The Case of the Vanishing Beauty (2 page)

"Bravery, you guess. Honey, look. From what you've given me I could be scared as a church mouse and it wouldn't make any difference if I'm just going to run you around the city. I'm a private detective. I accept money from clients, and in return for that money I try to do them a turn, help them out, help them solve what problems they've got. But how the hell am I going to help you unless you lay it on the line and tell me what you want me to do, the whole story?"

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Tell you the whole story. I just can't. Honestly, this isn't a trick. I'm not crazy or anything. I want and need your help. And I'm willing to pay well for it."

"It smells."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" Her voice rose higher and higher, then with a jerk she stopped and started all over as if she hadn't been screaming at all. "Mr. Scott. Let me put it this way. First, I'm in trouble. Second, my sister is missing and I'm truthfully worried about her and I think if you help me, maybe she'll be all right. For reasons I can't disclose to you that's all I can tell you. I think I know what's happened to Tracy, even though maybe nothing's happened at all, but I can't tell you why. I want you to be with me because I may need some protection, and because if you do find some things out that I don't want known, I'm pretty sure you'll keep them to yourself."

"Georgia, apparently the main thing you want is to find your sister and see she's O.K. Right?"

"Well, yes."

"Then why not go to the police?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you."

I dug out cigarettes and offered her one, which she refused, and lit one myself. I took a couple of deep drags before I trusted myself to say any more.

"Miss Martin," I said slowly and I hoped calmly, "from what I gather so far, you want help but you can't tell me any more than you already have. Right?"

"Yes, Mr. Scott."

"Honey, I'm sorry. I'd like to help if I knew what was cooking, but—"

She had an end of that damned expensive-looking coat balled up in her left hand, and with her right hand she was picking abstractedly at the fur. Her face was composed and pleasant enough, but I noticed that she was pulling bits of hair out of the coat between her fingers, and letting the hair drop to the floor. She was raising hell with that fur.

I asked her, "By the way, what kind of a coat is that?"

"This?" She held up an edge of the coat. "It's mink."

I could tell. Old Sucker Scott was getting wound up for another pitch. I don't think it was the educated voice that decided me, or the snappy convertible with the top down and rain getting ready to pour. But no gal tears chunks out of a new mink coat unless she's so messed up she doesn't quite know what she's doing. Of course I could have been wrong. Or it could have been rabbit. But there I went.

"O.K., honey. I'll play. Why, I'll never know."

Her face seemed to sort of crumble and get softer, as if she'd been holding it in a mask.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you very much."

There was so much relief and honest gratitude in her voice I was embarrassed. "Forget it," I said, "I'm making money. And, incidentally, as long as we're working together, you might as well call me Shell. Everybody else does. Don't mind my calling you Georgia and honey and so forth. If you don't like it, just slap me down. I slap easy."

She smiled for the first time since she'd come in. She was attractive; when she smiled she looked as if she might even be fun. She said, "I don't mind, Shell. I think I kind of like it."

She got up, fished an envelope out of her bag, and put it on my desk. "There's money in there. Retainer, I guess you call it, and pictures of Tracy and her description. And my address. Will you take me to dinner tonight?"

"Sure. Where we going?"

"A little Mexican place called El Cuchillo. Out on Bernard Street. Will you pick me up at seven?"

"O.K. But I can get started on this before then."

"No. Just wait till this evening."

"O.K., if that's the way you want it. Seven it is."

She went out. I stood at the window and watched her as she crossed the street and got into her Cadillac and drove off with the top still down. I watched her till the car dissolved into the drizzle that was starting, and she vanished like a lost dream.

I was on a case. Good money. A screwy gal. And I didn't know what the hell it was all about. Scott, old chowderhead, you sure are some detective.

I'd have chased her home and told her to lock the doors, though, if I'd known she'd be dead before morning.

Chapter Three

I HEARD ANOTHER big thud in the silence that blanketed El Cuchillo and swiveled my head away from Georgia's profile and took in the show. The thin character with the knives started moving faster, the knives flying from his hand till it was hard to follow his movements, the knives glittering for a moment in the spotlight, then smacking into the wood around Lina's golden body. It took only a few seconds. I watched the knives hit and quiver at her wrist, her breast, her waist, her hip, and between her parted legs and up the other side of her body to ring her head. I don't think I breathed once till the last knife was thrown.

With the act apparently over, the thin guy turned to face the crowd. He still gripped one long knife with the point held deep in the palm of his right hand, and he touched the handle to his forehead, then waved his arms over his head and bowed low. Very theatrical. People went "Hurray!" like mad.

The thin guy straightened up, smiling, then suddenly turned, whipped his right arm over his head, and hurled the knife in his hand straight at Lina. She screamed shrilly and leaped to the side, past the glittering ring of knives that had circled her. The knife smacked into the wood and quivered slightly, then stood straight and deadly, jutting from the wood where Lina had stood.

I was out of my chair and halfway to the thin bastard when the orchestra crashed into a chord and Lina and the bastard were smiling and bowing into the applause.

I stopped suddenly and stood stupidly in the middle of the floor, full in the glare of the damned spotlight, wondering where I'd left my brain.

Lina looked squarely at me, her eyes wide, then a smile grew on her red lips and she laughed softly and musically.

Not the thin crumb. He yelled something that sounded like "Aieee!" and laughed hoarsely and pointed at me. He
slapped his thigh, yucked some more, pointed at me, then slapped his thigh again. I could have killed the son-of-a-bitch. In two seconds the whole place was laughing at the noble Shell Scott, who tilted at windmills. I could have thrown a handful of knives myself. I went back to the table and sat down. I was damned if I'd leave.

