She said, "Hello. Party?"
Peter said, "No party, Ayla. Not yet, anyway. This is Shell Scott, a private detective. Wants some dope on the voodoo ball."
She glanced at me, didn't say anything, then walked to an upholstered chair in the corner of the room and plopped down into it, throwing her legs up over one chair arm. She was awfully careless with those long, shapely legs. There didn't appear to be anything under the robe except Ayla.
I told them why I was here and we spent ten minutes batting the party around, with nothing developing that I didn't already know. And they both looked blank when I talked about parrots. They backed up everything Joseph Borden had told me. I was ready to leave when I remembered Ann's telling me about Peter's oils. I casually mentioned "dabbling."
Peter's face brightened. "That right? Well, come on in back—I'm just finishing up a job. Might interest you."
I went back into the studio with him, both of us preceded by Ayla, who preceded beautifully. I was getting pretty sure that she wore nothing at all under the robe. It hugged her waist, clung to the curve of her hips, the firm flesh moving easily under the thin cloth as she walked.
There was a big canvas on an easel in the middle of the room. Beyond it was a low, cloth-draped divan. Ayla walked to the divan and leaned back against it, holding her robe loosely closed. Well, nearly closed. I pulled my eyes away and looked at the canvas.
It was nothing. Nothing to me, anyway. It was colorful as hell and there were curves and mounds and blotches on the canvas, but it fooled me.
Peter looked at me anxiously and said, "Like it?"
I chewed my lip. This was obviously "modern" art. Symphony to a Humbug, maybe. Or Dawn Over a Critic. But I didn't know quite what I was supposed to say without lying.
I said, "Hmmm. Well, indeed."
"Of course there's still a bit to be done before one can really get the message. It's my latest—Diana After the Hunt, I call it. I honestly don't believe I could have got the same effect with any other model. Only Ayla could have provided the essential inspiration, drama, fire ..."
"Ayla?" I looked at the variegated canvas. "This is Ayla?"
Peter Sault frowned at me. I was a clod.
"Of course," he said brusquely. "It's quite obvious. You see—" he jabbed at the canvas with his brush—"the motif—" He broke off again and turned to the mean-looking gal. "Ayla."
She nodded and shrugged her shoulders, letting go of the robe. It parted in front of her. I had been right; she was wearing nothing else. With apparently complete unconcern she placed her hands at the top of the robe and pulled it back off her shoulders. It could actually have taken only a second or two, but to me the act of disrobing seemed to take a long time, as if every movement was performed with exaggerated, provocative slowness.
The cloth slithered over her shoulders and down her back, baring the bold, high breasts. Ayla seemed almost unaware of her now nearly complete nudity, but her large dark eyes were fixed on me. She held the robe momentarily gathered at her waist, covering only the outer curve of her hips and the outside edge of each thigh; and standing like that with her black brows slanting upward, the full breasts thrusting forward, her legs parted slightly and her skin a startling white contrasting with the black cloth, she looked almost obscenely naked. She made me think for that moment of a hot, lusty woman who would enjoy herself in hell.
The robe dropped to the floor. Ayla turned, stepped to the divan and leaned back over it with her arms stretched above her head. She raised her right leg and pressed it against the cloth beneath her, then lay motionless.
Peter was talking, but I barely heard him. He said something about "... chiaroscuro ... symbolic elements ... tonal exigency" and many other incomprehensible things, but I was looking at Ayla. As far as I was concerned, she was the only work of art in the room, and she had all the necessary elements, symbolic and otherwise.
Peter didn't remove his attention from the canvas for a moment, but kept on jabbering. With my eyes on Ayla, I made comments of almost wild approval at appropriate intervals, and Ayla turned her head and looked at me, smiling wickedly.
Peter started to turn toward me and I looked at him for a change. He grinned happily. "Thanks," he said. "You can see how it'll be when it's finished."
"Yes, indeed," I said. "I sure can."
