Built for Trouble (4 page)

And it would work. It would work damn well and I knew now about the cut-up bicycle tire I’d seen in Hank’s garage. He’d soldered the valve into this can. To fill it. A couple of minutes with a tire pump and she’d be pumped full of air, and later, down in the swirl of dirty water Nola had kicked up, she could simply put her lips over the petcock in the other end of the can, turn the little brass handle, and inhale the stream of air rushing into her mouth. Those bubbles I’d seen racing toward the surface—probably enough air in the beer tin for several easy breaths while Nola waited for Eddie Baker to run out of wind. Real cozy!

But she couldn’t bring the thing in with her, obviously, and she couldn’t be seen fishing it out the next day. At night she’d never be able to locate it, so unless someone else took care of the can for her, Nola would have to leave it right there on the bottom.

It was pretty easy to figure out who was supposed to bring that piece of evidence in out of the water and now, swimming slowly toward the beach, I tried to fit Hank Sawyer’s death into the picture. But the hell of it was, there just didn’t seem to be
enough
motive. Sure he might have tried to put the bite on Nola but even so, murder is always the last resort and it just didn’t figure that Nola Norton would take that big a risk to cover up a clever publicity stunt.

By the time the breakers were under me and I started to ride one in, I’d come up with one solid conclusion. I was going to keep a damn sharp eye on Nola Norton when we got down to discussing the terms.

WHEN I CAME IN FROM THE SURF I palmed the beer tin against my thigh like a quarterback hiding a football before the handoff. I stopped long enough to wrap my towel gently around the thing, hoping to preserve whatever fingerprints might remain, and then trekked across the sand to where I’d parked the car.

Before I started the motor I dropped the towel long enough for a close examination of the can. There were plenty of heavy fingerprints scattered around, some of them deeply embedded in what was probably smeared soldering paste, but the one or two smaller prints I saw were pretty well smudged. I’d have to do something about that, but the first order of business was to get the can into a safe place, a spot where it would be out of the way, yet accessible when I needed it. I’d already worked out that part of the plan and had decided on the check-lockers in the Union Depot. I whipped over to my place, got into some clothes, wrapped the can in paper towels, dropped it into a small suitcase, and headed for downtown L.A.

“I’d like to ask about the lockers,” I told the man at the information window.

“And what would your question be?” He was plump and a little bored with his job but he gave me the main parts of a smile.

“I want to check this bag in a locker but I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to pick it up. What happens?”

“Well, sir, when you put it in the locker and pay your quarter, that’s good for twenty-four hours plus however long after that it takes for them to get around and check the numbers. Anything that’s been left in over that time is picked up and you can claim it at the check stand by showing the key to the locker it came out of. That and paying the additional storage.”

“How long does the check stand keep it?”

“One year. You’ll not be going away that long, I trust.” He smiled and turned to the next man in line, but I wasn’t smiling as I walked away. I didn’t intend to be gone too long, but maybe Hank Sawyer didn’t intend to drink that bad booze. I crossed to a stand of lockers, boosted the bag into one, and pocketed the key. I stopped at the phones long enough to check the book for the address of Joe Lamb’s theatrical agency, but the closest I could come was
Lamb & Taylor.
I jotted it down and headed for Hollywood.

The place wasn’t pretentious, just a modest location in a building on Hollywood Boulevard a few blocks west of Vine Street. I climbed the white steps to the second floor, walked down the hall, and found the right door.
Lamb & Taylor, Agents
was newly lettered on the frosted glass, and when I went in the small waiting room was empty. A paneled door on the left said
J. Lamb;
the one on the right said
C. Taylor.

C. Taylor
opened and a trimly built redhead came through, horn-rimmed glasses in her hand, a flash of even white teeth in her smile. Not a show-girl doll all done up in false eyelashes—this one was for real. She had a certain class that had been obscured by a flopping white shirt and the rest of her get-up the only other time I’d seen her—which was on the beach with Nola Norton.

“Good afternoon,” she said brightly. “May I help—” She stopped there, both the words and her step, and we looked steadily at each other for several seconds. Then the redhead recovered. Her smile came back and she took one more step.

“Our lifeguard friend. How nice to see you again; won’t you come in?” She bobbed her head toward the inner office, her red pony tail switching as she turned. She was all woman—her walk, her voice, the contour—and when I followed her in and closed the door she dropped the glasses on an open script on her desk and sat down.

“You—look better,” she said, “than when I saw you last.”

“You,” I said grinning, “should give away those Calypso pants and that white shirt. But I came to see Joe Lamb. Isn’t he around?”

