The Avenger 36 - Demon Island (7 page)

He rested the script on his knee, looked up at the beamed ceiling of his room, and thought, I wish we’d find Cole. His being lost, maybe dead, is my fault really. If I hadn’t invited him to tag along on this excursion . . . well, the Avenger will find him. That Nellie Gray is sort of cute. I wonder how she’d test?

He picked up the script again and turned a page.

“Hey?”

A clattering noise. Somewhere near.

O’Malley went to his door and pulled it open.

The corridor was empty.

At its end he noticed that the door of the wardrobe room was standing open. That wasn’t open the last time I went by, he thought, and I don’t think anybody’s working on costumes this late.

Tossing aside the script, O’Malley stepped out into the dim corridor.

There were no lights on in the wardrobe room. He felt around and located the switch that turned on the temporary lighting.

Once when he’d done an Egyptian epic somebody had swiped a casket full of fake jewelry. But there wasn’t much from this flick worth swiping.

He crossed the threshold, head craning from side to side.

Nobody in here now. What was that smell?

Two smells, my dear Watson, he corrected himself. One was the smell of wet ground. The other was . . . perfume. A sharp, wildflower scent.

He saw the dress next.

It had been dropped on the stone floor near the thin window. Beside it on the floor was one damp footprint.

The bare foot of a woman.

The dress was one which was used in the picture. Fanny Fiddler wore it. The hem of the dress was ripped in several places and stained with grass and mud-colored splotches.

And that perfume is Fanny’s, too, he remembered.

Brushing off the front of the dress, O’Malley hung it back on its rack.

He left the wardrobe room and closed the door.

He went back into his room. He wanted to think about what to do next.

A dozen seagulls were parading around the parking lot. From his desk in the San Amaro police station Lt. Bonner could see them clearly. There wasn’t much else to see out there. The gray-surfaced lot was walled in by the rear of the city hall, a supermarket, and the back of a bank. There’d been a little flurry of activity in front of the market about an hour ago. Word had gotten around that they were going to get a shipment of butter in. That proved only a rumor and the fifty housewives who’d lined up before the store opened were mad for a while.

Lt. Bonner was a thin, wiry man of fifty-one. He liked to wear whipcord pants and shirts on the job. Suits and ties annoyed him, made him uncomfortable.

His phone rang.

He answered it with, “Bonner here.”

“This is Richard Benson,” said a strong, clear voice. “I’m calling you from San Obito Island, which I understand comes under the jurisdiction of the San Amaro police.”

“Yeah, it does. Though nothing much has happened out there lately. Are you one of the movie people?”

“Not exactly,” said the Avenger. “I think you’d better get out here, Lieutenant. There’s been a murder.”

Lt. Bonner stopped watching the seagulls. “How’s that again?”

“We found a man dead in the woods late last night.”

“And you figure it’s murder?”

“He was strangled, yes.”

“Some kind of fight among the people making the movie, or what?”

“The man isn’t one of the motion-picture-company employees. We don’t as yet know who he is.”

“I imagine you thought to look at his wallet?”

“He wasn’t carrying one, nor any other means of immediate identification,” answered the Avenger. “I’ve taken his fingerprints and I’d like you to get them to—”

“Wait now, Mr. Benson,” cut in the policeman. “They pay me to do stuff like that. I don’t want you or any of those other Hollywood characters tampering with the body until I get there with my men. You understand? Leave the guy right where you found him.”

“The body’s been brought back to the mansion,” Benson told him.

“What? Why in the hell did you do that?”

“Because I think there’s a distinct possibility that someone might steal the corpse,” replied the Avenger. “We can go into the details when you get here, Lieutenant Bonner.” He broke the connection.

“You bet we’ll go into the details,” said Bonner as he strapped on his shoulder holster.

“I feel like an undertaker,” remarked Smitty.

On a table in the until now unused ballroom of the castle Tucker’s body lay. O’Malley had instructed all the men on the crew to file in and take a look at the dead man.

The giant was stationed at the doorway to keep the flow moving smoothly.

The Avenger stood near him, watching each grip and technician as he circled the table for his look at the corpse. “So far no one seems to recognize him,” he said.

“Well, if he ain’t one of the movie ginks, who is he?”

“As soon as we get his fingerprints checked out we’ll know.”

“That might take a day or two. We got to find Cole sooner than that.”

“Hold on, Smitty.”

Candy had just viewed the body. As he came back toward the door the Avenger stopped him. “Did you recognize him?”

“Nope, not really.”

“Your face indicated that you did while you were looking at him.”

Candy said, “Well, I tell you what I thought. He looks like a guy who was hanging around the studio in Burbank two, three weeks ago. He was talking with the guard just as I come off work that one day. So Murph—he’s the gateman on that shift—he calls me over. Seems this guy is looking for a job. He’s heard we’re going to be shooting here on the island, read it in the trade papers or some place. Claimed he was an expert on the islands off the coast. Wondered if we needed some kind of technical advisor. Murph knew I was going to be on Terry’s crew for this picture and asked me to talk to the guy. I did for a few minutes and I got the hunch he was a con artist. I don’t think he knew islands from his elbow.”

“Did he ask you when you were going to get here?” asked the Avenger. “And how long you were planning to stay?”

Candy frowned. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did.”

“Did he give you a name?”

