Applause. Then more drinks were passed around. One of the lovelies before my peeking eye now was Blackie. She walked casually toward the library doors. For a moment she scared me a bit; I thought she was going to come right in. But she paused a couple of feet away and opened her handbag, took out lipstick and a small mirror. While dabbing her lips she said softly, All right?
I whispered through the crack, Yeah. But its miserable in here.
She smiled slightly. I know. You want to be out here with — me.
That’s . . . close enough. Hows it look?
Two of the girls arent here yet.
I can guess. Pagan Page and Loana Kaleoha.
Yes, how did you know?
Never mind now. When does the photographic culmination commence?
Soon. They arent going to wait any longer.
She started to turn away — and I thought of something. Something important, which I had neglected to mention earlier. Honey, hold it a minute, I said.
She stopped, pulled a Kleenex from her bag, dabbed at her lips. A couple of the men across the room were looking at her. One of them was Ed Grey. I started perspiring again, for a different reason. There were several very rough boys here, perhaps even one or two more outside, and this thing might get entirely out of hand. If it did, cops would be a necessity; even if it didn’t, once my bit was finished I would want numerous policemen handy to take over.
So I said to Blackie, When I spring out of here, the first chance you get, call the cops, will you? If anybody notices you, it will seem a natural thing to be doing.
All right. Were only two or three miles from the Medina Police Station. They should get here quickly. Besides, I know Lieutenant Farley. Not well, and I don’t like him much, but hell know Im serious and hurry out. She moved her mouth around as if checking the lip job while she talked.
Farley? It didn’t mean anything to me. Okay, just so some friendly cops get here in a hurry.
She walked back into the roomful of people. I felt better now. I’d have four or five minutes alone, at least, but that much I wanted and could handle. And after that, if all went well, I would be joined by police officers eager to help me gather in the crooks.
Something was going on out there. Ah, the girls were leaving. All ten of them. Going to put on their costumes.
I sure wished I had one of those drinks the guys out there were swilling so happily. I’d have given much for one puff of a cigarette. But I kept my eye glued to the crack in my doors.
From where I stood, I could look straight at the big windows in the far wall, beyond which was the pool. The entrance to the living room was on my right, the bare wall on my left. Left of center in the room, cameras were being set in place. Apparently the girls, when they returned, would be posed down there with that bare wall as a background. They’d gone out through the door at the right end of that wall, and would presumably come back through it. Fortunately, since I could see that part of the room without opening my doors any wider.
Just for a moment, then, I sort of withdrew from myself and looked upon all this as if I were outside, floating about in the air somewhere like that cat in A Christmas Carol, and peering down upon all this from my lofty eminence. And I thought: is it really happening? Is this true life? Can this no kidding be happening to me? Have I split completely, flipped, snapped? Or is this real? Are these people really people?
But then I snapped back. And I knew these people were really people. I knew more than that: these girls were really girls. Because the first one was back with us.
The first of The Ten, perhaps the one ready first, perhaps the most daring — no matter, she was back. A blonde. A stupendous blonde. And she was ready for her picture. Everybody else in the joint was also ready for her picture. She wore — you know it, friends — high-heeled shoes and a turtleneck sweater.
The sweater was pink, not that anybody gave a hoot. She paused in the doorway, not at all ill at ease, and a kind of soft fluting sound quivered in the room, a sort of sighing ululation like the flutter of wild parakeet wings. Then the blonde walked from my right to left along that far wall — and out of sight.
Well, pfui, I said to myself. I peered through the crack and about the room. All the men assembled here had by now sort of come to attention and stampeded closer to that wall on my left, and thus nobody was either in front of my doors or to my right. So, since I was pretty well addled anyway, I slowly slid one of the doors wide open.
The library was dark, and while I stood behind the other door it was doubtful that anybody would see me even if they looked this way. It was even more doubtful that anybody would look this way. And now I could see everything, except for big male backs which sometimes blocked my view.
Out came a black-haired lovely, then a redhead, another redhead, then Blackie, another blonde, a brunette. It was like madness. Soon there were ten of them there, all ten of them lined up in a row. And it was not a solemn parade. There was much laughing and giggling and hootling and wiggling. And all of it was grand, especially the wiggling.
A couple of the girls asked for drinks to sort of keep their spirits up and four guys sprang forward with everything from straight shots to martinis.
Ill admit it, I sort of got lost in the moment. It was pretty interesting. But all of a sudden it was picture time. Somebody up front was acting as a kind of director — it was Orlando Desmond, I noted — and at a word from him all the girls turned to face the wall. Lights were moved, cameras on tripods were adjusted. The moment was almost upon me.
I took the cocked .45 from my pocket, thumbed down the safety and stepped from the library, then moved toward the activity. Nobody noticed me. Six or seven feet away was the back of the nearest man. Beyond him were several other guys, and before the wall: girls. Nobody noticed me. I walked up behind the group, then stepped onto a chair so I could size up the situation, make sure I knew where everybody was. Still, nobody noticed me.
Okay, now, Desmond yelled. Lean over a little more, girls. Just . . . a little . . . that’s it. That’s perfect.
