After a while it seemed to have been made clear to everybody except the old gal with the long beak. You hid? she asked me? Where did you hide?
I’d told them the five of us had hidden, but not where wed hidden; and I was damned if I was going to tell them — at least her — now. What difference does it make where? I said to her. We hid. Isnt that enough? Maybe we hid in the water and breathed through hollow tubes, like in movies.
What tubes? I dont see any tubes. Where are the tubes?
She had me in a bind there. If I’d been under the water for any length of time at all, I sure would have needed some hollow tubes. O.K., I said, getting pretty teed off at this one, so we didn’t hide in the water. Men —
She sniffed. He’s got a gun. I wouldnt be surprised —
Men, I think the moment of greatest danger is past, I went on. That is, if this old battle-axe . . . That is, assuming the criminals have fled, uh, have departed the area. Which is a reasonable assumption. Yes — I went on and on, sounding like an absolute idiot, but finally conveyed to the posse that I could now take the four ladies back to the ranch myself, in my car, although a mounted escort would be more than welcome, since criminals might yet be lurking about.
And that’s what we did, though it was a bit more complicated than that. Everybody had to ride out in the desert, and hide their eyes, then I drove the Cad as close to the lake as possible, and the girls scooted into the back seat where they huddled under a blanket, which I just happened to have there handy.
Then we headed over the desert, and every one of those horsemen bravely accompanied us home.
After I’d brought the girls enough clothing so they could get to their rooms without causing fainting spells among the elderly on the way, and they were safely out of my sight, I looked around briefly and checked with Russ, discovering a notable absence of hoodlums in the area. It appeared that not only Green and Farmer, understandably, but even lesser criminals such as card cheaters, had vacated the Sun and Sage. Whether that was a temporary or permanent condition I had no idea, but it was a question I meant to pursue further, at a later moment; at this moment I had another question to pursue. So I bought a bottle of bourbon and went straight to the Phoenix Suite.
Inside, I mixed a highball and sipped it, sitting on the edge of my bed. Slowly I pushed from my mind the events just past and started thinking about Jules Garbin. I let my thoughts center again on that moment of sudden illumination or memory, in the shower.
It had all seemed very clear in that moment. But now I wasn’t so confident, wasn’t so sure — possibly because of the sudden and jangling action which had immediately followed. So I finished the drink, took my time. Then I lay back on the bed, hands laced behind my still very sore head, and thought about it, all of it.
The most elementary logic said: Either Simon Everett was not Jules Garbin; or Jules Garbin was not dead. Well, I knew damn well Garbin was dead; so it followed that Everett was — well, probably Simon Everett, casketmaker.
But if there’s anything that sticks in my craw, it’s the too-pat bit in life, the staggering coincidence, the lightning bolt striking the villains zipper, that sort of thing. Sure, it happens; once in a few million times.
So, it was possible that Everett was Garbin’s twin brother, or a dead ringer for Garbin. But even a twin — He’ll, I couldnt buy it. You can find a man almost like another man, similar features, same height and build — but not a man identical with another. And the face I’d seen last night was burned like a brand in my brain. Except for the gray hair and black mustache — simple enough to add or remove — Everett was identical with Jules, even to his voice. He was Jules.
But here we go again — I’d seen Garbin kill himself. It wasn’t something I’d been told, or read in the papers, though it had been all over the papers when it happened. I’d been there.
Of course, maybe I’d been hit on the conk once too often, too, maybe I was nuts.
O.K., I told myself, be nuts. Just for one minute assume Jules Garbin is alive, and here at the Sun and Sage. That could sure explain a lot of things. Jeannes murder, the attempts to kill me — Even the order to kill April — April, who had once double-dated with Hal Calvin and Jules, who had roomed with Jeanne in Hollywood, who knew Hal had gone off with Jeanne that Saturday night . . .
I stood up suddenly, thoughts popping in my mind — if Jules was alive it not only explained everything that had puzzled me, but even some queer things I hadn’t had sense enough to be puzzled about. Until now.
