This Girl for Hire Page 7

  “How do you know that?”

  “I watched him earlier. There’s only one way he’d have gone into that ocean peacefully—and that’s dead!”

  Rod scanned the swimming-pool area. “All right,” he said, “let’s assume he’s dead. That he was poisoned and thrown overboard. Who slipped him the arsenic?”

  “Any number of people could have, not excluding present company.”

  He smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. Maybe you figure I was the one who slugged Swanson and hung him from the ceiling, too?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Now wait a minute,” he argued. “I was in the bar with you and the others when Aces staggered out. I couldn’t have been in your cabin at the same time.”

  “You forgot,” I reminded tightly. “We searched for Sam about twenty minutes before discovering Swanson in my cabin. That was plenty of time for you or anyone to string him to the ceiling.”

  Rod threw his hands up in a mock pretense of surrender. “You got me, pal.”

  “I didn’t say you did it.”

  “Then who do you think did it?”

  “Could be Bob Swanson.”

  “What?” Rod stared at me for a moment. “Are you kidding? I suppose Bob knocked himself out, then strung up the rope, took a running jump, leaped into the noose and at the same time pushed the poisoned body of Sam Aces overboard.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Maybe Swanson poisoned Aces’ drink in the wild melee at the bar, then waited outside on deck and hurled Sam over the railing when he came outside—”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “Afterward he could have gone to my cabin and fixed a noose, stood up on a chair, slipped his arms through the loop and pushed the chair away as he hit himself with the pipe.”

  “May I say something?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Nobody in his right mind would take the chance of fracturing his own skull.”

  “It’s quite possible Bob Swanson is not in his right mind.”

  “It’s a cinch somebody isn’t,” Rod agreed. “I’m beginning to wonder about you. Why would a beautiful gal get involved in this kind of business anyway?”

  I brushed a few wet strands of hair away from my fore head and looked at him. “I was brought up in this business. My dad was a private detective.”

  “What do you mean was?”

  “Six years ago he was murdered in an alley behind the Paramount Theater in L.A. I hired myself to find the killer.”

  “So you found him, brought him to justice and decided to keep on going in the private-eye game!”

  I shook my head. “No. I’ve never found him—but I will some day.”

  “I believe that,” Rod said quietly. He handed me a cigarette. “You asked me about Herb Nelson earlier. Was he by any chance a client of yours?”

  “Yes.” I glanced at Rod out of the corner of my eye. “I know what you’re thinking. I haven’t been doing too well lately, especially if Sam is—”

  Rod grunted. “Honey, have you ever considered the idea that Aces might have been poisoned earlier?”

  “Sure. Depending upon the amount, you can never tell how long arsenic will take to do its dirty work.”

  “Have you thought also of the possibility—if Aces is dead—that you’ll never find his body?”

  “No,” I said. “I never thought of that.”

  “Well, baby, if he went overboard in this storm and was already dead, it may take years to find his body. Maybe it never will turn up.”

  I didn’t like the way he said that. It sounded too positive.

  “Why did you take Aces’ glass?” I demanded.

  Rod glanced at me and smiled. “I knew it would be safe in my possession. If you’d kept that drink I have a feeling someone would have been after you with blood in his eyes.”

  “You’re taking the same chance.”

  “I’ll risk it.” He got up, said good night, and left for his cabin aboard the yacht.

  After a few minutes I went out on deck. The storm still slashed at the darkness, ripping it intermittently with crooked orange daggers. Hell’s Light rolled and pitched with new vigor. It was difficult making my way to the bow and I fell several times, once nearly going over the side, and almost losing the oversize dungarees Rod had loaned me.

  I came to a large wooden chest anchored to the bow deck. It was big enough to store a body, if anyone had such inclinations. Gripping the heavy lid with both hands, I swung the chest open. Darkness shrouded its contents.

  Suddenly the chest became illuminated by a faint circle of light.

  Rod Caine stood over me. “What gives?” he said. “I thought you went to bed.”