Georgia said, "You sure fixed him."

It struck me funny and I laughed. Not much, just heh, heh.

"Thanks," I said. "Yep, I shore fixed him." The food had arrived, so I poured hot sauce inside a taco and added, "Georgia, honey, I'm jumpy. Usually on a case I know what I'm looking for. This time it's blank. I just keep expecting something to happen."

"Don't apologize."

"I'm not. I'm trying to worm some more out of you." —"I'll tell you this, Shell: I don't know an awful lot, myself. But I think somebody here may get nervous and jumpy himself when it gets known that I've hired a private detective. That you're working for me, on my side, and that you're looking for my sister. And I intend to let it be known before we leave."

"Just throwing a little weight around, huh?"

"That's about it."

"Why here? Who's supposed to get nervous?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know, or you can't tell me?"

"No, I honestly don't know who."

I left it there. I had one more piece of information, anyway; I was supposed to scare people. I was getting off to a great start.

The tacos and chili left my tongue feeling like a slice of crisp bacon, but by the time I'd waded through the fried beans and ordered more drinks for Georgia and me I'd learned from her that the knife thrower was Miguel Mercado and the luscious half of the act was French and Spanish and named Lina Royale. Also that El Cuchillo was run by a monster that answered to the name of Mrs. Margaret Remorse, or just plain Maggie.

El Cuchillo itself was definitely informal. Colored gourds hung from the beams of the ceiling and anyplace else they'd fit; big, floppy straw hats and guppy-colored serapes spotted the wooden walls; and on every small table was a huge candle, varicolored wax melting and running down the sides. The press of people jammed inside and the rain still
·
coming down outside made the air here in the club heavy and muggy. The entrance was just an open space off the sidewalk, and from the table I could look out and see the wet cement lighted intermittently by the neon sign as it flashed on and off.

A crowded bar along the fight wall served everything from beer to cheap champagne, but mostly tequila. In back, jammed against the wall, was a six-piece combo, the players all wearing serapes over their shoulders and wide straw hats on their heads while they played rumbas, tangos, sambas, and screwy things with lots of drums and maracas. On the right of the orchestra there was a door that led back into some kind of private quarters.

While I watched, the door opened and Lina came out as the combo started playing a samba. Guys applauded and yelled and she broke into a couple of quick steps designed to raise blood pressures, then started walking straight across the floor to the table where Georgia and I were sitting.

She made walking alone across that floor something to remember. Everybody was watching her—the men, anyway—and she knew it and loved it. She walked straight up to the table and stopped. I stood up.

She didn't even glance at Georgia. She looked up at me, smiled, and said, "May I sit with you, querido?"

My tongue felt as if it was nailed to the roof of my mouth. I just stood there and looked.

And don't get the idea I'm wet behind the ears and lose my voice every time something sharp strolls up to me. I've known a flock of women, maybe more than I should have. I'm no Casanova by a long shot, but if women don't drool, they don't run screaming either.

But this Lina had something. Something wild in her eyes and wicked in her walk, I-dare-you and the-hell-with-you stuck out all over her.

Let me give you a picture, a sketch of her; she's worth it. She'd changed from the knife-act costume into a simple black skirt and one of those plain white peasant blouses that left her shoulders bare and a lot else besides. Her hair and eyes were even blacker than they'd looked in the spotlight, and her dark eyebrows were thin and expressive and wicked as the ends of Spanish whips. She had strong, white teeth that looked as if they could do away with a tough steak or nibble gently on an ear with equal effectiveness—and you'd like to buy her the steak and lend her the ear.

The skin of her face and shoulders was smooth and golden tan, and she wore her breasts the way a general wears medals: high and proud and perfectly aligned, and right out in front where nobody could miss them.

Nobody wanted to.

Her voice was more Spanish than French, and she said "querido" as though it meant "Kiss me." That was Lina.

"Querido," she said again, "may I sit here?"

"Please do." I got my tongue unstuck and pulled out a chair for her.

She sat down, said, "I am Lina Royale," and finally looked inquiringly over at Georgia. Her eyes seemed to be saying, "What is it?"

I said, "Miss Royale Miss Martin Miss Martin Miss Royale," all in One breath, then sat down and bit into my bourbon while they peeled lips back in unison, then slapped them down over their teeth like guillotine practice.

Lina turned back to me and smiled. She reached over and wrapped her fingers gently around the hand I was using to hold my highball glass. She leaned toward me, forgetting or ignoring the fact that her loose blouse billowed forward alarmingly, and said, "I came over because I wish to apologize."

"Apologize? For what?"

"For laughing. I should not have laughed at you when you wished to help me. I am appreciative. Six weeks we have done this act, every night three times, and no one before has ever lifted their fingers even."

She threw back her head and laughed softly. It sounded like a gurgle in her throat. "But you looked so funny. I could not help it, but I am sorry now. And thank you."

I said, real brilliant, "Sure. 'S O.K."

"But who are you?" Lina asked me. "What is your name?"

Georgia came in right on cue. "He's Shell Scott, darling. He's a private detective. It's his business to rescue troubled women. Right now he's working for me." The period on the end of her last sentence was the size of a baseball.

Lina gave her the guillotine again, then asked me, "Is that why you try to help me? Because it is your detective business? Hmm?" She leaned toward me again, damn her.

There I was. I said, "Well, I just didn't stop to think. Foolish habit of mine."

"Foolish habit." Lina pursed her lips and looked at me from narrowed eyes. "So. You are a detective, then?"