Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Precisely,” he responded jovially. “I am gratified that you have placed your finger so quickly upon the crux of the problem that faces us. I knew you would speedily penetrate to the heart of—"

  “Bentley—Bentley—"

  “Sheldon, please. Attend to this closely: Considering the limited and peculiar nature of the information I have available, I could not possibly present this case to any normal or average investigator, could I?"

  I squeezed the phone in my fist, looked around till I found that little spot on the wall, scowled at it. “OK, OK,” I said. “You're really serious about this one?"

  “Absolutely."

  “With regard to this document that urgently—repeat, urgently—requires the daughter's signature. You wrote that it transfers joint ownership of certain assets, and in the next paragraph that it transfers joint control. Maybe it doesn't make any difference, but which is it?"

  “Both. Since you are not an attorney, Sheldon, I feared you might be dismayed should I lay upon you legalese and Latin and ponderous specificities. However, the document is in fact an inter vivos trust, the trustor being Claude Romanelle, the trustees—only two in number—being Claude Romanelle and his daughter, or the cotrustee, Michelle—"

  “OK. Sorry I asked."

  “—Esprit Romanelle. You might, yourself, prefer to think of it as a ‘lifetime trust,’ although in legal language it is essential that specificity and clarity of intent be—"

  “Wait. Stop. You're right, I am getting dismayed. Even a little depressed. So, quickly, another question that occurred to me—and your answer may be imprecise, even illegal. Concerning this transfer of assets into whatever it is, you used the word substantial. How substantial?"

  “There are certain elements of attorney-client confidentiality and privilege—"

  “Good-bye."

  “Hold it. Ah, several millions. I think I do not overstep my required bounds by telling you that much."

  “Millions—of dollars?"

  “Yes. A considerable number of them. Multiple millions. We are not talking nickels and dimes here."

  “How come if this Romanelle hasn't seen his daughter for twenty years, he suddenly wants to lay a bunch of these millions upon her? And why hasn't he seen her for so long?"

  Bentley explained that a little more than twenty years ago, shortly after his daughter Michelle's sixth birthday, Romanelle had simply walked out, split, abandoned his daughter and his then wife. “'That cantankerous old horse,’ he called her,” Bentley went on. “Referring to his ex-wife, I mean."

  “No kidding? Horse?"

  “Also poison-tongued termagant, viperine Amazon, whinnying virago, and razor-mouthed Xanthippe."

  “Has a way with words, does he? If not women. Apparently it wasn't a match made in heaven."

  “Not quite. As to your question, why now? Judging by Mr. Romanelle's comments to me, I assume it is because, for at least a few seconds last Monday afternoon, he realized what is most important about living because he thought he was dying. Apparently still does, for that matter."

  “Still thinks he's dying?"

  “That is my impression."

  “I thought he was being discharged from the hospital today or maybe tomorrow."

  “That is correct. Two of his wounds were superficial, and the more serious abdominal injury has been expertly repaired. Mr. Romanelle informed me yesterday evening that his physicians told him he is out of danger and suitable for discharge soon."

  “Then why—?"

  “I have asked myself the same question, Sheldon. I have not answered it."

  “Well, I suppose I'll have to call this Romanelle, see if I can get something sensible out of him."

  “Ah. Then you're taking the case?"

  I was silent, considering the question.

  He said, “Sheldon?"

  “I'll give it a shot, Bentley. But I can't give it full time for a day or so. I'm still wrapping up some odds and ends on the Amber case, my last job."

  “Amber. Was that ... Miss Nude Something?"

  “Naked. Miss Naked California. Among other things. That one is all wrapped up, really, but I have a couple of time-consuming—"

  “Sheldon, that won't do. My—our—client is, well, you would probably say antsy. He is consumed by his desire for speedy results. I must tell him you will commence your preliminary investigation immediately, and be on it full-time by ... by tomorrow, no later."

  “Thing is, the local police insist that I spend a little time with them explaining ... Well, I could maybe get that all done today—it's why I'm in the office so bloody early."

