Dance with the Dead (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Or, in this case, exit.

  There was time for no other even vaguely clear thought, because as the railing collided with my thigh I felt myself going over it, pinwheeling, spinning dizzily, letting out a great shocked sound.

  Loana yelled something from behind me, and it seemed way off behind me, but all I could make out was part of a phrase:

  . . . don’t go . . .

  I started to tell her I didn’t want to go, but it was too late.

  I was going.

  There was a wild eternity of sight and sound and banging sensations. I refused to admit that I was falling out of the Banyan Tree, plummeting from on high down into Waikiki, simply refused to admit it — but it didn’t make any difference. That is exactly what I was doing.

  I seemed simultaneously to be going in several different directions. My head hit a solid limb and zigzag blotches flashed before my eyes. For one horrible instant there was the dear, even though mercifully brief, sight of people below me somewhere, people casually gadding about, strolling and looking into shop windows. I grabbed frantically at limbs, twigs, even leaves. But they were not fig leaves. Not with my luck.

  In the last kaleidoscopic moments of my fall, a hundred, a thousand remembered scenes ripped like successive small explosions through my mind. It is said that in one second a man can dream events it would take him a month to live, and if that was what was happening to me I only wished I was dreaming.

  Even while the hard ground rushed up at me, those memory explosions blossomed in my mind. Hollywood . . . Las Vegas . . . the nudity of women . . . the lean hard faces of men . . . blood spreading over a dead mans back . . . the sound and sight of gunshots . . . and all those lovely lovelies. . . .

  Two

  I had never even heard of a banyan tree when Webley Alden phoned that night to say he was in trouble and to ask me for help.

  It was a Thursday night, August thirteenth, and I was at home — the Spartan Apartment Hotel in Hollywood — trying once again to breed Hyphessobrycon innesi. I’ve kept tropical fish for years, bred a dozen varieties, but my several attempts to breed the Neon Tetra, which isnt really a Tetra but a Characin, have been a story of frustration, failure, defeat. Breeding neons had become a symbol, a goal, a challenge. And this time I was going at the job with grim determination.

  The two tropical-fish tanks are at the left of the front door, but I’d set up alongside them a third one, a 20-gallon tank containing neutral, sterile water at 78 degrees, and conditions just right for breeding the vivid little fish. So I thought, anyway. The damned fish didn’t seem to think so.

  It was a fine big pair of neons, well conditioned on live daphnia and brine shrimp, the female heavy with spawn, and they had been dancing about in what I hoped was flirtatious fashion for two days now. But nothing had happened. I was about to pour a slug of bourbon into the aquarium, thinking that if they got a little giddy . . .

  And then the phone rang. It was Webley Alden.

  Webb, an old friend. He was thirty-eight, a bachelor, wise, witty, lusty, likable, enjoyable to be around. Webb didn’t live in Hollywood, but in the small city of Medina, part of L.A. County and only a short hop outside the L.A. city limits.

  Originally a commercial photographer and a good one, he had made several improvements in then-existing camera and developing equipment, and perfected a compact movie projector which could be used for showing both eight- and sixteen-millimeter films; from royalties on his patents he had become a millionaire. His financial interests now ranged from stocks and bonds and real estate to the publication of a most stimulating magazine. He was a gourmet, a connoisseur of wine — and women. Always women. He was a rogue, a rake, a roué. Cultured, gentle, even reserved. But still: a rogue, a rake, a roué.

  So, with that background, it was not surprising that the magazine Webb published was: Wow!

  Wow! — The Magazine For Red-Blooded Men.

  Even white-blooded men, of course, have heard of Wow! by now, and its eight to five that half of them surreptitiously peek at it on the newsstands. Possibly no other magazine in the history of publishing had experienced such sudden and soaring success in one year. Several other people besides Webb had money in the magazine, but he was the driving force behind it and that was a large part of the reason for Wow!s success. But the main reason was the full-page photos of beautiful women. And the beautiful women did not have many, if any, clothes on. Wow! was not a fashion magazine.

