This Girl for Hire (19 page)

“These are enlargements of the thumbprints taken from the neck of Ann Claypool,” Mark said. “They match the prints we took from you exactly. Now what do you say, Mr. Caine?”

“Okay,” Rod murmured, head hung low, unable to look up at the undeniable evidence of the enlarged thumbprints. “I'll tell you the truth.”

“It's about time,” Mark said, surveying the group. He smiled triumphantly at my stunned expression.

“You're right,” Rod continued. “Those are my prints, but I didn't murder Ann Claypool. I—I was in Honey's cabin. We were talking about Joe Meeler when we heard a sound outside.”

“What kind of sound?” Mark growled.

“Somebody running on deck,” Rod explained. “It came like a volley of shots. Honey'll back me up on this. I went out to see who it was. The sound lead
me to Ann's cabin. The door was open a little, so I went in. It had been Ann all right. She was wet and out of breath. I asked her what was going on. She was drunk. She shouted at me to mind my own business. I told her it was my business. She'd tricked me earlier into going to my island cabin on the ruse that Bob Swanson was there waiting to talk to me. I demanded the truth, but she ordered me out. I guess I got excited. She tried to push me out the door and I grabbed her by the throat. Believe me, I didn't strangle her. She tried to scream and I threw her over the bed and walked out. The next time I saw her she was in the bathtub—dead.”

Mark said, “I'm surprised, Caine. Being a writer I thought you'd come up with a better story than that.”

“It's the truth, believe me,” Rod pleaded.

“I don't buy it,” Mark said. “And I don't think anyone else here does either.” He stared into Rod's sullen eyes. “You're the last man standing, Caine. You eliminated every possible suspect except yourself. Maybe you even got Herb Nelson. If you did, that makes seven. And if you could have nailed Honey it would have been eight. A nice round number in any man's language. Es pecially in the tongue of a psychopathic killer.”

The lieutenant gestured at one of the men from the sheriff's office. Together they lifted Rod Caine out of his chair and started him toward the door.

I went after them, whispering, “Mark, you got the wrong man. I'm sure you have.”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Don't you believe in evidence?”

“Sure, but—”

“You're just sore because you lost your
bet.”

We reached the end of the dining room. Mark opened the door.

Outside on deck, his face illuminated by starboard rail lights, stood Sam Aces.

S
AM HELD HIS LEFT HAND BEHIND HIS BACK
. T
HERE
was blood on his white shirt and he weaved as he stumbled toward the door, a pained expression around his mouth.

I rushed to him, slipping his arm
around my shoulders.

“I'm hurt, Honey,” he whispered. “I didn't think I'd make it.”

While I helped Sam into the dining roam, Mark had one of the deputies remove Rod Caine to another part of the ship.

For an instant, Rod and Sam surveyed each other in the doorway, then Chief Clements helped me ease Sam Aces into a chair. He cried out from the pain, staggered to his feet, pushed several helping hands away and crumpled to the floor. In the middle of his back was a bullet hole.

“Get a doctor, quick!” I yelled at Chief Clements.

Mark rolled Sam over and
said, “Who did it, Aces?”

“I—it must have been Caine,” the lanky producer whispered. “I didn't see him. He got me through the window from behind. I fell and didn't move for a long time. I guess he thought I was dead.”

I wiped a trickle of blood out of the corner of his mouth with my handkerchief. “Where did it happen, Sam?”

“In a little house we rented near the chimes tower.”

“What do you mean we, Sam?”

“Swanson and I. We—we were trying to outsmart Caine. But I guess he was much smarter than we figured.” Aces choked, gasped desperately for breath.

Mark leaned over the wounded man. “Aces, we've sent for a doctor—”

“It—it's too late for that,” Sam whispered. “I got to tell you something. I—I came all this way because—because you got to know the—truth.”

“All right, Aces, tell us as much as you can.” Sam closed his eyes for an instant and said, “I—I've been handling narcotics. The yacht's loaded with heroin. Caps are packed in liquor cases down in the storeroom.”

