The Sure Thing (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “I assure you with grave confidence, Mr. Scott, I am Sheikh”—flutily flowing sounds—“Faisuli”—This followed by more incomprehensible mellifluousness exactly resembling what I'd heard him ripple off before. “I am indeed the Sultan, the absolute ruler, of Kardizazan. My country is represented at the United Nations.” He gave me the name of the delegate there, saying, “You may contact him, phone him—the number, I will give you—if you like. Call collect. Or ask of your State Department, your Department of Commerce. For that matter, your President. Even, should you require further corroboration in order to be certain I am who I am, consult the top-most people of virtually any large oil company handy. I will wait, if to check now you wish."

  “How can I ask it, when I can't even hum it, much less pronounce it? Let it go, Sheikh. I'll buy it all. For now, anyway."

  “It is well."

  Faisuli was a most persuasive man—as, I presume, are most men with bunches of willowy plump-breasted wives and pouches of gold—and finally he asked, “Indeed, sir, even should you ignore all I have said, do I not perceive that you may have reached an impasse? An obstruction to your instant endeavor? Consider: I have found you here at your home, have I not? I do not see you dashing about in a feverish investigative frenzy, gathering many clues and arresting things. I do not, do I?"

  “Yeah, you do not. Got to give you that, Sheikh."

  “Were you preparing to embark upon some act of immense virtue, some investigative brilliancy of unresistible immediacy?"

  “I was watching the fish."

  “Watching? Watching them what?"

  “Just—you know, swim."

  “Incredible. Can you not then, for me, a few hours spare? Two? An hour? Miss Cynara Lane to me indicated you might find all my wives swiftly hey-presto almost of an immediateness. She said that, among her various suspicions of you, she suspected you would be particularly good at finding wives, that with huge energies you would work in such a pursuit, that thus inspired undoubtedly with great zeal there would be to the progress of your investigative endeavors almost a magic. You are the one, she said."

  “Yeah, I'm the one. How in hell would Cynara know from anything? I only met the dizzy babe yesterday."

  “It is of no moment. This she observed from your nativity."

  “What's Christmas got to do with it?"

  “Your nativity—your chart, your natal chart. I have not much to do with Christmases myself."

  “That, again. You mean my bloody horoscope, huh? Those dumb circles with the wiggles and doodles she put in it?"

  “Yes, of course. She said many fine things. You are a wonderful investigator, possessed of wild eagerness, and much else, some of which was not all that wonderful.” He scowled, moving his lips. “Alas, I am disappointed in you."

  “Alas, you're not the first, Sheikh. But you've made a pretty good point. I am kind of stuck, temporarily. In fact, I came back to the apartment to think a little—and watch the fish swim, of course—and maybe figure out where to go from here. I'd probably just sit on my sprained butt for an hour, otherwise, so maybe it would make more sense for me to get busy on something instead."

  “You will look, then?” He had brightened considerably. “You will find my hareem?"

  “Look, yes—for a little while. Find? Only if I get lucky or come up with some ... magic? Yeah, magic. Frankly, Sheikh, the truth is I'd never forgive myself if, in such a singularly fascinating situation, a situation probably never to pass this way again, I didn't at least take one little poke—peek—you know, poke around a little—look around.... Well, one question, Your Highness. You're dressed in a business suit, not unlike most other guys I'd see on the L.A. streets. I assume your wives are also dressed like the local natives—that is, unobtrusively?"

  “Only I have adopted American garmets. They, the six, are in our country's dress. Robes and ghazikhs, sandals brightly jeweled, colorful shoup-shoups. Only two have veils, to half-conceal their lovely faces. The veil is no longer required in my country, it is now a matter of choice, an adornment, to wear—or to remove, with sweet provocation, like a disrobing of the plump cheeks and warm lips...."

  “There you go again,” I said, cutting him off but still listening to the echoes. “Well, if they're gotten up that way, it shouldn't be like looking for a noodle in a haystack. I'm surprised the whole caboodle isn't on television already."

  “Caboodle? What is this of noodles—"

  “It's not very important. Anyway, I missed it. Maybe you'd better tell me what happened. Did you simply look around and realize something was amiss? I can't help wondering how in hell anybody could lose a whole harem, clad in ghazikhs and shoup-shoups, even in southern California."

