This Girl for Hire Page 8

  “Rod Caine wouldn’t do a thing like that!”

  “Are you kidding, Honey? If those two are in a murder plot together, Caine’d do anything to prevent her from implicating him.”

  We searched Rod’s closet and found a typed note in the pocket of his suit coat.

  CAINE: MEET ME ABOARD MY YACHT WEDNESDAY NIGHT. WE’LL ANCHOR OFF WHITE’S LANDING. I MAY ACT ANGRY IF ANYONE IS AROUND BUT DON’T LET THAT UPSET YOU. I HAVE AN IMPORTANT PROPOSITION I’M SURE WILL INTEREST YOU. SAM ACES.

  There was also a faint penciled notation at the bottom which read: Little Harbor.

  “Wednesday was last night,” I said. “The night Aces disappeared. Caine never said he had an appointment with Aces!”

  “Where’s Little Harbor?” Mark demanded.

  “On the other side of the island,” I explained. “It’s desolate. Nothing but rocks and beach. I hiked over Mt. Orizaba once to get there.”

  “Nice place to bury a body?”

  “Lovely. Nobody’d find it in a million years without a detailed map and an oversize crane. Even then I wouldn’t bank on it.”

  Mark studied the piece of paper. “What time did Caine and Mrs. Aces leave Hell’s Light this morning?”

  “About eight o’clock. They were gone almost four hours.”

  “Did you check Caine’s boat after finding those blood stains in the chest?”

  “No,” I said. “I’d searched it twice earlier. I didn’t think there was any reason—You don’t believe Rod Caine moved Aces body from the chest to his boat while I was on my way to the bow?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Then you figure Aces’ body was aboard Rod’s boat this morning when he left with Lori.”

  “Right.” Mark slapped the note. “I also wonder if Mr. Sam Aces isn’t buried at Little Harbor.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Do you mind if I present my theory?”

  “Why not?”

  “I think we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Mark said, “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean someone is leading us around like we’ve got rings in our noses. I don’t even think Sam Aces is dead.”

  Mark brought his hands to his face in a quick, resigned gesture of here we go again! He said, “Four grains of arsenic in a man’s drink, another bullet missing from your gun, blood stains in a deck trunk, and you come up with the straight-faced opinion you don’t think Sam Aces is dead.”

  “I thought he was until you found that arsenic in Decker’s suitcase—then I changed my mind.”

  “A woman’s prerogative,” Mark said resignedly. “What wrought this great change?”

  “Max Decker’s expression when you showed him that poison. He was telling the truth. He didn’t have any more idea of how that stuff got there than the man in the moon.”

  “You’re sure of this?” Mark said with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

  “As sure as I am that I caught Sam Aces in my office looking for the threatening letter which had been sent to Herb Nelson.”

  “What?”

  “He told me he was hiding in my office because some one had followed him from L.A. I believed his story at the time, especially after I checked with a Beverly Hills lab and they verified a previous poison dose brought in by Aces. But I don’t know. Something’s phony about this guy, Mark. He doesn’t ring true—the way he was so afraid and yet he wouldn’t go to the police, the way I caught him in my office, the way he hired me to help him and then suggested I quit because I might get hurt. Even the poisoned drink—the way he handed it to me in the bar—the way he ran out before anyone could get to him. To me, these things only add up to an amateur trying to act like a pro and getting away with it because of good breaks.

  Mark studied my face. “Are you trying to say Sam Aces killed Herb Nelson, that he was in your office looking for a letter which might have implicated him in the crime, and that now he’s trying to confuse everyone into thinking he’s dead?”

  “Something like that,” I said faintly. “I know it sounds weird—”

  “Weird?” Mark roared. “It sounds positively absurd. You expect me to believe Sam Aces left some of his own blood in a trunk aboard Hell’s Light, planted arsenic in Decker’s luggage, and also in his own glass, slipped this note into Rod Caine’s pocket, stole your gun, took two shots at you, hung Swanson from the rafters—”

  “All right,” I interrupted.

