The Bamboo Blonde (15 page)

She nodded gravely.

"Did Con come here to act for Barjon Garth?" He had never said so actually; even to Kew she mustn't speculate on that.

"I don't know."

"Truth?"

"Yes, Kew." She explained. "We came to California for our honeymoon. It wasn't my choice, or his, but I had a picture to finish." She realized suddenly what had bothered her about Kew's story of his chartered plane trip. He hadn't included Sergei in the passenger list. "When I finished it we were going to Malibu. And then Con decided we'd do Long Beach instead. I didn't like the idea but you know Con when he makes up his mind. To Long Beach we came."

Kew said, "Garth was here."

She hadn't known he would be. She hadn't suspected that was why they came. "Yes. I didn't see him. Con was out with him a few times, doing the bars presumably."

Kew said, "Garth came out here for two purposes. One to look into the foreign agents who are digging in. He has to get something on them, even if it's only a misdemeanor, before he can step in and act. Times are too touchy to risk an incident. The other purpose, to find out why Mannie Martin disappeared. Con has worked with Garth before. As soon as I knew you two were here, that's what I thought his reason was for coming. If he's with Garth in trying to find Mannie, and if an unfriendly country is responsible for the disappearance, it might be possible that they have put the frame on him." Kew began to stride the worn carpet again. "But it doesn't add having Garth against him."

She knew one thing, knew it with cold terror stifling her heart. If he had been working with the X and had made a mistake, the organization could and would repudiate him. She almost cried out. But he couldn't, not in a billion light-years, be guilty of murder.

Kew stopped abruptly. "Do you think we should get a lawyer for Con?" He laughed then. "I'm going too far now. You're so deadly serious about this, Griselda, that I'm thinking in terms of a murder defense already. After all, Con isn't arrested for murder; he's just being questioned."

"Yes. That's all."

He frowned. "But I would like to know what was in that letter from Mannie. You didn't see it?"

She said truly, "I didn't know he'd had such a letter, Kew." There had been so much to think about, she'd forgotten to look for the letter. But she wouldn't mention Con's pocket-habits to Kew, not until she had first read what Mannie had to say. She didn't trust Kew that blindly. The message must have some import. Too many did not dismiss it as Con had.

His frown went deeper. "If he only hadn't thrown it away—" He erased the frown, coming to her. "I'll run along. We might make dinner tonight. And I'll get busy and have something to report."

She went with him to the door. "You don't know what a load off my mind it is to have your assistance. Kew."

He smiled down at her. "I'd always help you, Griselda." And then he grinned. "I might let that no-account husband of yours rot in jail but I'd never turn you down."

She laughed with him. And she remembered again the omission. "Kew, you didn't mention Vironova on your return trip. Wasn't he with you?"

"Thank God, no." He was hearty. "He wasn't hanging around Sunday. Is he included on your list of suspects?"

She shook her head, drew out the "N-n-n-o. Only I don't understand why he was clinging. Or just who he was trying to hang on to."

Kew said, "My own hunch is that he was just being himself, and trying to get in with the most important party."

She agreed, "Yes," but the explanation didn't satisfy her. After Kew was out of sight she stood looking at the sails winging on the bay, and wondering. Sergei had used Kew and Kathie for a wedge at dinner but after he was installed he hadn't been comfortable at being in the group. He had been nervous; definitely he'd been afraid of their host. His self-esteem had oozed away so thoroughly that he was nothing but a beret and a fluty voice. Still he had hung on. He had turned down the invitation to the yacht, but without urging had changed his mind and accompanied the others. His purpose hadn't been to cruise the Avalon coast. What had it been? Was he a spy; was he attempting to sabotage the proposed network? He couldn't be. He was one of the truly high-priced directors of Hollywood, with an assured place, for there was a touch of genius in the unpleasant little Russian. There would be no reason for him to threaten what he had by the crudities of spy-work. There must be some other purpose for his leeching to the party.

Suddenly she saw it. Sergei Vironova. His cheap blondes. Hollywood. Shelley Huffaker. What Dare had told Con. The girl had looked for a golden bed. She had found it. With Sergei it would be of solid gold with minks thrown over it. Steady employment. Sergei hadn't been trying to insert himself into a radio circle. He was watching those definitely connected with the Huffaker girl. Dare, Con, Kathie, herself by reason of being Con's wife. And Albert George Pembrooke?

