Negative of a Nude Page 5

  I swung my fist with the gun in it and caught him on the side of the head. Then I stepped aside while he careened sideways to land on his knees and bounce to a crouched position. One more swing landed a blow behind his left ear, and he went down again and the gun clattered from his hand. He let out an angry roar, got up and ran down the hall.

  “Stop,” I shouted after him, “or I’ll shoot!”

  I had my pistol out at arm’s length, the sights right between his shoulder blades. But he didn’t stop and I didn’t shoot. The cleaning woman would have hated me for it. I heard him clatter to a halt in the elevator, heard the mechanism whine as he descended to freedom.

  I picked up his fallen gun and put my own in my holster. Then I went back into my office, where I got the Scotch from the safe and sloshed some into a water glass and followed it with some bottled water. Then I set the glass on my second-hand desk, sat back in my squeaky, second-hand chair, and did some serious thinking.

  I decided one thing. That film, or lack of it, was getting me into more hot water than was healthy. It was bringing me more trouble than the pornographic pictures I was supposed to be tracking down. Abernathy was a persistent cuss, and I’d better find out what happened to those pictures of him and the blonde. Besides, I had a duty to fulfill to Mrs. Abernathy. Not to mention Lenny, whose camera it was. And me, whose skull it was.

  I spent the next couple of hours calling up photo studios from the list Eloise had given me, pretending to be a potential customer and asking about hours, who could get in to photograph the girls, and did they by any chance have a model named Lois Smith a friend of mine recommended.

  Some of the studios had gone out of business—at least under the listed names. But chances are they’d been reopened elsewhere under different names. I’d have to check that. Unfortunately, they were all the kind that were open to the public, where people could come in off the street, take pictures for a price, and never be heard from again. No doubt the poses were limited, but a higher price might lower the limits. Money frequently talked in a loud, clear voice.

  It was a disconcerting thing. It meant that anybody in this wide, wide world could have taken the pictures and there was likely to be no way I could find out who did it by checking the studios.

  It was also unfortunate that Eloise didn’t recall the who, when, and where details of the pornographic pictures taken of her. Harvey Dutton might just as well keep his money for all the good getting back four negatives would do him. He’d be better off to get rid of Eloise, the cause for blackmail, than try to rid himself of blackmailers.

  There was a small silver lining, though. It seemed too much of a coincidence that after five years the picture taker should run into Eloise and recognize her. More likely, it was someone who had known Eloise all along, personally. Unfortunately, if she was as friendly to everyone as she was to me, that would still be a lot of people.

  I went out to the Chevvy. Orangutan wasn’t in sight, and I didn’t go out of my way to look for him. I went to get myself a dozen cups of coffee to kill some time and meditate.

  Jake Richey or no, I’d have to keep that date with Cherry Collins.

  Somehow, this thought wasn’t too displeasing.

  Chapter Six

  THE PARK VISTA Apartments were in Santa Monica on a side street off Pacific Avenue, only a dozen blocks from where Cherry had picked me up at Muscle Beach. There wasn’t a park around that I could see, unless they mean Ocean Park, a few miles away, or the landscaping. There were the usual palm trees, exotic plants, cacti, creeping vines and other jungle-type flora in abundance, with floodlights on them. I didn’t stop to admire the scenery in the front yard, though. I had other scenery on my mind.

  It was about two-thirty in the wee hours when I parked in front of the apartments. The night was clear and filled with stars, but there wasn’t a moon around. The street was quiet and deserted. A few of the apartments had lights in them, even at this late hour. I walked up the sidewalk, looking for numbers.

  Apartment 320, Cherry’s card had said. At the foot of a wrought iron stairway was a sign that said 318-321. I went up the stairway that flanked the side of the building to a balcony with a series of spaced doors. As I’d suspected, apartment 320 was right between 319 and 321. Sometimes I’m pretty smart.

  There was a mailbox beside the door and a name typewritten on a piece of paper on the mailbox. The name was Cheryl Collins. I’d arrived.

  I knocked at the door. There was a movement from inside, and after a few minutes, the door opened.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Mark Wonder.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a drink at all,” Cherry said, smiling prettily, “but come on in and we’ll have one anyway.”

  I went in. A dozen orangutans couldn’t have kept me out. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said. “I’ll fix us something liquid. What would you like? You’re a Scotch and water man, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, lowering myself into a chair. “Scotch and water will be fine.”

  “Don’t go away,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I had no intention of going away. I had too many things on my mind for that, some business, some pleasure. I watched her as she disappeared into the kitchen and made Scotch-and-water-making noises. She was wearing a long-sleeved blue dress, form-fitting and cut low in front.

  “Sorry I had to leave your place so suddenly,” she called. “I remembered I promised Jake I’d be at work early today.”

  “I could have driven you,” I said.

  “You were busy. It wasn’t any trouble to take a cab. Besides, I knew you’d come tonight.”

  I wondered if she’d stolen the camera to make sure I’d come. A needless precaution. I looked around the apartment, unconsciously wondering where she’d hidden it and the film. I’d wait and see if she mentioned it.