It was pretty near perfect, there was no denying that. Probably not even in the days I had forgotten, I thought, had there been anything quite like this. To say the girls looked cute in their little outfits would be to do them a monstrous injustice, but it would be difficult to find the exactly right words for the vista there arrayed.
Guys near me were letting out small yips and toots, and I could hear some of their enthusiastic comments. A few feet away on my right stood Slobbers OBrien and an apelike individual. Slobbers seemed to shake as he pointed at something. She got a sort of built-in built-out, don’t she? he asked wonderingly.
I could have looked in dictionaries for a hundred years without finding those words. But Slobbers, of all people, had said it. The apelike individual alongside him, gazing strenuously, replied in a soft thrumming voice, Yeah . . . makes you want more than one, don’t it? Next to him another mugg said hoarsely, I wouldnt mind sittin on that one myself! And then Slobbers again: She really do look like shes cavin in outwards.
There was more of the same. And all of their comments, all and more, were justified, more than justified. This was truly an almost unbelievable sight, a magnificent vista, an epochal moment in the history of vision. On the male faces near me were expressions of dopey, lip-smacking rapture, as if all five senses were being gaily diddled at once — as though, from each rounded square inch visible yonder, floated perfumed music that gently tickled their taste buds. This was an assembly line for bloodshot eyes, the anatomical Alps, the Forward Look in Behinds. Soon we would all need novocain shot in our eyeballs — but it was the perfect moment for me.
The cameras were ready and the girls were ready and I was ready, and as the flashbulbs flared I jumped down from my chair, forced my way through the men and leaped toward the wall on my left. I reached it, spun around. On my left now were the girls, just becoming a
ware of my presence. On my right, the men, all the other guests — including several hard faces.
Rapidly I scanned the Forward Look in Behinds. There it was. Four freckles. I’d found the one I wanted. Third from the left. I pointed at it.
There! I shouted.
I had meant to cry, She killed Webley Alden. Or, That’s the villainess. Or something roughly similar. But I got all excited. Hell, anybody would have got all excited. The silence was stunning.
And in the silence I stood there, gun in my right hand, left arm flung out dramatically, rigid index finger extended and waggling a little.
And I yelled at the top of my lungs: Theres the fanny that did it!
Eighteen
It wasn’t what I’d meant to say at all.
But it sure caused some commotion. Gals squealed and sprang about, flung their arms this way and that way, and their lovely faces took on hosts of strange expressions.
Everybody was shocked. Even I was shocked. But I stood my ground. I aimed my finger, waved my gun. And I pointed smack dab at lovely Loana Kaleoha.
Loana. Who, of course, was Raven McKenna. Or, rather, Mrs. Orlando Desmond. Webley Aldens wife — though naturally they were never married. Any more than shed been kidnaped. It was really very simple.
There were some more screams from the Wow girls and a sudden shout from a couple of the men. One man — a tough-looking bruiser who’d followed Slobbers and Ed Grey inside — jumped toward me. I aimed the .45 at his feet and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in my hand and the blast as it tore a hole in carpet and floor seemed to compress the air in the room, slam it against our eardrums.
A lot of these people had never even heard a gun go off before, certainly not this close to them. The sound of it here, now, was enough to freeze them solid. And the men who had often heard guns go off, guys like Grey and Slobbers, knew the next one could go off at them. So, all in all, the effect was magical.
Every bit of movement stopped. Girls who’d started to run, girls throwing arms and legs about, girls standing straight and girls bent forward, girls stooping and springing — guys, too — all froze. It was as if liquid oxygen had been poured over the whole gang of us, and it was a sight never to be forgotten, like a photograph of a people-explosion, a wildly cuckoo instant of time trapped and momentarily petrified.
While it lasted I said, Stay where you are. All of you. My voice sounded flat in the silence.
There was a little thaw then, a little motion. But not sudden, and not vigorous; it just melted a little around the edges. I centered my gun on Ed Grey’s chest and said, You, get over there in the corner. You and all your pals — including Desmond. They hesitated and I said, very softly, Move.
They moved. Ed Grey, Desmond, Slobbers, and the two other hard guys. They formed a little bunch in the corner, near the door through which the girls had gone out and returned. That put them farther from me, and I made all of them lace their hands behind their necks, then had the remaining men, including the reporters and photographers, gather in a second group several feet to their right in front of the big windows.
I stood with my back to the library, near the big framed picture I had hung on the wall, facing Ed Grey and the bunch he was in. Trouble, if it came, would be from that bunch, I figured; but I could keep an eye on the other men easily enough, too. We made quite a crowd. Counting me, there were twenty-nine people in the room. Ten girls, eighteen men — and me. The girls were all in a ragged line on my left now, their faces startled and shocked.
I said to them, Relax, ladies. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. At least, nine of you don’t. I caught Ravens eye. But you, sweetheart, have had it. The partys over.
She looked straight back at me, black eyes burning, but didn’t speak. Seconds passed in silence. When somebody did speak it turned out to be short, globular Whittaker.
Whats the meaning of this? he said. This is . . . outrageous.
