, fortified by beers. How long Con didn't know. The girl and he were both adamant. She wouldn't give up the gun; he wouldn't drive her to Saam's until she did. He could have reached over and taken it but he was afraid she might get it first, he said, and choose him to accompany her on the voyage out.

Finally he compromised. "I can't sit here all night. I have a wife waiting for me."

"You actually remembered me?" Griselda asked. But she didn't say it acidly. She was holding tight to his hand now, pressed close against him.

He kissed the top of her head. "I never forget you, kitten."

He told the girl, "I'll take you back to town if you'll let me hold the baby until we get there. Then I'll give it back to you. You can get someone else to drive you to Saam's joint."

She agreed to that. "I'm going to powder my nose first." She was a little unsteady when she stood up.

He waited for her to reappear. When she did, she had the coat on and he could see the gun wasn't in her pocket.

He demanded, "What did you do with it?"

"I flushed it down the toilet," she said.

That made him mad; it might have been the beers but he was mad. He said, "I may look like a cretin but I'm not. That's scientifically impossible."

He marched into the Women's Room without any bones about it. He found where she'd hidden it, beneath paper towels in the wastebasket. He didn't know why or what she'd hoped to gain by it, but he unloaded the gun, put the shells into his trousers pocket, the gun into his coat pocket.

She was waiting docilely by the door when he returned. She said without spirit, "You will give it back to me? I was afraid you wouldn't; that's why I hid it. I have to have it."

They went out to the car. He asked, "So you can kill yourself and some rat?"

She said, "It's none of your business," and she didn't say any more on the ride back.

He let her off where she directed on Ocean Boulevard, handed back her gun, said, "Good night," and drove away, leaving her there on the walk.

"Then I came home to you, baby," he said.

That was Con's story.

* * *

Griselda breathed again.

Con stood up, yawned, said, "Mind the light?" turned it on, flung the shells on the bureau, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

She asked blankly, "But what was it all about, darling?"

"Damned if I know." He yawned again. "Screwiest performance I ever heard of."

Griselda wondered, "What was her name?"

"She wouldn't answer that one."

She shook her head hopelessly. "Was she pretty?"

"Might have been on the Congo. I've seen too many of her lately. Blondes like that are a dime a dozen in Hollywood. You know. She didn't even have a mole to distinguish her."

Griselda shook her head again. "Why do you do these silly things, Con? Why did you go out with her?"

He laughed. "I don't know. Curiosity, I guess. Ye olde newsy instinct. I couldn't understand why Bennie refused to serve her. I know now, of course. He'd seen the gun."

She said soberly, "Some day you'll get yourself in a mess.”

"Won't be the first time, angel face.”

He creaked down on the bed to untie his sneakers. "What did your fancy friend Kew have to offer? What's he doing here?"

"He's your friend, not mine," she said. "I don't know. He's coming by tomorrow, and Con, you have to behave. After all he is your friend."

He said sleepily, "I'll hide first. I'll dig a hole down to China. I'll lie about my age and enlist. I'll—"

"Con!" She broke in sharply, sitting bolt upright.

He turned to put an arm about her. "Aw, I'll be good, honey."

But it wasn't that. It was fright that had come over her, rational fright now. "Con, if she should do anything—your fingerprints would be all over that gun!"

His voice was uninterested. "I thought of that. But I figured it was too late for her to get any more shells tonight. And even if she should, she'd have to get someone else to drive her out to this Seafood dump. There'd be someone seen with her later than I—" The phone in the living room began insistent ringing. Con said, "What the hell—" Sock-footed, he padded to answer.

Griselda remained bolt upright in the bed. Con had accuracy in getting himself involved. She couldn't let him step into danger again when he was only so recently free of it. Tomorrow she would insist they leave this place, return to Hollywood's civilized community. Deliberately she had refrained from mention of Major Pembrooke. Con had done enough to conjure trouble tonight without adding a disappearing man to the brew.

She waited sleepily for the conclusion of the telephone call. Con was using his newspaper voice; she couldn't hear what he was saying. He returned whistling and he didn't look pleased. He picked up his shirt from the bureau, began buttoning it on again.

"Con—" she cried it. "What—"

"Simmer down." He came over to the bed, pushed her onto the pillow with his right hand. But his left hand was fastening buttons even when he kissed her. "Got to go out for a little."

"Why, Con?" She wouldn't be treated like a small child, put in her place with no explanation.

He grinned. "If you must know, there's a fellow coming in to town that won't be happy until he sells me a dog." The grin was gone. "Darling, it has nothing to do with the blonde business, I assure you. I'll be back in an hour."

He kissed her again and was gone. He hadn't said it had nothing to do with a frozen Major Pembrooke or a missing radio executive. She couldn't ask him that. She couldn't introduce those names until she was certain they were not unknown.

* * *

She tried to sleep but the ocean was malting so much thunder it was hard to hear other sound, a door that might be opening, footsteps that wouldn't belong in this beach cottage.

She listened until she was certain; someone noiseless was in that next room. She faltered, "Con—" She had forgotten the vagaries of this bed; it clanked as she stirred. There was deeper silence preceding rustle. A door clicked.

She didn't dare move. There was no use trying to pretend she wasn't scared now; she huddled under the covers, counting not sheep but steps that came endlessly, ruthlessly after her. Who had entered the cottage, stealthily, left with stealth? She didn't know why anyone should be trailing her; she hadn't done anything to anyone.

CHAPTER 2

Con hadn't returned. It was nine and the sun was quick on the deceptive peace of the Pacific. She must have slept or morning wouldn't be. here. Her heart was clenched within her, wondering where he might be. One radio man had already disappeared. And then she heard his voice.

There was no accent of trouble in it; she'd been worried over something she herself had invented.

"Of course you'll have dinner with us. Sure you will. Meet you at the Hilton at seven, Kathie."

That Kathie again. She called out, "What's it all about?"

He came into the bedroom. He hadn't slept; his eyes were weary. He wore an old checked cardigan over bright blue bathing trunks, the same dirty sneakers, and carried a tall glass of orange juice.

"For me?" she asked.

"Hustle your own." But he handed it to her, kissed her nose, and said, "Made a date for us tonight with the Travises. I want to see Walker. You'll like them."

He was himself this morning, not alternately jittery and deceptively quiet like the ocean outside. He said nothing of where he'd spent the night, stretched himself long on the bed. "Your turn to get me a glass."

She ignored him blissfully. "Give me a cigarette. What makes you think I'll like the Travises?" She doubted it very much.

"You will. I like them. So will you." There was something in the way he spoke made a small frown on her forehead. It wasn't optional that they like the Navy Travises. That much was clear. She asked, "Where did you meet them, Con?"

"Garth knew them," he said.

Why hadn't he mentioned them before? But she hadn't time for further questions. Someone was rapping at the door.

She pushed Con. "That's probably Kew. Entertain him while I shower." She whispered, "And be nice."

He growled something but she heard his greeting through the closed bedroom door and it was hearty. "How you, Kew, old man? Come on in. Great to see you," more of the same.