The Bamboo Blonde. Dorothy B. Hughes

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СКАЧАТЬ stop to figure it out. She could only watch and listen.

      Kew said, “One thing, I was hoping to see Garth.”

      “Postman’s holiday?” Con asked.

      “Maybe,” he smiled. “I’ve got a couple of able subs on my column but Garth is always good for a yarn–and hard as the devil to nab these days, even in Washington.”

      He might have said, “. . . and even by Kew Brent.” His expression seemed to say it. Griselda wasn’t certain she liked that; in her meetings with Kew, there were always these moments when she wasn’t sure that she liked him, when maybe Con was right in his anti-Kew attitude. But when you were away from him you forgot those moments, remembered only his mental keenness, the wit and the brain, the handsome arrogance, the suggestion that you were the most attractive woman he’d ever met–one word covered it, his charm.

      “I suppose you’ve seen him?” Kew asked.

      “Yeah. He was here when I came. I ran into him.”

      It was more falsification. Con might have run into Garth but he’d been closeted with him for days before the yacht trip came up; she had taken it for granted it was renewal of a friendship and the gathering of broadcast material. It hadn’t occurred to her then that Con had known Garth was in Long Beach before they arrived, and that Garth had expected him. Real fear trembled Griselda now; if Con were working for the head of the X service again, there was reason for fear. The foreign agents concentrated on the coast were known to be important, to constitute a real menace. She suddenly was cold. If Mannie Martin’s disappearance were connected with that–she hadn’t thought of it that way. She must speak to Con. If that were it he definitely mustn’t look for Mannie.

      She couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t pledged to Garth again, not with these half-lies to Kew. And this fear dwarfed the one that he might become involved in last night’s murder.

      “Garth’s gone fishing,” Con told.

      “Fishing?” Kew seemed incredulous.

      “Yeah. He needed a vacation badly, y’know. He’s been on day and night shift since Poland. Some big boy steamed in on his yacht and rustled up a fishing party. I couldn’t go. Stag.”

      Griselda caught her lip. He was still regretting.

      Kew asked, “Where are they cruising?”

      “Down in Mexican waters, I gathered. They were heading southerly.” Why was he giving Kew all of this information and withholding other seemingly more harmless?

      Kew said quietly, “Another reason that brought me here was an invitation from Dare.”

      Griselda cried it: “Dare Crandall?” She couldn’t stand that; she’d thought Dare was out of their lives. She hadn’t seen her for years, not for more than four years. It was Dare more than any one other thing that had caused the break-up of their marriage the first time she and Con tried it.

      Con asked as if surprised, “Is she here?” but Griselda wasn’t fooled. He knew Dare Crandall was in Long Beach; he had known it all along; perhaps he had even seen her. He might have been with her last night.

      Kew said as if imparting important news, “Yes, indeed she is.”

      Con said, “What will they think of next?” He drank. “What’s she doing here?”

      “Some connection with the Navy.”

      Griselda couldn’t help saying it, “I suppose you mean she was barred from the Brooklyn yards.”

      Both men looked at her. Their amusement wasn’t amusing to her. Con said, “How you talk, Griselda!”

      No one had to break the silence. The phone did that. Con answered.

      She said to Kew then, in apology, “What is Dare actually doing here?”

      “She’s making over a house for an Admiral’s daughter, I believe. You know she’s taken up decorating now.”

      She didn’t know.

      “It’s to be all Modern Norse and Chinese Ming and will probably take all summer to fit. She has an apartment on”–he managed to recall the street–“on Junipero until September. I haven’t seen her yet. I only came down yesterday morning and she was out all day. Her man said she’d gone to”–again he recalled–“Avalon on some party.”

      Con was standing in the middle of the floor now, thumbs in his sweater pockets. They both looked up at him. “That was the Chief of Police,” he said. “He’s on his way out to see me.”

      The silence was so utter, you could hear the sound of the water shivering across the pebble sand.

      Kew finally smiled. “There goes our swim. I’d better run along.”

      “Not at all. Not at all.” Con finished crossing the room, drained his half-filled glass. “I told him we’d be out on the beach and to holler when he arrived.”

      2

      Captain Charles Thusby was fuzzy bald and porpoise fat. His right leg was wooden. It was not disguised by modern craft but a delightful replica of the kind pirates wore in childhood story books. He should have been dressed as a seaman; he was instead excessively official in his policeman’s blue serge and gold buttons.

      He stood on their cat-walk and hollered, “I’m here, Satterlee.”

      Con yelled back, “Be with you right away.” He didn’t seem nervous but then he wouldn’t be. He enjoyed scrapes. To him, obviously, this business was no more than one. But to Griselda it was frightening. Her teeth clicked, and Kew said, “I’ll go along.”

      “Nothing doing.” Con put a wet arm around Kew’s shoulders. He was overdoing friendliness today. “Come up and have a snort to warm you up. Besides you ought to meet the folks.”

      The captain was in the easiest chair when they dripped in. On the couch in policeman’s uniform was an extra-gangly, long-faced lad eating peanuts, putting the shells neatly into his upturned cap. The chief said, “I’m Cap’n Thusby. This is Vinnie. Brought him along to drive the car. I don’t drive. No, nothing to do with the leg, ma’am.”

      She had inadvertently glanced at it and it did look exactly like Long John Silver’s.

      “Never could learn. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” His face regarded his leg with creased pleasure. “Shark took it off down around Hatteras. Neat as a whistle.”

      Vinnie said, “Now, Pa,” but the captain disregarded him.

      “Wasn’t much older’n Vinnie here when it happened.” His face was smiles but his faded denim eyes were sharp as an aching tooth. “Which one’s Satterlee?”

      “I am.” Con touched Kew’s shoulder. “This is Kew Brent. You’ve heard of him.”

      “Heard of both of you.” He rubbed up his curly halo.

      “And СКАЧАТЬ