“Just odds and ends, Shell.” He rumbled on, his voice slightly muffled by the cigar undoubtedly in his kisser, telling me a few things the routine had come up with: Zoe was born in Kansas City—that let out the suitor from Podunk—and King didn't have a chance now in his custody case. That didn't bring tears to my eyes. Sam went on, saying that Sherry had worked for an advertising executive before starting with Louis Genova Productions about a year back. He kept talking while I listened with about half my mind, which under the circumstances was not much mind at all, and then something he'd said roused me a little bit, started me working my way back up from bottom again.
“What was that one, Sam? About Oscar Swallow?”
“Huh? Oh, he didn't write that book of his, that ‘Savage Christian’ thing. Like I said, we talked to this Paul Jarvis that wrote it for him—ghosted it, he said. That happened over two years ago. Jarvis got practically nothing out of it; wasn't too happy. But we had to talk to him quite a spell to get it all out; seems it was a point of honor with him to keep it under his hat. Not cricket to talk about it, he said.”
“He ghosted the book for Swallow? Well...” I let it trail off, wondering about this new angle. I'd never cottoned to Swallow and his fake British accent, his borrowed witticisms, his studied and almost artistic dress, and now it appeared that in addition to everything else he was one of what I've always thought of as “The Brain Pickers.” The sonofabitch.
Sam was saying, “That little gal with the shape was down here earlier. The one you phoned me about.”
“Sherry? Lola Sherrard?”
“Yeah. Told her the same thing, Shell. She seemed as interested as you. What's the angle?”
“I'm not sure yet. Sam, you bring her down? She didn't come by herself, did she?”
“We picked her up. Took her home, too. She seems to think you've got something I never been able to see in you.”
“How long ago was that, Sam? When did she leave?”
“I dunno. Maybe half an hour.” He talked about the case a little longer, then I thanked him, told him I'd be down to make the crime report, and hung up. My depression was rapidly leaving me now, and the more I thought about what Sam had told me, the more ideas crowded into my brain. An idea, a hunch, almost a hope swelled inside me as I put this with what I already knew about Swallow: the kind of guy he was, Zoe working for him at the studio, her pregnancy, Swallow's crying that Zoe had killed herself. I fished another coin from my pocket and dialed Sherry's number, my brain starting to click.
The phone buzzed while I tried to reconcile Swallow's apparently perfect alibi for Zoe's murder with what looked like a beautiful motive. A double motive, at that.
The phone buzzed again and for a moment fear started building in me again as I remembered the last time I'd called Sherry only to receive no answer.
Then the phone was lifted and her soft voice said, “Hello?”
“Sherry? This is Shell. I've got something. Maybe.”
“Oh, Shell. I've been trying to reach you, but I didn't know where you were. I was just leaving.”
“Leaving? What—”
“Shell, I know who killed Zoe. I know!”
"Yeah, well, I—”
“It was Oscar Swallow. Just like I told you right at first. Shell, he didn't write ‘The Savage Christian.’ I haven't time to explain it all, but I figured the rest out after I got home. He hasn't written anything—not even the scripts for ‘Jungle Woman’ or ‘Jungle Girl.’ Don't you see what that means?”
“Yeah, I think so. What do you mean you haven't time to explain?” Something was screwy; something I couldn't pin down was bothering me.
Sherry went rattling on, breathless and excited, spilling the words out in a rush. “Shell, Swallow stole both the stories for both his screen plays. That's why Zoe had a ‘Jungle Girl’ shooting script here. I got to wondering why Zoe would have those old pulp magazines in the house—you know, the one with the cover—and that's where Swallow stole his stories. He just stole them; lifted them right out of the magazines. He changed them a little, and by the time they were in shooting script they were practically different stories. Don't you see? That's what Zoe was going to tell everybody at the party. That's why he killed her.”
She stopped, presumably for a breath, and I said, “This is coming at me pretty fast. It makes sense, but—”
She interrupted me. “Shell, I've got to run. I tried to reach you, but when I couldn't I phoned location and told Genova about Swallow, and why Oscar had killed Zoe.”
