“Whaat?”
“Witch. Like on a broom. Spook.”
She rolled over and said sleepily, “Go away, go way away.”
I went. The sun was almost directly overhead and it was redder and hotter than the whites of my eyes. I gunned the Cad, swung left into Beverly and stopped at the first café on the right. I chewed long and vigorously on a half-inch steak with a slit in the middle that probably came from the matador's sword, downed some hash-brown potatoes and three cups of black coffee. I decided I'd last the rest of the day if I was careful. Perspiration oozed out of my pores and seeped into my clothes.
My office is on the second floor of the Hamilton Building, facing Broadway, between Third and Fourth Streets in downtown L.A. I took the elevator to the second floor, walked down to the office door, stopped, smiled and said, “Good afternoon.” Business?
She was sitting on the wooden bench to my left, holding a big, old-fashioned black purse in her lap. She weighed maybe a hundred pounds and stood five feet tall—give or take an inch—in her high-laced black shoes. And I guess you'd say she was cute.
Anyway, I thought she was cute even if she was about sixty years old. She wore a plain, shapeless black dress that hung down to within four inches of her shoes, allowing a peek at heavy gray cotton stockings, black shoes laced up over the ankle. She had a head of gray-white hair. Her eyes were misty behind gold-rimmed spectacles that must have been made about the time of the first World War.
She got to her feet, peered up at me myopically and adjusted the gold-rimmed spectacles with her wrinkled right hand.
“Are you Mr. Scott? Mr. Sheldon Scott?” It was a tiny voice, tiny like all the rest of her.
“Yes, ma'am.” I said. “Please come in.”
I unlocked the door and followed her inside. She looked around her as if she were a little bewildered and I pulled the best chair up in front of the desk for her. She sat down and I got behind the desk and looked professional.
“What can I do for you, ma'am?”
She opened and closed the big old-fashioned purse nervously and said in the tiny voice, “I don't know, really. I'm Mrs. Maddern.”
I blinked at her for about ten seconds waiting for her to say something else before it seeped in.
"Who?"
“Mrs. Maddem.”
I woke up. Her eyes weren't watery; she wasn't myopic; she'd been crying. A little old lady crying for a son she probably hadn't seen for months, maybe years. I suddenly felt rotten.
I said softly, “I'm happy to know you, Mrs. Maddern. Joe was your boy?”
“Yes. He was.” Her eyes got watery-looking again and I went on quickly, “If I can help in any way I'll be glad to. But I don't understand. How did you happen to come here? To see me, I mean?”
“It was a Mr. Dragoon. I came out to see Joseph; I didn't know he'd been killed, even. Mr. Dragoon told me.” She was having difficulty keeping her voice steady. “He said Joseph had been hit by a car or run over and killed. Then when I asked him more about it, he said for me to see you, that you were the—I think he said you were the brain around here and you thought Joseph getting killed wasn't an accident. He wasn't very nice; I don't think I like him.”
I could imagine Dragoon's tactful explanation. I said, “I don't think I like him either, Mrs. Maddern. What was it you wanted me to do?”
“Well, what he said. What Mr. Dragoon said. I want to know all about what happened to Joseph. If someone hurt him, I want you to find him. I can pay you; I have some money.” She took off her spectacles and pressed fingers against her closed eyes. She sobbed once.
I got up and walked around the desk. I put one hand gently on her frail, bony shoulder. I didn't know quite what to say. I said, “Sure, Mrs. Maddern. Sure.”
She looked up at me, her face pinched, “I've been here since ten o'clock. Joseph was a good boy. He got in some little scrapes, but he was a good boy.” She felt around in the black purse, dug out a wisp of handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to carry on so.
I told her it was all right. I couldn't help thinking, no matter what Joey had actually been, to her he was still just a little kid in knickers with a stubbed toe and dirt on his face. I went back and sat down behind the desk. I said, “I don't quite understand, Mrs. Maddern, why you came out to Los Angeles, or why you went to Dragoon's place. It would help if you'd explain that for me.
