Over Her Dear Body (3 page)

“Hello.”

“But my hopes were fading,” I said. “When you didn't show up earlier, I figured you were merely the owner of the
Srinagar
, or something equally depressing.”

She smiled. Even before she'd smiled, though, her softly modeled mouth had turned up at the corners, as if the smooth red lips were always ready to smile. There was enough light so that, standing this close to her, I could see her face clearly, the parted lips and prominent cheekbones, and the dark eyes. Especially the eyes. They were big and shadowed, deep and dark, almost like the eyes of some women of India, glowing and lustrous as if softly lighted from within. I thought again of fire in ice, but when I was this close to her, the ice seemed very, very thin.

I said, “Anyway, I'm glad you're my client instead. Or are you now?”

“Yes, of course. At least I still hope you can help me find out what's wrong.” She paused. “That man—the one you just ... discouraged. He knows who you are, doesn't he?”

“Yeah, but so do a lot of other people. That doesn't mean he can connect us. And I hope he's discouraged.”

“He should be. That was quite expert, Mr. Scott.”

“Shell.”

“Shell, then. It was somewhat unnerving, but under the circumstances I'm glad I—saw you in action.” She smiled. “You do inspire a feeling of confidence.”

I beamed. This gal was really charming. Not only beautiful, but really a remarkable female.

She said, “I noticed you earlier, of course. It would be almost impossible not to notice you, Shell.”

I beamed some more. But then I wondered, Is that good?

She went on, “A man kept hanging around and I was afraid he might follow me. When he left I took a chance on meeting you. And then that—that awful man.” She looked up at me. “Why was he so anxious for you to leave?”

“I don't know. I thought maybe you could tell me.”

She shook her head. “I haven't any idea who he is.”

“Miss Emerson—”

“Elaine.”

“Elaine, it would help if you gave me an idea of what the trouble is. What I'm supposed to do.”

“I'm terribly worried about Craig—Craig Belden. He's my brother.”

That puzzled me. Brothers and sisters usually have the same last name—unless the woman is married. I said, “Is it Miss Emerson or Mrs. Emerson?”

“Miss. Oh, Craig's really my half brother, much older than I. We have the same mother, but
our
mother divorced
his
father several years before she remarried and I was born. Clear?”

“Clear enough. And reassuring.”

She smiled again, then sobered. “Anyway, we're quite close now, and something's terribly wrong. I don't know what it is exactly, but I do know he's afraid someone is going to kill him.”

I let that hang in the air for a moment, then asked her, “How do you know?”

“He told me. Oh, he didn't say it in so many words. He said
if
he got killed—you know. But he is afraid, and his nerves are in awful shape. He's going to pieces more every day.”

“Who does he think wants to kill him? And why?”

“I don't know. I—” She stopped speaking, suddenly turned toward the rail and looked out over the water. Then I heard the steps of somebody on the deck. A couple had left the dance floor and were standing at the start of the alleyway, leaning against the metal bulkhead, doing something. I didn't know what they were doing, but the girl was giggling.

Elaine said softly, “We can't talk here. I just wanted to have a word with you and identify myself.” She paused. “It's about twenty to twelve now. At midnight Mr. Goss has arranged for entertainment at the dance area. A Hawaiian group from the Islands. So everybody will be there—that would be the best time for us to meet and talk. All right?”

“Sure. Who's Mr. Goss?”

“He's your host—he owns the
Srinagar.
And he's one of the men Craig has been associated with.”

“As friends? Or—”

She interrupted, “Oh, nothing like that. I understand they're good friends. I should go back now. At midnight I'll be in Cabin Seven. That's below this deck and on the starboard side. Meet me there then, will you?”

“I'll be there.”

“I can't really tell you a lot more, Shell, but at least we won't be interrupted in the cabin.” She turned and started to walk past, then stopped in front of me, close to me, and looked up at my face, light glowing dimly on the smooth cheeks and in her large eyes.

Then her lips curved in an odd smile, and she said, “By the way. What
were
you doing with Bunny's bikini?”