  “This would be the greatest one-man act in history—”

  “I still don’t think he’s dead.”

  “Want to bet?” Mark extended his hand.

  I hesitated, then accepted the challenge. Sam Aces had to be alive. He was not the kind of man to die without a struggle.

  Stars blazed over Little Harbor as Mark headed the cruiser toward shore. The sea was calm, unusually calm for the windward side of the island, and a bright full moon illuminated the water.

  We had used the cruiser’s searchlight intermittently in our trip around the northern tip of Catalina. Once to identify a dark object which turned out to be a floating log, and again to intrigue a few flying fish out of their depths. But no Aces!

  For two hours we toured the smooth sea outside Little Harbor, carefully avoiding treacherous reefs that some times lurked a few inches under water.

  I shook my head. “If we keep fooling around in this place, there’ll be two bodies floating around for sure. Us.”

  “Let’s anchor and swim to shore,” Mark suggested. “It’s light enough. Maybe we’ll come up with some kind of lead.”

  He stripped to his swim trunks, fastened a flashlight to his waist and we plunged in.

  The reefs were impossible. A jagged coral edge tore a gaping hole in my suit. Mark was raked by a row of greenish needles, which ripped off the flashlight and gashed his leg. Then we got mixed up in thunderous breakers that were ten feet high and weighed a ton. They bounced us both on the beach like a pair of dice on a crap table. When Mark crawled over, I breathlessly lauded him for the most sensational bit of inventive thinking since dynamite.

  “How did I know it’d be that rough?” He examined the slash in his leg. “The water was like mush out there around the boat. But it’s high tide. The breakers’ll simmer down in a couple of hours.”

  “I hope so,” I said as I looked toward the shoreline. A dark shape was stretched out about a dozen yards away on the sand.

  “Look!” I pointed.

  Mark got to his feet slowly. “You stay here!”

  “Why?”

  “If it’s Aces, he won’t look his Sunday best.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly pass as a princess,” I said. “Besides, it’s probably seaweed.”

  We crossed the beach and discovered it was seaweed. But a few feet away, illuminated by the moon, was a wet crumpled piece of clothing under a rock ledge. A red jacket The initials S.A. were stitched boldly under the left breast pocket and below the initials we found some thing else—a bullet hole and an ugly dark blood stain!

  TEN

  “NOW WHAT DO YOU THINK?” MARK DEMANDED. “You recognize this jacket?”

  I nodded slowly. “Sam was wearing it the last time I saw him in the bar, but—”

  “You still don’t think he’s dead?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “That’s what I thought.” The lieutenant, clutching the jacket in his hand, limped up the beach a few yards. When he returned, he said, “This’ll do until a body comes along. We’ll check these blood stains with the ones in the bottom of that chest. I think they’ll match.”

  “And where do you imagine Sam Aces is now?”

  Mark looked out at the thrashing breakers and the needle-sharp reef beyond. “There,” he said. “Probably caught below the surface in one of the caverns. The jacket must have floated to the top and was washed in by the heavy surf.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But until we find a body all bets are off.”

  �
�We’ll find him.”

  “How?”

  “After daybreak when the tide’s down, I’ll—”

  Suddenly, the sound of the cruiser’s engines starting up hoarsely in the tiny bay, attracted our attention. Clouds of vapor boiled up from the twin exhausts and quickly the cabin cruiser whirled around shooting up a curtain of spray. Before we could let out a protest, it vanished in the inky darkness of the open sea.

  It seemed an eternity before we could find words to replace our surprise. Half joking, half bewildered by the sudden turn of events, I whispered, “Don’t—don’t tell me your corpse came up out of the reef?”

  “We had a stowaway,” Mark said in a dazed voice. “He must have been hiding down in the cabin.”

  “But where’d he come from?”

  Mark scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Darned if I know. He must have climbed aboard while the boat was tied up in that cave.”

  “But, Mark—who?”

