I stopped and looked at Peel. He didn't seem worried. “That gas,” I said, “It's cyanide. Up at Quentin they've got a little, funny-shaped room. It's painted green and there's glass all around so the witnesses can watch you die. A little cyanide pill rolls down a slide into some sulphuric acid and soon you stop moving. After a few minutes, a doc plays with a long tube that sticks into the little green room from outside and he puts it over your heart and he hears a lot of nothing. No heartbeat, no nothing. You're dead, Peel.”
He looked just a little green himself. I went on, “It's simple. It was a lot better from your point of view to keep that tape as a club over the guy's head—at least as long as you're in the cash-and-carry kill racket. The only guys who know what's cooking on your jobs can't ever spill anything and keep their skirts clean at the same time. They're automatically accessory before the fact, which is just as good as being a principal, and their stomachs get upset, too. And you made it a point to make sure all your clients knew you had the recordings. Another thing, you were damn careful to see nobody got a good look at you or your boys or even knew where they were taken for the arrangements. Result: there's not much they could spill anyway.” I swallowed a couple of times and said as easily as I could, “Stop me if I'm wrong.”
He leaned back in the swivel chair and ran his left hand through the fringe of gray at his temple. His right hand—the one with the gun—didn't even jiggle.
He said, “You're smarter than I thought, Scott. It's really unfortunate. You've given me some of the information I wanted, but you picked up more on the way. Too much more.” He glared at me, then asked, “How did Joe Brooks manage to get away with blackmailing Kash? Naturally, that's of immense importance to me. He wiggled the gun.
I watched the gun wiggle and said, “He must have got ideas about Eddie the same way I did. Eddie was in deep, lifting from his partner. He made a lot of bets on the beetles, dropped a pile of dough—and he made all those bets with Joe at Dragoon's horse parlor. All of a sudden he stops betting; he gets off all over town—no money. Next thing, his partner gets killed. Hit-and-run—that was one of your plays, Peel. Eddie probably paid you ten grand for that favor after he cashed a check for that much he'd made out to cash—also from company funds, but by then it didn't make any difference.
“Then, bang, Eddie's in the chips again and back at the bookies. And betting big chunks with Joe again. It adds. Eddie's partner must have found out what was going on, threatened Eddie, presto, end of partner. I could see it from this far off when I knew the score and Joe was right on top of the play. You can relax; none of your smelly little circle spilled. Joe figured it out for himself.
“Now comes the cute gimmick.” I ground out my cigarette in the ashtray on Peel's desk. “Joe thought he might have Eddie in a spot, but he wasn't sure. Anyway, he gives it a whirl. Maybe he phones him, maybe he writes him a letter; it's not important. The important thing is, Eddie comes through with the cash. Joe's not sure just what he's got, but, what the hell, the squeeze works, so what difference does it make?
“And here's the beaut,” I said. “Eddie paid because he thought it was you. Not you, Victor Peel in person, but the boys with the tape, with the record, with the proof he'd had a job done on Johnson. Isn't that a laugh?”
“Most amusing,” Peel said. Without taking his eyes off me he laughed softly like at somebody else's joke. “I wondered if there could possibly have been a leak anywhere. We've been very careful. Something like this could be extremely bad for business.” He chuckled softly again. I didn't like the sound of it.
“You're right, you know,” he continued. “Any form of extortion would have been quite foolish while we were engaged in the, ah, other business. However, the recordings are not without some future usefulness, perhaps. Sort of a personal rainy-day fund, insurance against my old age if I should decide to retire from, ah, active practice, say.” He grinned at me, pleased with himself.
I said, “Look, Peel, there's one thing I don't get. For this whole thing to make any sense at all, you had to know Eddie was being blackmailed. It makes sense then, because if you had even the slightest idea it might have been Joe—and he stood out just a little—then when he got killed by an apparent hit-and-run, which happens to be your favorite method, you'd get worried enough to put a private detective on the kill. You couldn't afford to leave anyone walking around who might be getting even warm on your caper. Naturally I'm assuming you didn't kill Joe yourself or you'd have had better sense than to start me checking it. But how did you find out someone was putting Eddie in the squeeze?”