  “Give me that flashlight” I probed inside the trunk with the beam. “Would you recognize blood stains if you saw them?”

  He nodded slowly.

  The faint light, dimmed considerably by the night mist, touched two dark pools which were drying on the bottom of the chest

  Rod swore. I couldn’t tell whether it was in anger or from surprise.

  “How in the devil did that get there?” he demanded.

  “I’m sure they weren’t left by the Easter Bunny.”

  "But Aces wasn’t bleeding!” Rod protested.

  “How do we know,” I said. “We haven’t seen him for over two hours.”

  Rod’s face was grim. “I thought sure this thing was all a joke. You know, like in a comedy. You open a closet and out jumps Aces laughing like mad.”

  I looked at the blood spots again. “Losing much of this stuff leaves a body any way but laughing.”

  We went to my cabin. The noose still hung from the ceiling. Rod took it down. I watched him carefully. Here was a guy who’d helped me out of a hazardous situation, yet I didn’t trust him. I checked to see whether my .32 was still in its hiding place.

  The revolver was there, but it was wet. I flipped open the cylinder. Another bullet was gone.

  “Tell me something, Rod,” I said, holding up my gun. “Are you in cahoots with Lori Aces?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “There’s another bullet missing from my revolver. Lori and Sam Aces were the only ones who saw where I hid the gun. Now what were you doing up on the bow of this ship a few minutes ago? You’d already said good night.”

  “Looking for Aces. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I slammed angrily. “As dark as it was, and with all the trouble I had getting up there, it would have been possible for you to take the starboard passageway, reach the bow before I did, lift Aces’ body out of that trunk and dispose of it somewhere else.”

  “You’re out of your mind!”

  “You knew I had a .32 revolver,” I argued.

  “That’s crazy!”

  “You also knew who I was before I ever told you.”

  “You’re way out, baby, way out.”

  “Why don’t you like Max Decker?”

  “Because he’s a big slob and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Which is about nothing minus nowhere.”

  “Why don’t you trust him?” I demanded.

  “Because,” Rod countered, “he’s a four-carat, no-good bastard. He hates everything and everybody. If he can’t get what he wants, he’ll kill it so nobody else can have it. He’s tried to crush me several times in my career.”

  “Did Decker like Aces?”

  “It was a screwy relationship. Sometimes Max was so kissing sweet to Sam he would drip with good fellowship. Times like that made me wonder if Aces had something big on the old man.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Yeah!”

  I thought about that. Aces had hired me to track down a poisoner. Two days ago I had agreed with his choice of Swanson and suggested bringing in the police, but Aces had declined fearfully. Had, he been afraid of the police? Blackmailers usually are.

  After Rod left, I sat up until daybreak thinking about the cast of characters aboard the good ship H.L. One o
f them was lying and I had a pretty good idea who it was.

  Around noon, a few hours after the sun sliced through the dull sky, Lieutenant Mark Storm arrived aboard Hell’s Light. He looked tired and his shoulders drooped slightly as he walked up the steps from the float.

  “I got your message, Honey,” he said wearily. “What gives? Has Aces checked out or not?”

  I showed him the two blood stains in the bottom of the chest and then filled him in on the details of Aces’ disappearance.

  “I took the remains of his drink into Avalon this morning and had it analyzed,” I said. “It was loaded with arsenic.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Of course I’m positive. I wouldn’t have called you if the test had shown plain vodka and orange juice.”

  Mark scratched his head. “All right, let’s talk to a few people. Especially this guy, Swanson.”

  “He’s on the beach right now at White’s Landing,” I said, pointing toward shore. “So are most of the others. They’re going ahead on their shooting schedule for the next show.”

  “Without Aces?” Mark demanded.

  I explained, “He’s the producer. Swanson does most of the directing. In fact, he claims he can get along very nicely without Aces.”

  “I’ll bet,” Mark said. “Where’s Mrs. Producer?”

