And kill once more

AND KILL ONCE MORE

I lay on the Santa Monica strand and watched lazy fall breakers pile in. Each long slow wave rolled shoreward, mounting higher and higher until at last the crest toppled over and crashed toward me in a broad curtain of white foam, then spent itself on the sand and washed silently back into the surf. Hungry sandpipers followed the backwash, their long needle-like beaks darting into the wet sand in search of an early snack. A squadron of gulls wheeled overhead and morning sunlight gave a sparkle to the blue Pacific, a glitter which, for me at least, has never lost its attraction. I stood up, stretched, weighed the empty feeling in my stomach against the lure of salt water and decided on another dip before breakfast.

The water had just enough snap to feel right. I splashed through the surf, knifed into a seven foot wall of white and came up on the other side. Working easily out a hundred yards, I rolled over and lay on the swells, my thoughts on the beach and how things were and how they might go on being for quite a while. Summer had gone the way of a lot of other summers; now it was October. Next month the inn at Death Valley would open and I'd hold forth as combination lifeguard and swimming instructor for the winter season, then knock off for another vacation and when warm weather brought the multitude down to the ocean there would be a job for Marty Bowman.

A nice life—until there comes a day when you begin to wonder if thirty-one isn't getting a little old for a beach boy and wouldn't it be smart to look around for something a bit more permanent. But thinking back over

7

some of the other times I'd tried to make the break brought a smile to my face. There was that fall I took a job punching rivets in an aircraft plant. Not too hard, a nice clean, respectable spot but somewhere along the second week I figured out that at the rate of one every ten seconds I was forty million rivets from retirement and that's just too damn many rivets. I asked for my time and caught on with a plunge down in Palm Springs for the rest of the winter.

And there have been other times, other jobs I've taken and some I tried for without success but somehow I always wind up wearing swimming trunks, dark glasses, and a towel over my shoulders. Maybe the real reason I can't get interested in running a drill press is that in the back of my mind there's a picture of the enterprise I hope to launch some day. A small but classy pool well located on the fringes of Beverly Hills, perhaps, and set up to skim off some of the easy dough spilling out of pockets in that area. Swimming lessons for small fry during the day and party rental at night—work I could really enjoy and at the same time lay away a buck or so, and. . . .

Vaguely I was aware that the pounding of the surf had increased and the swells had carried me toward the beach. I turned and stroked along ahead of a rising crest, caught it breaking, and rode all the way in. When it petered out under me and dribbled back toward the sea I jogged up onto the dry sand, caught up my towel and went toward my small beach cottage. Before I opened the door I heard the phone ringing. I went inside, crossed the narrow hallway, dropped the towel on the carpet, stepped on it and picked up the phone.

"Marty Bowman," I said.

"Marty? Boreland Gregory." He let that soak in for a second, then said, "Marty, I have an assignment for you. A client is with me now, a young lady who seems

to have a rather unusual problem. It's your type of thing and I'd like you to handle it."

I stood there, the phone in my hand and salt water dripping onto the towel. There couldn't be any mistake. Boreland Gregory was my brother's boss and the few times Gregory had dialed my number it was in an effort to locate Fred. Now Gregory was calling me. He had used my first name slowly and deliberately. Twice.

"Hold on," I said. "I just came up from the beach and I'd better dry off."

But I wasn't worried about a few drops of water. I needed time to square this one away. Somebody was obviously right at Gregory's elbow. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, couldn't make any explanations. Over the wire I heard his voice again, low this time as though he'd turned away. "How's that for service, Miss Weston? Our man Bowman just came out of the water."

If the Miss Weston in his office answered I didn't hear her but I was getting a line on things. Gregory had a Bowman on his staff all right but it wasn't me. Fred has been an ace investigator with the Gregory Agency for a dozen years and once tried to grease the chute there for me. He arranged an interview and I went down, but the deal didn't jell. We'd gotten along fine until Boreland Gregory tilted back in his heavy oak chair, fixed a shrewd eye on my face and asked how he could be sure, after investing his time and money to train me for his work, that it wouldn't all go slipping down the drain when summer came and the beaches called. I didn't try to kid him. I said he couldn't be sure at all and right about then he lost interest in adding Marty Bowman to his payroll.

