The Asian Mantrap

Six

The commuters that used the Golden Gate Bridge to reach their suburban homes in Marin County flowed out of the city like hordes of grunion responding to the spring spawning urge. I joined in. Like them, I knew precisely where I was going and who it was I was going to see.

Her name was Gloria Grimes. She was married. Her husband was Captain Willis Grimes, a member of the United States Air Force. They had no children. The address was 833 Ivywild Street.

This information was found in the reference department of the downtown San Francisco public library. Five shelves sagged under the weight of city directories from most California towns and all major U.S. municipalities. There is a supplement in the back of each directory. It contains a numerical listing of telephone numbers. The name of the subscriber — nothing else — is shown beside the phone number. That’s all I needed to find everything else I wanted from the front of the book.

Aside from as much advertising as can be sold, the front part of city directories contains the names of residents listed in alphabetical order. The street address follows. The given names of all persons living at that address comes next, along with their occupation shown in parentheses. The final bit of data is the telephone number. That was the cross-reference I needed to pinpoint Gloria Grimes. The most time-consuming part of the whole, simple procedure was driving to the library and finding a place to park.

At the end of each work day, Highway 101 became a hurtling traffic jam. The vehicles in the right-hand lane moved at the prescribed 55 miles-per-hour speed limit, and I rolled along with them. An unbroken file of speed limit violators streamed past in the left-hand lane. One of them was a cruising cop car, oblivious to the lawbreakers.

I exited at the 4th Street off ramp and reached the Grimes house in five minutes. It was small, square and flat-roofed, wearing a crumbling coat of sun-bleached pink stucco. The front lawn was littered. A feeble stream of water dribbled from a slowly rotating sprinkler. A mud puddle had formed around its base. From the look of things, Captain Grimes had little interest in property maintenance.

I perked up when I saw the green automobile parked in the driveway. It matched the description of the car rented by Keith Martin. Ahead of it was a white, hatchback Pinto tucked under a warped-roof carport. I slowed down, but didn’t stop. I couldn’t tell if anyone was in the house. No lights had been turned on inside although shadows were getting longer and darkening.

There was a service station on a corner two blocks from the Grimes house. It probably had been a good location until the freeway bypassed it. The operator was old enough to have been working at the station since the day the first storage tank was buried in the ground. Tasked him to put a quart of oil in the engine and fill up the gas tank. He grinned in acknowledgement, showing ill-fitting teeth. I went inside the station and got a bottle of soda from the vending machine.

When I came out the elderly man with rheumy eyes and gnarled fingers was slamming down the car’s hood. I gave him a hand. “I’m looking for the Grimes house,” I lied. “It’s along here on this street, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” the oldster sneered. “It’s a wonder you can’t see the path.”

“I don’t get you,” I admitted.

“Come on now, sonny,” he chided. “I know what you’re up to. I ain’t blind. She’s gonna like the look of you, that woman!”

“I’ll bet she owes you money,” I said lightly.

“Me, the cleaners, the liquor store — everybody. Don’t know why. She gets her old man’s government check regularly. And blows it just like the rest of them. She’s no good.”

“Them?”

“Those come-n-go women married to those kids at Hamilton Air Force Base. Only the Grimes dame ain’t about t’ move. She’s got it fat right where she is. Been squattin’ there going on five year or so. Layin’ on her back is more like it.” He went to the rear of the car and removed the gasoline hose nozzle from the tank. The dried-up, stoop-shouldered man was all too willing to air his prejudiced opinion of military wives. He’d said nothing to indicate Captain Grimes’ attitude toward his wife’s alleged behavior. It would help to know if Keith Martin had led me into an unpredictable situation and what sort of reactions I might face when I stepped into tell Martin that his weird escapade was over.

I got a long, questioning look. He took his time hanging the hose back on the pump. His voice was softer when he spoke. “Guess they didn’t tell you. Mrs. Grimes is one of them MIA wives. You know — her man got lost over Vietnam when the war was on. I was sorry for her at first... used to come in here sad-eyed an’ cryin’. I seen quite a few like her, being here so close to the air base. Most moved away after a bit. But she stayed on, not knowin’ and waitin’ for word. She joined some sort of MIA wives club, going to Washington and all... time and again. She got real bitter. Come to dislike congressmen who gave her the runaround almost as much as she hated the Vietnamese. Then she started havin’ company — men — young officers from the base. Another would show up soon’s the first one was transferred out. Been a whole string of ’em.” He snorted contemptuously. “You might as well get your share. You won’t have no trouble.”

“I don’t want to move in on somebody else’s set-up.”

“Don’t know as you will,” he replied, his tone hardening again. “There was a new one — big, strapping, important-acting guy — came in here with her once for gas a few days ago. Could be he ain’t left yet. His car was in her drive last night... seen it on my way home. None of ’em stay too long, but the car he had’s been sittin’ there most of the time the last few days.”

