The Sure Thing (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “She will desire,” I said. “Thanks again—and thanks, too, for doing another good job. On Gippy."

  “Another?"

  “Can't be the first time for you, doctor. Not even the first today."

  “Oh. I see what you mean. No....” For a moment his eyes were vacant, and the skin of his face seemed to sag, become visibly more lined. “No...."

  That was all he said, however; then he turned and walked away.

  And I walked over to, sat down next to, Audrey. “Isn't that great?” I said.

  She surprised me. She didn't say, “Well, yes, if only he doesn't die, or get constipated.” She did say, “Oh, God, yes, yes. I prayed all the time, prayed and prayed, and He answered my prayers."

  “Well...."

  “I've been giving thanks just now, and I'll keep on giving thanks to Him. And to you, too, Mr. Scott."

  “I wish you wouldn't—not in that company—hell, I haven't done anything."

  “Yes, you have."

  “Sure, I phoned for an ambulance. Big deal—"

  “Mr. Scott."

  It was like a question, or the start of a whole paragraph, so I waited. I waited for a while.

  Finally she said, “Gippy told me how nice you were. And you were so sweet to me, too, this morning."

  "Sweet?" I roared so loud a passing nurse almost dropped a bedpan. “I've never been sweet in my goddamn life—"

  “And I really want you to keep helping us, if you can, helping Gippy mainly. Who it was shot him, and those things...."

  “Sure."

  “I don't have any more money right now, only a couple of dollars he, Gippy, doesn't know about. But if things work out, I'll pay you anything, if you'll keep on with ... everything."

  “Sure."

  “You'll really try to find out who it was? And I can pay you later when—"

  “Lady,” I said, “just drop it, will you? I have been hired, I have been on this case, whatever it is, I am on it, and I will stay—do you hear me?—stay on it to the bitter end, even if Fu Manchu catches me and has naked girls pull all my fingernails out while I'm bound hand and foot. And you have paid me all I intended, ever, to ask you to pay me on this case. Another job sometime? OK, it'll cost you a million. But this one's paid up. I will investigate everything, brave everything, and Fu Manchu willing solve everything. For the fee you have already paid me, which, as I recall, was.... Agh-h."

  “You will? Without any more money?"

  “Yeah. I told you it wouldn't cost you another bean, right? And I'd fix everything up? Well, now I'm stuck with it. I may be dumb, and planning to be poverty-stricken, but I won't tell you yes/terday and no tomorrow ... what was that I just said?"

  “I don't know."

  “We're even. I shouldn't talk to you at all, I get—bugged. What I'm saying is, I'm not one of those, if there are any, so you're home free. I'll stay on this case if it takes fourteen years, my remaining youth, and most of my middle age. This is because I'm so sweet and dumb—”

  “That's wonderful, just wonderful, Mr. Scott! You'll really find who it was shot my husband, you really will?"

  “I'll find him and kill him—"

  “I'll pray for you—"

  “You do, and I'll sock you—"

  “—and I thank God you're here to help Gippy and me."

  Then this absolutely unbelievable broad leaned at me and clunked her bony wrists behind my neck and kissed me on the cheek. I mean, Audrey really stuck both those unappetizing lips on my chops and went smack, or more like mmppphhhphh.

  I couldn't think of much to say after she leaned back, fluttering her eyelids as though in maidenly embarrassment.

  Finally I said, “You—you shouldn't have."

  And before another minute had ticked its little life away, after saying I would check later to make sure Gippy wasn't chasing any terrified nurses through the hallways and straining himself, I headed for the exit.

  Audrey called after me, “When I see Gippy, Mr. Scott, and talk to him, is there anything you want me to tell him? For you, I mean?"

  “Well...."

  I paused, glanced back over my shoulder at Audrey—at now-beaming, actually, joyously-smiling, almost prettily plain Audrey—and said, “Just tell him to keep my can of beer cold. And not to take any tired blood. And—yeah, you might tell him what the surgeon who just operated on him said about your spouse to me. Gippy won't believe it, but you might as well pass it on anyhow."

