The Sure Thing (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I smiled, thinking not only of Zoreena but of other dandies who'd told me numerous swell things that were destined for me, one of which dandies professed to have received her information direct from “the eighteenth plane,” and who, after my excited query about where in the world that might be, responded only with a highly spiritual look and the intelligence that the eighteenth was "very high."

  Thinking of that, I said, “I suppose Devin Morraigne's black box is the willow twig?"

  “In the case of Mr. Willifer, yes, and I have seen the tree—the blighted forest—that twig came from. The thing I can't understand about Mr. Willifer is, I personally told him of occasions when Mr. Morraigne had advised others, to their later sorrow. But Mr. Willifer was not responsive to my warnings."

  “You mean you told Gippy about people who'd previously invested in wells drilled by Trappman? People who were also advised by Morraigne?"

  He nodded. “I'm sure others, probably a good many, made similar investments after similar advice from Morraigne, but I knew of two men who had by then dropped bundles in wells, that is in dry holes, drilled by the Trappman Oil and Gas Company, since I set up those deals myself. One of those incidents occurred many years ago, and that disillusioned investor has since died, but Mr. Willifer could easily have checked with the other gentleman, since he was one of only three investors in the Roman Number One."

  “One of the ... the other two guys? Besides Gippy?"

  “Yes. It was only three years ago that Mr. Corey, then being advised by Mr. Morraigne, assumed total financing of a well which, when tested at a depth of sixty-eight hundred feet, showed production of twelve hundred barrels a day—"

  I was a little slow, but finally I said, "Corey?"

  “—of salt water. What?"

  “Dan Corey? The high-finance guy with the investments and swell watch and—"

  “Yes, Dan Corey."

  “Dan Corey. How about that? I got the impression he was almost boringly rich, and maybe infallible—"

  “Rich he is. Must be worth ten or twelve million. Infallible, he is not. You've met him?"

  “Talked to him last night. We spoke about Morraigne, too, but Corey sure didn't hint he'd ever had anything to do with the man himself."

  “He wouldn't. He made a mistake, and a pretty good-sized one. Dropped seventy thousand in the Corey Number One, so called because that particular lease was in his name, and Mr. Corey does not talk about, tries not to think about, his mistakes. Maybe it's a good way to go, since I doubt he ever makes the same mistake twice. However, if you get the chance, you might ask Morraigne himself about it. If you're interested."

  “I'm interested. But—hold it a minute. If Dan Corey doesn't make the same mistake twice, how come he put fifteen thousand into this puny Roman well, which Morraigne—who apparently helped him blow seventy G's three years ago—advised Gippy was a sure thing, or close to it? Was Morraigne maybe selling a little advice to Corey on the side?"

  It took Banners a while to answer. But finally he shook his head. “Not a chance. Corey undoubtedly had his own reasons for assuming it worthwhile to drill on the Roman site. I'm sure the fact that Morraigne thought the same thing—or perhaps merely went along with Corey's advisors—had nothing to do with Mr. Corey's decision."

  “Corey had his own reasons? Like what?"

  “Geological advice, personal survey of the site accompanied by his own geologist and petroleum engineer, possibly because his ear swiggled when he was out there—is it important?"

  “Probably not. I just....” I let it ride, trying to fit bits of several separate ideas together.

  Banners went on, “Corey knows—we all know, if we've been in the business more than a day and a half—that all you can really do, despite geologists and seismographs and doodlebugs and you name it, is drill a hole and string pipe and see what you've got when you get down there. Most of the time you've got a long hole, which you then abandon, seal up, plug with cement. If you're lucky—and that's the word, lucky—one of those times you get production, maybe a little, maybe a lot. But there aren't any guarantees. However....” He paused. “Try telling that to a Gippy Willifer."

  Then from behind me, loud enough to chip paint from the walls, booming like an amplified echo, “Why try? Assholes can't hear, they got no ears."

  If I hadn't known who it was without looking, I would have handed in my license before nightfall. I got up, turned around. “In a better mood this morning, I see. That's a relief."

