Make no mistake: I have gazed upon a lot of them, all shapes and sizes and varieties of them, but I was reminded of what that bartender had told me in speaking of Wilfred Jellicoe: that he had passed beyond drunkenness into another condition entirely. And so, in a different way, with Zena Tabur; it was as though she had merely begun with beauty and grown beyond it into a warm loveliness, a sweet sensuality, a blend of fire and coolness and femininity indefinable.
She glanced at me, then past me to the magnificently flaming skies, then looked at me again. And looked. At my white stand-up hair and inverted-V eyebrows; my big, but not too big, dandy-white-shoe-clad feet; at my colorful garb; then again, intently, at my face.
Holy mowkerel, she said in her weirdly kookie but ear-pleasing accent, who in hell are you? You look like you came out of a zawzer.
I felt a keen pang. I felt the keen pang when I realized that wasn’t exactly what Id hoped she might say when first we met. For a moment I also wondered what shed meant.
But then I pulled myself together and said, smiling, I am Shell Scott. And you are Zena Tabur, I presume. Actually, there isn’t any doubt in my mind —
She is me, Zena said. You got the right place.
She kind of buzzed most of her ss, letting her lips stiffen and curl a bit, but not at all unattractively — quite the contrary. When she said, She is me, it came out, Zhee iz me.
The voice was cute, but as I have already indicated, she was fantastic. Her head didn’t even come up to the top of my shoulder, but it was a head a guy would like to keep in that general area for a long time. Those slanted green-gray eyes were more liquidly luminous and even bigger and wilder than they looked on the screen, and the societies to Stamp Out Sex could have held a whole meeting about her lips.
Sometimes she wore that thick black hair up, in sworls and artfully bunched masses on the top of her head, but it was down now, falling forward over her shoulder and covering one breast — which, by the way, required a lot of hair. She was wearing jeweled leather sandals, white stretch pants, and a mans white shirt open at the throat, and she looked as much like a man as I look like Little Bopeep.
How do you do. Miss Tabur, I said. Id like —
I’ll bet you wear red zhorts.
Zhorts? What are zhorts?
You don know?
Then I got it. Ha-ha, no, I . . . Are you really interested?
Not yet, I’m not. What do you zay you are? Zhell Zcott?
That’s close enough. I —
I stopped, thinking back. If I was Zhell Zcott, then it struck me as probable that zawzer was saucer.
Miss Tabur, I said severely, I hope you were not earlier hinting that I look like something that fell out of a saucer. A UFO — a flying saucer?
Zure I was. Except you’re about a thousand times bigger than I expected. I thought they were little green men. Boy, you’re zure no little green man, are you?
I didn’t answer that. It did not, I felt, deserve a reply. Stiffly I said, I would like to talk with you, Miss Tabur, on a matter of some importance.
To you or me?
Well . . . possibly to both of us. It . . . May I come inside?
She sort of shrugged her shoulders and her expressive features at the same time. I’ll take a chance.
I snorted a little air through my nostrils. You are perfectly safe with me, Miss Tabur. No matter what ridiculous idea may be flitting through your . . . pretty head —
Oh, zhut up and come on in.
We went inside.
I was a bit disgruntled. My rugged edifice of deductions concerning Wilfred Jellicoe was becoming a bit rickety. I hadnt done too well with Warren Barr, and G. Lawrence Martin had been a complete bust. Zena Tabur had been my last, best hope, but the interview wasn’t even beginning very hopefully.
My disgruntlement began fading, however, merely because I was becoming conscious of the inside of Zena Taburs small house, its rugs and chairs and divans, pillows and paintings, mainly the total impression of the place. The effect was that of walking into a room where all the furniture was having an orgy.
I liked it.
The room in which we stood looked like a choice hunk of the Far East, with some Middle East and a bit of the Mohammedan Heaven thrown in: hanging lamps made of brass with triangular and oddly shaped holes cut in the metal; a huge splashy abstract painting on one wall, a brightly colored rug on another wall; low ceiling; thick, long-napped carpet in an odd shade like blue with frost on it; ancient-looking idols, figures with fantastic heads and others with half a dozen arms. In fact, one four-foot-high idol in the corner was of a six-armed Hindu character dancing, poised on one bare foot, in each hand a long, thick — Oh, my goodness, I thought.
