I did, then added, “If you do get any freako calls, only the right lady will know the mother's correct maiden name. All the dingdongs will claim they can't remember because their mother got amnesia when they were born, or maybe they'll just say oops and forget it. Easy, OK?"
“Easy's easy for you to say. I suppose you're going back to bed, assuming you're not still in it."
“Hazel, my love, I am going forth into the city. Down those mean streets. Out into the lethal smog, and crack-ups of the Freeway ... Hello? Hazel?” She'd pulled the plug on me.
So I did what I'd told Hazel I was going to do, went out into the smog, and onto the freeways. I spent three hours in Monterey Park, two hours at the L.A. City Hall, and another hour in the newspaper morgue at the L.A. Times digging into twenty and twenty-five-year-old files until I found the stories I was looking for, the ones that mentioned Claude Romanelle. Which, actually, was about my only accomplishment—other than developing eyestrain from peering at microfiche records and frustration from talking to bored employees in recorders’ and city clerks’ offices—because what I came up with on Romanelle's ex-wife Nicole and daughter Michelle was zilch.
One problem: While it's comparatively easy to follow the trail of a Dudley Smitherson from Cincinnati to Taos to Pasadena, whenever and wherever a Mary Jones enters wedlock and becomes a Smitherson, there Mary's trail—and maybe something of Mary—vanishes. So by the middle of the afternoon I was back in my apartment at the Spartan, busy on the phone again.
I checked with the detective agencies in Florida and Nevada. My contact in Reno told me that Vetch, first name Robert, had been married there to Nicole—who by now, in my mind, was Nicole Elaine Montapert-Romanelle-Wallace-?-Vetch-?—and moved, according to a change-of-address form unearthed from the Reno post office after the expenditure of “considerable time and expense,” to Redondo Beach, California. But Mr. and Mrs. Vetch had remained at that address for less than six months, and no clue to their subsequent whereabouts had yet been found.
The Fort Lauderdale agency had discovered that, soon after divorcing Claude Romanelle, Nicole married one Edgar Hopkins Wallace—hence the Wallace preceding “Vetch-?” in the name I was building in my head. They had found evidence of their divorce, recorded a couple of years later, but no indication of Nicole's later marriage.
Thus, bits and pieces, a line here and a name there, but nothing at all on Michelle Esprit so far. I did know a bit more about Claude Romanelle. From the morgue at the Times, plus calls to contacts in Fort Lauderdale, Detroit, and Chicago, I had learned enough to convince me that my new client was a pretty slick and slippery crook. Or, at least, had been, twenty to twenty-five years ago. Claude and a half-dozen other men, all of them young, in their twenties and thirties then, had operated a variety of successful—for them—scams and con games.
The scams and cons of the Arabian Group—as it was dubbed by the Chicago newspapers of that day—were always local, never national in scope, and there was never any evidence of organized crime affiliation. They were just a group of crooks banded together for a time, five or six years, in the pursuit of crookedness and the ill-gotten profits thereof. Profits which were, if the occasional hyperbole of old newspaper reports could be half believed, in the neighborhood of ten million dollars, which is a lot of money now, but was a stupendous quantity then.
The gang got its name from the presumed leader of the criminous group, one Keyser Derabian, who later was indicted, tried, convicted, and jugged, and died in prison of pneumonia. His brother, Sylvan, was also part of the group, but I was unable to discover what happened to him. However, the real brains of the outfit, or so the reports indicated to me, was Claude Romanelle. The word “genius” is used with remarkable imprecision by some crime reporters, as in “evil genius of the underworld,” or “Numbers-Racket Genius Indicted in Calculus Scam,” but the word had been used often enough in connection with Claude that it was a pretty sure bet he was no dummy.
Interestingly, Claude never did any time, though he was twice indicted. The first charge was initiated by the SEC, and alleged that Romanelle had run a boiler-room operation that sold nine million shares of stock in an oil-pipeline company that had only two yards of pipe. The second indictment charged that he'd cooperated with executives of a Chicago brokerage firm in profiting illegally from inside info, first regarding a forthcoming low-earnings report, then from advance news of a takeover bid, in both the buying and selling of shares in a company called Skyland Enterprises. Skyland was the owner of five amusement parks, complete with bumper-car rides and Ferris wheels, in Illinois, Pennsylvania, and Florida. Both indictments were eventually dismissed.
