Kill Him Twice (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  "Eek."

  I'd told her there was a guy out here. But I guess she hadn't expected to see glass all over, and blood on the back of the man's head — there's usually blood when you hit a man as hard as I'd hit him twice. Besides, talking about it is one thing, and seeing it is another.

  "It's . . . it's not like in a movie, is it?" she said.

  "Nope. But we have our monsters, too." I stepped to the unconscious man and rolled him over onto his back.

  Cherry's gasp told me all I wanted to know. But she said it anyway. "That's the man I saw this morning."

  "Yeah, well he saw you, too, and hunted you down. To your hotel, obviously. I know he wanted to get both of us, but I'm surprised he didn't try for you there."

  "I was in a hurry," she said, "so I had a bellboy get my car from the hotel lot and bring it around front. Maybe — "

  "Almost surely. He must have been watching for you to show in the lot. Incidentally, what was it you wanted to tell me about the guy?"

  "Oh, I remembered that, after he stared at me this morning, when he turned around to get into his car, I saw a patch or bandage, something on the back of his neck. It stuck up over his shirt collar." She smiled slightly. "I guess it wasn't very important, but you told me to tell you if I thought of anything."

  I rolled the guy on his side and took a look. There was a dirty bandage on his neck, all right. The bum had boils. Which wasn't surprising. Most hoods are sick, mentally and physically, and sour blood is merely one of the hoodlum's ills. Most of the something-for-nothing creeps — in or out of the underworld — are filled with hate and resentment directed toward somebody or everybody, and health can't bloom with those poisons in the blood.

  "It's not very important now, is it?" Cherry said.

  "Maybe not now. But it could have been plenty important. It could have helped me tag the guy."

  Sirens again.

  I sighed. After that kiss, I had momentarily entertained the thought of a quiet evening here at home — with Cherry, and gin-and-vermouth, soft music from the stereo, and all that. But it wouldn't work. Not after last night, and this morning, and the Collector, and now the guy on the floor. I'd be spending the rest of this evening with the police.

  My batting average was pretty good tonight. I was right about that, too.

  I got started early the next morning, despite the fact that a long session with the police cut my sleeping time down to three hours. Even with an early start, it was ten a.m. before I picked up any more information worth hanging on to.

  I'd learned that the Anglo-Western Bank on Vermont had supplied Slade with the bulk of the financing for his previous Goo movies, and the man who had approved previous loans was a vice president named Brown. I was in Brown's office, seated opposite him before his desk, a few minutes before ten a.m.

  Before coming here I had checked the files of local newspapers and pinned down the time of Vivyan Virgin's absence from the Ghost of the Creeping Goo set. So after the preliminary conversation I said, "Mr. Brown, I understand Mr. Slade was pretty hard up for money during filming of his previous picture, but did manage to complete the film. Did he get an extension of, or addition to, his loan from this bank? That would have been about nine months ago, when one of the principal actresses was unable to work on the film. She was out for two or three weeks, I understand."

  "Yes," he nodded. "Miss Virgin. I recall the situation quite well. Mr. Slade spoke to me at that time, requesting an additional loan."

  "He did, huh? Did he get it?"

  "He did not."

  Bankers aren't in the habit of cutting up their customers, or even saying much about their financial status. But by listening between the lines, so to speak, it became clear enough to me that Mr. Brown had considered Slade not only a poor risk but desperate for money. The most obvious thing he said was, "It seemed to me, at that point, it would merely be throwing good money after bad. So I did not approve the loan."

  "He definitely did need more money, though, didn't he? To finish his film?"

  "That is the impression I received."

  "Well, if he didn't get it from you, where did he get it?"

  He smiled. "I have no idea."

  That was good enough for me. I thanked Mr. Brown and left.

  For the next twenty minutes I didn't do anything. That is, not anything active. I just stayed parked in the bank's lot and sat there thinking. I got out my notebook and pen, listed everything I knew for sure about the case, plus most of what I'd guessed, looked it over, thought about it some more.

