The Case of the Vanishing Beauty (13 page)

"What the devil goes on here?" he exploded. "Just who the hell do you think you are?"

I still didn't say anything. I looked him over. He wasn't much over twenty-four or twenty-five and he was a nice, pleasant-looking guy. I couldn't figure where he fitted into a setup like the Inner World bunch.

He came over and stood in front of me, left hand jammed into the pocket of his robe. "I don't know what you want, mister," he said quietly, "but I do know I don't like people busting in on me." He looked me up and down. "I don't know if I can toss you out on your ear or not, but if you don't tell me what you're doing here, I'm sure gonna try."

I peered up at him. "You don't look like a hired killer. You don't look like any I ever saw."

His eyes bugged at me. "What the hell are you talking about?" He laughed a little, then sobered. "Hired killer? You kidding?"

I shook my head. "Uh-uh. That was my first guess. You don't keep very good company, friend."

He pulled up a chair and sat down in it. "Will you please gimme the score? You don't make any sense at all. Who are you, anyway?"

"Scott. Shell Scott. I'm—"

"The hell. I know you. Heard about you, I mean. Got anything to prove it?"

I tossed him my wallet and he looked through it and tossed it back to me. "This is good," he chuckled. "I'll be damned. Maybe I can use it." He chuckled some more.

"It's not funny, friend. I followed you into town from Silver Lake Boulevard. I saw you go in that phony temple and I tailed you back here. I'm curious to know what you've got to do with an outfit like Inner World."

"Is that all?" He took a swallow at his drink and grinned. "This is gonna kill you. I'm a Writer, Scott. Jordan Arthur Brent, that's me. You never heard of me, but I'm Narda's thunder."

Well, well. He started making a little sense. I said slowly, "There's been at least one murder that I know about and a couple more tries, not to mention a kidnapping and God knows what else. And that Narda you mentioned so casually is mixed up in all of it some way."

"Murder!" He stared at me. "On the level?"

"On the level. And if you're pulling my leg with this surprise act, I won't forget about it."

He took a long breath and blew it out through his lips. "Good God Almighty," he breathed, "I could use another drink. How about you?"

I told him O.K. and he dug in a drawer, I took my hand out of my coat pocket when he came up with a bottle, not a gun. A bottle of bonded bourbon, yet. I warmed to this guy. He said, "You'll have to take water, Scott. Nothing else here."

Yes, sir, a prince of a fellow, this Brent.

He got another glass from the bathroom and mixed a couple of healthy highballs. He handed me one, then sat down again in front of me.

"Honest to Christ," he said, "you knocked me for a loop. Bring me up to date, huh?"

"First, what were you doing out at Narda's tonight?"

"Like I told you, I'm a writer. Wanna see my rejection slips? The hell with it. Anyway, I fell into this deal. I scribble off a bunch of guff about 'the mind is all,' and 'I will take you by your little hand, madame,' and for that I get fifty bucks per copy. And no rejection slips. Softest touch I ever saw. How you think I got this bourbon? Saturday Evening Post? Nope, old holy Narda, that's how."

"That what you were doing out there tonight?"

"Fact. Took him out a speech. A beauty. Listen to this. 'Disciples, Disciples—'"

"Never mind. I've been out there."

"Yeah? Pretty good, huh? When'd you dig it?"

"This morning. Never mind that. What else do you know about Narda or his racket?"

"Racket is right. Did you ever see such stuff? He must be coining the dough, though. Trouble is, Scott, I don't know much about it. All I do is write the stuff and take it out there at a certain time, prearranged. Always the same way: Knock on the door, give Narda the stuff, collect my fifty bucks. And by the way, for the love of Pete, keep it under your hat. That's one of the reasons I get the fifty—keep my mouth shut. You kind of surprised me, and besides, you're sort of a cop, so I thought it'd be all right." He walked over to the dresser and dug a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet. "Look at that," he said, and planted a big kiss on Grant's whiskers. "Love it. Love it. Hey! You're not gonna mess this deal up, are you?"