Two years ago, that was, but now things had suddenly changed. Now Gregory was making a noise like a man who was over the barrel. It was obvious he needed somebody who owned more than one pair of trunks, you might say, and I thought about the month I had to kill before the inn opened and decided against giving him the kiss-off.

"You're getting through to me," I said softly. "What can you tell me over the phone? What do we do about—"

"Fine," he cut in. "We'll take care of the odds and ends when you get here. Just pack a bag and hurry down to the office. Miss Weston is due at a house party on the desert, Marty, but she's a little worried. Needs help on a couple of matters. You're going as a guest, so put some swimming trunks into a suitcase and be on your way. You might take about what you'd want for a nice weekend in a first class resort, but don't forget those trunks. Got that?"

"The swimming trunks," I echoed softly. "Yes, I think I get the picture, Mr. Gregory. I'll be there as soon as possible—about twenty minutes. Anything else?"

"She'll wait for you, Marty. Make it fast."

The phone clicked and I cradled it, then hit for the shower. Hot water splashed across my shoulders and washed away the salt while I did a mental retake on the fragment of a picture Boreland Gregory had given me, and five minutes later I climbed into my four-year-old coupe, whipped over onto Wilshire Boulevard and headed toward Hollywood. Gregory's agency is on the second floor in a building just off the celebrated corner, so I found a parking spot on Vine and walked back.

Before I got to the entrance a familiar voice greeted me. "Hi, kid. Or should I call you lucky?"

I turned toward the curb and saw my brother Fred leaning against a fight blue Cadillac with gleaming wire wheels. "Delayed action?" I asked. "Two years ago I hit fat boy for a job and today it comes through. You sure I'm lucky?"

Fred gave me an envious grin. "There isn't much doubt about that," he said. He turned to admire the

Cad again and nodded his appreciation, then touched a respectful toe to a spotless white sidewall. "Your carriage, m'lord. And wait till you see the lady in waiting. Enough to make me wish I'd put more time on the beach and less chasing after some jerk's erring spouse. Now let's get inside before the boss has a Utter of pups on the office floor. He's been hopping from one foot to the other ever since he phoned you." I followed my brother into the narrow hall and started up the stairway but he stopped me.

"Let's see your wallet, kid."

I handed it over and watched him cram a sheaf of twenties into it. Then he made another small transfer and passed it back. Those little odds and ends that Gregory had mentioned were now taken care of.

"Three hundred, Marty. Pay all the tabs and keep account. Strictly a smooth operation; he'll nick her for the expenses later, but don't let her shell it out any place along the line. Catch?"

"Sure, but—"

"No time for a bull session, kid. Now take this and keep it out of sight. A prop, see?" Fred carefully handed over his stubby .38. "If she happens to see it, fine. Anybody else, not good. You've got no license. Now toss me the keys to your hack and I'll run it back out to the beach for you."

I gave him the keys, then took another peek into the wallet. "Take Martha and Tim," I called after Fred. "There's a new surfboard in the garage if Tim wants to try those breakers again." Fred waved his thanks and I climbed the stairs to Gregory's office.

Seeing him again brought me back to the business at hand and a wave of doubts began to roll in. In one corner of my mind was the nagging thought that all was not kosher along Vine Street this fine morning. It didn't quite fit, this quick and easy entrance of Marty Bow-

man into the glamorous role of the shamus. Boreland Gregory had spent a lot of years building his name in this town and he was nobody's chump. He was getting bald, had a figure like a couple of bags of barley, flat feet, cash register eyes, and other dubious assets that added up to nothing impressive on the physical side, but his mind was as sharp as a well-honed razor. From his swiveled throne in the bay window of a lush Hollywood office he ran one of the most profitable detective agencies in town and was far too smart a business man to risk a fine reputation in the hands of an untried operator. Yet from where I stood it looked like he was doing just that. I was still asking myself why.

