Way of a Wanton (12 page)

“Where's Swallow?” I asked abruptly.
 

“Right here, old boy. You want me?”
 

He was leaning indolently against a table on my right and slightly behind me, smoking a long cigarette. “No,” I said. “Just curious.”
 

He stared back at me blandly as the sound of sirens penetrated into the sound stage from the open door. At least I wouldn't have to call Homicide; somebody had already phoned the police.
 

I walked over and stood beside Sherry. The noise behind me swelled up almost to normal and she said quietly, “Thanks, Shell. For pushing me out of the way, I mean. Golly, it scared me.”
 

I grinned down at her. “To tell you the truth, honey, I'm not positive whether I pushed you out of the way or just banged into you while I was running like hell.”
 

She smiled. “It doesn't make any difference. Shell, are you really working for Bondhelm?”
 

I groaned inwardly. I'd hoped Sherry, at least, wouldn't share Genova's low opinion of me. But she didn't look angry or contemptuous, just interested.
 

I said, “I'm working for Bondhelm, it's true. But only to find out who killed Zoe. Maybe he's got some not very nice reasons for wanting me nosing around, but they're not my reasons. He's just paying my way.” I swallowed, realizing it actually did make a difference to me, and added, “I'd kind of hoped you'd take that for granted.”
 

She smiled sweetly up at me. “I do, silly. And you were calling me honey.” She put both her arms around my right arm and squeezed it gently, one warm breast soft against it. Then she let go and said mischievously, “Why don't you poke that old King, anyway?”
 

When she'd squeezed my arm like that. it had sent a tingle all through me, but I think I liked her words almost as well. Funny how good it made me feel when the idea penetrated. In addition to everything else, I was thinking, this was a smart little cookie.
 

I was still trying to think of something to say when the siren slowed and stopped outside. Right afterwards the two plainclothes sergeants who had conducted the interrogations with Captain Nelson at Raul's place came in. They were the two detectives assigned to the case, and now they had something else to chew on. Genova looked like a man who was slowly bleeding to death.
 

It was two o'clock before I'd gone through my story enough times, including the episode of the bullet hole in my Cadillac, and could leave. Before I took off I talked with Sherry on the set and arranged to meet her that night. She'd be having dinner at Joseph's on Cypress Avenue, she said, but after that she'd be at her apartment, at least by eight P.M. There was no chance to talk much more to her in all the hubbub and confusion, so I told her I'd see her at eight and left. On my way out I saw Helen, who made a face at me and tossed her head. It seemed I was developing a real talent for getting people mad at me. I didn't care too much right now, though; I could still feel the warmth of Sherry's yielding breast against my arm.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

I DROVE downtown to City Hall, took the elevator up to the Temple Street floor, and walked down the long hall to Room 42: Homicide. Captain Phil Samson looked up from his desk in the inner office when I entered.
 

“Hi, Shell. At it again?”
 

“Yeah. I been talking to so many high-powered characters I figured it was time I relaxed with a pooped-out cop. Got to slow down once in a while.”
 

“Hah!” He reached for one of his odious black cigars, stuck it between his strong teeth, and scowled at me. Sam and I had been scowling and growling at each other for years, but there's damn little we wouldn't do for each other. His age shows in his gray hair but not in the size or set of his big jaw. And I'll say this for Sam: In a world where honesty is still the greatest and rarest virtue, he's an honest man. He'd have had my respect for that, even if I hadn't liked the old warrior.
 

He said gruffly, “She was killed by John Smith. Now hurry and get your name in the papers and we'll pick him up.”
 

I grinned at him. “I already got my name in the papers. Seriously, you getting anywhere?”
 

He shook his head. “Not much yet—but I understand we're getting quite a lot on
you
.” He shifted the cigar, clamped his teeth into it. “Give us time. You're talking about the Townsend one, I suppose.”
 

