The Bamboo Blonde (9 page)

She wouldn't sit here in the cottage all day alone. Inaction would be insufferable. Her nerves couldn't stretch to it. She must find out more about the missing man, what made him secret and important to Con and Kew, and, she was certain, to Dare. Con wasn't going to tell her. They'd talked over her head last night; furthermore, he was not here but in Avalon. Kew had definitely been noncommunicative. There was one person who might know something, who had been here two weeks ago, who would at least have heard gossip. A young Navy wife with time on her hands wouldn't scorn gossip. And Dare had suggested that Kathie had avid interest in Hollywood; it was possible the girl might even have met Martin.

Griselda's spirits lifted. She would go see Kathie. If she broke the jesting lunch invitation of Kew's, it wouldn't matter.

Mrs. Travis was in. Griselda used the Hilton house phone. Kathie's voice was mildly surprised. "Yes, do come up, Mrs. Satterlee."

It was an average hotel room, neither the best nor worst in the house. Kathie was untidy in negligee. Her dark hair tumbled to the limp shoulders of the bright pink stuff. There were even brighter pink marabou feathers flittering at the neckline.

She slid back into the unmade bed. "I'm just having my breakfast." She had a wistful smile. "When Walker isn't here I sleep mornings." The tray held the deep brown of hot chocolate flanked by a round silver bowl of whipped cream, sugared strawberries, and some incredible rolls with pecans studding the burnt sugar icing. Griselda hoped she wouldn't have to design for her in twenty years.

Kathie said, "Won't you have something, Mrs. Satterlee?" She was not quite at ease, her eyes were watching the cut of the canary suit, the infinitesimal diamond chain on Griselda's wrist, even the expected black and white spectator pumps.

Griselda was looking at the pink-fish monstrosity fastening the maribou. The girl wore it even in bed.

Kathie noticed. She might even have seen the faint distaste beneath Griselda's polite face. She fingered it with echoing distaste. "Walker gave it to me for a present a couple of weeks ago. He's so particular about my wearing it when he's around—you know how husbands are about their presents." She had unfastened it, tossed it carelessly on the bed table.

Griselda really laughed. "Do you know, I don't remember my husband ever giving me a present save on the prescribed occasions." It never occurred to Con. "You're fortunate to have such a thoughtful man."

Kathie absently dipped a roll in the whipped cream. "Yes, I am, I suppose."

Griselda didn't continue on the subject. She hadn't come to put this girl at ease in the presence of a better groomed woman. She had come because she must find out important things, and obviously must find them from unexpected sources. She asked, "Did you ever know a man named Mannie Martin?"

Kathie's eyes were wide and her voice eager, "Yes, I did. He is a friend of Walker's, a very good friend of Walker's."

Griselda breathed more easily. She actually would learn something here. "Did you know that he's disappeared?"

"He has?" The deep blue eyes widened. "That's why he hasn't been around lately." She looked at Griselda. "Maybe that's why Walker's been so worried. Mannie was supposed to meet him two weeks ago Monday and he didn't show up. They'd been working together on something." She shook her head slowly. "And he's disappeared?" She dipped into the swirled cream again.

"What were they working on?"

"I don't know. Some radio thing, I suppose. That's all Walker's interested in. He doesn't like to dance or go on parties or anything—just radio." She looked at Griselda again. "Mannie was in radio too but not the Navy." Her nose disparaged the Service. "He made lots of money. He had a perfectly wonderful house in Brentwood. That's part of Hollywood. It had a swimming pool and oh—just everything." Her eyes were shining. "He had an English butler and a German chef and Jap houseboys and—it was wonderful. Walker and I have stayed there several times."

"How did you happen to meet him?" She asked it casually.

"Oh, Walker's known him for years. They were at Annapolis together." The narrowing of her nostrils was barely perceptible. "But Mannie had sense enough to resign and make something of himself."

Griselda didn't envy Lieutenant Travis although his wife was more beautiful than any woman she had ever seen, including those myriads clamoring to climb on the Hollywood auction blocks.

Kathie was continuing complaint without the least inflection of it spoiling the cadence of her voice. "I didn't even know that Walker was a friend of his until this spring."

It might be important. "How was that?"

