The Case of the Vanishing Beauty Page 4

  "This your home town, Lina? You live here?"

  "I was born in Venezuela, but I have lived here for many years. I am at the Coronet Hotel on Western Avenue." She leaned forward, grinning up at me. "Room Forty. Alone. You must visit me."

  "Uh-huh. Right now I've got to visit the boss. When's the show?"

  "It finished just before you came. The last one is at one-thirty. You watch me."

  "I'll try." I nodded to the door on the right of the orchestra. "That go back to the boss's office?"

  "Yes," she said. "Straight back. It says on the door, 'Private.'"

  I winked at her and walked over to the door. Inside was a short hallway with a yellow light burning over a door at the end. A faded wooden sign on the door said, "Private."

  I knocked. The floor shook a little under my feet, then the door was opened and Mrs. Remorse roared, "Whadda ya want, Mac?"

  "I'd like to talk to you."

  "Well, don't just stand there. Get your behind inside." Only she didn't say behind.

  It was a small room with a low pine desk opposite the door and, behind it, an overstuffed chair big enough to support Maggie's remarkable bulk comfortably. Two other wooden chairs, one in front of the desk, and that was all.

  Maggie spilled herself into the overstuffed chair, pointed at the chair in front of the desk, and said, "Squat, Mac."

  I squatted.

  The guy I'd seen talking to Maggie earlier, the one Lina called Juan Porfirio, was standing by the desk. I took a good look at him. He was close to five-eight, give or take a little, and thin. But he looked wiry, as if he kept himself in shape with handball and steam baths. He looked middle-aged, but the olive skin of his face and neck was firm. He was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than any I own—which means he put out a good-sized bundle of cash for it. His hair was black, thick, and graying slightly at the temples, and his lips were thick, too full for the rest of his face. He looked like a vest-pocket edition of the "sensual Latin." He was Mexican or some kind of Latin, and he looked pretty sharp.

  He nodded at me as I sat down, then said to Maggie in a voice thick with a Spanish accent, "Thank you very much, Mrs. Remorse, for your time. I must leave now." He turned and went out.

  "Now whadda ya want?" Maggie roared.

  "A very strange thing happened," I told her. "Most peculiar. Miss Martin, the young woman I was with earlier, and I spent an hour or so here—"

  "Spit it out, man. Get to the point. I'm a busy woman."

  She wasn't so busy, and she wasn't much of a woman, but I didn't say so.

  I said, "Nuts."

  Her head jerked and the fat on her face wiggled. For a second I thought she was coming across the desk to sit on me and kill me. Then she grinned and chuckled.

  "Oke, Mac," she hiccupped. "Get on with it."

  "I'll tell it my way, Mrs. Remorse. As I said, a strange thing happened. Miss Martin and I left your place here, and inside of not more than two minutes a car came alongside and shot at us. With real guns. She was killed. I could have been, too, but I was lucky. Now, isn't that strange?"

  "Sure is. So what?"

  "Well, it happened right after we left this club of yours. I'm pretty sure nobody followed us out here. I thought maybe you could give me an idea how it happened somebody knew we were here. Seems funny we'd be picked up right when we left."

  "You're dumb. You're dopey, Mac. Now I dunno this chicken from sour apples, see? An' if somebody wantsa scrag her, I don't give a goddamn. They coulda pumped both of ya an' I'd sleep nights. See? But what's to stop some wiper from seein' the chickie here? Or somebody from callin' somebody? You never hear about no phones, Mac? Huh, Mac?"

  "You've got a point. But I wanted to ask. Mind some more questions? Just for laughs?"

  "Hell, no, sweetie-puss. Strangle yourself. Ask me anything except how old I am. Yaaaah!' The "yaaaah" was Maggie laughing. She slapped herself on the stomach with a blow that would have caved in my ribs, and shook all over, wheezing and guffawing.

  I looked at her for a moment before I said anything. She was a woman, I was thinking. I was born of a woman. Georgia was a woman. And Lina. The lovely, heart-stopping Lina. I wondered how Margaret Remorse got the way she was; if she'd ever played jacks or made dresses for dolls. It seemed silly as hell, looking at her, but she was a kid once.

  "Pretty good spot you've got here," I said. "How long you had it?"

  "Since '45. Come up and bought it. Little gold mine."

