"Thank God you're here," she cried. "Arrest him! He murdered my husband!"
"Don't be ridiculous," I said. I still wasn't sure what Eve was trying to pull, but I knew she couldn't get away with it. I just didn't want her to get a chance to make a break. "Don't let this babe snow you guys," I went on. "She's the one you're here for — "
Eve shrieked, "Be careful, he's got a gun. Oh, thank God you're here." Then, wailing and sobbing, clenching and unclenching her hands, she said, "Oh, Horace, Horace. Darling, my darling." She sprawled by Lorimer's body, began fondling and nuzzling him.
Well, all that wailing and shrieking, fondling and nuzzling, may sound like amateur night in the little theater on Elm Street, or silent movies with sound, but it was not. It sure as hell was not. I began looking at Eve almost with warped admiration. This was real — because it wasn't just acting, a role for stage or screen; this was the big one, the life-or-death part. It was a marvelous performance.
"Over to the wall," one of the officers said to me.
"Wait a minute," I said, recovering my tongue. I shook my head and it felt like a piece of it fell off. But my mind was clear. At least I hoped it was. I was beginning to think I'd need it. "She's the one you want," I said. "She's the killer — "
"She killed her husband?"
"Oh, hell no. She killed Aaron Paradise. And shot Jim Paradise this afternoon. That's why I'm here — I'm Shell Scott. A private detective."
It didn't help that I had to tell these guys who I was. The two policemen were among those I didn't know, and obviously they didn't know me, either. They hadn't recognized me. I look like nothing in this world, but it rang no bells for them.
"Yeah?" the taller of the two officers said. "So?"
"Half the cops on the force know me, know who I am and what I am. Check with Phil Samson, Homicide Captain. He'll tell you."
"Take it easy."
Eve was still sprawled next to Lorimer, but I noted she had taken pains to sprawl on the far side of his body with her head toward us. Not only her head. She kept raising up every once in a while — in anguish I suppose — and every time she did, the excitingly low-cut neckline of the chartreuse dress got much more exciting and low cut. It looked a couple of times as if you-know-what were going to spill clear out onto Horace. The policemen also noticed.
"Over to the wall," the officer said. "To the wall."
"You sound like a Cuban Communist," I said. "To the wall, indeed — "
"Get over there."
They had me put my hands on the wall, feet back, while one of them shook me down. "You guys are making a very fatheaded mistake," I said.
"Just routine. We'll get your statements. That guy is dead over there. Just routine."
I shut up. When things simmered down a bit I could clear up everything, I knew, and there was no sense antagonizing the fatheads unduly. Eve had made a nice try, but no woman, not even a woman as shapely and sexy and clever as Eve, was going to make a monkey out of me.
They took the Colt Special from my holster, Eve's empty gun from my right coat pocket and the .32 automatic from the other. Then they let me turn around.
"Please listen to me for a moment," I said quietly. "The woman is Gerda Lorimer, also known here as Eve Angers. She's the one you want. That's why I called the complaint . . . board. . . ."
Then I got it. Late again.
The tall officer — his name was Vingger, I'd discovered — said, "Sure. Only it was a lady called in." He turned to Eve, who was now standing by Lorimer's body. "You the one phoned in, lady?"
"Yes, officer." She sobbed, her chest heaving. And when her chest heaved, that was a lot of heaving. She mashed one hand against her breasts, so hard that the creamy white flesh was pressed, bulging, over the chartreuse cloth. "This man — Mr. Scott — forced his way in here, shot my husband, then accused me of — oh, insane things." She put a hand — very gently — to the side of her head. "He hit me. He said I was a murderer, a dope fiend, even . . . sexually inadequate." She mashed her breasts again. Obviously, I was wrong about everything.
The short, bald policeman said to me, "How about it? Did you shoot him?"
