Joker in the Deck (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I turned my back on him, stepped toward the door.

  "Wait!" he said.

  And it was a queer thing — something in his voice, some kind of telepathic transmission of emotion from his mind to my own, or maybe just the keyed-up state I'd reached waiting for whatever it was I knew he was almost ready to say — but I got a cold, scratchy feeling along the middle of my back, as if somebody were running a sharp icicle over my spine. I had the sudden, perhaps totally irrational, conviction that Horace Lorimer might be preparing to shoot me in the back of the head.

  I stopped, glanced over my shoulder. Lorimer sat quietly, hands resting on his knees, staring fixedly at me. His face was still pale, but he wasn't aiming guns or even icicles at me, just his eyes. His frightened eyes. Fright? And of what, I wondered, would Lorimer be frightened?

  "Wait," he said again, softly this time.

  He seemed to sag, all soft and puddly once more, the Da Da man again.

  All right," he said. "I'll tell you the rest of it. I'll tell you all of it."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lorimer was quiet for almost a minute, then he said, "I have a request to make of you first, Mr. Scott. If, when I finish, you agree that I've done nothing truly reprehensible, not committed any terrible crime, you won't report to the police what I'm going to tell you."

  I thought about it. Finally I told him, "If it's something I feel I can overlook, I'll sit on it for a while. In any case, I'll tell you before I leave this room what I mean to do about it, if anything."

  He nodded.

  "That is, if you convince me you had nothing to do with what happened to Aaron and Jim Paradise."

  "I had nothing to do with any of that. I swear it. I read of it in the press, but that's all I know. However, Mr. Scott, I didn't tell you the truth about the sale of Brea Island to Aaron Paradise. I never sold it to him at all."

  "Wait a minute, I had official records checked — "

  "Of course it's listed in official records as a legitimate transaction. It was a legal transaction. You'll understand in a moment." He sighed, rubbed his hands together. "I've explained what Mr. Grecian did with me, with the factory. Well, with union gouging and coercion crushing me on one side, and the monstrous and confiscatory tax structure hammering me from the other, I was caught between intolerable pressures — as many other small, and large, businesses are today, Mr. Scott."

  "Amen."

  "In the hope of salvaging something from the wreckage, for some years I entered on my individual income tax returns deductions which were perhaps, well, questionable. Business and entertainment expenses, the yacht expenses I mentioned, that sort of thing, which enabled me to lessen the tax I was forced to pay, keep some of my money for myself. You understand?"

  "So far."

  "Well, as you apparently know, a year ago the government instituted suit against me for non-payment of taxes in 1957, '58, and '59. They alleged I owed them $360,000 in back taxes and penalties for those three years." Lorimer sighed. Perspiration was moist on his forehead and upper lip. "That presented me with another, rather peculiar dilemma. You see, I actually had enough money to settle the claim — but according to the income shown on my tax returns, and the other deductions and expenses I had listed since 1959, I should not have had that much money left. Is this clear to you, Mr. Scott?"

  "I think so." What I guessed he was saying was that he had continued to "cheat" on his income taxes and wound up with quite a bit of undeclared income; but if he used it to settle the tax lien against him, the government might then ask him to explain where he got that money — and maybe sue him for some of it, too.

  He was going on, "I could pay the allegedly owed tax — and face possible further prosecution because I had the money to pay it. Or I could claim inability to pay, in which case the U. S. Government would seize and sell my assets, including Handi-Foods and the island, to settle my — well, my legal debt. But then Mr. Paradise came to see me and suggested a solution."

  "When was this?"

  "Nearly a year ago. Shortly after the government instituted its suit against me."

  "Did you know each other before then?"

  "No, we'd never met. I hadn't ever heard of him."

  "Did Aaron know Lou Grecian?"

  "No." Lorimer shook his head, then added, "Or if he did neither of them ever mentioned knowing the other." He paused. "Incidentally, that's how I met Miss Angers. It was through Mr. Paradise — she was with him on a few of the occasions when we later met."

  "Who?"

