"I mean more than that kind of deal." He was a superb dancer.
"I didn't know Mannie Martin. You know Hollywood. I'm one of the set that doesn't go to cafes or premieres or even stay home entertaining my hundred most intimate friends in my marble cottage."
Kew interrupted, "Everyone eventually turns up at the Derby."
"The day I go there is the day everyone else stays home. Or I'm at the Vine when they're at the Beverly. In other words, I never know the latest, Kew. A costume designer isn't much more important than a writer."
The music stopped its din. She put her hand on his arm. "You don't mind? I'd like a breath of fresh air." She didn't want to return to the major. She did want to talk with Kew. They walked out on the terrace. The moon was pointing one shimmering finger over the dark waters. She said slowly, "Tell me, why is Mannie Martin's disappearance so important?"
He flared his lighter for their cigarettes. Only men like Kew had handsome cigarette lighters that behaved impeccably. She was apprehensive from his expression that he would evade but he didn't.
"Because Major Pembrooke came west to make a deal with Martin."
She asked again as she had over and over, it seemed, but she kept her voice stifled and looked over his shoulders before speaking. "Who is Major Pembrooke?"
"A British officer—"
She broke in, "I've heard that one."
"There isn't another. He is in this country in the interests of a Pan-Pacific network, jointly held by Britain and us. Monitoring and field stations to be included. It would be important if the war moves to the Far Fast. Major Pembrooke has been studying our stations throughout the country, their working plans with the major networks."
She asked, "And Mannie Martin?"
"Pembrooke had offered him the management of the new network."
"Why did you come out here, Kew? Was it because Mannie disappeared?"
He shook his head. "I was here before that happened. I came to get a story. I don't like to be scooped, even by governments. I heard about the Pan-Pacific deal in Washington. But I couldn't get a line on it from official sources. I knew Mannie slightly so I thought I'd trek out and he'd give me some dope." He frowned. "He wasn't talkative."
"You saw him?"
"Twice. I lunched with him the day before be disappeared. He said he wasn't ready to give out vet. He said stick around a few days and I'd get the whole story." He shrugged. "I'm still sticking." He leaned across the table. "Con heard from Mannie before he disappeared, didn't he?"
She couldn't say no. She wasn't certain. She shook her head.
Kew asked, "Are you sure? Mannie's copy of the contract is not in his office. I thought he might have sent it to Con for a checkover. He knew Con was close to Garth."
And Kew knew more than he was saying. He had reason for believing that Mannie had communicated with Con. He wasn't merely guessing. Fact was on his mouth.
She said definitely, "No. Con didn't hear from Mannie." Her hands didn't relax. She willed the tremble from her voice. "Why would Mannie want Garth to look over a business contract, Kew?"
He didn't answer but he said, "There isn't a note—not a line—dealing with the Pan Pacific deal in Mannie's files."
"How do you know that, Kew?" She asked it quietly.
"Pembrooke told me." He looked squarely at her. "I believe that disturbs him more than Mannie's absence. I'm guessing now."
He knew. He was a newspaperman and always they knew; their nostrils recognized the smell of the truth.
Her words were distinct, "You think Con might have them?"
"I think Con might have whatever missing document it is that is worrying the major."
"He hasn't." She could speak with certainty. Con left packing to her. She'd know if there had been contracts, documents, somewhere. He left his papers flung about, not filed as a businessman would.
Kew grasped the certainty. "There are only two answers. Either Mannie gave the stuff to someone or it was stolen from the office., If so, it was a deft job. The secretary swears not a paper clip is out of place."
She seized solution. "Why couldn't Mannie have given the stuff to Walker Travis?"
"He could have," Kew admitted. "Travis reports not." His voice was even. "The fact that the stuff hasn't turned up makes it pretty conclusive that Mannie didn't want it to turn up. It was given in confidence."
"Or stolen."
"Yes." He was thoughtful. "I'd like a look at those contracts and notes."
She asked, just as if she didn't realize he knew Pembrooke too well, "Why don't you try to examine the major's copies? Dare could help you."
He spoke slowly, "I don't trust Dare."
