This Girl for Hire (5 page)

“For revenge,” she blurted angrily. “Because I told his wife the truth about him. He was always trying to get me alone in his office. He was always trying to take off my clothes and—well—I told her everything. He said he'd kill me for it. But he killed Vince instead!”

She sat down and put her face in her hands. “Now he's even taken the contract away from me! After he promised!” Her large green eyes looked up and there was a glaze of hate over them. “I'd like to kill him, do you know that? And I'm not the only one. Bob Swanson hates Sam enough to strangle him. And Max Decker feels the same way.”

“I don't get this,” I said, suspiciously. “Why tell me?”

“Because,” Ann snapped drunkenly, “I want you to know what you're getting yourself into. You think you're pretty smart, don't you? I don't know how you got that contract, but I'm warning you to watch
out. Do you understand? You're sitting on a big keg of dynamite and when it blows you're going to be in trouble. Big trouble.”

Ann Claypool flashed those hate-filled eyes at me again and walked all too soberly out of the dressing room. I thought about my missing revolver. Could this girl have taken it?

When I saw Aces later in the day I told him how well-liked he was by Ann Claypool and her associates.

“Brother,” I sighed. “You're about as popular around these parts as a Russian-made hydrogen bomb.”

“Yeah,” Aces said, trying to smile. “I guess I should have told you about Vince's death. I was really sorry it happened, believe me. But I wasn't responsible.”

“Was she supposed to get the contract?”

“Yeah,” Aces said wincing. “I've been trying to give her every break possible. But it doesn't make any difference. I could star her in a three-hour spectacular and she'd still hate my guts.”

“Did you really make a play for her?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you threaten her after she talked to your wife?”

“Of course I did!” Aces said. “But I was only trying to throw a scare into her. What would you expect me to do? She nearly wrecked my marriage.”

I nodded dismally, then added up the credit side of Sam Aces' ledger. Bob Swanson, Ann Claypool, Rod Caine and possibly Max Decker. Apparently
there wasn't a debit anywhere to balance the books.

“What's Max Decker got against you?” I asked, studying the producer as he paced across the sound stage.

“I don't know,” Aces said, shaking his head. “I've threatened to take the show to another network several times. Max is a funny guy. To tell the truth, I don't think he likes anyone.”

“Sam,” I said suddenly, “do you honestly think one of them plans to murder you?”

Aces grinned and put his arm around my shoulder. “I like you, Honey. You have just about everything a woman could want, including brains. Maybe you ought to drop out of this thing before you get hurt.”

“If Swanson's our boy,” I said, “I'm not worried.”

“What about Caine? A butched-up face could go a long way to setting him up for the looney bin. Be fore I gave him the jagged glass he looked a little like Rock Hudson.”

“That's a tough break.”

“And if it's Ann Claypool, you're really sitting pretty. You got a contract yesterday she was a cinch to sign. As you said, she's mad as hell about that.”

“Swell,” I groaned. “Now we're all friends. We ought to throw a big party in Swanson's swimming pool and serve nothing but arsenic-spiked screwdrivers in jagged glasses.”

Aces pulled on his coat. “We're leaving for Catalina Island tomorrow aboard my yacht. We'll be filming one of the Swanson shows in and around
Avalon and White's Landing. Be gone about four days with the cast and crew. You can make it, of course?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world. Yachts, Catalina and men are my three favorite sports. This sounds like a Honey West parlay.”

“We'll leave around noon. I'm taking my big ship,
Hell's Light
. It's tied up at Wilmington Harbor. Pier Sixty-seven. Just bring a swimsuit and a toothbrush. We'll have plenty of things in wardrobe if you should want to be civilized.”

He gave me a copy of the Catalina script. Meeler had already written me in.

“You better start boning up on your lines,” Aces grinned, “even if we do have cuing devices. I want to shoot one of your scenes tomorrow.”

Great! I didn't have enough on my mind. Now I had to worry about words and speeches and scenes. After Aces left, I stayed in Studio Sixteen wrestling with the script, the puzzle of who hated Aces the most and the question of Herb Nelson's murderer. I could hardly keep them all straight.