He looked at me. “Really, I see no reason why I should tell you anything more, Scott. Or admit anything to you, for that matter.”
“You've already admitted practically everything.” I pointed at the gun in his hand. “Besides, there's your admission, Peel. All the admission I care about anyway. I just happen to be curious.”
He chuckled. “I don't suppose it really makes a great deal of difference. Kash tried to make wagers on the horses and keep enough money on hand to pay off with at the same time, if it became necessary to do so. It didn't work. He's far too interested in the horses. The individual who was blackmailing Eddie—apparently Mr. Joe Brooks—put the pressure on Kash again. The unfortunate thing was that Eddie couldn't get enough money together on short notice. So he got in touch with us through his original channels and asked politely if we couldn't wait a week or two until he could accumulate the cash. Naturally we were surprised. Also, naturally, Kash was surprised when we told him we hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about.”
So that was it. Eddie had gone to them. That was the thing that had been puzzling me. I'd been holding myself in, hanging on to the anger and sickness inside me just to find out that little thing. Well I had it.
I said. “So you found out Joe was the guy running the shakedown and knocked him off.” I just said it. I didn't really believe it myself.
He looked startled for a moment, then laughed. It was genuine laughter. “Certainly. Then I retain you and pay you five thousand dollars to find it out and convict me. What kind of idiot do you think I am, Scott? No, I would have killed him all right, if his blackmail incentive had anything to do with my organization. But I didn't have to. I was merely anxious to know more positively the source of the blackmail and the basis for it. I'm satisfied that it was nothing that might endanger me or my little group.”
He paused, then it came. Easy. Nothing melodramatic; just calmly matter of fact. “There's no reason for me to lie, you know. You must realize that I have to kill you.”
Just like that. I'd been half expecting it ever since I figured Peel must have been the guy who stuck his gunmen on me when I was here before. Gunmen. That reminded me.
I ignored his last remark, or tried to, and said, “Your boys. The ones you sent to take care of me.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “If they didn't complete their, ah, assignment—and its quite obvious they must not have—they're probably of no further use to me.” He smiled thinly.
“Not dead they're not.”
“I suspected as much when you came in.”
“What'd you do? Have them on my tail all the time?”
“Not at all. As soon as they finished with Mr. Kelly, they naturally called me. Charles informed me you were still out front eating, so I merely had them pick you up as you left. They followed you out to the hotel you visited and informed me of that by phone.”
“And then you gave them the word go on me, huh?”
He shrugged.
“It was a mistake, Peel. They're probably both down at the morgue by now.”
He showed me his crooked teeth again. “No, I don't think it was a mistake. Actually, things have worked out quite well. My little organization was composed of just those two and myself. Now you and I are the only ones who know about it. Not so good for you, is it, Mr. Scott?”
“How about Charles? He seems to be one of your errand boys.”
�
��That's all he is, an errand boy. Just a stupid flunky.”
“You think everybody's stupid but you, don't you, Peel?” I said with disgust in my voice, “You kill for no reason at all except the money you can get out of it.”
He chuckled again. “I'm merely intelligent enough to realize how easy it is to get away with murder, literally. And in a compact organization like mine is or, rather, was,” he corrected himself, “there's virtually no chance for trouble if the method is ingenious enough.”
He got serious. “You know, Scott, my method of, well, shall we say disposal of the selected subjects may seem a little involved to you, a bit intricate. But it's really ingenious. Well worth the added trouble. If you use a gun, there's always ballistics, always the chance the gun may be traced. If you beat a man to death and leave his body lying in an alley, it's obviously murder. This way there is often room for doubt. The police may suspect, but in many cases they can never be sure. You know, Scott, you'd be amazed how many of my jobs have been completely overlooked, how many of them have simply passed as accidental deaths.”
