The Blonde Wore Black

by Peter Chambers

  And that seemed to clinch it.

  “You threw that stuff away?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t have the right. The rent is paid up to the end of the month. No, the police took it with them.”

  There wasn’t much more to be learned there. I thanked the manager, promised to remember him if there was any reward due, and left.

  It was the middle of the afternoon now, and the sun was quite fierce as I clambered back into the Chev. On a day like that a man should be down at the beach, loafing around and watching the maidens disport. Or else be sitting in some air-conditioned office where the sun would not be permitted to intrude. He ought not to be poking around crummy bars and seedy apartments making enquiries about a corpse. I ran a handkerchief around the inside of my collar for the second time, and started the motor.

  It wasn’t such a great distance physically from the Monterey Building to the Beach End, but at all other points of comparison they were miles apart. It took money, lots of money, to have a house at Beach End. It even took money to get the place in the first instance because competition is very fierce to acquire property up that way. I’d been there a time or two in the past, and it always left me with the same general feeling of dissatisfaction. I don’t know why it should. I do all right out of my curious calling. In fact some people might think I was well off, but that is not the same thing as Beach End money. Out there, the favored residents have so much of the stuff they never even think about it any more.

  Just to make things worse, the approach road runs parallel with the beach and I have to drive slowly to allow for the occasional beach ball that might come my way, hotly pursued by some bronzed slim female with shrieks of excitement. One such crossed my path, causing me to brake sharply. She was wearing two little pieces here and there which were not really worth the effort of putting them on. I sat waiting, grateful at least for the flashing smile which was to be my sole reward for saving her life. Might have got one too, except that some husky young blond bum came chasing after her, and with a few more shrieks she disappeared into some dunes on the far side of the road.

  That didn’t do either my imagination or my temper any good, and I was not feeling at my best when I arrived at the Somerset house. It was a white painted ranch style building with plenty of palm trees around. There was a huge heart-shaped swimming pool out front and that was when I remembered the house had one time belonged to Adele Ernest the movie queen. Still, that was no concern of mine. These days it belonged to one Hugo Somerset, entrepreneur. There were two cars in front, a week old Caddy, and a brand new M.G. It didn’t seem fitting to park a three year old waggon next to such company, so I left it under some trees, telling myself it would be cooler there anyway.

  My feet clumped on the verandah and I punched a silver bell which played the first two bars of Amour Amour. Nobody in the house seemed in the mood for amour, because I gave another chorus on the bell and still got no response. The door stood open and I could hear music faintly from inside.

  Pushing the door wider I called out hallo, and nobody called back. I stepped inside, where it was cool and dim after the baking sun, and pointed my nose towards the music. It was coming from the back of the house, and soon I stood at the entrance to a large room. It was filled with divans and rugs, and at the far end was a bar. The bar was quite a feature, being made of black marble in the shape of a grand piano. There was one of those too, only this one was made of mahogany. A huge stereophonic record player dominated one wail and this was the source of the music, which was very relaxed and somehow soothing. I put it down as Tchaikovsky, because with all I know about music everything sounds like him. Not that I was concentrating too much on the music at that moment. I was busy staring at the man lying full length on one of the divans. He was huge, a great bull of a man with spare pink flesh hanging in folds from every part of him. He had a big, beefy face, ending in a ridiculous small ginger beard. Outside of the beard and his crop of red hair he was entirely naked, except for a small towel slung across where small towels ought to to be slung in such circumstances. He was looking at me, too, but without much interest.

  “Excuse me——” I began.

  He shook his fist angrily and pointed towards the cabinet. I was to shut up until the music finished. That was O.K. with me, so long as it didn’t turn out to be one of these four hour concerts. Nobody invited me to make myself comfortable, so I perched on the edge of another divan, fishing around for an Old Favorite. The recumbent man snapped his fingers for one and I passed over the pack. He lifted a heavy silver lighter from the floor and lit the smoke, without offering to do anything about mine. Then he lay back again and closed his eyes.

  I sat there thinking the fat man had the life, laying around in splendour. Listening to records and demanding cigarets from flunkeys while the rest of the world was out chasing its tail. The music lasted another fifteen minutes, then there was the gentlest of clicks and the machine switched itself out. For a moment I thought my silent companion would continue to ignore me, then he opened his eyes wide and looked at me.

  “What did you think?”

  “Beautiful,” I admitted. Then plunging in, “Tchaikovsky, wasn’t it?”

  He looked at me to be certain I wasn’t kidding. People are always doing that.

  “Swan Lake,” he rejoined. “Act Two. Notice anything?”

  “Why er, no. Listen I’m not at all knowledgeable about music. About that kind of music,” I amended.

  “It’s the sequence,” he mused. “The musical sequences have been rearranged so as to permit logical following of the keys.”

  Despite my ignorance I couldn’t help saying:

  “Don’t you imagine the composer might prefer to have it played the way he wrote it down?”

  He beat despairingly on his flabby chest with arms like logs.

