The Bamboo Blonde (26 page)

Kathie was reluctant to go with Dare into the apartment. She stood there on the sidewalk prolonging farewell to Kew, the wind lifting her night-black hair, her beauty as it should be, as it would be if she always had access to luxury. But Kew bespoke no reluctance as Dare led her away.

He drove on to the cottage, opened the door, and went ahead to the lights. She was grateful; she couldn't have entered the darkness alone.

He said, "Thank God everyone folded early. I'm way behind on some commitments but I think I'll nap on the couch first. This business has me about licked."

Fear of unknown bestiality had keyed her to franticness equivalent to that of the waves clutching desperately at the sea wall. She suggested. "Why don't you take the bedroom? I'd go crazy if I had to try to sleep now." That was fact. "I'll do some work myself and wake you when I'm ready to call it a day." It was safe. He'd be in the next room subject to call.

He accepted. "An hour or two will fix me up.”

She had her sketchbook out before the door closed, her pastels opened. But she laid the crayons aside. It was pretense that she could concentrate on costumes with her heart pounding to every whisper, even to sound of her own breath. She sat very quietly there, not daring look toward that non-protective door. Further terror made her rigid. The major would not come only to her. He would be seeking Con even while Con was stalking him. Con wouldn't be the hunter because Walter Travis had disappeared: Garth and his aides would handle that. It would be because he was what the major had sneered, Quixotic. Inevitably they would meet. Pembrooke would kill him. Pembrooke wasn't civilized; he scorned civilization. She covered her face. Con would die never knowing that her love for him was great enough to permit without question ever again his vagaries. He would never know that Dare's doorkey wasn't important if she herself might only have a small share of him.

The suddenness of the phone jolted her. She hastened to answer; she realized she had been expecting it. A person clung desperately to hope even when hope was gone. She was waiting a call from Con that all was serene. Of course, Garth wouldn't let Major Pembrooke get to Con.

It wasn't he; it was that long-awaited Malibu call. Important once when Con had been held for murder, now it was necessary to search memory for what information she had sought from the scenarist.

Si was saying, "I've been calling on the hour, Griselda, ever since I sobered up and got the message." He didn't sound very sober yet; party sounds were a noisome background. "What did you want? More dope on Shelley Huffaker? Can't see why you don't get it at the source. Kew Brent is there, isn't he?"

She hardly realized his words and then she did. She cried, "What are you saying, Si?"

He repeated, "Kew Brent was her latest boy friend in Hollywood. Took her away from Mannie Martin. They were being seen together at some out-of-the-way spots. He could tell you more than any of us."

She listened, her eyes motionless on that closed bedroom door as if the man beyond were listening too to the voice in her ear. "Are you certain?" she pleaded.

"Sure I am." He was talking too loudly. "Everybody was gabbing about her giving Mannie the air. And no one was surprised when she followed Brent to Long Beach."

She cut in, "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"You didn't give me a chance," he complained gayly. "You weren't gossipy. All you wanted to know was if she was Sergei's bum and she was. Then you hung up on me. And say, Oppy wants to know when you sleuths are going to catch that murderer for him. Here he is spending plenty of dough and he still has to sleep with bodyguards under his bed."

His imitation of the producer wasn't funny; nothing was now. Kew Brent. An outsider;
that
was Kew, no connection with Axis activities but connection with Mannie and Shelley and Sergei. He'd lied about knowing them. Of course, the Hollywood papers hadn't suggested his name. Newspapermen had loyalty to one another. Even if they thought him guilty, and they wouldn't, they would never offer him without black and white proof.

Motive? That self-centeredness, egoism. Rid himself of the encumbrance of a cheap blonde who had taken him seriously, who could spoil his chances with a beauty whose husband could give him the scoop of his career, the secret that only three men knew. It wasn't Albert George to whom Kathie was selling out; it was to Kew. Sergei's death? The man who had reason to suspect. Alibi? Griselda realized that she was his only alibi for the night of Shelley's death, but he'd left her, and a big hotel wouldn't check on the time he had returned. Sergei's death. Thusby had caught him on misstatement of time there but evidently had no way to place him near the Village. Or Thusby was waiting for the more important business of Mannie's death to be cleared up. But why had Kew killed Mannie?

