The Case of the Vanishing Beauty (6 page)

On the far side of the building, I could barely see some kind of driveway that ran out to intersect the street. I'd just got a quick glimpse of the place when a long sedan came roaring out of the drive and turned left toward us with its tires screaming in protest against the asphalt. The car ahead of me slammed on its brakes and skidded to a stop, the driver pounding a tattoo on his horn and then blinking his lights. The long sedan slowed to a stop alongside the Kaiser, partially blocking the road ahead of me. There wasn't a hell of a lot I could do about it.

I slowed down and pulled to a stop a few feet behind the Kaiser as Miguel threw open the side door, climbed out, and walked over to the other door. I started to sweat.

Unless I was adding ideas like a backward child, the little conference going on fifteen feet from me might possibly concern a small round hole in the head of one Sheldon Scott, private investigator. I could have been 'way off, but I had the feeling I was supposed to have exited with Georgia earlier—and somebody might still be trying. One thing for sure: I didn't kid myself I was among friends.

If my pal Miguel got a good look at me, or if anybody recognized my buggy, I might have a tough time explaining what I was doing at this particular gathering. Particularly if I had that hole in my head. I could have made a U turn, or wheeled around the cars ahead where there was a little room to squeak by, but I still wanted to follow the play.

I reached under my coat, pulled out my .38, and laid it down on the seat at my side. Then I opened the glove compartment and dug out a dark, battered hat and a two-bit pair of dark glasses. I own just one hat, and the dark job was it. I'd taken to carrying it and the glasses in the glove compartment because sometimes when you're tailing a guy on the street you can wear the hat and glasses for a while, then take off the hat and slip the glasses in your pocket, and the tailee isn't so apt to catch on. I stuck on the hat and glasses, hoping the boys up ahead wouldn't notice. At least my screwy eyebrows and the stand-up blond hair wouldn't be quite so obvious.

I couldn't hear what the guys ahead were saying, but they were still talking. I gunned my motor like an impatient tourist and leaned on my horn a couple of times. I stuck my tongue against my front teeth and yelled, "Geoutheway!"

Miguel swiveled his head around and shouted, "Shut up, Mac," then turned back and said a few words to the guys inside the car. I heard the grind of gears as they put it in low and gunned ahead. They were shifting to second and making time as they passed me. Out of the corner of my eye I got a glimpse of two men in the front seat of the car, but not enough to tell me anything.

Miguel turned and walked back toward the car. Or me. I pulled my head down, shifted into low, and roared past him as he started to climb in the Kaiser. He didn't even look at me. Out of the rear-view mirror I saw him wheel the car around in a U turn and hot-rod after the other one. I pulled over to the right, jerked off the dark glasses, and slowed down enough so I could read the address on the mailbox in front of the temple affair. It was 6417. Bull's-eye.

Just beyond the drive at the side of the temple was a thick cluster of low shrubs and massed eucalyptus trees. With that between me and the building, I switched off my lights, swung around in the street, and headed back on Miguel's tail. His red stop light flared brighter as he slowed down and turned left into Duane again.

I let him get to the top of the grade before I started after him, because when you turn from Silver Lake into Duane, you put the gears in low. Sometimes that hill looks straight up. When he reached the top, I shoved the accelerator down and ripped after him.

I got on his tail and stayed a block or two behind all the way back. It was real cute. Somewhere up ahead, the sedan with Miguel's two chums in it. Then Miguel. Then me. Follow the leader. And where, pray tell, could we all be going?

When we'd almost reached El Cuchillo there wasn't any doubt where Miguel was headed, so I dropped him and turned off on Adobe. I parked on College Street around the corner from El Cuchillo, put on the hat and glasses again—disguise—and went the rest of the way on foot. I didn't go inside; somehow it didn't seem wise.

There was a parking lot at the side of the club and I headed for it. The Kaiser was there, its hood warm. I eased open the front door and risked flicking on the dash lights long enough to read the registration card: "Mrs. Margaret Remorse," and the address of El Cuchillo. Well, well.

