And then she heard voices and she moved eagerly, alive again, to the door from which they issued. She had been wrong, it was one voice and she backed away from its menace. Her hand faltered against the near door. She could hear too clearly those uncompromising words. If they had been spoken in anger, they would not have been so fearful. But they were as unaccented, as level in cadence, as if they issued from a mechanized transcription.
"You will stay out of this if you are wise. I do not wish any assistance. I prefer and intend to handle matters unaided."
She couldn't distinguish the murmuring response but the major's voice came again in dreadful clarity.
"This girl's death is nothing to me. I had no acquaintance with her."
Again the indistinguishable murmur and again audible words, more flintlike than before.
"I am slow to anger as you should realize. But there comes a time when any man's temper is strained. I warn you again, stay out of my affairs. I will attend to all who interfere with me as soon as my business here is completed."
She heard movement and she pressed against the door where she stood, her fingers automatically fumbling the knob. It gave and she stepped backward, noiselessly, even as the other door was opened. She closed herself into the darkness and waited without breathing. She heard steps moving up the corridor; whether one or more, she didn't know. She waited, not daring to stir. It seemed as if she stood there for endless time waiting courage to venture out again, fearing lest she come face to face with that cold insensate voice.
She opened the door a lean, noiseless crack. The corridor was empty as before. She couldn't run up the stairs; she was so weak she clamped the handrail, lifted weighted slippers. There wasn't reason for this reaction; because a man's voice held the threat of death didn't mean she was in danger.
The salon was empty as before. She rushed to the doorway, stepped on deck. Each person was in place; she might have dreamed her vigil there, her journey into the dim world below stairs. Each one looked at her with more than idle curiosity. And she heard at that moment the sputter of the returning boat.
She broke restraint. She ran to Con and he jumped to meet her. She heard the hysteria in her voice, "I want to go back to the hotel. I have to go back- I don't feel well. You've got to take me back."
His hands were strong, his voice steady, "My wile's evidently not feeling well, Major. Could you set us ashore?"
She couldn't see Pembrooke's face, only the color of the tip of his cigar. He said, "If you wish, certainly. Or Mrs. Satterlee is welcome to rest here. There are any number of guest cabins."
She whispered in horror, "No. No," and felt the reassuring pressure of Con's fingers.
"In fact, I was going to suggest after this late start that we continue our cruise through tomorrow. I can put everyone up."
Con said, "Awfully good of you, but I think we'd better shove off. Griselda's always been subject to seasickness." She welcomed the falsehood. "Even lying at anchor sometimes does this to her. So if we may—"
The brown sailor had come up the ladder. Griselda held tight to Con. But there was no captain or mate following. The major's face was cruel as he heard what was failure.
Descending after Con into the small boat below, Griselda didn't look at the black pit of the waters. She closed her eyes to the ruthless black swell as they sputtered toward St. Catherine's Landing. She didn't speak until they were in the hotel room again and Con staring down at her.
"For God's sake, what happened to you?"
She shook her head. She couldn't tell of the fear that had seized her there on the boat. She finally said lamely, "I didn't want to cruise on his yacht."
Con frowned. "I told you we wouldn't. I wouldn't have taken you on board if I hadn't known the captain was enjoying a night off."
"How could you know that?"
His mouth quirked. "I'm prescient. Did you ever hear of a Mickey Finn, mixed by a specialist?" He said, "It was safe enough anyway. Nothing's going to happen until those papers are found." He asked again firmly, "But what set you off?"
Her eyes were wide. "Con. You weren't the one the major was talking to? In his cabin?"
He demanded softly, "What did you hear?"
Haltingly she told it. "You weren't the one? He wasn't threatening you, was he, Con?" Was it Sergei? Kew? A woman?
He reassured her. "Dare didn't let me out of her sight. The sightseeing tour must have been on the bridge when you went below. Just missed you. You shouldn't prowl in strange places, baby." He kissed her. "Might be dangerous sometimes."
She insisted frantically. "Was it you. Con?"
"I told you."