"Hell, yes. But he came at me with a gun — that little chromed automatic — and tried to kill me. So I had to — "
"That's a lie!" Eve stood straighter, quivering with righteous indignation, her face twisted — but not too twisted. "He murdered my husband. Horace was defenseless, and he murdered him. I carry a little gun in my bag, the little automatic, and he took that. Not that I could have used it — he already had two guns of his own. Then he grabbed me and kissed me — "
My mouth dropped open. "Grabbed her and kissed her — "
"Kissed me and kissed me, and then he tried to . . ." She broke it off, agonized by the memory.
Vingger was looking at my mouth. And right then I got the first twinge of apprehension. Slowly I raised a hand to my chest. My tie was loosened, pulled crookedly to one side. Two buttons were gone from my shirt. And I knew there would be a smear of orange-red lipstick on my mouth.
"Now, look," I said. "Hold it a minute. This woman is the dead man's wife. His name was Horace Lorimer, and he was . . ." I stopped.
What could I tell them? That he cheated on his income tax? I didn't have any proof of narcotics smuggling — not yet. And, with a creepy sensation, I realized maybe I never would have.
Eve spoke. "My husband is — was — a baby-food manufacturer. He made Da Da Baby Food."
That didn't exactly make him sound like a fiend in human form. I said, "Maybe so. But — do you know Captain Feeney? Head of Narcotics?"
"I know who he is," Vingger said.
"Well, Lorimer was suspected of being a dealer in narcotics. Right now the Captain is in San Pedro checking a tip I gave him. He may even have the goods on Lorimer — the late Lorimer — by now."
Vingger nodded. He didn't act as if he thought I was lying; nor did he give the impression he believed me. He was noncommittal. He hadn't treated me roughly in any way, and was just getting both sides of the story, as he should have.
My head started throbbing more violently all of a sudden. I squinted, put a hand on the big lump at my hairline. The skin was cut there, laid open for about an inch. Blood was wet on my forehead.
Vingger said, "How'd that happen?"
"She clobbered me with a goddamn statue."
"Fortunately, I did manage to," Eve said. "When he was kissing . . . and all — we were on the divan there . . ." She let it trail off.
That one chilled me. A little late, I began to understand just how good Eve was. Not only had she planned everything — fast — even before phoning the police, but she was giving it just the right touch, dropping in each little bit at precisely the right moment, when it would be most convincing, have the most telling effect.
Now she went on in a rush, "We were on the divan. I — I reached back and grabbed the statuette. I hit him — " She jerked her head to one side. "Then I called the police. But a minute or so ago he started coming to. I didn't know what to do. Thank God you got here when you did."
"Oh, nuts," I said. "It won't work, Eve. I'll admit you're good. With somebody else you might make this stick — but not with me, you won't."
I turned to the police officers and said, "She had to make this up in a hurry, and she did pretty well with what she had. But I ask you, does it make sense that I'd come in here and knock off her husband, then start making goo-goo eyes at this babe? Man, there are easier ways. Me, I go for soft lights and sweet music, and corpses cool my ardor. If she says the little automatic is hers, you can bet it is. But Lorimer ran into the bedroom and got it — "
"He didn't — "
I glared at her. "Eve, shut up. Or I'll come over there and bat you one." I looked at the policemen. "Even if I get shot doing it."
She shut up.
I stood there and told the officers what had really happened, hitting it fast, just covering the high points.
Then Vingger said, "Uh-huh. Le
t's all go downtown."
The other officer had used the phone to call Headquarters. Now he said, "Don't touch that statchoo, please, lady."
Eve had started to pick up the lumpy gadget she'd swatted me with. She straightened up and said, "I'm sorry. I was just going to put the Hermes back on its pedestal."
I said, "The what?"
Suddenly the name rang a bell. Like the bell which tolls for whom. And I guess you know for whom.
Eve glanced at me. "The Hermes," she said. "Of Praxiteles."
Fine. Great. A similar statchoo had been used by that kid from Lupo's in San Francisco when he'd batted his sweetie on the noodle. If I had recognized the damn thing it might have raised my hackles a little, put me on guard — and saved me a lot of trouble.
But, of course, I hadn't recognized it. Sometimes I feel I lack culture.
Vingger said again, "Let's go downtown."
We went.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Homicide Squadroom is on the third floor of L.A.'s Police Building, and I guess I'd been up there a thousand times — under happier circumstances.
