The Bamboo Blonde (11 page)

"He didn't come to the island with me. He was on duty."

"A shame." His voice leaked fatherly kindness. It was stark travesty; anyone would have known; even Kathie should have known. The legend of the ravening wolf with careless lamb's wool hung on his haunches was being enacted before their very eyes.

"And your week-end vacation must be enjoyed alone?" She wasn't alone; she had Kew and the trembling Sergei, "I am so anxious to meet Lieutenant Travis. He is the naval radio expert, is he not?"

There was no necessity for Griselda to stiffen, to wish to warn the girl to tell this man nothing, no matter how harmless it seemed. For Kathie wasn't interested. She said, "I guess so."

The major tried again. "He was a friend of Mannie Martin, wasn't he?"

She brightened at that although she still wasn't interested in Pembrooke. He wasn't handsome and glamorous like Kew. She evidently hadn't heard about the yacht. She said, "Yes, he's Mannie's best friend."

Kathie shouldn't have said that. Mannie Martin was missing. Major Pembrooke wanted to find him. And by now Griselda was certain in her bones that his purpose in finding him wasn't harmless. Nothing that the major did would be without harm.

Kathie was continuing as she had in her stuffy bedroom. But the pink fish wasn't goggling on her tonight. She must have known there was no chance of meeting her husband. "Mannie and Walker have known each other for years—"

Sergei shouldn't have said anything. He hadn't been invited; he was on the outside; he had insinuated himself in some manner upon Kew in order that he might sit at the table, but he should have had an intuition of the necessity for his silence.

He began, "I hear—" but his peep was not audible over the orchestral rhumba, laden trays, and parakeet conversation. He repeated. "I hear—" and a third time with clarinet shrillness, "I hear—" The major recognized him. "Yes?" Sergei rubbed his tongue over his lips. He didn't know where to put his eyes. "I hear Mannie has been found." In the silence he made the mistake of letting his eyes meet those of Albert George. They were held fast hideously as by snake-hypnosis.

Kathie's soft words released him from the spell, "Found? Really? Where is he?"

But Sergei offered only anticlimax. "I do not know. They are saying this in Hollywood. At the studio."

Kew explained, "Mr. Vironova directs the Masquers on the
air, too, you know. He tells me that the rumor is all over the broadcasting studio."

The major said with his teeth, "I trust it is true, I am very anxious for Mr. Martin to return. It is a matter of marking time for me until he does."

Con broke in rudely, lightly, "He won't return."

Griselda held tightly to the edge of the table. The major's gritty eye was on Con now. "What do yon mean, Mr. Satterlee?"

Con didn't tremble as Sergei had. He said blandly, "He can't. He's no Lazarus."

Again there was silence in the midst of sound. And then Kathie's mouth whispered, "Con—is Mannie dead?"

He wasn't rude to her. "He wouldn't have been gone this long otherwise, Kathie."

"You know that?" Pembrooke demanded. Con actually smiled into the terrible mask. "Sure, I know it. I've known Mannie ever since I've been on the air. And I know he wasn't a guy that'd walk out when he had"—his smile was impudent—"an important deal on."

Kew asked quickly, "You don't really know he's dead, do you, Con?"

Con took a drink. "What do you think?"

"Well, I didn't know him." Kew was evasive again. "I'd met him, that's all. But—what could have happened to him? If he'd been in an accident, it would have been reported long ago. If anything had gone wrong on his way down from Santa Monica, the boat wouldn't have been tied up at the landing. Boats can't tie themselves. Con. And he was alone. The attendants at the Santa Monica Club are certain of that. I can't see it any other way than a disappearance for his own purposes."

Major Pembrooke spoke coldly, "I am afraid that Mr. Satterlee's supposition is superior to yours, Brent. Martin had an appointment with me here at Avalon on the night he disappeared. He was bringing the final and complete plans for our deal. He never arrived. I remained here at the St. Catherine until after one in the morning before returning to
The Falcon.
He sent no message. It wasn't like him."

Was he offering an alibi for the time of the disappearance or murder?

Kathie's eyes were enormous. She shivered, "Oh, don't let's talk about him like this. We don't know that anything happened to him. Walker was with him the night before and he was perfectly well."