  "Miss Angers — Eve. You asked me about her this morning, and I pretended I didn't know her. I shouldn't have, but you caught me by surprise, and I was trying to keep all this a secret — about my dealings with Mr. Paradise." He waggled his head. "I had no idea it would ever come up again."

  "Uh-huh. Let's get back to Aaron. What was this solution you say he suggested?"

  "He seemed to know a good deal about me, and was aware of the government's tax suit. During the conversation he learned what I've told you, that I did in fact have enough money to pay the government's claim but couldn't explain possession of that sizable sum. Mr. Paradise's solution was basically quite simple. I would give him $420,000 of my own money. Then I would 'sell' Brea Island to him for $420,000, thus receiving my money back from him. I could then claim I had received the money — with which I could satisfy the government's suit — from sale of the island."

  I blinked. "Wait a minute. Let's see if I've got this straight. No money changed hands, right? That is, Aaron didn't kick in with any money of his own."

  He nodded.

  "But you did legally transfer title to the island to Aaron Paradise."

  He nodded again.

  "And you merely dug into the sock, your sock, and pulled out $420,000 of your own money, which you had accumulated through tax evasion — "

  "I prefer to call it tax avoidance, Mr. Scott," he said a bit stiffly. He was caught in the cookie jar again.

  I sat there and chewed on what he'd told me, and got it largely digested, though there was still a puzzling lump somewhere in the middle of it. I said, "O.K., Aaron put the idea up to you. What happened?"

  "We went ahead with the transaction. Since there was a general lien on all my property, it was not possible for me to dispose of any part of it without permission. In tax cases, you understand, a citizen is adjudged guilty until proven innocent, rather than — "

  "Yeah. So?"

  "I met with Internal Revenue agents, with officials of the U. S. Government. I proposed to sell Brea Island, which had a tax basis to me of $20,000, for $420,000, if the government would release the lien on my property. This was agreed to, providing that the United States could place a claim in the escrow and from its proceeds be satisfied for all taxes, penalties, and interest. This, of course, was precisely what we desired, and was therefore agreeable to all parties concerned."

  I sat quietly for a while, letting it all slop around in my head. Then I said, "O.K. I follow you to here. The tax boys got their money, and Aaron wound up with title to Brea Island. But then you leased part of the island back from Aaron, didn't you? And paid him rent on the land?"

  He blinked the bright blue eyes rapidly. "Good grief. You know almost as much about my business as I do, don't you?"

  I smiled. "That's my business, Mr. Lorimer."

  His face was shiny with perspiration, and he seemed to get paler. "Yes, I suppose so. . . . I suppose it is." He licked his lips and went on, "I was coming to that. In fact, that's a vital part of my explanation to you." He paused. "Actually, Mr. Paradise suggested this, too, and it truly is an excellent idea. You see, if I sold the land outright I could take no deduction from corporation profit, no part of the $420,000 whatsoever. But by cancelling the lease I personally held on the land, selling the land to Mr. Paradise, and then having the corporation — Handi-Foods, Inc. — lease half of it from him and pay him rent, one hundred percent of that rent could be deducted from corporation profits. Which means the ren
t of $50,000 a year could be deducted and escape the fifty-two percent corporation tax."

  "Then the corporation actually was going to pay Aaron $50,000 a year?"

  "Well, ah, no. You see, that was part of his agreement. Nothing would be paid to him, really. But, ah, the corporation could nonetheless deduct $50,000 a year from corporate profits."

  "In addition to simply sticking fifty G's into that old sock, hey?" I waggled my head about. This guy was beginning to strike me as some kind of crooked genius. Maybe he wasn't a genius, but he was sure as hell some kind of crooked. I almost had to admire him, though, if for no other reason than his ability to remember what the hell he'd been up to.

  "It sounds beautiful," I said. "If a bit ugly. But with that lovely setup, why were you trying to buy back the island from Aaron?"

  He shook his head. "I was not attempting to buy the island from him. I repeat, Mr. Scott, you have apparently been misinformed. The purpose of transferring title to Mr. Paradise was, first, to enable me to settle the government's suit, and, second, to gain the obvious tax advantage a sale-and-leaseback arrangement would provide me and Handi-Foods — and that advantage accrued only so long as I did not own, but was paying rent on, Brea Island. It would therefore be folly for me to take title to the island again."

