The Bamboo Blonde. Dorothy B. Hughes
have to offer? What’s he doing here?”
“He’s your friend, not mine,” she said. “I don’t know. He’s coming by tomorrow, and Con, you have to behave. After all he is your friend.”
He said sleepily, “I’ll hide first. I’ll dig a hole down to China. I’ll lie about my age and enlist. I’ll–”
“Con!” She broke in sharply, sitting bolt upright.
He turned to put an arm about her. “Aw, I’ll be good, honey.”
But it wasn’t that. It was fright that had come over her, rational fright now. “Con, if she should do anything–your fingerprints would be all over that gun!”
His voice was uninterested. “I thought of that. But I figured it was too late for her to get any more shells tonight. And even if she should, she’d have to get someone else to drive her out to this Seafood dump. There’d be someone seen with her later than I–” The phone in the living room began insistent ringing. Con said, “What the hell–” Sock-footed, he padded to answer.
Griselda remained bolt upright in the bed. Con had accuracy in getting himself involved. She couldn’t let him step into danger again when he was only so recently free of it. Tomorrow she would insist they leave this place, return to Hollywood’s civilized community. Deliberately she had refrained from mention of Major Pembrooke. Con had done enough to conjure trouble tonight without adding a disappearing man to the brew.
She waited sleepily for the conclusion of the telephone call. Con was using his newspaper voice; she couldn’t hear what he was saying. He returned whistling and he didn’t look pleased. He picked up his shirt from the bureau, began buttoning it on again.
“Con–” she cried it. “What–”
“Simmer down.” He came over to the bed, pushed her onto the pillow with his right hand. But his left hand was fastening buttons even when he kissed her. “Got to go out for a little.”
“Why, Con?” She wouldn’t be treated like a small child, put in her place with no explanation.
He grinned. “If you must know, there’s a fellow coming in to town that won’t be happy until he sells me a dog.” The grin was gone. “Darling, it has nothing to do with the blonde business, I assure you. I’ll be back in an hour.”
He kissed her again and was gone. He hadn’t said it had nothing to do with a frozen Major Pembrooke or a missing radio executive. She couldn’t ask him that. She couldn’t introduce those names until she was certain they were not unknown.
She tried to sleep but the ocean was making so much thunder it was hard to hear other sound, a door that might be opening, footsteps that wouldn’t belong in this beach cottage.
She listened until she was certain; someone noiseless was in that next room. She faltered, “Con–” She had forgotten the vagaries of this bed; it clanked as she stirred. There was deeper silence preceding rustle. A door clicked.
She didn’t dare move. There was no use trying to pretend she wasn’t scared now; she huddled under the covers, counting not sheep but steps that came endlessly, ruthlessly after her. Who had entered the cottage, stealthily, left with stealth? She didn’t know why anyone should be trailing her; she hadn’t done anything to anyone.
{ 2 }
CON hadn’t returned. It was nine and the sun was quick on the deceptive peace of the Pacific. She must have slept or morning wouldn’t be here. Her heart was clenched within her, wondering where he might be. One radio man had already disappeared. And then she heard his voice.
There was no accent of trouble in it; she’d been worried over something she herself had invented.
“Of course you’ll have dinner with us. Sure you will. Meet you at the Hilton at seven, Kathie.”
That Kathie again. She called out, “What’s it all about?”
He came into the bedroom. He hadn’t slept; his eyes were weary. He wore an old checked cardigan over bright blue bathing trunks, the same dirty sneakers, and carried a tall glass of orange juice.
“For me?” she asked.
“Hustle your own.” But he handed it to her, kissed her nose, and said, “Made a date for us tonight with the Travises. I want to see Walker. You’ll like them.”
He was himself this morning, not alternately jittery and deceptively quiet like the ocean outside. He said nothing of where he’d spent the night, stretched himself long on the bed. “Your turn to get me a glass.”
She ignored him blissfully. “Give me a cigarette. What makes you think I’ll like the Travises?” She doubted it very much.
“You will. I like them. So will you.” There was something in the way he spoke made a small frown on her forehead. It wasn’t optional that they like the Navy Travises. That much was clear. She asked, “Where did you meet them, Con?”
“Garth knew them,” he said.
Why hadn’t he mentioned them before? But she hadn’t time for further questions. Someone was rapping at the door.
She pushed Con. “That’s probably Kew. Entertain him while I shower.” She whispered, “And be nice.”
He growled something but she heard his greeting through the closed bedroom door and it was hearty. “How you, Kew, old man? Come on in. Great to see you,” more of the same.
Griselda showered quickly, put on the white satin bathing suit with the magenta fish splashing on it, purple clogs on her feet, her gilt hair smoothed back of her ears. The shells patterned on the crocheted dresser scarf. She brushed them into Con’s handkerchief drawer before she went into the living room. Con was on the couch reading the morning paper, Kew in the chair. Both held glasses but it was only orange juice. She hoped only orange juice; it was too early to put gin in it.
Kew was Esquire’s best again, the rough white terry robe and scuffs, the white trunks against the California golden brown of his body. He greeted Griselda the special way he always greeted pretty women, an under-ripple of tenderness. Doubtless another of the reasons Con didn’t like him.
Con said softly. “Well, what do you think of that?”
Griselda looked at him quickly. She knew that voice. “Con! What?”
“A murder in our peaceful little town.”
She knew she went whey-colored. Why she should have connected it with last night she didn’t know. But she was frightened.
She took the paper from him. Woman’s body found in Bixby Park. Dressed in light blue slacks. College boy returning from his job as night soda jerker about one-thirty A.M. saw the girl’s body under a tree. She was identified as Shelley Huffaker visiting from Hollywood. There was a picture. A pretty blonde girl. “A dime a dozen in Hollywood.” Griselda hadn’t seen the girl’s face. It had been only midnight when Con said, “Are you awake?”
She wasn’t going to be disturbed about it. Even if it should turn out to be the same girl, Con had nothing to do with it. Someone would have been with her later. Someone would have been a murderer, would have taken pains not to be seen! She wouldn’t worry about Con. He could take care of himself. She laid down the paper as if it didn’t matter. “Shall we swim?” and then she noticed the two men. Behind cover of their orange juice, their casualness, they were watching each other. Kew was looking at Con in just the way that Con was looking at Kew. They didn’t seem to have heard her.
Con asked, “Did you know her, Kew?”
He laughed without really laughing. “Of course not. Whatever made you think I might?”
Con tapped the paper. “Says Hollywood. Understand the studios have been bidding on your pen.”
Kew