John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

A blonde and a brunette. Both tall and grave, with knowing eyes, sweet, wise mouths. “The blonde,” Lew said, “is Georgie Wane. Blackie is called June Luce. Say hello to the boss, girls.”

“How do you do, Mr. Falkner,” they said gravely, almost in unison.”

“Nice to see you. You know what the job is?”

Georgie, the blonde, turned spokesman. “If the job includes anything over and above what Mr. Empiro stated, Mr. Falkner, the deal is off. I want that understood.”

Park grinned. “I left out a few details, but nothing either of you will balk at. Four young men are coming to visit me. They should be along any minute now. You are each being paid two hundred dollars a day. I want you to be as charming as possible to my guests, and I insist that they be kept in ignorance of the fact that I’m paying you. Now here’s the additional instruction. There are two of you and four young men. Both of you are lovely enough to have learned how to handle men. I want them played off against each other. I want their beautiful friendship split up in any way you can manage it. Each night, at twelve, you go off duty, as far as I am concerned. Lew will show you your rooms right now. The doors lock. You have the freedom of the place. We’re well equipped for amusement here. Tennis, badminton, swimming — in the Gulf and in the pool. There is only one restriction. I do not want either of you to leave the island until, in my opinion, the job is done.”

“Fair enough,” June Luce said. “But who are we supposed to be?”

Park grinned. “Call yourselves nieces of mine. That ought to spice their imaginations a little.”

When Lew took them out, Falkner went down two flights to the kitchens. Mrs. Mick Rogers, cook and wife of the battered ex-pug who was Park’s man of all work, smiled at him. Francie, the doughy little maid, was at one of the worktables finishing the construction of a tray of canapés.

“Set for the deluge, Mrs. Mick?” Falkner asked.

“What’s eight people, counting yourself? A nothing. Practice, yet.”

Just then Mick drove in across the private causeway from the mainland with the station wagon. Park walked out the side door of the smaller kitchen and across to the parking space. Mick slid neatly to a stop.

The first one got out, looked hesitantly at Falkner. “I–I’m Bill Hewett. Are you the host?”

Hewett was tall, frail, gangly. Physically he seemed barely out of his adolescence, but his pale-blue eyes were knowing and there was a downward sardonic twist about his wide mouth.

“Glad to see you, Hewett. Let me see. You’re the copywriter, aren’t you?”

“Right. With Lanteen, Soran and Howliss. I write deathless prose for TV commercials. And this is Prine Smith, our newspaperman.”

Prine was dark, stocky, muscular, with a square strong jaw and an aggressive handshake. He said, “We’re pretty much in the dark about all this, Falkner, and—”

Park smiled. “Let’s talk about it over cocktails.”

Hewett broke in. “And this is the actor in the group. Guy Darana.”

Guy was tall, with a superb body, classic profile, brown, tightly curled hair. But there was a vacant docility about his expression, an aimless childlike amiability in his eyes.

“Howya,” he said softly in the richest of baritones.

The fourth and last was a wiry redhead with pointed features, a jittery hyperthyroid manner. “You hear that?” he said. “The actor in the group, he calls Darana. What about me? What about Stacey Brian? I make with the voice on the radio. Character parts. I work at it. All that hunk has to do is revolve slowly to give them a look at both sides of the profile.”

“Radio is a dying medium,” Darana said languidly.

Falkner sensed that it was an old argument. He shook hands with Stacey Brian. Mick Rogers was taking the luggage from the tailgate.

“We’ll take our own stuff up. Don’t bother,” Hewett said.

“Mick, you show them their rooms,” Park said. “As soon as you all freshen up, find your way down to that front terrace. You can see it from here.”

Falkner went back up to his room, started the music, went back down to the front terrace. Mick had already changed to white jacket, and he was putting the small terrace bar in order.

“Jittery as hell,” Mick said. “All of them. And seven thousand questions. I didn’t know nothing.”

“Make the drinks heavy for the boys, Mick. And light for our two new women.”

“Festivities about to begin?” Taffy said, close behind him. Park turned. She wore a white blouse pulled down off her deeply tanned shoulders. The gay skirt swung as she walked. A hammered-silver Aztec bracelet looked impossibly heavy on her slim wrist. Her white hair was a purer form of silver, heavy, thick, molten, alive.

“Jezebel,” he whispered. “Lilith! Krithna of the purple seas.”

“Don’t mind me,” Mick said.

“This,” said Taffy, “is what you get for inviting little girls who could be my daughters. I have to keep up my morale.”

There was no more time for talk then because Stacey Brian came out onto the terrace. The sun was slipping toward the blue Gulf. The others came, were introduced. Mick was chanting, “Step up and name it and I can make it. They go down like honey and then kick you behind the ear.” Taffy sat on the wall and looked smug. She made Georgie and June look awkward and young, and she made the others look. She winked solemnly at Park Falkner.

Conversation was general, polite, aimless. Georgie Wane had inconspicuously drifted to the side of Guy Darana. He looked at her with mild, sleepy approval.

June Luce said in a silky soft voice, “Miss Angus, I must tell you. My mother took me to see you in Time for Play — oh, ages ago! I think I was six at the time. That was before you became such a successful model, wasn’t it?”

Park concealed his grin by taking a drink. June looked with rapt interest at Taffy. Taffy looked puzzled. She said, “My goodness! Now I know I’m ancient! I’ve just forgotten how to make kitty-talk. Why, if you’d said anything like that to me five years ago I’d have thought of some nasty-nice way to call attention to the way you’re letting yourself get—” She stopped. “Oh, I mustn’t be rude. I’m sorry.” She beamed at June.

June’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing, sister,” Mick said. “You’re a nice dish. You just ain’t bright. You challenged the champ. Now shut up, or she’ll make you so mad you’ll be sick to your stomach and she’ll just sit here grinning at you.”

Taffy pouted. “He never lets me have any fun.”

Prine Smith walked scowling over to Park, planted his feet, his stocky legs spread, his square hand holding the cocktail glass. “Look!” he said. “I don’t go for cat-and-mouse games. Maybe I’m not properly civilized. So you’re a big enough shot to get strings pulled to get us all off at the same time. So you play on curiosity in a smart enough way to get us all down here, expenses paid. You’re out after laughs, Falkner. Let’s blow away the smoke screen and talk sense for a minute.”

“Glad to,” Park said. “I guess I’m just a nosy type. I like mysteries. Nine months ago the four of you lived in a big apartment in the Village, two blocks from Sheridan Square. You’ve split up now, but that was the status quo. Hewett had a girl friend, lovely from all reports, named Lisa Mann. On a hot afternoon, June fourth to be exact, Lisa Mann, using a key that Hewett had given her, let herself into the apartment. A girl named Alicia French happened to see her. Alicia lived in the next apartment down the hall. All four of you were able to prove that you were out that afternoon. The first one to get back to the apartment was Guy Darana. He returned a little after eleven that night. No one has seen Lisa Mann since. Apparently she never returned to her own apartment. There was an investigation. Her parents are well-to-do. I asked you four down here because things like that intrigue me. I hope that during your stay here one of you will, directly or indirectly, admit to his guilt in the death of Miss Mann. Does that blow away the smoke, Smith?”