While I helped Sam into the dining roam, Mark had one of the deputies remove Rod Caine to another part of the ship.
For an instant, Rod and Sam surveyed each other in the doorway, then Chief Clements helped me ease Sam Aces into a chair. He cried out from the pain, staggered to his feet, pushed several helping hands away and crumpled to the floor. In the middle of his back was a bullet hole.
“Get a doctor, quick!” I yelled at Chief Clements.
Mark rolled Sam over and said, “Who did it, Aces?”
“I—it must have been Caine,” the lanky producer whispered. “I didn’t see him. He got me through the window from behind. I fell and didn’t move for a long time. I guess he thought I was dead.”
I wiped a trickle of blood out of the corner of his mouth with my handkerchief. “Where did it happen, Sam?”
“In a little house we rented near the chimes tower.”
“What do you mean we, Sam?”
“Swanson and I. We—we were trying to outsmart Caine. But I guess he was much smarter than we figured.” Aces choked, gasped desperately for breath.
Mark leaned over the wounded man. “Aces, we’ve sent for a doctor—”
“It—it’s too late for that,” Sam whispered. “I got to tell you something. I—I came all this way because—because you got to know the—truth.”
“All right, Aces, tell us as much as you can.” Sam closed his eyes for an instant and said, “I—I’ve been handling narcotics. The yacht’s loaded with heroin. Caps are packed in liquor cases down in the storeroom.”
“Why, Sam?” I asked. “You didn’t need the money. You don’t take the stuff. Why’d you fool with it?”
The producer shook his head and groaned. “It was Lori. She was an addict when I married her. I didn’t know. When I caught her taking junk she threatened to leave me if I didn’t help her get the stuff. I—I couldn’t let her go. I love Lori. I love her more than anything else in the world.”
I glanced at Mark. It was obvious Sam Aces didn’t know his wife was dead.
“To save my marriage,” he continued, “I got involved. It wasn’t much at first. Then the big operators backed me against the wall. They—they threatened to ruin me if I didn’t cooperate. They turned Hell’s Light into a floating warehouse and forced me to supply the pushers.”
“Herb Nelson was one of your clients, wasn’t he?” Mark said.
“Yes.”
“Do you know who murdered him?”
“No.”
“Why did you hire me, Sam?” I asked.
Aces peered up at me, his eyes glazed with pain. “Because—because I couldn’t go to the police. They might have traced down my narcotics connections. But I had to know who was trying to poison me.”
“You were searching for something that day in my office, weren’t you, Sam?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Herb Nelson’s file?”
“Yes. I was afraid you had some information about his being a pusher that might lead to me.”
“Do you know who stole my gun?” I asked.
Aces tried to smile. “I took it, Honey.”
“Why?”
“I—I got scared. I wanted you to quit the case. You were much too smart. But—I knew you’d only be more suspicious if I fired you. So, I took your gun out of your bag.”
“And took two shots at me.”
Aces winced. “Yes. I only meant to frighten you, but you moved at the wrong moment. I—I was very sorry about that.”
Mark said, “Did you really believe Swanson was trying to poison you?”
“Yes.”
“You said you and Swanson rented a cabin together in Avalon. When did you change your mind about him?”
“The night I disappeared.”
“What happened that night?”
“I—I faked the poisoning,” Aces said, struggling for his words. “I wanted to confuse Swanson, bring him into the open. Let him trap himself. But, I was wrong. B.S. wasn’t the guy who was after me. I realized that after somebody cracked him on the skull and hung him from the ceiling in Honey’s cabin.”
I wiped another trickle of blood from Aces’ mouth. “You hid in that trunk up on the bow, didn’t you, Sam?”
“Yes,” Aces whispered. “Then later I moved down be low to a place you never would have found. There’s a false bulkhead on the stern end of the engine room.”
“You were bleeding,” Mark said. “We found blood stains in the bow trunk. What happened?”
Aces tried to smile again. “I saw red when B.S. came into the bar and started swinging at Rod Caine. You remember, Honey. I hit him pretty hard with my fist.” He held up his right hand. His knuckles were lacerated. “Lucky it was raining,” he added, staring at me, “or you could have followed my trail straight to that trunk.”