  I paused, thinking. “OK. I'll talk to the law, sign a statement, get that done today, this morning if I can. And I'll put some lines out on this Romanelle kid ... Bentley, lines out for what? Usually when I'm looking for somebody, I've at least got a name, or a description, or an alias, something. Of course, you haven't forbidden me to use the lady's first name, Michelle. Maybe I could run an ad: Michelle, get in touch with me and I'll give you millions of dollars. Then all I have to do is eliminate the nine hundred thousand phony Michelles—"

  “Splendid. Run an ad. Put your lines out. Consult your informers and informants. Get cracking."

  “Bentley—"

  “That's the spirit of the Sheldon Scott I know. So, then, I shall inform Mr. Romanelle that he can count on you? That his worries are over? That momentous events are—"

  “Knock it off. I'll inform Romanelle myself, as soon as you stop arguing your case and hang up."

  “Excellent. Since Romanelle is still at the hospital, and you will therefore be placing your call through the switchboard and/or nurses’ station there, do not identify yourself as Sheldon Scott."

  “Not as—me?"

  “No. Identify yourself to hospital personnel as William W. Williams, and Mr. Romanelle will not only know it is you but will accept the call; otherwise he probably would not respond to it. Mr. Romanelle does not want the name Sheldon Scott to be recorded in hospital records, or even in the memory of employees of Scottsdale Memorial—should, that is, anyone of a curious nature ask who has been in contact with Mr. Romanelle. Clearly, he does not desire that anyone learn that he has been in contact with a private investigator, and this is his means of ensuring that result."

  “Yeah, I see. But, Bentley, you're beginning to make me a little uneasy. Who might these people of a curious nature—"

  “Well, now,” he interrupted. “Just as I expected that you would call, I expect that you have a few additional queries of me. What are they?"

  “For starters, what's this about our client's being involved way back when with something called the Arabian Group? Or some kind of criminous, maybe felonious, activity?"

  “You refer to the ‘Alleged Ex-Gangster’ appellation on the clipping I mailed you. I've no idea, Sheldon. I did bring the subject up, gently, with Mr. Romanelle. He merely replied, and I quote him, ‘That was long ago and far away, pal. I've forgotten about it. You do likewise, Charlie.’ He has, at times, a rather colorful way of expressing himself. Colorful and, oh ... ominous, perhaps."

  “Ominous-perhaps, huh? Is he a big ugly ominous ape?"

  “Oh, no, not at all. About six feet but very slim, quite thin now of course, and pleasant enough but slightly ... satanic. Mainly he has a certain, well, forcefulness of expression. I had no difficulty in not pursuing the subject further, even though he was flat on his back in a hospital bed."

  “Anything recent on the two Charlies who plugged him?"

  “Nothing. The police have come up with ... empty, I believe is the argot."

  “How did Romanelle happen to contact you? Were you acquainted before?"

  “I had not previously heard of him. Obviously, he had heard of me, and been favorably impressed. He phoned the office yesterday morning, early, and insisted upon speaking to me. ‘The head honcho,’ he told my secretary. He explained his situation, told me the kind of document he wished prepared, and was quite precise abo
ut how he wished it drawn. I told him any of my firm's attorneys could handle the matter, but he insisted that I represent him."

  “He explain why? Other than the fact, of course, that you are a widely known, very visible, much-publicized genius attorney?"

  “He did not explain. But he was quite persuasive, and ... generous. Generous, perhaps, hmm, to a fault. In any event, I personally took the document to Scottsdale Memorial and there secured Mr. Romanelle's signature. And check. It was at that time I suggested you as the investigator who might best determine if his daughter was still in the Los Angeles area. You have not yet thanked me for doing you this favor."

  “I hope that's what it is. Thanks anyway. Last question: If I should happen to locate this Michelle Romanelle, who of course cannot be so identified at any time or place, I'm to bring her to you posthaste? Not to her antsy father first?"

  “Correct. Mr. Romanelle placed considerable stress upon this point. Not until her signature has been affixed to the document several times mentioned, which is now here in my vault, is she to attempt to see her father. Nor, for that matter, are you."

  “I think I ought to see that document. There seem to be some curious—"

  “See it you shall. When you arrive here with Miss Romanelle. Or with Miss, Mrs.—well, who knows?"

