Way of a Wanton (18 page)

“Good enough. Say, there's something else. Tell me this, Raul. Any reason why Zoe should or shouldn't have had a ‘Jungle Girl' shooting script in with the rest of her things?”
 

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “No reason why not. There's a mess of them around. She might even have typed the first ones up, I don't know. She typed all Swallow's dictation. And some of the other stuff. Why? What's with the script?”
 

“Probably nothing. Exactly what is the thing, anyway? That's what you make the movie from, isn't it?”
 

He nodded. “It starts out, usually, with a treatment, then maybe some more treatments, then a first draft and maybe a second and third draft and so on. Finally you get the screen play, or shooting script. Usually there's quite a bit of change in the script as it goes along, for one reason or another.”
 

“Such as?”
 

“Oh, Genova wants a special scene in the thing. Or doesn't like something that is in. I even suggested some changes myself.” He grinned. “Not bad, if I do say so.”
 

I thought about my talk with Archer Block. “The script isn't just Swallow's brain child, then?”
 

“Lord, no. For a stockholder you show a remarkable ignorance of scripting. Two other writers besides Swallow worked on the thing one time or another.” He shrugged again. “Oh, primarily it's his baby, but there are the things I mentioned. Then like King wanting his part fattened.”
 

“So you gave him some more grunts, huh?”
 

He laughed. “That's about the size of it. Come on, I'll show you one of the things.”
 

I followed him to a little gal sitting in a canvas chair with a bulky script in her hands. Raul took it from her and flipped the pages. “This what you mean, Shell?”
 

“Uh-huh. What's all the red pencil?”
 

He fanned the pages and found one with red lines forming a big X clear across it. “Those are some changes made even after the final script was ready. We've had to work on it quite a bit, more than usual on account of the damn budget. Had to cut out some entire scenes and change others.”
 

“How is the budget?”
 

He nibbled at his thick mustache. “We're O.K., I think.” He handed the script back to the girl. “We're damn close to that three per cent, but we'll make it with a hair to spare.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “I guess you know about that, huh?”
 

“And how. If I hadn't, Genova would have informed me.”
 

He grinned, then looked toward the grass hut. “About ready over there,” he said. “Back to work. See you later?”
 

“Sure. And, Raul, I feel almost as good about Evelyn as you do.”
 

He smiled so big his homely face damn near got handsome. “Thanks. I figured you would.” He walked off, already starting to shout.
 

I felt a touch on my arm and turned. Helen stood beside me, her hair bright in the hot sun. “Hello,” she said. “Remember me?”
 

She seemed a little more subdued than usual, and there was a look very much like reproof in her dark brown eyes. I said, “How could I forget? And, Helen, it's a good thing I did leave last night.”
 

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
 

“Well, you know what happened when I phoned. I practically flew over to Sherry's, and she was in trouble, all right. Somebody sapped her.”
 

“What? Sapped? You mean hit her?”
 

“That's right. She was out cold. And somebody took a shot at me. But nobody got seriously hurt.” I reached under my coat to pat my gun, then realized I didn't have the thing. I looked around, feeling a little creepy, but there were all kinds of people nearby. It seemed unlikely that anything could happen to me in this mess of people. Then I remembered my reflections on Hollywood. No telling; maybe a rocket ship would land on me. I almost looked up.
 

“Oh, I
am
sorry,” Helen was saying fervently. Then she added, “But in a way I'm glad, Shell. Shell? Look at me.”
 

I'd been looking around and watching the final preparations for the next scene. I looked back at Helen. She was smiling a little bit again. “Then you really did have to leave, didn't you?” she asked me. “I thought about it till I'd almost decided you just didn't want—to stay.”
 

“For Pete's sake, Helen. How silly can you get? I thought it was pretty obvious I wanted to stay. Very damned obvious, if you ask me.”
 

She grinned. “It was. I'm foolish. But, Shell, why didn't you come back?”
 

Well, damn this woman to pieces. She was still built like something a sex fiend had fashioned, and she had all her beauty and glamour and polish, but she could sure back me into some peculiar corners. She noted my momentary hesitation and, more power to her, kept talking.
 

“Well, I'm glad nothing serious happened. Oh, how do I look?”
 

She was in brown slacks and a white blouse, shorter than usual in low-heeled shoes, and she looked very good.
 

“You look like the star that you are,” I said. “But that's not a ‘Jungle Gal' costume, is it?”
 

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I don't have anything to do until the big scene late today. King jumps out of a tree and rescues me.”
 

“If he carries you off over his shoulder again, I want to be present.”
 

She smiled, her lips thinning and getting that smooth, bloodstained look. “He doesn't, but if you'd like to...” She didn't finish it.
 

“Like to what?”
 

She'd stopped smiling. “Never mind,” she said shortly.
 

We talked casually for a while as the next scene was set up, then kept quiet while it was shot. After that the whole kit and caboodle started picking up the equipment and moving off.
 

“What happens now?” I asked Helen.
 

“They move around to the right about fifty yards. Farther in the trees, too. Some more scenes there, then the big one.”
 

“The one you're in?”
 

“Uh-huh. That probably won't be till almost four, though.” She started to say something else and stopped. She was quiet for a few seconds, then said lightly, without looking at me, “I'll probably go out to the little lake till then. It's so pretty out there.”
 

“Where's this?”
 

“Maybe half a mile through the woods.” She told me how to get there, giving rather explicit directions, I thought, then said, “It's such a pretty spot I'm surprised they aren't using it in the picture. But they aren't. They don't even go near it.”
 

“Oh? Well, how do you like that? Pretty, huh?”
 

“And quiet. Well, let's follow the crowd. O.K.?”
 