  “What was that, Mr. Scott?"

  “He said Gippy was a very lucky man,” I told her, and sped through the hospital's exit, and was out of sight in a trice, before she could think of any other wiggy things to ask me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Insistent hunger pangs reminded me that I hadn't put anything nutritious or even tasty into my stomach since breakfast, which by then seemed a couple of foodless days ago. So I drove to one of my favorite spots on La Cienega, where I had a beer at the bar to drown the pangs and then an order of blood-rare prime rib, an inch thick, at a corner table.

  While enjoying black coffee and a smoke, and waiting for my check, I thought a bit about the day now nearing its end, mentally skipped back over the recent events, took another look at people I'd talked to, wondered about that Roman Number One well and the men and women I'd seen—and those I hadn't seen yet. Then I signed my check, got three dimes, and used the restaurant's pay phone not far from the front door.

  I called the numbers I'd written in my little book for Devin Morraigne, Easy Banners, and Ben Riddle, and still had my three dimes. Where was everybody?

  Then I remembered the name Donald Corey, looked up his number and dialed—and at last found somebody who answered his phone.

  I told him who I was, and at least part of what I wanted to talk about, asked if I could come to his home and use up ten minutes of his time. He was gracious in saying I could, if I drove out immediately, since it was just a bit after eight-thirty then, and he was an early-to-bedder.

  So I got there in ten minutes—it was a large, fairly new house in Bel Air, where even the poor people have money—spent another fifteen with him, and was on my way again before nine. All I wanted from Corey was corroboration—or denial—of what Arnold Trappman had told me this afternoon: that the idea of buying out investors in the Roman well originated not with him, but with Mr. Corey.

  We sat in a light-pine-paneled den in big nubby brown chairs facing each other, and I listened while he smoked a long thin cigar and sipped Remy Martin cognac from a large ball glass. Corey was maybe a dozen years older than I, a heavy-set six-footer in his early forties with a plump pink face and a most winning smile.

  “Yes, that is essentially a fair statement of the facts, Mr. Scott,” he said, after I'd explained a bit more about the case I was on and repeated what Trappman had told me. “Except that I did not tell Arnold why I desired to sell him my interest in the Roman Number One, and I assume he concluded, erroneously, that I was in financial difficulty of some kind. He did indicate to you that I had suffered business reverses?"

  “Yeah, something like that. It's the impression I got, anyway."

  “It is possible that is what he believed, but, if so, he was in error. I invested fifteen thousand in the venture in the hope of substantially greater return, but also because, due to my tax structure, the real cost to me was only a little more than forty-five hundred dollars. You undoubtedly know that one hundred percent of all intangible drilling expenses are deductible from the investor's current income, so for me it was a small-risk venture with the potential for large gain."

  “If this minimal investment was of such little concern to you, then how come you recently dickered with Trappman for a piddling twenty-five hundred bucks?"

  He smiled that very handsome smile. “I never think of twenty-five hundred, or twenty-five, as a ‘piddling’ quantity when those numbers refer to dollars. However, a monthly royalty of roughly one-hundred and twenty-five dollars, with twenty-eight of those dollars exempt from fede
ral taxation, is not my concept of an exciting enterprise."

  “Ill go along with that."

  “Moreover, I invested in the Roman last year. This is another year, bringing with it new tax-and-investment problems and possibilities. Last year I was able to deduct the major portion of my investment—tangible well expenses must be depreciated over several years—in the Roman. The twenty-five hundred paid me this year by Arnold is a long-term capital gain rather than ordinary income, since I sold to him all my present and future interest in the well. Also, that—” he smiled again—"piddling twenty-five hundred dollars became immediately available to me for whatever application I might desire of it, rather than in much smaller amounts monthly."

  I nodded.

  “I would enjoy continuing this discussion, Mr. Scott,” he said. “But—” he glanced at a heavy, interesting-looking watch on his left wrist—"the hour grows late.” At that, he tapped a little button on the side of his watchcase and I could see reddish figures flicker, forming little glowing numbers on the watch face. “Eight-fifty already,” he said.