She nodded, fairly composed now. “Joseph wrote to me off and on, not regular. I suppose he was pretty busy. Once in a while he sent me money when he could—he was good that way.” She smiled ruefully and went on, “The last letter I got from him was around two weeks back and he wrote like he was worried about something, I thought. He said he'd made some profitable investments and had quite a bit of money here in Los Angeles in the Citizen's Bank in a safety box. He sent me one of the keys and a card to sign so I could get into it. I signed the card and sent it back to the bank right away. Joseph said if anything happened to him, then I could just take the money out simple.” She peered at me, “Wasn't he a good boy?”
I smiled and nodded.
“I don't know why I just don't let you read his letter instead of telling you,” she said. “My lands.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to me.
She'd told me about all there was to it except Joe sent his love and asked how things were and so on. He'd casually mentioned, “If anything should happen to happen to me, mom, you can just get the money out of the safety deposit box in the bank without any trouble.”
Mrs. Maddern said, “I got to worrying about what Joseph said; it wasn't like him at all. Him never being sick a day in his life except for colds and the mumps once when he was little. So I just decided I'd come out and see him. It's been over a year since he was home last anyhow. He said in his letters if I wrote to him, to send the letters to him care of his Grand Street address.” She hesitated, then went on slowly, “You see, Mr. Scott, this was really the first letter I received from Joseph in quite a while. There was, well, some little scrape ... trouble...”
“I know,” I cut in. It's all right, go ahead.”
“Well, on account of this trouble, I didn't know where Joseph was till I got his letter. I went out to the address on Grand Street when I got here this morning. It's a joke shop of all things, the Ace Joke Shop, and when I asked for Joseph, the man went in back somewhere and that's when this Mr. Dragoon came out and talked to me. He said he was Joseph's employer.”
“That's right,” I said. “Now, about the money. Have you been to the bank?”
“No, not yet. I went to where Joseph worked, got a room in a hotel, then came straight here.”
“You haven't gone to the police?”
“No. I suppose I should. Mr. Dragoon said I could see you, so I just came here. I was a little mixed up. Should I talk to the police?”
“I don't think that will be necessary, Mrs. Maddern. Not right away at least. You'd better get some rest first before you see the police. You'll want to see Joseph, too, I imagine. Arrangements and all.”
She blinked at me and nodded. Then she asked, “Mr. Scott, why are you interested in Joseph? Why did Mr. Dragoon say you could tell me about him?”
“It's just a routine investigation, Mrs. Maddern. I have a client who's having me check up on the accident. There have been an alarming number of such accidents. I've really just started on it.”
She said hesitantly, “Can I hire you?”
“No. I already have a client. But I'll certainly give you all the information I can. Now, if you'd like, I'll drive you to the bank and you can check that safety deposit box.”
She said that would be fine and thank you, Mr. Scott.
I spotted a parking place miraculously open a half-block from the Citizen's National Bank and grabbed it.
In the bank Mrs. Maddern identified herself and we got into the big vault where the safety deposit boxes are without any trouble. Joe had arranged for a joint-tenancy box, so eve
n though he was dead, Mrs. Maddern was ushered right in. The clerk turned a master key in the lock and obligingly left us.
Mrs. Maddern said, “Will you get it down for me, Mr. Scott?”
I reached up, inserted her key, lifted the box down and handed it to her. We went into one of the little booths for privacy and she lifted the lid, peered inside and said, “My lands,” with her eyes wide. She handed the box to me. “I never did see so much money,” she said.
I took a peek and almost said, “My lands,” myself. It made a good-sized head of cabbage; I'd seen more, but not very often and not recently. We counted it and there was a total of eighteen thousand, two hundred dollars. Quite a piece of change for Joey—some very profitable investments, indeed.
I looked at all that lovely green stuff and wheels spun in my brain. I let Mrs. Maddern look at the money for a while, then I said, “Might as well put it in your purse. There's nothing else we can do here.”
“Should I?” she asked, her voice even smaller than usual. “Should I really take it?”
“Certainly,” I said. “It's yours. From Joseph.”
