“Forget about it for now, Sherry. It's all over.” I looked at her huddled in my arms, her blouse torn half off, a small scratch on her smooth skin.
“Honey,” I said, “you look like the gal who was chased by the greeble.”
She looked up at me and finally a small, soft smile curved on her lips. “That's me,” she said. “Betty Greeble.”
It was pretty horrible. As a matter of fact, it was almost disgusting. But I didn't care; I knew now that Sherry was all right.
The sirens shrilled and came closer as the last faint glow seemed to fade from the sky. Now they came. I waited till they stopped out where our cars were, then I lifted my gun in the air and pulled the trigger. It went click a couple of times on empty cartridges. Well, the hell with it; the police would find us eventually. I pulled Sherry closer to me. I didn't care if it took them a little while.
Chapter Sixteen
I RANG the doorbell at the Fanny Hillman residence and waited for Fanny to answer it. I'd spent almost three hours downtown at Homicide, and when I left Oscar Swallow was still talking, his accent getting a mite blurred after admitting his literary piracy and explaining that, months before, Zoe had seen the old copy of Fanta Science on his desk one noon while he was brushing up on his brain picking, flipped through it and commented on his taste in reading, then tossed it back to him. Swallow had hoped she'd forgotten about it, but obviously she hadn't, and had later realized its significance when she became suspicious of him. Also at Homicide I'd found the pictures of my two torpedoes from the jungle, and a call was out on them now.
I heard footsteps thumping toward the door. I was anxious to get this interview over with and out of the way: Sherry was waiting for me at her house, busily squeezing oranges. Also, this was the last item on my schedule. I'd phoned Bondhelm to inform him that the case was concluded, and further to inform him somewhat gleefully that even though “Jungle Girl” wasn't yet past the 3-per-cent mark, he had a movie on his hands that was going to require the extraction of healthy sums from his pocket. I knew he'd extract them, however grudgingly, to protect his already large investment, and I was gleeful because this meant, in a way, that Bondhelm was now working for me. Then I called Raul. He was so pleased to learn the mess was cleared up that he chortled happily that he and Evelyn were moving to a smaller house out in the valley—with no pool. Oh, yeah. I made him promise faithfully that he would personally recover the celluloid record of my movie debut, and hand it to me.
There had been one previous phone call, too, made shortly after the police, one of whom was a friend of mine, found Sherry and me in the jungle. And I was itching to tell Fanny about that one.
The door opened and Fanny hung her unbelievable puss outside. I hadn't noticed before, but her complexion looked as if the moths had been at it.
“Why, hi there, Fanny,” I said brightly. “What's new?”
She let out a sort of bleat and then said, “What do you want?” She made even that sound nasty.
“Sorry I couldn't get up to your office like I promised,” I said. “But I didn't want to bring a dead man to see you.”
She blinked at me, closing her eyes and then opening them slowly. It was very much like two moles coming out of their holes. “Dead man?” she said. Apparently she was thinking.
“Uh-huh. I came over to tell you about it. O.K.?”
She looked puzzled, but she opened the door and I went inside. She sat down and I noticed that she was still fully dressed except for slippers on her feet. She looked at me, trying to smile, but it was difficult for her because she wasn't used to it. I think she sensed a story. That's what I hoped she sensed.
“Well, Mr. Scott,” she said, sickening-sweet now. “Dead man? Then you did know who it was?”
“I found out. I thought you'd be interested since you made such a to-do about it in your column. Such a pleasant to-do.”
One corner of her halfhearted smile slipped nearly to her double chin, but she kept trying. “Tell me about it, Mr. Scott. Shell. Who was it? Was it Raul Evans?”
“Why him?” I didn't wait for an answer but said, “Oh, I'll tell you about it. After you tell me a couple of things. Who tipped you about the beef King and I had? And after I first talked to you, didn't you phone Genova?”
This matter of who phoned whom in the Hollywood gossip garble was almost squared away in my mind now, since I'd learned in talking both to Samson and to Bondhelm that my client's advance info had come from a little lovely whom he'd helped to get a part in the film: bouncing Dot English, who appreciated favors. And repaid them one way or another, or both ways. But I still wanted to clear up that first shot at me and what followed it. I said, “That's all I want, then I'll give you the gory details.”