“Nope, because I told him I was sure Terry wasn’t going to be hiring any island experts. That didn’t seem to make him too unhappy.” Candy turned his glance toward the dead man again. “Poor guy. He don’t have anything at all to worry about no more.”

“You sure it’s the same guy?” asked Smitty.

Shrugging, Candy said, “Ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths percent sure. I wasn’t even going to mention it to you guys, ’cause it doesn’t seem to mean much.”

“Thank you, Candy,” said Benson. “It might help.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

When the man was gone Smitty said, “Our dead chum had something to do on Demon Island, huh?”

“Apparently. He wanted to find out when the movie crew would be here.”

“Think it had something to do with the movie? You know, was he planning a stickup or a kidnap of one of the dames?”

“No, I think it was something else,” said the Avenger. “And when we find out exactly what, we’ll know what happened to Cole.”

Lt. Bonner turned his back on the dead man. “I should have recognized your name right off,” he told the Avenger. “You’re Richard Henry Benson, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Well, judging from what I’ve heard of the Avenger,” said the policeman, “you didn’t come out here just for the scenery. Did you expect this murder?”

Benson shook his head. “We’re on Demon Island for another reason.”

“I’d like to know about it.”

“One of my associates, Cole Wilson, is a friend of Terence O’Malley,” explained the Avenger. “He was taking a vacation, spending some time here in southern California. He accompanied O’Malley and the film crew here. And then he disappeared.”

Bonner said, “Nobody told me about that.”

“A disappearance doesn’t always involve a crime.”

Smiling, Bonner said, “His disappearance brought you out here.”

“We have a habit of looking after each other, Lieutenant.”

“And Wilson wasn’t working on a case . . . on any Justice, Incorporated, business?”

“No, I assure you he wasn’t.”

The lieutenant jerked a thumb in the direction of Tucker’s body. “Think this guy’s death is just a coincidence? Or does it have something to do with Wilson’s vanishing?”

The Avenger said, “I think there are some other people on Demon Island. People who have nothing to do with the motion-picture company.”

“And this guy was one of those others,” said Bonner. “Could be then that the ones who are still alive have gotten hold of Wilson. So what do you figure to do next?”

“Find them,” said the Avenger.

Smitty thrust his huge hand into his suitcase. “It’s time to let the marvels of technocracy take over.”

“You mean technology,” said Nellie.

“Naw, technocracy. That’s technology and democracy mixed together.” He extracted an object about the size and shape of a ripe avocado. There were dials and knobs dotting its mechanical surface. “I’m going to turn my mechanical bloodhound loose on this case.”

“Good notion,” said the blonde. “Cole’s been lost an awful long time.”

Smitty tossed up the hunting device and caught it. “Should have used this gizmo right off.” He strode to the door of his room and went out into the hall.

Nellie followed. “I have a feeling he’s still alive.”

“Aw, sure. You can’t kill that guy.” The giant let himself into the room which had been Cole’s. He took his mechanical bloodhound over to the closet. “Okay, junior, take a whiff.” After Smitty pressed a button and turned a dial the oval object actually began to make a faint sniffing sound.

“I remember we did pretty good with that thing when we were mixed up in the cartoon-crimes business out on Long Island.”

Nodding, Smitty pushed another knob. “Now we’ll go outside and let it do its stuff.”

When they were at the rear of the castle, beneath Fanny Fiddler’s window, Smitty held the device near the ground. After some thirty seconds it gave out a very low humming. Dials clicked.

“It’s picked up his scent?” asked Nellie.

“Sure thing. Now we just got to follow the arrow.”

The afternoon was still sunny. In among the trees, however, there seemed to be an extra darkness and a chill.

“I always thought Pacific islands were warm,” remarked Nellie.

“Not when they’re loaded with spooks.”

The pair pushed deeper into the woods. After a while the mechanical bloodhound led them to the spot where Cole had been tripped that night.

“Some kind of fracas here,” observed Nellie, bending to poke at the trampled ground. “Somebody fell . . . and somebody else seems to have come up behind him.”

Smitty had gone over to examine a nearby tree trunk. “Had a wire tied around here,” he pointed out. “That’s what they must have done . . . stretched a wire across the path and tripped Cole up.”

“Yeah, and then came up and sapped him from behind.”

“Nice guys,” said Smitty. “Well, now let’s see where they took him.”

The tracking device led them on. In a few moments they had left the overgrown path and were cutting through weeds and underbrush.

“We picked the least-traveled path for sure,” said the little blonde.

“Yeah, I’m starting to feel like Robinson Caruso,” said Smitty.

“You mean Crusoe.”

“Geeze,” complained the giant. “When Cole makes a remark like that everybody chuckles and says he’s witty. But when I make a wisecrack . . .”

Nellie patted his arm. “Sorry, pal.”

The mechanical bloodhound in Smitty’s palm made one soft clucking sound, then started buzzing faintly.

“What’s that mean?” asked Nellie.

Smitty scratched his head. “It means Cole’s right here.” He swiveled his big head around. “This gadget never fails . . . except I—”

“Oh, Smitty! You don’t think he’s buried here . . . right underneath us?”

The giant lifted up a foot and looked at the ground. “Naw, there’s no sign of any digging here . . . Hey!” He dropped to his knees and tossed her the mechanical bloodhound. With his huge fingers he brushed at something underneath the moss. “Look here, Nell! It’s a brass ring.”