“Sure,” he said. “I ought to know him. He's been here enough.”
“O.K.” I said, “want to make twenty bucks?”
His eyes sparkled. He wanted to make twenty bucks.
I had Henry get me his phone book. I looked up the number of the Johnson-Kash Company and wrote it on a piece of paper. I handed it to Henry and said, “Henry, if Eddie Kash leaves here any time before closing, call this number and ask for Mr. Bennett. If any calls come here for Kash, say he's left. That's all you do for the twenty. And don't say anything to Kash. Got it? It's important.”
“Got it,” he said. “Kinda screwy.”
“Don't worry about it.” I gave him the double sawbuck. “I want a pair of glasses. Horn-rimmed, if you've got them. Not the kind that squirt water or give you black eyes. Just plain glasses, clear lenses, if you've got them around.”
He thought a minute, walked to one of the shelves and got down a box, took something out and came back. “Best I can do,” he said. “They got windshield wipers. Good for a laugh when it rains. Even when it don't rain.”
I looked them over. They were about what I wanted, round horn rims, plain, except for a little lever sticking straight up about a quarter of an inch in the middle and a tiny, delicate wire-and-rubber extension almost invisible along the outer side of each lens. They'd do; they were designed so they looked normal enough till you wiggled the little lever and sent the tiny wiper swishing back and forth. I gave Henry another buck and used his phone again.
A friend of mine named Smith was in the last gasping stages of the accounting course at Woodbury's College. I'd once given him my last fifth of bourbon so I figured he owed me a favor. After talking to about nine people at Woodbury's and being told that classes were in session and that this was highly irregular, I got him. It took me five or six minutes to get the dope I wanted from him and I had to repeat it three times, but finally I thought I had it. He also told me the bourbon was all gone. I ignored that.
The Johnson-Kash building was in the middle of the block between Seventh and Eighth on Figueroa. I stood in front of the wide chromium and glass doors and admired my reflection. I'd stopped by the apartment, picked up a briefcase stuffed with newspapers and changed from the teal-blue gabardine suit to a solid black job I'd last worn to a funeral, drab black tie, black shoes and my one and only hat—a battered, dark snap-brim from which I'd removed the yellow and red feather. The hat rested against the clipped top of my left ear and effectively covered my erect blond hair. There was nothing at all I could do about the nose.
Even wearing the horn-rimmed glasses, I was still Shell Scott, Investigations. I wouldn't have fooled my sixth cousin or anyone else who knew me. But at least, nobody was going to be describing a big blond in a tailored blue suit and the loudest tie you ever saw. I even looked a little studious.
I pushed through the wide doors and walked inside. In front was a desk behind which sat a pert receptionist with a typewriter, pencil behind her ear and assorted curves. Behind her, another half-dozen desks on each side of the big room stretched back to the wall, in which were three doors with gold-lettered windows. I couldn't read the lettering from this distance, but I imagined one of the windows read, “Mr. Edward Kash, President,” or words to that effect. Two big doors in the wall to my right, as I faced the rear offices, led into other rooms I assumed were the warehouse areas.
I hugged the briefcase under my left arm and walked over to the pert receptionist. I kept my hat on. I cleared my throat and adjusted my glasses. “Mr. Kash, please?” I inquired.
She looked up and smiled mechanically. “Mr. Kash isn't here, sir. May I help you?”
“Oh, that's unfortunate. I thought certainly Mr. Kash would be here. Oh, well, I suppose it's of no moment, really. If you'll just help me to get started, I'll go right to work.” I beamed at her.
She started to beam back, then wrinkled up her forehead. “Huh?” she said indelicately, then, “I beg your pardon? I don't quite understand. Work at what?”
“Why, on the audit,” I said. “I'm Mr. Bennett.”
Her forehead stayed wrinkled so I said as if it explained everything, “The auditor, Mr. Bennett.”
“But I don't know anything about an audit.” The girl was confused.
I said impatiently, “Will you direct me to whoever is in charge in Mr. Kash's absence, young lady?” I looked at my watch. “I really must get started.”