  Dandy timepiece, I thought. Like a little computer. Liquid crystals and stuff. Must have set Corey back a bundle. Probably paid his oil-well capital gain for it. “OK,” I said, “I'm almost out the door. But I would like to ask what you know about a man named Devin Morraigne, and his Something-or-other Holaselector."

  “The lusty gentleman with the doodlebug?” he said, smiling that most engaging smile.

  Corey had turned the tables on me this time. Uusually I was the guy saying “doodlebug” and everybody else was correcting me.

  “That's the guy,” I said. “Judging by the way you refer to his gizmo, I assume you don't think it's of much value."

  “I don't consider it to be of any value. That's quite a bit less than much."

  “Right on. Have you seen Morraigne operating his invention?"

  “I have several times observed him walking over the terrain, aiming his black box in various directions, pursuing something or other with great intentness. I was never close to him at such times—he is rather secretive about how his instrument works. Allegedly works. On at least one of those occasions he was accompanied by your client, Mr. Willifer."

  “Yeah, Gippy seems to have a lot of faith in the man, and his hydrocarbon finder. You figure the thing's a bunch of junk, huh? Or maybe part of a fraud, some kind of con game?"

  “My opinion—an educated and considered opinion, I believe—is that Mr. Morraigne's instrument is valueless. I have no reason to believe, however, that his actions are in any way criminal, or even designed to deceive, even though they do deceive. I could, of course, be wrong entirely about any part or all of this, since it is merely my opinion. But it was not formed ... lightly."

  “Was he around when—?” I stopped, rephrased my question. “Who was present when the well was spudded? Wait a minute, spudding is when you start drilling the hole, right?"

  Corey nodded.

  “What I'm after is, who was present when the well came in—Morraigne, you, the other investor? That is, when the oil actually gushed out, or oozed up, or whatever it did."

  “It was pumped to the surface, Mr. Scott. Often there is insufficient subsurface gas pressure to force crude up the pipe, thus the oil must be pumped. But, in response to your question, no, I was not present when the well came in. It is my understanding that only Mr. Trappman and Mr. Banners—and, of course, the rest of the drilling crew on the rig—were there at that time. Drilling proceeded with virtually no delays, and the selected depth was reached—and the disappointing production of oil was reached—a day or two sooner than had been anticipated. At any rate, I'm quite sure Mr. Morraigne was not present at that time."

  I'd got what I wanted from Corey, but something he'd mentioned earlier had stuck in my head, so I asked him about it. “You referred to Morraigne as ‘the lusty gentleman,’ I think it was. Why ‘lusty'?"

  “Perhaps that was a careless choice of word. Merely an opinion again. But he is quite a handsome man, tall—about your height, Mr. Scott, though a good deal slimmer, almost thin—a rather devilish-appearing fellow. Yes, devilish. And a bachelor, though nearing forty. But my impression, or opinion, undoubtedly was inspired by the circumstance that, on two occasions when I observed him, he was in the company of an exceedingly attractive and almost shockingly curvaceous young lady."

  “She was outstanding in numerous ways, hmm?"

  “They."

  “I beg your pardon?"

  “Not she—they. There were two young ladies. He was with a different one on each occasion. My comment, or description, was meant to apply to both."

  “Hmm. I wonder how many of those he's got. I wonder how many of those there are."

  “Not an infinite number, you may be quite confident, Mr. Scott. Moreover, Mr. Morraigne, when the opportunity arose between those periods of his intensive investigations in the field, was not averse to paying considerable attention to the young ladies—one at a time, of course."

  “I'm not so sure, the way you describe him. Considerable attention—they didn't make babies while hanging from derricks in the sunlight, did they?"

  “Oh, no, no.” He smiled. “At least, I did not observe any exercises of that nature. Mr. Morraigne travels about in a motor home, one of those miniature motel rooms on wheels, in which he carries his prized instrument and various items of electronic and other equipment. And, it would indubitably seem, from time to time, a girl."