I started pacing the floor, getting excited, feeling the familiar tension building up inside me. He’ll, it was beautiful — if. Yeah, and that if always sent me back to that moment when I’d seen Jules Garbin leap through the window of the Hollywood-Crown. So I mixed another drink, kept on pacing the floor, and went over it again, every second of it, from the jail to the hotel to the bedroom. I’d seen Jules smash through the glass, throwing his hands over his head, starting to yell. I’d seen him plummet through the lights, smash on the sidewalk. Then I’d run to Hollywood Boulevard . . .
Right then I remembered, again, Hal Calvin sitting in the lobby. Hal, smiling his peculiar smile . . .
I stopped pacing, stood still. Almost audible in my thoughts I heard Hal saying to me, . . . or does the G-string move the dancer?
And then from somewhere, from something I’d read, came another oddly amusing thought. In parts of Africa, said the book, there are natives whove never seen a gun, and when a hunter aims his rifle and fires and the distant animal falls, the natives — never having heard of bullets — think the crack of the rifle is what makes the animal fall. They think the pop kills the game.
As I turned and walked to the phone those phrases ran through my mind like part of a doggerel rhyme: The G-string moves the dancer, and it’s the pop that kills the game . . .
I got long distance, and placed a call to Los Angeles, the Police Building, Homicide Division, still pacing the floor, letting the long phone cord trail out behind me. When my connection was made I asked for the Captain of Homicide, Phil Samson. This was Sunday, but Sam was in the office.
He came on, his voice gruff. He was probably chewing a black cigar, heavy jaw wiggling as he clamped down on it like an alligator softening up his meal. Not only had Sam been with me that night in the Hollywood-Crown, he’s also my closest friend in L.A., an immensely capable career cop — and basically a hardboiled no-nonsense man, despite the fact that we occasionally clown around in and out of the squadroom. Consequently I didn’t tell him, immediately, exactly what I was after, but kind of sneaked up at it on a tangent. After all, he’d been there in the Hollywood-Crown with me.
After the hellos, and my telling him I was at the Sun and Sage in Arizona, I said, Sam, I know youre busy —
I hope to He’ll. Some nut just knocked off two gas station attendants —
Yeah, Sam. I know youre overworked and underpaid and a sterling character, but listen, will you? This is important.
Sure, shoot. He sounded interested.
You remember the Jules Garbin thing —
That s.o.b. Yeah, go on.
Well . . . I stopped. No matter how I told it, Sam was going to think my noodles had softened completely. He had already, and on numerous occasions, threatened to have me hidden away. Jokingly, I hoped. But I had to tell him somehow, so I simply spewed it out.
I saw — that is, I think I saw — Jules Garbin here at the Sun and Sage last night.
He didn’t flip, just said mildy, Youre mixed up, Shell. Garbin’s the hood jumped from the Hollywood-Crown. He’ll, you were there. You must be thinking of somebody —
No, Sam, I interrupted, I’m talking about Garbin — the boy who splashed on the sidewalk. Nonetheless, I’m damned near certain I saw him here last night. I mean he’s alive, he’s here.
I stopped. Silence.
So, I went on, whats the chances of opening up his grave and checking the stiffs prints or bones or teeth —
Then he flipped. The silence had bee
n merely the gathering of the storm. For about a minute neither of us made any headway, since the dialogue was unintelligible, but finally I half-yelled, Sam, dammit, quit popping your gums and listen to me. This is not a gag, I am deadly serious.
You can’t be.
I am.
You been drinking?
I had a couple, that’s all. Nothing —
Were you possibly stoned last night, when you saw this zombie?
No, I was not stoned, I said. Nor am I now. Please listen to me, quietly, for one full minute. O.K.?
Grudgingly he said, O.K.
At the end of that minute he was at least convinced I was serious. He was also convinced I was about two degrees away from flaming psychosis, and rapidly getting hotter. But at least he humored me. O.K., Shell, I believe you. You dont think it was Garbin we buried.
