Star Light, Star Bright Read online

  “That explains it.”

  “You can thank Mike. He got so pissed off at the meals this new bunch of help is cooking up that he laid it right on Andrew. So they had some restaurant in town do all this and ship it in.”

  “Mike speaks his mind,” I remarked, and with all the sweet gravity of Alice in Wonderland, Holly Lee said, “Why the fuck not?”

  He was speaking his mind again, loud enough to be heard the length of the table. Now it was on the comparative merits of California and Florida, with an acid-tongued Quist making it a sort of cudgel versus rapier duel. Sid Kightlinger, nervously watching his superstar and his moneyman have at it, several times tried to point out that each side had merit, and each time was batted down by both. Lou Hoffman, apart from those occasions when Holly Lee addressed him, looked abstracted. Scott Rountree stolidly tucked away everything that was put before him. Belle, never saying a word, went through that familiar business of extracting non-carbohydrates from her plate and then masticating them with distaste. Sharon, right in the combat zone between her husband and Calderon, seemed beatifically unaware of both. Maggie seemed as unaware, but not beatifically. Head down, shoulders hunched, she sat there as if posing for a statue of dejection. Araujo, eating hugely, drinking lustily, slowed down as he took notice of this stricken image beside him. He gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder, nudging her into an interest in the goodies before her. She thanked him by wrenching away the shoulder.

  Holly Lee must have been digesting the tail end of our conversation along with her hors d’oeuvres. She leaned toward me again. “You don’t have something special going about Mike, do you? Like thinking he’s the one wrote those notes and all?”

  “No. Nothing special.”

  Holly Lee nodded. “That’s what the word is. I mean, like you figure Kalos is it. Right?”

  “Except for the teaser. Why would he be going through all this to wind up dead?”

  “Oh, that. But he doesn’t really die. He comes back.”

  “In another form?”

  “Well, in another body, if that’s what you mean. But Believers will know him.”

  I said, “Even so, doesn’t it bother you to think of his getting killed? The violence, the pain, all that part of it?”

  Holly Lee’s face clouded. “Well, sort of.”

  “Is that what you were talking about with Lou and Scottie right after services?”

  “Not exactly.” She hesitated, then came out with it. “Look, if Kalos is the one doing all this stuff here, then there’s really nobody else out to kill him, is there?”

  “Isn’t there?”

  Holly Lee said heatedly, “What’s the big question? Nobody else would be out to kill him. But then—well, he’d have to kill himself, wouldn’t he? And he’s supposed to be against that kind of thing. So that’s what I wanted to ask him about. And that’s what Lou and Scottie don’t want me to do.”

  “Why not?”

  “They said I shouldn’t get in the way. That if Kalos is, like, you know, God on earth, then everything that happens is his plan. And a Believer shouldn’t go around asking questions about it.”

  I said, “But Lou and Scottie aren’t Believers. Where do they come to hold your proxy?”

  “What?”

  “Why take their advice about it? Do you think they have a real concern for Daskalos?”

  Holly Lee slowly shook her head. “I think they just want to see what’ll happen, that’s all. Especially Scottie. All writers are flaky that way. He and Lou already talked about maybe there’s a story in all this. So that—”

  I cut in: “Aside from that angle, why buy their advice?”

  “Mister, I’ve got a part coming up in their picture. A big one. Oscar Supporting Actress big. But so far, nobody’s handed me any contract to sign.”

  “I see.”

  “That makes you a very smart detective. Anyhow, you’ll be with Kalos tonight, won’t you? So whatever happens, you’ll be on top of it.”

  I said, “Right on top of it,” and was going to add the assurance that nothing would happen, when Hoffman, plainly troubled by this dialogue outside his hearing range, reclaimed his starlet. And made sure to keep her reclaimed, leaving me to extract what entertainment I could from the table talk.

  It was during my filet of sole that I saw Araujo suddenly swivel his head toward the hallway door. When I looked the door was already closing behind whoever had signaled a presence there. Araujo got to his feet, motioned me to follow suit. In the hallway outside was Pablo.