  Before replying, Sheikh Faisuli asked to use my phone, placed a call to his hotel on Wilshire Boulevard, spoke briefly, and hung up. Seated again on the divan he said, “My nubile, and sensuously aromatic, and plump—"

  “Sheikh, we did that."

  “—-bosomed circus is still mislaid. Misplaced. Oh, kidnapped. Surely, it is not in evidence, even a clue there is not."

  “Somewhere, Sheikh, there's got to be at least a little clue—"

  “I will inform you how it commenced. This morning from the airport at Azdrak we departed, in two of my personal jets. In the first, I and one other man, my traveling companion. In the second, following behind us of course, as is proper, the—my six wives. We landed at your Los Angeles International Airport shortly before ten of the a.m. There, two limousines awaited us, in readiness as previously arranged."

  “Limousines from where? Whose limousines?"

  “They were supplied by the Hotel Casacasbah—” I knew the place, the Beverly-Hills concept of Arabian-Moroccan exotica—"of Wilshire Boulevard, for it is there I have reserved two floors of the top."

  “Two floors. Two limousines. Two jets. Sheikh, you do know how to live. I had to say it."

  “It is so. Which is much better than not so."

  “Two of everything, wow. No, not everything. Not with six....Sheikh, would you mind my asking how many wives you have? I mean, the grand total, when you add ‘em all up?"

  “Forty-seven,” he said, then stopped suddenly, scowled. “Plus the six vanished. Or fifty-three.” He aimed a blank gaze toward the ceiling. “But still at home, yes ... forty-seven ... now. Forty-seven. Counting only those there. Plus six is fifty-three. Down from fifty-five."

  “It's enough to confuse anybody,” I said sympathetically. “And now—six more gone. If this keeps up, you'll be getting down to rock bottom, Sheikh. Of course, what's rock-bottom to you might be little rock and a lot of—"

  “Did you wish to hear of the disaster?"

  “Disaster? Oh, yeah, I forgot. I mean, just for a minute there. Sure, go ahead. Last I remember, you'd got the top two floors, right?"

  “Indeed. The topmost, and the one beneath. Alas, the one beneath—for my wives—remains empty of them! Ah! Even fair Rasazhenlah, with lips like dew-moist blossoms opening succulently, with eyes of flame—"

  “Yeah, and great knees. Sheikh, maybe these babes panicked and flew back to the eunuchs—"

  “From the airport, my companion and I proceeded in the limousine, at which time I observed my wives entering the other limousine, which was to follow. At the hotel, in my suites on the top floor, I awaited the arrival of my wives beneath me. I awaited for nothing. They did not arrive."

  “How about that second limo? Did it just vanish with the wives?"

  “This—this only—has been investigated, the enquiries having been made by my companion, Harim Babullah."

  “Babullah. I'll bet he's a big guy. Big as a—"

  “Huge, is Harim."

  “—bull."

  “An elephant, is Harim. Yes, he is a huge one. Thighs like great stone columns, arms bulging like ... elephants. Like pregnant elephants."

  “He must bulge something awful."

  “His great chest bulges like the arnkukubuki of the goddess Shakimukkmak, that immense rump
described for ten pages in the Holy Nuknik —”

  “Say no more. I'll remember Babullah."

  “Today, prostrate is Harim Babullah; inside he weeps. For, more than my companion he is. His duty it is to prevent upon my wives the encroachment of any molestations or vilenesses."

  “Bet he's good at it, too. Or ... was?"

  “It is, you see, the most high function of my traveling companion, Babullah, to prevent what he has today entirely not prevented. Now his great frame shakes like cruzhik jelly, fear fills him, he is most apprehensive. And with plenty reason, believe me."

  “As surely all must agree. Somebody may hit him cruelly atop his bulging head, huh? Something like that?"

  “Maybe something more. He is my traveling companion, because when I and my wives are traveling, away from home, it is incumbent upon Harim to prevent harm to my harem."

  “Beautiful. I'll remember that—or, him. I'll bet I better remember him. Well, ah.... Where were we? Harim—that's where. He made enquiries?"