  Moreover, there was no question that the biggest single reason for the publications sudden and enormous acceptance by the male population of the U.S.A. was a single feature: the three-page, full-color gatefold center in the magazine. For twelve months that large foldout had invariably been a photograph of a lovely woman, nude, and — in whatever pose or posture — facing away from the camera. The feature had come to be called, perhaps a bit indelicately, the Fanny of the Month — though it was captioned in the magazines pages as Women With Wow!

  It was not surprising that Webb took every one of those pictures himself. I grinned, thinking about it.

  All things considered, I thought Webb was one of the most interesting and congenial men I’d ever met, and I was delighted to hear his voice on the phone. Until he told me what was wrong.

  After the helloes, brief this time, he said, Shell, could you come over right away?

  I glanced at the neons, getting very frisky. Sure. Whats the matter?

  Its something I don’t want to talk about on the phone. But . . . well, I’ve just come back from Honolulu. Got in a few hours ago. And I — I seem to have misplaced my wife.

  I blinked. Your wife? I thought he was pulling my leg. Since when have you had a wife, Webb?

  We were married in the Islands this morning, came in by jet. Come over, will you? Ill tell you what I can then. Its . . . perhaps its nothing, Shell, but I cant take the chance.

  On my way, I said, and hung up.

  I grabbed my coat and took off. As I went out I trickled a few drops of Canadian Club in with the neons. Maybe it would work; I’d tried everything else.

  It was a hot August, and I had the top down on my Cad, letting the warm wind brush over me while I drove. I slowed down as I neared Webb’s hillside home. I’d had trouble here on a case once, and the local police had since looked upon me with a dim eye. Especially a detective sergeant named Parley, who had given me the uncomfortable impression that he would enjoy shooting me in or out of the line of duty. With any luck I wouldnt even see a member of the local law, but I pulled the Cad down below the legal speed inside Medinas city limits, just in case.

  Webb lived at 947 Poinsettia Drive, at the highest elevation in Medina, parallel to Azalea Street beyond it. The Drive curved up a steep bill and ran along its top, multilevel houses there having a fine view over the lights of Medina to the spread-out glitter of Los Angeles — when the L.A. lights could be seen through Deaths halitosis: smog. The house was low, hugging the hills crest, modern in design.

  I parked in front, on Poinsettia, and walked up split-driftwood stone steps to his front door. Webb was waiting there for me. He was tall and very thin, with a mobile, humorous, angular face that warmed with a smile when he saw me and said hello.

  We went into his front room and he said, Something for your hangover, Shell?

  I don’t have a hangover tonight.

  We can fix that. Bourbon?

  Fine, thanks.

  He walked to the bar in a corner. This was a big room, the front wall almost entirely glass to take advantage of the view below. The room was cluttered, with books and magazines in evidence everywhere, some opened flat and others stacked in bunches, a half-full coffee cup on a small table. At other spots were things Webb had picked up at one place or another in the world: a stone Mexican idol in one corner, a Kwan Yin, African masks, a Balinese headdress. Against one wall was a magnificent five-foot-tall wood carving of Pan, arms o
utstretched. It was new; I hadn’t seen it before. I commented on it, and Webb said he’d just brought the carving back from Hawaii.

  The effect of the room, to me, was one of pleasant clutter, but directly ahead, opposite the front door, was Webb’s studio, and it was chaos. The wide double sliding doors were open and I could see into the room. I walked past a low curved divan and glanced into the studio. On the left were Webb’s four-by-five Speed Graphic on its heavy tripod, lights and reflectors, a couple of spotlights on a ceiling beam overhead. Insulated electrical wires lay in disarray on the bare, uncarpeted floor. Boxes of cut film, stacks of negatives and enlargements, cameras, a strobe light, more books and magazines, were in shelves, on tables, even on the wooden floor. Two doors were open in the left wall. One led into Webb’s darkroom; the other, on the right, into a bedroom.