His voice wasn’t very strong, and it cracked on outrageous, but I had to give him credit for the try. I said, The meaning is simple, Mr. Whittaker. You’re all gathered here to celebrate the magazines first anniversary — and to pay tribute to the late Webley Alden. Desmond over there even made a nice little speech about Webb, almost a eulogy — like Brutus praising Caesar. Because Desmond is the guy who murdered Webb.
That unfroze a lot of tongues. I let the babble die down and said, That’s right. Desmond put the bullets into Webb’s back, but Raven McKenna set it up for hubby. That’s why Im here now. I paused. And there was a lot of help from Ed Grey, after the fact. Including the murder of Pagan Page.
Grey spoke then, his voice shaking with anger. Scott, you wont get away with this. I warn you —
I’d just as soon let you have one in the guts right now, Ed. I pointed the gun in .45-caliber emphasis of my words. Not just for Pagan, either. Add your hoods from the Algiers who worked me over, tried to kill me here. Your hoods from the Pele who tried the same thing in Hawaii — the same ones, undoubtedly, who helped set up Webb over there.
He didn’t say anything more.
I looked at Raven. Some of this only you and Orlando and those muggs — I nodded toward the group Desmond was in — will understand. But everybody here will get the message before Im through. Enough of it. And that’s the idea. I paused. Start at the beginning, Raven. Months ago Webb took some photos of you for the magazine and fell a little. Then he met you in Hawaii, fell the rest of the way, and popped the question.
She interrupted. This is idiotic. You cant expect —
Knock it off. I looked at her, at the thick black hair and full red lips, the black eyes burning into mine. After a moment I went on, Married to Orlando, secretly, you couldn’t marry Webb even if you’d wanted to. But you must have mentioned the proposal to Orlando — and Orlando came up with his bright idea.
Shell, this is crazy, Raven said rapidly. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Webb wasn’t ever married. We all know that. He was a bachelor —
Sure, that’s the point, sweetheart. You did marry Webb in the Islands, but the judge was a phony, one of Ed Grey’s hoods — probably from the Pele; when I slugged him there he’d undoubtedly come back to finish his drink with you, at your table. So, the judge was a phony, the marriage a fake. Why a fake marriage? And on the very day the bride was kidnaped? Only one answer makes sense: there was no kidnaping, you just walked out of the airport and joined Orlando. Which explains why it was so neat and easy. Why the fake kidnaping? Well, what did you get out of it? That’s easy, too: two hundred thousand clams.
While I spoke, Blackie had been edging toward the door on my left. I caught her eye, nodded slightly. She slipped through the doorway and out of sight.
Orlando Desmond spoke for the first time, and his voice did not sound like his singing voice. It sounded even worse. Taut, strained, shredded by fear and tension. Its not true, Scott. None of it. You’re lying. I —
It wont work, Desmond. His face was pale, but his eyes stayed on me as I talked. You had your bright idea: fake the marriage, fake the kidnaping, get the ransom money. You must have needed the money badly. I’d say it was to keep from getting killed, yourself. I heard Ed Grey just might kill you if you welshed, didn’t pay off the pile you owed him. Even if he didn’t knock you off, he would sure have changed your appearance.
You’re crazy. The whole things crazy. You’re making a fool of yourself. He licked his lips, his eyes empty.
I went right on, The fake marriage, the whole con, was out of your line, Desmond. So you turned to the logical hoodlum — the one to whom you owed the money, the guy who’d have an interest in the cons success. Ed Grey. Grey, with crooks on his payroll here and in Hawaii. And, obviously, Ed went along. Where did I miss, Desmond? Come on, heres your chance to make a bigger fool of me. But don’t forget theres more — the films, that photo of your wife, a lot more. I grinned at him. Including this: You know damne
d well I saw you, and a little bald-headed mugg, Thursday morning at the airport in Honolulu. You sure saw me — and let Grey’s boys here know I was on my way. I didn’t recognize you then, no. But I can recognize you now as the guy who was at the airport. And you are Orlando Desmond, arent you? The guy, undoubtedly, who took that first shot at me outside the Spartan? Well, Desmond?
He licked his dry lips, turned toward Ed Grey as if for help. But there wasn’t any help coming from that direction. Orlando stared at me. His face looked crumpled.
The nine girls still in the room, now that Blackie was gone, stood at my left or leaned against the wall. Things had settled down enough for the moment so that I could actually enjoy the astounding sight they presented. Their original shock had faded into mild tension, or in some cases a curious interest. Of the nine, the only ones I recognized now were Charlie from the Algiers and Raven McKenna herself. Raven, whom I’d been calling Loana ever since that night in the Pele when, with her brain working at peak efficiency, she had conned me — almost enough. Now I realized she had probably been waiting there in the hope of spotting the real Loana. And I wondered about the real Loana Kaleoha, whom I couldn’t remember at all. I wondered if they had found her, and killed her.
I pulled my eyes away from the girls, said to nobody in particular, It all went as planned, up to a point. But after the ransom was paid, Webb had to be killed. Otherwise he would, inevitably, have learned of the con. Especially since Raven wasn’t about to establish a happy home with him — not to mention how Orlando would have felt about such goings-on. No, Webb had to go.
Dance with the Dead (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 20
