Way of a Wanton (5 page)

I lay there for a few seconds after I
could
have got up, getting the rage inside me a little more under control, because when two guys who know how have at each other, there's a very good chance one of them will, literally, get killed. But it was becoming apparent that King didn't know how; he was another guy with muscles in his back and head, and he stood over me now in the traditional, slightly modified John L. Sullivan pose. He cut a pretty picture, but if he'd really wanted to discourage me he should have been kicking me or stepping on my face.
 

When my vision was completely unblurred I could also see the expressions on some of the other faces. Genova's showed open glee, Swallow's an attempt at impassive boredom, and Raul's a worried frown. Some of the gals looked either frightened or interested, and Helen was biting her lower lip and squeezing her hands together in front of her. Right at that moment King cut a much prettier picture than I did.
 

Genova clapped King appreciatively on one of his mangrove-root shoulders as I got slowly to my feet. King waved Genova out of the way and concentrated on me as I stepped toward him. He was grinning. My hands were down low, almost at my sides, and King must have thought this was going to be a cinch. That was what I wanted him to think. The distance between us narrowed till I was close enough for him to hit me again, and he waved his left hand in what he fondly imagined was a feint and hauled back his big right fist.
 

I brought my open right hand up and wrapped it around his throat as if I were going to choke him, only I didn't do it slowly and I didn't choke him. As soon as he'd waved that left hand I'd started my right hand up as hard as I could from my side, and I damn near buried its edge between his chin and Adam's apple as he got ready to bust me. He went sailing back with his arms flailing and fell solidly to the ground, out cold before he hit. If he'd managed to club me with that slow right fist it would have been a different story. But as long as he hadn't, I could just as easily have killed him.
 

He lay on the ground with his head rolled to one side and his legs twisted awkwardly. He wasn't grinning. Nobody let out a peep as I walked up toward the house.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

Two uniformed patrolmen pulled on the rope and the weight at the end of it began slowly rising through the water of the swimming pool as photographers' flash bulbs popped. It was after sundown, but Raul had turned on the floodlights around the pool and the scene was brilliantly lit. The waterfall was silent now for the first time in days, and at the moment the only sound was the noise made by the two officers as they heaved on the rope that one of them had fastened to the body.
 

It was about half an hour after I'd phoned the police and there was quite a crowd present. Besides the two patrolmen, who had been first to arrive, there were a couple of plainclothes detective sergeants, technical men from the crime lab, and the coroner. The print men hadn't had much to do while the body was in the water, but they were ready and waiting with the surveyor, who had finished most of his work. Ben Nelson, the captain of the Hollywood Detective Division, was supervising operations in person. I'd hoped that Captain Samson might come out from Central Homicide downtown, but Nelson was a good man and I knew him fairly well.
 

Most of the party guests were in the living room, but Raul, Swallow, and I were out near the pool. I took Raul aside. “Look, I don't give a damn about those other guys, but this doesn't look good for you. This is your home; she's in your pool. You got any ideas about it at all?”
 

He shook his head, then pulled nervously at his thick mustache. “Another thing, Raul,” I went on. “You didn't seem too happy about my calling the cops, either.”
 

He looked at me. “Guess I wasn't too happy. Hell, who would be? But I wasn't thinking straight—I've never been anywhere near a murder before. And what thinking I did was about Evelyn.” He frowned. “God, I guess this ties it with her.”
 

“Maybe not, Raul. Might be this mess could even help.”
 

He shook his head and said bitterly, “Maybe, but I'm afraid this wraps it up. I wish—” He broke it off. “I'll tell you something, Shell. I've been—and still am—a goddamned fool.” He shrugged and walked away.
 

I went to the edge of the pool as the two policemen heaved again and the body slid smoothly from the water as more bulbs flashed. In a moment the dead woman was lying suddenly on the grass. Her body had been weighted with a heavy iron grill, and stiff wire was wrapped around her throat and ankles and then attached to the grill. Oscar Swallow, on my left, took two steps toward the body, then dropped to one knee, staring.
 

“Zoe!” he cried. “My God! She's killed herself.”
 

It didn't mean anything to me for a minute, but it finally struck me as such an obviously screwy remark that I walked up beside Swallow and looked at his face. The shock and horror on his features seemed real enough. While I wondered, Captain Nelson's men closed in efficiently around the corpse in the case that was going to raise quite a bit of hell in Hollywood.
 

An hour later Zoe's body had been wrapped in the gray rubber sheet and hauled away in the wire basket. We were all in the living room again, but it didn't look the same now. All five of the girls sat close together on a huge divan, Raul and I stood behind them leaning against the piano, and King and Genova sat in deep chairs on our left. Swallow sat all by himself at the bar. Captain Nelson, flanked by the two detective sergeants, stood in front of us all with a notebook in his hand.
 

He and the two sergeants had already talked to us one at a time in another room; now he looked at Raul. “I guess that about does it. Mr. Evans, you got this group together about two this afternoon, except for Mr. Genova, who came a little later, and Mr. Scott, who arrived after four o'clock. Is that correct?”
 

Raul said, “That's right.”
 

The Captain went on, “And there was a similar gathering here last Thursday night?”
 

Raul nodded. “Except for the two girls on the end there.” He indicated a couple of girls named Susan and Peggy. “Then Archer Block was here, too—he's another writer from the studio.”
 

Nelson turned to Genova. “And that gathering was your idea, Mr. Genova?”
 

Genova said testily, “As I have already explained twice, Captain, we got together—Raul, Swallow, Block, some of the cast, and I—primarily to go over the shooting script of ‘Jungle Girl.' I can't expect you to understand"—here Captain Nelson frowned a little—"but we're already running over our budget and have five more days of shooting. It was imperative that we discuss ways of cutting expenses. That's all there was to it.”
 

