And Kill Once More. Al Fray
Pay all the tabs and keep account. Strictly a smooth operation; he’ll nick her for the expenses later, but don’t let her shell it out any place along the line. Catch?”
“Sure, but—”
“No time for a bull session, kid. Now take this and keep it out of sight. A prop, see?” Fred carefully handed over his stubby .38. “If she happens to see it, fine. Anybody else, not good. You’ve got no license. Now toss me the keys to your hack and I’ll run it back out to the beach for you.”
I gave him the keys, then took another peek into the wallet. “Take Martha and Tim,” I called after Fred. “There’s a new surfboard in the garage if Tim wants to try those breakers again.” Fred waved his thanks and I climbed the stairs to Gregory’s office.
Seeing him again brought me back to the business at hand and a wave of doubts began to roll in. In one corner of my mind was the nagging thought that all was not kosher along Vine Street this fine morning. It didn’t quite fit, this quick and easy entrance of Marty Bowman into the glamorous role of the shamus. Boreland Gregory had spent a lot of years building his name in this town and he was nobody’s chump. He was getting bald, had a figure like a couple of bags of barley, flat feet, cash register eyes, and other dubious assets that added up to nothing impressive on the physical side, but his mind was as sharp as a well-honed razor. From his swiveled throne in the bay window of a lush Hollywood office he ran one of the most profitable detective agencies in town and was far too smart a business man to risk a fine reputation in the hands of an untried operator. Yet from where I stood it looked like he was doing just that. I was still asking myself why.
The receptionist ushered me through the heavy door and the situation didn’t improve. Gregory waddled out from behind six feet of battered oak desk, made hasty introductions, pointed out that time was fleeting, said we’d have a good sixty miles to discuss things and urged the pair of us to be on our way. I shot a hard look his way. It didn’t seem to me that B.G. was very worried over the girl’s problem, whatever it was, and he should have been because another of his specialties is extracting the long green from the patrons and at his prices he could afford to show a little concern. It would have been no more than good business.
When I turned back his Miss Weston was giving me the slow top-to-bottom and I tossed it back at her. She was blonde and tan and would have been a knockout anyplace. Not too tall, a refreshing change from the amazons some people turn out these days and one quick look told you she was as feminine as a negligee. You didn’t have to be an expert on women’s apparel to guess that the blue gabardine suit had come from an exclusive shop and her white, high-heeled shoes had a simple elegance associated with good taste and a healthy bank balance. Without being too obvious I glanced down long enough to assure myself that the part of her between those shoes and the hem line was as fine a bit of leg as you’ll find on any beach. I thought about that racy Caddy standing against the curb outside, then picked up my bag and nodded toward the door. I had this pigeon pegged.
These stacked jobs with a few bucks behind them run pretty much to form. They come down to the beach wearing that go-to-hell look and not much more and never look to right or left, but every guy within seeing distance is straining his eyes and pawing the sand—and well they know it. I’ve picked up a few things besides splinters, though, while sunning myself in those lifeguard towers and I figured to get along with this cutie.
We went through the office and started down the narrow stairway and glancing back I saw Boreland Gregory smiling after us. His face wore the expression of a used-car salesman who has just unloaded the junkiest heap on the lot and it worried me a little.
At the bottom of the steps the blonde turned back toward me to make a casual remark about the weather and it told me something else about her. You didn’t have to beat her to the door. She knew the trick of hesitating long enough to give a man time to reach around her and turn the knob. No obvious stepping aside to wait, no pushing on through by herself—just a lady letting you be the gentleman. When we walked out to the curb I swung the car door and installed her on the side next to the walk, then tossed my scuffed gladstone into the back, next to a pair of matched traveling cases worth about ninety bucks a print, and slid in behind the wheel.
Over Cahuenga Pass we got it down to Kate and Marty and worked in a few background details but the blonde gave the problem at hand a wide berth. Vague generalities and the bland statement that it would be easier to show me when we arrived. Maybe I shouldn’t have worried about it, either. Good duty this. I should have been content to roll her expensive wagon over the concrete and let small matters take care of themselves but somehow I didn’t like the feel of things. We turned right onto the Canyon Highway, the tires making a soothing hum on the pavement. Dry air hung motionless over stunted desert growth and dusty tumbleweeds shook themselves at our passing, bumped lazily along in our wake for a few yards, and subsided in the peace of the morning. Tiny heat waves shimmered over rocks and sand and in the distance a range of ragged hills swept upward and caught purple tints from a climbing sun.
I pushed the lighter into contact, and tried to figure who was kidding who, and why. When the lighter clicked back I offered smokes, then held the glowing tip for Miss Weston. Her thank you was a smile backed by those cool blue eyes and then she settled back again to watch the scenery slip past. She was as relaxed as a rag doll. She had draped the jacket to her suit over the back of the seat and a stream of air deflected inward by the windwing tugged gently at that long yellow hair and arranged her thin nylon blouse into that rounded effect cover girls strive to achieve. We smoked in silence, the soft purr of two hundred willing horses whisked us effortlessly along, and once again I tried to make something sensible out of the hour that had elapsed since I answered my phone back on the beach.
A house party at a desert hideaway. Bring swimming trunks, there’s a pool. Miss Weston has a problem, one which she seems in no hurry to discuss. Well, Marty Bowman wanted to discuss it, and the quicker the better. I devoted another half mile to trying to think of a smooth way of getting her to tear into the facts, then decided on the direct approach.
“Look, Kate, I’m having a wonderful time and the desert is grand this time of year and all that, but you’re paying money and you’re entitled to service. You won’t get it unless I know a lot more than I do now, so let’s stop sparring around. Exactly what do you want done up here? What was I hired to do?”
She met my eyes, then looked straight ahead. “First let’s be sure we know what you’re not expected to do. My hiring a man to go on a house party could look like something—something it definitely isn’t. Let’s be sure to remember that I called a detective agency and not a gigolo service, shall we?” She blew a cloud of smoke to one side and kept her eyes on the sleek hood out front. I drew on my own smoke and scratched around for an answer, then saw a small café coming into sight at the next bend. I braked the big car with a loss of a couple of miles of rubber, wheeled off onto the gravel parkway, stopped next to a cream and brown Pontiac hard-top, and turned off the ignition.
“Coffee stop, your ladyship,” I said shortly. “And while we’re getting everyone in his place let’s not lose sight of one important fact. You came to us. I wasn’t out nosing around for a little Miss Gotrocks.” I started to get out of the car but the blonde reached over and caught my arm.
“It isn’t like that, Marty. I mean it’s just that—”
“You’re blonde and beautiful,” I cut in, my voice jumping a little. “Your chassis would put you in the front row of the chorus or set you up as a free-lance model if you had to make a living, but this wagon we’re sporting around in says you don’t need the dough. Which brings us to your point—you’re not the type that has to hire boy friends. Now let’s see about that coffee, shall we?”
“I’m sorry, Marty. It did sound cheap, I guess.”
I looked hard at her and ran my hand over the soft gray leather of the big Cadillac. The idea trying to form itself in my mind for the last half hour finally took shape and this wasn’t my day to be coy.
“Kiddo,” I said softly, “could this all be a gag? A lot of people with too much money and not enough amusement and one of them says, ‘Why doesn’t someone bring up a private eye