  “Wonderful. OK, Bentley, I'm on the case. Part-time today, until I'm through with the cops, and full-time from then on. However..."

  “Ah ... Is there something—?"

  “If, unfortunately, I happen to severely injure or even severely kill anybody during this simple little missing-person caper, Bentley X. Worthington himself will defend me, and get me off scot-free."

  “Of course. Shell-Scott free.” He paused to chuckle. Alone.

  We hung up. On the sheet of bond paper before me was the phone number of Scottsdale Memorial Hospital, and Romanelle's room number up on the sixth floor. For some reason, I was a little reluctant to dial it. I wondered exactly what Worthington had meant by that ominous-perhaps line. I wondered who those Charlies, and other associates, were. I was already committed, of course, by what I'd said to Worthington. But once I spoke to Romanelle and told him I'd do what I could, then I was really committed. All the way to the end, then, come hell or high water. Word of honor, Scout's oath, a man's word is his bond, all that jazz.

  On the other hand, even though, so far as I could recall, I'd never heard the name Claude Romanelle until this morning, the guy was starting to intrigue me. Also, I had me an interesting puzzle: How do you find somebody when you don't know who it is or where it's at?

  But, looking back, I could recall a case or two that had started by my getting conked on the head; and when you begin a case unconscious, it doesn't go a long way toward building up your confidence or that rugged-private-eye self-image. So this way was a lot better. For a change, all I'd do was read a little, and spend some time on the phone. Maybe I could solve this one with my index finger, just dialing about, calling a lot of people, asking cogent, probing, incisive questions.

  Sure.

  And I felt a little heavy in my swivel chair, as if all of my 206 pounds were settling down, and down, under the influence of unusual gravity. Me, the vigorous and vital full-of-beans lad who, not half an hour ago, had thought he could float.

  I pulled the phone back over in front of me. The damn thing weighed a ton.

  Chapter Two

  Claude Romanelle didn't sound like a man who'd been shot three times only a week ago. The voice was deep, strong, a little hoarse. And loud.

  I had identified myself to the bored-sounding lady who put my call through to room 608 in the West Tower of Scottsdale Memorial Hospital as William W. Williams, and a few seconds after that my client's voice was bending my eardrum inward:

  “Williams?"

  “Right. I'd like—"

  “That means you're this hotshot investigator, Sheldon Scott, right?"

  “Well ... right. And I'd—"

  “The Williams cuteness is only to keep the people here dummied up, just in case, no point in putting up signs."

  “Signs for who—?"

  “Our mutual friend, Worthington, laid quite a pile on me about you, said you're the man for this job, you'll get it done one way or another even if it's by accident, I won't be disappointed. I better not be. If that silver-haired counselor was conning me, I'll get two guys from Texas to cut his balls off. Even if you're as good as he says, which nobody is, I don't suppose you've located Michelle yet. Or have you?"

  “If you'll turn your mouth off for a minute, I'll try to tell you.” I wasn't sure, but I thought I heard a chuckle. I went on, “No, I haven't found Michelle. I haven't even started looking for her."

  “Man, get started. Get looking. I don't have any time to waste—"

  “Mr. Romanelle, will you kindly clam up?"

  Yeah, it was a chuckle. But he remained silent for a little while, and I continued, “I've just talked to Worthington. Now I need more from you. But let's be sure I know exactly what you want me to do. First, you want me to find your daughter. Second, see that she gets to Worthington and affixes her signature to whatever documents you had him prepare. And third, when that's accomplished, deliver your daughter to you, presumably at your home in Paradise Valley. Right so far?"

  “On the button. Except, let there be no when-and-if here, Scott. Cut that down to when. And fourth is, get it done now without dilly-dallying or dawdling—"

  “No, sir. Fourth is, I'm supposed to do this in an hour and a half blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back."

  “What does that mean?"

  “It means this: I'm not looking for a Michelle Romanelle, because your daughter doesn't use that last name now, but you can't tell me what name she does use. Moreover, under no circumstances am I to utter or use the name Romanelle, or even Claude, for reasons not yet made clear to me. You think your daughter may be somewhere here in the L.A. area—or maybe not; you aren't sure. So far, then, all I've really got is the name Michelle and a few maybes. And that's not enough. I somehow get the impression you don't want to wait very long."