“Huh?” All of a sudden it was as if icy seas were washing over me. I was drowning in a cold ocean of confusion. “Bunny? Bikini?” In my mind's bloodshot eye I could see her going down for the third time. Without me. Cursing me.

“Oh ... that,” I said, as if it were nothing.

And there Elaine left it, the odd smile still on her lips. “See you at midnight.”

She went in one direction and I watched her, graceful, hip-swaying walk—and then I was going in the other direction. When I reached that forward spot and leaned over the rail, the light which previously had been shining from the portholes was out, and for a horrible moment I couldn't see a thing down there except black water.

“Hello,” I yelled. “You there? Speak to me. Hello?”

“What took you so long?” It was the same voice, and without salty bubbles in it. “I thought you were
never
coming.”

“Well, I'm back. Here I am. I—”

Then I could see her, dimly. She was swimming from farther to my right, almost from the point of the bow. She stopped below and said, “I forgive you.”

“That's good. I'm glad you didn't ... drown or anything.”

“Did you find my bikini?”

“Yeah, here it—”

“This is so silly. After you raced away I tried to call you, but I guess you didn't hear me. You can't hand the bikini to me, and if you threw it I'd probably miss it and it would sink. And then I'd be in an awful fix.”

“We'd both be in an awful fix.”

“So you'll have to roll over a ladder.”

“Ladder?”

“Yes, one of those rope things with wooden steps across it. There was one back aft when I jumped in earlier, but it isn't there now—I swam back and looked. There's the landing where the launch unloads passengers, but it comes up right by the dance floor. I knew I couldn't climb up there, could I?”

“I wouldn't advise it. Especially not the way they're dancing.”

“So roll over a ladder. Is there one near you?”

“Just a minute.” I ran back and forth along the rail, stooped over, looking. I was looking everywhere at once, but there wasn't any ladder. There wasn't even any rope.

I went back to my place on the rail. “We're in a
hell
of a fix,” I called down. “No ladder. I'll have to leave you and find one.”

“All right. But hurry.”

“I'll go like the wind. You won't ... sink or anything?”

She laughed that merry laugh again. “I could swim for hours. I can hang on the anchor chain again if I want to.”

Anchor chain. That would be near the point of the bow. “That's where you came from, huh?”

“Yes. And when I was back aft, I sat on the screw for a while.”

“You ... what?”

“Sat on the screw. The propeller. You know, the thing that goes around and makes the ship go.”

“Yeah.” Probably I could have figured that out for myself, I thought. It occurred to me that this little gal and I were almost old friends by now; I certainly felt friendly. We'd carried on practically enough conversation for a whole evening, but I still didn't know what she looked like. I knew what part of her looked like, but that's not a whole woman, no matter how you look at it.

“Say,” I said, “are you Bunny?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I got waylaid by a guy who recognized your bikini.”

“Oh, that must have been Joe. José Navarro. He's my partner.”

I said suspiciously, “What kind of partner?”

“In the act. We do an act together.”

“He swims?”

“No, we do a dance—I'll tell you when I get up there.”

I squinted at my watch. Eleven-forty-five p.m. I had fifteen minutes left. Only fifteen minutes. That wasn't nearly enough time for all I'd planned to do. “I'm off!” I yelled, and then, for the second time tonight, I was racing toward the stern.

Not yet had it occurred to me that this was a kind of madness, that nights shouldn't be like this, that there was an unreal quality about all these activities. Later it would occur to me; but right now nothing mattered but that ladder.

I found the bartender. “Where's a ladder? A ladder?”

He eyed me coldly. “Now how in hell would I know where is a ladder, Mac?” He turned back to a drink he was stirring, then stopped and slowly bent his head around to look at me again. “Ladder?”

But I was gone. I went all around the rail of the
Srinagar
, but there was no ladder. I knew the kind of thing Bunny had meant, the rope-and-wood affairs which can be placed, rolled up into a ball on deck and then shoved over the side when needed. But none were in sight, and I didn't want to ask too many people. This was the kind of operation where you don't need a crowd, all throwing over ladders.