“Not right now, but perhaps I can help. I’m Carol Taylor and our agency is a partnership. Exactly what did you want, Mr. Baker?”

“Nola Norton’s address.”

Carol made a pretty face, her lips rounding into an O like a mother reproving a small child. “We never give out a client’s address, Mr. Baker.”

“Let’s say I’m a friend. Where does Nola live?”

“Oh, I
am
sorry, but our rules are quite strict. Miss Norton decides which of her friends are to have her phone number and address. There are so many salesmen and people who want—”

“Step down,” I said wearily. “This is business; I’m just a salesman myself, but she’ll see me. I’ve got a nice special on today, a Lucky Lager tin with a couple of valves soldered in the ends. You can’t hardly get them no more, as the TV comedians say, just one left in the whole Pacific area. Now how about that address?”

“A—a beer can?”

“Correction.
The
beer can. The one she used that day you were standing by on the blanket, just in case the stupid lifeguard didn’t notice her having trouble out in the deep water, ready to send him on his way.”

Carol blinked and looked away quickly, that rusty pony tail doing tricks again, and then she snapped open a mechanical address file on her desk.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Baker, but actually, you
are
a friend of hers and I suppose it will be all right to give you the information.” She turned the file around and I jotted down the street and number, her phone, then got to my feet.

“Thanks, Fire Top,” I said, grinning, “and don’t forget about those Calypso pants. Throw ’em away.” When I closed the paneled door and walked across the carpeted waiting room, I could hear the phone dial spinning rapidly behind me.

Nola Norton’s place turned out to be a stucco apartment building up on Los Feliz, one of those big, fortresslike jobs with a heavy glass door leading into the central quad, which would doubtless have a swimming pool. There were half a dozen buildings in the line, all roughly the same. When I stopped in front of her number I didn’t get out of the car right away. I had to do something about getting Nola’s thumbprint, so I whipped out my wallet, ran a finger under the dash and over the speedometer cable, and brought out a touch of grease. Flipping open the billfold, I smeared a thin, almost invisible layer of grease over the transparent celluloid card-holder containing my civil service identification tag, then wiped it lightly with my handkerchief, then returned the billfold to my pocket. All I had to do now was get her to handle that card and I’d have the print. I got out and went through the heavy glass door.

The pool was there, a beautiful oval job done in blue tile trim and wide decking. The grounds were nicely terraced. I walked back along the side and found her apartment.

She came to the door in a white knitted suit that seemed to ebb and flow with the curves. That long black hair was nicely combed, the waves neatly in place, and she wore smooth white high-heeled pumps and a blank look on her lovely face.

“Yes?”

“I’m Eddie Baker,” I said, “and I just dropped over to thank you for saving my life a couple of weeks back.”

“Well, how nice. Won’t you come in, Mr. Baker.”

She stepped aside and I went in onto a white shag rug, then turned and watched her carefully close the door. When she came toward me she nodded to an easy chair, and I sat down.

“I’m surprised to see you, Mr. Baker. May I get you a drink?”

“No, thanks. I never drink while I’m working.”

“Working?”

“And you aren’t surprised to see me. Carol Taylor passed the word on her hot little telephone before I was out of the building, so turn it off. My crack about thanking you was meant for any nosy neighbors who happened to be fanning an ear at their window; now suppose we talk about the beach and a dame in distress and a hundred fifty thousand dollars worth of publicity.”

It was a fast opening bid; I didn’t want to stall around with her, because the way I had it figured we’d have company any minute and there was one bit of business I wanted to get over before her agent arrived on the scene.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Baker.”

“I’ll clue you,” I said, and brought out my wallet. I flipped it open to the identification card in the celluloid sheath, then held it out to her. “Read it,” I said, but my hand was unsteady and she had to hold it herself.

“It’s a card that says you’re a lifeguard with the—”

“That’s right,” I cut in. I didn’t pull the billfold out of her hand, just waited, and when she let it fall free I folded it and returned it to my pocket.

“But,” I said pointedly, “it’s no longer in force. I’m through on the lifeguard crew—finished, all washed up, and I don’t like it, baby. Not a damn bit, I don’t.”

“Well, naturally I’m sorry, Mr. Baker, but—” She glanced nervously toward the door and then went on: “—but I don’t quite see that all this concerns me.”

“Turn it off,” I said, grinning. “Don’t tell me that Carol forgot to mention the beer tin.”