“Sure.” I said, “I'd be amazed.”
Peel continued, “This difficulty with Mr. Brooks caused me some worry, I'll admit. Particularly the method. Probably the person took the cue from the current campaign against hit-and-run deaths in the newspapers, don't you think?” He laughed uproariously. “The stupid fools.” Then he got calmed down again and said, “Actually, my method has just about outlived its usefulness now that there's been such a hue and cry in the papers. Besides, if, as you say, my two assistants are in the morgue, that simplifies my withdrawal from the business.”
“One other thing,” I said. “The tape recordings.”
“What about them?”
“That's what I'd like to know. What about them? Where are they? Who's got them?”
He laughed out loud in my face, then sobered. “Those recordings are the least of your worries. They're here, right in my safe here in this room. Now what are you going to do? Take them away from me?” He laughed softly. He really seemed to be enjoying himself.
“I told you before,” I said. “I'm just curious.”
Peel stared at me from under his straight, thick brows. “Who did kill Mr. Brooks, Scott?”
That jarred me, too. I hadn't expected it Who the hell had killed him? Eddie? No, he had an alibi for the time. Robin? I hesitated over that one; could be. She couldn't satisfactorily explain how she'd spent all her time on the night of the kill—except that she'd been home, which was a little weak. Then there was that name business which still puzzled me a little. Dragoon? He might have if he was griped enough about Joe's digging into his cash. But little Zerkle was still walking around. If he killed Joe, why not Zerkle, too? Sara? It didn't figure. But there were some other angles I had I could play with if...
“Stand up.” Peel was leaning against the desk, his lips split to show me his crooked teeth. “I've learned all I really wanted to know. It isn't important about Mr. Brooks. It's time I retired. I'm rather a wealthy man.”
“Wealthy, maybe. Not much of a man.”
“No accident for you, Scott,” he spat at me. “Nothing fancy. Just a bullet in the mouth. Right in the teeth.
Some of the polish seemed to have sloughed off him. He was more bestial. More now on the surface as he must have been inside. I licked my lips with a dry tongue and swallowed.
“That's it, Scott.” He grinned. “Be scared.”
He held the little gun very steady and centered on my face. “I almost hate to do this,” he said. He wasn't grinning now, but his face was tense and his eyes sparkled.
I watched the bore of the gun. My legs felt as if they belonged to someone else and I was scared.
It's funny, that feeling you get when you think you're close to dying. Maybe you've been through it before. But it always happens. All of a sudden it sinks in. This guy means it; he's not kidding. And the cotton swells up in your mouth and something happens to your stomach and your legs get weak and are not your legs at all.
My voice came out as if it was strained through gravel. “How about a cigarette before...” I didn't finish it. I didn't think I had to. He'd give me the smoke. He liked to play with me. Guys who get into a murder-for-pay racket, like Peel, didn't do it just for dough. There has to be something twisted and dark and evil inside them—something that makes them get a warped satisfaction out of playing with lives. Peel was having himself a time. Big fun. Cat-and-mouse. Puppet on a string.
He looked normal enough standing behind the big desk: two legs, two arms, two hands—one with a gun, a face a little tense and twisted. But somewhere in a corner of his brain, there was wild laughter and he was getting his kicks. He'd let me have my smoke.
He didn't answer for a long moment, then he said, dragging the words out, “Surely. Why not? Smoke it slowly, Scott. Enjoy it.”
I let out a big breath. Then I reached into my pocket for the cigarettes and matches.
“Move slowly,” he told me. “Quite slowly, Mr. Scott.”
There wasn't much choice; I had to get him rattled a little or I'd never get to make a break. So I didn't move slowly I came up with the pack all right, but fast.
He jerked a little. The corners of his mouth twitched and my stomach did a quick flip. I jabbed a smoke into my mouth and tossed the pack at him quick.