It explained Sergei's persistence. If he had killed Shelley, he was trying to find out what they knew. If he hadn't killed her. he was looking for the one who had. Griselda was going on the assumption that Shelley Huffaker had been installed as Sergei's latest blonde; she had no information. That was what she must acquire.

Oppy would know. He knew everything about his staff. If he didn't know, he had ways to find out. She went immediately to the phone but she didn't lift the receiver. This wire might be tapped; not that there was any reason for such police precaution, but she wouldn't take a chance. And others than the police might be listening in. She would go to a public phone booth, and quickly. She caught up her bag, locked the flimsy door.

A big house-dressed woman was standing on the porch of the cottage across, shaking out a rug. Griselda felt relief. Neighbors at last, a place she could flee for help if it became essential. She hurried to the street-front garage. She almost expected to be stopped before she could drive away. Her mission was that important, for if her hunch was right, she could gather intimate information about the girl. The murderer wouldn't like that.

* * *

The dead-fish voice of the Malibu butler patronized a Long Beach call. She couldn't speak to Oppy. She demanded, "Why not?"

His voice managed to convey importance without any inflection, "He is in story conference, Miss."

It was fortunate for the man that she was not within striking distance. Oppy and his butler could cow most of the movie colony but not Griselda Cameron Satterlee. She spoke her name. "Tell him I'm holding the wire." She added, "I expect to speak to him at once."

The intermediary did not return. Oppy's sputter came almost as quickly as she wished it. "Griselda. It is Griselda. My poor Griselda. And I have heard on the radio your husband is arrested for murder."

"No, he isn't!" She almost screamed it. The error would be multiplied a thousandfold if Oppy went around saying it and he would. He relished scandal just so long as it was not injurious to his box office.

"He is not? Good. It is a mistake. And now you will leave that corny Long Beach and come to Malibu where Oppy is and the most beautiful picture we have to do, such costumes—"

She interrupted firmly. There was no use trying to clarify things for him; he'd only be the more muddled. State her business simply, that was all. "Oppy, I want some information. I want it quickly. What is the name of Sergei Vironova's current mistress?"

"You ask me this?" He did scream, as if it were beneath the dignity of the great Oppensterner of O.C.H. studios to dabble in such earthy matters. .

"Yes. I ask you tins." She was stern. He had almost restored her good humor; he was always so Oppy.

He said mildly, "Let me think now. I have met her. A gorgeous blonde, yes
.
But her test! It stinks. Wait a minute now. Si Burke is here; he would know. Si always knows their name."

She heard him speak to the scenarist and Si's voice came over the wire. "What do you crave, Griselda?"

"The name of Sergei Vironova's latest."

He drawled, "My God, you ought to know. She was bumped off in your town a couple of nights ago."

Her heart contracted in cold surety. She was shaking so much that she leaned against the booth wall.

"Shelley Huffaker." He went on, "Sergei's supposed to be down there now. Haven't you run into him?"

She didn't answer that. But she asked quickly, "Did he come with her? I mean were they together?"

He said, "Sorry, honey. He has an alibi of about two thousand lugs. He was on the set when the heartbeat was meeting her sailor in the Park." His voice was kind. "Anything I can do, Griselda. Any of us. No one thinks Con Satterlee had any hand in it naturally. Case of mistaken identity."

She said, "Thanks eternally for this much, Si. I may want more. No, Con didn't do it. And you might pound into Oppy's ivory dome that there's a difference between being questioned, and being arrested for murder."

"What do you think I am? Superman?" His roar echoed after the connection was severed.

She stood there in the booth trying to regain momentum. She had been right. She had made the first step toward releasing Con. She dialed again. Sergei Vironova was registered but he was out. She left her name and number. "When he comes, ask him to call immediately." She drove again to the beach cottage,

There was a police car at the curb.- It startled her and then there came quick surging hope. They'd brought Con home. They didn't keep a man in jail interminably for questioning.

Vinnie was at the wheel reading the funny paper. She called, "Good morning," and he saw her.

He said, "Morning, ma'am, Pa's up there looking for you." He didn't say anything about Con.

