The Cockeyed Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Before going into the hotel I walked up to the table where the three men were sitting, stopped there and said, Hello, Dodo.

  Slowly he lifted his head and squinted up at me.

  I waited. This would take a while.

  As you may have guessed from his name, Dodo was not considered an intellectual Superman. His eyes and general expression conveyed all the gayety and brilliance of a great auk, which is a pretty dumb bird. In fact, it’s extinct. He was a great, hulking auk, about six-four and 250 or 260 pounds, more than a little of which was fat. Even so, he was strong enough to rip safes single-handed, with a little help from his teeth and toenails. His face was faded and pasty because Dodo was a man who didn’t like the sun; and he was always squinting when I saw him in daylight.

  He squinted at me. His eyes focused. The message started back toward his brain. Now we were getting somewhere. I had often wondered if there were something drastically wrong with Dodos nervous network, or was it simply that he had a microscopic brain which the nerve impulses occasionally missed entirely. Or possibly, he was a Twentieth Century diplodocus.

  One of the brainy writers on the brain tells us that the diplodocus, a prehistoric monster which had a tail thirty feet long, was very sluggish in it’s reactions, especially on cold mornings. Why, when the frost was on the ground a toothy creature could sneak up and bite a hunk out of the dips tail, and be off in the distance having breakfast before the message reached the diplodocus brain and he got his head turned around.

  Well, Dodo said. Finally.

  You see how much thinking I was able to do before Dodo said something? This isnt to say I’m a speedy thinker — or even that what I was doing was very exciting thinking — but you should now have Dodo pretty well pegged.

  Scott! he went on. And then Well — To which he added a pithy noun, one falling into the same broad category as natural fertilizer. Yeah, he said, Scott.

  You got it, I told him. Is Hal around? Harold Calvin? Handsome Hal?

  He squinted. Who wants to know?

  I shrugged. Skip it. The Hell with it. I hadn’t expected any really vital clues, since Dodo rarely had much to say. By the time he thought of something, the conversation was over.

  I waved and headed for the lobby — not, however, before getting a good look at the chops of the two men sitting with Dodo. I hadn’t seen these particular cousins before; but I was well-acquainted with the family.

  I walked into the lobby, refrained from blowing a kiss to the desk clerk when he smiled at me, and walked ahead to the swinging-door entrance to the saloon. I peeked inside, but the guy I was looking for — Hal — wasn’t there, so I checked the card room, then went outside to the swimming pool. That’s where I found him.

  He was in swim trunks, sprawled on a chaise longue near the water, talking to three guys standing next to him. This soon after seeing Dodo, my reaction was just the same as it used to be when I had seen Hal with Jules Garbin. Man, I thought, what a contrast.

  He was a big sonofagun, with hellishly broad shoulders, well-muscled chest, a weight-lifters corded stomach. He saw me walking toward the group, raised up on an elbow and waved one hand lazily, saying something to the men with him and then giving me a big white grin.

  I waved back, looking at the three other men. One of them turned immediately and walked away, a short stocky guy with a gray crew-cut and bristly black mustache, wearing big Hollywood-star-type dark glasses. There was something familiar about him, but I couldnt place him. Of the other two, one was a stranger, and the other I knew too well. The stranger was a husky, medium-sized guy with a pink scalp and face like a fish. I’d never seen him before, I was sure. But the fourth man was Tay Green.

  Hal got easily to his feet, moving as he always did, with a healthy animal grace, the impression of controlled power. Grinning, he stuck out his hand, and as I grabbed it he said, Either youve grown or I’ve shrunk, Scott. Either way, I dont like it.

  Neither way, I said. Elevator boots. I lifted one foot to show him.

  Ah, he said, looking me up and down, and me in my stocky feet. Aint you pretty?