Busy man, my new client. At least in those days. Interestingly, he had not engaged—at least, there was no available evidence that he had—in such slippery and felonious behavior during the last twenty years. Or since about the time he'd split from the abode then shared with Nicole and “little Spree."
By 4:30 p.m. I had completed all I felt could be accomplished this day, and was out of the shower, admiring my dazzling reflection in the mirror affixed to my walk-in-closet door. I wondered if I had gone too far, laid it on a bit much. I had not forgotten I was to meet Kay Denver at Pete's, around 5 p.m., and I did hope to impress her rather more than I apparently had last night, when zip, she was gone.
Yes, I wanted to impress her, thus I had dressed with some care and a lot of positive thinking. But ... well ... I looked like a guppy. I had to admit it. A pink sport shirt with cornflowers and ferns on it, scarlet trousers with white belt, white shoes and socks, and a custom-tailored jacket the color of ... well, like when they mix a lot of paints together in a can and then dip a piece of canvas in it. No, more like if you could freeze a rainbow and then hit it with a sledgehammer. No, more like ... well, yeah, like a guppy. That was where I'd gone wrong.
I dashed back into the closet, hung up the colorful jacket, and slipped into a white sport-type coat, one of my favorites. It wasn't cut like a regular suit coat. The guy who made it for me in a little shop—I forget exactly where—said it was the style worn at times by white hunters in Africa, or even maharajahs in their summer palaces. Except for its dashing cut, it was very simple. Just plain white, or various whites, blending in a kind of rippling effect, and a little red and blue piping around the lapels and down the front. It was really keen. The red would blend with my shirt, or pants, and the blue ... what difference did it make?
I bad already phoned Kay a couple of times without any luck. The desk clerk at the Dorchester confirmed that Kay Denver was registered in suite 42, but there was no answer in her rooms. But, then, she'd told me she expected to be away from her apartment virtually all day. So I stopped at the coffee table, picked up the photos of Kay that I'd left there the night before, stuck them into my keen coat pocket, then breezed down to the Spartan's parking garage, and into my sky-blue Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible.
Just in case Kay was late for our date, I would at least have the company of her pictures.
* * * *
By the time I'd pulled into my space in the lot behind the Hamilton Building, it was only a couple of minutes before five. I stuck my head in the door of Pete's and spotted him behind the bar.
“Any gorgeous ladies waiting here for me?"
“Nope. Just the usual, Shell. Two process servers, one heavyweight wrestler, and an angry father looking for you and his daughter. Angry, armed, and dangerous."
“Don't say that.” For some reason, when he said “angry and armed” I thought of Claude Romanelle and those exaggerated comments about his “little Spree,” as if she were still his wee infant. But, yes, “dangerous,” a guy with his background might be. Especially if he turned out to be nuts.
“Tell them all to make appointments,” I said to Pete. “But there is a long, lissome lovely named Kay Denver—the lady I met here yesterday—who should be along in not less than a minute and a half. Tell her I'll be right back—have to see Hazel for a minute."
&nb
sp; “Tell Hazel hi for old Pete,” he said, smiling.
He liked Hazel. She'd sat at the bar here with me a couple of times, and Pete was impressed. He thought she was orange blossoms and sugar candy, sweetness and brightness. He had actually said things like that, or things very close to them, in speaking with pointed approval of her. As if maybe I should take her out for dinner at a fabulously expensive bistro. She was cute, sure, and bubbly and fun. But she was just a friend.
“Right back,” I said, trotted out, next door, and up the stairs inside the Hamilton. Hazel was still in her cubicle, putting papers back into their folders. The monitor of the IBM PC was dark.
“Hi, friend,” I said cheerily.
She turned slowly on her stool. “Don't friend me,” she said darkly.