She smiled sweetly and patted my hand. For no particular reason I felt good, like a boy scout getting covered with merit badges. She stuffed the money into the voluminous black bag—it was quite a wad—and we left. I held the door for Mrs. Maddern and slipped the Cad out into the after-lunch traffic.
“If you'd like,” I said, “I'll drop you off at your hotel. Unless there's something else you want to do first.”
“That would be fine, Mr. Scott. It's the Sheaffer Hotel.”
I left her at her room and said, “It might not be a bad idea to stick all that cabbage in the hotel safe.”
“Cabbage?”
“The money. It'll be safer there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scott, I will. You've been very kind.”
“I'll drop back and see you again as soon as I can. You'll be here?”
“I'll be here, yes. I wouldn't know where else to go anyway.
I said good-by and left her standing in the doorway of room 324. Little and cute and sad, clutching a black purse with eighteen thousand dollars in it.
But I'd have bet the ten C's in my wallet against a two dollar win ticket on Stupendous that Mrs. Maddern wasn't thinking about money at all.
On the way back to the office I stopped at Greeley's Fish Market and bought a shrimp. One shrimp, ten cents. Inflation. I used to get them for a nickel. The balding little clerk looked at me curiously and said, “Banquet, huh?” I grinned at him mysteriously, took the small paper sack and walked out while he stared after me.
At the office I tied a string around the shrimp, lowered the delicacy into the guppy tank and said, “Banquet, chums.” They went nuts.
The office, by the way, contains a solid mahogany desk that still looks so good I almost hate to put my Cordovans on it, a phone, two filing cabinets, two guppies cavorting briskly in their tank on top of the bookcase.
I climbed behind the big mahogany desk, grabbed the phone and dialed RIchmond 8-1212. A lilting feminine voice answered, “Los Angeles Examiner. May I help you?”
“This is Sheldon Scott,” I said. “I'd like to talk to Tommy Kelly.”
“One moment, please.”
I listened to the noises in the Examiner office for a few seconds, then the lilting voice said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Scott. Mr. Kelly was in this morning, but he left just before noon. He isn't expected back today. Would you like to speak to anyone else?”
“No, no one else, thanks.” I hung up feeling vaguely uneasy. Maybe he was home in bed with an ice-pack on his head. I dug the phone book out of the desk and looked up the Holloway Hotel on Norton Street. I checked the number, stuck the book back in the drawer and the phone rang. I grabbed it.
“Sheldon Scott Agency,” I said.
“Shell, this is Samson.”
“Yeah, Sam. You sound like something's up.”
“This Joe Brooks. He's not Joe Brooks. He's a guy named Maddern. Joey Maddern.”
I wondered how many more people were going to tell me Joe was Joey. I said, “Yeah, Sam, I know. I was coming down to see you later.”
He exploded. “What do you mean, you know? I just got a special delivery flown in from Washington this morning.”
“Calm down, Sam. I'll clear it up soon as I can get down to headquarters. I've got a couple things to do first, though. See you in, say, an hour, hour and a half. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You hear anything from that reporter, Kelly? He call you today?”
“No. What's with Kelly?”
“I'm not sure,’ I said. “Maybe nothing. I'll see you later.”
I hung up and dialed Kelly's hotel and was put through to his room. His wife answered.
“Mrs. Kelly,” I said, “this is Shell Scott. If your husband's around I'd like to talk to him.”
“Oh, Mr. Scott.’ Her voice cooled off a little. “Tommy isn't here; you'll probably catch him at the Examiner office. Or in a steam bath. What did you do to him last night, anyway?”
“I'm sorry about that, Mrs. Kelly. You see, I took him to dinner and—”
“Yes, I know,” she interrupted, “I smelled it on his breath.”
I tried a small chuckle. I listened, but I didn't hear any answering chuckle. I said, “Well, thanks. I'll get in touch with your husband later.”
She said, “I'm not really as angry as I might sound, Mr. Scott. But I wouldn't want episodes like last night's to become a habit.”
I told her I was sure they wouldn't, said goodbye pleasantly and hung up wondering uneasily just where the hell Kelly was. I checked my .38 Colt, slipped it back into its clam-shell holster and left the guppies tearing industriously at the suspended shrimp.