  Before the twenty minutes was up I'd decided on two courses of action. One of them I could have found and followed before; it was glaringly apparent now. The other was, perhaps, one I shouldn't ever have thought of at all.

  The easy one had to do with that piece of paper I'd picked up outside Pike's home, night before last. I'd read it over half a dozen times without getting a clue as to who had written it, but now, as if the time was finally right, I realized I'd been going at the problem backwards.

  There wasn't a clue to the letter writer's identity in the page of the letter itself, true enough; but there was a lead to somebody else. And from that somebody else I might be able to discover who'd written the letter — if I could find him.

  I'd been carrying the sheet of paper around with me and now I got it out and read it again. Yeah, there it was, the last thing on the page: ". . . of course I kept the money for the abortion. But I never had no idea when I went for help — help! ha-ha! — to Dr. Willim — "

  Dr. Willim. There were so many misspellings in the rest of the page that possibly the name should have been William, or Wallace, or even George. But it was the only lead I had.

  Even without that I had almost enough. I was pretty sure I knew the big answers, and some of the small ones; but to wrap it up I needed more information. I knew where I could probably get it, and there was — maybe — a way to get it; but it would take some doing. In fact, I could get killed. And judging by the two narrow squeaks I'd already had, I thought unhappily, I should be about due.

  Besides, it was a kind of goofy idea to begin with, and I wasn't sure I could set it up. But if I could . . .

  I used a pay phone booth outside the bank. Three dimes and another twenty minutes later I hung up, smiling. Setting it up hadn't been so tough after all — just horribly expensive. This was going to cost me close to a couple of thousand bucks, maybe more. From twenty to forty out-of-work actors and actresses at fifty bucks apiece, plus five more who would have speaking and/or acting parts for a total of another eight hundred clams.

  Plus the dime I'd spent to call Ed Howell.

  He was going to handle this part for me, and set it up if he could. I knew he wasn't required on the set of Slade's picture today — they were shooting the queen's execution and some scenes with Gruzakk and Cherry Dayne — and he'd told me a couple of the other principals and several bit players were free, too, and he'd try to get some of them as well.

  In addition to the initial expense, if anything went wrong there would undoubtedly be lots and lots of fines, and some of us might even wind up in jail. Certainly I would.

  But it was either that or torture — that is, trying to beat the truth out of the guy. And I've never been able to pound on a man to make him talk, or break his bones, or burn out his eyes; that sort of thing doesn't appeal to me. Perhaps because the beater inevitably suffers more lasting damage than does the beaten. Not to mention the mere practical angle: After suffering enough pain some men will spill almost anything, and there's no guarantee it's the truth.

  No, torture was out. At least, physical torture. A little psychological sweating, though — I'll go along with that. Now all I had to do was grab Mooneyes and somehow get him to go where I wanted him to go. That part I hadn't figured out yet.

  In the meantime, there was the other project, the "Dr. Willim" angle. While still in the booth I turned to the yellow pages, found "Physicians and Surgeons, M.D." There were a couple of Williams with
an "s" but no Willim. So I checked them one at a time. It took a while — down to "M." But there it was: Dr. Macey. Dr. Willim Macey. She'd spelled it right after all. He was a psychoanalyst, with an address on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

  And that, of course, tied it up with a pink ribbon.

  Dr. Macey's office was small, but expensively furnished, and it was certainly in the high-rent district. I think they lease Rodeo Drive by the carat rather than front foot. I walked over soft gray carpeting to a desk behind which sat a middle-aged lady with bags under her eyes and told her I'd like to see Dr. Macey.

  Oh, I couldn't do that, she informed me. My goodness, no. I gathered I should have applied for an appointment about five to seven years ago. So I asked the lady for an envelope, sealed my crumpled letter-page in it, and told her that, if she'd give it to Dr. Macey, he would see me.

  She gave me a look indicating her belief that I probably needed to see Dr. Macey very, very badly, but she took my unorthodox note in to him, anyway.