  “Of the hotel, of the agency supplying the limousines, which are large black Lincoln Continentals. Several of which I have among my Cadillacs, in the garages of my palace. It was ascertained that only one of the two limousines awaiting in readiness at the airport was of this agency. The true one earlier had been disabled, from sharp instruments piercing its tires and flattening them, and not until half an hour too late for any function of usefulness did this one arrive. By then—this may without effort be deduced—someone with evil intentions, having provided himself with an identical Lincoln Continental limousine, had departed. Gone, it was! This usurper of a limousine had vanished, while containing all my wives!"

  “All?"

  “Well, all I had with me."

  I shook my head. “That's really tough luck, Sheikh. Who do you suppose did this to you? Surely you have some ideas?"

  “None. Not an idea. This is for you to discover, swiftly, hey-presto."

  “Yeah. Sure. But—something like this had to require planning. Getting the duplicate limo ready, for example. And if some enemy of yours pulled this caper, he had to have someplace picked out ahead of time where he could stash the heist—little detective talk there, Sheikh. Couldn't just check into the hotel on the corner.” I paused. “I suppose you do have some enemies?"

  “Ha-ha,” he chortled. “Do I have some enemies!” Then he scowled darkly. “But not my enemies, or even friends—except one—were aware of my intention to come here, to this country. I have indicated already to you that secrecy is essential in this matter."

  “What matter?"

  “It matters plenty to me."

  “I mean, secrecy about what exactly?"

  “Later, Mr. Scott. If at all. First, pursue and retrieve my harem. Restore it to me. Then, perhaps, I may tell you the rest of it. But not before."

  We talked a little longer, but the Sheikh had given me the essential info. Nothing of value, at least not so far, had been developed from the car-rental agency, or the staff at the Sheikh's hotel. The police had not been, and would not be, consulted—because of the “essential secrecy” stressed by Faisuli.

  He had earlier not only called the Hotel Casacasbah, but twice used my phone to dial another number, listen silently, and hang up. Now, once more, he dialed, waited, shook his head slowly, and hung up again. Then he called his hotel for the last time, spoke briefly, replaced the phone, and turned to me.

  “Changed is nothing. As it was before, the situation remains. So, Mr. Scott, up to you it is. How to proceed do you intend?"

  “Some ideas I've got. But, please remember, if I don't turn up something in an hour or two—or if I conclude there's something else of importance I should be doing for my clients—then that's it. But I'll keep you informed."

  “That is satisfactory. But you will try?"

  “I'll take a shot at it. There's a chance.... Well, let me poke around first."

  We were both almost ready to leave by then, half an hour after 3:00 p.m. Sheikh Faisuli told me he had spoken to individuals at the Hotel Casacasbah, and to Harim Babullah as well—that one, I made sure of—and in connection with anything concerning the Sheikh I could be certain, as he put it, of “carte blanche to the most high degree."

  While he waited, I went into the bedroom, strapped on my gun harness, snub-nosed revolver—my long-owned, comfortably familiar Colt .38 Special—secure in its clamshell holster, got a white linen jacket from the closet, and walked back to the living room.

  As I shrugged into the jacket, Sheikh Faisuli, noting the leather straps and protruding gun butt, said, “I see you carry with you a weapon. Is this a necessary thing, Mr. Scott?"

  “Not often. But, once in a while it is. And once in a while is plenty.” I walked to the front door, Faisuli accompanying me. “You'll be at your hotel, I suppose?"

  “Most of the time, yes."

  “OK. I'll get in touch with you there. Sheikh."

  “Oh, one thing. One little thing, sir."

  I had my hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?"

  He laughed softly. “I became, earlier, it may be, too overmuch lyrical when describing to you the enthusiastic charms, the varied and numerous excitements, of my wives."

  “Yeah, your varied and numerous wives. And, true, quite steamily lyrical. So?"