  I nodded. "Makes sense. Just one things bugs me."

  "Bugs?"

  "Bothers me. What did Aaron get out of all this?"

  "For providing the idea, and cooperating in helping me out of my dilemma, he asked — and I gave him — $50,000. I simply handed him that amount in addition to the $420,000."

  "You did give him $50,000 then? Eight or nine months ago?"

  "Yes."

  So that explained where Aaron had gotten the fifty G's he'd had when he met brother Jim again. It explained, too, how he'd been able to pay an additional $420,000 for Brea Island. He hadn't paid it; Lorimer had.

  Then another thought struck me. "This rental deal you had with Aaron — that, I assume, was an oral agreement between the two of you?"

  "Naturally. We could hardly, ah, draw up a binding contract to that effect."

  "Hardly. So you're stuck now, aren't you? I mean, with Aaron dead, that oral agreement doesn't mean a thing."

  "Precisely. You're quite astute, Mr. Scott. And that is why I've confessed this . . . peccadillo to you."

  Peccadillo. It sounded like a little armored lizard. But I was now getting the drift of Lorimer's conversation. "I think I understand. If Aaron hadn't been killed, you would actually have paid him no rent, but could continue to deduct $50,000 a year from corporate profits."

  "Precisely. Later we planned to lease the other half of the island for, say, an additional $35,000 or $40,000, ah, rent. So it was of the utmost importance to me that Mr. Paradise remain alive. With his death — well, for me it is almost catastrophic. I may lose the island entirely, and I have already lost the $50,000 I paid Mr. Paradise. I will probably actually have to pay the rent of $50,000 a year. Not to mention the taxes, the taxes. . . ." He looked like a man having his leg broken. "You can see that, more than anyone else in the world, I wanted Mr. Paradise to stay alive."

  He'd overstated the point, I thought, but it did make sense that be would have wanted Aaron alive and cooperating. It certainly seemed unlikely that Lorimer would have wanted him killed.

  I said as much, and Lorimer asked if I was going to withhold from the police what he'd told me. I told him I'd sit on it for a day or two, until I had more information. The answer failed to satisfy him, but I didn't give a hoot if it did or not. I wasn't completely satisfied, myself.

  But this time, at least, when I got up, I went out.

  I had plenty to think about. Besides all the rest, this added one more bright facet to Aaron's character. For sure, he had still had a larcenous streak in him.

  From a pay phone on Wilshire Boulevard I called the Police Building in L.A. and asked Narcotics if the body of Aaron Paradise had been checked, as I'd requested, for evidence of addiction. It had been — and the report was negative. I hung up, scowling, more disappointed than I should have been. Which shows the folly of jumping to conclusions. I'd half convinced myself Aaron had been hooked.

  At home, I phoned Ralph Merle again, and asked him to check first thing in the morning on Drake Patterson's 1955 income tax returns, to determine if that extra $80,000 had indeed been reported. Then I called Jim Paradise.

  "Shell here, Jim. Any more trouble?"

  "No, all's quiet. But I've been damned careful. How's it going?"

  "O.K. I've picked up some more info." There seemed little point, on the night before Aaron's funeral, in hitting Jim with further evidence that his brother had not been exactly the all-American boy, but I did say, "Jim, didn't you tell me a man named Horace Lorimer was trying to buy the island from Aaron?"

  "That's right."

  "Wonder if we're talking about the same guy."

  He described Horace, from fat to pink face to filter cigarettes, and I said, "Same guy, all right. Was last Sunday the only time you met him?"

  "No, I'd seen him several times before. With Aaron most of those times, I guess. What about Lorimer?"

  "He just got through telling me he wasn't interested in buying the island, that he hadn't approached anybody about buying Brea."

  "Then he's lying. I wonder why."

  "Yeah, so do I. Here's another thing. Did you know he's the guy who sold Brea to Aaron in the first place?"

  "The hell. No, it's news to me. If he wants it back, why did he sell it in the first place?"

  "It was — some kind of a tax deal. I'll fill you in on the rest tomorrow, Jim. Unless you want me to buzz out tonight."