  It was like magic.

  She came out. Half a minute later a young, shapely, well-dressed — and angry — woman came out. She stopped, wheeled, looked back into the doctor's inner office and cried, "I've never been so — I just got here. How could you?"

  In the doorway appeared a tall, slightly fat, pleasant looking man wearing chin whiskers and horn-rimmed glasses.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mills," he said. "It's unavoidable, I assure you. There will, of course, be no . . ." His eyes fell on me then, and he blinked, as if startled. He'd been expecting somebody else, maybe? After a pause and another blink or two he continued, "No charge for today's — "

  "I should hope not." She stormed out, slamming the door.

  I stood up.

  Dr. Macey started to say something to me, then shrugged and went back into his office. I followed him, closing the door behind me.

  He walked to his couch — a real couch, low, dark leather, well worn — and sat on its edge. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the envelope and sheet of paper I'd sent him. They were crumpled into a wad.

  "I thought I was through with you," he said, not looking at me.

  I didn't say anything, let him carry the ball.

  "I've given you everything I could." He looked at me then and blinked, blinked again. "You don't look like — "

  Now that the initial shock had lessened somewhat he was pulling himself together. Maybe even getting a bit suspicious of me. So I said quickly, "You mean the other guy? The big slob, baldy with the big feet?"

  There wasn't any large reaction; he just said, "Yes. What are you doing, passing me around?"

  "He couldn't come this time. He got himself killed yesterday."

  "That's too bad," he said, as if delighted with the news. "I thought I was finished with . . . with all of this." He moved the crumpled papers in his hand.

  "You're never finished with blackmail, doctor."

  At the word he winced, blinked some more, then said, "I suppose not." His eyes strayed toward his desk.

  Analysts sometimes record the freewheeling ramblings and free associations of their patients so that later, at their leisure, they can pore over every word, nuance, and inflection, seeking something that can be crammed into the Freudian mold.

  So I said, "Turn off the bug."

  "Bug?" He blinked. "Oh, the recorder. Of course." He scowled, but went over to his desk, opened a drawer and pushed a button, then sat down behind his desk. "Well, what do you want this time?"

  "The same as before."

  Yeah, he was suspicious, all right. "That's not good enough," he said. "What do you want?"

  I said, "Information. You didn't give the other guy any money, did you?" Then I let myself get suspicious and said, suspiciously, "Or did you?"

  That really got a lot of blinks out of him. "You know damn well I didn't pay that paranoid brute with mon — " He stopped. "Who are you?" he said after a pause. "Where did you get Jerrilee's letter?" I grinned.

  "Who are you?" he said again. "Haven't I seen you — "

  I had a hunch I might not get much more out of Dr. Willim Macey. No matter; he'd already told me most of what I'd been after. I knew Jerrilee had written the letter, and that he'd paid, but probably hadn't paid with money. I could have walked in and told him my name, that I was a private detective and so on. But men being blackmailed couldn't be blackmailed in the first place if they would talk about their trouble to policemen or even to private detectives. Almost surely he would have told me to go fly a kite.

  It was reasonably certain he would put two and two together soon anyway. My picture had been in the local papers often enough that he'd probably seen it at one time or another. Besides — I like to think — I don't look like a crook.

  But I tried one more shot. "You paid off with dope from your files, didn't you, doctor? Records, transcripts of recordings, that sort of material?"

  He didn't answer for a long time. Finally he said, "I'm not going to tell you a damn thing. I'm . . . going to call the police."

  He put his hand on his desk phone. I waited. A man with nothing to hide would call the law, all right. "Go ahead," I said.

  He didn't call. "I insist you tell me who you are," he said.

  "I'm Shell Scott, Dr. Macey. I'm a private detective. In the interests of my client, I've been — "

  He didn't let me finish. He was swearing at me. Then he said, "A private detective!" as if that were something much, much worse than an Oedipus complex. "I will call the police!" He was dialing this time, going through with it. He wasn't afraid of a private detective. "I'll have you arrested. You'll lose your license."