I thought about Lori Aces. How did she fit? Was she really in love with her husband? Maybe I could study that situation during the Catalina trip. No doubt, she'd be along. Or would she? Then I got to thinking about Ann Claypool. She had a lot of hate welled up inside of her. But she had such a sweet rhythmic voice. It sounded like woodwinds or flutes.

The big clock on the wall of Stage Sixteen pointed to ten-thirty. I could hardly keep my eyes
open. I got up, stretched and bent over to pick up my purse.

That's when I heard another sound. It was not rhythmic. It was deadly. Bullets have a special sound all their own.

I
STRAIGHTENED UP QUICKLY AND LUNGED FOR COVER
behind a TV camera as a second shot screamed off the side of the metal case. The character with the gun was some where in the metal beams above the sound stage. It was a country mile up there, and dark. I couldn't see a soul. A chill went through me. This reminded me of a horror movie I saw years ago, Lon Chaney in
Phantom of the Opera.
There was no telling who was crawling around in the maze of ventilating tubes, light fixtures and pitch blackness.

I waited nervously for the
third barrage. It didn't come. There was the sudden sound of a door closing high up in the stage loft and then nothing. My sniper friend evidently had decided to call it quits.

About then I became aware of a sharp pain. I felt around. My hand came up red.

Dr. Carter had just completed his examination of my wound when Lieutenant Mark Storm came striding into South Bay Emergency. The big detective
was followed closely by Fred Sims.

“What the hell's going on, Honey?” Mark demanded. “Hey Doc, I got a report somebody shot at her from behind. What's the damage?”

“The damage,” I said angrily, “is in the report. The word
from
is a lie.”

“You're kidding,” Fred grunted.

“Think so?” I said, touching the back of my skirt gingerly. “If I weren't a lady I'd show you the Band-Aid.”

The white-haired medical man crinkled his face slyly. “Just a flesh wound boys, nothing critical.”

Fred and Mark, two guys who had pulled me out of more scrapes and tight spots than Dr. Carter had pills, smothered a pair of grins.

“Same old Honey,” Mark said pointedly, glancing at the crippled newspaperman. “Always leading with her chin. Only this time she turned around and stuck something else out.”

“Doc!” I yelled. “Get-these two nitwits out of here before I commit murder!”

Mark took off his hat, leaned his six-foot-five tower down and stuck his chin out. “All right,” he said, “murder me!”

I measured him with my fist, then leaned into his face with my lips. There was something I really liked about this crazy detective. I wasn't certain whether it was his looks, his build or his personality. He had a rugged face with thick black brows, deep, quiet brown eyes and solid massive shoulders that tapered down into an Olympic physique. Mark was a boomeranged
mixture of wit, tomfoolery and plain horse-sense.

A piece of finely sanded hickory interrupted us, pushing Mark away from me. “Hey,” Fred pleaded, “am I always going to be the other man?”

I grinned, kissed Fred and the three of us walked down to a nearby coffee shop. Immediately they both grew serious. Dead serious. I told them the story of Sam Aces and his “unfriendly” associates.

“Get out of this, Honey!” Mark warned. “There's a real screwball mixed up in it somewhere and he's not going to be satisfied until everybody's got a few extra holes. And I don't mean just from bullets. Arsenic can cut a few capers of its own.”

I nodded. “Sure, there're a lot of screwballs mixed up in this case, but I can't tell yet which screwball is the one who murdered Herb Nelson.”

At the mention of Herb's name the two men flinched. “Honey,” Fred started, “we have something to tell you—”

“Let me tell her,” Mark interrupted. He stirred his coffee for an instant and then studied me with the same protective expression on his face that he'd had the night we found Herb's battered body. “Honey, you remember we—we didn't know what sort of instrument had been used on Herb? Well, we've found out. It was the Oscar.”

“No,” I groaned, “but, we—”

“I know,” Mark said. “The killer must have cleaned it in an effort to wipe off fingerprints. The lab says that's definitely what was used.”

Fred kept his eyes
lowered. “He was so badly battered identification had to be made from rings and clothing and physical structure.”

I sagged in my chair. The thought of the brutal murder of Herb Nelson still made me tighten with shock.