She was silent. She didn't herself but it was startling to hear it said, and by Kew.
He said, "They're coming out now. Nice weather we're having."
Dare called, "You ran out on us," and Con added, "Wife stealer."
His hand caught Griselda's and she smiled at him. "The ocean's out here, not in that stuffy room."
Kathie was standing beside Kew, looking at him. She slewed her eyes to Griselda in suspicion. Sergei was again at Con's sleeve, almost touching it.
Dare cried, "Major Pembrooke has invited us all to cruise a bit about the island. Isn't that divine?"
Kew didn't move. "Awfully good of you, Major, hut I promised Kathie some dancing tonight. It's Rob's farewell at the Casino, her favorite orchestra. Unless she wants to change her mind."
Kathie's enamored look was on Kew. Griselda had a fleeting pang of feeling for the poor little lieutenant on guard on a battleship. His wife said, "I don't care what we do. But I've never been on a yacht."
Sergei, suddenly courageous, squeaked, "Let us all go to Rob's, Yes, we must go dance with Rob. I have promised him personal. Any time we can yacht."
Griselda laughed silently. It was as if to him yachts were a dime a dozen—like blondes. But she had no intention either of getting on that yacht. Hot laughter ended in a shiver. For Con announced, "Rob will be at the Ambassador next week. We'll make up a party. Tonight we all sail in the moonlight."
He had his hand on her arm. He must have known it trembled. But he led the way jauntily toward the dock and even Sergei, with drawn face, followed.
* * *
The Falcon didn't look peaceful lying at anchor. Her lines were too dark and swift; the face at the top of the ladder wore the malicious gravity of a heathen god. He spoke in his own tongue and the major answered in kind before turning to his guests. "You will excuse me a moment," He followed the short white-duck legs.
The lights of Avalon across were not Japanese paper lanterns at an old-fashioned garden party, but they were as evanescent and as far distant. The deck here was as non-sinister as any floating playground. The ducky Oriental navy Dare had mentioned was moving without sound within the lighted salon; its mouse pattering ran all over the ship.
Griselda managed to reach Con's arm for one moment before Dare coiled there again. Under her breath she pleaded, "I don't want to cruise in the moonlight."
He said out of the side of his mouth, "You won't," and to Dare's approaching nearness, "You couldn't find that little guy who mixes the Planters Punches, could you? I'm thirsty."
Dare said. "But, of course, darling." She went to the door of the salon.
And Griselda heard the tender sputtering away into the night. Sergei stood by the rail watching wishfully. Kathie alone was unreservedly content. Her fingers touched the chromium; her eyes licked the moon-white lounging chairs. She liked yachts. She didn't care who owned them or what he wanted with this group. Kew watched her.
Albert George returned. His mouth was grim. "I'm afraid my invitation was premature. I'd forgotten it was Saturday night. My captain and first mate evidently shared the popular desire to hear this Rob. I have sent for them. Meanwhile—"
"I've ordered drinks, darling," Dare told him.
Con said, "Hope you didn't mind, old man. But my tongue was hanging out for your specials. I sampled them
yesterday afternoon when I barged in on Dare."
You didn't barge in on a yacht; you took special steps to get there.
Dare cried, "We had a grand session about old times. I'm sorry you had to be on the mainland, Albert George. You'd have enjoyed it."
Kew spoke flatly. "He'd have been bored stiff." He walked over to Kathie, slid his palm against her arm. "Like it?"
"It is wonderful." Her eyes were aglow.
"I'll show you around after a bit. Mrs. Travis," the major said.
The Planter's Punches arrived. Everyone drank but Griselda. Maybe she was behaving as absurdly as Con's eyebrows seemed to point out. But this wasn't a pleasure visit.
Nor did the pretense of it remain on the surface for long. There was a second round of drinks. And the major asked casually, but it wasn't casual, "I believe you mentioned that your husband saw Mannie Martin the night before he disappeared, Mrs. Travis."
Con took Griselda's second untouched glass. That made four for him: two up on the others. "Thought we weren't going to talk about Mannie."