  Tay Green, still standing next to us, said one foul word. I turned slowly and looked at him. As always, looking into his eyes gave me mental goose-bumps. Because Green had the eyes of a professional killer, which of course he was. Maybe a murderers eyes are the same as anybodys elses, maybe nothing changes in them — but I dont believe it. You ask me, something dies in those eyes. Greens were like polished chips from a tombstone, just as hard, just as lifeless. Above them were sparse brows, his face was thin and white, and on both cheeks were even whiter marks, as if he’d had an infection or little wounds there and picked off the scabs. He should have carried a little scythe in a shoulder holster and an hourglass in his hand. I couldnt stand him, and vice versa. And we both knew the bastard had tried to kill me in Los Angeles. At least, I thought he had; he knew.

  I said, Why dont you go haunt somebody else, Green?

  A burning cigarette, smoked almost down to the filter, was stuck in one corner of his small mouth. I’d rather stay here and let you scare me to death, he said softly. He always spoke in a half-whisper, the way people speak at somebodys funeral. But then, he was usually on his way to somebodys funeral.

  He glanced at Hal, then shrugged . . . Come on, Pete, he said to the fish-faced guy, and they walked off.

  Squat a spell, Hal said, sprawling again on the chaise. I sat on the end of it as he went on, That Green is a caution. He’d sure like to kill you, wouldnt he?

  Acts like it. But I’ve never seen him act any other way. I paused, remembering reading of the death, only last Monday, of Hals wife, the former Letitia Garbin, and went on, Hal, I can tell youre in mourning, all choked up.

  He dropped his wavy blond head back on the cushion. You mean Letty? Well, it’s too bad, sure. Kind of got me for a few hours, when I dashed home for the funeral. But whatre you going to do? Life belongs to the living. Got to keep your eye on the eagle, never look back — like Satchell said, Somethin may be gainin on you. Dad, I aim to keep way out in front of It.

  I shook my head. This Hal Calvin never ceased to amaze me. He was utterly callous, completely dishonest, a seven-hundred-percent bastard. But he could be just as charming as he wanted to be, whenever he wanted to be. He was intelligent, even brilliant, and I’d heard him say things nobody else ever even thought of. His conversation was often crude or vulgar, but never profane, never the filth common among hoodlums. And there was no question: He was a hoodlum. He might help an old gal across a street — or shove her under a truck if there was a chance he could collect her insurance.

  Hal was that rarity of the criminal class, a gifted confidence man who had also worked the heavy, a man born with a silver spoof in his mouth and an embryo sap in his hand. And born, sadly enough, with something missing. He had put the slug on trembling victims of extortion; and he could charm a banker out of his roll or a maiden out of her pants, both of which activities he had engaged in on occasions too numerous to mention. And he might very well have been the guy who sent those two gunmen out to the gate today, to kill me.

  I said, You hear about the cat shooting at me when I got here today? And missing?

  Missed you, eh? Must have been an exhilarating experience. As Winnie Churchill once said, Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result. You fortunate devil, what a gay life —

  You heard about the fuss then?

  As who hasn’t? Where there’s fuss there’s fuzz, and one of the fuzz even braced me — whereupon I got lockjaw. He’ll, for all I know the guy you pooped might have been a friend of mine. He grinned, delighted.

  He was, you bastard, I said.

  Most likely. May the flowers bloom — He stopped, grimaced suddenly, pressed a hand against his stomach.

  I said, That old ulcer still riding you, Hal?

  He grunted. Just digging in his wee spurs.

  Maybe youve got a conscience hidden away somewhere after all. You look
like the last man in the world to have a bleeding ulcer.

  He winced again. Please do not say bleeding. An ulcer sounds rather refined, an almost shining thing. But a bleeding ulcer — besides, it isnt conscience. A sick M.D., who should have been practicing on himself, told me I would have to give up booze or become attached to my ulcer. And who would give up booze?

  Who indeed?

  Not me. When I drink, Scott, I think intriguing thoughts, which even I cannot answer — and if you want to know, that’s what gave me my attached ulcer. Straining my gut for answers to such vital questions as: Do armadillos mate? And if so, how? And if so, why? Or: Is there free will? Does the dancer move the G-string, or does the G-string move the dancer? Or: What if we could feel the bacteria biting? Or: —

  There was no telling how long he might have kept that up, or into what weird fields he might have strayed, if I hadn’t interrupted him. So I interrupted him. Or: How well did you know Jeanne Blair?

