The Bamboo Blonde. Dorothy B. Hughes

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      He waited for her to reappear. When she did, she had the coat on and he could see the gun wasn’t in her pocket.

      He demanded, “What did you do with it?”

      “I flushed it down the toilet,” she said.

      That made him mad; it might have been the beers but he was mad. He said, “I may look like a cretin but I’m not. That’s scientifically impossible.”

      He marched into the Women’s Room without any bones about it. He found where she’d hidden it, beneath paper towels in the wastebasket. He didn’t know why or what she’d hoped to gain by it, but he unloaded the gun, put the shells into his trousers pocket, the gun into his coat pocket.

      She was waiting docilely by the door when he returned. She said without spirit, “You will give it back to me? I was afraid you wouldn’t; that’s why I hid it. I have to have it.”

      They went out to the car. He asked, “So you can kill yourself and some rat?”

      She said, “It’s none of your business,” and she didn’t say any more on the ride back.

      He let her off where she directed on Ocean Boulevard, handed back her gun, said, “Good night,” and drove away, leaving her there on the walk.

       “Then I came home to you, baby,” he said.

      That was Con’s story.

      3

      Griselda breathed again.

      Con stood up, yawned, said, “Mind the light?” turned it on, flung the shells on the bureau, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

      She asked blankly, “But what was it all about, darling?”

      “Damned if I know.” He yawned again. “Screwiest performance I ever heard of.”

      Griselda wondered, “What was her name?”

      “She wouldn’t answer that one.”

      She shook her head hopelessly. “Was she pretty?”

      “Might have been on the Congo. I’ve seen too many of her lately. Blondes like that are a dime a dozen in Hollywood. You know. She didn’t even have a mole to distinguish her.”

      Griselda shook her head again. “Why do you do these silly things, Con? Why did you go out with her?”

      He laughed. “I don’t know. Curiosity, I guess. Ye olde newsy instinct. I couldn’t understand why Bennie refused to serve her. I know now, of course. He’d seen the gun.”

      She said soberly, “Some day you’ll get yourself in a mess.”

      “Won’t be the first time, angel face.”

      He creaked down on the bed to untie his sneakers. “What did your fancy friend Kew 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. СКАЧАТЬ