Chapter Nine
ON WESTERN AVENUE, out near Pico Boulevard, there's a square, white cement building set back off the highway about fifty feet. Next door there's a big restaurant, and some of the customers park in the empty lot in front of the square, white building when they go in to eat. If you happened to check, though, you'd find, on numerous occasions, a lot more cars than people eating.
There isn't any sign in front of the cement building, but all afternoon, except on Sunday, guys walk in and out. The ones coming out, usually look either pleased with themselves or down in the dumps. If the favorites have been winning and the guys are chalk players, they look pleased with themselves. If it's a favorite day and the guy coming out likes to play the longshots, he'll usually be wearing a long face and leave before the last race is over. One of those places.
I went inside and brushed through the usual heavy Saturday crowd and into the poker room in back. There was a squat, heavy-bearded guy with a face like Quasimodo behind the soft drink stand.
I walked up to him and said, “I'd like to talk to Cookie Martini.”
He sized me up with small, closed-set eyes and said gruffly, “Who wants to see him?”
“Tell him Shell Scott.”
“The boss don't see many people during working hours. Why should he see you?”
“He's a friend of mine. I think he'll see me.”
He jerked his head at a red-haired guy across the room and said to him, “Tell Cookie there's a mugg out here wants to see him.”
I leaned my elbows on the counter and looked up, “Uh-uh,” I said, “not mugg, friend. A Mr. Sheldon Scott to see him.”
He peered down at me. “Well, well,” he murmured. He glanced at the redhead. “Tell Cookie there's a tough guy, a gentleman named Sheldon Scott, wants to see him.” He accented the “gentleman” unduly.
I said, “Thanks,” and bought two cokes. He accepted one and said, “You shouldn't be so touchy. Where from you know Cookie?”
“Back when I thought I could beat the beetles,” I said. “I learned different.”
He grinned and gulped half his coke. “You could be bad for business.”
I rested my elbow against the coke counter and glanced at the green, fel
t-covered poker table on my left. Six stolid-faced men sat around the table. The draw had just been completed and a guy across the table said, “Check to the one.” Two more men checked around to the guy nearest me with his back to the coke stand. He mixed the cards up in his hand and brought them up in front of his face, leaning back a little so nobody could peek. I peeked. He squeezed the cards apart slow and easy, like if he looked at them all at once he might drop dead. He squeezed them off one at a time: ace of hearts, nine of hearts, three of hearts, seven of hearts. He hesitated just a moment, then spread to the last card. Jack of clubs. Bust. He folded the cards back into his hand, scratched his cheek and looked at the pot; there was maybe three hundred dollars in the middle of the table. He lifted two twenties and a ten off the pile in front of him and dropped them in the middle. The two men on his left tossed their cards onto the table. The guy who'd checked said, “Ladies opened,” showed two queens, and dropped his cards in the discards. Everybody folded. The winner shoved his cards into what was left of the deck and raked in the money. He had three hundred and fifty dollars and the beginning of an ulcer. Nobody said a word and the deal started again.
The redhead came back and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Climb in. Cookie'll see ya.” He grinned with all thirty-two teeth and added, “Mugg.” I grinned back at him and went on by.
Cookie raised his five-feet-seven from behind his desk and stuck out a thin hand. “Long time no see, Scotty. Pull up a stool.”
He was thin, dressed in a baggy gray suit that had seen better days and maybe better years and he wore a sorrowful, sad-eyed and red-nosed look like a college professor flunking out of Alcoholics Anonymous. He knew his business, was a smart cookie—that's where he got the name—and he kept his big ears open. We'd traded favors in the past and what info I got from him had always been good.
I shook his hand and said, “Business looks good outside, Cookie. How's it going?”
He shook his head, “Terrible. Lousy. My luck's so bad I'm afraid to wear pants with zippers. Already today a guy has fifty across on a dog that pays the limit all the way down. Thirteen hundred and fifty, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. He looked miserable. I happened to know he could write a check for a hundred grand and never miss it.
The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 7