“Why, Sam?” I asked. “You didn't need the money. You don't take the stuff. Why'd you fool with it?”

The producer shook his head and groaned. “It was Lori. She was an addict when I married her. I didn't know. When I caught her taking junk she threatened to leave me if I didn't help her get the stuff. I—I couldn't let her go. I love Lori. I love her more than anything else in the world.”

I glanced at Mark. It was obvious
Sam Aces didn't know his wife was dead.

“To save my marriage,” he continued, “I got involved. It wasn't much at first. Then the big operators backed me against the wall. They—they threatened to ruin me if I didn't cooperate. They turned
Hell's Light
into a floating warehouse and forced me to supply the pushers.”

“Herb Nelson was one of your clients, wasn't he?” Mark said.

“Yes.”

“Do you know who murdered him?”

“No.”

“Why did you hire me, Sam?” I asked.

Aces peered up at me, his eyes glazed with pain. “Because—because I couldn't go to the police. They might have traced down my narcotics connections. But I had to know who was trying to poison me.”

“You were searching for something that day in my office, weren't you, Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Herb Nelson's file?”

“Yes. I was afraid you had some information about his being a pusher that might lead to me.”

“Do you know who stole my gun?” I asked.

Aces tried to smile. “I took it, Honey.”

“Why?”

“I—I got scared. I wanted you to quit the case. You were much too smart. But—I knew you'd only be more suspicious if I fired you. So, I took your gun out of your bag.”

“And took two shots at me.”

Aces winced. “Yes. I only meant to frighten you, but you moved at the wrong
moment. I—I was very sorry about that.”

Mark said, “Did you really believe Swanson was trying to poison you?”

“Yes.”

“You said you and Swanson rented a cabin together in Avalon. When did you change your mind about him?”

“The night I disappeared.”

“What happened that night?”

“I—I faked the poisoning,” Aces said, struggling for his words. “I wanted to confuse Swanson, bring him into the open. Let him trap himself. But, I was wrong. B.S. wasn't the guy who was after me. I realized that after somebody cracked him on the skull and hung him from the ceiling in Honey's cabin.”

I wiped another trickle of blood from Aces' mouth. “You hid in that trunk up on the bow, didn't you, Sam?”

“Yes,” Aces whispered. “Then later I moved down be low to a place you never would have found. There's a false bulkhead on the stern end of the engine room.”

“You were bleeding,” Mark said. “We found blood stains in the bow trunk. What happened?”

Aces tried to smile again. “I saw red when B.S. came into the bar and started swinging at Rod Caine. You remember, Honey. I hit him pretty hard with my fist.” He held up his right hand. His knuckles were lacerated. “Lucky it was raining,” he added, staring at me, “or you could have followed my trail straight to that trunk.”

“Then what?”

The wounded producer lifted up
slightly, groaning from new pain. Finally, he said, “We—decided Rod Caine was our man.”

“Who's we? You and Swanson?”

“No.”

“Who?”

“I—I can't tell you,” Aces said lowly. “I met with B.S. during the night—down in the secret room. I told him Caine was out to get us both. He was skeptical, but agreed to help me find out. The next morning we went to Caine's island cabin. We planted a note in his coat pocket and then took my jacket to Little Harbor.”

“You smeared it with blood, put a bullet hole through the front and dumped the jacket on the beach,” I said.

“Yes. We wanted to cast suspicion on Caine so the police would take him into custody after finding the note and the jacket.”

I added, “Then Bob Swanson actually did order Ann Claypool to send Caine to his island cabin for a meeting.”

Aces nodded.

“This was supposed to attract us into following Caine and searching for his cabin.”

“Yes.”

“And Swanson's disappearance on the beach at White's Landing was another ruse.

“Yes. He met me at a secret cove and we went into Avalon to the house near the chimes tower.”

“Who made the arrangements for the
rental?” Mark asked.

“Danny Marble.”

“Does he work for you?”

Aces said, “He's a pusher. He handles the young island crowd during the summer. I supply him—that's all.”

