Negative of a Nude Page 9

  In the bottom of a shoe box in one dusty corner of the bedroom closet, I found three party favors—a blue one, a pink one, a yellow one—the kind with crinkly paper and flared ends; they were wrapped in Christmas paper. Leftovers from New Year’s Eve, I decided, and started to put them back.

  And then a thought hit me. Who saves party favors from one year to the next. Nobody I knew. Certainly not a girl like Cherry. I opened the blue one because I’m a boy. I pulled the ends and it went pop and I unrolled the paper carefully.

  There were no candies, no toy inside. I remember thinking, prophetically enough, the first time she was in my apartment: Cherry Collins had taken a powder. She had, indeed. A white powder resembling sugar, but only in looks.

  I didn’t have to take the stuff to a lab to find out what it was. I didn’t even have to sniff it or taste it or heat it in a spoon and draw the liquid through a piece of cotton into a hypodermic needle. I didn’t have to inject it into my bloodstream to take away the pain it had put there in the first place.

  I knew what it was. I used to fly there regularly myself. Trouble was, it’s a long walk back. It was the stuff that made reality a nightmare and the nightmare a dream—heroin.

  Chapter Eleven

  I STOOD THERE in the middle of the silent room looking at the powder and remembering the times I’d sold my soul to a pusher for a packet of the stuff. I got the galloping shakes just thinking about it, so I went into the bathroom and flushed the whole kit down the toilet.

  The heroin was in Cherry’s apartment, but a stripper couldn’t afford to have needle marks showing. Anywhere. No place was remote enough for someone with her occupation. Of course, you don’t have to inject heroin. It can be sniffed, it can be taken in coffee, but the kick is slower.

  Then I remembered the long black gloves she wore in her strip act at the Nocturne, and the long-sleeved dresses I’d seen her in. Even at the beach, she’d been fully covered—so she wouldn’t get sunburned unevenly, she’d said—a partial truth, probably. The only times I’d seen her sleeveless was at the Club and later in her bedroom. Makeup could do wonders in dim light. Besides, at either place my attention wasn’t focused on the girl’s arms.

  Could be. I filed the thought for future reference.

  The stuff could have been for Mr. Closet. Or Mr. Sports Car, which brought up another question.

  One thing was sure: there are times when an underdog has to sit back on his haunches and take a good look at the hand that’s feeding him. This was one of those times. The other hand might contain a hypodermic needle.

  I used Cherry’s phone. Eloise answered.

  “Eloise,” I said. “This is Mark Wonder. I’d like to speak to Dody, please.”

  “Won’t I do?” she asked, teasing.

  “You’ll do fine some other time,” I said, “but right now I’d like to talk to Dody.”

  “Why don’t you come over, Mark. Harvey’s away on a business trip. We could send Dody out. Even the butler’s gone to see his mother in Compton. We could take up where we left off last time.”

  “I might do that,” I said impatiently. “Is Dody there?”

  “I’ll call her,” Eloise said coldly.

  A few minutes later Dody was on the phone.

  “How about that swim?” I said.

  “Now?” she said. “Do you realize it’s nearly eight o’clock? I thought you didn’t like moonlight swims.”

  “I want to see you again,” I said, though my blood was becoming raspberry sherbet at the mere thought of the cold, cold ocean with me splashing around in it. “Besides, my hospitalization’s paid up.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What time are you coming over?”

  “As soon as I can. Maybe a couple of hours. I have an errand to run first. Is your Austin-Healey out front?”

  “Harvey borrowed it to go into town. He should be back shortly, though.”

  “Does Harvey have a pair of swimming trunks I can borrow?”

  “I’m sure he has. I’ll check that. Hurry, Mark, we’ve got a full moon tonight. You’ll like it, wait and see.”

  I hung up, unconvinced. Dody’s enthusiasm wasn’t contagious. Pneumonia was. But I really did like the girl. For a scatterbrained kid, she was as likable as a shaggy dog, and there were too few of those around. Likable people, I mean.