“Guess I’d better forget it,” I said, handing him payment for the gas and oil. “There’re plenty of other tail-wagging tadpoles in the pond.” I waved away the change he offered. “Thanks for-steering me off, Pop.”

He measured me up-and-down approvingly. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about, sonny.”

I drove away in the opposite direction from the Grimes house. A circuitous six-block trip turned me around so I could park along the curb in front of the Ivywild address. It also gave me time to think. One item of the conversation I’d just had bothered me. That was the point that Martin’s rental car had been parked in the Grimes driveway for some time.

What would keep Martin there? Apparently he didn’t know the Grimes woman; he had to get her telephone number from a long distance caller. Why did he seek her out? I couldn’t understand why some slattern who kept open house for transient jocks could have that much appeal for a person like Martin who could avail himself of the likes of Melissa Stevens.

Whatever Martin and Mrs. Grimes were up to, I was going to cut it off short. I wondered which one — Martin or Mrs. Grimes — would be the most surprised.

As it turned out, I was.

In fact, there was more than one surprise in store for me.

Mrs. Grimes was no stranger. I’d seen her many times, but not recently. And not as Mrs. Grimes.

The mystery wasn’t cleared up until I got inside the house. The doorbell didn’t work so I rapped on the loose-hanging screen door. A slim bleached blonde with a highball glass in her crimson-nailed hand answered my knock. Her puffy-eyed face wore a frown.

“Gloria?” I asked.

She squinted through the screen. The frown disappeared when she got her eyes focused properly. She didn’t answer right away. She looked me over with openly frank appraisal. The dull look in her eyes brightened. The tip of her pink tongue came out and traced along the edge of her upper lip. She looked at me like I imagined a mongoose would react upon discovering a nest of cobra eggs. “Yeah,” she replied. “Who’re you?”

“Nick Carter. I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re getting along.”

Gloria leaned out to look around me to the curb where I’d parked the car. She glanced up-and-down the street, then stepped back. “Come on in.”

The residual beauty of her attractive features nudged my recall. I couldn’t quite isolate her from the kaleidoscope of pretty faces that filled my memory. I looked her full in the face as I stepped inside. The living room was cluttered. The upholstered furniture was stained and soiled. Romance and movie magazines were heaped on a scarred and scratched coffee table. Ashtrays were unemptied. A threadbare path in the worn carpeting led to the kitchen and the bedroom. I listened. The only sound was the drip of water from a leaky faucet.

I was disappointed. I fully expected to see Keith Martin. Mrs. Grimes remained silent as my eyes roamed about. “Nobody’s here,” she reassured me.

I barely heard her. My attention was fixed on the framed photograph on the fake fireplace mantel across the room. One glimpse at it and I remembered Gloria Grimes. The photo was one of thousands mailed out from the motion picture studio publicity department. Gloria Grimes was better known as Gloria Parker, a movie bit player and one-time promising starlet. She had disappeared from the Hollywood scene some years ago. Her downfall occurred when her numerous romantic exploits received more notice and comment than her acting.

I looked back at her. Her faded blue eyes kept blinking. She weaved unsteadily. “You remember me?” she asked and struck a grosteque parody of the provocative pose in the photograph. She stood so that her long legs, high-perched bosom and saucily-flared buttocks were displayed. A form-fitting knit sweater and tight slacks made the similarity unmistakable. She then moved her hips suggestively. The bold, enticing motion was a deliberate invitation.

I didn’t respond as she expected. I smiled noncommittally; I was in no mood for sex games. I was hungry, tired, and frustrated that I always found Martin a short step ahead of me.

“Wanna drink?” she mumbled, moving past me into the kitchen. I refused, but followed her as far as the door. I couldn’t go inside. The disorder of unwashed dishes piled in the sink and hardened grease on charred-handled skillets was revolting to me. Shelves behind yawning cabinet doors were scenes of confusion. Used tea bags lay on counter tops along with loose cereal, sugar, and dried spilt milk. Gloria rattled the array of liquor bottles next to the sink, chose one at random and tilted it over her glass.

I backed away and seated myself in a broken-spring armchair facing the sofa. I sank down so that my knees were almost touching my chin. Gloria joined me, making a production of curling herself up in one corner of the sofa. With pure feline movements, she slipped off her sandals and drew her legs up on the cushion beside her. The sun had reached the western horizon. In a few minutes the room would be dark. Gloria made no move to turn on a light.

I was there for one purpose only. It was far different from what Gloria thought I had in mind. Nothing would be gained by prolonging the sham. Gloria felt the same way. “Why don’t you come sit over here,” she coaxed, patting the cushion next to her.