"Oh, Walker never tells me anything." Her slender hands stirred. "And he'd never think of looking anyone up. But Mannie looked Walker up." She was proud of that. Lieutenant Travis had for once proved the worth of his existence.

"When was that?" She still sounded casual.

"In March. We've seen a lot of Mannie since."

"Was he—do you know if he was interested in women?" Thusby might have had reason, not hunch, for coupling the two cases.

Kathie's eyes rounded in surprise. "I suppose so. He was a bachelor."

"I don't mean it exactly that way." She asked outright, "Did he run around with women or do you know?" She made it plain. "Did he know Shelley Huffaker?"

"That's where we met Shelley Huffaker. At the broadcasting studio."

"He introduced you to her?"

"I don't remember who introduced us." Her eyebrows thought about it. "It was months ago."

Griselda persisted. "Was she—do you know—" She fitted her vocabulary to Kathie's probable understanding, "Was she Mannie's girl friend?"

"Oh no." Kathie laughed at that. "No. Of course not. He was too important to waste time on someone like Shelley Huffaker. She was terribly common, you know."

Griselda said, "I didn't know her. I only saw her once and I didn't know who she was." She gathered her bag and gloves in one hand. "Did you ever meet a Major Pembrooke in Hollywood?"

Again Kathie's eyebrows drew together. "No. I don't remember anyone of that name. Walker might know him. He never tells me—"

She left Kathie to her dubious comfort of a slovenly bed. The fresh sea air of Ocean Boulevard was good in her lungs. She hadn't learned anything of value, nothing to give reason for this Martin's disappearance and the seemingly unrelated murder of Shelley Huffaker. It was four o'clock before she returned dispiritedly to the cottage. There was yet the long evening to endure. She didn't know when the captain would arrive, what she could say to give apparent innocence to Con's absence. If Thusby would come early enough it might be possible to fly to the island tonight. That was stupid. She couldn't risk rushing from him to the air field. Thusby was smart; he would anticipate the move if he had the least suspicion that Con was not in town. She mustn't seem even to be considering it.

She replaced the suit with white slacks and jacket; it would be a simple matter to make the exchange again after he left, if it were urgent that she carry word to Con.

He didn't come early. Dark and mist had covered all but the sound of the sea before she heard his irregular rhythm on the catwalk. She opened the door for him.

"Mr. Satterlee not back yet?"

She laughed and evaded. "It's difficult even for a wife to catch him in when he's on vacation, Captain Thusby. He seems to think it paramount that he personally inspect all the bars in the area."

He laughed with her but she wasn't certain that he was fooled. "You weren't asleep when Mr, Satterlee came home Wednesday night?"

"No." She amended, "I was but his coming woke me. It was midnight." She waited stiffly for what was to come.

"Didn't go out again, did he?"

She couldn't lie. That was how criminals were trapped, separate stories that didn't agree. He might reach Con before she did, learn the truth. She had hesitated; now she answered. "Yes, he did. Someone phoned him." She pushed time forward frantically. "It was at least one-thirty before he left. He couldn't have done anything to that girl." She begged him to understand. "He wouldn't kill anyone, Captain Thusby. He isn't that kind of a man. Even if he were, he couldn't have done it. He was with me from twelve to one-thirty."

He held up a worn palm. "Whoa!" He chuckled mildly. "I'm not saying he killed anyone. You're way ahead of me, Mrs. Satterlee."

She'd been wrong to mention it. Her breath came back. But he wasn't looking for Con to sell him a ticket to a policeman's ball.

"Who'd you say called him?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me."

Suspicion canceled mildness in those old blue eyes. "What time did he come in after that?"

She answered slowly. "I don't know. I didn't wake again until morning. He was dressed for the beach at that time."

Captain Thusby chewed his underlip. "Didn't tell you nothing about where he'd been?"

The truth of her words was like a chime, even to her own cars. "He hasn't had a chance yet, Captain. Things have been happening too fast."

He laughed again over that. "Well, you tell him I'm wanting to see him soon as he gets in. He can call me."

"It may be late."

"If it isn't too late, you have him call."