Albert George put down his cigar. "You're right, Mrs. Travis. This sort of conversation is only depressing and sheer guesswork. A dance perhaps?"

He would dance heavily; he was heavy. But Kathie couldn't refuse. The relief at the table was almost startling as he moved away. Sergei's breath came out of his mouth in a rush. He said, "I get me fresh air." He was the color of his cigarette ash as he weaved away.

Con pointed to his receding back. "And when did you gather the little red flag to your heart, Kew?"

Kew's nose wrinkled. "He intruded. God knows how he does it. I'd only just met him in Hollywood but you'd think I owed him money the way he's hung on. Short of punching his nose I couldn't get rid of him."

"What does he want?" Dare asked it lightly.

"God knows."

Con snickered. "Maybe he'd like to take Kathie over."

Dare's voice lifted mockingly, "How did you entice the little princess to Avalon, Kew? You didn't tell me you had a rendezvous."

Kew was on the defense. "I'm not here with Kathie if that's what you are suggesting, Dare. I ran into her on the plane yesterday. That's all." He came around the table, touched Griselda. "Come on, darling. Dance. I don't like your husband or his friends."

He had rescued her from Con and Dare's joint happiness. But it was not that she might enjoy a moment of relaxation. For he asked almost at once, "Has Thusby any more on Shelley Huffaker?"

She almost started at the name. She'd been trying not to remember it tonight. Just as everyone at the table who knew had taken pains not to mention the case. She said, "No."

Even more startling came the next question, "You've been around Hollywood quite a bit. What-do you know about Vironova?"

Con was right; Kew wasn't interested in her beauty; he was a newsman pumping. But she made her answer thorough, "Very little, Kew. I worked on one of his productions. He is a crack director, one of Oppy's best. But I just don't like him. I've never cared for the type."

"Intuition or reason?"

"Both. Intuition strong. Reason—I don't like flashy bleached girls who endure anything for a screen test. And I don't like reptilian males who trade screen tests for flashy bleached girls."

His mouth said, "One of those." And then he asked. "You've never heard of him being tied up with Mannie Martin?"

Everything went around a circle and returned neatly to the missing man. She said, "He must have been. Sergei's radio play hour has been a feature for several years now."

"I mean more than that kind of deal." He was a superb dancer.

"I didn't know Mannie Martin. You know Hollywood. I'm one of the set that doesn't go to cafes or premieres or even stay home entertaining my hundred most intimate friends in my marble cottage."

Kew interrupted, "Everyone eventually turns up at the Derby."

"The day I go there is the day everyone else stays home. Or I'm at the Vine when they're at the Beverly. In other words, I never know the latest, Kew. A costume designer isn't much more important than a writer."

The music stopped its din. She put her hand on his arm. "You don't mind? I'd like a breath of fresh air." She didn't want to return to the major. She did want to talk with Kew. They walked out on the terrace. The moon was pointing one shimmering finger over the dark waters. She said slowly, "Tell me, why is Mannie Martin's disappearance so important?"

He flared his lighter for their cigarettes. Only men like Kew had handsome cigarette lighters that behaved impeccably. She was apprehensive from his expression that he would evade but he didn't.

"Because Major Pembrooke came west to make a deal with Martin."

She asked again as she had over and over, it seemed, but she kept her voice stifled and looked over his shoulders before speaking. "Who is Major Pembrooke?"

"A British officer—"

She broke in, "I've heard that one."

"There isn't another. He is in this country in the interests of a Pan-Pacific network, jointly held by Britain and us. Monitoring and field stations to be included. It would be important if the war moves to the Far Fast. Major Pembrooke has been studying our stations throughout the country, their working plans with the major networks."

She asked, "And Mannie Martin?"

"Pembrooke had offered him the management of the new network."

"Why did you come out here, Kew? Was it because Mannie disappeared?"

He shook his head. "I was here before that happened. I came to get a story. I don't like to be scooped, even by governments. I heard about the Pan-Pacific deal in Washington. But I couldn't get a line on it from official sources. I knew Mannie slightly so I thought I'd trek out and he'd give me some dope." He frowned. "He wasn't talkative."

"You saw him?"

