Voluptua. Not much to go on with her. But there had been that affair with the Russian diplomat a year ago. And she had been around each time Castor Oil's presence had been felt.
Winthrop Van Ardsdale. He’d been around, too. Except that he hadn’t been around when Louis Ching was murdered by mistake. But mightn’t that be even more significant? His absence might point more strongly to his being Castor Oil than the presence of the others. After all, mightn’t Castor Oil have wanted to be as far removed as possible from the scene of Ex-Lax’s murder?
So there they were, the six of them. And I was no closer to knowing which one was Castor Oil than I had been the day I arrived in Hollywood. Playing Sherlock, Holmes was getting me nowhere; I might just as well have gone eenie-meenie-minie-mo.
In terms of solving the problem, I only had one thing working for me. That was the fact that Castor Oil was sure to try to kill me. In doing so Castor Oil might find it necessary to reveal his (or her) identity. In other words, I myself was the bait—the only bait—which might lure the Commie killer out into the open.
All I could do now was wait. I waited. The afternoon blurred into early evening. It was about seven o'clock when the phone rang. I answered it.
“Hello. Steve?” It was Donna Carper.
“Hi, Donna.”
There was a click in my ear. It was barely discernible, but I heard it. Then there was an instant where I thought I heard the sound of breathing. It was caught off immediately, as if someone had placed his hand over the mouth- piece. Yet none of these sounds seemed to be coming from Donna’s end of the line. They all seemed apart from our connection. I had the sudden strong knowledge that a third person was listening to our conversation.
“We really haven't seen much of each other since you got to Hollywood,” Donna was saying. “I know this is pretty offhand, but how would you like to come out here and have dinner with me tonight? Informal. Just the two of us.”
“Sounds great. Where are you located?”
“I have a beach house oft the Harbor Freeway.” She gave me directions and hung up.
The second click followed instantaneously and then the line was really dead. I had a hunch. It was a slim chance, but I decided to follow it up. I got the hotel operator back.
“Good evening, Mr. Victor. How are you this fine evening? Is everything satis—"
“Did you cut someone in on the call I just had?” I interrupted her.
“Certainly not, Mr. Victor. It’s not our pol --”
“Someone else was on the line,” I insisted. “Do you have any idea who it might have been?"
“Why, I can’t imagine. Unless, of course, Miss Milo—”,
“Miss Milo? Why would she be on my line?"
“Well, you have a party wire with her, Mr. Victor. You see, we’re short of lines in the hotel. We asked Miss Milo if she’d mind sharing one with you and she said she wouldn't. As a matter of fact, she said it wasn’t even necessary to bother you about it since you and she are old friends and she was sure you wouldn’t mind either.”
“Oh, she said that, did she?”
“Why, yes. It is all right, isn’t it? I mean, we assumed --”
“It's all right,” I assured her. “Just one thing. Does that mean I might cut in on her calls, too?”
“Well, yes. It’s a party line. Either one of you, can listen to the other’s calls. But of course you wouldn’t.”
“Of course not.” I hung up on the operator and got dressed.
Just for the hell of it, when I’d finished dressing, I picked up the phone again. I struck oil! Misty was talking to someone.
“. . . at her beach house,” Misty was saying.
“Where is it?” I recognized the voice! It was Happy Daze.
“I don't know,” Misty told him.
“Then I’ll have to tail him out there. Are you sure you want me to—?”
“I’m sure!” Misty sounded vicious.
“All right, then.” Happy hung up.
So did I. Well, there it was. An arrow pointing at Misty, and at Happy too. From the tone of the conversation it seemed pretty certain that Happy wasn’t Castor Oil. But I moved Misty up to the top of the list of possibilities with Happy as a likely henchman.
Just how likely became a matter of even more concern as I pulled my rented car out of the hotel driveway later and spotted another car tagging me. A block later I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in my rear-view mirror. It was Happy, all right.
I didn’t try to lose him. If he was a lackey for Castor Oil, then I had to leave the way open for the inevitable confrontation. Of course, Misty wasn’t the only suspect, though. There was Donna Carper herself. The invitation had come out of the blue. A lonely beach house on a deserted sand-strand -- what better setting for Castor Oil to lure a prospective victim to visit?
When I finally arrived at the place, the reality fit the description I’d envisaged. It was lonely and out of the way. It was the perfect setup for a murder. I caressed the small revolver in my jacket pocket for reassurance before I rang the bell.
Donna answered it. Her look hadn’t improved since the last time I'd seen her. She was wearing a shapeless tweed suit and her figure wasn't doing anything to lend it any more shape. Her eyes were pale, lusterless saucers behind the round glasses she always wore. Her hair, a dull brown, was tied in a knot; the strands escaping from the knot made her look a bit disheveled. Dishevelment can be attractive in some girls. It wasn't with Donna; it was merely sloppy.
“Are you hungry?” she asked after she’d ushered me into the living room.
“Not particularly.”
“Good. Then let’s put off dinner and have a drink. Bourbon, isn’t it?” She held up a bottle of Early Times. “See, just for you.”
“I guess you were pretty sure I'd accept your invitation,” I observed.
“Well, I knew we’d get together sooner or later.” She poured me a drink over ice and settled down next to me on the sofa. She sat a lot closer than was necessary. “Now, isn’t this cozy?” she purred.
“Very cozy, Donna,” I agreed, sipping at the bourbon.
“You know, I’ve had a yen for you for a long time, Steve."
“I'm flattered.”
“I know I’m no Misty Milo, but I do have other qualities even if I don’t look like I do. Yes, you might be very surprised.”
“I’m sure I would.” Politeness is one of my strong points.’
“I’m sure, too.” She took off her glasses and leaned her face toward me expectantly.
You know how it is in those movies where the mousy type girl takes off her specs and looks right pretty all of a sudden? A minute later she takes off her shapeless tweed jacket and-whaddayaknow!--it’s Liz Taylor or Jayne Mansfield, after all. You know how those movies go? Well, this wasn’t one of them!
Without her specs, Donna looked more like an owl than ever. She was jowlier without them, as well as bleakly myopic. And after I kissed her, when she took off her jacket, her bosom was revealed as a batch of Playdough sadly sagging at the end of an overly busy school day. It wasn't so much that it was shapeless as that its shape resembled nothing so much as a pair of deflated balloons. The sheer blouse she was wearing revealed her bra in an outline reminiscent of two pancakes, each with a dab of syrup coagulating off-center.
A while later, after she’d been pushing things quite hard, she took off the tweed skirt. Her hips were square blocks, and about the nicest thing I can say about her derriere is that it was undoubtedly utilitarian. Through her transparent slip I could make out legs like ham hocks. The fact that they needed shaving didn’t make them any more appealing. On the whole, it shook my faith in that favorite Hollywood fairy tale. When this unattractive girl divested herself of specs and shapeless garb, she was even more unattractive than she had been!