This Girl for Hire (6 page)

I knew the gun looked familiar because I was staring straight down the barrel. This was getting to be a nerve wracking habit.

“You crazy little fool!” Sam tore the gun out of Lori's hand. “You want to kill someone?”

Lori seemed stunned. She shook her head. “I didn't know what to do, Sammy. I was taking the gun to Captain Morgan's cabin when I heard your voice.”

I came out from behind the screen. “Where'd you get it?” I demanded.

“In our cabin,” Lori said. “I wanted some fresh air. It was stuck in one of the windows.” She gave me the once-over-lightly treatment. “Are you our new leading lady?”

Aces nodded. He was sober now. I asked Lori to explain exactly how she found the revolver.

“The window is in our bathroom. One of those crank types. I started turning the handle and this thing dropped right into my lap. Scared the life out of me.”

“Which direction was the revolver pointing when it fell?” I asked.

Lori shook her head
again. “I'm not sure. I was sitting at my vanity table. I think this end hit me first.” She pointed at the barrel.

I glanced at Aces. He was slightly green around the gills. “What's at the opposite side of that window?”

“A bathtub,” Aces said. “I usually take a bath before dinner.

I took the revolver and opened it. “What were you saying about no bullet holes, Mr. Aces?” I asked casually.

“You don't think someone was planning to pot me in the bathtub?”

“Two bullets missing,” I said, showing him the empty chambers. “This is definitely my gun. Don't you think the other four bullets could have done a job on you?”

“But why leave the gun sticking in the window like that?” Aces questioned. “Someone was bound to see it.”

“Maybe.” I glanced at Lori. She was nervous as a cat. “Did you see the gun when you sat down at the vanity table?”

“No. I told you. I don't think I could have known it was there if I hadn't turned that crank.”

“What's outside the window?” I asked.

“A passageway,” Aces said. “Leads to the swimming-pool bar.”

I said I thought somebody was trying the window for size when there was an interruption. In his haste the gunman probably couldn't pry his weapon loose and decided to risk the chance of returning for it later.

“Maybe by that time you'd have been lolling around in the tub,” I said to Aces.

I put the revolver away in a
safe place and the three of us walked out on deck.
Hell's Light
was pulling away from the pier, heading into the bright blue Wilmington channel that would lead us out to sea. Aces looked sick.

“You can take her back,” I said.

“That wouldn't solve anything,” he groaned miserably. “We still haven't got a killer.”

“No,” I said. “But somebody's working on it.”

I glanced at Lori Aces. She was such a tiny thing. Really childlike. She was about the same height as Ann Claypool, but smaller in the bosom. She had strong arms and legs that looked as if they were kept in perfect trim with a lot of exercise. I thought about that as we started off to the swimming-pool bar. It would have taken someone in good shape to swing around on those dark crossbeams in Studio Sixteen. Lori Aces appeared to be in excellent physical shape.

Hell's Light
took a little more than three hours crossing through the twenty-mile stretch of placid green Pacific to reach Catalina Island. By that time, nine people had been rescued from the water around the bar. One of these was Ann Claypool. She wore a flimsy two-piece swimsuit. Her straps kept coming down and the little TV actress finally abandoned the top in favor of a bright red lei. It would have taken no encouragement at all for her to shed the lei, but for some reason a slight semblance of order was maintained and nobody encouraged her.

Two incidents were unusual during
that trip: the sudden appearance of Max Decker, who was supposed to have missed the boat, and a back-slapping relationship that developed between Sam Aces and Bob Swanson.

We anchored about a half-mile off shore at White's Landing, the summer site of a YMCA camp. A camera crew went ashore to set up for the next day's film sequences. I hitched a ride on the small boat. So did Lori Aces, who seemed disgusted with the chaos aboard
Hell's Light
.

“I think my husband likes that cheap Claypool girl,” Lori said. “Did you see the way she kept looping the other half of her lei over the men and hugging them?”