  “Scott, you absolutely gripe my—"

  “Please, Trappman, it's not that I mind terribly, but couldn't I gripe you someplace else for a change?"

  Tall, thick in the middle, showing his big teeth but not in what I would consider a winning smile, Arnold Trappman strode past me, broad shoulders swinging, sat on the edge of the desk and dropped a sheaf of papers in front of Banners. Banners’ face hadn't changed expression. He continued to look relaxed, pleasant, mildly interested.

  “You irritating son of a bitch,” Trappman said, looking at me.

  His mouth was still open to continue his description, but he did not continue, because I could feel that old familiar flush start up my neck toward my face and I took one long step toward the desk, reaching for him with my left hand, saying, “Goddamn you, mister, if you won't muzzle that big mouth of yours I'll pull it off and cram—"

  But then I stopped, let my left hand relax, and the arm fall to my side. After a deep breath—during which I could almost hear again Cynara Lane saying that this guy and I would always be at each other's throats because his asteroids were on my squared conjunction or some marvelous thing like that—I shook my head and said, “Man, you must have been born at midnight during a Full Moon. How else could you be such a miserable—?"

  “Born—what?"

  He blinked, blankly, as well he might, I thought.

  I had phrased my comment in that peculiar way only because I'd been thinking, though not on purpose, of Cynara. Cynara, who, among other fun things, had wanted me to find out what time Trappman was born—and the hell with that noise, I told myself.

  But right then, because Cynara was still in my head, it occurred to me with a slow surge of almost sadistic pleasure that I had a marvelous opportunity, here and now, to stick Trappman pretty good. Where he would feel it, where it would hurt. Maybe even draw a little sour blood.

  So I took another step closer to him, and standing about a foot away smiled and said. “Yeah, when were you born, friend? What time of day?"

  “About ... six-thirty p.m.” he began automatically. But then he stopped, stared at me from the very bright blue eyes. “What the hell is this?"

  “Well, I'm pretty deep in the occult these days,” I said, still smiling. “Been getting wisdom at the feet of a four-hundred-year-old yogi in Burbank, who has remarkable feet. For his age. So, since I now know you were born at six-thirty p.m. during the bubonic plague, I merely tune in on the whatchamacallit records in the half-astral plane and see all, know all, about Arnold Trappman. Will you buy that?"

  The expression on his lined but firm-fleshed face had slowly become less puzzled, more interested. I had not the least doubt that Trappman believed in far-out occultism and the super-wisdom of levitating yogins just as devoutly as he believed he was wearing brass rings in his nose, more, that I knew equally as much about such esoteric jazz as he did. Trappman was quite aware, however, that I was up to something, and was clearly interested in discovering what it was.

  “Of course,” he said slowly. “Makes a great deal of sense."

  “Splendid. Possessed of this knowledge about you, my wisdom tells me many things. Like, you're abrasive, loudmouthed, and very uptight these days. Possibly you have not had a good bowel movement for a week. Also, you're a crook."

  I hadn't meant to say that. It just slipped out. The bit about bowel movements, OK, that was a normal insult. But “crook” was a bit much. Trappman didn't mind any of my comments, however—at least he didn't appear to.

&n
bsp; He was smiling now, also, and he said, “Aren't we all? What kind of crook am I? I'd like to know."

  “So would I—I mean, ah, that's in fine print, there, on the whatchamacallit. Several kinds probably. I'd need my other glasses. I can tell you this, though. You are presently engaged in something of most prickly and dubious nature, and this—which is making you so miserably uptight, and cross as a polar bear hibernating in Death Valley—is tied by invisible strings to, and either closely or distantly allied to, a similarly prickly and dubious undertaking in which you, Arnold Trappman, were engaged ssss...."

  All of a sudden, I couldn't say it, and I became aware that there was a distinct possibility I was beginning to lose my mind, assuming it had not already strayed beyond recall, because here I was, enjoying an almost sadistic and certainly fiendish delight at the thought of jarring and seriously upsetting Trappman by revealing to him information I could not possibly—so he would assume—know about him.

  Beautiful. That would really jar and seriously upset him.