  "Came up from where?"

  "Mexico, dearie. Mexico City. I was married down there in '34. Man loved me."

  I felt funny for a minute. She said, "Man loved me," and her face got different, sort of soft, as if she was remembering something she thought she'd forgotten. Then she spoiled it.

  "He was a son-of-a-bitch," she roared. "Chased all the damn chippies in Mexico. Plenty of 'em, too. He kicked the bucket. Heart attack. And I got his insurance. Only thing I ever got outa the son. Hey, Mac." She leaned forward. "They thought I poisoned the son-of-a-bitch. Dug him up and found out what he died of. Heart attack! Yaaaah!" and she was off again.

  She'd been smoking a brown, funny-looking cigarette out of a pack I'd noticed on the desk. It was a peculiar-looking pack, green with black lettering and a colorful picture of some kind on it, so while she was roaring and wiping her eyes and her hamlike hands I snitched one of the cigarettes and dropped it in my coat pocket. That's called being a detective.

  I waited for the ripples to subside and said quickly, "How about Narda?"

  She squinted at me and pushed her lips out like pork chops. "What the hell's Narda?"

  "Skip it. I guess that's all. Thanks for your time."

  "You through?"

  "Yeah, I'm through."

  "Good-o. Now you listen to me, Mac, and listen good." She leaned forward till her huge breasts flattened on the top of the desk. I thought of Lina again. Lord!

  "You been throwin' your weight around," she bellowed. "You come in here and make cracks. I'm not so dumb, smart-pants. Now you scram. You scram outa here, and don't bother me no more. See?"

  I didn't have time to answer. The door behind me opened and I twisted my head around to look. It was the knife-thin, zoot-suited Miguel Mercado. He flicked his eyes over me, glanced at Maggie, hesitated, then said, "Sorry. Didn't know you were busy." He stepped back out into the hall and yanked the door shut behind him.

  I said, "So long, sweetheart."

  "Wait a minute."

  "Yeah?"

  "I want you should understand what I meant. I don't like a smart-pants comin' around botherin' me half to death. You gonna bother me any more?"

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe, hell. Stay outa my way. See?"

  I grinned at her, then turned and went out. Halfway down the hall I stopped and yelled back, "Oh, I forgot," then turned and half ran out into the night club proper. I saw Lina right away. She was sitting at the same table where I'd left her, an almost full cocktail in front of her. I got over there fast.

  "Honey," I said. "Want to help?"

  "Honey," she purred. "That is better, Shell." Then she looked at my face. She caught on quick. "Yes," she said. "What is it?"

  "I think Maggie might make a phone call. Get in there quick before she can. Try to keep her from calling. But, honey, don't get in trouble. Let it drop if it looks fishy. Now, scoot."

  She smiled at me as if her heart was on her lips. "Yes, querido."

  Lina headed for the door to Maggie's office and I beat it outside. I'd parked thirty or forty feet from the entrance to El Cuchillo, but I stopped just outside and looked to my right down Adobe Street. The only car in sight was just turning into Chavez Ravine Road and traveling fast. All I could see was the taillight, but that was all I needed if I was right. I sprinted down to the Cadillac, ripped it into gear, and gunned down the street. It wasn't raining now, but the streets were still wet and the Cad's tires hissed on the pavement. When the car ahead turned off on Elysian Park Avenue, then, at its en
d, turned right into Sunset Boulevard, I got a good look at it. A brand-new Kaiser, either black or a dark shade of blue or green. I dropped back as far as I could going out Sunset Boulevard, but kept him close enough so I could catch him if I had to.

  He turned right on Glendale Boulevard and I knew for sure that I was following Miguel.

  Chapter Five

  WHEN HE TURNED left on Duane Street and started up the steep hill, one more link fell into place. The address I'd got from Samson, the address of Narda's religious organization, the Inner World Society of Truth Believers, was 6417 Silver Lake Boulevard—and the boulevard was just over the hill.

  Silver Lake Boulevard is a long, curving street fronting the Silver Lake Reservoir, and when we turned off Duane I was sure we were getting close to the 6400 block. A little more than a half a block ahead on the right I saw a big two-story building set back off the road behind an enormous patch of green lawn. In the darkness it looked like part of a Hollywood set for The Thief of Bagdad. It was practically a temple, with rounded domes on the four corners of the roof, and lofty spires, half dissolved in the darkness, jutting up toward the muddy sky.

