Sam wiggled his big jaw back and forth. “You saw the bruise? Where was it?”
“Never mind.” I grinned. “But take it from me, Sara isn't the kind of gal who'd flip her lid simply because she got a little bruised up. As a matter of fact, she probably loved it. So, I had to take a good close look at Robin.
“Robin had said Joe wasn't fooling around with any girls. He was and even if she didn't know it at first, she sure as hell found out about it later. She knew he'd shacked up with a babe and the only reason for her not admitting it to us was her own guilty conscience. She figured—and probably she was right—that anyone who knew she was shacking with Joe, not her brother, remember, and knew she'd discovered he was cheating on her with another woman, would smack right into one of the best and oldest murder motives since Cain clobbered Abel. Just to tie it up tighter, there was the blackmail touch all to herself if she felt like carrying the play through. Another thing that didn't set just right was that Robin always had Eddie take a powder as soon as I'd show up. For one reason or another, but she got rid of him while I was around asking questions. It might not have meant anything at all, but it also might have meant she was playing it safe in case I got smart enough to start asking embarrassing questions. She sure as blazes wouldn't have wanted Kash around if I started letting cats out of the bag.”
Samson dug out a big wooden match and lit his cigar. “I can see her greedy for the dough,” he said between puffs, “but who says Joe was shacking? And who says Robin knew he was playing fancy?”
“Me. Remember, she was sleeping with the guy. Don't ask me how I know she knew. Just take my word for it.” I grinned at him. “It has to do with some scratches. But she knew, all right.”
“Bruises. Scratches. I'll be damned.” Samson was getting so he swore a lot.
I said, “It's all yours, Sam. Bust it wide open. All except the Joey-Robin business—the Maddern caper. I've got my reasons. I don't mean anything illegal. Let the long arm of the law take its course. Just soft-pedal that particular one, huh?”
He nodded his big, iron-gray head. “I'll do what I can, Shell. There'll be plenty of stuff for the papers to play up.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly, thinking of a little, eager guy. “What a scoop this would have been for Kelly.”
Chapter Twenty
ROOM 324. I knocked softly and after a couple of minutes a light flicked on inside and she peered out at me through the old-fashioned, gold-rimmed spectacles. She didn't have on the high-laced shoes and in an old cotton robe and flat slippers, she looked about as big as a mouse. I still thought she was cute.
“Why, Mr. Scott,” she exclaimed, “what is it?”
“I'm sorry if I woke you up, Mrs. Maddern. I didn't realize it was so late. May I come in for a moment?”
“Of course, Mr. Scott.”
I went inside and stood in the center of the room.
This had been a rough night already, but one of the roughest things was going to be telling Mrs. Maddern just what had happened to her son, just what kind of a larcenous character he was. I hated what I had to tell her about her Joseph. He wasn't a barefoot kid in knickers any more. One thing in Joe's favor, though, he was smart enough to know he was messing around with some rough boys that could stiffen him permanently if they got the idea into their heads and he still had the decency to want his mother to have what money he'd put aside if it came to that. Even if the dough was from blackmailing a murderer and stealing from a bookie. Funny how it had finally worked out.
“Sit down, Mr. Scott,” she said in her small, soft voice. “Is it about Joseph?”
“Yes.” I opened my mouth to tell her that her son was a thief and a blackmailer and a no-good little chiseler. She was peering at me expectantly out of the tops of her spectacles. Suddenly I knew I couldn't.
“What's the matter?” she asked.
“Well, nothing, really.” I made it up as I went along. “It's just that I've completed my investigation. I can tell you now; I was working the Los Angeles area for the National Safety Council—investigating a series of traffic accidents in the city. Your son was involved in one of those accidents, Mrs. Maddem. A hit-and-run. I'm sorry, but we haven't been able to find the man or the car that hit Joe. You know how difficult these things are to trace. And that's all there was to it.”
“I see,” she said.
“About the letter he wrote you,” I went on. “He wasn't really worried about anything, just being careful. He'd been going to the doctor—I checked with the doctor myself and Joe had a slight cardiac condition. It wasn't serious, but it made him stop and think.”
“Cardiac condition?” she asked.
“Heart trouble. I think you mentioned he'd had the mumps when he was a boy. That often weakens the heart. Then, too, he wasn't really very robust.”
She shook her head slowly and her eyes were slightly moist. “Joseph never was very strong,” she said.
I got up and she said suddenly. “Oh, about the money.”
“That's yours. Joseph wanted you to have it.”
“No, that's not what I meant. I mean, can't I pay you something? For all your help?”
“No.” I smiled at her. “I've been taken care of. I'm sorry you've had all this trouble, Mrs. Maddern. What will you do now?”
She took off her glasses, brushed at her eyes and put the glasses back on. “I suppose I'll go back home. All the people I know are there. All my friends. I'll arrange for Joseph to be buried back home. I'll probably leave tomorrow.”
I walked to the door. “Well, goodnight, then, Mrs. Maddern. And good-by.”
She stood in the door, tiny and cute, and looked up at me. “Good-by, Mr. Scott. You're very sweet”
I left feeling noble as hell.
In the office I stopped feeling noble. I leaned back in the chair behind my desk, coat off, feet on the desk. It had been quite a case. It had started with trying to find out how and why a little guy named Joe had been killed. But by the time the truth was out, there'd been enough buried secrets dug up, hidden shames uncovered and twisted desires hauled out into the sun to make a private detective wonder if he shouldn't have taken up bookkeeping or maybe digging ditches. It had been like scratching a pimple and watching it grow into a festering sore; ugly, with pus-poisoned tentacles burning beneath the surface.
Women!
Of course, some of them were different. Sara, for one—she was, at least, different. One thing I could say for Sara: she'd been completely honest with me and if she liked me or was nice to me, it wasn't because I was a private eye on a case; it was just because I was Shell Scott. I couldn't say the same for Robin or Gloria.
I leaned back in the chair and felt disgusted with people in general and women in particular. And then I remembered Maxine. Ahhh, Maxine. Ahhh, again. Blonde, blue-eyed, willowy, down-her-nose-looking Maxine.
I looked at my watch. One A.M. I took my feet off the desk and grinned. Uh-huh. Maybe Maxine was different.
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Copyright © 1958 by Richard S. Prather
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The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 17