She listened to his steps fade. She wondered if Vinnie were reading Superman in the dark. It was nearing ten. She could leave now but it was better not. Better to be here if the chief took it into his head to telephone or drop in again.

She turned off the lamp and her eyes met the windowpane. There had been a face outside, an animal face. She waited tense, listening, but there was no sound save the relentless ocean beyond pounding on the breakwater. She didn't move. The pane was without portrait now.

The sibilant tap on the door was as thunderous as a battering ram. She didn't know what to do. A bent hairpin. She had to move her feet some way, to put her hand on the key and turn it, open to the unknown terror outside. There was no porch light for warning. She didn't know who was standing there until the opened door flung yellow from the room upon the ugly face. It was Chang.

His rasping voice was polite but he came in without invitation. He said, "I want to talk to Con."

Her hand remained on the doorknob. She said, "He isn't here."

The face was suddenly belligerent. If he'd thumped his chest and bellowed, it wouldn't have surprised her. He demanded, "Where is he? He didn't tell me he was going no place."

If she hadn't been alone with him, she would have answered with spirit. There was no reason to be frightened of a bar waiter. But pyramiding him on to what had already occurred in two days left her shaken. She answered without irritation, "I don't know where he is. I didn't come in until four and he wasn't here."

Chang muttered but she heard. "He oughtn't to do it."

"Do what?"

"Go off not letting anyone know where he's like to be. Not letting on to anyone that he was going off."

"He hasn't gone off!" she denied hotly. That mustn't be said, not with Captain Thusby so recently in the neighborhood, not with Thusby suspecting under his acceptance that Con wasn't returning. And she recalled with sudden fear, Chang was the Mr. Alexander Smithery who had given Con away to Thusby in the first place. This might be a police trap; Chang might be a stool pigeon. She explained, "He has old friends here. He was with some of them last night. Doubtless he is with others tonight." She couldn't keep some scorn out of her voice. "Shall I have him call you, too, when he comes in?" Con report to an ex-pugilist.

He said, "Never mind. I'll find him."

At least he had gone. And if his final words sounded menacing to Con, she could do nothing now. Anything Chang said smacked of menace. That was the rasp in his throat.

* * *

The rattling car jerked over the morning road to Wilmington. Griselda felt heavy as a cold potato. No plane seats available until afternoon; some floral-sounding convention had reserved all the morning places. The voice on the phone had been obnoxiously regretful. Had she but called sooner. The boat took longer but it would get her there by noon. She would certainly be able to locate Con before nightfall. She didn't want to endure another night alone.

She parked in the official garage, checked her bags with the attendant, and went into the raucous crowded terminal. There was a half hour before sailing. She bought her ticket, returned to stand docilely in front of the restaurant booth, her eyes resting without interest on the scurry of motley persons.

A prim high-pitched tenor said, "Griselda Satterlee. I didn't expect to see you in this place."

She didn't know which one it would be until he came around the corner of her yellow coat. So many Hollywoodans had that same voice. It was Sergei.

She said, "Hello. Catalina bound?"

He didn't look like a famous Russian director. He looked like a cloak-and-suiter on a holiday. There should have been a bowler and a box lunch, a fat wife, and six or seven greasy children with him. There wasn't. And if anyone had been with him, it would have been a blonde.

He wiped away the heat from his neck. "Yes. A little vacation is what I need. I need a rest. I've been so perturbed." He squealed on about his needs while she listened vaguely. She tried to interrupt the prattle and dismiss him, moving to the gangplank. But he walked alongside her canary sleeve, his head no higher than her shoulder. And all at once she realized what he was saying.

"Of course. Of course. You are Con Satterlee's wife. Of course. I had forgotten." He smiled sweetly, all across his narrow blue jaw line. "You are going to Catalina to join your husband? And you will be taking the boat? What a coincidence. So am I. I must get my ticket. Of course. Perhaps we shall meet on the boat." He went hurrying toward the ticket window.

Griselda murmured, "Not if I see you first." She found a place on the top deck next the rail, on the port side well toward the bow. She watched the shunting file of passengers on the gangplank. But she didn't see Sergei among them. It looked as if he were going to miss the boat. She sincerely hoped so. She didn't want to listen to his perturbations all the way to Avalon. She had plenty of her own.