She climbed the steps to the porch. Captain Thusby was leaning against the railing, looking out at the sea. He said, "Morning, Mrs. Satterlee. I was looking for you."

She felt that he might have been looking for her indoors if she hadn't arrived when she did. She put her key in the door.

"You're out early this morning seems like."

She said, "Yes, I had business." She wouldn't tell him, not until she'd talked with Sergei, not until she told Con first. The captain was not her ally.

He followed her into the house. She made her voice carefree, "You didn't bring Con with you?"

"No'm, I didn't. Not this morning." He sounded ashamed of himself. "I sort of wanted to run through his things if you don't mind. There's something he told me—" His voice dwindled.

She motioned to the bedroom. "Go right ahead, Captain." She didn't mind what he did today. The information she was withholding gave her secret jubilance. She was on the right track: he couldn't hurt Con now. And he wouldn't run across her revolver and wonder. She'd hidden it under a seat cushion of the couch.

He pegged into the bedroom and she lighted a cigarette. She didn't have any doubt that Con would be released by nightfall. But the captain returned, his face sober-limned. He said, "I can't find them."

"Find what?"

His gnarled hands were empty. "Those shells, ma'am. From her gun. He says they're here."

She jumped from the couch. "They must be there!" From his look she knew it was essential they be. She-ran into the bedroom, began tearing apart the drawer. He followed her, searching systematically after her upheaval.

The telephone rang. She cried, "Wait a minute," and hurried to answer. It was Sergei, now at the wrong moment. She hadn't time to be diplomatic, to make her voice other than worried. She demanded, "Meet me for lunch at twelve at the Hilton."

He tried to say, "But Griselda, I've promised—"

She cut him off. "I'm busy now. Can't talk. Be-there." She rang off before he could say more.

Captain Thusby raised eyebrows at her but he didn't ask. Together they searched. They were without success. It was in hopelessness that she sank on the couch again. Another mark against Con, another mistake.

She insisted stubbornly, "There were six of them. That night there were. He showed me." She could see them on the bureau scarf the next morning. She said dully. "I'd like to see Con. Is that permitted?"

He thrust his still empty hands into his pockets. "Any time you say. This afternoon?"

She kept her voice steady, "I don't want to see him in a cage."

His face was red and shiny as a tomato. He mopped the bald spot with his hand. He boomed, "You come down, Mrs. Satterlee, and I'll fix things up for you. Right in my private office. Fix you right up."

She tagged after him to the door.

"If you like Vinnie can come out and get you, drive you down. He's not very busy."

She smiled. "Thank you very much but I'll be in town anyway. I've a luncheon date." He knew that; he didn't know with whom.

She watched him away, returned to the bureau for another helplessly futile search. Six shells couldn't just walk away—but her hands stilled. Chang had been in this room; he had been in this, Con's drawer, last night. He must have taken them. Her heart was sick within her. They hadn't been mislaid; they had been stolen deliberately to throw more seeming guilt on Con. And with more sickness there came realization of another possibility. She hadn't gone into the bedroom at first with Thusby. He could have taken the missing shells himself to complete his frame. Had there been more rattle than his wooden leg would make when he pushed himself up from the chair? There was only he or Chang to suspect. One of those two had the shells. Con might have a hunch which one; if it were Chang something could be done. If it weren't—her mouth quivered. Other innocent men had been railroaded, even without the encouragement of the X chieftain.

She couldn't stay quiet. She straightened the drawers, replaced them and changed for luck. The white knit Con liked, the swashbuckling white pirate's hat. The reddest red for her mouth. She would appear gay, not disturbed; no one would know it was no more than a Hollywood makeup. She had as yet a half hour to fritter; she drove to the hotel, parked, and strolled on Ocean until twelve, buying for Con: cigarettes, carton; pipe tobacco, pound; magazines, pulps to slicks; newspapers, coast to coast; and what he must be missing, a quart. She didn't know if the latter would be allowed but she would attempt to give it to him. Not that he wouldn't be better off without it but it would help him pass the time. She put down ruthlessly the suggestion that her purchases seemed for a man to be away longer than Con would be. A couple of days in custody would seem long: he'd like a few minor comforts.