  “She went with Rod Caine to his place to analyze the phony contents of Aces’ glass—an orange-colored antihistamine solution. They still don’t know I switched drinks.”

  “This should be interesting. What if they return with the report that the supposed vodka and orange juice was unadulterated?”

  “In that case, I think you can make an arrest.” Mark shook his head decisively. “We’ve got to have a body, Honey. You know that. We don’t stand a Chinaman’s chance without a body.”

  “Okay,” I suggested. “Lets find one.”

  We scoured the ship. Down in the engine room we talked with an old beetle-browed sailor named Carruthers. He told us someone had been below deck during the night going through some tool boxes.

  “Was his name Swanson?” I asked. “What did he look like?”

  “Couldn’t tell you his name,” Carruthers said, “Husky critter, though, with a baby face—I remember that.”

  “Don’t you ever watch television?” Mark inquired.

  “Nope—never,” the old man answered.

  We went back up to my cabin. Mark looked at the piece of pipe used on Swanson. He thought the business with the rope sounded pretty ridiculous, but not incriminating.

  “You can’t hang a man for that,” Mark said.

  “Don’t be funny!”

  “What about this Claypool dame?”

  “Cute. Maybe too cute. She hates Aces’ guts.”

  “You say she was prancing around in her birthday suit most of the evening?”

  “Except for Aces’ yachting cap.”

  “What happened to the cap?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I imagine it wound up in her cabin.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Mark said, going to the door. “We just might find something in the lining.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Traces of arsenic, baby. That stuff’s got to be hidden somewhere.”

  Ann Claypool’s cabin was near the swimming-pool bar, next to Aces’ stateroom. We had been there before, but hadn’t noticed the yachting cap. It was no place in sight and even after a thorough search we couldn’t find it.

  A few minutes later, back at the swimming pool, Mark spotted the cap submerged in a few feet of water.

  “That’s that,” he said. “There’s nothing left in this lining, not even the label.”

  Mark had brought a few changes of clothing from my apartment. I was happy to get into a snug comfortable swimsuit after wearing Rod’s battered shirt and sloppy dungarees for the past twelve hours. About this time, Rod and Lori returned to the yacht, grim-faced and tense. Rod studied me angrily.

  “No arsenic,” he said. “Not one-fiftieth of a milligram.”

  “Just plain screwdriver?” I asked.

  “Not so plain,” Rod answered. “I think it was some kind of medicine. A pretty unusual drink for Sam Aces, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I switched glasses on you,” I admitted.

  “That was a dirty trick! You should have told me. I went to a lot of trouble!” Rod snapped.

  I glanced at Lori. “That’s too bad. Aces’ drink contained more than four grains of white arsenic. Enough to kill two guys the size of Max Decker.”

  Lori swallowed enough air to last her a week.

  Rod shook his head in amazement.

  Decker came out of his cabin, a big smile creasing his jowls. It was a dirty sort of smile that I felt like wiping with the flat of my hand to see if it might come clean.

  “Good morning,” he roared cheerily. “Lori, I want to thank you for your hospitality, but now I must take my leave. My own yacht is anchored in Avalon Harbor. I’m joining some of the New York network people who are on board. Thank Sam for me when you see him.”

  “He may be too dead to thank,” I said.

  “Oh, Miss West,” Decker continued, as if he hadn’t heard me. “I had a chat with Mr. Swanson this morning and we have decided to dispense with your acting services on the Bob Swanson show. You have been replaced by Miss Claypool.”

  “What about my six-week contract?” I said angrily. “You can’t fire me. I signed a legitimate agreement with Sam Aces.”

  Decker laughed awkwardly. “Your contract will be honored, naturally. Four hundred a week for six weeks, wasn’t that the arrangement?”

  I nodded. “I have a copy of the contract in my cabin.” Decker continued to carry on like the cat who ate an entire aviary. “You stop by my office next week. A check for twenty-four hundred will be waiting for you. Good day.”

  Mark brought the fat man to a halt. “Mr. Decker, my name is Storm. L.A. Sheriff’s office, homicide bureau.”