The other ear wasn't in the lot, but five minutes later I found it, empty, half a block from the entrance to the club. No registration slip, but I jotted down the license number on the card bearing Narda's address.

El Cuchillo sat just off the sidewalk, but the front was lined with palm trees. I slipped my .38 into my coat pocket and leaned against one of the trees where I could see the entrance of the club, lighted by the neon sign. I lit a cigarette and looked at my watch. One-twenty-five Sunday morning.

A guy and his gal came out pressed close together and weaving in unison. They didn't see me, and as they passed, the girl giggled and said, "Oh, George, stop it. Not here, George."

That made me feel just dandy.

Then they came out and stopped in front of the entrance. Two guys and Miguel. The guys were short, about five-eight or five-nine, but stocky, and they looked well muscled. Both wore highly draped light-blue gabardine suits with slight bulges under the right shoulders, and they were as alike as two prints from one negative. Twins. One of them said a few words I couldn't hear to Miguel, hardly moving his lips, then the twins walked right past me and down to their car. Miguel turned and went back inside. None of them even glanced in my direction, so I slipped my gun back in its holster and finished my cigarette while I tried to make some sense out of this ring-around-a-rosy.

I ran back in my mind over Georgia's screwy chatter, the guff at El Cuchillo earlier, Cornell Martin's information, Georgia's killing of Narda, who was apparently well and happy—"Big as life." Sam had said. And where the devil was that dough going, the dough Georgia had been drawing out of her bank account? Then my talk with Maggie Remorse, and now this last nutty epistle. From El Cuchillo, out to that cockeyed temple then back to El Cuchillo. Everybody was going round in dizzy circles. I added it all up and guess what I got. Yeah. I was going around in the dizziest circle of all. But there was a pattern. I had some letters, even if I couldn't spell anything.

Inside, the orchestra played a fanfare and somebody gargled unintelligible words into a mike. Showtime. I ground out my cigarette and nudged my brain. Nothing. I wondered how Lina had made out with Maggie. I hoped she hadn't overplayed it. I could check with her when she left at two. That was the best idea I'd had all night, but it wasn't going to solve anything.

Inside, I heard the staccato roll of the drummer. The big act. I remembered how Lina had looked in that scarlet bolero and wondered if I should go in and watch. It wouldn't do, though, to make Miguel nervous right now.

It was strange, not seeing the act, following it from the sounds that drifted out the open entrance to the club. I could hear the thud of the knives hurtling faster and faster into the wood as they circled Lina's half-naked body; then the silence broken by shouts and applause; the sudden shrill scream as the act ended. More shouts. I thought wryly of the spectacle I must have presented earlier when the last gag knife was thrown.

Something was screwy. A woman screamed. The noise billowed inside the club and spilled out into the street. Then it got quiet except for the mumble of voices. No fanfare from the orchestra.

My throat was suddenly dry and my heart started kicking in my throat. I sprang away from the base of the palm tree as a man and woman hurried out the entrance.

I grabbed the guy by his arm. "What the hell's wrong in there?"

He looked at me, startled. "Take it easy."

"I asked you, what's wrong? What happened inside?"

"Don't ask me, mister. That dame, that Lina. She got stuck with a knife."

Chapter Six

DIDN'T WAIT FOR anything else. I went through the entrance on a run and almost knocked down a couple of guys standing with their backs to me. The place was full of people and half of them were standing. I got my shoulder in front of me and shoved and bumped my way through the crowd. The dark glasses fell off and got ground under somebody's heel.

The orchestra burst into a lively Spanish dance and a tall brunette in a red, green, and yellow costume with a flowing skirt started whirling around the floor, the skirt spinning almost straight out around her long legs. But you could tell her heart wasn't in it. Her mouth was partly open and her knees looked as if they were clicking an off-beat accompaniment to the castanets in her hands.

At the far end of the bar I stopped and yelled at the fat bartender, "Where's Lina?"