  One of these days Im going to do something about that mess. It was Webb, speaking behind me. I turned and took the proffered highball as he went on, Be a bit like sluicing out the Augean Stables, wont it? Unfortunately I have no rivers to squirt through it. Naturally that’s why I havent done the job.

  Youll never do it, Webb. You’re an unreconstructed hobo. You don’t really like living in houses.

  He grinned. I suppose you’re right. You cant fold up a house like the Arabs. . . . Now, theres an idea. Fold-up houses — square tents, double thicknesses of canvas with insulation built in . . . prop them up anyplace . . . use them for rags when you’re tired of them. He gulped half his drink. I give you the idea out of the badness of my heart.

  Im practically a millionaire. Before extortion.

  Ah, yes. You refer, of course, to Americas Storm Troopers — the tax men?

  Of course. But thanks, anyway.

  We walked back to the curved divan, sat facing the view. Webb glanced at the phone a couple of times, as if expecting it to ring. I waited for him. Finally he looked at his watch, finished the highball in his hand and turned to me.

  Well, here it is. I got married this morning in the Islands. After the ceremony there was a small luau, then Mrs. Alden — he seemed to savor the words, roll them on his tongue — and I flew here by jet. Landed at L.A. International at nine p.m. And I . . . I lost her.

  I didn’t say anything. The lines in his angular face seemed to deepen. After a moment of quiet he said, She left me to freshen up a bit after the flight. I waited. She never returned. I looked around, paged her, for an hour or so. Finally I decided shed somehow become . . . confused. Or couldn’t find me. That perhaps she had come here to my — our home. That was the whole point of flying straight here, to start out in our home. Bride across the threshold and all that. But she wasn’t here when I arrived. So I immediately phoned you.

  He started to drink from his glass, realized it was empty and walked to the bar. Its probably nothing at all, he said. Some silly thing. But I cant help worrying, maybe shes hurt, there could have been an accident. . . . He came back with his fresh drink, sat down again, waited for me to speak.

  I said, Its . . . odd. I can run up to the airport, Webb. Start checking there.

  From the breast pocket of his coat he pulled a folded check, banded it to me. It was made out to me and in the amount of one thousand dollars. I started to protest, but he said, Don’t be an imbecile. I know you’d do it without a retainer. This check isnt for your benefit; its for mine. If its unnecessary for you to spend any money, you can always give it back. That’s just in case . . .

  I said, What can you tell me about her? Anyone I know? Do you have a picture of her?

  Not a picture that would do you much good in this case. He smiled oddly, glanced at the phone again. I really don’t know much about her, Shell. I met her when I did a shot of her for the book. She came here to the studio, and I was — well, completely captivated by her then. Last week we met again in Honolulu. I asked her to marry me. She wanted to think it over, next day said yes, and this morning we were married. Civil ceremony, then a little luau afterwards. He shook his head, frowning. But there was a peculiar thing. It didn’t impress me then, but now . . .

  Peculiar?

  Well, during the luau I took some movies. She turned away. Didn’t seem to want pictures taken of her. Even asked me to stop — and asked that I please keep the marriage secret. Just for a little while. She suggested we announce our marriage at the Anniversary Party next week.

  He fell silent again. His last remark, about the Anniversary Party, puzzled me. I knew that in a week or so there was to be a party celebrating the just-completed first year of Wow!s publication. The magazines editorial staff, cameramen and others including all twelve of the lovelies who had been featured in the first twelve issues, were to be present. A handsome Personality named Orlando Desmond, on whom Wow! had done a profile recently, was to supervise or em-cee the festivities, and Webb would cut a birthday cake or something like that. But why announce the marriage there?

  Webb went on, There was something she had to . . . arrange, she said. Explanations, something, I don’t know. It seemed a good idea at the time. He looked at me, his eyes tired. Possibly she was in some kind of trouble even then, didn’t want to tell me about it.