  "What'll you tell them, doctor?" I asked him.

  "That you tried to blackmail — "

  "Wrong, doctor. Wrong again."

  He stared at me, phone against his ear.

  I said, "I have not attempted to blackmail you. I've asked nothing of you except information. I didn't tell you my name, true, but you simply assumed I was another guy here to bleed you, right? I'm merely an investigator, doing a little investigating."

  He thought about it.

  Then I said, "Besides, you don't want them to know about Jerrilee, do you?"

  He looked left, right, up, and down, blinking about three times a second. No, he didn't want them to know about Jerrilee. He hung up the phone.

  "Now," I said, "if you'll just level with me, there's a good chance I can be of help to you."

  "Get out of here."

  That's the way it went. I kept trying, but Dr. Macey was going to have nothing more to do with me. And he sure wasn't going to tell me anything — at least, not anything more.

  I stood up, leaned over the desk, and reached for the papers still in his hand. "I'll take that," I said.

  Sometimes the confident, self-assured approach works. Not this time. He shoved his chair back and got to his feet, the papers balled in his right hand. "You'll have to fight me for it," he said.

  Well. He had more spunk than I'd guessed. Or else he was frightened half to death. I said, "Keep it, then. I don't want it any more." I straightened up. "Look, Dr. Macey, you're understandably upset. But, believe me, I can probably help get these people off your back. If you'll tell me the truth about — "

  "I'll tell you nothing." He was pale, but with spots of color in his cheeks.

  "Let me tell you, then," I said. "The girl who wrote the letter, of which you're now clutching one page — Jerrilee — was either a patient of yours or a playmate. No, a patient — she said she went to you for help. With exclamation points."

  He swallowed, and seemed to become even more pale, but didn't speak. "She got in trouble," I went on, "to use the common euphemism. Right here on your couch, according to her testimony. Well, to make a long story short, you were approached for blackmail and hit with the info I've just been talking about, and probably a good deal more."

  He stayed clammed up.

  "So you paid," I said. "But not with money. The people running this op
eration didn't want money, not from you. You were a gold mine. From you they could get — and I'll give ten to one they got — very juicy info on some of the most important, and wealthiest, people in and around Hollywood and Beverly Hills. How am I doing?"

  Judging by his expression I was doing fine, but he wasn't speaking to me.

  "Among those people, about whom you innocently amassed a few tons of extremely personal information, some of it immensely damaging if it should become public knowledge, was an actress named Vivyan Virgin. She flipped out of a movie nine months ago and started undergoing analysis by Dr. Macey — by you. Six months ago, after she'd been spilling to you for three months, she was blackmailed undoubtedly with the info she'd been spilling. Your blackmailers took the info they'd squeezed from you and used it to blackmail her — and probably dozens of others."

  I paused. "Well, doctor?"

  He was trying to kill me with his eyes. "You're a liar," he said. "None of it's true. None of it. You're — " his eyes brightened a little — "sick. You're sick."

  I shook my head. "I may be nuts, but I'm not sick — and I don't think I'm nuts, either." I turned toward the door, then stopped and tried one last time.

  "You're making a mistake, doctor — another mistake. I'm not trying to ride you. I don't want to add to your troubles — just the opposite. If you'll cooperate with me, there's a damned good chance I can help you."

  He was working himself into a kind of controlled frenzy. Arms flapping a little, eyes blinking like the dickens.

  I went on, "I told you the truth when I said the other guy, that big greasy slob, got himself killed. What I didn't tell you was that I shot him. I'm on your side; I'm trying — "

  Telling him I'd shot the Collector didn't help. I think it gave him an idea, instead. He yanked open a desk drawer, raked through it, slammed it, and opened the drawer below it.

  My instant deduction was that he had a gun somewhere in that desk but just couldn't remember what drawer he'd last seen it in. I got out of there before he remembered.