Joker in the Deck (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  "That's a pretty good profit," Patterson said, "but it isn't unprecedented in land speculation. It's a matter of supply and demand, Mr. Scott. Nothing has any intrinsic dollar value you know; it's how badly somebody else wants what you've got, how much of their labor or production, represented by dollars, they're willing to trade for it. Supply and demand always works, if allowed to, and it's always basically fair in the long run." He sipped his brandy. "Of course it's allowed to work less and less these days." He was quiet for several seconds, then in the near darkness I could see his head turn toward me. "Is the price paid of any real importance to you?"

  "I don't know. It might be. The man who bought the island from Lorimer was killed last night." I didn't explain about my meeting with Lou Grecian but indicated there might be a connection between the murder and the victim's ownership of the island.

  Patterson finished his brandy, laced his hands around one knee. "Well, I'll tell you something, Mr. Scott," he said. "I doubt that there was anything really wrong with the transaction. Certainly I didn't do anything I felt was immoral. But there was one . . . peculiar circumstance. I was asking $80,000 for the land. Mr. Lorimer actually paid me $100,000. But there was one condition — he insisted that I represent the sale, and show the price on the sale papers, as only $20,000."

  I blinked. "Why in blazes would he do that?"

  "I don't know. But he offered $20,000 more than I was asking, and I couldn't see that I was doing anything really reprehensible. He talked a good deal about his wife, with some malice, as I recall, and I remember getting the impression he might have a good deal of money she didn't know about. If you understand what I mean."

  "Trying to conceal assets in case of an alimony grab?"

  "Either that, or perhaps he simply didn't want his wife to know he had that kind of money to spend for an island — or for anything else." He chuckled softly. "I suppose there are husbands who do that sort of thing."

  "It's been rumored."

  "Yes. Well, I agreed to Lorimer's terms. His was the only offer I'd had, and at that time, all I wanted was to clear up everything, get the slate clean." He paused, looked at me again. "Speaking of a clean slate . . . While the sale was listed at $20,000, and I did receive $100,000, I entered that additional $80,000 on my tax return that year as income from the sale of real property — I actually made a profit of $65,000 over what I'd paid for the island. So the appropriate bureau of our burgeoning Socialist state received its just share of my profit. Or, if you think at all as I do, its unjust share."

  "I think exactly as you do." I finished my drink, lit a cigarette. "I can't figure Lorimer, though," I said.

  Neither could Mr. Patterson.

  I was back in Hollywood and walking into the Standish, a very-upper-bracket apartment hotel on Wilshire Boulevard, by ten-thirty p.m. And once again I was going to a building's top floor, because Horace Lorimer lived in one of the two penthouse suites.

  I didn't phone or announce myself, just went up in the elevator, found Lorimer's door, and pressed the mother-of-pearl button alongside it.

  One chime rang softly inside, and in a few seconds the door opened. Horace Lorimer looked out at me, and I said, "Well, I'll be damned."

  Chapter Twelve

  The guy in the doorway was Chubby, my modern Santa Claus, the chap who'd bought two lots at Laguna Paradise. He had a filter cigarette in the metal filter, and the filter stuck in his mouth, and he looked at me as if pure nicotine were squirting onto his tongue.

  I said again, "Well, I'll be damned," and he said, "Goodness gracious!" We weren't the same sort at all.

  Then he said, "Good evening, Mr., er . . . I don't believe I know your name, sir, do I?"

  "It's Shell Scott. You're Mr. Lorimer? Horace Lorimer?"

  "Yes; I am, Mr. Scott. Yes. Did — did you want to see me?"

  "If you don't mind. I would like to talk to you for a few minutes."

  "Please come in."

