Strip for Murder

by Richard S. Prather

  Maybe, I thought dismally, this trip isn't even necessary.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They spotted me at almost the same moment.

  Foo leaned over the table and said something to Garlic, then they both leaned back and watched the show. Or pretended to. At least they weren't going to charge across the dance floor at me. Well, I was here, and I meant to stay. At least until I had a chat with Juanita. And maybe with Foo and his pal. The glass wall had been replaced and the birds were all calmed down again. It almost seemed a shame.

  The only vacant seat I could see was the one at which a young red-haired guy sat alone, almost squarely in front of me, and directly across the floor from the two hoods and the hoodess. It was ringside, but I'd been spotted anyway, so I walked to the table, leaned down, and said, “OK, if I use that empty chair for a while?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the redhead said. “Yeah. Take it anywhere.”

  His eyes were glued to Juanita and he didn't look at me, but it seemed he didn't quite understand. “I mean, right here, at your table.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Yow. Wow. Man, lookit that. Yeah.”

  At least I had a seat. I ordered a bourbon and water for me and another of the redhead's for him, then focused my attention on Juanita. Focusing on that babe was quite a trick. She was going in and out, and left and right, and up and down—all at once. She was singing, too. Carlos hadn't told me the half of it.

  This Juanita was a sex cyclone with long black hair flying around every which way, a dark, full-lipped, sensual face, the lips writhing and twisting as she moaned words in some foreign language. The way she sang, she could have moaned in English and it would have sounded like a foreign language.

  The rest of her looked as if approximately five feet ten inches of well-stacked woman had been mashed down into five feet seven inches, the excess bulging out and overflowing in enjoyable places. It was overflowing even more because of her frantic gyrations, in fairly good time to the clunks and whistles and toots from the men playing behind her. There were even some clunks and whistles and toots from the guys in front of her.

  She was really moving, going all over the place, dragging the mike. The way some things were going, I thought they were going to keep on going, and I even imagined them flying through the air like that cockatoo. She was halfheartedly wearing a net brassiere, so flimsy it must have been made of piano wire to stay up there, a scarlet skirt that was open in front but swept around to touch the floor behind her, and something dark underneath the front of the red skirt. On her behind, which for a moment I thought was going to wind up in front, was a bunch of curving feathers in red and yellow and purple and black and white, all of them a rainbow blur right now. Except for high-heeled black pumps, the rest was Juanita.

  She pulled at the red half-skirt, jerked it from her hips, and danced a little longer wearing only the shoes and bra, plus a gray G-string that looked as if it were made from the smoke of one cigarette. Then there was a wail from the band and the music stopped. Juanita stopped too.

  All you could hear was the gnashing of teeth. Then applause boomed. Guys stamped their feet and whistled. Boors, I thought; clods. My hands began to hurt and I stopped. The guy at my table was going, “Yeah, wow, yeah,” and I glanced across the room to see what my friends were doing.

  They weren't doing anything. They weren't there.

  At least, the two guys weren't. Babe sat alone at the table.

  Involuntarily I ducked, thinking they would be behind me swinging saps, brass knuckles, tables, anything at my fat head. But nothing happened. Spotting my waiter nearby, I called him over. Had the two men gone someplace else? Yes, they had gone out the front door before Juanita finished her dance. He seemed surprised at that.

  I was surprised too, but not for the same reason. I didn't suppose it actually made any difference, though. I was a bit disgruntled with myself for letting them creep out without my knowing it. But I'd never seen Juanita before. And a guy's got to have one or two little vices.

  Right about then Juanita bowed and waved and blew kisses at everybody, then walked off stage toward an open door in the far wall. I could see part of a narrow hallway through it. I was just about to get up and follow her when I noticed the band members nudging each other and yakking back and forth. A couple of them looked at Babe Le Toot, who seemed to be in her cups. Or rather, in her highball.