“What's this? A bilious Hazel? Pete just told me to say hi for him. He'd marry you if he were a hundred years younger—"
“Handle my call or two, he says. My call or two."
“Three? What happened? Did you get ... more than three? Four? Hey, I'll buy you a—a pencil with a real eraser."
“You'll buy me a lobster. No, a mink. And gold and silver and diamonds."
“Sure. Anything you say."
“There were more than a hundred calls. All because of your damned ad.” She picked up some lined yellow sheets of paper held together by a paper clip and threw them at me. “More than a hundred."
“You're kidding,” I said, shocked.
I was shocked. A hundred? What was happening to all the people who used to read the story of the Founding Fathers, of little Georgie Washington, big Ralph Waldo Emerson?
I looked at Hazel's eyes, burning into me like little arc lights. “I guess you're not kidding. Um. That many?"
“A hundred and six plus three who actually came up here. Fourteen Michelles, all born on April twenty-third, and ninety-five females who didn't give their names, or couldn't remember who they were. Those are the check marks."
I glanced at the pages. Mostly checks, in blue ink. The checks, I noticed, got bigger and bluer toward the end of the last page. Toward the end of the day.
“Well.” I said. “That's—something. Well, uh, ‘thanks’ seems ... inadequate. Ah, besides the mink and gold and silver and diamonds, can you think of anything nice I can do for you?"
She snorted fire out her delicate nose. At least she snorted, and there appeared to be little blue flames in it.
“Well,” I said, “I'll think of something. But right now, I've got to run. Uh, I don't suppose any of these—these one hundred and nine knew Nicole's maiden name, did they?"
“They didn't even know their own. If one of them had passed the test, I would have told her to get in touch with the—with that—with you, you...” She stopped, got up from her padded leather stool, and stepped closer to me, leaning on the top of the counter between us. She looked me up and down.
“I heard you say you have to run,” she commented pleasantly. “Run where? Are you in a track meet?"
“Track—?” I stopped. I glowered at her. “Well, Hazel,” I said stiffly, “there went your damned diamonds."
She smiled. Or almost did. Certainly it was the first expression so far that might be said even to have approached a smile. “You've got a new date, don't you? Oh, Shell. You always do something ridiculous when you're going out with a new one."
“Something ridiculous? Why, that's—ridiculous. That's—dumb. That's ... Hazel, do I really look ...?” I stopped again. How was I going to phrase it? “Ah, not dashing? Like an African maharajah in the bush ... that's not what I meant."
Her expression changed oddly. Sort of softened, I guess. “No, no,” she said, and she did have a more smiley smile on her face now. “You look really nice, Shell. Just a little—unusual. But you're an unusual guy, aren't you?"
“Don't ask me. However, I am not color-blind. I remember once you accused me of thinking yellow was a shade of purple, so I had them tested. My eyes, I mean. Well, gotta ru—go. Bye. See you tomorrow."
“Tomorrow,” she said. Then, “You really do look nice, Shell. Bye."
* * * *
Kay was there when I walked into Pete's again. She'd apparently come in just before me, because Pete was showing her to a booth. The same one, I noted, where we'd sat last night. She was still standing, and turned to look at me as I came inside, the door shooshing closed behind me.
She was wearing black. Black suit, smartly fashioned jacket fastened with a single large white button at her waist, and with odd lapels that rose up into the air and ended in points at either side of her chin. Snugly formfitting black skirt hugging the flaring hips. White blouse, cut low, exposing the soft roundnesses of those fine firm breasts. She wore the black hair up, piled loosely atop her head, and everything together accented the blackness of her eyes, the sootiness of her long lashes, the slashing arcs of those thin dark brows. She looked fabulous.
I stopped next to her. “Kay,” I said, “you look wonderful. Fantastic, Gorgeous.” I beamed at her.
“Thank you, Shell."
On an impulse—or maybe because Hazel had shaken my confidence and I wanted an unbiased opinion—I asked, “What comes after thanks? I mean, how do I look?"
The black brows pulled closer together, the skin at the bridge of her nose forming a little furrow. “Do you really want to know, Shell?” she asked.