  “Any luck?” Araujo asked him, and when Pablo shook his head Araujo said venomously, “Goddam gun.” He turned to me. “This was a good opportunity for it, so I just had him check out those cottages for that lousy gun. Mr. Rountree’s and Mr. Hoffman’s.” He regarded Pablo with a flinty eye. “You didn’t disturb anything there, did you?”

  “No chance.”

  “I hope not,” Araujo snapped. “All right, back on the job,” and Pablo, accurately gauging his uncle’s mood, moved off on winged feet.

  I said to Araujo, “Two cottages out of three. Not bad. But not perfect.”

  “I realize that. But when you’re with Daskalos maybe you can do something about that. Handle with care, but”—he made a circling motion with his hand—“look around, you know? There’s not many places there you can hide a gun.”

  “He and I will be coming to a fast understanding,” I said. “That’ll be part of it.”

  “It would help. One other thing. I want to check out those two apartments upstairs. Fifteen minutes should do it. Meanwhile, you’ll have to keep an eye on Mr. Calderon and Mr. Kightlinger. If either of them shows any signs of leaving the table to go upstairs, stall them. It would be one fat embarrassment if I got caught digging through those dresser drawers.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Does Quist know about this search without warrant?”

  Araujo winked broadly. “He’d be shocked at the idea. But what was that with Miss Otis at the table? Did you get anything new from her about last night?”

  I said, “Not in so many words. But from what I put together, she might have gone out on the beach during the blackout and started for Daskalos’ place, then changed her mind.”

  “So she did lie when I asked about it. Why?”

  “Because she still hasn’t signed her movie contract,” I said, and when Araujo looked puzzled I said, “I’ll explain later. Right now you’ve got fifteen fast minutes of work ahead.”

  He made it in just under twenty minutes, and his glum face told the story even before he dropped into his chair and gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  One loaded gun still missing.

  Coffee. Pastries. Fresh fruit and cheese. Liqueurs and that second-rate house brandy. A humidor of cigars was passed around. Toilet privileges, as Araujo had put it, were offered by our host. Most, including myself, took advantage of the offer.

  Quist and Araujo kept me company in the lobby as the customers filed into the screening room, led by Calderon with Sharon in tow. When the corridor was cleared Quist said to me, “You’ll probably have a dull time of it, but don’t let that put you off-guard. About one thing especially. When it gets near twelve be watchful about anything Daskalos drinks. About anything that goes down his throat, for that matter.”

  “Poison?” I said. “What gives you that idea?”

  “You may not take him at face value, but I do. And while I still can’t guess what the hell he’s up to, I believe he’ll go to any lengths to achieve it.”

  “All right, I’ll take that into account.”

  “But with restraint,” Quist warned. “Nothing physical.” He aimed a bony forefinger at me. “You know Mrs. Quist’s regard for him. More than regard. I don’t want anything done I’ll have to apologize to her for.”

  “I’ll take that into account too.”

  “That would be wise. Well, then. Keep close to him as long as you feel necessary, and that will be it. The plane’ll be ready for yo
u at ten in the morning. And you know your obligation to be discreet about events here. A practical joke which you easily cleared up. That’s the story we’re all agreed on.”

  “I’ve heard stranger ones.”

  “I’m sure.” Quist abruptly shifted his attention to Araujo. “Any chance of one of your blackouts tonight?” he asked, which was not the kindest way to put it.

  “No,” said Araujo stiffly. “Not tonight. Absolutely not.”

  “I hope not.” Quist started the wheelchair rolling. “All right, come along.”

  Araujo said, “In a moment, please.” Looking as if he were ready to spit, he watched the chair swivel through the screening-room door with a thump. Then he said to me, “There’s a cart outside for you. The man who brought it will be on duty here during the picture. Just let him know he’s to take his post right now.”