He pointed to the door leading to Maggie's office and said, "Dressing room." He looked as if he was coming out of shock.

I raced across the room, yanked open the door, and started down the hall. Light spilled from the open door of a small room on my right. I glanced in. Maggie's huge bulk seemed to fill most of the room. Her back was to me, her big fists planted on her hips. Beyond her, on a low couch, I could see a pair of long legs, golden tan and shapely, with black, spike-heeled shoes on the small feet.

I took three long steps into the room, past Mrs. Remorse, and knelt down at the side of the couch.

Lina's face was pale, but she looked at me out of wide black eyes, smiled, and said, "Querido. I am glad you are here."

"What happened? How bad is it?"

She shook her head. "Poof! It is nothing. I was scared to death mostly. That Miguel! I will kill the pig and scratch out his eyes."

I felt a sudden flood of relief and the kicking in my throat slowed down a little. I noticed Lina had been holding a folded towel against her left side. I bent down, lifted the towel free of her skin, and took a look. Just under the bottom edge of the short bolero, slanting slightly downward from its edge for about three inches along her side, was a bleeding gash. It didn't look deep; but it could have been as deep as her heart.

I said to Lina, "Anything funny about this? About how it happened?"

Her eyes narrowed and she curled her red lips. "Funny, yes. Very funny."

That was enough for me. I got up and turned around to face Mrs. Remorse. She was still standing in the same place like a flesh mountain, hands on her hips and a frown furrowed deep into the fat of her face.

"O.K., sweetheart," I growled through my teeth. "Where is he?"

She shrugged her wrestler's shoulders. "How the hell would I know? He beat it. Now why don'tcha beat it yourself, smart-pants? Accidents'll happen."

I glared at her. "Sure. Accidents will happen. I got a funny idea an accident's going to happen to Miguel. Tell me where he is, or so help me, I'll rip this joint apart."

She cleared her throat and spat noisily on the floor, then turned around and waddled out the door.

I turned around to Lina. "Miguel can wait," I said. "Come on, honey. You're getting out of here before anything else happens. You all right?"

She nodded her head and swung her feet to the floor. She winced, then got to her feet. She smiled at me. "You were worried about me, no?"

"Yeah. Now let's get out of this trap. I don't think your health's likely to improve around here."

I grabbed her hand and hustled her out through the crowd. Guys said things to us and yelled at Lina, but I didn't hear what they were saying. I was busy looking for a pair of hard-faced twins or the spindly Miguel. Or anybody else that looked fishy. I was still burning, and I think if anybody'd laid a hand on me I'd have tried smashing his teeth out before I took a good look.

The street outside was empty, but I kept my eyes moving around anyway. I felt better when we got in the car and I had it rolling. I made sure nobody was following us before I relaxed and looked over at Lina.

Her fight hand was across her body, holding the towel on the cut, and her left arm was across her breasts, the hand hugging her shoulder. She shivered. "Roll up the window, it is cold."

I'd been so mad I'd forgotten she didn't have much on. Just her shoes and stockings, the black tights, and the skimpy red bolero. Nothing else. That's right, nothing. I rolled up the window. "How do you feel? You O.K.?"

"I am all right, Shell. I do not live this way."

"I know it. I'm not taking you home."

I drove the rest of the way into Hollywood without saying anything. I was thinking. Somebody had plenty to pay for, but I had a lot more to learn before I could start making them pay. And this thing looked as if it was a hell of a lot bigger than it had started out to be. I wished I knew what had made Georgia important enough to kill. And damn near get me killed. Christ, that wasn't all. Where did Tracy Martin fit in? And where the devil was she?

There was little traffic on Sunset Boulevard at this hour, so I made good time. It was a few minutes after two A.M. when I turned left from Sunset onto Vine and drove down past Melrose to the Spartan Apartment Hotel on North Rossmore. I parked across the street.

Lina asked, "What is here? Where are we now?"

"My place. I live here."

I saw her teeth shining in the near darkness. "So," She whispered, "you are not scared of me anymore?"