  “This is the way he wrote it down,” he roared. “Other people have been monkeying with his original intentions for ninety years. Choreographers, dancers, musical directors, everybody. They didn’t understand the man, he was ahead of his time.”

  It seemed that we were not talking so much about the music in its own right, as in its application to the ballet. I may not know a whole lot about classical music but when it comes to ballet I am the original man from Arkansas.

  “Look, I know nothing about ballet——” I began.

  But again he wasn’t to be put off his stride.

  “You know nothing about ballet,” he sneered. “Of course you don’t. Who do you think you are? There are people all over the world have spent their whole lives at it, and when Tchaikovsky’s original score became available ten years back they mostly found they knew nothing about it either. I tell you there were some red faces around.”

  He wasn’t trying to be offensive, I decided. It was just an effect he had on people.

  “Could we talk about something else?” I suggested. “Like for instance what am I doing here?”

  A great grin spread across his face, and now I realized what my memory had been searching for when I first saw him. He was the personification of those guys the old painters used to be so fond of. You know the ones, always sitting or lying around with an enormous goblet of the good juice in one hand, and a not over-modest lady in the other.

  “Why, of course,” he boomed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Fm looking for a man named Hugo Somerset.”

  He sat up, scratching at the great pink belly.

  “Your search is ended, my friend. Behold the man.”

  “The name is Preston. I’m a private investigator. Like to ask you a few questions about the man who died last night, Brookman.”

  “In that case we shall all need a drink,” he decided. “Would you mind?”

  He indicated the piano-shaped liquor cabinet. I went over there and opened it up. There were drinks in there even I had never heard of, and I’ve been around bars a long time.

  “Make it something I can pronounce,” I said.

  He chuck
led again.

  “How about beer? You ought to be able to say that with a little practise.”

  I dug out a couple of frosted cans and tipped them carefully into tall tumblers which had not come free at the supermarket. I passed one to Somerset, and it disappeared inside the huge soft fist. The beer was very refreshing.

  “You want to ask about Brookman? Well why not. Everybody else in town has been treading all over the house all day. I like to think of myself as a democratic man. If somebody named Preston is of the opinion I should go through the whole circus again, why then you go right ahead.”

  I knew how he felt. Too often I get there after the police and the reporters.

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Not well at all. He’s been around now for some months. Been to the house quite a bit.”

  “Do you always let people you don’t know walk in and out of the house?”

  “All the time,” he returned equably. “Before we talk about Brookman it might be of help to you if we talk a little about me. Do you know anything about me?”

  “Only what I read in the papers. They said you were an entrepreneur.”

  “That is so. Do you know what it means?”

  “It’s a Beach End word for promoter.”

  Again the booming laugh filled the room, and I watched with fascination the jiggling movements of various parts of the fat frame.

  “That’s neat. Maybe a little unkind, but not inaccurate. Yes, I think we could accept that. Somebody once said, those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach. I’m one of those who can’t, but I don’t teach. As you quaintly put it, I promote.”

  “Promote what?”

  “Anything artistic. Painters, poets, writers, musicians. If I find somebody who seems to have genuine talent, I sort of encourage them, foster them along. I am you see, tremendously artistic myself. Unfortunately, I haven’t any talent, except for appreciation of what others do.”

  “That’s a talent of its own,” I offered. “And it must be a good feeling when you find someone.”

  His eyes lit up.

  “Ah, there have been a few. Very few I’m afraid, but I have been right each time, and those people have gone on to do things.”

  “Could Brookman have been one of those?”

  He shook his head emphatically.

  “Not in a hundred years. He really did write poetry you know, and he assured me once that Poetry was his correct name. He did not manage to live up to that name. The kind of doggeral he churned out was no more than filth. Not suggestion executed with flair, there’s sometimes room for that. Plain sewer muck.”

  Mr. Somerset evidently had not been impressed by Mr. Brookman’s work.

  “Then why have him around?”

  “There you touch the sadness of my existence, Mr. Preston. My life is filled with Brookmans. Composers with no ear for music, writers who rehash an old Hemingway, singers who are tone deaf. If I’m lucky one of them may bring along a friend who really has something. Perhaps today, perhaps next year. It has happened before, it will happen again. But there are vast deserts in between.”

  “Is that damn music finished yet?”

  I turned towards the new voice. A tall skinny brunette had come into the room. Her hair was drawn flat against her head and tied with a ribbon at the back. She had a thin, intense face, with large olive eyes which flashed with surprise as she saw me. She wasn’t any more surprised than I was, because except for the ribbon she was completely naked. She showed no intention of leaving.

  “Ah Flower, there you are.”

  “Who’s the new chum?” she queried.

  “This is a Mr. Preston,” explained Somerset. “Mr. Preston is a detective.”

  “Not another one?” she sighed. “I thought you told me all those ghastly people had finished here.”

  She was leaning against the wall, for all the world as though it were a tea party. Since I was the only one who had any clothes on, I began to wonder whether it would seem more natural if I undressed too.

  “This is Flower, Mr. Preston. One of my few comforts in this life, and as you can see, she can be quite a comfort.”

