Strip for Murder (7 page)

I mentioned that to Laurel and she said, “Camp really opens May first. May through September is the season. We get a few new guests each month. Of course, some of us belong all year round, come out on the nice days, stay in town the rest of the time.”

I looked over all the names but found only what I'd expected; none of them was familiar to me. The pix were no help, either. Laurel put the stuff back and we went together to what I thought of now as the undressing room. In the men's wing I climbed into my clothes, checking my gun to make sure it was as I'd left it. Then I walked back into the main room. Laurel was sitting on the same couch where she'd sat earlier.

“Shell,” she said, “can't you stay? What if ... You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I can't stay, though. I told you that before.”

The only thing I knew for sure was that somebody had tried to kill
me
here; and I wanted out of Fairview until I was able to get at least half an idea why. I didn't think I'd find out here. I hadn't recognized any of the photos or names, and I couldn't see asking fifty nudists if they'd taken a shot at me.

The kill try hadn't been for Laurel, and there was a chance she was in no danger at all. Even if somebody had tried to kill her before, it didn't seem likely he'd try again today. Besides, there was no help for it; I had another job to do. I wanted to talk with the old health director. And I wanted to talk with Mrs. Redstone about her daughter Sydney.

Laurel said, “Will you be back?”

She was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, hands clasped in her lap, clear blue eyes fixed on me. Well, I thought, a man has to sleep someplace; I could spend the night here just as well as in my apartment.

“I suppose so,” I said.

She stood up.

“Hell, yes,” I said. “What made you think I wouldn't be back?”

Her lips twisted into a smile. A small smile, but the first I'd seen for about half an hour. “I wish I could figure you out,” she said.

“This previous health director—name was Elder, wasn't it? Where's he now?”

“Palmer Hospital in Pasadena.” She frowned slightly. “Shell, why did you ask me my reason for taking you to the pool? Sitting on that knoll, I mean.”

I played it light. “Why, I thought maybe I was a better target up there.” I grinned at her. “What else?”

It didn't go over with a bang. No smile, no frown even. Just soft blue eyes staring at me, sober and maybe even a little sad. “I'll walk with you to the gate,” she said.

“You'd better stick here. With crowds, I mean.”

“I'll walk with you. Besides, I have to show you the cabin where you'll sleep if you come back.”

“If you don't sit down, I won't leave.”

She turned and went out. I followed her. Outside the building she turned right, walked around the corner and a few yards toward the nearby trees, then stopped and pointed. “The little white house there,” she said. “See it?”

“Uh-huh. That mine?”

“It's mine. Yours is just beyond it, another fifteen yards or so. I arranged for you to be close to my cabin. In case ... of trouble,” she said.

Laurel had picked up a key to the main gate, which she gave me; then we walked silently to the exit. She told me there was a parking area a little farther down the road and pointed it out. I went through the gate and turned to her.

“I'll see you later.”

“Sure,” she said.

“Maybe I can find out something about our friend in there.” I nodded back toward camp.

“Wouldn't this be the best place to find out?”

“Maybe. Only I don't think so. This is a real funny deal. There are a couple of things I want to check.” I paused. “You don't remember hearing anything at all about a detective named Paul Yates?”

She shook her head. “Is he the reason you're leaving?”

“Partly.”

“What's the other part?”

I grinned. “You sound as if you were the detective.” After a few seconds of silence she said, “'Bye, Shell.”

“So long, Laurel.”

She turned and walked up the path, disappeared among the trees. I watched her go, waited a few minutes longer, then started the car. I drove on down Traverse Road, yellow dust streaming behind the Cad, then turned on Maple and headed back to town.

There wasn't really a good reason to doubt anything Laurel had told me, I supposed. She'd sounded sincere and honest, and had even seemed a little hurt at a couple of my remarks. One thing was certain: I sure as hell wanted to believe her.

Chapter Seven

Andon Poupelle and his bride were staying at the Gorgon, a high-priced apartment hotel on Sunset between Hollywood and Beverly Hills. A couple of blocks from there I pulled into a filling station, and while the car was being gassed and checked I used the pay phone to call Mrs. Redstone. She answered and I told her it was Shell Scott.