Peter turned back to his canvas and started working on it. As far as I could tell, there was no more he could do to it, but he kept dabbing here and there. I stood quite still. There were really no more questions I cared to ask Peter, but I'd thought of one or two I wanted to ask Ayla.
Suddenly Peter cried, "Where in hell is that chrome yellow?"
It startled me. "What?"
"The chrome yellow. That will do it!" He was fumbling through a large box of crumpled paint tubes. "Ayla, where in hell is that chrome yellow?"
She shrugged. Then she propped herself up on one elbow. Her long hair fell down in waves over one white shoulder.
"Damn," Peter said, and he charged out of the room. From out front somewhere came the sound of a door being slammed.
Ayla looked at me.
After a few seconds I said, "Where'd he go?"
"Probably out to the garage. He has paints and things out there."
"Oh. Just to the garage."
She smiled. If that wasn't a wicked smile it would do until the devil himself came along. But it was a beautiful wicked smile.
"Mr. Scott," she said.
"Yes?"
"Come over here."
Her voice was a throbbing contralto. It was deep and soft, like darkness, like blackness; it was like the blackness of her hair and brows and eyes. I walked to the divan.
"Sit down," she said.
I sat near her and she said, "Look at me."
The words surprised me. I'd expected her to say something else. "What?" I said. Unconsciously I had been holding my breath.
"Look at me, Mr. Scott. Just look at me. Do you mind?" She spoke very slowly, almost lazily.
"No. Of course not. I ..." This was a strange conversation.
She had been leaning on her elbow, but now she lay on her back, put both arms at her sides and extended her legs forward, flat against the divan. She gazed up at my face and said, "I like to be looked at, Mr. Scott. I like for men to look at me." She moistened her lips and smiled slowly. "That's why I pose like this. I enjoy it; it makes me feel good."
She was quiet for a moment, then went on. "Peter looks right through me. But you didn't. I knew you were excited by looking at me. Weren't you? Aren't you?"
"Well, yes. Of course, Ayla."
"It's Shell, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Look at me, Shell. Sit close to me ... closer to me, Shell."
I moved closer to her on the divan, stared at her strangely beautiful face, the curved, brazen whiteness of her body. I slid my hand over her waist, caressed the swelling mound of her breast.
She moved her head slowly from side to side, eyes on mine. "No," she said. "Don't touch me. Not yet, Shell."
She took my hand in hers, moved it from her skin, then put her arms back at her side again. Her skin gleamed in the light. As I looked at her, she raised one leg, bending it at the knee, sliding her bare foot slowly up over the cloth of the divan and then down again. She raised it, lowered it once more. I looked at her face and her eyes were closed, but she was smiling.
I touched her thigh, caressed her with an almost involuntary movement, and she opened her eyes. She looked at me, moistened her lips again. "All right," she said. "It's all right now, Shell."
I bent toward her. A door slammed in the front of the apartment.
Ayla's face didn't change expression. I slid off the divan and got to my feet. "I ... I'd better leave."
"He doesn't mind."
"What?"
"Peter doesn't mind. I'm just a—model to him. Stay here."
I shook my head.
Peter came into the room. He held a silvery tube in his hand and wa
ved it at us. "Chrome yellow," he cried gleefully. I could have socked him on the jaw.
Peter started dabbing blobs of yellow on the canvas. Ayla resumed her original pose. After a minute or two she turned her head and looked at me. Her bright red lips curved softly in a smile. Then she looked away from me again. The long scarlet fingernails scratched gently against the cloth beneath her. As her fingers moved I could hear the whispering sound they made.
Peter dabbed at the canvas. I left.
In a drive-in on Wilshire Boulevard I forced down a hamburger and some black coffee, not feeling very well at all. I spent a few minutes wondering about Ann Weather, and wondering about Ayla Veichek, and beginning to feel even worse; then I drove down Wilshire to the Gordon Apartments where I lived.
I had to wake the clerk at the desk, but finally got my key and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Inside my room, I shut the door behind me and felt for the small table lamp on my right. I found it, switched it on, and nothing happened. The room stayed black and I made a mental note to stock up on light bulbs.