She watched that motionless door. If only she knew where Con was, she'd fly now to him, not remain here under protection of a murderer. Con had tried to warn her of Kew; he'd told her that first night the attraction wasn't her beautiful eyes. Kew had taken her into custody with Machiavellian wisdom. From her he would learn when suspicion of murder was diverted from her husband. No wonder he had found it impossible to believe Con's arrest.

How could the whole of the Long Beach police and the government X division have been so blind? How could she herself be
so
blind? Shelley made a date with a man. She waited at the Bamboo Bar. But Con had spoiled his meeting with Shelley by going over to her himself. And Shelley had gone away after Kew joined Griselda. Was there provision for a later meeting at Saam's Seafood Place if the Bamboo Bar plan was interrupted?

Kew couldn't be responsible for Walker Travis's disappearance or as yet undiscovered murder. Her eyes ached with staring at that noncommittal door. Or could he? With Kathie as accomplice, yes. But there was no reason to kill Walker. Unless— The palms of her hands were wet. Kew himself had warned her of fifth columnists. A man who lied well of one thing could lie as well of another. Kew working with or for the renegade Britisher. That also explained Mannie's murder.

She raised up softly from the chair and moved to the bay window above the sea wall. The floor didn't creak any more than was customary. She leaned far out into mist and spray. The tide was high and Chang didn't materialize now that she needed him. She dared not call, wake Kew, rightfully cause him to wonder. The floor creaked again as she returned to stand indecisive in the middle of the room.

A light in the window. Con had told her to keep a candle in her window. Maybe it was his oblique way of telling her to signal. Surely he'd have a man watching her tonight even if Chang were playing guardian to the X head, letting a scared wife fend for herself. Whoever was watching might understand. She lifted the floor lamp, set it squarely behind the frame. Even as she did, Kew spoke from the doorway.

"What on earth are you doing, Griselda? Furniture moving at this hour?"

She didn't turn at once; she stood there clutching the standard with both hands. She spoke, "I thought you were asleep." She turned, fearful of what she might behold, but Kew hadn't been transformed into her mental picture. He was handsome as ever in his heavy silk pajamas and fine wool robe; his face was still keen and sane.

He said, "No, I found I couldn't. Too tired perhaps. Besides no reporter sleeps when he has a hunch things are going to break. I have. With Albert George's departure scheduled, the X will move." Curiously he asked, "Who called?"

"Malibu."

"Oppy. What did he want?"

She tried to be casual, careless. "He wants the— her tongue tripped on the word—"murderer found so he won't have bodyguards under his bed." She laughed a little, a little more; laughed to keep fear from climbing up on her shoulder for him to see.

"Don't we all?" He leaned on the arm of the couch.

She edged gingerly into the chair. "Maybe the police aren't looking in the right direction. Maybe the murders have nothing to do with Major Pembrooke. Maybe it was an outsider."

He raised his head. "You've returned to that theory?"

She would go on pretending they were allies, pretending to be the blundering idiot she had been up until that phone call. "Yes. Ever since Kathie told me she heard Shelley talking to some man on the phone that afternoon." She was garrulous in reckless courage. "Making a date to meet him at the Bamboo Bar. But he didn't come, did he? Con spoiled it taking her away. We'd have seen him if he'd come, wouldn't we? We'd have seen the murderer."

"Yes."

She had to keep words spattering. Con had told her not to talk with Kew but he hadn't guessed that Kew was the murderer. You couldn't be closed within a lonesome beach cottage with someone who took a gun and shot people. You had to try to make things seem normal.

Then she heard the hand on the doorknob. Kew heard it too, came to his feet listening.

Maybe at last this would be Con. But someone had pushed the key from the inner lock, another key turned from the outside.

Major Pembrooke entered, stood there, looking from one to the other. He said, "I didn't know it was this way, Brent. Sorry to interrupt."

Kew ignored his insinuation. He asked harshly, "What do you want?"

"I'm leaving tonight. I haven't finished my business with Mrs. Satterlee. Unfortunately I haven't time to finish at the moment. I'm taking her with me."