  He raised his head. Who?

  Jeanne Blair.

  Youve got me. Am I supposed to know her?

  The gal who got killed last Sunday.

  Oh, her. Jeanne. Yeah, I met her. Met all five of those — wow! The gals making the movie, I mean. What in He’ll kind of movie they making?

  I didn’t tell him. If I knew Hal, he’d go right out there and get in the picture. You didn’t know her well, then?

  Nope, Scott. Not well enough. Just Hello, my love, and such. And the Continental touch: Dont be frightened, it’s only a man’s appurtenance. She always said No. Even when I said, Lets get married afterward, and I can tell youve been deeply hurt, and even I can tell youve never been deeply hurt —

  Oh, shut up, I said.

  I got to my feet. The only reason I’d asked him about Jeanne in the first place was because if she hadn’t died a very natural accidental death, it was odd that thered be so many hoods around when she was killed. But I wasn’t getting anywhere with Hal, which was exactly where I’d expected to get. I knew he would have carried on in the same fashion if he’d wrapped his big hands around her throat and strangled her.

  As if reading my mind he said, You think she was knocked off, Scott?

  It’s possible.

  He’ll, I’ll tell you the truth. I did it. But diabolically. I hypnotized the horse —

  He was saying something about, Your ugly eyelids are getting heavy as gobs of lead . . . when I walked away.

  chapter seven

  I went back into the hotel, and through the swinging half-doors of the saloon. It was twenty minutes before six — twenty minutes before Zia, Choo Choo, April, and Delise — and about a dozen people were already in the long room. Four were at the bar stretching almost the entire length of the wall on my right, and others were at tables and booths on my left. Only one person, an old woman drinking straight whiskey from a shot glass, was not in Western garb.

  As I slid onto one of the bar stools and admired myself in the long mirror, I heard the old gal say, Henry, I’ll have another.

  There was an old duck with her, and he said, Now, dear, youve had two. Your limit is two. Dont have any —

  She cut him off. Henry, I am a little old lady from Pasadena, she said. And I’m sick of it.

  I grinned, glanced around. There was nothing excruciatingly original about the furnishings and decor of the saloon, but the room was warm and had a definite Western air. The table tops were glass-covered wagon wheels, and the seats of the bar stools were small leather saddles — minus saddle horns, presumably in deference to the ladies — and the pine-paneled walls were liberally splattered with pictures of cowboys shooting Indians and Indians scalping cowboys and buffalo stampeding and horses bucking and gunfighters gunfighting; not all at once of course, but in separate paintings and prints and etchings. But it was all pretty exciting.

  I signaled the tall, thin, sad-faced bartender and said, I’ll have a shot of Redeye.

  The bartender stiffened, shuddered, gagged a little — overcome by my originality, I guess — and said quietly, Yes, sir. Anything for a chaser? He smiled like a man dying of tuberculosis. Such as sarsaparilla?

  Sorry, I said. It’s the saloon — I suddenly got that wild old Wild West feeling . . . Uh, give me a bourbon and water, pardner.

  He smiled, more friendly now, and poured a very healthy slug of Old Crawdad over ice cubes, adding a dollop of water.

  Old Crawdad, huh? I said. Never heard of that brand in L.A.

  You wont, he said, as I slugged down a good gulp.

  It started boiling at my larynx, blistered my gullet, and burst into roaring flame in my stomach. But I wouldnt let it show.

  Not ba — ba — I said. Not bad!

  He watched my eyes watering, quivering with delight. Ask for Redeye, will you? he said.

  Never again. You win, pard — mister.

  Unresisting, I let him take the stuff away and mix me another drink. This one I sipped, sipped again, then had a cooling glug. What was that . . . other? I asked him.

  Old Crawdad. I got to have some means of self-defense, working here. All these dudes come in — gimme a shot of Redeye, pardner. Shot o Redeye, shot o Redeye!

  Easy.

  He calmed down. I fix em.

  I know.

  I’ve seen false teeth shoot clear out of guys mouths. Why, once I got badly bit, four feet away.

  That’s a shame.