I shrugged and pawed along the wall till I found the main switch. I pressed it and got nothing again—just a little click in the darkness. I stared blankly for a moment, then shock ballooned inside me. Automatically I pulled my head down between my shoulders, remembering the lights had been on downstairs and in the hall right outside my apartment. I had just started to duck, grabbing for my revolver, when the air stirred slightly behind me and my head exploded.
I was floating ... floating ... and my head throbbed and protested as if it were being squeezed in a vise. Cobwebs swirled in front of my eyes and I could feel my heart pump and blood slam solidly up into my head. My skull seemed to be expanding and contracting, aching and pounding. I could hear movement somewhere close by and I forced my eyes open.
I couldn't see, and I couldn't think straight. I started to pull myself up, but I couldn't move. Now I could feel something binding me, holding me down. I shook my head, a black world spinning in front of my eyes, and I felt hands on my left arm. I could feel the pressure of the hands on my skin; not on my shirt or coat, but on my skin. I couldn't remember taking my coat off. How long had I been lying here? I tried again to pull myself up, tried to figure what was wrong, what was happening.
Then I felt pain in the bend of my arm. It was a sudden pain that felt as if something sharp, like a needle, had been forced into my flesh. Right at the bend of my arm, at the vein there. Suddenly panic swept over me as I remembered Bruce's tapping his arm at the elbow and explaining ... The pain in my arm was right where Bruce had said ... No. I must be out of my mind; that was impossible. But I could feel a strange pressure there now and I strained all my muscles, trying to twist away from whatever this was.
I still couldn't see, but light seemed to flash in my eyes as my head throbbed. A hand was on my chest, pressing me down. Another hand was on my arm. The blackness swelled, grew deeper and deeper. It was as if I were sinking lazily down into warm darkness, sinking and floating at the same time.
It was difficult to breathe. I felt as if I were smothering and I could feel something wadded in my mouth, harsh against my tongue. I relaxed a little. My head didn't seem to be pounding so hard. I was tired, so tired, and relaxed. I could hear a voice now. A pleasant, soothing voice. I was so damned tired.
Chapter Eight
THE ALARM WENT OFF and I propped myself up on one elbow and glared at the clock. Seven a.m.; time to get up. I grabbed the nearer of the two clocks and shut off the alarm, then lay back and waited for the second one to bang away and force me out of bed.
Only this morning the second alarm didn't go off. I finally lifted one heavy eyelid and peered across the room at it. Screwy—the thing had apparently stopped at a little after three in the morning. I must have forgot to wind it, but apparently I'd set the one clock, anyway. My head is always like a block of cement when I first wake up, but today I seemed even dopier than usual.
I yawned and my head throbbed. I blinked stupidly, put up a hand and felt the bandage on the back of my skull. Then I remembered Lucian and that other goon who had sapped me at Jay's yesterday. I had me a score to settle with those boys, and maybe today was the day for it.
The hell with it. I creaked into the kitchen and started coffee, then yawned my way into the bathroom for a shower. In five minutes I was awake and rubbing myself down with a thick towel. I noticed a little red spot at the crook of my left arm. It hurt a little, but it was too small to worry about. I stuck a drop of iodine on it and went into the kitchen, poured coffee and let it cool as I dressed.
I looked into the closet and swore. Where the hell was the gray gabardine I'd worn yesterday? I saw my shoe trees on the floor, but not in the oxfords. I scratched my head and looked around. And there was everything. Clothes folded neatly over a chair, my shining brown shoes on the floor beneath it. I stared at them. I always hang my clothes in the closet unless I'm seeing double or triple.
I tried to think. Had I been on a toot last night? There was that one drink at Jay's, then one with Ann—a strange one, that Ann. Intriguing, though. No more drinks after that. Saw Borden, and then Peter and Ayla. There was a hot dish. That was a wicked smile if I ever saw one. I caught myself leering and straightened my face. I couldn't remember if I'd had anything to drink after I got home. Hell, I couldn't even remember getting undressed. Watch it, Scott, I thought. You must be getting old, boy.