We sat down on a divan at least eighteen feet long, low, filled with soft down I sank deeply into. In front of the divan was a dark, carved-wood table, beyond it two square hassock-like affairs, shocking pink on brass rollers.
This was a place it would take awhile to get used to. And it would be fun getting used to it. But the sun was sinking in the west, and I was far from home. Any way you looked at it.
So I simply laid it out for her, the way Id got it from Cheim. Hard and fast, no mincing of words. And this one, too, was another smashing success for me.
When I got through she said, Yeah, I zhot him. Zo?
You mean . . . Arent you all shook up?
Zhook up for what?
Well . . . suppose I was about to blackmail you right now. Yeah, suppose that. How about that? Doesnt that grab you —
Ha, boy, she laughed. Go ahead. Try it. How?
What?
How?
How what?
I don know. But you were talking about blackmail.
That’s right. OK, I’m blackmailing you.
The hell you are.
Listen, I — I — Well, I’m not a professional, of course. But I know a lot about it. And, believe me, its not supposed to go like this. I know that much.
How?
Damn it, here we go again.
How you gonna blackmail me?
Oh, that’s what you mean? Well . . . beats me. If you don’t want to be blackmailed I guess I cant force you. But, well, look. You’re some kind of foreigner, arent you? Maybe Id better explain. Subject: Blackmail. I get something on you, see? That is, I find out something about you that you want kept a big secret. Then I threaten to tell people — lots of them, everybody — about your dark, criminal secret, unless you pay me huge sums of money. That’s how I make my living.
You must hate yourself.
I don’t mean I really do it. I’m a detective. I don’t really do it. I — Ah, the hell with it.
Whats the big zecret you got on me?
You shot your husband. You killed him. He’s dead, dead, dead.
Yeah, I zhot him. Zo?
I stood up. Good-bye, Miss Tabur.
Wait a minute. You think its a zecret I zhot him? That I want it a zecret?
Of course. Why else would I be here?
Ha, boy, go on and do it. Print it, hand it out, go on television.
But —
Let me ask you, what else do you know about what I did to my husband?
I don’t know anything about that, I said. Only about your shooting him.
Exactly how did I do it?
Well . . . all I know is you shot him. Killed him. There were police, scandal, crime, murder, a big mess. I suppose people covered up for you, bribery, that sort of thing, powerful friends, lusting for your . . . drooling. . . .
I better tell you what I did to my husband.
I don’t want to pry, Miss Tabur. All I’m concerned about is the shooting.
That’s what I’m gonna tell you. Like this. He was a zlob. I was pretty young when I married him. She paused, tossed a slant-eyed look at me. I’m ztill pretty young.
Yeah.
He used to get drunk. He beat me. Couple times he put a gun at me but didn’t zhoot. One night he went like he was crazy and did zhoot a
t me. Mizzed me. I had a little gun of my own by then. In a drawer. I ran and got it. He zhot at me again. Mizzed me again. Zo I zhot him. Got him right in between the ears.
Eyes?
Ears.
Anyhow, you got him.
I got him.
Good for you.
That’s what I think.
That’s all there was to it, huh?
It was enough, I thought. Thought it was plenty.
Yeah, of course. I mean, nobody could blackmail you with that information.
What do you think? Howd you do?
I stared glumly at the wall. Finally I said, Then nobody has tried to blackmail you?
Only you. If theyre all like you, they can try it any day.
I stared at the wall some more, thinking. Then I tried a different tack.
Maybe I’ve confused you, Miss Tabur, by talking about a blackmailer forcing his victim to fork over huge masses of money. Suppose he’s got all this hideous extortion info on you and says, I don’t want money. I want you. I lust for your wild body. I hunger for your . . . your . . .
Yeah, I got it.