  I returned the yellow party favor to the shoe box and stuffed the pink one in my coat pocket. I discovered an empty hypodermic needle in the bathroom medicine chest. I left it there. Then I tried to arrange things the way I thought they’d been when I first came in. On a sudden thought I called Lococo’s and had them page Miss Cherry Collins.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Cherry, this is Mark.”

  “Mark Wonder, where in blazes are you? We had a date for eight. I’m on my fourth Gibson.”

  “Something came up,” I said. “Cherry, by any wild chance did you pick up a camera at my place yesterday afternoon?”

  She hesitated. “Why no, Mark. Why? Is one missing?”

  “One is missing, all right, along with the film that was in it. Sure you don’t have any idea where the film is?”

  “What makes you think I know anything about it?” she said, trying indignation. “Are you accusing me of stealing your camera?”

  I didn’t answer that one. I said, “I’ve been looking for the camera tonight. I didn’t find it, but I found some other stuff.”

  “What other stuff?” she said steadily.

  “A white stuff the police might be interested in,” I said.

  “Stay there, Mark,” she said. “I’ll be right over.”

  The line went dead, but I had no intention of staying there. Cherry had no doubts about where I was and what I’d found, and she might not be coming alone. I was sure my message to her would blow up a storm, but it might mean I’d know which way the wind was blowing for a change.

  I made one more phone call.

  “Hello, Paul,” I said. “Mark Wonder.”

  Paul Williams hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” I told him, “I’m not calling from the apartment.”

  “I might have suspected you’d know the phone was bugged,” Paul said. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess, Mark.”

  “Me, too,” I admitted, “but I’m trying to wriggle off the hook. There’s one way you can help me. What was in that needle they took from my toilet tank, Paul?”

  Another hesitation. “You don’t know?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t ask. Some joker tried to stab me with it.”

  “The hypo was filled with water,” Paul said.

  That one took me by surprise. “Water?”

  “Plain old H2O. Nothing else.”

  “Thanks, Paul,” I said. “Let’s have a coffee sometime when this nonsense is over with.”

  I hung up and stared down at the phone. Now, who in the world would want to pump ice water into my veins?

  I didn’t have an answer for that one either, so I let myself out the front way and went back to the Chevvy. The Abernathys lived in Beverly Hills, and by going up the coast I could stop by there on my way to Dody Dutton. I wanted to find out what Mrs. A. meant about my money.

  The Abernathy household smelled quite well-to-do. It had to, being in another of the high rent districts. I had no idea what Mr. Abernathy did, but it was apparently a profitable line. If I had twelve million dollars, I’d invest it, become rich, and buy a house like that. It was old style, conservative, and they had a pretty maid to answer the door.

  “My name’s Mark Wonder,” I said, “what’s yours?”

  “Mrs. Abernathy’s expecting you, Mr. Wonder,” she said. “She’s waiting in the library.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I know,” she said. She pivoted on a black-silk-stockinged leg and bounced across the hallway very becomingly. She opened a door. “In here, please.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, and walked in.

  The door closed behind me. Mrs.
Abernathy was sitting in a wheelchair by the French windows. She was a thin, attractive, middle-aged woman with brown hair and a pleasant face that showed lines of stoic worry. She had a blanket draped over her legs. She turned as I entered the room, but there was no recognition, no surprise, no pleasure in her face. She merely turned the wheelchair and guided it toward me.

  “Sit down, Mr. Wonder,” she said.

  I sat down, in an overstuffed chair. For some reason I felt ill-at-ease. It was something about her face, the tension in it, as though she were controlling her emotions.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Wonder?”

  “No, I don’t believe so, thanks. I have some bad news about the pictures—”

  “I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve already received the bad news.”