My firmest, oldest friend in Los Angeles is the Captain of Homicide, Phil Samson. Good friends, too, are Lieutenant Rawlins, Sergeant Casey, a dozen others in the Homicide Division alone. I know perhaps five hundred L.A. police officers well enough to jaw with, or cut up touches with over a cup of coffee. And most of them know the truth: that I've never lied to one of them, not once.
I've been called a nut, a lecherous s.o.b., a fool, an uncouth slob, and an uncultured idiot among even more colorful descriptions, most of them fairly accurate; but nobody who knows me has ever accused me of being a liar. Naturally Eve couldn't know that. But it was still rough.
Because Eve went all the way. She told her story again almost as well as she'd created it the first time, and she swore out a complaint against me and signed it.
I told my story, too. But when I got through there was no evidence on which Gerda Lorimer could be held. I hadn't realized it, before, but — until and unless Jim could give testimony corroborating parts of my story — there was not a damned bit of evidence against her. Horace was dead; Aaron was dead; and Jim was unconscious — or dying.
She was Horace Lorimer's wife, yes. So what? She'd been working as a model at Laguna Paradise. So what? She'd been at a party with Jim and me Saturday night; she'd called herself Eve Angers; she — and her dear departed husband — occasionally went to the Purple Room. Again, so what?
The chromed automatic was registered in the name of Gerda Lorimer, all right. The gun from Eve's bag, with which I'd shot Horace, wasn't registered to either of them; probably it was stolen. Eve claimed I'd brought it to the suite; I said it had been in her handbag. There was no proof either way. The police kept the gun so test bullets could be compared with those in Lorimer — and Jim — and Aaron.
Eve denied everything that depended on my word alone, the things I couldn't prove, that is; I denied practically everything she said. But I couldn't link her to any crime, not yet; and after all I had shot her husband.
So they were going to let her go. They had to.
They were going to let me go, too. Some points had to be stretched a little, but all I had actually done was shoot Lorimer in self-defense, and that's the way it was written down, "pending the outcome of investigation."
I was in the Homicide Squadroom with Captain Samson and Phil Rawlins. Sam is a big, hard guy with a well-concealed marshmallow heart, iron-gray hair and always-clean-shaven face. He wiggled his big, solid jaw as he clamped strong teeth on a black cigar and growled, "What did you expect, Shell?"
"But dammit, I know she's guilty."
"I've heard that song from you before — more times than I like to think about. All we've got is what you say. Where's your physical evidence? Where's your corroboration? We can't make Lorimer say anything — you fixed that."
"Yeah, I fix everything."
"Paradise can't talk. Not yet, anyway. And you haven't got any proof about all this Brea Island business. If Feeney comes up with some H in that damned squashed bananas or whatever it is, he'll go out there and then maybe you'll have something. But if he doesn't — "
"Wait a minute." Something he'd said a little while ago was sticking in my mind. Something about "physical evidence."
"Well, there she goes," Sam said.
I glanced over my shoulder. Eve had been in an interrogation room, and now she was just passing the open door outside this room. Free as a bird.
I swore under my breath, stepped into the hall and watched her walk away from me. She moved gracefully, hips swaying seductively over the long, lovely legs, as they had Saturday night when she'd walked from Jim and me near the pool. Those flaring hips, that dangerous derrière, swinging, swaying, as graceful — and as deadly — as the head of a cobra.
Talk about physical evidence, she sure had plenty of evidence to prove she was physical. She really looked like the original Eve — on the outside, anyway.
And then it clicked. I grinned.
"Eve!" I called.
I didn't run after her. But when she turned I motioned for her to come back. She hesitated, then shrugged and walked toward me. I led her into the Homicide Squad-room. Samson looked up and scowled. Rawlins grinned slightly, wondering what I was up to.
"Watch the door," I said to him. "Catch her if she runs."
Rawlins grinned. "I'll catch her."