“You what?”
“He was awfully nice to me. He complimented me and told me to come up to location and bring the magazines and everything. He's called the police already and said he was setting a trap for Swallow. Shell, isn't it wonderful?”
“I guess. I don't know for sure. You're a little ahead of me.” I was trying to digest all this. It would appear that while I was narrowing the suspects down to the world, little Sherry had been wrapping up the case. Possibly it was time I got another job. Maybe I'd go to Mexico and raise opium. I could smoke it and dream I was a detective.
I said, “Slow down a minute, honey. What if Swallow should try something? It might not be healthy for you.”
“Silly,” she said, “the police will be there. Now I've got to run. I should have left ten minutes ago. You come over here and wait for me, Shell.”
“Now, wait a minute, sweetness. You positive it was Genova you talked to? You sit—Hey, Sherry!”
She'd hung up. Damn it, I hadn't got this squared away yet. And that something I hadn't pinned down was still bothering me. I hung up, went out to the Cad, and started driving slowly toward Sherry's. It was ten minutes till six P.M.
When I turned into Cypress Avenue I still hadn't figured out how the hell Swallow could have killed Zoe. I'd checked him up and down, and he was the only one at the party who couldn't have done it. I could see how he might conceivably have lifted a couple of plots from an old, folded magazine, changed Martian greebles to African apes and switched them around a little, then put them through the idiotic Hollywood mill that twisted them inside out before they became sneak previews. And, remembering the red-penciled script I'd examined at location, I could see how he might even have got away with it. But if the guy had any sense at all, he must have known he couldn't go on like that indefinitely, that he'd have to expect trouble someday.
I was a couple of blocks from Sherry's house when I tried to picture what might have gone on last Thursday night at Raul's. Zoe had headed for there, ready to “run Swallow out of town,” but she'd never got inside. Obviously she'd met somebody before she got into the house, spilled some of her story, and been strangled for it, hastily weighted and dropped into the nearest hiding place: the pool. It had been sudden and savage.
The only people, really, who'd have stopped her from spilling would have been Swallow himself and maybe Genova. Besides that, King and Helen alibied each other—supported by little Dot—and if Raul had killed Zoe he'd certainly have had all the opportunity in the world to move the body away in the days and nights that followed. Nor would he have called a party knowing the body was in the pool.
I couldn't help imagining what would have happened to Genova, though, if Zoe had spilled to him—and it did seem likely that she might have spilled to the big boss. He'd have known immediately that there'd be a mess of scenes to reshoot, or at least the chance of a costly civil suit because of Swallow's plagiarism. Even if Swallow was liable, the mess would play bloody hell with the budget and foam would sure have spurted out of Genova's mouth when that idea hit him. He'd lose not only the hundred grand he had invested, but potential profits of several times that amount ... That idea hung on the edge of my mind as I suddenly remembered that of all the people present at Raul's Sunday party, Louis Genova was the only uninvited guest.
Just as easily and gently as that it slipped into my mind, in a kind of idle and half-amused train of thought, and even as I realized with a quick, cold, choking panic tha
t there was no doubt now that Genova had strangled Zoe, I realized, too, that at this very minute he might be murdering Sherry.
Chapter Fifteen
FOR A moment the realization stunned me. Everything literally seemed to stop inside my body; I stopped thinking, stopped breathing, it seemed that my heart stopped beating as my skin got cold and my hands tightened on the steering wheel. Then I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and the Cad jumped forward the last half block to Sherry's home.
Maybe she was still there; maybe she hadn't left yet.
If I could only catch her, stop her. I skidded to a stop in front of the house and sprinted to the unlocked door and inside, shouting her name. There was no answer, nothing. In the bedroom I looked frantically around the empty room, then whirled and started to leave just as my eye fell on the .38 Colt on the dresser. Good God, she hadn't even taken the gun! I scooped it up, checked the five loads, and dropped the gun into my coat pocket as I raced back to the still idling Cad, jumped in, and ground gears away from the curb.