  He stood aside and I walked into the living room of a penthouse suite that looked like — well, like a penthouse suite. The carpet was thick lavender, a low white divan slanted into the room on my left, two ornately carved black wood chairs were near the right wall. Farther away on my right was a gleaming black piano, keys exposed as if ready to bite. Lavender draperies were open before a wall almost entirely glass, beyond which was a sparkling view of the city's lights. Large oil paintings brightened two walls, and there were several pieces of sculpture in the room, a bust of some bearded philosopher, a beautifully fashioned female nude with upstretched arms on a pedestal. On a small table at the left of the white divan stood a foot-high nude figure of a young man, looking down at a baby in his left arm and holding a bunch of grapes over his head in his right hand. At least I'd seen that one somewhere before, even if I couldn't remember what it was called. Sometimes I feel I lack culture; but usually I don't think about it.

  We sat on the white divan and I said, "Mr. Lorimer, I'm a private investigator. Right now I'm checking on the ownership of Brea Island."

  That stuck him. For one reason or another, it stuck him. He said, "Brea Island? What did you want to know?"

  "You sold it several months ago, didn't you?"

  "Why, yes, I did." He pursed his lips and frowned, looking as fierce as a canary with a cat. "However, sir, I fail to comprehend what business that is of yours."

  "The man you sold it to got knocked off last night. Killed. Murdered."

  "Yes, I saw that in the press. But I repeat, I fail to see what business — "

  "I suppose I am being nosey. It's really a matter for the police."

  That stuck him, too. He shut his eyes in a kind of wince, held them shut for a count of three, then opened them wide. He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. This guy was guilty as hell of something. Maybe stealing cookies.

  I went on, "The police may want to talk to you, once they check into all of the deceased's affairs, but I thought I'd try to get here first."

  "Yes . . . well, I — naturally have nothing to conceal. That is, no objections to answering your questions."

  "Fine. Nine months ago you sold Brea Island to Aaron Paradise. For $420,000. Right?"

  "That is correct."

  "Do you have any idea where he got that kind of money?"

  "No. He deposited certified checks for that amount in escrow. I didn't ask him how he earned the money."

  "Why did he want the island?"

  "He didn't say."

  "How did you meet him?"

  "Last summer he came to the island, while I was there at my factory, and approached me about selling him the island. I was, well, in need of capital, and after a few days of discussion we settled on a price. That's all."

  "Uh-huh. You mentioned your factory — you own Handi-Foods, Inc., don't you?"

  "Yes. In a way. Well, yes."

  "And you're the manufacturer of Da Da Baby Foods?"

  "Yes." He was smiling at last. "Yes, Da Da is — my baby." He simpered so cutely I almost threw up. I'll say one thing for Horace Lorimer, he looked a hell of a lot more like a baby-food manufacturer than the creeps I'd seen at the factory. He looked as if he ate the stuff three or four times a day.

  "Tell me about it," I said. "If you will. I mean, how you started, built up the business and so on."

  "You're really interested?"

  "And how."

  "Well, I've always loved puttering around in a kitchen." That figured. "And I love children — I have none of my own."

  "You're still married, Mr. Lorimer?"

  "Yes. But Gerda isn't with me at the moment, she's in San Francisco. We have an apartment there, too, and spend quite a lot of time in that lovely city. She, especially, spends a lot of time there." I wondered if I'd detected a note of pique; he sounded miffed.

  "My mother left me a bit of money," he went on. "Well, one can never trace precisely how these things happen to one, why one chooses a certain vocation rather than another. But I do recall being with friends
when they were feeding their two children something out of a can. It was a horrid concoction. I tasted it myself, and believe me, Mr. Scott, it was simply vile."

  "I'll bet."

  He sighed and let his hands flutter. "I began thinking then of the possibility that I might produce a product not only healthful but tasty. I've long been a student of nutrition. I believe it was then I truly made up my mind, though I must have been thinking about it for some time — for some time it must have been subconsciously stewing." He simpered again.

  "I began studying, investigating, and about a year later bought property in Los Angeles and built the first little factory." He went on to tell me of starting his factory in Los Angeles, "nursing" the business along for several ticklish months, to use his phrase, and then being delighted when sales soared.