  “Sure. By the way, are there any other doors in that movie house?”

  “One. Behind the screen. Locked from the outside. Brand-new lock. And I’m the only one with the keys.

  “Hang on to them,” I said. “And keep counting those heads.”

  I gave the man outside his message, then traveled oceanward under the gas lamps at an easy pace. The wind wasn’t what it had been—less gusty, much warmer and more humid, and now and then carrying the scent of flowers perking up and giving notice that the cold spell was on its way out.

  I knocked on Daskalos’ door, didn’t expect any response, and didn’t get any. I opened the door and walked in.

  There were no lights on in the living room, but there was adequate lighting from another source. The fireplace was wide and deep. The fire in it had been built as high as possible. I could feel the heat of it across the room. And from across the room I could see the body stretched out on the floor just this side of the fire screen.

  I moved toward it and switched on a standing lamp.

  Daskalos.

  The late Daskalos.

  He lay on his back staring at the ceiling with one eye. The other eye, where the bullet had taken him, was a bloody, blackened absence of eye. There was an added distortion of the face, too: One side of it gave the impression that, totally dead, he was howling his rage against what had happened. I looked closer. A denture, teeth gleaming, had been dislodged and protruded at an angle halfway out of his mouth.

  I went into action fast—too fast—and almost flew arse over tip skidding on waxed floor as I headed for the kitchen phone. Wasted energy. The line was ripped out of the box. The line of the bedroom phone was ripped out of its base.

  I went back to the living room and stood looking down at Daskalos, my mind spinning with the maddening futility of bald tires mired deep in gumbo. It was a log stacked too high on the fire which got my thinking untracked. The log shifted, teetered, and came rolling down that oversized pyre, landing almost up against the fire screen. Another inch and it would have toppled the screen across the body. I used the poker, scorching my hand in the process—the iron shaft was that hot—to give the smoldering wood clearance.

  The log, my scorched hand, that eyeless eye suddenly all fitted together. And with that, everything else—all the pieces of the puzzle—fitted themselves together. Reject what couldn’t be; accept what had to be. And when I did that I knew that I was in trouble.

  I heard the sound at the front door and knew that the trouble had arrived, armed and ready.

  On the run, crouching low, I knocked over the standing lamp with the poker, and the bulb shattered, leaving me in firelight. The question of what exactly had been going on at the door had two possible answers. I tried the knob and got the one that confirmed all suspicions. The door was now locked. A solid workmanlike door, too.

  The windows? Keeping below sill level, I made an appraisal of one, then another. The layered look. A Venetian blind, those glass slats, mosquito screening, and last but definitely not least, an ornamental iron grille. Good for keeping people out. Unfortunately, just as good for keeping people in.

  You think strange thoughts under pressure. Crouching there, poker in hand, I found myself thinking of that day I had lured Sharon, no dog lover, across the Devon line to Somerset to watch sheepdog trials. Nondescript animals to look at, responding to a few hand signals, they demonstrated an uncanny ability to round up scattered and panicky sheep and herd them into the designated den. For the first time now, I understood that the game might have been fun for the dogs, but it was sure as hell no fun for the sheep.

  A crunching of gravel at the side of the building announced the next move in the game. I answered it at once, made it to the kitchen door ahead of grim destiny now crunching its way along the back wall. The kitchen door was unlocked. No bolt, no chain, a keyhole but no key. No surprise. Everything had been thought of. J. Milano, that beat-up, baffled ram was being invited to try escaping from his pen while right outside its gate the cleaver waited.

  Beautiful. Strategy, tactics, and execution. Literally execution. All beautiful.

  I looked around. There was enough moonlight filtering through the blinds to outline the two bottles Daskalos had kept handy for salad dressing, but not enough to clue me in on which was which. The first I uncapped reeked of vinegar. I opened the other, and starting from just inside the door, I backed away holding the bottle upside down at arm’s length, puddling the floor with oil. There wasn’t much of it. It wouldn’t have helped if there had been. My company was now at the door.