  On the far side of the building, I could barely see some kind of driveway that ran out to intersect the street. I'd just got a quick glimpse of the place when a long sedan came roaring out of the drive and turned left toward us with its tires screaming in protest against the asphalt. The car ahead of me slammed on its brakes and skidded to a stop, the driver pounding a tattoo on his horn and then blinking his lights. The long sedan slowed to a stop alongside the Kaiser, partially blocking the road ahead of me. There wasn't a hell of a lot I could do about it.

  I slowed down and pulled to a stop a few feet behind the Kaiser as Miguel threw open the side door, climbed out, and walked over to the other door. I started to sweat.

  Unless I was adding ideas like a backward child, the little conference going on fifteen feet from me might possibly concern a small round hole in the head of one Sheldon Scott, private investigator. I could have been 'way off, but I had the feeling I was supposed to have exited with Georgia earlier—and somebody might still be trying. One thing for sure: I didn't kid myself I was among friends.

  If my pal Miguel got a good look at me, or if anybody recognized my buggy, I might have a tough time explaining what I was doing at this particular gathering. Particularly if I had that hole in my head. I could have made a U turn, or wheeled around the cars ahead where there was a little room to squeak by, but I still wanted to follow the play.

  I reached under my coat, pulled out my .38, and laid it down on the seat at my side. Then I opened the glove compartment and dug out a dark, battered hat and a two-bit pair of dark glasses. I own just one hat, and the dark job was it. I'd taken to carrying it and the glasses in the glove compartment because sometimes when you're tailing a guy on the street you can wear the hat and glasses for a while, then take off the hat and slip the glasses in your pocket, and the tailee isn't so apt to catch on. I stuck on the hat and glasses, hoping the boys up ahead wouldn't notice. At least my screwy eyebrows and the stand-up blond hair wouldn't be quite so obvious.

  I couldn't hear what the guys ahead were saying, but they were still talking. I gunned my motor like an impatient tourist and leaned on my horn a couple of times. I stuck my tongue against my front teeth and yelled, "Geoutheway!"

  Miguel swiveled his head around and shouted, "Shut up, Mac," then turned back and said a few words to the guys inside the car. I heard the grind of gears as they put it in low and gunned ahead. They were shifting to second and making time as they passed me. Out of the corner of my eye I got a glimpse of two men in the front seat of the car, but not enough to tell me anything.

  Miguel turned and walked back toward the car. Or me. I pulled my head down, shifted into low, and roared past him as he started to climb in the Kaiser. He didn't even look at me. Out of the rear-view mirror I saw him wheel the car around in a U turn and hot-rod after the other one. I pulled over to the right, jerked off the dark glasses, and slowed down enough so I could read the address on the mailbox in front of the temple affair. It was 6417. Bull's-eye.

  Just beyond the drive at the side of the temple was a thick cluster of low shrubs and massed eucalyptus trees. With that between me and the building, I switched off my lights, swung around in the street, and headed back on Miguel's tail. His red stop light flared brighter as he slowed down and turned left into Duane again.

  I let him get to the top of the grade before I started after him, because when you turn from Silver Lake into Duane, you put the gears in low. Sometimes that hill looks straight up. When he reached the top, I shoved the accelerator down and ripped after him.

  I got on his tail and stayed a block or two behind all the way back. It was real cute. Somewhere up ahead, the sedan with Miguel's two chums in it. Then Miguel. Then me. Follow the leader. And where, pray tell, could we all be going?

  When we'd almost reached El Cuchillo there wasn't any doubt where Miguel was headed, so I dropped him and turned off on Adobe. I parked on College Street around the corner from El Cuchillo, put on the hat and glasses again—disguise—and went the rest of the way on foot. I didn't go inside; somehow it didn't seem wise.

  There was a parking lot at the side of the club and I headed for it. The Kaiser was there, its hood warm. I eased open the front door and risked flicking on the dash lights long enough to read the registration card: "Mrs. Margaret Remorse," and the address of El Cuchillo. Well, well.

  The other ear wasn't in the lot, but five minutes later I found it, empty, half a block from the entrance to the club. No registration slip, but I jotted down the license number on the card bearing Narda's address.