  Then the band started to play again. They didn't sneak into it, they hit it loud, wild, and gut-bucket—"St. Louis Blues"—and Babe's head snapped up as though somebody had yanked on her hair. A big, happy, all-gone smile spread over her chops and she leaped to her feet. While a trumpet went waah-waah she ankled out to the middle of the floor—and she seemed to have lost none of her technique. She had her blouse half off when the band stopped suddenly.

  For a moment I got a kind of queasy feeling, thinking she must have tottered out half plastered and was going to be plenty embarrassed, but it wasn't at all like that. She did seem to sort of come out of a trance, and she looked around dazedly. Then she swung around to the band and laughed, ran to them and threw her arms around a couple of the guys and hugged them. They laughed it up and some of the men in the audience yelled, “You don't need music, Babe!”

  I said to the young guy across the table from me, “What was that?”

  For once he spoke intelligibly. “Guess you don't hang around here much. They pull that every other night or so when Babe's here. She gets outside a couple, and seems like the hooch plus ‘St. Louie’ makes her want to dance. Like she can't help it. They never let her go all the way, and she gets a boot out of it.”

  “So, I'd guess, do the customers.”

  “Yeah, man. Wish they'd let her go some night. She never has stopped while the music was playing.” He grinned. “I'll be here if it ever happens.”

  “I'll bet you will. Thanks for the seat.” I tossed off the last of my bourbon, got up, and walked to the doorway and into the hall. Light streamed into the hall from a doorway a couple of yards to my left, and when I walked over and looked inside, Juanita was sitting in a chair before a dressing table, putting on some more lipstick. She should have put on more than lipstick.

  Her back was to me but she could see me in the dressing-table mirror. I said, “Hi,” and she raised her eyes to meet mine in the mirror.

  “Who're you?”

  “OK if I come inside?”

  “I guess. Who are you, anyway?”

  I went in and shut the door, took out my wallet and showed her the photostat of my license. “Like to talk to you a little.”

  “Another cop,” she said. “Three of them already talked to me.” She swung around on her chair to face me. “Say, you know Carlos Something-or-other? Lieutenant, I think. He was nice.”

  She had no accent at all, but she looked Latin, and Carlos was Cuban, besides being a good-looking cat and one hell of a rumba artist. “Sure,” I said. “Carlos Renata. Buddy of mine.”

  “Sit down.” She pointed to a chair so spindly that I didn't think it would hold me, but it did, and I said, just to soften her up a little more, “Really enjoyed your act, Juanita. First time I've caught it. Not the last, though. You've got a beautiful voice, you know.”

  She beamed. She must have heard about that body and dance of hers a thousand times, but this was music to her ears. Actually, her voice stank. But if three cops had already talked to her without learning much of anything, three cops including Carlos, I had to get on her good side somehow. Not that she had a bad side.

  She said, “Do you really mean it?”

  “What do you think, Juanita?”

  “I think you're a pleasant liar.” She was smiling.

  I grinned at her “Well, I had to say something.”

  “I can't sing for sour apples, and I know it. But it sure sounded good.” She laughed.

  “You should worry. Kirsten Flagstad doesn't dance so good, either.”

  We yakked like that for a couple of minutes, and got along famously. When
I asked her about Yates and the rest of it, she didn't give me any trouble. The outfit she was wearing gave me a little trouble, but I listened closely. There wasn't anything I hadn't got from Carlos or Sam: Yates had been here Saturday night, the night he'd been killed. A little after midnight he'd been called to the phone, left, and that was it. In the club that night had been Babe, Foo, Strikes, and a guy she called Sardine Lambert. It was a new name, at least, so I asked her about it.

  “He's another of the bunch that work out at the castle. You know where it is?”

  I nodded. “I've been there. As a matter of fact, that's my next stop tonight.”

  “Then you've seen that goofy knight they've got out there. Two men dress up and parade around. One of them's Lambert.”

  “Which, I suppose, is why they call him Sardine. Another of Norman's boys, huh?”

  “Works for him.”