We walked after the others and around to another clearing farther into the woods while the workers started setting up again. It was cooler in here, and the sunlight filtered down through the trees, thick branches interlacing over our heads. In all the time I'd lived in L.A. I hadn't known of this spot. It was cool and green, and ordinarily would have been peaceful. I could have spent a month here.
 

Suddenly I thought of something that should have entered my mind sooner. I asked Helen, “You see a copy of this morning's
Crier
?”
 

She shook her head and the long silver hair whipped around her face. “Nope. Want me to hunt one up?”
 

“Let's hunt one up together.”
 

“No, you wait here,” she said. “I'll bring you one.” She skipped away, merry as a kid on vacation.
 

In a minute or two she was back with a
Crier
. “Here you are, sir,” she said brightly.
 

“Thank you, ma'am.” I flipped the paper open and found “The Eye at the Keyhole.” There was nothing about me in the “Can You Guess?” part, and I skimmed over the rest of the column. Ah, there the little thing was. Fanny Hillman had printed a lovely retraction. Yes, she had. The old hag.
 

Shell Scott, one of the
myriad
local detectives, yesterday visited me in my
office!
The police will be happy to know that Mr. Scott intends to bring the
murderer
of Zoe Townsend, whom I told you all about yesterday, into my office
today!
At least, so he told me! Chiefie, look to your
laurels!!!
 

“Why, that slap-happy old bitch,” I muttered.
 

“What?” Helen said abruptly. Apparently I'd muttered louder than I thought.
 

“Sorry,” I said. “I was thinking out loud.” I handed her the paper and pointed to the item. Helen read it through and then looked at me.
 

“Did you? I mean, did you tell her that?”
 

“Take it from me, Helen, if you read anything in that old goat's hysterical column, your best bet is to forget it.” I frowned. “As a matter of fact, I did and I didn't. She gets just enough truth in her stuff so it's not an out-and-out lie—but there's no truth in it either. If that's possible.” Even from miles away, Fanny Hillman could reach me.
 

I ground my teeth together, entertaining pleasant visions of Fanny getting hit by a train or run over by wild horses. Then Helen patted my arm.
 

“Well, I'll see you later, Shell. If ... if you get bored, come out and look at the little lake. But make a lot of noise if you come up. I might be swimming.”
 

“Oh, sure. Fine, honey. Maybe I'll see you.”
 

She stood by me for a moment longer, then wandered off. I decided to get away from the spot I was on. I wanted to be at least fifty feet behind the cameras when they started rolling. I spotted King talking to Raul; King was in his leopard creation again. Then, beyond them, I saw Oscar Swallow. He had on a cream-colored casual jacket today, with a maroon shirt buttoned at the throat, and light green slacks. He was talking to a couple of cute jungle girls in animal skins and their own. I walked toward them.
 

Swallow spotted me when I was ten feet away. “Ah, there, Scott, old man,” he bellowed heartily. “You're getting to be quite a fixture, what?”
 

“What, indeed,” I said. “Tally-ho, you old rotter, you.” Some perverse impulse had up and grabbed me. I even surprised myself. Swallow's face slid around like underdone Jello for maybe half a second, then it sort of congealed with a slightly sour expression.
 

He searched for a couple of words, examined them, then let them out like pearls before swine: “The detective.”
 

I had never before heard the words sound quite so nauseous. Then he added, “What brings you here, Scott?” He paused. “Old boy.”
 

“You, for one, Swallow. I'd like a word with you.”
 

“Certainly, certainly. You may have all my words; all my lovely words.”
 

I'd had very nearly all his lovely words I could stand without becoming ill. I said, “Let's find a place not so crowded, shall we?”
 

The two cuties had been watching this exchange in silence, swinging their little heads from Swallow to me to Swallow. He reached over and patted the nearest one gently on her behind and whispered something to her. She smiled and nodded. Swallow turned and we walked off a little way from the others.
 

He leaned back against a tree trunk, one rubber-soled suede shoe drawn up under him against the bark. “Now,” he said, “what is your pleasure, Mr. Scott?”
 

I didn't expect to learn anything important; primarily I wanted to see if he had any trouble with his expression while I talked to him. I said, “For one thing, I'd like to know where you were last night, Swallow. About eight o'clock.”
 

He lifted his left eyebrow half an inch over the right one. That was all. He'd probably have done the same thing if I'd asked him what day it was. “That's odd,” he said slowly. “I was home. Watching television, if you must know. Is it important?”
 

“I thought maybe you took a shot at me.”
 

He didn't answer for a moment, but his expression lost some of its usual striving for an effect of lofty cynicism. Then he said, “
Shot
at you? Why, great Scott, why would I do that?”
 

I didn't much like the way he said “great Scott.” I let it ride. “I'm not sure,” I told him. “But I thought I'd ask. There was a chance it could have something to do with Zoe Townsend.”
 

His lips curled slightly. “I thought we had eliminated me from your ... examination.”
 

“That was before I learned from the police that she was pregnant.”
 

“Oh.” He nibbled at his upper lip for a moment. “And what does that have to do with me?” He wasn't quite so poised now.
 

“Oh, come off it, Swallow. You know damn well what it has to do with you. I don't give a damn about your morals, but I am interested in the fact that Zoe was pregnant by you. Considering the further fact that she's dead.”
 

“Now hold on,” he said, and he drew in his breath for a little speech. “I deny categorically that there is any truth in your statement. There is obviously no proof. If Zoe was pregnant, that was certainly as much her doing as anyone else's—wouldn't you agree? And while I quite frankly admit, Mr. Scott, that the thought of my dandling a drooling monster on my knee is utterly repugnant, had I been responsible for what is euphemistically referred to as Zoe's ‘condition,' I should have done what is rather laughably called the ‘honorable' thing. I should have made a dishonest woman of her.” He paused as if expecting applause.