“Sam,” I said quietly, “did you ask Danny Marble to do you a favor?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“I—I gave him some heroin caps to plant in Caine's lab case. Something went wrong. I never found out what.”

I glanced at Mark Storm, then said, “I'll tell you what I think went wrong, Sam. We almost caught Danny in Caine's cabin. He must have grabbed the case and ran to Rod's boat cave. He was going to escape in our boat, but we came down the hill too soon. Then he tossed the case into the water and hid.”

“So, Danny Marble was our stowaway,” Mark said, shaking his head.

“That's my guess,” I continued. “He took the
Clementine
back to
Hell's Light
, tied her up and then swam to shore where he retrieved the metal case containing the heroin caps.”

“Why did you want H planted in Caine's lab case?” Mark asked.

“To make him break when the police questioned him.” I asked, “Who planted my gun in your bathroom window?”

“I—I don't know,” Aces whispered. “Caine, I guess. I thought it was Swanson until we got
together. Caine must have had an ally aboard the yacht.”

“Sam, did you plant the arsenic in Decker's luggage?”

“I—don't know what you're talking about.”

“Did you and Swanson send Decker a note asking him to meet Swanson yesterday at four-thirty at the chimes tower?”

“No. You can ask Decker if you don't believe me.”

“Decker's dead, Sam.”

Sam Aces tried to get up, choked several times and then fell back, gasping for air, blood streaming from his mouth again. “It—it—isn't—possible,” he whispered.

“He was shot and hanged in the chimes tower.”

“Where's Swanson?” Aces looked around weakly.

“Dead.”

“Ann Claypool?”

“Dead.”

“And Joe Meeler?”

“Stabbed.”

“Lori? No, not Lori, too!”

“Sam, she's—”

Tears welled up in Sam Aces' eyes and ran down the sides of his face. He trembled violently. “I—I should have known,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I—should have known all the time, but I was too stupid to realize—”

The producer rolled over on his stomach, his hand searching for the wound that was draining
life out of him.

Mark got up, gestured to Chief Clements. “Have Caine brought in here immediately.”

Clements went into the swimming-pool bar and brought Rod Caine back into the dining room. He was assisted by a deputy sheriff and the seaman, Carruthers.

Sam Aces was so near death that he couldn't move. His head lay twisted sideways on the floor and a stream of red ran across the planking. He stared at me as I kneeled down and lifted his head into my lap. He seemed awesomely pathetic, like a dog crumpled on the highway, trying to make me understand what he felt, but unable to say it except with his eyes.

Mark bent over the dying producer. “Aces,” he said softly, “will you point out the man who shot you in the back?”

For a long moment, Sam didn't move. His eyes remained riveted on mine as if he were trying to convey some vitally important message. Then, very slowly, he looked across the room.

Rod Caine took a step toward Aces, but was held back by the three men around him. “Tell them the truth, Sam,” the writer pleaded. “Tell them I didn't do it! Tell them!”

Then, with the last ounce of strength in his body, Sam Aces lifted his arm and pointed across the room to where Rod Caine stood with his three guards.

“You were my friend,” he whispered. “I—I should have known.”

His arm dropped to the floor and he was dead.

I watched them carry Sam
Aces' body down to a Coast Guard launch. The blood-stained boat Sam had used to travel from Avalon was also tied to the float.

Mark patted me on the shoulder as he prepared to board the launch with Rod Caine. “I'll see you on the mainland tomorrow,” he said. “Come on, smile. You look like you've just lost your last friend.”

I glanced at Rod. “Maybe I have. Mark, what did Aces' mean when he said, ‘I should have known'? Known what?”

“That Caine was the murderer.”

“But,” I argued, “he'd already said he thought Rod had been the one who shot him through the window.”

“That's right,” Mark agreed. “But he was stunned when we told him about the others—especially his wife.”

The other police officials and Coast Guard officers climbed aboard the launch. Dawn was beginning to light the morning sea and a breeze scattered salt spray across my cheeks.

“Look, Mark,” I insisted, “Aces said, ‘you were my friend.' Rod Caine wasn't his friend. He hadn't been his friend for a long time.”