“Uh-huh. I was there; guess you know that.” He nodded, and I spent the next five minutes briefing him on the story from last night to now and getting odds and ends from him. After I'd told him about the latest episode I said, “It comes out the little guy was a grip. Worked around the sets—named Henson, James Henson. I know damned well he was only a hired man paid to fix my wagon, but naturally he's not talking. Two to one he's the sharpshooter who missed me, too.”
 

Sam frowned. “I wonder how long you'll last,” he said, looking at me curiously. Then he shrugged. “Well, I'll get the reports from the Hollywood boys, but this is the first I've thought much about Bondhelm. We'll see.”
 

“Think he could be mixed in the murder?” Sam got out a wooden kitchen match. I hoped he didn't light that stinking cigar. “You know better than that, Shell. Maybe her Aunt Mary killed her. It's a little too soon to figure.”
 

“Yeah.” We shot the breeze a while longer, then I got from him the names and addresses of everybody who'd been in the Thursday night group and also at the Sunday afternoon party. The names were the same except that Archer Block, the other writer, had been present on Thursday, and two of the girls, Susan and Peggy, hadn't been around then. That left those I was interested in.
 

Sam lit the cigar, and smoke—I'd swear it was green smoke—spewed out of his mouth. It was time I left. “Sure easy for you to get rid of me,” I told him. “You got anything for free?”
 

He blew smoke at me. “Nope.” He paused. “On second thought, there's one thing you might think about. The girl was pregnant.”
 

“Zoe? The dead one?”
 

“That's right. Don't know who yet.”
 

I thought about it. I remembered a lot of things, and maybe now I knew why Swallow had said, “She's killed herself.” “Sam,” I said, “I'll give you odds. Swallow—Oscar the fancy Swallow. The writer man. Just a hunch, Sam.”
 

“Oh?” The big jaw wiggled on his cigar. “We'll find out.”
 

I took a breath, choked a little for Sam's benefit, then got up. “Two more little things you might gnaw on, Sam. One, it looks like somebody phoned Fanny Hillman right after King and I beefed. Her deadline was eleven P.M. and Ben already told me she didn't get the info from the police. Two, somebody also got in touch fast with this Bondhelm guy because he called me about nine P.M.”
 

He nodded, and as I went out he told me to watch myself. He didn't have to tell me; I had a hunch that if I didn't look alive I'd be dead.
 

Back in the Cad I sat thinking for a minute or two, then pointed the buggy's nose toward the Hollywood Freeway. Little Dot English wasn't working today, her stint in “Jungle Girl” having been finished some days back, and she might have some things to tell me. For all I knew, she might have some things to show me.
 

She was in a suite in the ritzy Francis Hotel. Not room; suite. Dot was doing all right. I rang and heard footsteps come toward the door, then Dot's tousled blonde head poked out and she said, “Oh, hello. Mr.—Mr. Shell?”
 

“Just Shell O.K. if I come in?”
 

“Well, I'm not exactly dressed...” She thought about that a minute and then laughed fit to kill. It was a bit funny. My most vivid memory of Dot was when she was bouncing on the springboard.
 

“Oh, hell, come on in,” she said.
 

I went in. She wasn't “exactly dressed,” but she was covered up well enough. Apparently she'd been sleeping late, and she had on pajamas of white silk. Thin pajamas. It was a neat little sitting room we were in, with the bedroom and rumpled bed visible through an open door on my left. The furnishings looked expensive. She sat down on a couch against the wall and patted the cushion beside her while she turned the knob on a table radio beside the couch.
 

“Sit down, Shell,” she said. “What brings you up to see
me?
” She smiled as if she had a pretty good idea. I didn't quite tell her it was the wrong idea; not right at first.
 

I sat down beside her and said, “It's really about Miss Townsend's murder. I thought maybe you could help me clear up some tag ends.”
 

“Tag ends.” She laughed. “It sounds like a game.”
 

I laughed with her a while, then I said, “No, no game. I'm serious. Like your help.”
 