She smiled then, smiled when you knew damn well she wanted to tear me apart. The kid was more than good at staging an act. She got up and walked across to a small glass box on the coffee table and brought back cigarettes. The profile was enough to start a guy scratching himself, and when our eyes met I knew she could read it in my face. Before I could zero in on the business at hand once more, the chimes rang and she got up to open the door. The brains of the combine hurried in, a thin character half a head shorter than she was. He had on a classy gray suit, a gabardine job cut to make the most of his meager physical endowment. The introductions were curt; the formality of meeting Joe Lamb quickly over.

“Now what the hell is going on here?” Lamb asked. He pointed an anemic finger under my nose. “Unless I got it all wrong, this adds up to blackmail.”

“Watch your language,” I said. “We’re going to call it a business deal.”

“Like hell we are!” He paced the floor, his short legs moving in quick, abbreviated strides. His hair was gray at the fringes and he had piercing brown eyes. I glanced at the sofa, saw that Nola was on the edge of the cushions, and then watched Joe Lamb make one more lap of the rug.

“All right, Jockey; you’re piling up mileage but we’re getting nowhere. How about lighting someplace and we’ll get down to cases?” I said. Joe circled past the glass box, caught up a smoke, and struck a match with nervous fingers. When he sat down next to Nola, I stood up and took over the pacing.

“We can start by agreeing that everyone here knows exactly what happened two weeks ago. I was had; the evidence is clear and plentiful. That Lucky Lager tin tells the whole story and a moron, once all of the pieces were put in front of him, could assemble a fair picture of how this swindle was staged. The motive was profit; I want my share. It’s as simple as that.”

“What evidence?” Nola asked mildly. “So far you’ve only made one vague reference to a beer can.”

“Not
a
beer can, a special edition. Only one was struck off, a home-made job with a fancy brass petcock on one end to let the air out and a valve from a tire in the other. It could be filled at any service station, or with a hand pump. A chunk of lead the size of my fist weighted it down. Sure as hell we aren’t going to waste any more time arguing about what it was for or who used it.”

“And where is this contraption now?” Nola asked.

“It
was
half buried in sand off the beach at Playa Del Rey. I brought it up and now it’s for sale. Do I hear a bid?”

Joe Lamb’s mouth dropped open.
“You
brought it up! I—”

“I believe,” Nola cut in quickly, “that Mr. Baker mentioned pieces of a puzzle. So far we’ve only heard about one item, the can.” She stood up and walked easily to the window, looked toward the swimming pool, and casually adjusted the Venetian blind just a little. But there wasn’t anything wrong with that blind! She moved smoothly and gave out with the calm and collected air like the actress she was, but the edge was there just the same. And she’d cut in on Joe Lamb before he could say anything about who was
supposed
to have taken care of the beer tin. Nola Norton wasn’t going to let Hank Sawyer’s name be dragged into this if she could help it. She turned toward me now and managed a smile.

“What are some of the other pieces, Mr. Baker?”

“A picture,” I said, and spent a little time getting a cigarette lit. Joe edged toward the front of the cushion under him, and Nola crossed her legs a shade too casually. “You had to be sure there was one really good exposure on the roll of film, something professional, something that would catch an eye without relying too heavily on cheesecake. But it’s almost impossible to take that kind of picture in strong sunlight, so you hustle out there in early morning and do the job right. And at the same time Nola swims out and drops the can of air, first being careful to line it up with something ashore so she’ll be able to locate it later.

“At noon, Nola and the Taylor girl come down for a swim. With her experience as a lifeguard, Nola has no trouble convincing me that she’s in panic out there, and she does it without calling for help. Three would have been a crowd. She has already spotted her can of air. When I start out to the rescue, she dives for the beer can, kicks hell out of the sand and silt on the bottom, and comes up again. She wasn’t thrashing this time, just that white bathing cap bobbing in the surface, and now I know why. As I got closer, she went under again, and this time down into the murky water. With her mouth over the brass fitting, she simply took air from the can and exhaled through her nose. When Eddie Baker was desperate for air and started toward the surface, there was the quick grab from behind and the tussle was over. How does it sound, Nola?”

“Like a fantastic dream. You aren’t by any chance a heroin addict, are you?” Joe bounced off of the sofa and made another nervous forage in the cigarette container.

“So you’ve got a beer can and a dream, Baker,” Joe said sourly. “The way you describe that can, you could have made it yourself in half an hour with no more tools than a soldering iron and some lead. Who’s going to believe that we—”

“Anyone who takes a second look at the pictures that appeared in Monday’s paper,” I said. “There was no particular reason for the editor to look at them critically; they were good and that’s all he wanted, but if I sing my song they’re going to haul them out for a recount. When they do and add up one shot obviously taken the morning
before
the rescue instead of afterward, it won’t be a very long guess to the facts.”