  “Then your husband told you—”

  “George doesn’t know a thing about it, as far as I know, Mr. Wonder. I got the mail this morning. If he knew he’d probably kill you. In fact—” She gave up trying to control herself and reached beneath the blanket as though to rearrange it. Instead she brought a small automatic pistol from her lap. “In fact, that is not a bad idea at all. I wonder if you realize how despicable you are.”

  I stared at the tiny gun, not comprehending. It was a small caliber weapon, probably a twenty-two, but a hole in the head was a hole in the head.

  “I don’t get it. You’re the one who wanted your husband tailed. You wanted the pictures taken.”

  With her free hand she reached under the blanket again. She withdrew an envelope, handed it to me. It was a brown six-by-nine, the same kind Harvey Dutton had received with the pornographic pictures of Eloise, only this one was addressed to Mr. George Abernathy. The envelope had been rubber-stamped PLEASE DO NOT FOLD OR BEND, also like Harvey’s had been. My stomach felt like it was dropping in an elevator. I was afraid of what was inside.

  “Open it,” she said.

  “But—”

  “Open it. Be proud of yourself.”

  She looked like she was angry enough to pull the trigger. I make it a practice to never argue with an irate woman with a gun. I opened the envelope.

  There was another cardboard inside to prevent bending, and there were the items not to be bent: five glossy five-by seven prints of Mr. George Abernathy doing naked gymnastics with a blonde. The sender had picked some choice ones, all right. But then he—or she—had some gems to choose from.

  There was an index card in the envelope, too, with some typing on it. It said: $15,000 FOR THE NEGATIVES. I had the strange feeling I’d been there before.

  “You’re an ambitious man, Mr. Wonder,” Jenny Abernathy said coldly. “I’ll bet it takes a private detective a long time to make fifteen thousand dollars. A poor but honest one, anyway.”

  I handed them back to her. “I didn’t send these pictures. I don’t know who did, but I’d like to.”

  She shook her head. “Not a very good try, Mr. Wonder.”

  “I’m sorry if it isn’t. It’s the truth. Somebody stole the film, camera and all, from me. Your husband wouldn’t believe me, either.”

  She looked surprised at that. “George has been to see you?”

  I nodded. “The first time he threatened to kill me. The next time he sent a gorilla to work me over. But I didn’t have the negatives either time. Your husband is certainly anxious to get those pictures back.”

  She stared at the top picture. “Tell me, Mr. Wonder. You saw the girl in person. Is she really as pretty as she looks?”

  “She’s hard. She’s been around, and it shows. As far as your husband is concerned, I’m sure it’s pure sex, nothing else. It’s like a guy who doesn’t drink suddenly going off on a binge.”

  She looked up and smiled. A warm smile, suddenly. “Maybe it’s worth the fifteen thousand, just for that.”

  “Look, Mrs. Abernathy, I don’t want any fifteen thousand. I don’t want any money I don’t earn. I was hired to tail your husband and take pictures. I did that. Unfortunately for everybody, including myself, I let somebody steal the pictures, and they got into the wrong hands. I’ll find them for you.”

  She sat thinking, but not about what I’d just said. “I used to be quite pretty, Mr. Wonder,” she said suddenly. “I’ve been a cripple now for more than ten years. It hasn’t been easy on me, but I’m beginning to think it’s been worse for George. He’s never let on, of course, but I could tell. We’d go to a party, and he’d watch wives dancing with their husbands, holding them close, and I’d encourage him to ask others to dance, even though I was a jealous fool when he did. Then we’d all go home, and I could tell he was thinking about those other women going home with their husbands. Maybe it was wrong but I was jealous. I—I was afraid he’d leave me. Then, this latest escapade—” she indicated the photos on her lap—“I didn’t know what to do. I almost called you up a dozen times to say never mind, what does it matter, I understand. But I didn’t understand. I didn’t at all. I’m not sure I do now.”