  “If we knew that, baby, this case would probably be closed as of here and now. Thing to do is get back to Hell’s Light and count noses. Find out who’s been missing for the past few hours.”

  “How do we manage that trick?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  "There’s nothing on this side of Catalina. To reach White’s Landing, we’d have to hike over Mt. Orizaba or search for Two Harbors’ Road and try for Avalon. Either way we could never make it in our bare feet.”

  “How far to White’s Landing?”

  “About seven miles,” I said. “Mt. Orizaba is over a thousand feet high. And she’s rugged!”

  Mark flinched. “That’s out. I’m a lousy mountain climber. Besides, I’ve got flat feet.”

  “That figures. So what do we do? Build a seaweed hut, catch fish and start our own civilization?”

  Mark put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed in a tender, intimate way that meant more than any words. The gesture said, I like you, Honey. When do we start with this wonderful new world?

  I broke the emotional connection. “Come on, Mark. What are we going to do?”

  “That’s a good question,” he admitted, grinning wolfishly. “Said with just the right amount of feminine naivety.” His eyes drifted down to my torn bathing suit. “You might never guess it, but I’m an excellent tailor.”

  I smiled, “I’ll be all right.”

  “Just happened to bring a needle and thread with me. I’d be very happy to make a stitch here and there.”

  “Mark,” I said, “we’re in a serious predicament. Now will you stop making jokes?”

  “Honey, you’re no joke, believe me.” His eyes fell upon the blood-stained jacket and his jaw tightened. “Why don’t you quit this damned business and get married?”

  “But, Mark,” I teased, “Fred hasn’t asked me yet. And besides—”

  “Fred?” the lieutenant boomed. “Why that dirty, no-good—”

  The blinding glare of a searchlight cut Mark’s re tort into word less mouthings that literally fell apart in midair.

  “You all right, Lieutenant Storm?” a voice boomed from behind the glare.

  Mark cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Who is it?”

  “Chief Clements of the Avalon Police Department. What’s going on?”

  “We’re marooned,” Mark returned loudly. “Have you got an auxiliary boat you can put ashore?”

  “Sure,” came the reply. “I’ll bring it in myself.”

  Mark glanced at my torn bathing suit. “Oh, and bring a blanket with you, Chief. I’ve got a body to wrap up.”

  When we were aboard the Avalon patrol boat, Mark introduced me to Chief Clements. The old, white-haired police officer had a devilish twinkle in his eyes as his mind seemed to recall the moment we met on the beach before Mark got the blanket around me.

  Clements examined the blood-stained jacket after Mark told the story of our mishaps at Little Harbor.

  Mark explained, “This article of clothing belonged to a man named Aces. Sam Aces. A television producer.”

  “From the looks of things, he’s been producing all right,” the chief said, poking his finger through the bullet hole.

  Mark nodded. “How’d you happen to find us?”

  “Important message came through from L.A. for you. I decided to run it out to Hell’s Light myself. They told me you’d been gone since noon, so I thought I’d scout around a bit.”

  “We’re certainty glad you did,” I said.

  Clements continued. “About three miles out from Little Harbor we sighted a small boat’s lights. She didn’t respond to my blinker, so we let her go by.”

  “That was the cruiser, Chief,” Mark said grimly.

  “I realize that now,” Clements said. “How’d the bandit get possession?”

  “I figure he was stowed away somewhere during our trip around the island. As soon as we’d anchored and gone ashore, he took off.”

  “We’ll find him,” Clements assured us.

  “I hope so,” Mark answered. “He got away with my clothes, my revolver and a very important piece of evidence. A typewritten message Aces sent to a former associate named Caine.”

  Clements wiped some spray out of his eyes. “Did you say Caine? That’s the man I talked to aboard Hell’s Light. This man, Caine, said the TV people were worried about their big television star—what’s his name—Swans-down!”

  “Swanson,” I corrected. “Bob Swanson.”

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Clements agreed. “Caine said this Swanson disappeared about four o’clock while they were shooting a picture at White’s Landing. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him since.”

