The Bamboo Blonde. Dorothy B. Hughes
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said easily, “Yes, she is.”
Griselda didn’t breathe. She’d known it but she didn’t want to hear it said. She watched him lounge across the room as if it weren’t important, open the old-fashioned music cabinet, take out a bottle that wasn’t water. He’d had plenty in the house last night then; it had only been that he was restless, wanted to go out. He poured lavishly into Kew’s glass and more lavishly into his own. Kew hadn’t spoken; he had dropped the paper to the floor. He didn’t look surprised or curious; there was no expression save handsomeness on his face.
Con added orange to Kew’s glass. “But I didn’t take her home.”
He shouldn’t be telling this, not even to Kew. The brown eyes opened wide.
Con grinned at him. He said, “She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to go to Saam’s Seafood Place. Ever hear of it?”
Kew smiled tolerantly, “Afraid not.”
Griselda noticed again, they were still watching each other behind their eyes, their smiles, their words. And she knew for the first time with startling certainty that Con hadn’t come to Long Beach aimlessly. He was here for definite purpose. That purpose, insanely enough, was mixed up with a murdered girl and Kew Brent. That purpose might well be mixed up with the missing man a British officer was seeking. She shivered. More bitterly than ever she knew that Con was marching into the teeth of danger.
Kew repeated, “Afraid not,” and took a scroll of white plastic from his pocket, extracted a cigarette mysteriously from its narrowness. “What’s it like?”
“Like any other beach dump,” Con said. He was Jesuitically lying to Kew; she didn’t know why save that Kew was newspaper and Con evidently didn’t want the truth to be published.
“You left her there?” Kew asked as if amused.
Con said, “Well, I couldn’t stay out too late, could I?” He put his hand on Griselda’s knee. “The little old lady wouldn’t like it if I stayed too long with a beauteous blonde, would you, baby?”
She tried to smile, a sickly imitation. But she put her hand over his tightly, as if by so doing she could hold him to her side and away from this new menace in which he’d involved himself.
Con reached for his glass. “Drink it up, Kew, and I’ll get you some more orange juice.”
Griselda pleaded, “Not so early, Con.”
He patted her leg. “Read in the papers where you can’t be over-vitaminized. California. Land of oranges. Got to be loyal. How about it, Kew?”
He said, “I’ll take another.” They were pretending they weren’t conscious of each other now. Con shuffled into the kitchen, returned with a milk bottle more than half filled with orange. “How about it, Grizel? Want to sit in this time?”
“Without the gin,” she told him.
He said, “Women are peculiar people,” and to Kew, “You haven’t told me, friend, what you’re doing in this neck of the waves.”
Kew took the glass. “Well, I can’t exactly say.” He spoke as easily as did Con. There was no reason not to believe in their careless vacationer act but she didn’t. Even if Major Pembrooke had not told her why Kew was here, she would have been certain they were playing a game. It couldn’t have been for her benefit; certainly they were not fooling each other. She didn’t comprehend; at this moment she couldn’t stop to figure it out. She could only watch and listen.
Kew said, “One thing, I was hoping to see Garth.”
“Postman’s holiday?” Con asked.
“Maybe,” he smiled. “I’ve got a couple of able subs on my column but Garth is always good for a yarn–and hard as the devil to nab these days, even in Washington.”
He might have said, “. . . and even by Kew Brent.” His expression seemed to say it. Griselda wasn’t certain she liked that; in her meetings with Kew, there were always these moments when she wasn’t sure that she liked him, when maybe Con was right in his anti-Kew attitude. But when you were away from him you forgot those moments, remembered only his mental keenness, the wit and the brain, the handsome arrogance, the suggestion that you were the most attractive woman he’d ever met–one word covered it, his charm.
“I suppose you’ve seen him?” Kew asked.
“Yeah. He was here when I came. I ran into him.”
It was more falsification. Con might have run into Garth but he’d been closeted with him for days before the yacht trip came up; she had taken it for granted it was renewal of a friendship and the gathering of broadcast material. It hadn’t occurred to her then that Con had known Garth was in Long Beach before they arrived, and that Garth had expected him. Real fear trembled Griselda now; if Con were working for the head of the X service again, there was reason for fear. The foreign agents concentrated on the coast were known to be important, to constitute a real menace. She suddenly was cold. If Mannie Martin’s disappearance were connected with that–she hadn’t thought of it that way. She must speak to Con. If that were it he definitely mustn’t look for Mannie.
She couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t pledged to Garth again, not with these half-lies to Kew. And this fear dwarfed the one that he might become involved in last night’s murder.
“Garth’s gone fishing,” Con told.
“Fishing?” Kew seemed incredulous.
“Yeah. He needed a vacation badly, y’know. He’s been on day and night shift since Poland. Some big boy steamed in on his yacht and rustled up a fishing party. I couldn’t go. Stag.”
Griselda caught her lip. He was still regretting.
Kew asked, “Where are they cruising?”
“Down in Mexican waters, I gathered. They were heading southerly.” Why was he giving Kew all of this information and withholding other seemingly more harmless?
Kew said quietly, “Another reason that brought me here was an invitation from Dare.”
Griselda cried it: “Dare Crandall?” She couldn’t stand that; she’d thought Dare was out of their lives. She hadn’t seen her for years, not for more than four years. It was Dare more than any one other thing that had caused the break-up of their marriage the first time she and Con tried it.
Con asked as if surprised, “Is she here?” but Griselda wasn’t fooled. He knew Dare Crandall was in Long Beach; he had known it all along; perhaps he had even seen her. He might have been with her last night.
Kew said as if imparting important news, “Yes, indeed she is.”
Con said, “What will they think of next?” He drank. “What’s she doing here?”
“Some connection with the Navy.”
Griselda couldn’t help saying it, “I suppose you mean she was barred from the Brooklyn yards.”
Both men looked at her. Their amusement wasn’t amusing to her. Con said, “How you talk, Griselda!”
No one had to break the silence. The phone did that. Con answered.
She said to Kew then, in apology, “What is Dare actually doing here?”
“She’s making over a house for an Admiral’s daughter, I believe. You know she’s taken up decorating now.”
She didn’t know.
“It’s to be all Modern Norse and Chinese Ming and will probably take all summer to fit. She has an apartment on”–he managed to recall the street–“on Junipero until September. I haven’t seen her yet. I only came down yesterday morning and she was out all day. Her man said she’d gone to”–again he recalled–“Avalon on some party.”