"Maybe. If I'm lucky I am. Look, you might be able to help me. Anything you know about Narda or his gang might help. How about it?"

He thought a minute. "I'm afraid I don't know much."

"What did you mean, prearranged? You said you go out there at a prearranged time."

"Well, they call me when they want some new stuff and tell me to come around on such and such a date at a certain hour exactly. Like tonight it was eleven o'clock."

"Any idea why?"

"Uh-uh. Unless they don't want me messing up a conversion or something. Anyhow, they always give me a time. That's all I know."

"Who calls you?"

"Narda usually. Sometimes that babe of his."

"Babe of his?"

"Yeah. The one that's always making goo-goo eyes at him like he's really got it."

"I think I know the one you mean," I said. "Loren."

"Yeah. That's the one. Course, I don't know anything, but times I been out there when they were together, they both looked at each other like they were sick at the stomach. Never lay a hand on each other, though. Not while I was around, anyway."

"Anxious for you to leave, though, huh?"

He took a big pull at his drink, made a face, then said, "I thought about that, Scott. But they're funny together. Long looks and all that sort of thing, but the way they act, I'd bet a buck he's never laid a hand on her. Platonic, that's the word."

"Platonic."

"Uh-huh. I make it a point to notice people, Scott. That's my business—kind of like it's yours, I guess, only in a little different way. Yes, sir, I'd bet a buck."

"O.K. How'd you fall into this job? Narda hire you? And who is the guy?"

"Don't know who he is. Seems like nobody knows. Just Narda's all there is. Funny how I got the job. Here I am with no checks coming in. Maybe once in two, three months. Really hard up. Well, I did some odd jobs for folding money, and one of them was a publicity job for this little night- club. The old gal liked it so well that about a month later here she comes with a proposition and gives me the address of old Narda."

"This gal," I said, just as if I didn't have the faintest idea. "Who was this gal?"

"Don't remember her name, but she was the most God-awful old bag I ever saw in my life."

I let that seep in. The "most God-awful old bag I ever saw" could be nobody but Mrs. Margaret Remorse. Enter Maggie again. I said, "This night, club. Could it have been a little dive called El Cuchillo?"

"Yeah!" He snapped his fingers. "I'd forgotten—so long ago. Now how the devil did you know that?"

I didn't explain. Instead I asked him, "How long ago was this—when you started the stuff for Narda?"

"Let's see…about a year back. Yeah, almost exactly a year now."

"And you don't have any idea who this guy is that calls himself Narda?"

"Nope. I went out to see him. Him in his fancy robes and turban—who's he think he's kidding? Always decked out like a sultan. Anyway, we gab a little and he tells me he wants speeches—you know, you heard one. He tells me about what he wants, then he tells me what I'm to get paid and he's got a deal so fast it must have made him dizzy. Fifty bucks. Man!"

"How often you take him this stuff?"

He shook his head. "Not much any more, damn it. At the first, I did a whole flock of the things. Thirty of 'em. Christ, that was fifteen hundred bucks. I'm still using it. Now it's only once, maybe twice a month. Hell, they can use the same ones over and over. The suckers don't know the difference. Besides, he gets a new bunch—class, I guess you'd call it—about every month. 'Novitiates,' he said they were. They graduate or something."

Something else was puzzling me. "How's he make any money? I didn't see any collection plates."

"Must have been a new bunch—first time. He usually starts them off on a Sunday. About every fourth Sunday. I wrote him some special tripe for those deals. I've been to a few of the things. Don't worry, the old collection plate comes out soon enough. When you're hooked good. He does all right."

"Yeah. I imagine he does." I still couldn't figure the mess out, but maybe I'd got a little more to tie in with the rest when it started making sense. I'd been making headway on the bourbon, and Brent took the glass from my hand.

