The Barbarous Coast (3 page)

“That’s Hester on the left,” Bassett said behind me.

Her body was like an arrow. Her bright hair was combed back by the wind from the oval blur of her face. The girl on the right was a dark brunette, equally striking in her full-breasted way. The man in the middle was dark, too, with curly black hair and muscles that looked hammered out of bronze.

“It’s one of my favorite photographs,” Bassett said. “It was taken a couple of years ago, when Hester was in training for the nationals.”

“Taken here?”

“Yes. We let her use our tower for practicing, as I said.”

“Who are her friends in the picture?”

“The boy used to be our lifeguard. The girl was a young friend of Hester’s. She worked in the snack bar here, but Hester was grooming her for competitive diving.”

“Is she still around?”

“I’m afraid not.” His face lengthened. “Gabrielle was killed.”

“In a diving accident?”

“Hardly. She was shot.”

“Murdered?”

He nodded solemnly.

“Who did it to her?”

“The crime was never solved. I doubt that it ever will be now. It happened nearly two years ago, in March of last year.”

“What did you say her name was?”

“Gabrielle. Gabrielle Torres.”

“Any relation to Tony?”

“She was his daughter.”

T
HERE
was a heavy knock on the door. Bassett shied like a frightened horse.

“Who is it?”

The knock was repeated. I went to the door. Bassett neighed at me:

“Don’t open it.”

I turned the key in the lock and opened the door a few inches against my foot and shoulder. George Wall was outside. His face was greenish-gray in the reflected light. The torn white meat of his leg showed through a rip in his trousers. He breathed hard into my face:

“Is he in here?”

“How did you get in?”

“I came over the fence. Is Bassett in here?”

I looked at Bassett. He was crouched behind the desk, with only his white eyes showing, and his black gun. “Don’t let him come in. Don’t let him touch me.”

“He’s not going to touch you. Put that down.”

“I will not. I’ll defend myself if I have to.”

I turned my back on his trigger-happy terror. “You heard him, Wall. He has a gun.”

“I don’t care what he has. I’ve got to talk to him. Is Hester here?”

“You’re on the wrong track. He hasn’t seen her for months.”

“Naturally he says that.”

“I’m saying it, too. She worked here during the summer, and left some time in September.”

His puzzled blue look deepened. His tongue moved like
a slow red snail across his upper lip. “Why wouldn’t he see me before, if she’s not with him?”

“You mentioned horsewhipping, remember? It wasn’t exactly the approach diplomatic.”

“I don’t have time for diplomacy. I have to fly home tomorrow.”

“Good.”

His shoulder leaned into the opening. I felt his weight on the door. Bassett’s voice rose an octave:

“Keep him away from me!”

Bassett was close behind me. I turned with my back against the door and wrenched the gun out of his hand and put it in my pocket. He was too angry and scared to say a word. I turned back to Wall, who was still pressing in but not with all his force. He looked confused. I spread one hand on his chest and pushed him upright and held him. His weight was stubborn and inert, like a stone statue’s.

A short, broad-shouldered man came down the steps from the vestibule. He walked toward us fussily, almost goose-stepping, glancing out over the pool and at the sea beyond it as if they were his personal possessions. The wind ruffled his crest of silver hair. Self-importance and fat swelled under his beautifully tailored blue flannel jacket. He was paying no attention to the woman trailing along a few paces behind him.

“Good Lord,” Bassett said in my ear, “it’s Mr. and Mrs. Graff. We can’t have a disturbance in front of Mr. Graff. Let Wall come in. Quickly, man!”

I let him in. Bassett was at the door, bowing and smiling, when the silver-haired man came up. He paused and chopped the air with his nose. His face was brown and burnished-looking.

“Bassett? You’ve got the extra help lined up for tonight? Orchestra? Food?”

“Yes, Mr. Graff.”

“About drinks. We’ll use the regular bar bourbon, not my private stock. They’re all barbarians, anyway—none of them knows the difference.”

“Yes, Mr. Graff. Enjoy your swim.”

“I always enjoy my swim.”