“I'm going to bring Swanson in for questioning,” Mark said, sipping at his coffee. “I'm anxious to give him a couple of hours under the sweat lamp.” He grinned, an expression that was contrary to what he felt inside. “Of course, we'll install an infra-red bulb for Mr. Muscle Man.”

I didn't agree on the idea. Swanson would be a tough man to pump. It'd be better to catch him off guard. Maybe aboard Aces' yacht. Liquor did a lot of fancy things with Mr. Swanson's insides. Even took care of the microbes. I asked Mark to lay off for a few more days.

“We're going to Catalina tomorrow,” I said. “The ship'll be jammed with partial sets, lights, cast, crew, the works. I don't think he'll pull any tricks.”

“I wouldn't bet on it,” Mark said.

“What would you bet on?” I asked.

“Murder. Two to one you're going to lose another client, Honey girl. The only way to stop it is haul in Swanson.”

“I'll stop it,” I said.

“Yeah,” Mark finished, “that's what worries me.”

Pier Sixty-seven in Wilmington Harbor looked like D-Day on the beach at Normandy. They were loading half of Television Riviera
aboard
Hell's Light
. And at least a hundred cases of liquor. The ship wasn't going to be the only thing afloat during this journey.

Hell's Light
was the largest private yacht I'd ever seen. It had two decks, three lifeboats and a fantastic circular bar that could seat fifty people. The bar, stools and built-in hi-fi equipment were set squarely in the middle of a swimming pool. To get a drink, it was necessary to swim or wade through the comfortably heated water. Now I knew why Aces had said to bring only a toothbrush and a bathing suit. What else did I need?

The swimming-pool bar was already jammed, still an hour until sailing time. I recognized a few familiar faces and bodies: patch-eyed Golden Boy, crocked to the teeth and wearing a blue denim outfit that was soaked to his skin; Ann Claypool sitting on the bar, singing and not wearing much of anything; Joe Meeler, staring at all his drunken associates as if he wished they were all dead; Sam Aces, decked out in a red jacket and captain's hat that was as cockeyed as he was; and a face and figure that I'd never seen before, but recognized in stantly as Lori Aces. She was a rare little child all right, just as Aces had said. Sam claimed she was twenty which made her roughly thirty years his junior. Actually she looked closer to sixteen. Lori was the only one without a drink besides Meeler.

Aces saw me immediately, waved and floundered over. Apparently he wasn't much of a swimmer. In fact, he waded the entire distance. He showed me to my cabin, a big comfortable room well enough forward to provide a view off the ship's bow.

“Do you like it?” Aces asked.

“Like it?” I said. “How can you afford a battleship
like this?”

“
Hell's Light
was left to me by my grandfather,” he explained. “Provisions of the will make it impossible for me to ever sell. This baby is the grandaddy of all parental nooses.

“Must cost you a small fortune to run and maintain a yacht this size.”

“Those expenses are provided for in the will, too. Gramps had only one vice—this boat. He was madly in love with her. When I was a kid I showed a natural interest in the yacht, so when Grandpa kicked off he left it to me, lock, stock and lifeboat.”

I smiled mischieviously. “Including the swimming-pool bar?”

“Well, no,” Aces admitted. “That was my own innovation, paid for out of my own pocket. I put the bar in the pool because I understand ghosts can't swim. I wouldn't want Grandpa to sit next to me while I'm gulping down a barrel of screwdrivers.”

“Speaking of screwdrivers,” I said, unpacking my tooth brush, “have you been mixing your own?”

“Absolutely. And no bullet holes yet, either.”

“I wish I could say the same.” While I slipped on my bathing suit behind a small screen, I told Aces about the twin shots fired at me in Studio 16. He got mad. Real mad.

“I warned you to drop out of this. Is the wound very serious?”

“No,” I said smiling. “Practically healed overnight. Maybe it'll teach me to keep my tail feathers tucked
in.”

“Did you find either of the bullets?”

“One. A .32 caliber. Cinch it was from my gun.”

He offered me a cigarette. I reached, but never got it. Lori—child-like, pretty, little Lori Aces—had it between her slim white fingers. And she had something else in that graceful, dainty hand. A .32 revolver.