She pressed her lips together, stood up quickly and took a deep breath as if she were blowing up two balloons. I stopped the leer just in time; it would hardly have been in character, it seemed.
She snapped, “Follow me.”
I followed her with pleasure. She led me down the aisle between the two rows of desks and into an office at the left rear. She presented me to a Mr. Matthews, a short, potbellied man with a straggling black mustache, spun around and left.
Mr. Matthews rose from behind his desk and extended his hand. I shook hands with enough pressure to bend a marshmallow and said, “Mr. Matthews, the young lady didn't understand there was to be a special audit so I naturally asked for the executive in charge. I've wasted much time already and I hoped to be through by Tuesday at the latest. You understand.”
He didn't understand. After two or three minutes of his not understanding, I assumed a grieved expression and said a bit frostily, “Mr. Matthews, if you'll just call Mr. Kash I'm sure he can explain why you weren't informed of this audit.”
I sat down in a chair by the desk and hugged my newspaper-filled briefcase. He hesitated and I added, after taking a deep breath and crossing my fingers, “It's nearly five o'clock. All I actually hoped to do today was start checking your accounts receivable with a view toward revising your reserve for bad debts. Mr. Kash apparently feels that the existing reserve is inadequate.” I added casually, just as if I knew what I was saying, “You understand, of course, that the more bad debt expense we can charge against revenue, the less income tax we'll have to pay. I won't need the profit-and-loss statement and balance sheet for the last period until sometime Monday morning.”
For one horrible moment I couldn't remember if it was profit-and-loss statement and balance sheet, or profit-and-balance statement and loss sheet. If Matthews wanted a little clarification, this could get cute. I could go through my spiel again like a record, but I couldn't add anything else. Smith hadn't told me anything else. No bourbon for him.
Matthews said, “Hmmm.”
That was enlightening. I sniffed and glanced nervously at my watch. I wasn't acting; I was nervous. “At this rate I won't get anything done. Well, Mr. Kash will have to pay me for this time anyway.
Matthews frowned. “Certainly, Mr. Bennett. It's a little irregular, but I suppose it's all right. I'll see if I can't locate Mr. Kash, if you don't mind just a little more delay.”
I said, “Surely, surely. That would be fine, Mr. Matthews,” and drummed on my briefcase. From where I sat, I could watch him as he dialed numbers on the phone. The first number drew a blank. He hesitated just a moment, then dialed what looked like the number where Henry should be waiting. I hoped he was. The palms of my hands were moist while I waited and listened to the short one-sided conversation.
Matthews put the phone down and turned to me. “I couldn't reach him,” he said. “I did call, uh, a business conference he was to attend and they told me he'd just left. I imagine he'll be here shortly.”
“Fine,” I said. “Now if I can just get started, I'm sure Mr. Kash will explain everything when he gets here. He told me, incidentally, I'd probably find it convenient to use his office.” I looked at him inquiringly over the top rims of my glasses thinking idiotically what a laugh it would be if the little wipers should suddenly start going click-click, click-click in Matthews’ kisser.
He sighed, nodded and showed me out of his office and into the one next to his. It was a sumptuous office: thick, gray carpet; comfortable-looking chairs; on the wall, a framed reproduction of a magnificent painting of Man O’ Wa
r; and a big, blond-wood desk with an upholstered swivel chair behind it. Upholstered, yet. I sank into the chair behind the desk and looked at the framed portrait facing me. The wise brown eyes of Robin Brooks stared back at me as if to say, “Shell, Shell, what are you doing?” I picked up the portrait and showed it to Matthews.
“His wife?” I asked.
“No, uh, just a friend, I understand.”
I put the picture back on the desk. “Lovely girl, isn't she? Lovely. Now if you'll just have someone show me the accounts receivable, I'll start with them as quickly as possible.”
While he went to the files I gave the office a quick once-over. Everything looked okay except the wall safe. If it was in there, Matthews would let me throw a screaming fit, but I knew damn well he wouldn't open the thing. Probably he didn't know the combination anyway. He came bustling back in followed by a kid about nineteen carrying two not very impressive looking binders. I hoped they were the accounts receivable ledgers. If they came in ledgers.