  I could see that all right. Her body was lean and smooth, with a tight flat stomach and small hard breasts. She was the same deep brown color all over, and it was evident that Flower didn’t wear anything when she was outdoors in the sun, either. Under the circumstances it would have been ridiculous to say anything normal.

  “You said she was one of your comforts. Could I see the others?”

  The girl laughed, a surprisingly deep sound from that slim throat.

  “You’re not the ordinary run of flatfoot, are you?”

  “I’m not with the force,” I explained. “I’m private.”

  “You’re here about Brookman, I imagine.”

  “Yes. But if I’m going to ask you any questions, I’ll have to ask you to go away and put some clothes on first. My mind keeps coming up with the wrong questions.”

  Again came the deep laugh.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going. And never mind the questions. I can tell you all I know about the departed. He was a creep. Hugo, let me know when your nice friend leaves. Au revoir, Mr. Preston.”

  Despite her tough talk and unconventional dress habits, Flower had not started life on the wrong side of the tracks. I watched the slow rolling motion till she was out of sight.

  “With your permission Mr. Somerset,” I said formally. “I could do with another drink.”

  “Help yourself. Aren’t you going to ask me about Flower?”

  I broke open the can and refilled my glass.

  “None of my business, is it? I find if people want me to know things, they’ll tell me.”

  He stared at me hard, something like amusement in his eyes.

  “She was right, you are no ordinary flatfoot. Very well, shall we talk about Brookman?”

  “That’s why I came. How long did you know him?”

  “I was trying to remember that for the police. One can’t be too exact with such a casual acquaintance. I’d say between three and six months.”

  “Did he do any kind of work?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He was always borrowing money. And of course, he never sold a verse in his life.”

  I tipped some more of the cold beer down my throat.

  “When he came here was he alone, or with some special people?”

  “Mostly alone, I believe. Of course he knew a lot of the crowd to say hallo to, either from meeting them here or at the Speckled Band. Sorry, you may not know where that is?”

  I nodded sadly.

  “I know where it is all right. I had to go there one time. To be certain I got in I had to dress up like something got washed up on the beach.”

  The big man inclined his head gravely.

  “It does have some odd associations,” he admitted. “However it’s like this house, full of people from a maniac’s nightmare, one of whom could turn out to be a genius.”

  It seemed like an awful hard way to find a genius. Personally I’d as soon file a notice in the Genius Wanted columns.

  “One last thing, Mr. Somerset. Was there anything special about the night of the party?”

  “There is always something special about my parties,” he said loftily.

  “But if you mean anything connected with Brookman, the answer is no.”

  And it was clearly implied by his tone that the something special which had nothing to do with Brookman, had nothing to do with me either.

  “Well thanks, Mr. Somerset, you’ve been very obliging. I won’t take up any more of your time. If anything should come to mind, I’d certainly appreciate it if you’d give me a call.”

  He looked at the little white card I handed over.

  “Parkside Towers,” he mused. “You must either be a very good detective or you have some other source of income. I believe the rental over there is rather out of the coffee and cakes level.”

  “It’s robbery,” I
assured him. “And you’re beginning to sound like the Bureau of Inland Revenue. Let’s say I’m lucky.” He let me hear the rich chuckle just one more time. Hugo Somerset might be an oddball, alright he was an oddball but there was something about the man I couldn’t help liking. I thanked him for the beer, and he waved a flabby arm as I left.

  When I stepped through the front door of the house, there was Flower. She was sprawled out in a long basket-work chair, carefully covered in a black and yellow silk Japanese kimono. Perversely, I now found her much more attractive than when she’d been wearing all that skin.

  “You ought to get dressed more often,” I told her. “On you clothes look good.”

  She smiled slowly up at me, even white teeth flashing against the browny red lips. It was the smile of a woman who’d smiled before, plenty of other times, plenty of other places. And not always outside in a garden.

  “Hugo wouldn’t tell you anything, would he?”

  “He told me what he could.”

  “I could tell you more,” she coaxed.

  “So tell me.”

  She held up her arms, and sighed.

  “Come and be nice to me, and perhaps I will.”

  There was a fleeting moment when I almost did. With an effort I made myself realize how ridiculous a situation it was.

  “Lady, it would be a privilege. But right now I’m very hot, the circumstances are very slightly unsuitable, and it seems to me the heat must be making you very slightly daffy. What about Brookman?”

  She folded her arms across the flat stomach, and pouted like a child.

  “Shan’t tell you. How can you be so pretty and so horrible all at the same time?”

  “How can you be so beautiful and such a screwball?” I countered. “You realize we could be seen from the public highway. It may give you some kind of kick to appear on a flagrant indecency rap, but include me out. Tell me about Brookman.”

  She ran a small pink tongue across her lips and pondered.

  “Not now,” she decided finally. “Maybe one day, but not now.”

  “Suit yourself. If you ever feel talkative, you’ll find my number in the book.”

  “There’s lots of Prestons in there. What kind of Preston would you be?”