The boat angled up beside the pier. We climbed out, then separated from the camera crew and started up the white beach. I asked Lori if she knew what had ever happened to Rod Caine. She denied knowing the writer until I told her I was a private detective hired by her husband. We talked about the night Aces caught Lori and Caine under the covers.

“I was having a drink,” Lori said, “I was lonesome. Sammy works so many nights, you know! Rod came by the house and we had a few martinis. He kissed me a couple of times and then—the next thing I knew we were in bed together.”

“He must be some man.”

“I guess so,” Lori said softly. “I'm only eighteen. I haven't had much experience. In fact, with Sammy it was the first time for me.”

Now I knew the age score. About
thirty-two years difference between Aces and Lori. A wide gap.

“Have you seen or heard from Caine since that evening?”

“You won't tell my husband, will you?”

“This is strictly between us, I promise.”

“He called me about three weeks ago. I asked him where he was, but he wouldn't tell me. He said he was so mad at what Sammy had done, he'd like to kill him.”

“How badly was his face injured?”

“He wouldn't tell me a thing, but he did ask me the strangest question.” Lori looked puzzled.

“What was that?”

Lori's bathing suit had big buttons down the front and she fiddled with them nervously. “He asked me if Sammy's favorite drink was still a screwdriver.”

I winced. “You never told your husband about the phone call?”

“No, I was afraid to. He goes mad with jealousy. Like the night he shoved the glass in Rod's face. I was afraid he might think there was more to it than just the phone call.”

“Has Sam ever mentioned Herb Nelson to you?”

“Sure.”

“When exactly?”

Lori said, “Lot's of times. Sam felt sorry for Herb. He was always trying to get him into bit parts in the Swanson show, but Bob kept saying no. Bob's one hundred percent louse.”

We decided to take a swim. Lori was obviously an expert swimmer and her small arms
cut the frothy sea with swift, practiced strokes. We went out about a half mile and then floated on our backs.

The swim did a lot to clear my head. I began piecing things together. Whoever stole my .32 had tried it on me and then brought the revolver aboard ship planning to use it on Aces. The only suspect who hadn't sailed with us was Rod Caine, unless he was hiding, or was unrecognizable because of a change in his features. I felt like counting Lori Aces out of the race. She was too naive, too sweet, too much in love with her husband. Or was she any of these?

I considered the phone call to Lori from Rod Caine. The story sounded phony. Knowing Sam Aces, I figured he'd probably been drinking screwdrivers since he was old enough to talk. Who changes an old habit like that overnight? Someone could have faked Caine's voice. Or maybe Lori lied.

Floating on a glittering green wave, Lori smiled at me, “How you doing?”

“Great. What's Rod Caine sound like?”

“His voice?”

“Yes.”

Lori treaded water for a moment while she thought about the question. “I don't know. It's sort of deep. A little nasal. Has a nice quality. He should have been an actor instead of a writer—with his looks and a voice like that. Sounds a little like Sammy, in fact.”

“Who?”

“Sammy. My husband.”

I rolled over in the water and studied
this dark-haired little porpoise. Who was she trying to kid? That first crack about Caine's questioning of Sam's taste in drinks was bad enough, but this took the prize for being obvious. I fried a quick new formula: Lori plus Caine plus revenge plus money equals murder! Sounded plausible. This way Caine didn't have to be aboard
Hell's Light
. Lori could have faked the whole business about finding the gun in the bathroom window. Maybe she wanted to frighten Aces and make me think he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Then powie! The old suicide gag. They slip Aces a pint of poison and make him out a homicidal maniac who hits people with broken glass and who fakes his voice to pin his death on a hated enemy. I was certain now. Lori Aces was in the running. Very much in the running. There was only one disturbing element to my conclusion. Whoever wanted Aces out of the way, apparently wanted to nudge me in the same direction.

“Come on!” Lori suddenly shouted. “I'll race you to that cove.”

She struck out, lightning fast, toward a jagged wall that was narrowed in by a couple of white-capped rocks. I hadn't noticed before, but the sea was beginning to push itself up into healthy ridges and the wind blew the top of one into my face. I lost sight of Lori in the swell.