That was the opening I needed. If the repartee stayed on track — and it stood a good chance of doing so because Gloria’s senses weren’t at their sharpest — I was going to go away satisfied instead of leaving Gloria that way. A lot depended upon her reaction to my next statement. “You’re really something, Gloria. Only I don’t want to mess around if you’ve already got something going with General Martin.”

Her drink-fogged mind accepted it as an unloaded remark. She laughed. “Hell, he’s long gone. He won’t be comin’ back.” She saw the look on my face and laughed again. I was picturing a dead, cold trail. She was thinking something else. “Hey, Nick, honey, you got it all wrong. He wasn’t here because of me. I left the bedroom door wide open all night. He wasn’t having any, even though he must’a felt my body heat clear out here on the sofa. An’ no one’s been around since. They all see the car out there an’ take off like big-assed birds. I gotta get rid of the damn thing... it’s cuttin’ into my social life. You can fix that.” She wiggled sensuously. “You’re in no hurry, are you?” she added as appointed afterthought.

“That’s his car in the driveway.” My inflection kept it from being a firm question.

“He left it with me.” She leaned over her glass to stare at me. She interpreted what I said to mean that I doubted her truthfulness. “Really, he’s not around. I’m supposed to—” She stopped and leered at me again. It dawned on her that my interest was directed more toward the absent Martin than to her. “Wait a minute!” she slurred. “How’d you know Keith was here?”

“The old duffer at the corner service station recognized him when you were there for gas yesterday.” I made the error intentionally, hoping she would set me straight on the date.

She didn’t. A pouty, coquettish smile grew on her face. “You can forget about him. Come on, sit over here where I can touch you.”

“I guess I’d better leave if you have something to do for General Martin.” The statement was bait. To keep it from being too obvious, I stood up and moved as if to join her on the sofa.

She stretched to place her drink on the coffee table, sloshing some of the contents on its top as she put the glass down. “I don’t have to do that until tom—” She snapped her jaws tight. Her brows knitted. “Hey! What’s with you?” she demanded. “You keep talking about — Who the hell are you, anyway?” Indignation erupted. “You didn’t come here to see me!” She started to get up from the sofa.

Nice-guy time was over. I shoved Gloria back down, hard. Her hair tumbled over her face. I bent over the lamp on the end table next to the sofa and switched it on. Its strong beam shone upward over my tight-lipped features. I must have looked mean and sinister. I wanted to. Gloria sucked in her breath. She crossed her hands and brought them up to protect her face. Her beauty was her most prized possession. Fear of losing it was also her greatest weakness.

I grabbed both of her wrists with one hand and jerked down. My other hand brought Wilhelmina into view. I held it loosely in my half-opened palm. “Have you ever seen what’s left of a face after it’s been pistol-whipped?” I snarled. “It isn’t pretty. And you’ve got the delicate cheekbones that shatter easily. If you want to keep your teeth and caps, you’d better tell me where to find Keith Martin.”

A shiver of fear coursed through her body. She trembled as if an icy chill had seized her. She was so gripped by terror that she was speechless. She swallowed hard. For a moment I was afraid I’d overdone it and she was going to be sick.

I relaxed my hold on her wrists, but didn’t let go. “Look, Gloria, I don’t mean any harm to Keith Martin and I certainly don’t want to hurt you. Don’t force me to,” I said in a modified tone. She looked up at me fearfully out of the corners of her eyes. I tightened my grasp on her. “What did Martin tell you to do for him tomorrow?”

Tears made her eyes glisten. Her lips quivered, but she held back. I clutched her wrists painfully. “The car!” she shrieked. “The car! I’m supposed to take it back where he got it.”

“Why tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” She squirmed under my hand pressure. “He told me to keep it so it would look like he was still here. He didn’t want anyone to know—” She clammed up again.

I twisted my hand, causing her to cry out. “Get it through your head, Gloria — I’m a friend. But desperate enough to hurt you if I have to. I’ve got to find Martin and you’re the only one who can tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know where he is,” she whimpered. “I really don’t know. Honest!”

“The car is here. How did he leave? By taxi? Did someone come and get him?”

“I drove him. In that car out there.” She was stone sober now, able to contend with her panic.

“Where did you take him?”

“To San Francisco. To the airport.”

She could be lying, but what she said fit in with Martin having used the phone in Melissa’s apartment to get travel information. I’d feel like a fool if he was on his way back to Washington. “Where was he going?” I asked again.

“Jesus! Why won’t you believe me? I said I didn’t know!”

“Did he have a ticket?”

Gloria clamped her lips together defiantly. I shoved the muzzle of Wilhelmina squarely against her left nipple. She gasped. “Yes! Yes, he had a ticket... in one of those airline envelopes.”

“What airline?” I gave an extra jab with the pistol.

“Quantas!” It came out half-scream, half-sob.

I almost dropped my gun.

Quantas Airways served the Pacific and Far East.

Keith Martin had left the country.