  "No, you don't need — wait a shake. You could do me a favor."

  "Name it."

  "I left Laguna early, so I didn't bring in the records of the day's sales, as of closing tonight. I saw Eve before I left and asked her to bring them in — we'll be closed down tomorrow. If you feel like it, you could get the records from her and bring them out here."

  "Sure. I'm supposed to see Laurie tonight at the Claymore, anyway."

  "I was going to run into town and pick them up, but I'd just as soon stay here. I've . . . had a drink or two." He sounded tired. "There's the funeral and all tomorrow, you know. Beiglen Mortuary at one p.m., incidentally. Then graveside services at Greenmont. Were you planning to attend the funeral, Shell?"

  I loathe funerals. If I had my way, the only funeral I'd attend would be my own. In fact, if I really had my way, I wouldn't even attend that one. But I said, "It's up to you, Jim. Maybe you'd rather I didn't — "

  "Frankly, I'd like for you to be there, Shell. That is, if you don't mind."

  "I'll be there. O.K., see you later."

  We hung up, and I pushed from my mind thoughts of corpses and death, and headed for the Claymore, thinking of life — and Laurie.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Hi, shell scott," Laurie said. Her smile lit up her face, and the room, and quite a lot of me.

  "You don't have to call me Shell Scott any more," I said. "We're friends now, aren't we?"

  "Fresh. Come on in."

  I went in. She said, "Are you free for the evening, or are you still investigating and cogitating and skulking or whatever you do."

  "Still skulking, I'm afraid." I told her I had to run out to Jim's, so if we had our late supper it would be pretty late.

  "Let's take rain checks, then," she said pleasantly. "I'll forgive you this once. Anyway, I got hungry and had a sandwich. For all I knew, you'd forgotten our date."

  "Funny." Laurie wasn't dressed to go out. She wore a white dressing gown and low-heeled shoes. But her hair was done in an intricate hairdo, her makeup was on, and except for the outfit she was ready to go.

  We walked to the divan and sat down, while she told me Eve had brought in the papers for Jim, so I could get them from her. "But there isn't any terrible, terrible hurry, is there?"

  "There is no terrible, terrible hu
rry."

  Laurie had apparently been reading, and a book lay open, face down on the arm of the divan. I picked it up and said, "What are you reading, Proust?"

  She laughed, possibly recalling Jim's comment at Laguna Paradise when we'd all been discussing that first party. "Whoever he is. Did he write about chess?"

  "Beats the hell out of me." The book was a collection of Emerson's Essays. "Ah, Ralph Waldo," I said. "There was a man. Should be required reading for the New Frontiersmen. And the Supreme Court. And other fat — "

  "You don't know," she said lightly. "You're the physical type, you don't read books, do you?"

  "Sure, like crazy." She was teasing me, I guessed. So I said loftily, "Why, last year I read two books."

  She smiled. "Name one."

  "That's easy. I, it was, uh . . . It was all about a fellow named Tarzan — there's a physical type for you. It was called Tarzan's Secret Treasure. I read that one, all right."

  "Prove it. What was Tarzan's secret treasure?"

  "Jane."

  She laughed. "You're pretty smart after all."

  "I take after Tarzan."

  We kept yakking away and wound up discussing Emerson's essays, believe it or not. "Self-Reliance," "Compensation," "The Over-Soul," Laurie knew them all — even better than I did. And after a while it occurred to me that this was not exactly the kind of thing I usually talk about when alone with a gorgeous tomato. Not exactly the kind of thing I ever talk about, if you want the truth.

  And it was time to be on my way. So I said, "Ah, me. It's not that I want to go. But go I must."

  "It's been fun."

  "Fun indeed."

  "Call me tomorrow?"

  "Sure."

  "You still owe me a dinner."

  "A pleasurable debt, which I anticipate paying with wild — anticipation."

  I started to get up, but she was very close, looking at my face, her lips slightly parted.

  It seemed like the most natural thing in the world. It was the most natural thing in the world. She came into my arms without a sound, without hesitation, easily, wonderfully. And her lips were wonderful, sweetly burning, fire and honey.