I shrugged and got dressed in brown slacks and a clean shirt, bright argyles and brown shoes. Then I went back into the kitchen for fried eggs. After my second cup of coffee I went into the bedroom, opened the bureau drawer and took out my shoulder harness. I stared at it for a second, and got a funny feeling. No gun.
I looked through all the drawers but the gun wasn't there. That wasn't like me at all. A powerful .357 Magnum is something you don't leave lying around. It took me twenty minutes to search the whole apartment. I even went down to the car and searched it. No soap. Back in the apartment I sprawled on the divan in the dimness of my front room and tried to stop my thoughts from spinning around in my head.
Maybe it was just one of those days. You know, when you wake up and fall out of bed and everything goes wrong all day long. Something was sure screwy. I felt the back of my skull again. My head was throbbing gently with each heartbeat and I wondered if I could have a concussion. I remembered that when I'd come to in Jay's store yesterday, everything had been out of focus for a while. That had been for only a few seconds, though, and everything had seemed all right since then. But it was difficult to think.
I was still sitting on the divan when I heard a knock at the door. It was a loud knock and it startled me. I looked at my watch. Only a couple of minutes after eight. Who the hell would come calling at this hour?
I went to the door and opened it.
I didn't even notice who it was right away. The first thing I saw was the uniformed officer standing behind the guy in the brown suit right in front of me.
"Hello, Shell."
I looked at the plainclothes man. Hill, of all people. Detective Lieutenant Jim Hill, a friend of mine.
"Well, hi," I said. "What's a homicide whiz crawling around here for? Want some tips on technique, Hill?"
He didn't crack a smile. "Mind if we come in, Shell?"
"Hell, no. There's still coffee if you want some." They followed me inside. I headed for the kitchen but Hill said, "No coffee, Shell. This is business." He seemed ill at ease.
"Business?" I asked. "At this hour? What gives?" He bit his lip and looked at me and I stopped kidding around. "What the devil goes on here? You act like I've got a social disease, Hill."
"Yeah. How about coming with us, Shell."
"Where?"
"Downtown."
"What for?"
"It'll be explained."
I stared at him for a few seconds and he stared right back at me. I asked him, "You kidding?"
"No."
He didn't say any more, just waited. I sighe
d. "Wait 'til I get my coat."
In the bedroom I got the brown tweed out of the closet and put it on. When I turned around, the uniformed officer was in the doorway watching me. I brushed by him and walked out with Hill.
Outside I headed for the convertible but Hill said, "We'll take you down, Shell."
I got into the back of the dark gray radio car with him. It was a quiet ride to City Hall.
We went up to the Temple Street floor and walked under the sign, Police Department, then kept going past all the special department offices. I'd walked down here dozens of times, but never with a personal escort. Up ahead at the end of the hall was the office of Commander, Detective Bureau, and just around the corner to the left was Room 42: Homicide.
When we were almost at the end of the corridor, I said, "Hill, will you for Christ's sake unbutton your lip?"
"Yeah, Shell. In a minute."
We turned left around the corner and went inside Room 42. I'd seen it a hundred times, but now it looked different—the long, scarred, brown pine table at the big windows, another table near the door, straight-backed chairs, a calendar from a mortuary—that didn't help—and the smaller office on my right.
And Grant.
Detective Captain Arthur Grant, captain of Homicide. He stood with his back to the wall, tall and deceptively slim, with a wiry hardness under the ill-fitting dark suit he wore. His shoulders slumped a little, as they always did, and he chewed at his heavy, neatly trimmed mustache as he looked at me from blank dark eyes. Tough, but the best cop I'd ever known, and one of the best men.
He looked tired. There was a glass ashtray on the table in front of him, overflowing with snubbed-out cigarettes, some of them only partly smoked. It looked like he'd been here a long time.
"Hello, Shell," he said. That was all. Usually we kidded around a little, but not this time.
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