She thought about it for almost a minute. Then she said, “King phoned me himself after the party—actors die without publicity, you know.” I didn't mention that it was lying publicity. “About my phoning Genova—well, yes, I did phone him. Just to see if he had anything for my column.”
This old blabbermouth had almost been the death of me. I said sweetly, “And did you by any chance just happen to mention that I had the case all wrapped up and was speeding merrily to the D.A.'s?”
“Oh, Mr. Scott. Of course not. How silly. Now tell me, who was it? What happened?”
I wiggled a finger at her. “First, what did you say to Genova, dear?”
She frowned. “Well, I did mention that you seemed very confident. And of course I told him what you'd said to me. Naturally he'd be interested, since it might affect his movie so profoundly.”
“Naturally,” I said. “He was so naturally interested that he sent a little man out to shoot me. A little man he already had tailing me. Almost got me, too. Isn't that nice?” I managed to laugh, ha-ha. “Yes, indeed. You almost got me killed, dearie. Isn't this fun?”
Her face sagged. “You ... you mean he—”
“That's what I mean. And—this will kill you Fanny—a little while after I left you and got shot at, I walked into Genova's office. Probably his little man had already phoned in to say he'd missed me, and I started right in asking Genova embarrassing questions—embarrassing because he'd murdered Zoe Townsend. He was so disappointed to see me still alive that he called in his little man and had him try again at the studio. Isn't this a scream?” She didn't think it was a scream. I wasn't laughing ha-ha any more, either. I said, “Genova's all mashed up now, lady, and he's got some bullet holes in him that I put there.” I talked a little longer. I'd made a deal with this gal, so I gave her the important parts of the story, then turned and went to the door and opened it.
“There it is,” I said. “Biggest story Hollywood's had for quite a spell.”
She shut her mouth, opened it, her brain cell busy. “Mr. Scott,” she called, rising out of her chair. “Is this ... I mean, could it be—exclusive?”
“Exclusive? The story?” I yanked out the knife she'd left in my back and handed it to her. “Hell, no, lady. If it hadn't been for King's giving you a bunch of wrong dope, and your swallowing it, the little talk might have been exclusive.” I shook my head. “You know, if I were you I'd be very angry with Douglas King. Mainly because of him you'll be able to read the exclusive Shell Scott story in the Times. I phoned it all in, in detail, several hours ago. To Hedda Hopper.”
She just plain fell back in her chair.
Maybe King and I weren't through yet, but I was dying to read what Fanny would have to say about him in tomorrow's Crier. I went out. Well, that was off my mind. Now I could concentrate on Sherry.
Sherry opened the door and beamed at me. “All through, darling?”
“All through.” She had one of those orange concoctions in her hand. “Where's my drink?” I asked her.
She waved her hand toward the bedroom. “In there.”
I followed her into the bedroom and picked up my glass. It was on a little table beside the bed, along with a pitcher of orange juice and a quart of gin. And me a bourbon-and-water man. Oh,
well.
I pointed toward the table and grinned at Sherry. “We both need this awful stuff, I think. I'm pretty well banged up, myself, but you're the one who got knocked on the head. Usually it's me.” Both of us were doctored, professionally bandaged, and somewhat creaky.
She didn't say anything. She smiled, soft lips sweetly curving, clear blue eyes half closed but merry.
I cleared my throat. Didn't know when I'd been so tired. Really couldn't remember when I'd been so tired. Seemed like I hurt all over. “Yes, sirree,” I said. “We're sure banged up, I guess. Practically cripples. Neither of us can move, hardly.”
Sherry stepped slowly toward me, put her glass on the little table. I almost forgot to mention it, but she looked wonderful in that old blue robe.
“Oh, I don't know, Shell,” she said, smiling. She sighed and put her arms around my neck. Just before her parted lips touched mine she added sweetly, “I'll bet we can.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1980 by Richard S. Prather
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4804-9818-1
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Way of a Wanton Page 17