The woman came up behind him, moving a little dazedly, as though the sunlight distressed her. Her black hair was pulled back severely from a broad, flat brow, to which her Greek nose was joined without indentation. Her face was pale and dead, except for the dark searchlights of her eyes, which seemed to contain all her energy and feeling. She was dressed in black jersey, without ornament, like a widow.

Bassett bade her good-morning. She answered with sudden animation that it was a lovely day for December. Her husband strode away toward the
cabañas
. She followed like a detached shadow. Bassett sighed with relief.

“Is he the Graff in Helio-Graff?” I said.

“Yes.”

He edged past Wall to his desk, rested a haunch on one corner, and fumbled with his pipe and tobacco pouch. His hands were shaking. Wall hadn’t moved from the door. His face was red in patches, and I didn’t like the glacial stare of his eyes. I kept my bulk between the two men, watching them in turn like a tennis referee.

Wall said throatily: “You can’t lie out of it, you must know where she is. You paid for her dancing lessons.”

“Dancing lessons? I?” Bassett’s surprise sounded real.

“At the Anton School of Ballet. I spoke to Anton yesterday afternoon. He told me she took some dancing lessons from him, and paid for them with your check.”

“So that’s what she did with the money I lent her.”

Wall’s lip curled to one side. “You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you? Why would you lend her money?”

“I like her.”

“I bet you do. Where is she now?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. She left here in September. I haven’t set eyes on Miss Campbell since.”

“The name is Mrs. Wall, Mrs. George Wall. She’s my wife.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that, old boy. But she used her maiden name when she was with us. She was planning to divorce you, I understood.”

“Who talked her into that?”

Bassett gave him a long-suffering look. “If you want the truth, I tried to talk her out of it. I advised her to go back to Canada, to you. But she had other plans.”

“What other plans?”

“She wanted a career,” Bassett said with a trace of irony. “She was brought up in the Southland here, you know, and she had the movie fever in her blood. And of course her diving gave her a taste for the limelight. I honestly did my best to talk her out of it. But I’m afraid I made no impression on her. She was determined to find an outlet for her talent—I suppose that explains the dancing lessons.”

“Does she have talent?” I said.

Wall answered: “She thinks she has.”

“Come now,” Bassett said with a weary smile. “Let’s give the lady her due. She’s a lovely child, and she could develop—”

“So you paid for her dancing lessons.”

“I lent her money. I don’t know how she spent it. She took off from here very suddenly, as I was telling Archer. One day she was living quietly in Malibu, working at her diving, making good contacts here. And the next day she’d dropped out of sight.”

“What sort of contacts?” I said.

“A good many of our members are in the industry.”

“Could she have gone off with one of them?”

Bassett frowned at the idea. “Certainly not to my knowledge. You understand, I made no attempt to trace her. If she chose to leave, I had no right to interfere.”

“I have a right.” Wall’s voice was low and choked. “I think you’re lying about it. You know where she is, and you’re trying to put me off.”

His lower lip and jaw stuck out, changing the shape of his face into something unformed and ugly. His shoulders leaned outward from the door. I watched his fists clench, white around the knuckles.

“Act your age,” I said.

“I’ve got to find out where she is, what happened to her.”

“Wait a minute, George.” Bassett pointed his pipe like a token gun, a wisp of smoke at the stem.

“Don’t call me George. My friends call me George.”

“I’m not your enemy, old boy.”

“And don’t call me old boy.”

“Young
boy
, then, if you wish. I was going to say, I’m sorry this ever came up between us. Truly sorry. I’ve done you no harm, believe me, and I wish you well.”

“Why don’t you help me, then? Tell me the truth: is Hester alive?”

Bassett looked at him in dismay.

I said: “What makes you think she isn’t?”

“Because she was afraid. She was afraid of being killed.”

“When was this?”

“The night before last. Christmas night. She phoned long-distance to the flat in Toronto. She was terribly upset, crying into the telephone.”

“What about?”

“Someone had threatened to kill her, she didn’t say who. She wanted to get out of California. She asked me if I was willing to take her back. I was, and I told her so. But before we could make any arrangements, the call was cut off. Suddenly
she wasn’t there, there was nobody there on the end of the line.”

“Where was she calling from?”