But he hadn't. Dare could have been in that room, too.
She lay shivering later, alone again in bed, Con gone, whether to yacht again or dame or spy, she didn't know. All he'd said was, "I'm going out for a little. Be back in one hour." She knew Con's one hours and she went to bed. But she didn't woo sleep. She didn't know of what dreams might be made. They might be of the face of Major Albert George Pembrooke.
* * *
They were wandering the bronzed street fronting on the sea. She cried, "Con, look, there's the peanut boy!"
Con mumbled, "Who?" without paying any attention. He was decorating himself with paper leis, rose and white and purple, from one of the sidewalk shops.
"Captain Thusby's son. The one who ate peanuts in his hat." It was Vinnie Thusby. It looked as if he were talking to Chang. Surely the queer Mr. Smithery wasn't giving Con away again. He couldn't. There was nothing harmful to say.
Con turned then. "Where?"
But the gangly police officer had vanished, his companion with him. "He was there, right over there, by that hamburger stand."
"I don't see him." He replaced the leis in the open basket, took her arm. His question was unexpected, "Want to ride or walk back to the hotel?"
She looked searchingly at him but his face was without expression. "Walk." It wasn't far and the path followed the water. "Why do you suppose he'd be here?"
"Everyone comes here. Just like going to the circus." he was moving in great strides; she had to skip to keep up with him. "Let's have lunch in our room and take a nap before the boat sails."
Lovely. But she didn't say it. It only sounded lovely. It wouldn't work that way. She knew the formula. Wait until she was safely disrobed before saying, "I'm going out. Be back in one hour."
She didn't believe it when they did lunch together, alone, with laze on the bed after; no thrusting nose of outsiders, not even the flags of The Falcon decorating the sea view from their opened window. No interruptions, no excuses to get away. Con and she together at long last. She couldn't spoil it by demand for information that she knew he must hold. She even stilled the whisper that he might be avoiding young Thusby, might be afraid the boy had come for him. There was no earthly reason for the suggestion. Captain Thusby didn't want Con. He'd said not to leave Long Beach but that was merely for convenience if there was need of further questioning.
They took the hotel bus to Avalon Landing in the late afternoon. There was no familiar face among the hundreds embarking for the mainland. Rob's brass and woodwinds stood on the upper deck playing their farewell to Avalon. But no sweet sadness welled in Griselda for the departure. No desire to fling flower garlands to tie her to this island. Her wish was that leaving it might mean leaving forever the major's scarcely hidden brutality, Sergei's shrill insistence. She didn't expect to be that fortunate. For Kew and Kathie would return to Long Beach, and Dare, and where these went, Pembrooke would appear. Fatalistically she knew that.
She followed Con to the upper deck wishing there were more than this small aisle of sea separating Catalina from the coast. He was gulping the wind as if it were one of his drinks, his face grinning from eyes to chin.
"This is stuff!" he shouted. "This is what we should have for a real honeymoon. Life on the ocean wave, tra la."
All the near passengers also were shouting above the wind; no one paid any attent
ion to any one individual. Yet again this was no place to ask questions about the waning week end. Nor would he answer. He was still believing that by not discussing this affair with her, he might discourage danger from touching her. She wouldn't think about it. He was right; this was beauty, like being a little girl again, sailing to a mythically serene England, a summer-gay France. "Never no more."
He must have sensed her refrain for he said with a scowl, "It isn't fair that the delusions of grandeur of one small Austrian should have spoiled the whole world for us."
She caught his hand tightly, shouted too, "Never mind, darling. We've still the Hoboken ferry."
But she shivered. With the war so near, you didn't know. She said no more; tried to be gay with him. If he didn't know it was sham, he wasn't very bright. As a matter of fact, she knew he wasn't bright. Had he been, he'd get out of this business now, before it was too late.
* * *
There was the usual gangplank crush as the boat was slurred to the Wilmington dock. And at the foot of the gangplank was Captain Thusby, easing his peg leg, happy as if he belonged to the ship. It was then Con said softly, "If I should have to take a little jaunt, darling, you'd hold the fort, wouldn't you?"