  “Exceedingly attractive and shockingly stacked."

  “Approximately. Again, about this also I may be in error. My use of the word ‘lust’ was merely a reflection of an assumption and may be inaccurate."

  “If your assumption accurately reflects, I wonder how he finds time for any doodling, with all that diddling. However, back to Arnold Trappman for a moment, and his purchase of your Roman interest. May I take it as a fact that you did not virtually throw yourself on his mercy, and request—plead—that he buy you out, possibly so you wouldn't have to stop payments on your watch?"

  He smiled, but did not speak, as though actually to answer such an outrageous question was out of the question.

  I saw him obtrusively poking that little button on the side of his timepiece again, so I stood up and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Corey. I appreciate your seeing me at this ghastly hour."

  “It was a pleasure, Mr. Scott."

  I left then, even though I'd have enjoyed talking to him a little longer. I'd wanted to ask him where he got that watch.

  * * * *

  I was rolling up Sunset, enjoying the cooler night breeze on my face, headed for North Rossmore and home, when an hours-past fragment of dialogue struck me, and stuck so firmly in my thoughts that I simply took my foot off the gas and coasted to a stop. At the curb, I switched off the ignition, lit a cigarette.

  Weird, I was thinking, weird coincidence, wild, far-out witchery and a one-in-a-million bull's-eye.

  I was recalling Cynara Lane's comment to me, when talking about Gippy's current transits and other astrological gobbledygook, to the effect that he was in some sort of dangerous period now. More, there'd been a remark about the possibility of his getting injured either in the head, or the “abdominal area”—unless I'd got what she said twisted around or sideways. But I clearly remember her mentioning an “affliction in Virgo."

  I hadn't really believed then that she could see anything that specific in Gippy's chart, and the hell of it was I couldn't believe it now, either. In all of my experience, which included plenty of guys who'd been shot in numerous places, the only people who could possibly have known about those crimes in advance of their commission were either those who planned personally to participate in the crimes, or others who were privy to info from those who did plan to commit them. Which is to say, accessories at least before, if not also during, the fact.

  Which description could not possibly apply to the lovely Cynara, who had too many charming virtues, not the least of which were those o
utstanding physical.... Right then, interrupting my thoughts, another slightly jarring phrase fluttered in my mind, this one Dan Corey's description of the “exceedingly attractive and almost shockingly curvaceous” lovelies who'd accompanied Devin Morraigne to the Roman Number One drilling site.

  That description certainly fit Cynara well enough.

  I finished my smoke, thinking about lusty Devin Morraigne, about Cynara, about Gippy lying in a hospital bed with a bullet hole in him—in his stomach—then took my little book from a coat pocket, turned to the letter “L."

  Earlier, when I'd jotted down the address of Starguide, I had also entered Cynara Lane's home address. It wasn't too far from where I was parked, just out the Freeway to Burbank. Not too far away, and not too late in the p.m. Of course, even if it had been much more distant, and the hour much later, I suppose I would have gone there, anyway.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a small house in a quiet residential district, not much different from other houses on that tree-lined street except that it appeared more heavily landscaped than most of them, planted with low-spreading junipers and large-leafed tropical-looking plants, and with a lot of ivy and morning glories growing up the front of the house.

  I rang the bell, then knocked briskly a few times, and rang the bell again. I was feeling pretty good, for no particular reason.

  Soft thumping sounds—soft feet on carpet inside—then the door opened partway and Cynara looked around its edge. Looked and blinked, but not flirtily, not as though winking mischievously with both eyes. More as one would blink at a multiple collision on the Freeway, or the San Andreas Fault opening up.

  However, she looked great—at least the little of her not concealed by the door did. That little was enough to hint that she was not bundled up to keep at bay the chill of winter snows, even though, other than the beautiful face, all I could see was a hunk of beautiful reddish hair hanging loose, part of a beautiful neck, and one beautiful shoulder covered only by something like thin cotton candy through which beautiful pink shoulder skin showed.