  “Precisely so. Please, Mr. Scott, do not as a result of my too-enthusiasm comments let some, or even any, of those things I said when speaking of my beauteous wives, churn and dash in your head. Or elsewhere. Those things like how soft and bounteous the breasts of my wives, how sweet as succulent blossoms are the lips of my wives—"

  “Got it.... Yeah....I begin to see it all clearly now—"

  “—or how smooth and warm their pliant ivory thighs—"

  “Got it, Sheikh. You don't have to hit me on the head."

  “This was my—shall we say, joking?—manner of causing you to think of my difficulty with interest, to become involved, tempted toward commitment. But not to folly.” He paused. “This, only. It was not to compel you to fatal ... ah, to unwise action. You are a wise man. Surely you comprehend folly fully."

  “Beautiful. And fatal, too, I dig. You bet I'm wise, Sheikh. And I'm getting wiser in a hurry. Pretty quick I may be so brilliant I'll shine at noon—"

  He was smiling again. “Cruel of me it was to ... oh, to dangle so many of my wives before you, no?"

  “Well, you did have them all hanging there like a bunch of bananas. For a while. But I wouldn't call you cruel. Not out loud, anyhow. Maybe sly and devious, and horny, but—"

  “You do understand my purpose, Mr. Scott? The justification for my manner, my approach to your feverish interest?"

  I didn't say anything. Could have been the wrong thing. Sometimes silence is golden. And I figured this might be a very golden time.

  After a moment Sheikh Faisuli said, smiling a white and bloodless smile, “The wise man quickly understands the wisdom of quickly understanding. But, aside from this marvel of my philosophical think, you agree, do you not, that a Sheikh may have his little joke?"

  It remained a golden time for me.

  We went silently out of my apartment, down the stairs together, into the Spartan's lobby.

  I'd parked my Cadillac convertible at the curb across North Rossmore, the street running in front of the Spartan. Beyond the robin's-egg blue of my Cad, I could see the greenness of the Wilshire Country Club's carefully tended grounds.

  Sheikh Faisuli paused at the Spartan's entrance, and just before I started down the cement steps toward the street I said to him, “I'll call you in an hour or two, one way or another."

  “Very fine,” he said. “And, sincerely, I will not forget your assistance. I thank you, Mr. Scott."

  “For nothing, so far, Sheikh. See you later."

  I trotted down the steps, started across the street.

  And that's when I got shot.

  Not shot at, as before. Shot.

  Not shot once, but twice.

  I didn't think
I was killed—since I didn't think so, it was therefore reasonably certain that I was not—but I knew I was going down, knew in part from the thud and rip of slugs and in part from my wrenching attempt to move sideways and out and down at the same moment. And I knew I was down when my head snapped back and hit the street's black asphalt.

  I've been shot before, damn near killed before. And I didn't think I was badly hurt, felt I was merely nicked, a victim of steel-jacketed hit-and-run with more insult than potential homicide; but ... you never know. In those first moments, you never know.

  So the shock bloomed—just shock, and the chill of quick sharp fear and sudden confusion, but without pain—and I felt the dull bruisingness as my skull hit the solid street, and I wondered how it was, how bad it was. But at the same time another part of me thought almost wearily, those already-thought words, once again:

  I knew it.

  I knew when I got tangled up with those sad-eyed negative-thinking losers, with downcast Audrey and dismal Gippy, very likely from that moment forward something horrible was destined inevitably to happen to me. Maybe this wasn't it; and a fat lot of good that did me. If it wasn't, it merely meant the inevitably destined something-horrible still lay ahead.

  See? I said to myself, lying there bleeding on North Rossmore. Already you're thinking like those dingdongs.

  Thinking like Gippy....

  And Audrey....

  Through whom, with whom, it had started.

  Yes, Audrey ... it had started with Audrey....

  Chapter Three

  The first indication I had that there might be an Audrey Willifer anywhere in the whole wide world was not the sight of her, or her voice, but merely a little tap-tap-tapping sound.

  On that already warm morning in October, I was leaning back in my swivel chair, large cordovans atop my big and, like me, somewhat battered mahogany desk, thinking with sourness about the last babe, this one a stupe named Cronetta—which should have clued even one not a detective—who'd said to me: “Oh, I would, but I've got this terrible headache...” or terrible hangnail, or period, or piles, or broken back, or you-name-it and they've-got-it, or can get some in a hurry.