She turned her eyes up to him in sudden fear and caught his arm.
He laughed at her. "My God, angel, don't look as if the sky were about to bean you." But there was dead seriousness in his voice under the laugh as they approached the waiting captain. "You'll keep the candle burning in the window, won't you?"
She held his coatsleeve closely as if she might thus keep him with her. But she asked lightly, "You don't mean our little shack in Long Beach, do you, darling?"
"Right the first time."
They had reached the foot of the gangplank. Captain Thusby lifted his cap to her.
"Evening, ma'am. Evening, Satterlee. Heard you'd gone to Santa Catalina."
Con pretended surprise. He said, "How are you, Cap'n? Didn't expect to see you here. Yeah, we're regular tourists."
They were in a little huddle of three. She held on to Con's arm, too tightly, waiting, waiting for explanation, for movement, for something to still the unease of Thusby's presence and Thusby's pointed bluish eyes.
Con said, "What are you doing over here? Off your fishing ground, isn't it?"
"Not exactly, Satterlee." His head hung. "Fact is I was sort of waiting for you."
"You wanted to see me?" Con was still acting surprised.
The captain rubbed his neck. But his eyes were steady. "Fact is I'm here to place you under arrest." He spoke apologetically.
"Oh no!" Griselda whispered it, then she cried. "Oh, no!"'Her body pressed close to Con's, clutching him.
His face was sober now. For once he had no answer.
Thusby said, "I'm sorry, ma'am." He fumbled at his coat. "I've got a warrant if you—"
Con said quickly, "That's all right. I know it's in order."
Griselda held more tightly. "But why—what—"
"It's that girl's murder," Thusby began.
"But Con didn't do it. He didn't even know her. He'd never seen her before."
Con loosed her gently but with a steady firmness. "Don't bother, Griselda. It'll be all right. Don't worry about me. It's all right." His eyes were steady on her. He turned to Thusby. "I suppose you want me to go over with you?"
"Uh-huh." He looked around. "You can drive me if you don't mind. Don't know how myself. Too old to learn."
"And Griselda?"
He continued looking around. "Vinnie's here somewheres. He can take your wife over." He raised a forefinger, shouted. "Vinnie!" The long tall son came to them. He was as abashed as the chief.
"Vinnie, you'll see Mrs. Satterlee home, won't you?"
Griselda was angry, angry at the hopelessness of it, at Con standing like a sheep doing nothing, saying nothing, not even mentioning Garth. "I don't need anyone with me." Her scorn mounted. "I don't need a policeman."
Vinnie turned the color of a rambler rose. Thusby looked at the lining of his cap.
Con spoke quietly but there was command in his voice, "Griselda, Vinnie will help you back to Long Beach." He kissed her swiftly, said, "I'll get in touch with you. Here's the key," and was gone before she could do more than thrust out a helpless restraining hand.
She watched him disappear, tempering his long stride lo the pegging Thusby. They were out of sight before she turned on Vinnie. He squirmed, finally stammered, "Want some gum?" thrusting out a package. It was Blackjack.
She said shortly, frostily, "I don't chew gum."
He put the package back as if hurt. He spoke with humility. "If you'll give me your checks. I'll get the bags."
She ignored him, walked to the stand, and passed the checks across. He was behind her. Without speaking to him she let him carry the bags through the arch into the terminal garage. The rickety car stood waiting as cockily as if it were a Daimler. Con must have chosen the car for its satisfied mutt air; he had that kind of humor. Con could do things like that, imbue a battered jalopy with spirit and pride; he could do anything he wanted to. But he'd gone off with Captain Thusby as if he were a criminal. Her fury rose. He'd gone off and left her in police custody as if she were a gangster's moll. Still wordless she climbed in, allowing Vinnie to take the wheel.
They had Con as often they had the wrong man. But she wouldn't let them continue in their stupid blindness. She'd fight like an alley cat until they admitted their blunder. And although she knew this boy was but the smallest bolt in the machine, she struck her first blow at him. "What motive have you given Con for this? Has your father decided why he should kill a girl whose name he didn't even know? Or does he think perhaps that my husband is a homicidal maniac?"