No, but —
Give me a minute now. I subsided and he went on. Let me remind you of a few unimportant items. It was Garbin jumped, in front of eight witnesses — including me and you. It was Garbin landed. At least, he went on with some sarcasm, whatever it was, it was human, it had Garbin’s face on it, his body, height, weight, feet, ears, you name it. It was wearing his black suit, his shirt, cuff links, and possibly even his Playboy Club key with a Bunny on it. So you think it wasn’t Jules Garbin but Moe the Weasel or somebody.
Oh, Sam, for Petes sake — look you didn’t fingerprint the corpse, did you?
No, what for? I heard him sigh. You dont think it was Garbin jumped out the window.
No, it was Jules, all right. Had to be. No argument there.
No arg . . . Well, what in the He’ll. You dont think he went down? You think he flew the goddamn He’ll away?
Sam, dont get excited —
Whos —
Sam, listen. Sure he jumped. And, clearly, there are only two ways he could have gone, down or up.
Down . . . or . . . up, he said, each word like a stone falling in mud. Down . . . or . . .
Sam, we dont always see what we think we see. Why, in Africa there are natives who think the pop kills the game —
Pop —
Strike that. What I’m getting at is this: With enough planning and preparation, the right kind of preparation, you can do damn near anything not actually in defiance of natural laws —
Like gravity?
— and you dont have to be a magician, either. Youd swear the things a magician pulls off, right in front of your eyes, couldnt happen, either. Except you know his miracle is a trick. Right?
Well . . .
So if Jules — if Jules isnt dead, then the reason we think he’s dead and buried is: A trick. More than that really, but it boils down to trickery, deception. Incidentally, if he’s alive, obviously nobody shoved him out that window to cover up any high-level shenanigans. All that aside, though, I started to say Jules did go out that window; and then he either went down or up — or sideways, of course — but assuming he went down he didn’t have to go all the way down. Somebody had to, of course, and that’s what I want you to check. He’ll, I’m half sold on the idea that Jules went only one floor down, and was caught there somehow, or other —
Youre reaching, Shell.
Sure I’m reaching. I had to reach once I saw Jules alive up here. Dammit, if he jumped, and if he’s alive anyway, there has to be a logical explanation. I paused. Sam, I’ll admit I’m not positive. But I really believe it was Garbin I saw. The rest of it is — well, it’s guesses, deduction. But it all fits so perfectly. . . . Look, you get an order and open up that grave, and if Garbin’s in it I’ll push a peanut down every hallway in the Police Building. With my nose.
He started to speak, then stopped. There was a long silence. Then another sigh. Shell, this is the most cockeyed thing you ever asked me to do. I . . . He let it trail off, started again. You know, dont you, that if I get an order to exhume, and if whats left of Garbin is in there, nice and dead — well, they might as well embalm me and lower away.
I knew what he meant. If Sam managed to get a legal O.K. to open the grave, he would have to do one He’ll of a lot of fighting first. And if the result then was exactly what everybody else expected — what everybody else knew — the least that would happen to Samson would be an enormous amount of laughter, laughter and giggles and snickers. It might even hurt him in his job, his career.
For a moment I hesitated, almost weakened. But then I swallowed and said, Sam, I wouldnt have asked in the first place, unless I was pretty sure.
He swore softly. O.K. I’ll do some checking, at least, and call you later. He sighed again. Go buy a peanut.
chapter fourteen
I gurgled a fist of bourbon into a large glass, added some tap water, and poured booze on my nerves from inside. With alcohol further restoring the inner man, I refreshed the outer man with another hot-and-cold shower, then dressed in clean and fancy cowboy duds — different this time; more splendid.
Crazy red shirt with yellow cords on it ending in little arrowheads, trousers the approximate shade of weak coffee, white sombrero and belt, and slick red cowboy boots with an intricate purple design worked into them. And silver spurs on them. Around my neck a purple-silk bandanna matching the design in my slick boots. Plus banana-colored chaps, and on my hip an off-white holster containing a pearl-handled six-gun — real, and loaded — and over my shirt, hiding my snub-nosed Colt, a fringed yellowish-beigeish buckskin jacket. That accomplished, I mixed another drink and eyeballed my handiwork in the bedrooms full-length mirror.