  The apartment was very comfortable looking, but it didn’t have the chaotic look mine generally had. There were angular French prints on the walls, pull-down lamps, simulated leather furniture, the modernistic ashtrays that look like calcified livers. I bent to inspect a nearby ashtray, a cigar had been allowed to go out among the ashes. Unless Cherry smoked cigars, a man had been through here recently. I remembered Jake Richey’s words and frowned at the memory of them: “… one of these days she’s going to be Mrs. Jake Richey…” Of course, he’d take her home after the show. That was to be expected. I hoped he didn’t wait outside the apartment with a shotgun.

  It’s hell at times to have a conscience, even a thin wisp of one like mine. But this was a business call, anyway, I reminded myself. Jake and I weren’t the best of buddies, but there’s sometimes a limit to what you’ll do to enemies. Then Cherry came into the room, and I wasn’t too sure of those last couple of statements.

  She had two drinks with her. She kept the orange colored one for herself and handed the colorless one to me. It was cold and full of ice, and I sipped at it. It was also strong and very good. Cherry sat on the couch opposite me and folded her legs under her.

  “Banzai,” she said, stealing my line.

  “Banzai,” I agreed, drinking.

  I forced myself to think of things other than the redhead on the couch, and I came up with: “I saw you tonight at the club.” It wasn’t far enough removed from my previous thoughts to do me much good, but it was a step in the right direction.

  “I noticed you at the bar,” she said. “What did you think of the act?”

  “Sensational. You had every male in the place panting.”

  She smiled, pleased. “Every male?”

  “Including me,” I said. “I’m not made of redwood.”

  “I noticed that.”

  I thought about it for a couple of seconds, and then decided to chance it. I had nothing to lose, and a lot to gain. I said, “When are you and Jake getting married?”

  She frowned. “Did Jake tell you that?”

  “He mentioned something about it,” I said. “Is it true?”

  “It is
not true,” she said angrily, partly angry with me for having believed it.

  “He’s in love with you.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to marry him. I’m grateful, sure, for his giving me a job at the Club, but that doesn’t mean I have to do everything he says.”

  “No,” I admitted, “it certainly doesn’t. But just what is your relationship with Jake?”

  “He’s a friend,” she said, “and my boss.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Jake knows this, of course,” I said.

  She nodded. “He knows it.”

  I sipped my drink and considered this. The information made my conscience less self-conscious. Apparently Jake was engaging in some wishful thinking and was trying to con me out of the picture.

  “I see Jake was up here recently,” I said.

  She frowned, puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

  “You didn’t empty the ashtray,” I said, indicating the cigar.

  She laughed. “Sometimes I’m a lousy housekeeper. Jake takes me home once in a while, Mr. Private Eye,” she said, and got up and took the ashtray out of the room and returned with it clean. “Were these questions of a personal nature, or were you merely practicing asking questions?”

  “They were quite personal, Miss Collins,” I told her.

  “Good. Let’s have some music, then,” she suggested, whirling to a phonograph on a nearby table. She turned a knob, the turntable whirred and a record dropped into place. An orchestra came stringing on in hi-fi. Cherry turned to me, swaying with the music, arms outstretched.

  “Drink up and join me,” she invited.

  It was an invitation I’d be out of my mind to refuse. I took a healthy gulp of my Scotch and water and joined her gladly.

  We danced.

  By the time the record spun to a close, I was emotionally exhausted. “Let’s sit this one out,” I suggested, clinging to her hand.

  “Fine idea,” she said, leading me to the couch.

  I permitted myself to be led. I sat down.

  “Care for another drink?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, reaching for her.

  “You’d better have another drink,” she decided, stepping back out of range, but she was smiling playfully. She retrieved my near-empty glass and returned to the kitchen.

  It was getting warm in the room, so I took off my coat. The playful smile looked promising, and I’d decided to delay asking her business questions. I’d also decided that Jake Richey had no claim to her, and I needn’t worry about him. I was busy deciding a number of things when she returned with a full glass and handed it to me. She had one for herself. She sat down on the couch beside me, a respectable distance away.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  That was a switch. I smiled. “You mean my dreams, my hopes, my ambitions?”

  “If you’d like. I mean just tell me about yourself, your work, anything you like. Please?”

  I settled back and sipped at the drink. “Well,” I began, “I was born at an early age nearly thirty long years ago in a small city in upstate New York. Attended local schools. Went to a nearby college, graduating with a Bachelor’s degree in everything and nothing. Got drafted into the army, won the war. Got discharged in California. Got a job on the police force. Got booted from the force, took up private detecting. Met a girl named Cherry Collins out at Muscle Beach. And here we are in her apartment listening to the dull story of my life. Period.”

  “You must have some exciting cases,” she said.

  “Some. Most of them are pretty routine, though.”

  “Are you working on anything exciting now?”

  “Not really,” I said, grinning at her, “but I’d like to.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “I mean, about hearing about your job.”

  I thought of the pictures of Eloise that Harvey Dutton wanted pulled out of circulation. I thought also of the film Abernathy wanted so badly.

  “Did you ever do any modeling locally, Cherry?”