Vinnie looked shocked. "Oh, no, Ma'am," he stressed. "He wouldn't think that of Mr. Satterlee. He likes Mr. Satterlee."
She held her lips tight-pressed to keep from laughing. If she laughed, she might cry. He likes Mr. Satterlee. Doubtless he would give him all the freedom of a cell, all the privileges of a prison. She said, "He's making a ridiculous mistake. And it serves him right. He'll be the joke of the country arresting Con Satterlee in a murder case. Of course, he can't hold him a minute. As soon as Barjon Garth hears—"
Vinnie mumbled. He couldn't be saying what he seemed to be saying. Sharply she asked him to repeat and he did.
"It was Barjon Garth told my father to arrest Mr. Satterlee."
She smelled the acrid oil from the beach wells before she could see the lights of Long Beach. And she tried to understand. Vinnie had said it twice, haltingly, it was true, but unmistakably he had said it.
Now it was she who mumbled, "He couldn't have. He's away fishing. He couldn't know about the murder much less tell your father to arrest Con."
The boy said, "He sent a wireless. I saw it. Signed Barjon Garth."
Garth had sold Con out. That eliminated asking his assistance. There was only Kew left to help her. It wasn't that she trusted Kew implicitly; there was too much unexplained for that. But Kew was after a story; he would be curious, and he wasn't afraid to ask questions of Major Pembrooke. There could be others who wished Con removed from activity, but there could be none with less conscience than the major. And it seemed as if Dare were right when she said that Shelley's death was incidental, no more than a move to strike at Con.
She would call Kew in the morning. No matter what business of his own he was up to, he would want to help Con. They might be personal rivals but they had shared too much for one to default now.
They drove the bright way of Ocean Boulevard where vacationists moved toward the Pike or the movies in vacuous ignorance of what was happening before their eyes. Perhaps they discussed the Bixby Park murder as they would a story, not as something real. On up Ocean, past the dark menace of Bixby Park, winding through Belmont and beachwards to the cottage.
Vinnie opened the door for her. "I’ll see you in." He took the bags in his big knuckly hands. She marched ahead up the steps to the narrow p
orch. She said, "You needn't," but actually she was grateful that he waited until she lighted the living room. Returning alone after a week end away to an empty cottage, one that anyone could open, was not reassuring.
He set down the bags and stood awkwardly; he seemed hesitant about leaving. At last he said, "G'night," moving slowly out the door. But he hesitated again. "If you should need us—night or day, ma'am—you just call. Any time at all. Don't you mind. Neither the Cap'n nor me is a sound sleeper."
Mechanically she locked the door after him. He wasn't a reassurance. She'd wager that he knew as little about things as she. She laughed, picturing the bewilderment on his scrawny face had she quizzed him on the ramifications of Pan-Pacific. But the sound was eerie in the empty room. She turned on the radio in futile reach for companionship. She didn't like the hollow of the cottage without voices in it, the creaking of the wind against the walls, the unending swish-unswish of the waves against the rocks. Fortunately it was music that sang from the tiny loudspeaker; she didn't want the news now. She took her own bag and opened the bedroom door.
She couldn't help the little scream that came from her throat. She couldn't act; she simply stood there terrified. She hadn't wondered why the door was closed; she hadn't consciously realized that it shouldn't be that way, that she and Con never closed connecting doors. Her hand ached on the handle of the grip but she didn't set it down.
Alexander Smithery, Chang or Buck, didn't speak either. He stood motionless facing her. Had he moved an inch the screaming she was holding in control would have been unleashed. But he was wise, or else he too didn't know what to do.
She finally whispered, "What are you doing here? What do you want?"
He relaxed then. He spoke just as normally as if he were in the Bamboo Bar waiting on tables, "Sorry I startled you, Mrs. Satterlee. Con asked me to pack some of his things and bring them down to him."
The Bamboo Blonde Page 10