"Twice. I lunched with him the day before be disappeared. He said he wasn't ready to give out vet. He said stick around a few days and I'd get the whole story." He shrugged. "I'm still sticking." He leaned across the table. "Con heard from Mannie before he disappeared, didn't he?"

She couldn't say no. She wasn't certain. She shook her head.

Kew asked, "Are you sure? Mannie's copy of the contract is not in his office. I thought he might have sent it to Con for a checkover. He knew Con was close to Garth."

And Kew knew more than he was saying. He had reason for believing that Mannie had communicated with Con. He wasn't merely guessing. Fact was on his mouth.

She said definitely, "No. Con didn't hear from Mannie." Her hands didn't relax. She willed the tremble from her voice. "Why would Mannie want Garth to look over a business contract, Kew?"

He didn't answer but he said, "There isn't a note—not a line—dealing with the Pan Pacific deal in Mannie's files."

"How do you know that, Kew?" She asked it quietly.

"Pembrooke told me." He looked squarely at her. "I believe that disturbs him more than Mannie's absence. I'm guessing now."

He knew. He was a newspaperman and always they knew; their nostrils recognized the smell of the truth.

Her words were distinct, "You think Con might have them?"

"I think Con might have whatever missing document it is that is worrying the major."

"He hasn't." She could speak with certainty. Con left packing to her. She'd know if there had been contracts, documents, somewhere. He left his papers flung about, not filed as a businessman would.

Kew grasped the certainty. "There are only two answers. Either Mannie gave the stuff to someone or it was stolen from the office., If so, it was a deft job. The secretary swears not a paper clip is out of place."

She seized solution. "Why couldn't Mannie have given the stuff to Walker Travis?"

"He could have," Kew admitted. "Travis reports not." His voice was even. "The fact that the stuff hasn't turned up makes it pretty conclusive that Mannie didn't want it to turn up. It was given in confidence."

"Or stolen."

"Yes." He was thoughtful. "I'd like a look at those contracts and notes."

She asked, just as if she didn't realize he knew Pembrooke too well, "Why don't you try to examine the major's copies? Dare could help you."

He spoke slowly, "I don't trust Dare."

She was silent. She didn't herself but it was startling to hear it said, and by Kew.

He said, "They're coming out now. Nice weather we're having."

Dare called, "You ran out on us," and Con added, "Wife stealer."

His hand caught Griselda's and she smiled at him. "The ocean's out here, not in that stuffy room."

Kathie was standing beside Kew, looking at him. She slewed her eyes to Griselda in suspicion. Sergei was again at Con's sleeve, almost touching it.

Dare cried, "Major Pembrooke has invited us all to cruise a bit about the island. Isn't that divine?"

Kew didn't move. "Awfully good of you, Major, hut I promised Kathie some dancing tonight. It's Rob's farewell at the Casino, her favorite orchestra. Unless she wants to change her mind."

Kathie's enamored look was on Kew. Griselda had a fleeting pang of feeling for the poor little lieutenant on guard on a battleship. His wife said, "I don't care what we do. But I've never been on a yacht."

Sergei, suddenly courageous, squeaked, "Let us all go to Rob's, Yes, we must go dance with Rob. I have promised him personal. Any time we can yacht."

Griselda laughed silently. It was as if to him yachts were a dime a dozen—like blondes. But she had no intention either of getting on that yacht. Hot laughter ended in a shiver. For Con announced, "Rob will be at the Ambassador next week. We'll make up a party. Tonight we all sail in the moonlight."

He had his hand on her arm. He must have known it trembled. But he led the way jauntily toward the dock and even Sergei, with drawn face, followed.

* * *

The Falcon
didn't look peaceful lying at anchor. Her lines were too dark and swift; the face at the top of the ladder wore the malicious gravity of a heathen god. He spoke in his own tongue and the major answered in kind before turning to his guests. "You will excuse me a moment," He followed the short white-duck legs.

The lights of Avalon across were not Japanese paper lanterns at an old-fashioned garden party, but they were as evanescent and as far distant. The deck here was as non-sinister as any floating playground. The ducky Oriental navy Dare had mentioned was moving without sound within the lighted salon; its mouse pattering ran all over the ship.

Griselda managed to reach Con's arm for one moment before Dare coiled there again. Under her breath she pleaded, "I don't want to cruise in the moonlight."