  And how had I discovered this undiscoverable intelligence, where, from whom?

  From the dingdong comments of a dingaling astrologer, that's how, and where, and from whom.

  True, Cynara Lane was a charming girl, and lovely, and built, and lots of good things. This was undeniable. But it was also true she was dingaling, and her comments—upon the unshakable validity of which I had gaily embarked and was now shakily standing—were dingdong. This, too, was undeniable.

  But Trappman—Banners, as well, for that matter—was staring with great intentness and concentration, at my face, almost breathlessly awaiting my revelation, so I continued, finishing lamely:

  “...ssseventeen years ago."

  And something happened.

  I don't know what it was. Trappman didn't gasp, or get pale, didn't growl or swear at me. But something changed, maybe in his bright eyes, or behind them, or in tiny movements of skin or muscle or nerve of his face.

  There was a slow soft release of breath, a very gentle sigh, but not from Trappman—from Banners. I glanced at him, but he looked about the same as before, except perhaps for a certain fixity of expression.

  Neither of them said a word.

  Five seconds, that seemed much longer—and very quiet, very still—passed, and then I turned and silently walked out through the door.

  Out, and down the six nights of stairs, wondering, What the hell was that? What happened back there?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Granite Ledge was one of the narrow winding roads in the hills overlooking Hollywood. Morraigne's house, abundantly landscaped and with several bushy trees growing around it, was set back from a curve in the road and reached by a steeply up-slanting driveway, so that it not only took full advantage of the impressive view but would afford the occupant, or occupants, a lot of privacy.

  I got there at twelve-fifteen p.m., thinking I'd have a few minutes’ wait before Morraigne arrived. But a sleek GMC motor home was already parked at the top of the driveway, so I swung right and gunned my Cad up the steep strip of asphalt, and parked behind it.

  A door at the rear of the deluxe GMC job was open and two curvaceous, bare legs were sticking out of it. They were not, I was sure, Devin Morraigne's legs, no matter how devilishly pretty he might be.

  I got out of the Cad, and approached the legs.

  “Hi,” somebody said. “When Gippy described you I assumed he was lying, but if you're Shell Scott he wasn't even exaggerating conservatively."

  It took me only a split second to realize it was not the possessor of those bare legs speaking. “That's who I am, ma'am,” I said, “or miss—who said that?"

  From the comparative darkness inside the motor home, a tall lean guy clambered out, grinning, balancing himself on the way by clamping one long-fingered brown hand around a white thigh.

  He stood erect before me, letting go of the thigh, and stuck out his other hand. “Devin Morraigne,” he said.

  “I figured it out,” I said, shaking his hand.

  He was a hellishly good-looking guy, with long wavy black hair, very long-lashed dark blue eyes, the skin of his face and neck perhaps even more tanned than mine, and with flashing white teeth, a little crooked, like his smile.

  He was wearing a white pullover T-shirt that was tight on his broad shoulders and well-muscled chest, white trousers, open leather sandals, the trousers held snug around his waist by what looked like a piece of rope instead of a belt. It was a piece of rope.

  “I just saw Gippy at the hospital,” he said in the deep rich voice I'd first heard issuing strangely from those legs. “He told me you're helping him and Audrey, and any friend of theirs is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?"

  It might be tough to get bugged at this guy, I realized. But maybe I could manage it. “Fifteen minutes of your time will do it, Mr. Morraigne,” I said. “Just a few questions."

  “Sure,” he said. “Call me Dev, everybody does. You're Shell, right?"

  “Right."

  I could see into the camper a bit better by now, and it was clear that the legs were attached to a girl wearing brief, tight-fitting pink shorts and a pink sweater. She was barefoot, and her toenails were painted pale blue, which seemed an odd thing to have done with them.

  “Ah, you've noticed Petrushka, have you?” He crooked a finger at her, then pointed it down toward his left foot. “Heel, Petrushka!"

  He grinned at me. “You've got to train them when they're young, or they tend to go astray."