  “A little,” she said. “When I was first starting out. I came down to L.A. for a few months to find a job. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Any figure work?”

  “All kinds.” She blushed. “Well, not all kinds,” she amended. “Mostly cheesecake, some figure work.”

  “Did you ever know a girl named Lois Smith?”

  She thought a moment. “I’m not sure. There was a girl named Eloise Smith, I think, or it might have been Louise, I don’t remember. I might recognize her if I saw her, though. Do you have a picture of her?”

  “Nothing I could show you,” I said. I took the typewritten list from my wallet and handed it to her. “Did you model for any of these?”

  She took the list and looked it over closely. “I did some posing at Glamour Studios,” she mused, “and a little at the Photographers’ Club.” She handed back the list. “I’ve never heard of the others.”

  I put the list back in my wallet beside the retainer Harvey Dutton had given me. “Do you think it was at one of those two studios you met Eloise?”

  She nodded. “I think so. If it was your Lois. I never got to know her, but I remember she was dark haired and had a very nice figure.”

  “That sounds like her,” I said. “But except for the hair, it also sounds like you.”

  “I didn’t think you’d noticed,” she said. “You’ve been very busy sounding like a private detective.”

  “Sorry. It’s seldom I have the chance to combine business with pleasure. Which reminds me—” I set down my glass and moved toward her.

  She got up. “Let’s dance,” she suggested again, pulling at my arms.

  Dancing was not quite what I had in mind, but it was a close second. I knew I should try some more business, but somehow I couldn’t hold my attention on such a remote subject. The real reason I came over here, I told myself, was to get the film from Cherry. Or was it? I wasn’t sure, and the more we danced the more I doubted my platonic intentions.

  I don’t know what song the phonograph was playing. All I knew was that Cherry was molding herself against me. The room was warm and my head was beginning to reel, which was strange, since I can hold my booze with the best and the worst of them. This wasn’t my main thought at the time, however.

  The music stopped, and we paused, clinging to each other. And then Cherry’s arms were around my neck, her lips mashing mine. Somewhere on the other side of the world, a record dropped into place on a turntable and the music started again, but we paid it no attention.

  “The bedroom,” she whispered huskily, taking my arm.

  I needed no urging. I was ready, willing, and about to burst with enthusiasm. She led me into the hallway, into the bedroom, and as I reached for her again, she said softly, “Wait, Mark,” and walked toward the double bed.

  If there’s anyone who knows how to undress in front of a man it’s a stripper. Cherry had proved that once tonight. She was going to prove it again. I didn’t mind a bit. She moved away, her kiss still fresh and burning on my lips, and stopped beside the bed. Then she turned and smiled, and her fingers strayed to the top button of her dress. The only light was that filtering softly from the living room, but I made no move for the light switch. I was busy watching as the top button slipped its notch and her fingers crept to the second.

  The music was still playing, but I was hardly aware of it. The room was getting warmer by the button, my legs were getting wobbly, and I felt like I was on fire. I passed an arm over my forehead, as though this would dispel a rising headache. It didn’t.

  Cherry was down to the waist now. Smiling sensuously, she pulled the dress off her shoulders, pushed it down, wriggled out of it completely, let it fall in a heap around her. I couldn’t seem to get Cherry in focus, and that was a shame because I was sure she looked very good in focus. Everything else was getting to be a long distance away, too. Scotch and water doesn’t normally
do this to me. Not normal Scotch and water, that is. A spiked drink might, though. I got sore then, but it was a little late, because I couldn’t work up enough enthusiasm for being sore to overcome the fact that I was quickly leaving this fuzzy world.

  I suppose I heard the closet door open behind me—it seemed later that I recalled it—but I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t even step aside to dodge the blow I knew was coming. It was adding injury to insult, because I was very nearly out anyway. I just stood there like the drugged ape I was, ready to take it square on the back of the noggin, ready for the world to become the Fourth of July, full of sound and fury.

  I managed to drop just before the blow came. Something hard and dull raked my skull, sending shafts of lightning to sear my fogged brain, and I dropped all the way.

  I hardly felt the floor, but I was dimly aware that somebody was rolling me over. I heard frantic voices. Somebody was rolling up my sleeve.

  Then I felt the hypodermic needle slide into my arm.

  Chapter Seven

  THAT DID IT!

  I’d been fed a spiked drink, I’d been slugged—I’d be damned if I’d let somebody come out of a lady’s closet and stick me with a needle! Pain was exploding all through me, but somehow I got my head off the floor and yanked my .38 from its holster.

  “Look out!” I heard Cherry yell.

  I wondered whether she was yelling it at me or Mr. Closet. If it was at me, she was wasting her breath. I couldn’t see anything very clearly, but I was sure as hell looking out. I saw somebody move toward me. I fired at him. The world was not getting any clearer. It was now or never. I fired again.

  I don’t know whether I hit him with either shot, but he clattered over me in a wild attempt to get out. I heard him running through the other room.

  I felt my arm. The needle was still imbedded in me, and fortunately the hypo was still attached to it. I slid out the needle and struggled to my feet.

  Cherry was beside me. “Mark, are you all right. Are you hurt?”