Griselda shook her head, "You can't do that." She spoke as a child who believed in Santa Claus. "That's kidnaping."

Kew said, "Are you mad? You can't get away with that, Pembrooke."

"I believe I can. I am not under your laws. I care nothing for them."

Her voice came as from far away. "Why do you want me? I don't know anything."

"I believe you can enable me to have a personal interview with your husband—in friendly territory."

He was right. Con would come for her no matter what the danger. She heard herself pleading, "Why do you want him? You don't need him. You have the fish."

He didn't know what she was talking about; he didn't have the fish. Dare must have taken it to Con, too late. But Con would never reveal anything to Major Pembrooke. He would kill Con trying to find out. She closed her eyes.

He was continuing in that ugly voice. "If you wish to get a wrap, perhaps pack a small bag, but quickly…" He looked at his watch. "At the most I can allow you fifteen minutes. After that time the conference will break up that they are now having with the Admiral at Villa Riviera." He smiled coldly. "Being assured by him that he saw me enter the plane and watched it take off for Catalina. He didn't wait for it to land again. It hadn't entered their stupid heads that the yacht might sail without me, pick me up at a Mexican port. My car is waiting outside. The engine is running. It will take us no time to cross the border. If you wish to pack, Mrs. Satterlee—"

He glanced at his watch again. She couldn't move; she was too weak.

And Kew spoke. There was an electric sureness in him that hadn't been there before. "You don't think you're going to get away with this, do you, Pembrooke? You don't think I'll let you do it, do you?"

"I think you will." There was amusement as well as superb confidence in Pembrooke's voice, as if Kew were a straw man waggling at him.

"I don't intend to. I won't. I'm through.”

The major's face was ugly. "You don't dare."

"I do." Kew's voice rang. "You'll take Griselda over my dead body as we say in my country. While you're killing me, she can get out of here. She'll scream loud enough to wake those new neighbors before your Jap soldiery grabs her. Someone will call the police. And before your high-powered car is across the bridge, radio will have all roads blocked."

He was telling her what to do and strength was returning to her as he spoke. She could do it. She didn't understand why he would go so far to save her. But no matter what he had done, she couldn't let him be killed defending her. There must be some other way. The lamp in the window must work.

Major Pembrooke's mouth was cruel. "There are penalties for informers in these times."

"I'm not an informer!" Kew was proud. "I've never been that."

"I could tell a different tale."

"Tell it. I made a mistake, yes. I was so puffed up with myself in that small town of Washington that I thought I was Brent the invincible. I wanted a scoop on your Pan-Pacific network. You promised it for my help. I was fool enough to think you'd gone national in Britain's peril and were working for your own government this time. That's why I was willing to get you some dope on our monitory stations. You got your hooks on me. I'd been supplying secret stuff to an enemy agent; that made me a fifth columnist if it came out. But I don't care now. I don't even care if Garth and Con don't believe I'm innocent. I'd rather be stood up against a wall by my own people than ever trade with you again. And I'd rather have you shoot me down than let Griselda fall into your bloody hands."

Pembrooke was shaken with anger. "You are not armed, I see. I am. If I were to kill her—"

Kew interrupted, "You would have to kill both of us. After that perhaps you would get across the border. But you can do it more safely without gunplay which might be discovered too soon. I won't give any alarm if you leave. You know that. Because there's nothing to pin on you now—"

Again he broke off, listening. All three of them heard the rapid steps to the door. Not Con. Woman's steps. She didn't knock. She opened the unlocked door, confronted Kew and Griselda. She didn't see Major Pembrooke at first. When she did, she didn't say what she had been about to say.

She turned her great lashes upward. "I didn't know you were here, Major. I was so lonesome at Dare's apartment. I thought maybe—"

Pembrooke's lips moved. Kathie didn't know the evil in his smile. "Perhaps then I can persuade you to join me for the evening. These two were reluctant."

Griselda whispered it. "No!" No matter how silly and selfish Kathie was, she didn't deserve this. She was an innocent bystander.

The whisper choked in her throat. For Kathie's eyes swept to Kew's pajamas; she accepted the implication Pembrooke had proffered. Back to Griselda and a fury of hatred burned in them.