“Then what?”
The wounded producer lifted up slightly, groaning from new pain. Finally, he said, “We—decided Rod Caine was our man.”
“Who’s we? You and Swanson?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“I—I can’t tell you,” Aces said lowly. “I met with B.S. during the night—down in the secret room. I told him Caine was out to get us both. He was skeptical, but agreed to help me find out. The next morning we went to Caine’s island cabin. We planted a note in his coat pocket and then took my jacket to Little Harbor.”
“You smeared it with blood, put a bullet hole through the front and dumped the jacket on the beach,” I said.
“Yes. We wanted to cast suspicion on Caine so the police would take him into custody after finding the note and the jacket.”
I added, “Then Bob Swanson actually did order Ann Claypool to send Caine to his island cabin for a meeting.”
Aces nodded.
“This was supposed to attract us into following Caine and searching for his cabin.”
“Yes.”
“And Swanson’s disappearance on the beach at White’s Landing was another ruse.
“Yes. He met me at a secret cove and we went into Avalon to the house near the chimes tower.”
“Who made the arrangements for the rental?” Mark asked.
“Danny Marble.”
“Does he work for you?”
Aces said, “He’s a pusher. He handles the young island crowd during the summer. I supply him—that’s all.”
“Sam,” I said quietly, “did you ask Danny Marble to do you a favor?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“I—I gave him some heroin caps to plant in Caine’s lab case. Something went wrong. I never found out what.”
I glanced at Mark Storm, then said, “I’ll tell you what I think went wrong, Sam. We almost caught Danny in Caine’s cabin. He must have grabbed the case and ran to Rod’s boat cave. He was going to escape in our boat, but we came down the hill too soon. Then he tossed the case into the water and hid.”
“So, Danny Marble was our stowaway,” Mark said, shaking his head.
“That’s my guess,” I continued. “He took the Clementine back to Hell’s Light, tied her up and then swam to shore where he retrieved the metal case containing the heroin caps.”
“Why did you want H planted in Caine’s lab case?” Mark asked.
“To make him break when the police questioned him.” I asked, “Who planted my gun in your bathroom window?”
“I—I don’t know,” Aces whispered. “Caine, I guess. I thought it was Swanson until we got together. Caine must have had an ally aboard the yacht.”
“Sam, did you plant the arsenic in Decker’s luggage?”
“I—don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did you and Swanson send Decker a note asking him to meet Swanson yesterday at four-thirty at the chimes tower?”
“No. You can ask Decker if you don’t believe me.”
“Decker’s dead, Sam.”
Sam Aces tried to get up, choked several times and then fell back, gasping for
air, blood streaming from his mouth again. “It—it—isn’t—possible,” he whispered.
“He was shot and hanged in the chimes tower.”
“Where’s Swanson?” Aces looked around weakly.
“Dead.”
“Ann Claypool?”
“Dead.”
“And Joe Meeler?”
“Stabbed.”
“Lori? No, not Lori, too!”
“Sam, she’s—”
Tears welled up in Sam Aces’ eyes and ran down the sides of his face. He trembled violently. “I—I should have known,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I—should have known all the time, but I was too stupid to realize—”
The producer rolled over on his stomach, his hand searching for the wound that was draining life out of him.
Mark got up, gestured to Chief Clements. “Have Caine brought in here immediately.”
Clements went into the swimming-pool bar and brought Rod Caine back into the dining room. He was assisted by a deputy sheriff and the seaman, Carruthers.
Sam Aces was so near death that he couldn’t move. His head lay twisted sideways on the floor and a stream of red ran across the planking. He stared at me as I kneeled down and lifted his head into my lap. He seemed awesomely pathetic, like a dog crumpled on the highway, trying to make me understand what he felt, but unable to say it except with his eyes.
Mark bent over the dying producer. “Aces,” he said softly, “will you point out the man who shot you in the back?”
For a long moment, Sam didn’t move. His eyes remained riveted on mine as if he were trying to convey some vitally important message. Then, very slowly, he looked across the room.