  “How about a guy named Bender? Brad Bender.”

  Her lips parted and her eyes opened wider, but quickly her features went back to normal. It seemed funny, so I pushed it around gently.

  “Seems like I heard his name somewhere. He one of the bunch that hung around here with Foo and Strikes?”

  She didn't say anything, so temporarily I shifted the subject. “How about Andon Poupelle? Was he here the night Yates got that call?”

  “I don't think so. He's been here a few times. Not lately, though. I didn't know who he was until Carlos described him.”

  I went on casually, “About Brad Bender. Didn't Carlos or one of the others ask you about him?”

  “No.”

  I remembered then that I'd given Bender's name to Sam only yesterday; the police had talked to Juanita a day or two before. “Well, hell,” I said, “you know the guy, don't you?”

  “I know him. Why? What's the matter? I ... go out with him quite a bit.”

  “Go out with him? When was the last time?”

  “Over a month ago. What's all this about? He isn't in any trouble, is he?”

  “That's the point. Nobody's heard anything of him for about a month. I understand he used to hang out here, and then, bang, he's not here any more. Word is, maybe he got hurt. Hurt bad. Maybe fatally.”

  I was watching her while I spoke and her lips parted again. “Oh, no,” she said quietly. “He said he'd see me again in a month or so.”

  “When was this?”

  “About that long ago. A month, I mean. Maybe less.”

  “You two ... have an understanding or something?”

  “No, he's just a nice guy, is all. Can you tell me any more? I mean, is there a chance he ... isn't hurt?”

  “There's a chance. You say you saw him about a month ago?”

  “Not quite that long. I can find out in a minute. Only I didn't see him, he phoned me from Vegas and said—”

  “From where? Las Vegas, Nevada?”

  “Yes.”

  I got up and lit a cigarette, then sat down again. “Baby, find out when that call was. Find out for sure. And what did he say to you?”

  She went to her dressing table and opened a drawer, pulled out a small calendar. “I marked the day he called,” Juanita said, “so I could figure about when I might see him again.” She turned around with the little calendar in her hand and added, “It was sort of funny. He wouldn't tell me why, just said he had to stay out of town for a month or so. I wasn't supposed to mention it to anybody. But if he's hurt...”

  She turned back a page on the calendar and ran her finger over the sheet. “Here it is. He phoned me on June 10. I hadn't seen him for over a week then.”

  That was about all of the conversation. I stayed a few minutes more, then got up again. “Don't worry too much about Bender, Juanita,” I said. “I think maybe I shook you up for nothing. I think your boyfriend's all right.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You know what? I kind of hope so too.”

  She gave me a big smile as I left, but I hadn't said that to please her.

  In the main part of the club I looked around, but my husky chums weren't in sight. Even Babe was gone now. I headed for Castle Norman.

  Heading there was one thing; getting in was another. My first visit with Ed Norman had convinced me that dire things would happen to me if I were foolish enough to go back. And the way things were shaping up, I had a hunch Norman might shoot me on sight. But there was a vague idea dangling from one convolution of my brain.

  If I could ever get inside the castle without being recognized, I might make a little progress tonight. But it would take some doing, and I'd need some help. I would need some help from Sardine Lambert.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Castle Norman was brilliantly lighted, and when I'd parked in the lot and walked a little way toward the drawbridge and entrance, I could see that silly knight sitting on his horse.

  I didn't want him to see me, however, so I walked to my left onto the green lawn fronting the castle. Out a few feet from the edge of the moat was a big bush that would hide me from Sardine while I watched the guy for a while to see what his actions were. In case I had to duplicate them.

  A man and woman arrived, then another couple, but Sardine didn't do anything fancy, just sat at the rear of the drawbridge, his lance pointing toward the sky, a red cloth dangling from the end of it, the color matching a red plume sticking up from his helmet.