  Mark looked at me, gripping the edge of his upper lip in his teeth. I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. We had arrived at Rod’s cabin about six o’clock. Bob Swanson had vanished on the beach around four. During that time he could have gone to Rod’s cabin and planted the note, then waited around for our arrival and stowed away aboard Chief Clements’ boat.

  Mark asked the Avalon police chief about the urgent message from his Los Angeles office.

  “They want you back tonight,” Clements said. “A new lead has turned up in the Nelson case.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Mark said, glancing at me. “We’ve been tracking down some of Herb’s old pals. One of them, Ed Walker, was seen going into Nelson’s place an hour before the murder.”

  The stern lights of Aces’ yacht shone in the dark night. It was after midnight and I was tired and suddenly angry because Mark hadn’t taken me into his confidence about this new twist in the Nelson case. I started to complain when something stopped me. Chief Clement’s racy cabin cruiser was tied up at Hell’s Light’s boat landing.

  “Well, what do you know?” Mark said. ‘This is going to be easier than I thought. Maybe we can wind this case up tonight before I go back to L.A.”

  Everything aboard the Clementine was intact, except the typewritten note we had found in Rod’s coat pocket.

  Mark dressed quickly and we went aboard the yacht. Max Decker met us in the passageway outside the swimming-pool bar.

  “Now see here, Lieutenant,” the TV magnate roared, “I’ve had just about enough of your stalling tactics—”

  “Where’s Swanson?” Mark interrupted.

  “I haven’t seen him all day,” Decker said. “He went to White’s Landing to shoot an important scene and he hasn’t returned.”

  Mark pushed the fat man out of the way. “I know he’s somewhere on this ship. Now where is he?”

  “I told you, he didn’t come back—”

  Rod Caine walked out on deck. Mark pounced on him. “Where’s Swanson?” the lieutenant asked.

  “You got me,” Rod said. “Haven’t seen him. Nobody has. There’s a scouting party over at White’s Landing now.”

  Mark pointed to the cruiser. “That cabin job pulled in here sometime in the last hour. Now who was at the helm?”

  “I don’t know,” Rod said
flatly. “I was in the bar. I didn’t even hear the boat arrive.”

  People poured out of the bar. One of them was Lori Aces. Mark repeated his questions, but no one would admit having seen the cruiser tie up at the boat landing.

  While Mark, Chief Clements and two Avalon policemen searched for Swanson, I changed from my torn suit and blanket into something more practical. Lori Aces followed me to my cabin. She broke down when I told her about Sam’s jacket.

  “I’ve got to tell the truth,” she said. “I’ve really never loved Sammy. But he’s such a nice guy, you got to like him. Do the police really think Sam’s been murdered?”

  I nodded and went back to the bar. The music, laughter and whiskey were still flowing. It made me sick. Sam Aces might be dead but nobody seemed to care.

  I glanced at Joe Meeler, the writer who had replaced Rod Caine on the Swanson show. He was slumped forward on the bar, apparently sleeping off his good time. That seemed funny. I didn’t think little Joe drank.

  I waded over to rouse him. He couldn’t be roused.

  Joe was dead, a butcher knife stuck between his ribs.

  After examining the weapon, Mark questioned the drunken patrons at the swimming-pool bar. “How long’s he been sitting here, anyone know?”

  “Not long,” one of the cameramen answered. “I’d guess a half hour. Maybe less.”

  “Did he come in alone?”

  No answer.

  “Was Swanson in the bar during the past half hour?”

  Still no answer.

  “What the hell do you people do?” Mark burst. “Pour this stuff on your eyeballs?”

  A few inarticulate grunts.

  “Did Swanson dislike Meeler?” the lieutenant continued.

  “He was always shouting at him,” another cameraman said.

  A little red-haired starlet added, “So what? Bob Swan son shouts at everyone on the set.”

  “Did they ever argue?” Mark demanded.

  Ann Claypool said, “They did today. It was pretty violent. I thought Bob was going to chop Joe into little pieces.”