“Oh, hello,” she said brightly. “I'm glad you called, Mr. Scott. Have you learned anything?”

“Frankly, I'm not sure. I wanted to ask you about this Sydney you mentioned last night.”

“Sydney? What do you want to know about her?”

“I wanted, for one thing, to be sure it was a her. Last night I thought you were talking about a man.”

“No. Sydney's my daughter.”

“Sydney Laurel Redstone.”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I met her.”

“Not at Fairview!”

“Yes. You knew she was there?”

“Of course. I even talked to her this morning on the phone. As a matter of fact, I mentioned employing you.”

“I wondered about that a little. Lau—Miss Redstone hadn't heard of Paul Yates.”

“I never told anybody, even her, about him. Um.” She paused. “You can understand that I don't talk about where Sydney is. Not that I mind.”

“Sure. How about Vera and her husband? I suppose they know she's at Fairview?”

“Vera does, of course. Andon might, if Vera has told him, I'm not sure.” She paused. “How in the world did you learn Sydney was there? I didn't think another soul knew.”

I didn't tell her how I'd learned, but asked her to describe Sydney. Her Sydney and my Laurel—I rather liked the sound of “my Laurel"—were obviously one and the same girl. After answering Mrs. Redstone's queries about the odd events of last night, the bashed Packard and the unconscious Garlic, and saying I'd pay for the damage, I hung up. I hung up after Mrs. Redstone told me to forget about paying for the damage.

Vera Poupelle answered the door. A clerk had phoned up from the sumptuous lobby of the Gorgon and I'd been allowed to intrude my beastly presence. Vera had looked very good last night, and she still looked good, but after a view of her sister, especially as I had viewed her, Vera was just another babe wearing clothes. She had on a gray silk dress with a deeply plunging neckline, but so what? I had just been among the deeply plunging necks, and for a while at least I was spoiled.

Her short blonde hair looked as if it had just been fixed by somebody expensive named Pierre or Artibelle, and her lips were smoothly curved, a surprisingly vivid red against the whiteness of her skin. Vera was the indoor type.

“Hello there,” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Just a friendly visit. Couple of questions. OK if I come in?”

“I suppose so, Mr. Scott.”

She wasn't delirious with joy, but it seemed she was over her mad. She led me to a low divan about eighteen feet long and settled near me.

I said, “How did you know my name was Scott? I don't think I mentioned it last night.”

She smiled slowly. “Some fellow on the hotel phone just told me. I thought you were a detective.”

I winced. “Sometimes I wonder. Now I'm afraid to ask how you knew I was a detective. Same fellow tell you?”

“Andon did. Last night. Were you the one who assaulted that big, smelly man?”

“I rendered him unconscious, if that's what you mean. Only he assaulted me. He's not a friend of yours, is he?”

“I never saw him before. And I hope I never see him again.” She wrinkled her nose.

This Vera was a cute kid, actually. When I'd first seen her in the doorway, her skin had seemed awfully pale, and I like tanned skin and lots of it. But after a couple of minutes Vera's skin seemed more creamy white than pallid. I'm fickle.

I said, “Andon say anything else about me besides the fact that I'm a detective?”

“No. But he wasn't highly complimentary.” She paused. “Since you are a detective, what are you doing here? And why were you at Mother's last night?”

I made up a little story for her. “It has to do with that guy named Garlic. I'd like to know where he is. I've been sniffing all over, but he's either far away or not breathing.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn't know anything about him.”

“I should hope not. Andon around?”

“He'll be here any minute.”

I asked her, casually, how long she'd known the guy, and she told me of meeting him at her mother's house, and so on. It checked with the info and dates I'd got from Laurel. Every time she mentioned Andon's name she lit up like a Coleman lantern, and I got slightly tired of hearing her say what a wonderful creature he was. It seemed she was in love with the slob, so I kept my questions reasonably gentle.

“You didn't know him before last May, then?” She shook her head. “Where'd he come from? He an L.A. man?”

“No, he's from New York. He was in stocks and bonds and things there.”

“Do you know Paul Yates?”

“Yates? No. Who is he?”