  “What are you doing here?” Decker demanded.

  “A large quantity of arsenic was found in Sam Aces’ drink. We have a strong suspicion your producer is dead.”

  “Impossible! Sam’d never pull a trick like that!”

  “I didn’t say it was suicide,” Mark snarled.

  “You mean someone murdered him?”

  “You’re on the right track,” I said. “Maybe two some-ones.”

  Mark studied the big television magnate. “Yours was the only stateroom we were unable to search this morning.”

  “Well, I was still sleeping when you knocked,” Decker said, losing most of his gaiety. “You can check it now if you like; I’m all packed and moved out. In fact, my bags are being loaded aboard a water taxi now.”

  Mark bolted for the landing float. He took the steps three at a time. In the side pocket of the first suitcase he opened Mark found what he was looking for—a small package of white powder.

  NINE

  MARK SHOWED THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKAGE TO Decker. “New brand of tooth powder?” he asked.

  “Never saw that before,” Decker said. “Was it in my luggage?”

  “That’s right,” Mark said. “Can you explain how this quantity of arsenic happens to be in your possession?”

  Decker appeared baffled. “Why, no, I can’t.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t lie!”

  I studied the big-bellied emperor of television. He was in a tight spot, and he knew it. If Sam Aces turned up with a stomach full of that powder, not all the TV in Chinatown could save the lord of WBS. But, for a moment, there was no corpse. That made a big difference.

  Mark signaled for one of the crew of Hell’s Light to bring Decker’s luggage back aboard ship. “You’re going to have to stick around awhile,” Mark said.

  “You can’t hold me!” Decker said hoarsely. “I could have your badge in five minutes.”

  “I didn’t say I was holding you, Mr. Decker. It’s just that in the
absence of your host, Sam Aces, I’m holding a little party, and I would become very unhappy if any of my guests should refuse to attend.”

  Decker stomped angrily back to his stateroom. Mark took my hand and we started down to the float.

  “Where’re we going?” I demanded.

  “Out looking for a body,” he said. “Dead or alive, we’ve got to find Sam Aces.”

  A blue sky stretched cloudlessly over the water as Mark and I climbed aboard a small cabin cruiser he’d borrowed from the chief of the Avalon Police Department. We spent the afternoon searching in deep water and along a sharply irregular shoreline. We found no trace of Sam Aces.

  About an hour before sundown we doubled back to White’s Landing. Mark noticed the ocean cave below Rod Caine’s cabin.

  “Let’s take a look in there,” he said. “Never can tell where a body’ll wind up.”

  We steered the boat inside. Rod’s cruiser was gone.

  “He’s probably still out aboard Hell’s Light,” I guessed. “Let’s check the cabin.”

  Mark tied the cruiser, Clementine, to the dock and we trudged up the winding path. The door was unlocked, so we helped ourselves to the invitation and entered. Nothing much had changed since I’d been there. A few more dishes in the sink. A few more ashes in the trays. The bed covers wildly thrown back.

  We searched for the lab equipment but found nothing except Aces’ glass. It still contained a small amount of the antihistamine. And something new had been added. A lipstick stain on the rim.

  Mark examined the lip print. “Was this on the glass last night when you gave it to Caine?”

  I shook my head decisively.

  Mark held the glass up to the light. The remaining liquid had turned a vivid orange. “It’s possible Caine caught on to the switch without putting the contents through a lab test.”

  ‘What does that mean?”

  “He could have tasted some of it,” Mark said.

  “You think he figured the drink never contained poison?”

  “Either that or he knew it was loaded with arsenic, invited Mrs. Aces back here to examine it with him, gave it a clean bill of health and suggested that she try some.”

  “Intending to murder her?”

  “That’s right,” Mark said. “Then, when Mrs. Aces laughed, instead of pitching over on her face, and said it tasted like medicine, Caine grabbed the glass and gulped some himself. That’s when he guessed what you pulled in that bathroom.”