  El Cuchillo sat just off the sidewalk, but the front was lined with palm trees. I slipped my .38 into my coat pocket and leaned against one of the trees where I could see the entrance of the club, lighted by the neon sign. I lit a cigarette and looked at my watch. One-twenty-five Sunday morning.

  A guy and his gal came out pressed close together and weaving in unison. They didn't see me, and as they passed, the girl giggled and said, "Oh, George, stop it. Not here, George."

  That made me feel just dandy.

  Then they came out and stopped in front of the entrance. Two guys and Miguel. The guys were short, about five-eight or five-nine, but stocky, and they looked well muscled. Both wore highly draped light-blue gabardine suits with slight bulges under the right shoulders, and they were as alike as two prints from one negative. Twins. One of them said a few words I couldn't hear to Miguel, hardly moving his lips, then the twins walked right past me and down to their car. Miguel turned and went back inside. None of them even glanced in my direction, so I slipped my gun back in its holster and finished my cigarette while I tried to make some sense out of this ring-around-a-rosy.

  I ran back in my mind over Georgia's screwy chatter, the guff at El Cuchillo earlier, Cornell Martin's information, Georgia's killing of Narda, who was apparently well and happy—"Big as life." Sam had said. And where the devil was that dough going, the dough Georgia had been drawing out of her bank account? Then my talk with Maggie Remorse, and now this last nutty epistle. From El Cuchillo, out to that cockeyed temple then back to El Cuchillo. Everybody was going round in dizzy circles. I added it all up and guess what I got. Yeah. I was going around in the dizziest circle of all. But there was a pattern. I had some letters, even if I couldn't spell anything.

  Inside, the orchestra played a fanfare and somebody gargled unintelligible words into a mike. Showtime. I ground out my cigarette and nudged my brain. Nothing. I wondered how Lina had made out with Maggie. I hoped she hadn't overplayed it. I could check with her when she left at two. That was the best idea I'd had all night, but it wasn't going to solve anything.

  Inside, I heard the staccato roll of the drummer. The big act. I remembered how Lina had looked in that scarlet bolero and wondered if I should go in and watch. It wouldn't do, though, to make Miguel nervous right now.

  I
t was strange, not seeing the act, following it from the sounds that drifted out the open entrance to the club. I could hear the thud of the knives hurtling faster and faster into the wood as they circled Lina's half-naked body; then the silence broken by shouts and applause; the sudden shrill scream as the act ended. More shouts. I thought wryly of the spectacle I must have presented earlier when the last gag knife was thrown.

  Something was screwy. A woman screamed. The noise billowed inside the club and spilled out into the street. Then it got quiet except for the mumble of voices. No fanfare from the orchestra.

  My throat was suddenly dry and my heart started kicking in my throat. I sprang away from the base of the palm tree as a man and woman hurried out the entrance.

  I grabbed the guy by his arm. "What the hell's wrong in there?"

  He looked at me, startled. "Take it easy."

  "I asked you, what's wrong? What happened inside?"

  "Don't ask me, mister. That dame, that Lina. She got stuck with a knife."

  Chapter Six

  DIDN'T WAIT FOR anything else. I went through the entrance on a run and almost knocked down a couple of guys standing with their backs to me. The place was full of people and half of them were standing. I got my shoulder in front of me and shoved and bumped my way through the crowd. The dark glasses fell off and got ground under somebody's heel.

  The orchestra burst into a lively Spanish dance and a tall brunette in a red, green, and yellow costume with a flowing skirt started whirling around the floor, the skirt spinning almost straight out around her long legs. But you could tell her heart wasn't in it. Her mouth was partly open and her knees looked as if they were clicking an off-beat accompaniment to the castanets in her hands.

  At the far end of the bar I stopped and yelled at the fat bartender, "Where's Lina?"

  He pointed to the door leading to Maggie's office and said, "Dressing room." He looked as if he was coming out of shock.

  I raced across the room, yanked open the door, and started down the hall. Light spilled from the open door of a small room on my right. I glanced in. Maggie's huge bulk seemed to fill most of the room. Her back was to me, her big fists planted on her hips. Beyond her, on a low couch, I could see a pair of long legs, golden tan and shapely, with black, spike-heeled shoes on the small feet.