“Have one,” I said in a brave squeak.
The pack hit him on the shoulder and plopped down onto the floor. Two or three grains of tobacco clung to his coat. He reached up slowly with his left hand and brushed at his coat. He kept the right hand pointing at me, but he lowered the automatic till it was pointing at my navel. I saw the creases on his index finger get shallower as his finger tightened almost imperceptibly on the trigger.
“Sorry,” I said. “What's the matter? You nervous?”
He was leery; he wasn't sure just what was going on. He was trying to make up his mind whether to pull that trigger. Just a little off balance. Just a little but enough. Maybe.
I bent the cover back on the full book of matches I'd picked up outside. I tore one off, struck it and brought the open book and the little flame up in front of my face. I looked at Peel, but out of the corner of my eye I could see the flame lick at the row of unused matches. Then they burst into sudden flame and I slung them at his face, straight for his eyes. I hurled myself at him. He pulled his head back and let out a startled yelp and fired a shot that plucked at my arm and cracked into the wall behind me. I slid over the desk and slammed my balled left fist into the gun. Pain lanced through my bandaged shoulder, but the gun leaped out of his hand and clattered up against the wall.
I wanted to get my hands on him. The repressed anger and hate came bubbling up in me and I wanted to get my fingers around his throat. I wanted to watch his eyes bulge and feel the cords of his neck twisting under my thumbs.
I rolled off the desk and got my left foot anchored on the rug and his fist came out of nowhere and crashed into my jaw. It stopped me for a minute. He might have had me then. I was too eager; I wasn't set for the blow and it staggered me. But he didn't follow it up.
Through a red haze I saw him whirl and dive for the gun on the floor. He pawed for it. Got his hand on it and started to turn. He was stooped over, just coming up off the floor, his head twisted back toward me. I didn't have time for the niceties. I took a quick step toward him and swung my right foot in a swift arc. The point of my shoe caught him in the mouth and I heard the brittle crunch of breaking teeth. He flopped back against the wall and slid down it, slowly.
It should have torn his head off his neck. It should have killed him. But he wasn't out. His breath whistled through his mashed lips and jagged teeth like a man sucking on a clogged pipe. But he was still moving. He just sat there against the wall like a dead man while the gun toppled out of his hand. He turned his head stupidly and his eyes focused on the .32 again. He reached for it. Damned if he didn't reach for it. Like a guy moving in slow motion while I watched him. H
e fumbled at it, got his hand on it, lifted it.
I leaned over and slapped the gun across the room, grabbed him by the front of his coat and lifted him up. I thought for a flashing moment of Kelly, of the ten or fifty or maybe a hundred others he'd killed or had killed. And the fun he'd had getting ready to murder me.
And I let him have it. I started it from the tight muscles in my calves, let it travel up through my shoulder and into my balled fist and I let two hundred and six pounds explode on the point of his chin. His head snapped back, back, back as if it were never going to stop. His arms jerked up a little into the air and he fell over on his face and lay still.
I stood over him breathing in great gusts, my mouth open. The tenseness drained out of me and the haze swirled away from my eyes and I felt my hand uncurl and drop down to my side like somebody had peeled it open and dropped it there. I lifted my arm and looked at the palm of my hand and I could see the four little half-moons my nails had dug into the flesh. I started to shake. I turned around and dropped down into the chair behind Peel's desk.
I just sat there for a couple of minutes trying to get back to normal and not moving. Peel didn't move either. Finally, I lifted the phone and called Homicide. Samson answered.
“Sam,” I said, “I'm glad you're there. This is Shell.”
“What's the matter? You don't sound right.”
“I'm okay. I'm at the Seraglio. Get out here.”
“Seraglio? The night club?”
“Yeah. On Sunset.
“What the hell—”
I interrupted him. “There'll be a red-nosed guy named Charles inside. He'll show you where the office is. And bring a doctor.”
“A doctor? What—you hurt, Shell?”
The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 15