"Mix you another." he said.

"Thanks. Make it light." While he mixed the drinks, I ran over the few things I had in my head. There was starting to be a glimmer. I played with it and it got better. But it still wasn't good enough.

When Brent handed me the drink, I was working on an idea. I said, "Got anything else you can give me?"

"Can't think of anything. I just take the drivel out there, get my dough, and flash out."

"O.K.," I said. "You can help if you want to. Maybe. How about it?"

He thought a minute. "I could be cutting my own throat, but I'll go along. If you weren't kidding about murder, count me in."

"I wasn't kidding."

O.K. Who got murdered?"

I shook my head. "It wouldn't make any difference to you. The less you know, the better for you. Now, how about the setup out at the temple? And have you got a phone number you can call Narda on?"

"Yeah. I got a number. But I don't know much about the layout. Sometimes I go in the front in a big, black-draped room and just wait there, and sometimes I go to Narda's room, like tonight. You know where that is—on the side—if you saw me out there."

"Ever see anybody else there besides Narda?"

"Just that doll. That Loren. Sometimes I'd hear others, but they never came in."

"Where's the phone in the house?"

"I never saw it, but I heard it ring. Seems like it was just outside the big front room."

I let it fit together in my head. Then I said, "You said you had the number. Who generally answers?"

"Sometimes Narda. Sometimes one of the women."

"O.K. If you want to help, do this." I looked at my watch; it was a minute or two before twelve-thirty. "Put in a call out there at exactly one o'clock. Exactly. If Narda answers, fine. If not, get him. You've got to talk to Narda himself. Then when you can get him on the line, keep him there as long as you can. I don't care what you give him, but hold him if you can do it without making him leery. Can you do that?"

He frowned. "Sure. I guess so. What for?"

"The less you know about it, the better. One other thing. If he should hang up, call him again, fast. Right away. Let the phone ring two or three times or till someone answers, then hang up. Hang up and forget all about it. Got it?"

"Got it. Call him, get Narda, hold him, then if he hangs up I call him right back and hang up myself. Kinda nutty, don't you think? You used to bourbon?"

I grinned at him. "Yeah. I'm used to bourbon. Just don't forget. One o'clock sharp. What time you got now?"

He got his watch off the dresser and peered at it. "At the gong, it will be exactly twelve-thirty. Gong."

My watch checked. "You seem O.K., Brent," I said. "But if you're pulling my leg, I'll come back and break your neck."

He grinned. "You look like you could do it. But it's all straight, Scott. Let rife know what cooks."

"Sure. Mighty good bourbon you serve here. Thanks. Try some of mine sometime. It's the same stuff." I got up.

He stuck out his hand. "I'll make the call."

I shook his hand. He grinned lopsidedly and said, "And peace be with you, brother."

Chapter Eleven

I WAS SPENDING a lot of time in these damn bushes. It smelled damp and musty, but I waited and smoked a cigarette cupped in my palm till exactly twelve-fifty-nine. I snubbed out the cigarette, made sure the little automatic was in the right-hand pocket of my coat, then walked quickly across the graveled drive. My feet made little scraping sounds on the gravel, but I walked right up to Narda's door and waited. A thin slice of light showed under the door, and I could hear someone pacing back and forth inside. Narda must have things on his mind.

I checked my watch again. One on the nose. The phone rang inside. Brent was right on time.

The phone kept ringing, then it stopped suddenly. In about thirty seconds I could hear somebody knocking on the far door of Narda's room.

The sound of pacing stopped abruptly. The mellow voice I remembered from Sunday morning said, "Yes? What is it?"

"It's me, darling. Loren."

"Yes. What is it? What is it?" Rather brusque, I thought.

"It's Mr. Brent on the phone. He wants to talk to you."

"Can't it wait till morning? What an idiotic hour! What time is it?"

"One o'clock. Open the door."

"No!"

Silence for a moment. Then, "Are you coming?"