  The girl slid, or sort of undulated, out of the camper, obediently slithered forward and grasped his left arm in both hands, squashing part of her voluptuous pink sweater all over the general area of his bicep, pretending to growl at him. I guess she was pretending. Petrushka was perhaps eighteen years old, with about twenty-five years of curves distributed as well as one might reasonably expect.

  “Well, you've got plenty of time,” I said amiably. “Minds good already, though. Nice Petrushka?"

  She growled at me, then said, “Ooh, it's hot on my tootsies,” lifting one bare foot to press it against her calf, then switched feet and reversed the process. “Let's go in and pour Martinis on them,” she said brightly.

  “We'll soak the darlings in a bucket,” Dev said. “No—skedaddle inside and commence filling the bathtub with gin, Josephine. If a thing is worth doing, it's worth overdoing."

  “Righto!” she cried. “Easy on the vermouth!"

  Morraigne fished a key-ring from his pocket, handed it to the child, smacked her lightly on her rounded adult fanny as she turned and skipped toward the house.

  “Martini sound all right to you, Shell?” he said, turning back toward me.

  “Little early in the day for me to get tanked,” I said. “I could use a bath, though."

  He laughed, took another key from his pocket and locked the camper's doors, then said, “Come on in. She's a cute thing, isn't she? And not as dumb as she looks."

  “Looks intelligent as hell to me. Did I hear you call Petrushka Josephine?"

  We walked past the carport toward the rear of his house, stepping on bumpy korean grass and moving into partial shade under the branches of jacaranda trees.

  “Her name is Mary-Lu—Lu without an ‘o’—Watermooth,” Morraigne said. “So I have been experimenting with names less criminally depressing. She responds well to Madeleine, but I think Petrushka brings out the best in her."

  “Well, then, Petrushka by all means,” I said, as we walked inside, through a rear door apparently left open by Morraigne's companion.

  But Petrushka, standing only a few feet inside the house, turned toward us, wiggling the key in her hand. “I didn't have to use this,” she said to Dev. “The door was already open."

  He glanced at me, lips pulling down at the corners, then said, “Wait here,” and walked on into the house. I waited, with Petrushka, until he came back and said, “I do believe somebody's tossed the joint. Not much disturbance, just a few things out of place, and
it doesn't look like anything's missing."

  “Well, we'd better call the police—"

  He didn't even let me finish. “No way,” he said. “Forget it."

  I argued with him, but not much—it was his house—and that's where we left it. In another minute, we were seated in the low-ceilinged living room, furnished and decorated in a style I had not seen or even suspected before. Nothing in sight matched anything else—wicker chair, bamboo settee, chair and table of dark heavy wood ... paintings and masks and a couple of tapestries on the walls ... idols and figurines, a wooden spear straight as a long arrow next to a shield that could have been made from elephant hide ... an old flintlock and a modern high-powered scope-equipped rifle leaning aslant in one corner ... a hammered brass water pipe.... Jumble of shapes, kaleidoscope of colors, but it all seemed to take on a kind of harmonious clutter after I looked at it for a while.

  “Hideous, isn't it?” Morraigne said cheerfully. “There's junk in here I've picked up all over the world. Some of it's not junk, really. That life-size Balinese doll over there, for one—life-size from the tits up, anyway. She's jade. God knows what it's worth just by the pound, but it's beautiful work. I knew the artist in Bali, that's his wife, at least it's lovely Meluma as she was five years ago.” He paused, looking across the room at a green sculpture on what might have been a chunk of polished monkey-pod wood from Hawaii. “Meluma may get fat, and wrinkled, and old, but not my green beauty. Young and fair she will be, when all of us are dead and dusty."

  Then he leaned back in the chair and crossed his long legs. “But you didn't come here to admire my trinkets and trophies. Besides, I hear the bath water running."

  “Either that, or an awful lot of gin,” I said, listening. “Well, the reason I'm here—I suppose Gippy mentioned that I'm a private detective?"

  He nodded.

  I decided the quickest way to handle this interview—since I had a hunch I wouldn't have Morraigne's undivided attention for much longer—would be to simply tell the man what pertinent-to-him info I'd picked up along the way to here, hit him with a few questions, and see what he came back with.