  "The business grew beyond my fondest expectations," he went on. "I found I simply had to expand, but the land on which I'd built my little factory was atrociously expensive — there wasn't any more available in that area, anyway. I fear I had failed to consider that factor in the beginning." He smiled sweetly. "We all make mistakes, don't we?"

  "Ain't it the truth."

  "Well, I was between the horns of a dilemma. But, oddly enough, there was a way out, even though at first I didn't realize it. A year or two earlier I had purchased Brea Island, intending it as a site for a summer home. I vaguely considered transferring my base of operations there, but at first it seemed ridiculous — you know, a baby-food factory on an island. Out in the ocean."

  "I confess, it struck me as an odd place to build a factory."

  "Ah, but further consideration made the prospect more and more appealing to me, Mr. Scott. You see, I'd purchased the land very cheaply, almost for a song. And I already owned it, there would be no capital outlay whatsoever. Moreover, I owned a small yacht which, with minor redesigning, would be ideal for shipping my product to the mainland. I wouldn't even have to pay anyone else for transporting my Da Da."

  I shuddered. But, then, every tune I heard that gah-danmed name I shuddered. I said, "Sounds like a dandy setup, Mr. Lorimer. And you say you bought the island for a song. About how many notes in that song?"

  "Eh?"

  "Would you mind telling me how much you paid for the island?"

  "Only $20,000 for the whole thing."

  "That's not what Patterson said."

  "Patterson? That's the gentleman from whom I purchased Brea Island."

  "Right. And he says you paid him one hundred thousand clams."

  "Clams? I presume you mean dollars. Well," he said huffily, "clams or dollars, I paid twenty thousand."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Of course I'm sure. Shouldn't I now what I paid for it? Why in the world would Mr. Patterson say I paid more? If he did say that," Lorimer added significantly, looking daggers at me.

  "He said it. O.K., let that ride for now. You might tell me why you've got those slobs working for you on the island."

  "Slobs?"

  "Muggs, hoods, cons. Lou the Greek for one."

  "Lou the Greek?"

  "Louis H. Grecian. Your general manager. Tell me you don't know him."

  "Oh, Mr. Grecian. I know him. Indeed I do know him. He's terrible, revolting man."

  "I'll go along with that. But if he's so terrible, revolting, why did you hire him as your manager?"

  "I . . . didn't exactly hire him."

  The story unfolded. All had gone along well with the factory on the island, sales increased, everything was sweetness and light and mashed carrots and vitamin-filled beans until about the middle of 1959. Then Lorimer had begun having labor troubles. He'd been happily, successfully non-union, actually paying well over comparable union scale, then some "rather awesome" looking characters had come to the island and proceeded to unionize his plant. Soon the employees asked for a raise, and Lorimer granted it; then came demands for fringe benefits, pensions, overtime, additional employees, and he acceded to those demands. But that wasn't enough — it never is. It turned out that the man with apparently total power over the unionized employees — they did what he told them to or he arranged to "pull their cards" and they couldn't work at all — was: guess. Yep, Louis H. Grecian.

  To make the long but not unusual — except for its ending — story short, Grecian forced Lorimer to take him on as general manager in December of 1959, and hire several of his hand-picked friends. All this, of course, in the name of labor, peace and "the rights of the working man."

  Lorimer, his face a bit twisted, said, "It was the most terrifying display of union power. I was completely helpless. I could get no assistance from the national union, not even from the courts. It seemed I was some kind of monster, depriving the union man of his just standard of living, his rights, something like that. I, oh, I became almost incapable of work. I became ill. This may sound foolish to you, Mr. Scott, but to me it was the end of a dream."

  "It doesn't sound foolish to me, Mr. Lorimer," I said.

  The Handi-Foods situation was a little unusual in that the man with obvious control of the union local — Louis Grecian — had no official, on-the-record position in the local. So Lou the Greek, ex-con, virtually controlled the management end of the business while at the same time largely directing the union with which that management had to deal. I shook my head in frustration not unmixed with admiration; what a marvelous setup it was — for a crook.