“I'm not—sure now."
“You look—"
“Never mind."
“— like a very large tropical bird."
“Huh. Great.” I paused. “Wonderful.” I paused. “Well, that's better than a fish, isn't it?"
She didn't know what I meant by that. Neither did I. “Well, we'll have to hurry,” I said. “Let's go."
“Go?"
“Yeah. I was just out at a track—the racetrack—I—entertaining the crowd at a circus, OK? So we'll spin by my apartment, OK? So I can change into something suitable for the exciting evening ahead. Wait'll you see my suitable black suit,” I went on. “It'll nauseate you. Keen for funerals, though. I wore it when Mad Dog Gicci was assassinated—"
“What are you talking about, Shell? I've already ordered martinis. Isn't that what you said last night?"
“Who knows what I said last night?"
But she had indeed ordered. For at that moment Pete walked up with a tray on which were two martinis, one with a pair of pearl onions in it, the other with an olive for me.
“You two just going to stand there?” he asked.
“Not you, too, Pete,” I said dully.
He placed the martinis on our table. Kay and I sat down on opposite sides of the booth and she lifted a martini with two onions and said, “Cheers. Did you find your client's daughter yet? This Michelle you said you were looking for?” She took a sip of the martini, and started doing sexy things to one of the onions with those disturbingly mobile lips.
I ate my olive. “I didn't think I'd told you the woman's name,” I said casually. “Just that I was trying to locate a woman."
“You didn't tell me her name, Shell.” Down went the lucky onion. “You said you were busy, busy, you'd talked to your client, run an ad—you even told me it was in the Personal and Missing Persons columns of the Times. Don't you remember?"
“Yeah, I remember now. The truth is, I was a little distracted. By you. You do derail a man's train of thought at times, Kay.” She smiled, white teeth flashing behind the curving red lips, and I went on, “But I still don't remember mentioning the lady's name."
“Shell, I read your ad in the Times this morning. After talking to you, and hoping you could help me with—help me.” She lowered her eyes, glanced to one side. “Well, naturally I was interested. And the ad mentioned a Michelle, whose birthday—whatever it was.” She looked at me, her expression quite sober. “Is something wrong?"
I shook my head. “No. Not with you. With me, maybe. Guess it's the business I'm in. Always looking for discrepancies, slipups. Clues, you know. And then there have been so damned many Miche
lles already, calling to claim their fortune."
“Oh? You've had a response?"
“You can say that again. And again ... and again. I should have realized you must have seen the name Michelle in the ad. Half of L.A. must have."
Something was bothering me. One of those little uneasinesses below the edge of consciousness, something Hazel had said about the women who'd phoned the office number listed in my ad. Plus three —
But at that moment Kay took a large swallow of her martini, zonking down nearly half of it, and said, “Did you—did you get a chance to look at those photographs I gave you?” She smiled, pink tip of busy tongue sliding slowly across her lips, from left to right and back from right to left, then she bit down gently on it and grimaced. “I guess that's a silly question."
“Not so silly. Just kind of unnecessary. Yes, Kay, I did examine the photos closely, in the interest of investigative thoroughness, of course.” I stopped, started over. “Look, I don't want to sound as if I'm making light of your problem. I'm not. It's just that, um—"
“I understand. Probably you couldn't tell much about who did it, anyway. Not just from the prints."
“Partly it's that. It is also the fact that you are a sensational-looking lady. And in the altogether, well, lady, the mind wanders off into the boondocks. I did conclude that the prints were made on glossy Kodak color paper, thus I could narrow down the places where that paper is sold to maybe a thousand stores. No, I'd say the way to go is to check out your apartment, concentrate on the how."
“I've been thinking about that, Shell. It's impossible a man could have been there—from where the photos must have been taken, I mean. So there must be just a camera, or mirror ... or something."
“Something, yeah. You get any more photos since last night?"
She shook her head. “No. Thank God for that."
We chatted a little more, finished the cocktails. Kay moistened her lips, let them play with each other for a few passionate moments, and said, “Two more martinis, all right? I'm buying."
Shellshock (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 6