My heart was pounding rapidly and hard, and the muscles were knotted in my stomach as I raced down Cypress and headed for Royal Road. How much time had she been gone? Five minutes? Ten? How much of a start did she have? I knew there were no police at location, no Swallow, just Genova—and maybe Sherry by now. Genova was the bastard who'd sicked the baldheaded character on my tail and just today phoned the two torpedoes from location. He was the guy who'd busted into Sherry's looking for Zoe's evidence against Swallow, and taken a couple of shots at me.
My foot was pressed to the floor boards and the Cad was still accelerating. I gunned straight ahead through intersections, one hand pressed on the blaring horn. At Royal Road I jammed on the brakes and the tires screamed and slipped as I skidded in a wild left turn through a red light, my eye spotting a black police radio car facing the opposite direction on Royal.
I sure couldn't stop, but I wanted the police along if I could get them. I pulled the .38 from my pocket, stuck it out the open window, and fired a shot into the air. Come on, boys, get with it, get after me. I didn't look to see if they followed, but bent over the wheel, still shoving on the horn.
The siren started wailing behind me and I glanced at the rear-view mirror. I saw what I thought was the squad car swerving around a red sedan and racing down the street after me. Let them come; I wanted an army along.
The police car helped another way, too. The siren screamed, the sound carrying for miles ahead, and cars pulled to the side of the road clearing a path for the police—and for me. If we made it in time, the sound of the siren getting louder might stop Genova before he ... finished with Sherry.
I heard a faint crack and something snapped past the car and whirled away through the air. It didn't take much imagination to guess it was a bullet. I should have known. I was having enough trouble keeping this strange buggy on the road. I sure as hell couldn't slow down, much less stop and explain. I had to keep going, as fast as I could without turning over and ending everything for both Sherry and me. Up ahead was Genova waiting to kill Sherry, or killing her now, and behind were cops shooting at me.
I pressed harder on the accelerator as I neared the train crossing ahead, hoping that hitting the tracks at this speed wouldn't throw the Cad clear off the road. I could see the packing houses at the side of the road now, and even the black-and-white bars down across the highway as they had been this morning.
For a moment I didn't get the significance of the striped wooden bars, then over the wail of the police siren I heard the deeper sound of a train whistle and remembered it had been nearly six P.M. when I'd phoned Sherry, and the late train came through here at six. If it blocked the highway, if I had to stop now, I could take my time going to Sherry; there would be no reason for hurrying. I couldn't stop; I couldn't even hesitate and think about the risk.
I glanced to my left, then back to the road ahead of me, but I'd seen the train. I couldn't tell how fast it was moving, but it was close, nearly up to the crossing, and the flashing red semaphore signal was clanging a hundred yards ahead. I had never slacked off on the accelerator, but I hung onto the wheel with sweaty hands and shoved my foot even harder against the unyielding floor boards, scared silly. It was almost like being in shock, dazed and unthinking; like watching another car swinging out of traffic and lunging toward you, collision inevitable even as you stared unbelieving. As the whole picture rushed toward me with frightening velocity, I heard the swelling whistle of the train, then the roar and clatter of the tons of metal grinding over steel rails.
I was right on the damn tracks; they were only ten yards ahead and the train engine was already starting across the road. There wasn't a thing I could do about it now. I was either going to make it or I'd never know I hadn't. I yelled at the top of my lungs and swerved my hurtling Cad to the right as much as I dared. The wooden guard rails crashed and splintered across the front of the Cad and cracks shivered in the windshield as the rumble and piercing whistle screeched in my ears and the train, then the roar and clatter of the tons of metal grinding down on me.
The impact with the guard rails and tracks threw me forward to the steering wheel and there was a strange, detached moment when there seemed nothing in the world but the bedlam of noise and crashing sounds and blurred black-and-white pictures. Nothing seemed to have color or reality; everything seemed to have stopped for a fragmentary moment, become suspended in the world of screeching clamor that enveloped me. There was no thought or logic or time, nothing except the reception of violent sensations, all of them blurred and unreal as they washed over me.