  Or maybe shes at the airport right now, wondering where the devil her new husband is. You say you photographed her here? For the magazine?

  Yes. The gatefold, you know.

  It fell into place then. You mean shes one of the . . . I paused. The Women With Wow? The big center spread?

  Yes, you’ve seen it, Shell. It was the one with —

  The phone rang.

  Webb’s face underwent an almost remarkable transformation. The lines in his face smoothed, the tired look left his eyes and he smiled broadly. I knew shed call . . . silly of me . . .

  He was moving across the room, long legs swinging. The phone was on a wooden shelf at the side of a small bookcase against the wall; he grabbed it, said, Hello?

  Then he was silent for several seconds. His back was toward me, but I saw his shoulders slump. His whole frame seemed to sag. What? he said, his voice so soft I could barely hear him. Then his tone strengthened. Why, you must be — what? He stopped speaking again.

  I got up, walked across the room to stand by him. His face was ashen, mouth open, lips slack. Shock dulled his eyes. He listened, then said rapidly, Yes. Yes, of course. I will. No, you can be sure — wait, please wait, don’t —

  I heard the click as the other phone was hung up. Webb didn’t move. Whats the matter? I asked him.

  Slowly he put the phone down, failed to get it in place and it fell clattering to the shelf beneath. He groped for it, dropped it onto the cradle.

  Its incredible, he said softly. Incredible.

  Webb, what is it? What the hells wrong?

  He merely said again, Its incredible. Then he turned the shocked eyes on me. Shes been . . . kidnaped.

  Ten minutes later that was still all I knew. We were sitting on the divan again, but Webb would hardly speak to me. Finally it became clear that he was deliberately refraining from telling me anything more.

  I said, Webb, for Petes sake, be sensible. If shes actually been snatched you’ve got to call in the local police, at least, let them bring in the FBI —

  No, he said almost angrily. I told you. Im going to do exactly what they said. If I don’t, they might kill her.

  But that’s always the threat —

  When I get her back, Shell. When I get her back. Then Ill do anything you want me to. But not until then.

  At least tell me something more about her. You havent even told me her name, Webb. What does she look like, wheres she from, how did —

  No! I don’t want you to do anything, Shell. Cant you get it through your head? I don’t want you to know, I don’t want you — investigating, stirring things up. That’s precisely what they told me not to do.

  You say they told you not to?

  They — he,
what difference does it make? It was a man who spoke to me, and he said, weve got her, so I assumed there were more than one involved. But the rest of it was very clear. He told me exactly what to do and when, amount of ransom money, that if I didn’t follow instructions to the letter shed be killed; I’d . . . never see her again.

  His face twisted. We were silent for a while. Then I said casually, Webb, I wont argue with you any more. But I still say you cant handle hoods this way — if that’s what it is. Can you tell me how much the guy on the phone asked for?

  He didn’t bridle at the question, just asked, Why?

  If this is a mob thing, professionally pulled off, the asking price would most likely be fat — you’re a likely enough target if they knew you’d just gotten married. But if the amount was only a few thousand, maybe five or ten grand, it could be this isnt so bad as it looks, just an amateur —

  The amount was two hundred thousand dollars. Webb didn’t add anything to that. He didn’t have to.

  I said, How could anybody have known you were married? You said the ceremony was this morning.

  He shrugged. I don’t know. Perhaps someone in Honolulu . . . I purchased plane tickets for Mr. and Mrs. Webley Alden, of course. That’s all I can think of.

  How about those films you took this morning, after the wedding? You bring them back with you?

  No, I dropped them in the mail over there. Theyll be processed in Honolulu, airmailed here. Shell, I think you’d better leave.

  I got up. If theres anything you want me to do —

  Just do nothing. Promise me that.

  I think its a mistake —

  I don’t give a damn what you think! Its my wife they’ve got . . . . He let it trail off. Promise me youll do nothing about this, tell no one. Not as long as theres a chance I can get her back unharmed.