Rod Caine took a step toward Aces, but was held back by the three men around him. “Tell them the truth, Sam,” the writer pleaded. “Tell them I didn’t do it! Tell them!”
Then, with the last ounce of strength in his body, Sam Aces lifted his arm and pointed across the room to where Rod Caine stood with his three guards.
“You were my friend,” he whispered. “I—I should have known.”
His arm dropped to the floor and he was dead.
I watched them carry Sam Aces’ body down to a Coast Guard launch. The blood-stained boat Sam had used to travel from Avalon was also tied to the float.
Mark patted me on the shoulder as he prepared to board the launch with Rod Caine. “I’ll see you on the mainland tomorrow,” he said. “Come on, smile. You look like you’ve just lost your last friend.”
I glanced at Rod. “Maybe I have. Mark, what did Aces’ mean when he said, ‘I should have known’? Known what?”
“That Caine was the murderer.”
“But,” I argued, “he’d already said he thought Rod had been the one who shot him through the window.”
“That’s right,” Mark agreed. “But he was stunned when we told him about the others—especially his wife.”
The other police officials and Coast Guard officers climbed aboard the launch. Dawn was beginning to light the morning sea and a breeze scattered salt spray across my cheeks.
“Look, Mark,” I insisted, “Aces said, ‘you were my friend.’ Rod Caine wasn’t his friend. He hadn’t been his friend for a long time.”
Mark pulled his hat firmly on his head. “Honey, you’re just sniping in the dark. The thumbprints check. Aces pointed out the man he thought was the murderer. So there it is. Sure, a few loose ends here and there, but we’ll leave those to the prosecution to nail down. See you tomorrow.”
The Coast Guard launch slid away from the float, gained momentum and disintegrated in the shadow of the island. I walked back up the steps. Music still drifted from the swimming-pool bar where a few diehards were still drinking Sam Aces’ whiskey. On deck, at the head of the stairs, was Carruthers. He smiled in a drunken, half-lidded manner, and moved toward the bow. I called to him.
“Yes, ma’am?” He tipped his hat and grinned broadly.
“Who has charge of all the small boats attached to Hell’s Light?”
“I do, ma’am.”
“Have you noticed any of them missing during the past few days?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re sure?”
Carruthers nodded. His grin seemed like an idiot’s grin, fixed and cemented on his old face. “Is that all, ma’am?”
“No,” I said. “How long have you worked on this yacht?”
“Long time. Years, ma’am. Why, I was just thinking, there ain’t been so much excitement aboard Hell’s Light since old man Aces fell off the bridge and broke his neck.” He laughed raucously. It seemed like a poor thing to laugh about. His eyes rolled weirdly, seeming to whirl like pinwheels on the Fourth-of-July.
Suddenly, I stepped back, for the first time really listening to his voice, really hearing his laughter. They didn’t seem to belong to the body.
He took a .38 revolver out of his pocket and leveled it at my heart. His hand trembled, but he still laughed. He seemed like some awful mirth machine at the Pike in Long Beach that got stuck and wouldn’t stop until somebody smashed the mechanism.
“You’re too smart, Honey,” the laughing voice said over and over. “I always knew you were.”
I shook my head, trying to shut out the sight, the sound, the laughter. “It—it couldn’t be possible,” I said.
“Ever hear of the wrong man,” the voice laughed inside of Carruthers. “Well, I’m the wrong man and you’re the wrong woman and this is the wrong world! Funny, Honey? You kill me! Really fracture me! Your expression.”
“Then you’re the one Aces really was pointing at.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the laughing voice continued. “I thought he was dead. I was down taking a fix and when I came up they were having a little trouble with Caine so I volunteered my services. Then, when we got inside and I saw Sad Sam—” The laughter choked him, choked him double, choked him until he couldn’t stand, choked him until he was lying face-down on the deck.
I kicked the revolver out of his hand, grasped him by the shoulders and rolled him over. He wasn’t breathing. The idiot’s smile was still cemented on his face. I reached inside my skirt pocket and produced a handkerchief. The cloth lifted a coat of makeup from the man’s face. Underneath was a deep scratch on his right cheek. Underneath another layer was Herb Nelson.