Captain Nelson sighed, then looked slowly over all of us. “All right,” he said. “It's pretty obvious that Miss Zoe Townsend came to this house last Thursday night, while most of you were gathered here, and was murdered. She's been out in that pool ever since. And yet none of you knows anything about it, none of you even saw her, you don't even know why she'd come here in the first place.” He paused and looked at Raul. “Anybody feel like adding anything to that? Anything at all?”
 

Nobody spoke for a moment, then Genova said, “I don't have anything to add, but I hope none of my people will be tied up. I couldn't afford—”
 

Nelson interrupted him. “Mr. Genova. Whether you can afford it or not, if any of your—your people hold out anything they'll be tied up. For quite a while.”
 

Genova looked sick. King had been sitting quietly, with one hand kneading his throat gently. Now he said a bit hoarsely, but belligerently as always, “How about the papers? So help me, if this gets into the papers...” He didn't finish, but glared around the room. He let the glare stop on me. We were back where we'd started. Now he had company: Genova gave me a glare too.
 

Nelson didn't reply to King—there wasn't much he could say, as reporters had already come and gone—but he flipped his notebook shut. “O.K. If nobody has anything to add, you can all go home. You know what I told you—we'll likely want to talk to all of you again.”
 

There were three or four simultaneous sighs. The girls got up as I walked over to Captain Nelson and outside with him. I knew him pretty well; not nearly so well as I know Captain Samson downtown, but well enough to talk to. We walked out toward the pool and I said, “Incidentally, Ben,
I
wasn't even here Thursday night.”
 

He grinned at me, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered me one. I lit them for us and he said, “I don't figure you knocked off anybody, Shell.”
 

“Thanks. You figure she got it Thursday night?
 

“Or Friday morning. Not much doubt about that, but we'll know more after the autopsy. Job was done in a hurry, too.”
 

I knew what he meant. She'd been strangled by somebody's hands, then wired to the heavy grill of Raul's barbecue and dumped in the handiest spot quickly available: the pool.
 

I said, “What's this about her coming here? And I understand you talked to most of these people here yesterday.”
 

“Not me personally; Sergeant Price from Missing Persons did, though.” He looked at me. “Gal named Lola Sherrard reported this Townsend dame missing on Saturday morning. Missing as of Thursday night. Said this Townsend took off for here—your friend's place—about eight P.M. or a little before on Thursday. Never came back. Well, now we know why.”
 

“Yeah. Anybody here know she was coming?”
 

He shook his head. “Not so far as we know. Apparently none of them did. She just up and came, uninvited.”
 

“What for?”
 

“God knows. We'll dig into it deeper. Maybe the roommate can help us. You know how it is with most missing-person beefs, Shell. But we'll check it now.”
 

“Uh-huh. Well, be sure to let me know if you want me, Ben.”
 

“Don't worry.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Say, you're not on this thing, are you? Officially?”
 

“No.” I thought about Genova and King warning me, and King slugging me, and I added, “But I'm getting interested.”
 

He grunted and headed for the pool. I went back into the house. A couple of the girls had left and Swallow was just leaving. Raul was mixing drinks, so I went over to the bar and took the bourbon and water he handed me. He looked as unhappy and harried as I'd ever seen a man look.
 

Helen walked slowly across the room, a fur coat draped over one shoulder. “How about one for me, Raul? I need it. I need a double.” Then to me, “Hello, Shell. Glad you came?”
 

I gave her a small smile. “Well, yes and no. But it hasn't all been unpleasant.” The three of us chatted idly, sipping our drinks. It was pretty deadly. Finally I said to Helen, “Cheer up, for God's sake. A long face won't help anything.”
 

She brightened a bit, then took a long swallow of the scotch and soda. She made a face, then gave me one of the pre-pool smiles. “Better?”
 

“Much. Now I go for you.”
 

“I'm disappointed in you, Shell.”
 

“Oh?”
 

“Uh-huh. You didn't pull out a single hair.”
 

I was looking at Helen, but I heard Raul choke on the last of his drink. “Give me time,” I said. “Say, how'd you get here?”
 

“With King.”
 

“Uh ... you know what I'm thinking?”
 

“Well, hurry up, then. I've had enough of King, I think.”
 

I turned to Raul. “Look, chum. I'll see you tomorrow.”
 

“Sure, Shell. Sorry about ... well, everything.”
 

“Don't be. Hell, I'm on your side, if that's anything.”
 

“It is.” He gave me a grin. “Beat it.”
 

I walked Helen to the door, then stopped and helped her put on her fur coat, primarily so King wouldn't think we were sneaking out. But all he did was rise a little out of his chair, then sink back down into it.
 

Helen and I walked to my Cadillac and climbed in. She lay back against the cushions and relaxed on the drive into Hollywood, and we chatted casually, working the depression further out of our minds and getting back nearly to normal. Helen commented on my Cadillac, a new black job that I'd bought to replace the sick-yellow convertible I'd driven for ten years until it got blown up in Las Vegas along with a hell of a fine guy. This was a convertible coupé, too, but nice as it was, I sort of missed the old buggy.
 

As our spirits rose a bit, the conversation began getting more like our earlier exchanges, and finally I had Helen nearly convinced that she hadn't lived till she'd seen the tropical fish in my apartment.
 

“Fish?” she asked me. “Why fish?”
 

I looked at her. The Cad's top was down and that beautiful hair of hers streamed in the wind like silver threads. She didn't seem to mind the wind. I said, “They're pretty and a lot of fun. All colors—some even like your hair. Some like your eyes.”
 

“Oh, Lord,” she groaned. “That's the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.”