“Fellow I know. Thought he might be a mutual acquaintance of Andon's and mine. Your husband ever mention the name?”

“No.”

“You have a sister, don't you?”

“Yes, Laurel. Why?”

“Where is she now?”

Vera didn't answer, narrowed her eyes slightly. “I don't think that's any of your business, Mr. Scott. I don't see that any of this is your business.”

“Probably not. I simply wondered if you knew where she was. I already know.”

Her eyes widened, then she pursed her lips. “You mean, out there?” She pointed toward the ocean.

I laughed. “No.” I pointed in the opposite direction, smack at Fairview. “Out there.”

“Fairview,” she said. I nodded and she said, “How did you find that out?”

“Is it a secret? By the way, does Andon know she's at Fairview?”

“I should hope not. I mean, I don't think so.”

“You haven't told him, then?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I think it's ... disgusting.”

“What's disgusting?”

“Why, they—they run around naked.”

“Some of the nicest people I know run around naked. That's what's nice about them. And they aren't even at Fairview.”

She was not amused. “Mr. Scott, did you come here to make remarks in such very poor taste, or did you want to see me about something else? I don't care to discuss ... nakedness.”

I said, “Actually I wanted to see your husband about another matter.”

You'd have thought he'd been gandering us through the keyhole. The door flew open and banged against the wall and Poupelle came charging in.

“Get out of here, you bastard!” he yelled.

I got up. “I came here to see you.”

“I've got nothing to say to you, sluefoot. Now, screw.”

I had a feeling this was not at all the way a “stocks and bonds and things” man would have expressed himself. I shrugged and walked toward the door. He followed me outside, as I'd thought maybe he would.

He pulled the door closed with another bang and said, “Mister, don't ever come here again.”

“Bag your head a minute. You seemed kind of chummy last night with Garlic and another big boy. Maybe you'll be kind enough to—”

He broke in, his face a brilliant red. “I'll be kind enough to kick your butt down the stairs.”

“Poopy, one of these days you'll push me too far, and your pretty teeth'll be few and far between.” His flush subsided somewhat. I said, “Anything you can tell me about why Garlic jumped me at the Redstone place?”

He swallowed. “I've got no idea. I told you to screw.”

I chewed on my lip a second. “Tell me, just for fun. What's A.T. and T. quoted at nowadays?”

He swung around, went into his suite, and slammed the door again. The neighbors were going to start complaining if he didn't quit that. I went down to the Cad. An uncooperative boy, Poupelle. But he'd told me a little. So had Vera.

It took me almost an hour to get out to Pasadena, visit the Palmer Hospital, and talk for two minutes with a bandaged Mr. Elder, then get back into L.A. Elder didn't tell me anything new, but it checked right down the line with what Laurel had told me. He'd just seen the rock and jumped at Laurel, shoved her, and bang. That was all he knew.

My office is in downtown L.A., between Third and Fourth on Broadway, second floor of the Hamilton Building. I went there and peeked at the guppy tank on top of the bookcase. The colorful little fish had a fit while I dropped some salmon meal into the feeding ring; then I climbed behind my desk and got busy on the phone.

It took half an hour to put out a dozen lines among informants, hoodlums, bootblacks, barbers, bartenders. I wanted information about Paul Yates, Andon Poupelle, Garlic, and any of his chums; any rumbles about people named Redstone, for that matter. And I was willing to pay for it. Much of what I was doing the police had already done, and done better; a number of my own informants, though, would never talk to a cop, but would to me. I might get something. Then I went carefully over the Yates report on Poupelle, the one Mrs. Redstone had given me. There were a couple of items where Yates had been specific enough with places and dates so that I could check his statements. I phoned Western Union and sent a couple of telegrams on those items, added another wire to a detective agency in New York, then left the office.

I started walking, headed for the back rooms, the smelly bars, the dumps and the dives. Some of the boys I wanted to see were seldom near a phone; some of them were seldom sober enough to use one. I'd been over this route dozens of times before, and always it made me a little sick, even a little sad. Lower Main Street and Spring, Los Angeles Street, the whole area I tramped, has a kind of horror about it in the daytime. At night the softer lights and shadows hide some of its squalor, but in sunlight it's hard and ugly.