“Anton’s Ballet School on Sunset Boulevard. She had the charges reversed, so I was able to trace the call. I flew out here as soon as I could get away, and saw Anton yesterday. He didn’t know about the telephone call, or he said he didn’t. He’d been throwing some kind of a party for his students that night, and things were pretty confused.”

“Your wife is still taking lessons from him?”

“I don’t know. I believe so.”

“He should have her address, then.”

“He says not. The only address she gave him was the Channel Club here.” He threw a suspicious look in Bassett’s direction. “Are you certain she doesn’t live here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She never did. I invite you to check on that. She rented a cottage in Malibu—I’ll look up the address for you. The landlady lives next door, I believe, and you can talk to her. She’s Mrs. Sarah Lamb—an old friend and employee of mine. Just mention my name to her.”

“So she can lie for you?” Wall said.

Bassett rose and moved toward him, tentatively. “Won’t you listen to reason, old boy? I befriended your wife. It’s rather hard, don’t you think, that I should have to suffer for my good deeds. I can’t spend the whole day arguing with you. I’ve an important party to prepare for tonight.”

“That’s no concern of mine.”

“No, and your affairs are no concern of mine. But I do have a suggestion. Mr. Archer is a private detective. I’m willing to pay him, out of my own pocket, to help you find your wife. On condition that you stop badgering me. Now, is that a fair proposal or isn’t it?”

“You’re a detective?” Wall said.

I nodded.

He looked at me doubtfully. “If I could be sure this isn’t a put-up job—Are you a friend of Bassett’s?”

“Never saw him until this morning. Incidentally, I haven’t been consulted about this deal.”

“It’s right down your alley, isn’t it?” Bassett said smoothly. “What’s your objection?”

I had none, except that there was trouble in the air and it was the end of a rough year and I was a little tired. I looked at George Wall’s pink, rebellious head. He was a natural-born troublemaker, dangerous to himself and probably to other people. Perhaps if I tagged along with him, I could head off the trouble he was looking for. I was a dreamer.

“How about it, Wall?”

“I’d like to have your help,” he answered slowly. “I’d rather pay you myself, though.”

“Absolutely not!” Bassett said. “You must let me do something—I’m interested in Hester’s welfare, too.”

“So I gather.” Wall’s voice was surly.

I said: “We’ll toss for it. Heads Bassett pays, tails Wall.”

I flipped a quarter and slapped it down on the desk. Tails. I was George Wall’s boy. Or he was mine.

G
RAFF
was floating on his back in the pool when George Wall and I went outside. His brown belly swelled above its surface like the humpback of a Galápagos tortoise. Mrs. Graff, fully clothed, was sitting by
herself in a sunny corner. Her black dress and black hair and black eyes seemed to annul the sunlight. Her face and body had the distinction that takes the place of beauty in people who have suffered long and hard.

She interested me, but I didn’t interest her. She didn’t even raise her eyes when we passed.

I led Wall out to my car. “You better duck down in the seat when we get up to the gate. Tony might take a pot shot at you.”

“Not really?”

“He might. Some of these old fighters can get very upset very quickly, especially when you take a poke at them.”

“I didn’t mean to do that. It was a rotten thing to do.”

“It wasn’t smart. Twice this morning you nearly got yourself shot. Bassett was scared enough to do it, and Tony was mad enough. I don’t know how it is in Canada, but you can’t throw your weight around too much in these parts. A lot of harmless-looking souls have guns in their drawers.”

His head sank lower. “I’m sorry.”

He sounded more than ever like an adolescent who hadn’t caught up with his growth. I liked him pretty well, in spite of that. He had the makings, if he lived long enough for them to jell.

“Don’t apologize to me. The life you save may be your own.”

“But I’m really sorry. The thought of Hester with that old sissy—I guess I lost my head.”

“Find it again. And, for God’s sake, forget about Bassett. He’s hardly what you’d call a wolf.”

“He gave her money. He admitted it.”

“The point is, he did admit it. Probably somebody else is paying her bills now.”

He said in a low, growling voice: “Whoever it is, I’ll kill him.”

“No, you won’t.”

He sat in stubborn silence as we drove up to the gate. The gate was open. From the door of the gatehouse, Tony waved to me and made a face at Wall.