She looked puzzled at that, but she said, “Sure, I'll help if I can.” Then she smiled again. “How did you know I was here?”
 

“I was just out at the studio. They said you'd probably be home, since you got eaten up by a lion in one of the early ‘Jungle Girl' scenes.”
 

She laughed some more. “He didn't eat me up, really. He was just a toothless old lion. Kind of a sweet old lion. He just gummed me a little.”
 

I grinned at her, showing my teeth. I wasn't learning much about Zoe, maybe, but I was getting a pretty good line on Dot. The radio had warmed up by now and she reached over with what might have been a practiced gesture—and if it had been practiced it was time well spent because it did things to the top of her pajamas and me—found some romantic music, and turned the volume down low.
 

It seemed like time I got around to asking questions, but I didn't know quite how to start. In any murder investigation, when you have to talk to a lot of people involved, there's always the possibility—no matter how slight—that the very one you're talking to might be a killer or accomplice, so you have to keep that in mind. But at the same time you don't want to embarrass or annoy the hell out of nice people who happened to get caught in the fringes. Especially nice people like Dot.
 

Finally I said, “It looks like somebody at Raul's Thursday night ... did it. She was choked to death. Do you know when Zoe showed up?”
 

She shook her head. “No. I guess nobody knows. Nobody saw her at all. Gee, it's sure funny.”
 

“Isn't it. Uh, when did Genova leave?”
 

“I'm not sure, exactly. I was"—she giggled a small giggle—"I was outside with Raul. I guess it was around eight, though, or a little after.”
 

“You were with Raul outside?” She nodded. That would have been very near the time Zoe was heading for the house. She must have arrived around eight or a little later, from what information I'd gathered.
 

“What were you—” I stopped. I'd started to ask what she and Raul had been doing, then realized it might not be the most gallant question I could think of.
 

She was ahead of me. “Oh, we weren't doing anything. I mean, not really—you know.” She looked at me with a small smile on her lips. Her eyes were green, I noticed, and her skin was almost as smooth and white as the pajamas. Little Snow White. She went on, “We were just sitting out back in the swing.”
 

That was on the opposite side of the house from both the pool and the barbecue pit. I asked, “Around eight, huh? Did— that is, was Raul with you all the time?”
 

“Uh-huh. Except when he went for a couple drinks.”
 

“When was that, Dot?”
 

She hunched her shoulders and dropped them. “I dunno. Not for sure. A little while before we went inside. I remember we went inside about half past. Past eight, I mean.”
 

I got out cigarettes, gave Dot one, and lit them for both of us. “How long was Raul gone, Dot?”
 

“Only a couple of minutes. Just a little bit, time to mix two drinks.” She blinked at me. “That's silly, anyway, Shell. Raul wouldn't hurt anyone.”
 

“Yeah, I know that. Just asking questions. You're sure he wasn't gone more than two minutes?”
 

“Two or three, that's the most.” She grinned at me. “He was in a hurry to get back.”
 

I returned her grin. “I'll bet he was, Dot.” She scooted over closer to me on the couch.
 

“Do we have to talk about that awful thing?”
 

Obviously she meant the murder. I said, “One more thing. Where were Swallow and King? And Helen?”
 

“Douglas and Helen were together all the time. Swallow passed out, the fool. Raul and I rolled him over to the wall before we went back.”
 

By George, she was right up against me now. I cleared my throat. “You know much about Swallow, Dot? I mean the kind of guy he is, where he came from, and so on.”
 

“I just know him to speak to. Pretty good-looking fellow. Good writer, too—I read his book. You read it?”
 

“ ‘The Savage Christian'?”
 

“Uh-huh.” Her breath caressed my neck.
 

“No. Good, huh? What was it about?”
 

“Well ... why ... about life. Yes, about true life. I guess. I couldn't say exactly, but it sure was good. Lots of big words in it. Shell?”