Albert George wasn't pretending now. He was military. "As a matter of fact, I suggested this retreat in order that we might discuss the problem without the infernal din." He waved his cigar at the hotel across the waters.
"Let the police find him," said Con. "We're not detectives."
"The police have not been effective." Pembrooke said. "Against my better judgment they were not consulted until too long after the disappearance. I spoke to the studio officials the morning after Martin did not keep his appointment with me. I suggested then that they report to official quarters. They didn't."
"If I told 'em once, I told 'em—" Con quoted broadly at Dare. "Let's have another set. What's your hurry, Major?"
He answered with distinct control. "You should realize that it is necessary for our governments jointly to speed the Pan-Pacific network, much as the Pan-American network which has recently been inaugurated commercially was arranged. Perhaps you realize that it is necessary to speed the plans, not knowing from one day to the next what will occur to thwart them, or to make such a network of supreme importance. My hands are tied awaiting Martin’s return."
''Why wait for him? Why not forge right along? Serve him right."
"I need him," Pembrooke admitted brusquely.
"Why?" It was unusual for Kathie to be interested. She doubtless sniffed more kudos for the family friend.
"I need him or I need your husband, Mrs. Travis. I was told in Washington that there were only two men capable of planning this system." He smiled at her. "Unfortunately the lieutenant couldn't help out because of Navy regulations, although Mannie did confer with him on some technical matters."
Her eyes were wide. "I never know anything about Walker's business. He never tells me. He knows I'm not interested."
"Just like my wife," Con interjected loudly.
Pembrooke ignored him. "You wouldn't know then, Mrs. Travis, if your husband kept a memorandum of the work he and Martin did?"
She shook her head helplessly.
"You can see why my hands are tied. I don't have the data. We believe that Martin was bringing it to me when he disappeared. It isn't among his papers. There is nothing I can do until he is found. That, Mr. Satterlee"—he spoke with ironic deference to Con—"is why I asked the question of Mrs. Travis. I feel that there may be some piece of information that has escaped the police in their broader search, something that might lead us to Martin. Do you know, Mrs. Travis, if Martin told your husband that Sunday night anything about his plans for the next day?"
The wind stirred her dusky hair and she was beautiful. And stupid. "He was going to see Walker the next day. He was going to meet him at seven-thirty at Navy Landing. But he telephoned before dinner and postponed it until later. And then he didn't show up at all."
Griselda was watching her. It might all be lies, even as she had lied about Shelley Huffaker. She had spoken then with that same sweet quietness. Mannie had liked women. Kathie liked men. She was impressed by the radio executive's belongings. She might have had a private friendship with the man, know much more than she was saying. But her heart was so obviously on her sleeve for Kew. Another man didn't belong. And even if she had played a game with Mannie, there was no reason for her lying now. Unless… Griselda winced. Unless Walker Travis knew what had happened to his friend. Was Walker as hard under his rabbit front as Kathie under her seeming softness? Could he have wanted to supplant Mannie in this new deal, gather to himself some of the things his wife clutched after? A man could resign from the Navy. If Mannie didn't reappear, Pembrooke would move mountains to retain Walker's services.
The major had turned to Con. "Mannie didn't send you his notes, did he?"
Con roared happily. "For Cod's sake, why would he send them to me? I'm a commentator not a technician. I wouldn't know a kilowatt from an antenna."
Pembrooke wasn't amused. "He did write to you. His secretary mailed the letter. But it wasn’t dictated to her."
"Oh, that." Con beckoned the attending boy. "That was personal."
"You did receive a letter?"
"Yeah. I didn't get it till alter Mannie'd flown the coop. He sent it to New York and then it had to travel way back out again to Hollywood. If he'd known I was in town he could have called me up and saved postage."
"Do you have the letter with you?"
Griselda waited tensely.
"Never keep letters." Major Pembrooke couldn't know that Con's suits resembled a newspaper waste-basket until cleaners' day. And that there hadn't been need for cleaners' day these past weeks. Con must still have the letter. Was that what the intruder had been after Wednesday night? She looked at him. He was leaning back in his chair content in the acceptance of his lie.
"Do you remember what he had to say?"