  I slipped around the other side of the divider separating kitchen from dining room. I flattened my back against the divider, got a good grip on the poker, and tried to offer as little profile as possible as I watched the door start to open.

  “Don’t be foolish, Araujo,” I called. “I have a gun, too.”

  No you don’t, Mr. Milano.” He was all confidence. The door slowly opened wide. “There’s never been one in your apartment; you don’t carry one.” Confident but not reckless. He wasn’t strolling through that door until he could place me. “Mr. Milano?”

  At all costs, he must not stroll in. He had to charge in.

  I said, “My apartment? Would that be Pablo’s report, by any chance?”

  “Of course. A good boy. Very reliable.” A shadowy hand appeared inside the door, and the ceiling light was switched on. It provided me with a clear and chilling view of the gun held in the other hand.

  No time left. All I could depend on now was the natural impulse of the pursuer to follow the pace set by the pursued. I took a deep breath, banged the poker against the dividing wall to call for attention, then raced toward the living room with the feeling that here was a target painted on my back. I stopped and wheeled just in time to see Araujo go wildly off-balance on the oil slick. Leg’s skewed, gun waving, he could have been the clown act at the ice show. But he didn’t go down. I moved in, I put everything I could into that low, half-volley sweep of the poker into his leg, and down he went with a high-pitched scream. The gun skated like a hockey puck across the floor, and he lay stretched out on his back, spine arching. His face was agonized, his teeth sank so hard into his lower lip that an ooze of blood showed on it.

  But there was another gun—there had to be—besides the one that had occupied the now-empty shoulder holster. I squatted down and opened his jacket, and there it was, tucked into his belt. I reached for it and didn’t get to it. His arm suddenly locked around my neck like a vise, my head was crushed against his chest, my ear painfully grinding against a button there. I smelled not only sweat but graveyard dirt being readied for my coffin.

  Snared in my own trap, I couldn’t get leverage with my shoes on that oily surface. And I couldn’t do more with my hands than hang on to his wrist when, with his free arm, he tried to reach the gun in his belt. So I did the only thing left to do. I managed to pivot my bursting head the necessary distance and sink my teeth into his jowl. I got a good solid mouthful of blubber in my jaws and clamped down on it like a maddened bulldog.

  He didn’t as much release me as fling me away, and I grabbed the gun
as I went. I scrambled to my feet and leveled it at him. No need. He moved one leg feebly; the other was done for. And hurting. The swarthy face was slate-colored. The eyes were glazed with pain.

  I used cord from the Venetian blind to lash his wrists together, arms over head, and anchor them to the base of the stove. The little effort required for this took the last of my strength. I made it to a chair and sat down. When I tried to light a cigarette I found that my hands were shaking so hard that I had to chase the lighter flame back and forth with the cigarette like a drunk before I got results.

  Araujo said with an effort, “My leg.”

  “Hurts bad?” I asked, all sympathy.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if I had some of that painkiller you used on Quist’s dog before you slit its throat, I’d be glad to give you a dose. But I don’t have any. Too bad.”

  I took my time finishing the cigarette before I examined the leg. A clean break below the knee. I said, “You’ll live. Of course, if you try anything, and that bone goes through the flesh and starts a hemorrhage, you might not.”

  The dull eyes brightened a little. Mind over matter. “Why would I try anything?” He licked the bloodied lower lip. “It’s your story against mine. The best you can do is get away from here. I can help you. Money—whatever you need.”

  “Which leaves you to tell the whole sad story to the police, doesn’t it? I took that gun from your man during the blackout—”

  “You also made the blackout.”

  “Of course. And I hated Daskalos enough to kill him. You already have that idea circulating among our friends. So I finished off Daskalos with that stolen gun. And you showed up just in time to witness the murder and kill me when I tried to shoot you down in my getaway. Brave security chief does his duty when private eye goes berserk. Maybe even a medal from the mayor, right?”