The receptionist ushered me through the heavy door and the situation didn't improve. Gregory waddled out from behind six feet of battered oak desk, made hasty introductions, pointed out that time was fleeting, said we'd have a good sixty miles to discuss things and urged the pair of us to be on our way. I shot a hard look his way. It didn't seem to me that B.G. was very worried over the girl's problem, whatever it was, and he should have been because another of his specialties is extracting the long green from the patrons and at his prices he could aflord to show a little concern. It would have been no more than good business.

When I turned back his Miss Weston was giving me the slow top-to-bottom and I tossed it back at her. She was blonde and tan and would have been a knockout anyplace. Not too tall, a refreshing change from the amazons some people turn out these days and one quick look told you she was as feminine as a negligee. You didn't have to be an expert on women's apparel to guess that the blue gabardine suit had come from an exclusive shop and her white, high-heeled shoes had a simple elegance associated with good taste and a healthy bank balance. Without being too obvious I glanced down long

enough to assure myself that the part of her between those shoes and the hem line was as fine a bit of leg as you'll find on any beach. I thought about that racy Caddy standing against the curb outside, then picked up my bag and nodded toward the door. I had this pigeon pegged.

These stacked jobs with a few bucks behind them run pretty much to form. They come down to the beach wearing that go-to-hell look and not much more and never look to right or left, but every guy within seeing distance is straining his eyes and pawing the sand—and well they know it. I've picked up a few things besides splinters, though, while sunning myself in those lifeguard towers and I figured to get along with this cutie. We went through the office and started down the narrow stairway and glancing back I saw Boreland Gregory smiling after us. His face wore the expression of a used-car salesman who has just unloaded the junkiest heap on the lot and it worried me a little.

At the bottom of the steps the blonde turned back toward me to make a casual remark about the weather and it told me something else about her. You didn't have to beat her to the door. She knew the trick of hesitating long enough to give a man time to reach around her and turn the knob. No obvious stepping aside to wait, no pushing on through by herself—just a lady letting you be the gentleman. When we walked out to the curb I swung the car door and installed her on the side next to the walk, then tossed my scuffed gladstone into the back, next to a pair of matched traveling cases worth about ninety bucks a print, and slid in behind the wheel.

Over Cahuenga Pass we got it down to Kate and Marty and worked in a few background details but the blonde gave the problem at hand a wide berth. Vague generalities and the bland statement that it would be

easier to show me when we arrived. Maybe I shouldn't have worried about it, either. Good duty this. I should have been content to roll her expensive wagon over the concrete and let small matters take care of themselves but somehow I didn't like the feel of things. We turned right onto the Canyon Highway, the tires making a soothing hum on the pavement. Dry air hung motionless over stunted desert growth and dusty tumbleweeds shook themselves at our passing, bumped lazily along in our wake for a few yards, and subsided in the peace of the morning. Tiny heat waves shimmered over rocks and sand and in the distance a range of ragged hills swept upward and caught purple tints from a climbing sun.

I pushed the lighter into contact, and tried to figure who was kidding who, and why. When the lighter clicked back I offered smokes, then held the glowing tip for Miss Weston. Her thank you was a smile backed by those cool blue eyes and then she settled back again to watch the scenery slip past. She was as relaxed as a rag doll. She had draped the jacket to her suit over the back of the seat and a stream of air deflected inward by the windwing tugged gently at that long yellow hair and arranged her thin nylon blouse into that rounded effect cover girls strive to achieve. We smoked in silence, the soft purr of two hundred willing horses whisked us effortlessly along, and once again I tried to make something sensible out of the hour that had elapsed since I answered my phone back on the beach.

A house party at a desert hideaway. Bring swimming trunks, there's a pool. Miss Weston has a problem, one which she seems in no hurry to discuss. Well, Marty Bowman wanted to discuss it, and the quicker the better. I devoted another half mile to trying to think of a smooth way of getting her to tear into the facts, then decided on the direct approach.

"Look, Kate, I'm having a wonderful time and the desert is grand this time of year and all that, but you're paying money and you're entitled to service. You won't get it unless I know a lot more than I do now, so let's stop sparring around. Exactly what do you want done up here? What was I hired to do?"