It was quite a lot. I do like a little color in my garb, but . . . Actually, I looked as if I were giving off cosmic rays. If I got near any cows theyd probably moo at me and give pasteurized milk from then on. Man, I thought, if I had on vermilion shorts I’d probably explode. However, thus dudishly attired, and with several belts of bourbon under my belt, I discovered I was feeling, if not complete ecstasy, at least very little pain. Moreover, for the first time since I’d arrived at the Sun and Sage — assuming that all my hoodlum acquaintances were still conspicuous by absence — I had absolutely nothing vital to do until I heard from Samson again. And that wouldnt be for several hours yet, if ever. So, sort of gliding euphorically on my high-heeled boots, I advanced toward the door, opened it happily, and stepped into dreamland.
I didn’t, of course, at that precise moment, know I was stepping into dreamland — the scene was pretty much the same as before, except that all the cabins and buildings and little bushes and such seemed . . . well, happier. But slopping gently upon the surface of my brain, like little ripples spreading over a shallow swamp, were hints of what was to come. Their effect though, was merely that I felt a kind of pleasant twitchiness, a sense of enjoyable neurosis.
I toured the area again, but either all hoodlums were in hiding or any remaining were minor muggs I didn’t recognize. Perhaps they had all actually pulled up stakes and headed away. Far, far away, I hoped. I went through the public rooms, buildings, the saloon, and wound up near the rodeo ring well out past the stables. This was the circular ring, surrounded by tiers of wooden seats, chutes for horses and so on, where later today the Big Rodeo would be held. Without, by the way, me.
People were already gathering, I noticed. I checked my watch, discovering it was nearly noon; the rodeo was to commence at twelve and last for an hour, after which most of the hotel guests would travel to the Running M twenty miles away for their monthly champagne barbecue — real Wild West stuff — and other festivities.
Fifteen or twenty cars were parked near the ring, and possibly fifty people were already getting settled on the wooden seats. Among the cars I spotted Ed Finchs station wagon, loaded down with cameras, reflectors and other equipment — and a couple of girls in the front seat.
I walked over, noting that the gals were Zia and Choo Choo. I leaned in the window and said, Hi. Are we still speaking?
Zia winked one black eye and smiled, lips curling and sending forth ultrasonic sizzles. Sure, she said. What do you want to speak about
?
Well —
I know what would be fun, Choo Choo said. Lets —
Wait a minute. I was curious to know what Choo Choo thought would be fun to speak about, but something slightly hideous had occurred to me. I said, Whatre you doing in the wagon?
We just came out to see the bucking horses and all, Zia said. Eds going to enter one of the contests, and he promised he’d get you to enter, too.
That’s good. For a minute I had the awful suspicion you might planning to shoot that last scene. . . . What do you mean Ed promised —
Choo Choo ignored my last words and bubbled merrily, Oh, Ed did want us to finish the final bit this afternoon, but we were too scared.
I should hope —
And, anyway, we told him youd kill him if he made us shoot the scene today.
You bet I’d —
Zia chimed in, He almost had us talked into it, anyway. It really doesnt seem likely anything else awful would happen, after all the fuss. At least that’s what Ed said.
He did, huh? And he almost had you convinced? That’s nice.
They both chattered on at once, and from one or the other or both at the same time I got most of what, I gathered, must have been Eds argument to them. Ed had told them they really ought to finish the last scene, just the one little final scene, or he’d be ruined, and all the gunsters had gone away anyhow, and there wasn’t a chance in a million thered be more trouble after what had already happened already, and they could have it all wrapped up in an hour. Just dont say anything to Scott because that ape might get violent or something, and didn’t they want to get the thing over and done with? Then they could head straight for L.A. — without even bothering Scott. The girls wanted to help him, and Ed had almost talked them into it, but theyd all been a little too scared. And so on.
When they stopped there was silence. I didn’t even feel like disturbing the silence. The suspicion had been growing that Choo Choo was no brainier than absolutely necessary, but I’d expected more rationality of Zia.
And it was Zia who said again, But we told him we didn’t really want to, Shell. And you wouldnt like it. He said he knew you wouldnt like it.
The Cockeyed Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 11