It lasted for a moment that was stretched in time, then suddenly the Cad was bouncing and swerving and I thought I'd been hit. I didn't know what had happened until I saw that the car was still racing ahead, right tires skidding in the dirt at the edge of the asphalt pavement. The car swerved, the wheel almost wrenched itself from my hands as I fought it, jerked at it as the car slued crazily and then steadied again far over on the left side of the highway.
Even then it was difficult to realize that I'd made it, slipped past the onrushing train, and that the danger of sudden, horrible collision was over. I didn't glance at the rear-view mirror. I was hunched over, squinting through a relatively clear space in the cracked windshield. I was almost at the location now, and for the first time it occurred to me that the police car couldn't possibly have followed. I was alone, and if there was anything yet to be done up ahead of me, I was the only one who could do it. There wasn't even the wail of the siren carrying ahead to stop Genova now.
I hit the dirt road and swung into it as I let up on the accelerator, then shoved it down again. At the clearing I saw Sherry's new Ford, the door standing open, the car empty. There was nobody in sight. Obviously Genova would have sent all the others away. I skidded to a stop, got out, and glanced around; then with my gun in my hand I ran into the trees, their shadows lengthened now into almost solid pools of darkness as the sun slipped nearly out of sight behind the horizon. It would soon be night.
I stopped and listened. There wasn't a sound except unfamiliar insect noises and the chirp of crickets. The heavy quietness here in the murky shadows seemed almost to throb against my ears after the noise and rumble and shrill protest of skidding tires of a moment ago. I was still so unnerved and shocked by what had just happened that it was difficult for me to think clearly. I moved farther into the trees with a pulse ticking suddenly in my throat, trying to reason, wondering where Genova was with Sherry. There was the lake—any place in the heavy brush, for that matter. A body could lie here undiscovered forever until it crumbled into dust.
Then, with the clammy surge of new panic over my flesh, I suddenly knew where Genova would take her. The cliff where I'd stood this morning, dizzy, looking down the sheer face to the rocks below. The sickening picture flashed through my mind of Sherry wavering on the cliff's edge. Genova hurling her body forward, and the terrified scream bursting from her soft lips as she plummeted downward.
The scream split the silence, tore it apart with a cry of infinite teror that seared itself into my brain even as I ran toward it, ran toward the cliff. I ripped through the brush shouting, yelling Genova's name, and roaring curses and obscenities as I reached the last fringe of brush and burst through.
Genova stood on my left, fifteen feet away from me on the cliffs edge, looking in the gathering darkness more like a silhouette than a man. Sherry was another silhouette crumpled at his feet on her hands and knees, shaking her head slowly back and forth.
He had heard me shouting and crashing through the brush toward him and had turned to face me. As he saw me he raised the gun in his hand and fired. Red flame spat toward me and I felt the slap of the bullet as it raked my side. I flipped up my Colt as Genova fired hastily again and missed, then he whirled toward Sherry as she tried to rise to her feet.
I snapped a shot at him, triggered the gun again as I saw his body jerk. I fired twice more and saw the black splash of bone and blood from his skull as he half lifted his hands and then fell forward like a rag man. He brushed the cliff's edge and then fell over it, falling voiceless and with no sound until his body thudded into the rocks below.
I jumped toward Sherry, pain tearing at my side as I moved, and then I grabbed her, pulled her to me as her eyes rolled back in her head and she went completely limp in my arms
Minutes later her eyes opened and went wide, then closed again for long seconds. Finally she opened them again and I said, “You're all right, honey. Say hello to me.”
She let out a long quavering breath. “Oh, golly,” she said. “Oh, golly. I didn't guess until he brought me—” she looked around at the cliffs edge a few feet away—"brought me here. I started to run and he grabbed me and I screamed. He hit me.” She put a hand to her dark hair. I put my hand there and could feel the dampness where the skin had been gashed. “I didn't go out,” she said, “but my legs just went from under me. I thought I was...” She shuddered.
Way of a Wanton Page 16