  He walked down the bar and I worked on my drink. I’d just finished it when I felt a light tap on my shoulder.

  I turned and looked into blue eyes hotter than Old Crawdad, at one neatly arched brow lifted questioningly, at smiling red lips. Unable to resist the impulse, and having no intention of resisting anyway, I glanced down at the rest of her. It was covered in uncivilized fashion now, which is to say she was wearing a lot of clothing. At least it seemed like a lot, all of it white and fetching enough — open-collared shirt, skin-tight jeans, white belt and boots. From long chestnut-brown hair to little high-heeled boots, she was a sight for healthy eyes.

  April, I said. Hello, hello. Come join me.

  Hello, hello yourself. And I will. My, dont you look nice!

  Man, that voice went through me like soup through a strainer. Very hot, nutritious soup. Big hat and boots and all, she went on, looking me over.

  Thank you, maam, I said. I’m a regular cowboy, all right. Drink Redeye and everything.

  I glanced beyond her but shed come in alone. April caught the glance and said, The other girls will be along soon, Shell. We were all going to come in together, but I wanted to talk to you first.

  That’s good. That’s great.

  It’s not what you think.

  How do you know what I think?

  I can tell. She smiled gorgeously again. I wanted to talk to you before they joined us. About Jeanne. You mentioned her this afternoon, remember?

  I have twenty-twenty memory —

  I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others.

  Why?

  Well, if Jeannes death was an accident, it doesnt make any difference. But the sheriff investigated, you know, and if she was murdered . . . well, I dont think she was, but if she was I can’t afford to get involved in that kind of mess. I’ve already signed the contract for a really marvelous part in a major picture at one of the big studios. I mean a real acting part. I can’t back out, but they could cancel the contract — if there were a big mess, you know. With the police involved and all.

  Uh-huh. Well, anything you can tell me about Jeanne, I’d sure like to hear. If it’s possible, I’ll never mention your name — to anybody else, that is.

  That’s good enough for me. Besides, this has been on my mind — I havent told anybody else about it yet. She paused and smiled again. Those were sure happy lips. If youll buy me a drink I’ll tell you what there is to tell.

  April had a Stinger and I ordered another bourbon and water. After a moment she said, We all got up here Friday, and did a little work Friday, a lot Saturday. Delise and Zia had o
ne room, Choo Choo another, and Jeanne and I were together in a room upstairs. She pointed toward the ceiling. Saturday night, we all went to the barbecue — everybody does — for the steaks and ribs and then the square dancing afterward. I spilled some barbecue sauce on my jeans, so I came back to the room to change. Jeanne came with me, but didn’t come up to our room. She said she wanted a drink, and would meet me here in the saloon when I was ready.

  What time was this?

  Oh, about nine oclock. Square dancing starts at nine, and I was getting ready to go there.

  Uh-huh. So? What then?

  Well, I’d just changed when Jeanne came up to the room — and she was a mess. I dont mean she was untidy or anything, it was just that she was white as a sheet, nervous, scared. Like she was in shock almost. I thought she was going to faint or something.

  April had another sip of her Stinger and I asked, Did she say what was wrong?

  No. Jeanne had a bottle of brandy in the room, and she tossed almost half a glass of it down like water. I asked her what was the matter, but then there was a knock on the door. I started to answer it but Jeanne laughed in the strangest way and said, Never mind, April. It’s for me. And it was. It was a man she knew. All I heard him say was, Come on down to the saloon, honey. Wed better have a little talk. Something like that.

  Do you know who the man was?

  I didn’t see him. I did hear his voice, and it sounded sort of familiar, but I havent been able to think who it could have been.

  We drank silently for a minute, then I asked the bartender who was standing nearby, Were you behind the bar Saturday night?

  He nodded.

  You saw Jeanne Blair in here a time or two, didn’t you? The girl who got . . . fell off her horse?

  The question made him uncomfortable, but he said, I guess so.

  I got my wallet out of my fawn-colored pants, showed him the card attesting my legal status as a private investigator — in California, that is — and sneaked a ten-dollar bill out onto the bar. But I was not so sneaky that he failed to notice.