  “I sure don't, can't. That's a fact. If it takes you a week or two, forget it. Got to be quicker than that. But you do have a point. I'll tell you what I can. It may not be much.” He paused, and I heard him coughing. Then he cleared his throat and said huskily, “What do you want from me?"

  “Start with why you think your daughter might be in or near L.A. And why you think she might be using the name Michelle Vetch."

  “OK.” He was silent for several seconds. Then he said, “I send my ex a little money from time to time. Mainly—” He coughed again, sort of a deep honk, and I missed, or thought I missed, his next few words. Sounded like some kind of “spree,” and “booze” and filling up the food larder.

  I broke in, “What was that again?"

  “Money for whatever, pay the rent, buy clothes, replenish the booze larder. That fire-breathing dragon likes her booze, at least she used to. She'd snort it up her cavernous snout and then breathe it out as fire and smoke, all the while belching poisonous hiccups—"

  “Mr. Romanelle, please. I care not about your marital difficulties in the past century. What I asked you was—"

  “Right. Nicole—that's my ex, the fang-filled mouth of my dumb days, the saw-toothed she-creature ... Well, let that go for now. My ex, my former unblushing bride, moves around a lot. She knows I can't send her any gelt unless I know where to send it, so—if I haven't called her for a while—about once a year, or every time she relocates, whichever comes first, she rings me up and tells me where to send the money, not forgetting to screech into the phone that I never send her enough, she needs more, more, MORE—"

  “Let that go, too, for now,” I suggested gently.

  “Last call was from Los Angeles, about six months ago. Nicole mentioned she was living in Monterey Park, right next to L.A., you know, and recently divorced from a guy named Vetch. But she said I could make out the large check, whic
h she knew I must be eager to send her, to Nicole E. Vetch, the name she was continuing to use temporarily."

  “Temporarily? Well, no matter, if you sent her a check, I can start with the address you mailed it to, right?"

  “Wrong. I mailed it to General Delivery, Monterey Park, as instructed. I think she was maybe living with some Charlie and didn't want him snooping her mail. Anyway, I sent her a nice cashier's check including an extra nickel to make her happier, which is no more difficult than making Medusa's hairdo look prettier than the shimmering tresses of Rapunzel—"

  “Mr. Romanelle—"

  “Send the money quick, she howled, because she was about to marry another guy—probably the Charlie Snoop she was shacked with but she didn't tell me this one's name, probably didn't know his last name yet—and move to North Dakota. I think it was North. South, North, whichever—hell, even if it was one of the Poles, it wouldn't be far enough ... Ah, yeah."

  “At least I may assume she was, for sure, in Monterey Park six months ago, right?"

  “For sure long enough to pick up my bucks at General Delivery, which is the only address I got. For all I know, she was living at the post office. See, she keeps moving around, gets rid of the old husband—I think she kills ‘em and buries ‘em in the backyard, then—"

  “OK. Enough. That takes care of Nicole for the moment. Nicole, the razor-mouthed Xanthippe—"

  “Hold on, there. You can't talk about my ex-wife like that, Scott. I can, but—"

  “Sorry. I thought I was merely quoting you."

  “Humh. I think you were, at that. So you were saying?"

  “That places Nicole in the L.A. area. What reason is there to think Michelle might have been here?"

  “Nicole, my—my ex, mentioned that Spree dropped by to see her every week or two. I deduced that she would not drop by from Cairo, Egypt—"

  “Right. A sensible deduction. Can you narrow it down to, say, the lower half of the state of California?"

  “No. That's all I've got."

  “Incidentally, did you say Spree? Didn't you mention something like that before?"

  “That's Michelle. Michelle Esprit. When she was a little girl—before I split, of course—we called her Spree. Nicole and I both did, then.” He paused. “Spree. She was the sweetest, brightest, loveliest little miniature lady who ever lived...” Then he coughed a couple of times and said brusquely, “What else, Scott?"