And how you’ve — I mean, say the blackmailer, instead of demanding money, makes you pay with . . . by . . . by . . .
Yeah, I got it.
Well?
You trying to blackmail me?
No, I’m explaining. . . . I stopped and pressed a hot palm against my forehead. Well, well let that go. One last question. Do you know anybody named Wilfred Jellicoe?
I know who he is. But I never met him.
Never met him? Never talked to him — even on the phone?
No.
OK. I paused, thinking some more. You know, I’ve been on a lot of different cases, and some of them were . . . peculiar. But this . . . well, I really don’t know one bean about whats going on, when you come right down to it. And here I thought I had it all figured out. . . . Other cases, shucks, often I have them all wrapped up by this time.
You’re pretty good, huh?
Well, they just seemed to work out. In . . . the old days.
You look like you could do it.
Do what?
The blackmail. For one thing.
Whats the other thing?
Lets ztick to the blackmail. She paused, eyed me for a while. Maybe not. Maybe we ought to talk about the other thing.
Whats that?
You got to go zomewhere? I mean, like in the next hour?
I probably should. Though I don’t know quite where it would be. My well-laid plans have sort of . . . and I’ve got this dull throbbing in my head. . . .
Then ztay with me here for a while. Well get acquainted.
Well . . .
I think I like you. I’m not zure yet. At least you’re . . . different. I got to figure it out.
How do you do that?
I got a way.
Mind if I use your phone?
Go ahead. Zena paused. I have to leave, myself, in an hour, about. To meet a friend. After a moment she smiled and added, A girl friend.
Swell. In an hour, huh?
Well . . . maybe an hour and a half.
OK, I just want to call my office, make sure nothings come up. Then, as long as I cant think of anything constructive to do, I wont feel guilty staying here.
How do you know yet?
Hmm, I thought. Wheres the phone?
Under the helmet. She pointed.
It wasn’t just a helmet. It was a metal helmet with a head under it. A head with a face like the guy was realizing his head had just been chopped off.
I approached it gingerly.
Chinese, she said. Doesn’t look like much fun, does he?
What is it, a pay phone? You drop dimes in his mouth or something?
Just lift it off. It’s free.
I lifted the helmet and head off, and found the phone, which had been hidden underneath it. Very cleverly hidden, I thought, if you wanted to hide a phone. Nobody would ever think of looking for it there.
Still putting in overtime at the PBX, Hazel, like a silken-voiced sound of reality, brought me back to the real world. No, nothing new, no calls, everything was under control.
I hung up, put the helmet and head back on the phone, thinking again. Actually, this was a good idea, I was thinking. Turn the whole thing over to the subconscious. Usually it helps to get your conscious mind off the problem for a while; often something then falls into place, an idea, a clue, a missing link. That was the ticket. Push the problems clear out of the conscious mind. Let the old subconscious take over.
And I couldn’t think of anything better equipped to take my mind off problems than Zena.
Maybe Id been wrong about a lot of things; but I was right about that.
The delightful accent of Zena Tabur was like a hot breath off the Sahara in my ear. It was a bit difficult to decipher at first, but in these last minutes her message had become clearer and clearer.
So when she said, Gizz me, Zhell, gizz me, I knew exactly what she meant.
So, you guessed it, I gizzed her.
The phone rang and I leaped to within an inch of the ceiling. It was a clanging like gongs in a wash barrel.
What was that? I said.
Its the phone in the head, Zena said.
You’ve got one in there, too?
She walked to the helmet, saying, I zleep pretty good, pretty zound. Zo I need a loud bell. When I want to be zure nothing bothers me, I plug up my ears and take off the head, and I’m like I’m dead. Makes a racket, didn’t it?
She answered the phone and there was approximately a one-minute conversation. The usual girl talk, I gathered. Some gal calling — apparently the one Zena had said she was supposed to meet later. Well, it was now later.
It was, as the depressing phrase goes, later than I thought.
Because the last thing Zena said before hanging up the phone was, All right, half an hour, Zylvia. Uh-huh, you bet you. Bye, Zylvia.