Con sat straight and scowled. "I told you it was personal."
"Con." Dare laid her hand on his arm. "Don't be that way. Can't you see Albert George is just trying to get any slight lead as to where Mannie might be found? Any small hint—"
Con waved his glass in apology. "Sorry, old boy. I don't remember anything about it. Something about a fishing trip or a fish or something. Nothing important. Nothing about taking a powder." He held Dare's hand, rubbing his thumb over the smooth black red polish of her nails. He spoke as if the major had vanished. "Anyhow, darling, Albert George is asking the wrong questions of the wrong guy. Sergei's already told us that Mannie is found."
Sergei shrilled nervously, "I told you I do not know. It is the rumor I hear." His hands deprecated it. "That Hollywood, so much always the rumor, never what has happened."
Kew interjected gently, "Perhaps if they find the murderer of Shelley Huffaker, they'll have a lead on Mannie. Kathie met this Huffaker girl through him. It is quite probable that she knew Martin too well."
Kathie shook her head softly. "I told you she wasn't his girl, Kew. She wasn't his type at all. She was common."
"I know, darling." He turned back to the others. "But she might have run into some information about this deal which someone wanted to suppress."
Dare broke in, "Your assumption. Kew, is that Mannie was suppressed to keep the deal from going through? At any rate at this time?"
"What else?"
Pembrooke admitted, "It is that which I fear. It is for that reason that I pleaded with his associates to call in the police at once."
Con passed his glass. "You can relax, old boy. Cap'n Thusby is on the job now. He'll find Mannie for you."
The major eyed him. "You said earlier that Mannie would not return."
"He won't. But Thusby'll turn up the cadaver. Probably have all the papers you want in the pocket. And you can make new plans."
Griselda wondered—did the major really want Mannie found? The man was worried about something; that couldn't be an act; it sweated from every pore. It was these papers, written information of some sort. Did he believe, as Kew did: that they had been turned over to Con or to Travis? Was that wh
y they were here on The Falcon? Kathie in her husband's place because Walker was regulated by the Navy? Was the major that determined to regain this information? Griselda sat tensely on guard waiting for the return whir of the tender and for the throb of the engines below deck.
Kathie protested, "I don't want to hear about bad things. Please let's not talk about it." She raised her lashes. "You said you'd show me around, Major Pembrooke."
"Delighted." His cigar circled the semi-dark. "Would the rest of you care to come?"
He'd rather they wouldn't but each one accepted, even Sergei. Griselda alone remained on the deck, the one small hand against the dike. She tried to think about what had happened, what was happening. Somehow, somewhere, Shelley Huffaker's death must be a part of Mannie's disappearance. If it were entirely unconnected, a happening that had nothing to do with the Pan-Pacific network, the police might involve Con merely to solve the murder. They couldn't do it. Even if the pieces weren't ready to fit as yet, Shelley must be tied in with the trouble. If only she had been Mannie's girl friend, if only there were a jealous man or woman to have fired the gun, if only the police had someone but Con on whom to pin suspicion.
She thought she heard the hiss of a step behind her and she half rose out of her chair, looked quickly. There wasn't even a white-ducked figure slippering away. She was quite alone on the deck. The others had been gone too long. She came to her feet, moved silently to the rail, but there was no small boat approaching. Hesitantly she walked to the door of the salon, even more hesitantly stepped inside. She knew Oriental authenticity and beauty. The room was magnificent. And it was empty. Its silence was as forbidding as the ancient greening bronze Buddha hovering maliciously in the far shadowy corner. She stepped quickly to the stairs that led below; her black satin heels were reassuring staccato striking through the gemmed color of the rug.
She hesitated there at the top of the red-carpeted staircase. Her hand was colder than the cold brass balustrade. There was no sound from below. She moved silently now, step by step, waiting for sound at each small descent, hearing none. The corridor below was as soundless. It was as if she were alone on the ship. She didn't know which way to move; she went ahead, toward the dim light at the far end, past one narrow closed door, and another, and another. She might have been a wraith; there was as little motion and sound in her progress.
The Bamboo Blonde Page 9