I turned and looked at Eve. "I don't know how I missed it this long," I said. "Always just right, always in place — and those little-girl bangs. But mainly Sunday morning, remember? You were wearing a towel. You'd just gotten up, just stepped out of the shower. But your hair was perfect, not even damp, Eve. Or rather your wig was; probably your hair was a mess."
The only change was in her eyes. Then her lips thinned a little.
It wasn't easy. She didn't want me to take the damned thing off — and probably she could sue me for violating her person, or at least her head; and even Samson tried to stop me. But I thought: So sue me; so throw me in jail.
I got it off.
It was elastic in back, and had a small comb in front and several bobby pins stuck in it here and there. Her hair was a kind of orange blonde, matted and mussed and not very nicely waved, but quite attractive, nonetheless. To me, it was beautiful.
"Sam," I said, "Wes Simpson told me the lab boys took a couple of blonde hairs from Aaron's pillow — Eve, naturally, doesn't know that." I pointed to her head. "That's where they came from. And I'll bet the boys in S.I.D. can prove it."
Eve looked at me, her face flushed, eyes colder than her heart, I said, "Tell me one thing. Did you take the wig off while you were with Aaron? Or did you go there as a blonde to save wear and tear on your wig-do and show up at Jim's as a nicely-groomed black-haired sex-pot?"
She never did answer me. At least she didn't answer the question. She said to me again, slowly and venomously and distinctly, "You . . . rotten . . . bastard."
A little later, only minutes before six p.m., Samson said, "Don't get giddy, Shell. We can hold her, sure. This doesn't mean we can keep her. A couple of blonde hairs — that's not motive, means, and opportunity. And she claims she was there on Thursday night, not Saturday. Can you prove different? Prove?"
"Somehow I'll prove it."
"Well, she might not be here when you get back unless you come back with more than we've got now. She just called one of the most high-powered and influential attorneys in Los Angeles. I don't know how long we can keep her."
"Keep her as long as you can. I'll see that babe in Techachapi if it kills me."
I left in a hurry and called Ed Klein.
Fortunately, the sea was fairly calm. For twenty bucks, a kid named Smith had brought me out here, on the ocean a mile off the beach at Balboa, in his twenty-four-foot Chris Craft. After phoning Ed Klein from L.A. I'd made it to Balboa in less than an hour, but there was less than an hour's daylight left.
A little plane zoomed l
ow overhead, wobbling about unduly, I thought. It had small oblong doodads instead of wheels, so I assumed it was the seaplane bringing Ed and his friend to pick me up. But it was sure a little plane. And it looked sort of loosely put together, as if several nuts and bolts were missing.
The kid said, "What's he doing, stunting?"
"You got me." The plane snorted above us about two hundred feet away, making a great clatter which reminded me of a model A with loose cylinders and no exhaust pipe. It started to turn and, strange to say, sort of skidded sideways in the air.
"I didn't know they could do that," the kid said.
"Neither did I." The plane straightened, went up in the air a bit, then began a slow, wide, sloppy turn and finally was coming back at us, very low this time.
"Didn't look like much fun, did it?" the kid said.
"Looked kind of, ah, scary, huh?"
"Yeah. Maybe it was a accident."
"Don't say that! Don't say accident." I lowered my voice. "I'm sure Ed's pilot knows what he's doing."
"Sorry. But, boy! You couldn't get me up in that old crate for a million dollars."
"Look, maybe we'd better not talk at all." I was starting to feel a mild apprehension. And I wasn't even in the plane yet. It was about fifty yards away now, maybe six feet above the water, and coming at us. Straight at us. Straight —
"What's he doing?" the kid said.
"Looks like he's trying to, ha-ha, scare us. But he'll just — AAAH!"
The plane wobbled about a bit, then its nose went up and it shot over us, but not very far over us. About an inch. I looked around at the kid. He wasn't in sight. Where'd he go? Then he crawled over the side of the boat. He was all wet.
After another goofy turn like a half-Immelmann, the plane was finally down on the water and taxiing toward us and I was standing at the Chris Craft's bow. In a minute the seaplane was close enough for me to leap at the open door in its side. I leaped.
Joker in the Deck (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 15
