“Thank you so much, Lieutenant,” I said bitterly. “I find the body for you while it’s still warm and this is the thanks I get—insults!”
“You’ll get more than that if I can swing it,” he snarled, “like a murder rap, maybe.”
“Anyway,” I said, brightening a little, “you don’t have to worry about any more corpses being discovered. I found the tiara along with Louise, and I’ll be out of your hair just as soon as Elmo gives me his check.”
“Maybe that’s something else I can pin on you,” he muttered. “Collecting from Elmo is extortion in anybody’s language.”
“I called him right after I called you,” I said, very casual. “He should be here any minute.”
“You called Elmo?” Schell’s face darkened thunderously. “Who the hell gave you the right to—”
“I figured if I didn’t, some lousy cop might claim he’d found the tiara,” I said nastily. “I’m not mentioning any names but you can figure it out for yourself.”
Before Schell had time to detonate, there was a knock on the door quickly followed by the appearance of a beefy uniformed cop.
“There’s a dame outside says Elmo sent her right over to see thistBoyd,” he said heavily. “You want I should bring her in here, Lieutenant?”
“Why not?” Schell rasped. “It looks like Boyd is running this damned investigation—not me.”
A few seconds later the red-headed Tamara O’Keefe drifted into the room, instantly transforming the atmosphere into that of a perfumed pleasure room belonging to some sultan’s palace. She wore a short mink jacket buttoned over a black crepe cocktail dress. A silver bangle at her wrist writhed in serpentine glitter under the light, and matching pendent earrings writhed in unison beneath her fantastic hair-do, which seemed even more so tonight.
The tawny eyes calmly absorbed Lieutenant Schell’s blank face with no more interest than they paid to the wallpaper, then they looked questioningly at me.
“Mr. Elmo couldn’t make it right now, so he asked me to pinch-hit for him,” she said in that sultry voice. “You’ve really recovered the tiara?”
“Sure,” I said, then gulped as I felt the hot malevolence of the lieutenant’s eyes. “This is Lieutenant Schell—and this is Miss O’Keefe, Lieutenant.”
“We’ve met before,” Schell said crisply. “Did Boyd forget to mention to Elmo that he found the tiara sitting on top of a corpse’s head, Miss O’Keefe?”
Her eyes widened slightly as she looked at him directly for the first time. “How macabre! And what a dreadful waste of diamonds, Lieutenant. Do I know the corpse?” “Louise Lamont.” Schell stared at her bug-eyed for a few moments. “One of the finalists in Poolside’s beauty contest.”
“Oh?” Tamara thought about it for a little while. “Well, I guess it makes everything a lot easier for the other two finalists, now the Lamont girl’s out of the running, doesn’t it? May I see the tiara now?”
She unbuttoned the mink jacket and dropped it casually onto the nearest chair, then opened her purse and began searching its contents carefully. My eyes got the same bug-eyed look the Lieutenant’s had—the bodice of her dress was very low cut over the tight swell of her breasts, and was kept in place only by two fragile, finger-width, rhinestone-studded straps.
With a numb look on his face, Schell took the tiara out of his coat pocket and gave it to her. At the same time, Tamara extracted a jeweler’s glass from her purse and screwed it into her eye, then examined the tiara with minute and professional care. She studied it for an agonizingly long twenty seconds before she gave it back to Schell, then took the jeweler’s glass from her eyes and dropped it into her purse. A moment later the purse shut with a sharp, decisive snap.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” she asked coldly. “Or more probably Mr. Boyd thought it would be highly amusing?”
“Huh?” Schell gaped at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It was Mr. Elmo’s understanding you had recovered the real tiara,” she said in a steely voice, looking at me like I’d just sprouted another head.
“So what’s that—a mirage?” I croaked.
“In a pig’s eye,” she said inelegantly. “This is the paste imitation.”
“You’re out of your mind!” Schell bellowed at her. “The paste imitation’s locked in a safe at headquarters right now—where it’s been since the day of the theft.”
“Then you both have my congratulations,” she said thinly. “You now have two paste copies.”
“You’re sure?” Schell asked.
“I’m sure,” she snapped. “If you have any doubts you can always check with Mr. Elmo tomorrow morning— not that I advise it—his temper’s worn a little thin already.”
She picked up her mink jacket and buttoned it carefully. “If I may make a suggestion, Lieutenant? The next time Mr. Boyd thinks he’s found the real tiara, don’t bother checking it yourself—just send a couple of men with a restrainer instead? Good night.” She walked out of the room in a wonderful jiggling walk that didn’t even excite me for once. Then the door slammed shut behind her.
“Two paste imitations?” Schell looked at me helplessly.
“Well, the corpse was real, anyway,” I said, trying to console him a little. But from the look on his face as he mouthed short, silent words at me, I could see it didn’t help at alL
chapter four
After a lousy—and lonely—night in my hotel room, I got up reasonably early the next morning and figured I should take a closer look at the people who sponsored the beauty contest and started the whole trouble in the first place. So I drove the rented convertible out into the heat of the morning sun, leaving the top down as a gesture of defiance.
Poolside Plastics, Inc. was situated about twelve miles south of Santo Bahia, on a tidy fifteen acres which had once been an orange grove maybe. It was around eleven when I wheeled the convertible through the open plastic-barred gates and along a wide driveway. There was a magnificent jumbo-sized pool just lousy with inflatable plastic horses, ducks, seals, elephants—and a million other plastic poolside products that possibly included a plastic poolside pool table, for all I either knew or cared.
The front office was a long rectangular building, all plate glass and aluminum, and three stories high. I parked in the slot reserved for executives only because there was no point in giving myself an inferiority complex as a starter. Trim green lawns surrounded the flagged walk across to the front entrance, and the reception area was a plastic dream with just a little cheating on the side.
There was a languid receptionist with chestnut hair that rippled down almost to her shoulders, and she took her
35
own damn time about taking care of me. She was built like a diet-free Italian starlet—like she didn’t jiggle when she moved, she joggled. Her molded orlon sweater and form-caressing gabardine skirt left nothing to the imagination except maybe her age.
“Yes?” She yawned gently, and me and the profile just don’t care for that kind of early brush-off.
“I’m a guy given to quick decisions,” I told her in a grave, thoughtful voice. “Fifteen million for the whole business, including all tangible assets, plant, land—the works. What do you say?—take it or leave it?”
“Huh?” Her mascara muddied a little as she blinked twice.
“But the one thing I always do insist on is loyalty from all my employees—loyalty to the product, I mean,” I continued rapidly. “Are you personally loyal to the product?”
“What’s that?” Her eyes widened a little.
“For example,” I explained briskly, “are you wearing a plastic bra and girdle as of this moment?”
“A plastic bra and—” The muddied mascara turned into a confused swamp. “What are you?” She nearly choked. “A nut, or something?”