Zylvia? That would be, in Zena’s language, Sylvia.
Sylvia. No, it couldn’t be. But I felt a cold chill sweep over me, anyhow. Not — No, it simply could not be.
As Zena turned and walked back toward me, I, while being quite active, said:
Darling, I — ah — have a little question to ask you.
10
I had two socks and one shoe on by the time Zena stopped before me.
Who — who was that? I asked innocently.
Zylvia.
I know that. But Zylvia who?
Zylvia Ardent. You know, the ztar —
I dropped my other shoe.
— of Girls Dorm. Were old friends; I guess zhes about my bezt — She paused. Why did you do that?
Do what?
Why, you let out a funny noise and jerked and zlammed your zhoe down on the floor.
I didn’t either jerk. Why would I jerk? And I did not zlam — slam my shoe on the floor. It just . . . slipped out of my fingers.
I busied myself getting my shoe from where it had bounced, and then sat down again and prepared to put it on, thinking very rapidly. After that I said casually, Sylvia Ardent, hey? Jesus. You know each other, huh?
Zhes juzt about my bezt friend in the whole world.
She was? Is? She is? That’s nice. She’s a nice girl. I paused, reminding myself to stay calm: Just don’t get rattled, Scott; that’s the ticket. She just called to say hello, huh? Please? I mean, she’s not the girl you’re supposed to see tonight, is she?
We get together every Monday night, almozt. Go out, maybe zee a movie, zometimes juzt talk about things.
Things? What do you mean by that?
What do you mean? You zound funny.
No, I don’t. You — uh — go to a movie, like that, huh? And talk about things? You don’t — don’t talk about . . . fellows, do you?
Better watch it, I told myself. Better be careful or youll give yourself away. Damn near did it right then.
Fortunately Zena was bending over and looking at my feet, t
he dumb broad.
You got one zhoe on without a zock, she said.
Whatre you trying to do, make me think I’m losing my mind? I said irritably. I distinctly remember putting both socks on.
Then you put em both on one foot.
Don’t be ridic — Well, how about that? I paused. Wouldn’t happen again in a million years. I paused. Someday — someday well laugh about this, I’ll bet. I paused. I stayed paused. My mind was completely stuck.
Zometimes Zylvia comes here, Zena was going on, zometimes I go there. We take turns.
You . . . take turns, huh?
Yes. And tonights my turn to go there. But I’m a little late. She laughed.
Very funny.
She reached out and played with my earlobe. In a voice that was soft, intimate, warm — probably the last time, I thought dismally, Id hear it even remotely like that — she said, I’m late, because you lied to me, Zhell.
Lied? Why, what — what — what in the world do you mean?
Zena smiled impishly. You zaid I was zafe with you.
I looked up at her. Baby, you might as well hear it from me. Nobody’s zafe when I’m around.
She laughed. You zay the craziest things.
Yeah, crazy.
Then with my shoes and socks on correctly — I had double-checked, to be sure — I stood up, looked Zena straight in the eyes, and said sincerely, I meant, you might as well hear it from me first.
At the door, I turned to Zena Tabur and said, Goodbye.
Not good-bye, zweet. Hasta la vista.
Wouldn’t that be nice, I said.
Then I nodded dumbly, turned and walked out.
It was minutes before sunset and the sky was aflame with most of heavens colors. But I felt as if I were walking into the cold, black night.
After leaving Zena Taburs it took me awhile to get my nerves under control. But when I once again felt reasonably well, I pulled over to the side of the road and sat in the Cad for a quarter of an hour, smoking and thinking.
I had discovered another truth of vast dimension: The sudden appearance of a larger problem can instantly diminish to manageable proportions a smaller — though previously apparently gigantic — problem. Thus my awareness that Sylvia Ardent and Zena Tabur were now or soon would be together, perhaps not at a movie but instead chatting merrily about — well — things made the Jellicoe-Cheim-Lash-Kiffer-hoodlums and possible-death-and-destruction problem one which I now felt equipped to handle.
The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 10