A big wave broke over my shoulders, hurling me under and ripping loose the top of my two-piece suit. I abandoned any thought of heading for the cove and angled toward the beach. Vicious breakers and a strong current drove me into a bed of kelp
well beyond the beach and even the cove. I fought wildly, went down once and came up again.

The second time down I felt an arm around my middle.

H
E WAS STARING AT ME WHEN
I
WOKE UP, A HANDSOME
guy with curly black hair that made his head look like a mass of licorice dessert. He had a nice nose, straight with wide flaring nostrils. His mouth was wide with plenty of slack and a small smile etched in the corners. I liked this face. But there was something I didn't like. The sound I heard somewhere in the distance. The sound of hard rain and violent wind.

“How are you
feeling?” he asked.

“In one piece,” I said gingerly. “Am I?”

“Absolutely,” he said with a larger smile. “And may I add, one of the nicest I've come across in a long time.”

There was a warm blanket over me. I reached underneath and felt around for the top to my suit. It was gone. Apparently he'd pulled me out of the briny deep without a stitch covering the upper part of my body.

“Fill me in,” I said, my eyes avoiding his. “Things are rather hazy.”

He grinned again. “For my money you're already filled in. And in just the
right places.”

“Thanks.” I felt my cheeks growing hot. “Where am I?”

“In my cabin. On the hill overlooking White's Landing. I was doing a little spear fishing when I found you poking around in my abalone beds.”

“Was I alone?”

“Not exactly. There were a couple of wide-eyed fish in the vicinity, but I got there first.”

The left side of my jaw felt extremely sore. “You didn't by any chance hit me with a KO punch?”

“Not until you gave me some of the same in the lower intestine. If you want the facts, ma'am, you tossed me one below the belt.”

“I'm sorry.” Then I suddenly remembered Lori Aces. With her talent for swimming she should easily have maneuvered her ninety-odd pounds to a safe landing place. Maybe even the beach.

He interrupted my train of thought. “How about some coffee?”

“First things first,” I said. “How about some clothes?”

“Fresh out of clothes,” he teased. “Plenty of coffee.”

“How'd you get me here?” I asked, trying to sit up. He pushed me down in a firm, nice manner. “You swallowed a lot of water. I had to carry you up the hill. You weren't about to walk on your own two feet. What were you doing swimming around half naked in the first place?”

“An old custom of mine. It scares
the tar out of sharks.”

“Great!” he said. “You scared the tar out of me. I thought you were a shark for a few seconds. That is, until I put my arm around your waist.”

“And that convinced you?”

“Well, no shark I ever knew had what you've got,” he laughed. There was a long silence.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Ralph—Ralph Smith. What's yours?”

“Honey West.”

“The female private eye?”

“You carried me up the hill,” I said. “Have you got any doubts about my sex?”

“Not in the least. What are you doing at Catalina?”

“Investigating the buffalo. What's your excuse?”

“I'm writing a novel.”

“What's it about?”

Smith walked over to stoke the fire. “That nasty, dirty little business called television.”

“You sound as if you know something about the subject.”

He was pensive for a moment. “I do. I was around when the first TV show went on the air in Los Angeles.”

“Are you still in television?”

“Nope. It got too dirty for me.”

“You ever know a writer named Rod Caine?” He bent over the fire and tossed on another log. “Yeah,” he said after a pause, “I know him.”

“What's he like?”

“Why?”

“He may be working his way to the
gas chamber. If he's the sensible type maybe I can warn him off before he kills a client of mine.”

Smith stood up, turned and looked at me, half grinning, half serious. “You're kidding! Who's your client?”

I told him the story. He listened attentively, especially when I mentioned the poisoned drink mixed at the Golden Slipper and Lori's disappearance earlier in the huge swell. Smith, expressing concern for her safety, pulled on a raincoat and hat.

“You should have told me there were two of you,” he said. “Even if she made shore, she might be battered to pieces in this storm.”