I said, “If you'll just put those on the desk, young man. Thank you.” I turned to Matthews. “You've been quite helpful, really. I'm sorry if this has disturbed you in any way, but I'm sure Mr. Kash will straighten it all out.” I paused reflectively, “Didn't he say anything to you this morning?”
He shook his head. “Mr. Kash hasn't been in at all today. He sometimes doesn't come in.” He laughed, not very heartily, “He seems to think we run the business pretty well in his absence.”
“I'm sure you do,” I said with no particular sarcasm. “However, that probably explains it. Mr. Kash only spoke to me about this special audit yesterday. I just happened to be free till Wednesday. Maybe,” I added brightly, “it's in the nature of a surprise.”
He opened his mouth, then half shut it. Then he said, “Yes, that must be it. Yes.”
For one sickening moment I thought he was going to stand there and watch the auditor audit, but he suddenly turned and left, closing the door behind him. I wondered about him.
As it turned out, I needn't have worried about the wall safe. I found it in the logical and obvious place, the middle drawer of the big blonde desk. I had to break the lock to get inside the drawer, but nobody came in and it was worth it. It seemed a small matter anyway after the trouble I'd had just getting as far as this.
It was the usual big, black book with “Angelus Bank, Los Angeles, California” stamped on the front cover in gold letters. I never knew reading check stubs could be so interesting. After twenty minutes of reading I wished I really was an auditor, but I'd learned a little anyway. In January and February of this year, the firm had apparently started dealing with a new firm, the Middleton Manufacturing Company in Riverside. These checks were all drawn by Kash and none were drawn before January or after February. In that period, Eddie had made out numerous checks to cover usual business expenses in addition to several substantial withdrawals from the Johnson-Kash account to the Middleton Manufacturing Company: $1000.00, $1500.00, $1700.00, climaxed by one big check for $10,000.00 drawn February 26th and made out to cash. I checked some other scribblings in the desk to make sure the stubs were in Kash's handwriting. They checked.
The audit was complete. Probably the fastest audit ever accomplished. Even of just accounts receivable, whatever that was.
I wiped off the checkbook, carefully replaced it in the desk—wondering why I was going to such pains to remove proof of my presence—took off my glasses and wiped them, put them back on and walked out.
The pert receptionist sat behind her desk and looked bored. I imagine she was bored. I felt sorry for her. I really did. I leaned over her desk and said, “Sorry I was such a jerk.”
She looked at me, blinking. I reached up and wiggled the small lever on the bridge of my glasses. The miniature wipers worked like a charm: swish, swish, back and forth. Her eyes followed them in little jerks, fascinated. I thought she might be going to scream. She pulled her chin in against her neck, looked up at me from under pencilled brows and scurried off in the general direction of Mr. Matthews.
I slipped behind the desk and one-fingered quickly on the blank paper in the typewriter, “For you, sweetheart,” left the glasses on the typewriter and scurried off myself in the general direction of the Cadillac.
Eddie was going to have a stroke. That was O.K. by me. Let him stew a little. I'd got what I wanted and, besides, the receptionist wasn't looking bored when I left. That's my policy, never leave them bored. You never can tell.
It was five-thirty on the nose, time I saw Louis Morris. If he still lived at his apartment in the Woolford Arms on Harvard Boulevard and if he hadn't changed his habits since the last time I saw him, he should just be getting out of bed.
I was right both times. He peeped around the corner of the door and blinked at me sleepily. “Well, Shell,” he mumbled. “Whatsa matter? Didn't you go to bed?”
“Sure, but I got up. Half a day ago.”
“Horrible,” he said. “Horrible. Come on in, if you must.” He opened the door for me and I went inside. He smelled like mash fermenting.
I asked him, “What the devil were you drinking last night?”
He shook his tousled black head; tight curly locks of hair bounced on his white forehead. “I wish I knew. I'm dying.” He smacked his lips, “Never again. I swear it. Never, never again. Come on in the bedroom. What brings you to the morgue, anyway?”
“I need some information, Louis, and I need it straight. Case I'm on. I figure you won't give me any doubletalk.”