  “Mrs. Abernathy, a man can stay hungry for just so long, then…”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “yes, I suppose so.” On impulse she put the pictures under the blanket and the gun, too. “Now then, Mr. Wonder, what will we do with these pictures?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Destroy them. Ignore the note, for now anyway. Another may come telling you what to do with the fifteen thousand. Right now, I’d like to check a lead. By the way, would you really have shot me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly, seriously. “I don’t think so, but I don’t really know. Mr. Wonder, if you do find the pictures, I don’t want to see them. George has had his fling. Maybe he’ll have more. It doesn’t matter, as long as he comes back.”

  “He’d be a fool not to,” I told her.

  The maid came and let me out the front door. Seeing her, I could understand Mr. Abernathy’s problem even more. Something like that living in the same house would drive a man bats if he didn’t let go once in a while. Apparently the maid was too close to home to do any good.

  She wasn’t too close to my home, though. “How about you and I having dinner one of these nights?” I asked her, when we got to the door.

  “No thanks,” she said, closing the door in my face.

  Some days are like that.

  I went out to the Chevvy, adding up two and two. Cherry had stolen the film from me, there was little doubt of that. The prints of that film had showed up in the same manner as the other ones, the pictures of Eloise Dutton. The inevitable conclusion was four, that Cherry was connected in some way to both cases, both sets of pictures, both blackmail attempts.

  And I wasn’t too satisfied with Harvey’s part in all this, either. He could have been the one that left the cigar in Cherry’s apartment, could have been the man in the closet, could have been the driver of the sports car leaving Cherry’s place. These were the next items under consideration.

  I got in the Chevvy and pointed it at the Dutton residence.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE GOLD CAD wasn’t in the driveway, but Dody’s sports car was. I parked in back of it. It surprised me pleasantly that the butler didn’t answer my knock, and then I remembered he was in Compton with his mother. Good for him.

  The substitute door opener was Dody. She was wearing the usual bluejeans, but a man’s shirt covered the upper part of her body and sandals encased her feet.

  “Hi,” she said, coming out to join me. “All set to go?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I can hardly wait to get down to that cold, rough Pacific.”

  “We’ll take my car,” she said, steering me toward it. “I put a pair of Harvey’s swim trunks in the glove compartment.”

  I didn’t argue with her on that. I’d never been in one of those little foreign jobs, so I climbed aboard, while she went around to the pilot’s seat. We fastened our seat belts. Dody punched the starter button and the motor erupted into life. She pressed the accelerator with
her foot a few times for effect, and the exhaust growled in response.

  “I can get from zero to sixty in ten seconds,” she said proudly.

  “And then what?” I said.

  “I’ll show you,” she said, releasing the emergency brake between us.

  She also released the clutch and floored the gas pedal. The car shot forward, and I think we made it to sixty right there in the driveway. She spun the wheel, and the car made a right-angle turn onto the road.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, “I’m convinced.”

  She pretended not to hear me. She drove like an expert. A fast expert. The wind whipped around us like a banshee as the car accelerated down the twisting, turning road toward Sunset Boulevard. Another car wouldn’t have made it at that speed. The Healey had guts all right. So did Dody for driving it. And me for being a passenger. I didn’t say a word until we paused at Sunset for a traffic light.

  I said, “Do you always drive like that?”

  “Not always,” she said. “Sometimes I go faster. I was taking it easy because you were along.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The light changed, her foot went down on the accelerator, and with a scream of rubber, the car turned the corner and tried to get out from under me.

  We flew west on Sunset, toward the ocean. This far on the ocean side of LaBrea, the road does a few fancy turns, and we did a few fancy ones right along with them.

  We came to Pacific Coast Highway and turned right toward Malibu. After a few miles, she swung left to the side of the road and braked to a halt several feet off the concrete.

  “Here we are,” she announced.

  It was windy and cold and deserted. I’m the kind of guy who likes his sports indoors. With a cool glass of Scotch before a warm fireplace I’m right at home, no matter who owns the joint. This just wasn’t my cup of tea. Besides, I had important things to discuss with Dody, things about Harvey and about Eloise, about the pornographic pictures, and maybe even the death of Jake Richey.