EIGHTEEN
IT WAS DAYLIGHT BEFORE THE CORONER, MARK STORM and Chief Clements came out of the stateroom where the man who had died laughing lay, the idiot’s smile still frozen on his lips.
Mark seemed brutally dazed as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes had found under Carruthers’ makeup. He stared at me for a long time and then shook his head.
“It’s Herb Nelson, all right,” Mark said. “Narcotics killed him. Stopped his heart like a clock.” He tried to steady himself against the yacht’s railing. “Honey, I just don’t get it. Call me stupid. Call me anything. But—we were so certain that the corpse we found at Herb Nelson’s place was—”
“Were we, Mark?” I felt sick at the pit of my stomach. “We weren’t so much certain as we were stunned. We found a man Herb’s size, weight and age, with his head and face bashed in, carrying Herb’s wallet and wearing Herb’s rings, and we were shocked to think it was a guy we’d idolized when we were kids. A guy who’d been a prince, a champion—” I covered my face with my hands. My God, I can still hear him laughing!”
Mark put his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Honey.”
I wiped my eyes and glanced up at the big lieutenant. “You said a skid-row bum named Ed Walker was seen entering Herb’s place about an hour before the murder. You said he’d vanished. How do we know he’s not our mangled body in the morgue?”
“Yeah,” Mark said. “I thought of that, too. From what I can remember, his build and characteristics were similar to Nelson’s.”
“You said he was a user. He could have been on the prowl for H, found Herb gone and torn the place apart looking for junk. Instead, he came across Herb’s ident
ification, his wallet and two of his rings. He even discovered an old coat of Herb’s with initials embroidered on the pocket and he put it on. As he was leaving with the loot, Nelson appeared. Herb had probably been down the hall in the bathroom getting ready for bed and in a narcotic frenzy he grabbed his Oscar and started swinging. End of story.”
“Oh, no,” the lieutenant groaned. “Beginning of story.”
“That’s not the beginning, Mark. The beginning was—” I shrugged my shoulders. “Who knows—probably when Herb Nelson took his first pop. A big star trying out a new thrill and it sank him right to the bottom. And when he got to the very last rung, one guy tried to give him a hand—Sam Aces.
“Are you kidding?” Mark said, arching his thick brows. “Aces was the good samaritan who supplied Nelson with junk.”
“Sure,” I defended. “Sam even supplied his own wife, but he didn’t want to. He admitted he was trapped—caught—probably even worse than one of his hypes.”
“How did he help Nelson?”
‘The only way he knew how. He tried to get him bit parts in TV shows. Then came that disastrous day when Swanson threw Herb off the set at Television Riviera. Herb’s pride was deeply hurt. His drug-twisted mind craved revenge.”
“So, what’d he do?”
“Rod told me the last he’d heard about Nelson was that he was working as a bartender’s assistant at the Golden Slipper. I have a hunch Sam got him that job. I have another hunch that one night Swanson and Decker were sitting at that bar drinking heavily when Golden Boy ordered a screwdriver. The bartender mixed the drink and while it was waiting to be served, Herb slipped in some arsenic. I’m sure he didn’t know that drink had been ordered for his friend, Sam Aces.”
“Nelson poisoned Aces’ drink intending it for Swanson?”
“That’s how I figure it,” I said. “He never admitted the truth to Sam because the mistake provided a brand new idea. Since Aces thought Swanson was out to get him, Herb decided to make it appear as if Golden Boy were threatening his life, too. Then he picked me out of the phone book, planted a few seeds of suspicion about Swan son and—you know the rest.”
“But I don’t know the rest,” Mark said. “All I knew is Nelson must have killed Walker like you said. Sure it was a mistake on our part. The body was so badly battered we couldn’t go on facial features. He had no living relatives, no birth certificate. He’d never driven a car, never registered his fingerprints with the Department of Motor Vehicles. He’d never been in the service or belonged to any special clubs or secret orders. I don’t think he’d ever been fingerprinted in his life.”
This Girl for Hire Page 15