“That's right, Shell. You're the only dick, private or otherwise, ever gave me a break. I could have got in some real trouble with the big boys over those one-armed bandits if you hadn't wised me up. Ask and ye shall receive.”
“Poker game last Wednesday, table stakes. I hear you were in it.”
“And how I was in it. And I'm still in it Seven hundred clams I'm in it. What's important about it besides my seven hundred clams?” He moaned, rolled back into bed and propped two pillows under his head. He was a good-looking guy about my age, husky, five-ten or eleven, pale and obviously suffering from a beautiful hangover. I could sympathize with him.
I said, “Who else was in the game?”
“Let's see, Morey Gatz, Pete Sanders, Beeny, Lenny Crofts for a little while. He went busted quick. Then there was Eddie Kash and Hymie Blinz.” He counted on his fingers. “That's the size of it.”
“Anybody leave?”
“Not till the game busted up. About one, one-thirty in the A.M.” He yawned and stared at me curiously. “What gives? Why all the interest? Poker against the law now?”
I said, “You sure about nobody leaving earlier? It might be important.”
“Positive. I would have gladly spit in their eyes if they had. Leave with my seven hundred clams, sure.
“Kash was there all the time, huh?”
“Sure Kash was there. All seven of us were there. Hey, what cooks here? The cops gave me the same kind of song and dance about Kash.”
“Well, under your hat, Louis, a guy got a little murdered. I'm checking some alibis. Maybe it means nothing.”
“I'm not screwed up in it, am I?”
“No, you're all right, Louis. You didn't knock anybody off, did you?”
“Sure. Three, four. I forget just how many.”
“I meant Wednesday night.” I forced a chuckle. Okay. I won't tell. And, Louis, forget I was by.”
“I already forgot.” He grinned at me and yawned hugely.
I told him thanks and to go to bed nights like people.
Outside, I leaned against the door and swore softly and fluently, and with much feeling for quite awhile.
Chapter Twelve
THE FIRST THING I did when I got back to the apartment was to get out of those stinking black clothes. In a dark maroon robe I felt better, more presentable even. The second thing I did was call the Examiner. No, Kelly hadn't been back as far as they knew. No, they didn't know where he was.
I called Kelly's hote
l and got Mrs. Kelly again.
“This is Mr. Scott again, Mrs. Kelly. I talked to you this morning. Has your husband been in yet?”
“Hello, Mr. Scott. No, he usually doesn't get home before seven. Sometimes it's much later.” She paused and said slowly, “Like last night. Was it something important?”
“Probably not. I thought he might get in touch with me today. I haven't been in the apartment much and he could have called and missed me. I thought perhaps he'd left some message with you.”
“No. He did call about three this afternoon to say he might be late for dinner. That's all. If he should phone again, I'll tell him you've been trying to reach him, Mr. Scott.”
“Fine and thanks. Just tell him I called.”
I hung up and examined the phone receiver in minute detail for sixty seconds, then shrugged and got out the phone book. I found “Dragoon, Fleming” listed on Gramercy Place; I found immediately underneath, “Dragoon, Sara” on North Plymouth Boulevard. I called the pretty one.
After ten—I counted them, ten—futile buzzes she answered the phone with a soft, purring, “Yes?”
“Sara?”
“Yes. Who is it?”
“This is Shell Scott.”
She breathed it into the phone, “Oooh, I remember. The beautiful blond man.”
I snickered a little. “Yeah, that's me. Describes me perfectly.”
“Well, hurry up,” she said, not too impatiently, “what do you want? I'm all wet; I was in the shower.”
“Oh, I'm sorry; I'll make it quick, then.”
“It's all right, Shell. I was just kidding. I'm standing on a towel, anyway.”
I said, “Look, I want to see you.”
She laughed some more. “Naughty,” she said. “Oh, you're naughty.”
I growled at her, “I didn't mean this minute. I meant later. Tonight.”
“I'm disappointed,” she teased. “How much later?”
“Say an hour. I want to talk to you.”
All right. Come by at seven-thirty. You can talk to me over dinner.”
The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 10