  Lorimer was saying, "Actually, that's why I sold my interest in the island. I had wonderful plans for massive expansion, plans to raise fruits and vegetables organically all over the island, pick them when they were most tender and delicious, produce a truly superior food for the babies. It's rich, virgin soil, too, never farmed, never poisoned by fertilizers or toxic sprays."

  So that's where Grecian got the idea, I thought. "You told Lou Grecian all this, I suppose?"

  "Yes, for hours — at first. Before he proved himself to be so impossible."

  "You've been trying to buy the island back, though, haven't you?"

  His eyes got wide again. "No. Certainly not."

  "Oh? You're sure of that?"

  "Of course I'm sure."

  That's not what Jim Paradise had told me. So one of them was lying. And I was sure it wasn't Jim. But I let it ride, lit a cigarette and added casually, "By the way, you had some trouble with the tax boys, didn't you?"

  He blinked the bright blue eyes. "Well. Where in the world did you learn about that?"

  "I picked it up. You came out of it O.K., though, didn't you?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed." He laughed bitterly. "I survived the ordeal splendidly — except for surrendering $360,000 of my money. It was either that or go to prison. In your business, Mr. Scott, that would be called extortion, wouldn't it?"

  "Hell, I'm not arguing, Mr. Lorimer. At least you're not in the can — in prison."

  He pursed his lips. "Laws can be passed to make anything a crime. Do you realize, Mr. Scott, that 'a heavy progressive, or graduated, income tax' is one of the cardinal points of the Communist Manifesto?"

  "Sure. Point two, between 'Abolition of property in land' and 'Abolition of all right of inheritance.' But, since we're stuck with it, Mr. Lorimer, what was the beef against you?"

  He glared at me. "That, really, is none of your business. But I'll tell you. I deducted several items from my gross income, which were not allowable — or so the government agents alleged. Among them were costs of my yacht, which they claimed I used largely for pleasure, part of its cost, and so on. At any rate, I was informed I couldn't deduct those and other items, and thus had to surrender a good deal of money."

  He was right; it was none of my business. So I wondered why he'd told me. Lorimer sounded off some more about the fact that extortion by individuals was a penal offense but by government bureaus it was called taxation or "wealth distribution," the effect of a steeply progressive income tax being to inhibit most the most productive individuals, thus bringing all men down to a common level — of dependence on th
ose who confiscated the taxes. I let him get it off his chest, partly because I wanted him to get the steam out, and partly because it was true, and I agreed with him.

  But it was also true that Horace Lorimer's story seemed to have a large number of holes in it. So I said, "Thanks very much, Mr. Lorimer. That should just about do it." And I stood up.

  He looked relieved, almost happy, Santa again, smiling at the reindeer. While he was feeling so jolly I went on, "There is one thing — the way this looks on the record. Without the explanation you've just given me, I mean."

  "Oh? What's that?"

  "Well," I said, almost apologetically, "You owned Brea Island and sold it to Aaron Paradise, then for some reason — so, at least, it has been alleged — began trying to buy it back. And last night Aaron Paradise was murdered. Also a hoodlum named Michael M. tried to kill his brother, Jim Paradise. Very likely Michael M. is the man who did both jobs — and he was probably working for Louis Grecian." I shrugged. "You see how it might look to the police."

  "Police?" It was almost a squeak.

  I went on, "Since Grecian works for you as general manager of Handi-Foods and you're the whole cheese of Handi-Foods, and since you allegedly want to buy Brea Island, it might look as if you — not only Lou Grecian, but you as well — might have had something to do with the trouble last night. The shooting, the killing — "

  "No! Good heavens, kill — no!"

  "It might look that way to the police, Mr. Lorimer." I paused. "But if you tell them the same facts you've told me, that will probably satisfy them." He had thought I was all through with him, and now I was shaking him up again. His usually pink face was pale, and he kept running his tongue over his lower lip.

  I went on, "Naturally I'll have to tell them about our talk."

  "Tell . . . the police?"

  "Of course."

  "But you mustn't."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Lorimer. But I'm a licensed investi — "

  "You mustn't!"