Just aft of amidships, steps led down to the enclosed deck beneath. I went below and searched around for a minute or two without success, then realized there had to be some kind of storeroom here, in which items usually up on deck might have been temporarily put out of the way. So I walked along the dimly lighted alleyway until I came to a door different from the usual staterooms. It looked like a storeroom. It wasn't.

I tried the door and it opened. I started to step inside, then noted that the room's interior was lighted—and occupied. Occupied by four men, in fact, all suddenly frozen into motionlessness by my sudden appearance. Four frozen men, with four frozen faces. And one of them was the hawk face of the guy I'd bent around up on deck. Nobody had to tell me I wasn't welcome.

In that moment a lot of the zip went out of me. The happy sort of exhilaration during which I'd been charging pell-mell about drained from me slowly, and by the time one of the men spoke I was not only calmed down, but nearly sober. Those looks weren't just unfriendly. They were murderous. And that is not merely a figure of speech—murder looked out at me from at least two pairs of eyes.

One pair belonged to the man I'd had the tussle with. Joe Navarro, Bunny had called him. He must have come straight here after our beef. And that would have interested me greatly if I'd had time to think about it. But I barely had time to look the other men over quickly.

Navarro was the only one standing. The three others were sitting around a low rectangular table, in thickly upholstered chairs. Closest to me was the guy in the middle. His back had been toward the door, and he'd jerked around in his chair. He was a short, pale-faced man with thinning, sandy-colored hair, blue eyes, and a wide pointed chin.

The other two were seated at my left and right, at opposite ends of the table. The one on my left slowly rose to his feet, placing his hands—long thin hands with long thin fingers—on the table top, and looked steadily at me. He was about six feet tall, thin, with regular, almost aristocratic features, and a thin sharp nose like the blade of a knife. White hair covered his head in tight rippling waves. His black dinner jacket looked expensive, as if the material had been made by the ounce and bought by the pound, very well tailored and smoothly fitting. His black patent leather shoes looked as if they'd been manufactured within the hour. In fact, the man had a kind of shiny, new look all over. His face was tanned and smooth, barely lined, but he must have been over fifty, maybe close to sixty years old. He stared calmly at me, features almost without expression, but his dark eyes seemed to burn with the fires of hell, as though from behind them he could see me being turned by the devil on a spit and greatly enjoyed the sight. That was the other pair of eyes with murder in them.

The last of the four, at the table's right, was a big man, with big bones heavily fleshed. His hands were clasped together on the table and black hair sprouted from their backs like long whiskers. The flesh of his face sagged a little, as if too heavy for the muscles beneath; or as if the muscles themselves were too weak to hold his face firmly in place. Heavy lids half covered his eyes, and his fleshy mouth sagged at the corners. He was the one who spoke first.

“Get the hell out of here, you stupid—”

Joe Navarro interrupted him, blurting, “That's the jerk I been telling you about. That's Shell Scott.”

He might just as well have sent an electric current through them. They jumped a little, involuntarily—at least, two of them did. The sandy-haired guy's mouth popped open, and the big fleshy man's heavy hands suddenly balled into fists. Only the one on my left, the shiny, aristocratic egg, stayed motionless, eyes burning.

I carry a .38 Colt Special with a two-inch barrel. It was in its clamshell holster at my left shoulder, as always. I didn't have the faintest idea what I'd stumbled into, but for about two seconds there I thought I might have to use the gun.

The big man on my right got quickly to his feet, and Navarro took a step toward me. Then the white-haired man said quietly, long fingers gently smoothing his lapel, “Precisely why are you here, Mr. Scott?” He spoke in a quiet, clipped voice, as if asking me to join them for a game of darts.

“I made a mistake—”

Navarro said nastily, “You sure did,” but the heavy man chopped an authoritative hand at him, and he clammed.

I went on, “I'm sorry. I hope you'll accept my apology. I thought this was a ... storeroom.”

Still fingering his lapel, the white-haired guy said, “That is quite possible. We do accept your apology. This stateroom does look like a storeroom from the outside.” He glanced at the heavy man, who sat down in his chair again and glared at me.