  I'd seen enough. I waited until he was looking away from me, then walked to the moat and into it. The water was only about three feet deep, but wet, and the goo on the bottom was sticky as glue. I walked along the side of the moat next to the wall around Castle Norman, and from here I couldn't even see Sardine—or whoever was in that armor.

  I checked my holster, to be sure the Colt Special was handy, then bent over and walked to the drawbridge and crouched under it, waiting for a moment when Sardine's back would be turned to me. A car pulled into the parking lot, lights flicking over me, and I ducked a little lower. It was sure sloppy. In a couple of minutes four people walked from the car and into the castle, laughing and making cracks about Sir Lancelot as they passed the mounted knight.

  Sir Sardine looked after them as they went out of sight, turning his horse around—and his back to me. I straightened up, grabbed the wooden drawbridge's edge in my hands, and hauled myself onto it as silently as I could.

  No one seemed to be in the small courtyard, and I hoped to hell nobody else showed up for a few minutes.

  I straightened up, took two steps toward Sardine—and he heard and jerked his head around. He recognized me, all right, and started to yell, but he only half finished yelling because when his head had started to turn I'd started running toward him.

  Sound came out of his throat as I jumped at him. One of his gauntleted hands came up as I crashed into him and his horse, but I grabbed his arm and jerked as I slid down. He tried to bring his other fist around to slug me, dropping the long lance, but he was on his way down by that time. He landed with one hell of a crash on the wooden flooring beneath us and for a second I thought he was going clear on through. He didn't move after he landed. He was breathing, but he was out cold. The horse shied away, snorting.

  I bent over and grabbed Sardine beneath the shoulders and hauled him over to the big bush on the lawn where I'd hidden for those few minutes. It took a while to figure out the combination, get the armor off Sardine, then bind and gag him, but I managed it. Hunks of metal were laid out before me like pieces of a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, but I'd noted how the armor came off and thought I could get it onto me. Sardine was about my size. This stuff was not authentic Golden Age armor; some of it tied on, some of it just slipped on, and a couple of items were equipped with canvas and zippers, probably so that Sardine could dress himself. I started struggling with it.

  Finally I was in. I knew I had on a helmet, a gorget, and gauntlets, plus roweled spurs for my feet, on my own shoes, but the rest of it I had probably never heard of. The part over my chest and back was in one solid piece that I'd had to wriggle into lik
e a stiff girdle. The helmet's visor moved up and down, and when it was down I couldn't see too well, looking out through vertical slits, but at least nobody could look in at me, either. There were metal shin and thigh guards, plus some other doodads. I started creaking back toward the drawbridge. The white horse didn't seem leery of me now that I was suitably attired, and stood quietly as I walked toward him.

  Two more cars ripped into the parking lot. People piled out and came noisily in my direction. Like the previous couples, they got a big kick out of the knight and started yelling at me. The main doors of the castle opened and somebody looked out, then trotted toward me. It was the husky boy I'd had the beef with my first time here.

  I got ready to slug him if I had to, but he stopped a yard from me and said, “What's the matter with you? Why ain't you on your horse, Sardine?”

  I unwound my fist. The laughing group was alongside us by now, and they stopped, watching us. I was sweating more than the armor's warmth could account for, but I said, “Dropped my lance.”

  I didn't even know what Sardine's voice sounded like, but my tones were suitably muffled by the helmet—and the customers had hysterics.

  “Dropped his lance!” one yelled. “Caught him with his lance down!” Husky allowed himself to laugh with them. There was more laughter while I climbed onto the horse, since the damned armor seemed to weigh a ton—besides which, I'm not accustomed to climbing onto horses. I know nothing at all about plenty of things, but especially horses.

  Husky handed me the lance, then talked it up with the customers and herded them toward the castle. But he swiveled his head around and gave me a very dirty look.

  I allowed them a couple of minutes to get inside, and used the time to calm myself. Then I got off the horse and leaned the lance against the arched entranceway. I knew that if I just walked confidently inside the castle and through the rooms to Norman's office, I might make it easily. The main thing was to act normal.