Dead Heat (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Boxes. Is that like down in front, the reserved places?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “That’s where he was, then.”

  “With anybody? Or was he alone?”

  “No. I mean, he wasn’t with anybody.”

  “Can you describe where he was sitting?”

  “Golly, no. I’d have to show you.”

  “Well, that won’t — ”

  “I mean, even if I told you where he was, you wouldn’t know where he was. I’m terrible with directions. I don’t even know where north is, except it’s away from south. If you’re there I’ll come out and show you. If it’s important.”

  “It’s important, but — ”

  “Besides, I want to ask you about last night.”

  “I’d kind of like to ask you about last night too, but — ”

  “And I was just leaving anyway. I only work till noon Saturdays, and I can even leave a little early — ”

  “But — ”

  “I can be there in a jiffy. You can tell me what happened last night, and we can have fun talking like we did before. That was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. But — ”

  “And we can even play the races. Shell, I’m so glad you asked me.”

  “Asked?”

  “I was afraid, after last night, you might not want to, maybe you’d be mad at me or something. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  “But — ”

  “Bye, hon.” She hung up.

  I looked at the phone for a while, and said, “But — ” and then slowly clunked the receiver back on its hook.

  Well, it wasn’t exactly a tragedy. And I wasn’t going any place else for a while anyway. Besides, Doody puzzled me more than a little. And I did want to ask her about last night, and what had happened after I’d charged out of the South Seas — among other things. So, I would do what I’d told Gabriel Rothstein I was going to do: play it by ear.

  Doody arrived so soon she must have driven at criminal speed from Los Angeles to Inglewood. She arrived all in a flutter, but while fluttering she did point out the box where she’d seen Matthew Wyndham sitting last Saturday.

  It figured. And the picture was losing some of its fuzziness. It was, of course, the “Williams” box, right next to Axel Scalzo’s.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I paid for reserved seats in the loge section near where Dave and I had been standing earlier, and Doody and I had a sandwich, then returned to our seats as customers began to come in and get settled for the day’s races. Scalzo’s box was below us to our left, nearer the finish line. It was a bit too close for comfort, but I had to be near enough to see what, if anything, went on down there.

  I’d bought copies of the Daily Racing Form and programs for both of us, but Doody said she couldn’t understand all those figures; she had her own system of picking her horses. “Horsies,” she called them, I noticed with a slight shudder. Must be some system, I thought.

  When we got settled, there was still half an hour before the first race, so we had time to talk. And right off the bat Doody said, “Isn’t it nice I only had to work till noon? It’s the union, if you work longer they beat you up or something. I even took off early. The union doesn’t mind if you don’t work, isn’t that funny? Now tell me why you had to know where Mr. Wyndham was sitting last Saturday?”

  “Yeah,” I said dully, and with that we were off to the races.

  I’ll say this, physically Doody was a treat, a dream, an eye-balming vision of sparkling brown eyes and rust-blond hair and animated red lips, her astounding body clad superbly in a knit suit — white skirt, white jacket with red slashes on the pockets, white pumps with red toes and heels, red bag in her lap. She looked ready for the races, or the admiral’s yacht, or the nineteenth hole at the country club. She was sure great for looking at.

  I said, “The reason I want to know where Wyndham sat is because, unless I am out of my mind, which is entirely possible, there’s a very good chance he’ll be here again today. If so, that will corroborate some of my deductions, and also justify two things I did this morning — namely a remark I made to Axel Scalzo about a doctor, and slamming Axel Scalzo on the conk.”

  “You sure talk funny,” she said.

  “I talk — ”

  “And that doesn’t make sense even when you figure it out. What do you mean about a doctor, and slamming a conk, and — ”

  “Never mind for now, Doody. Maybe we’ll talk about it later.”

  “But I’m really interested, Shell. I really am.” Oddly, she sounded very earnest, as if she really was interested.

  But I said, “Let’s wait and see what happens here in the next hour or so. And you’d better pick your horse in the first race.”

  “Oh, I’ve got all mine picked already.”

  “You’ve got . . . all?”

  “Well, nearly. Some I want to ask you about, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Some system, I thought again. But that’s what makes horse racing. Around us the seats were filling up, people were marking their programs, looking over the horses being saddled by their trainers in the paddock below us. Bets were already being placed, and every minute and a half the new odds were flashed on the infield Totalisator.

  There were several questions I wanted to ask Doody, so without preliminary, I said, “Interesting night last night, Doody. How did you say you met Dr. Noble?”

  “He came into the office the first of this week to see Mr. Wyndham. Monday it was. And, well, he saw me — like you did.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And we talked for a while. Then Thursday he came in again, and on his way out he asked me for a date. That’s all.”

  “You’d never met him before this week?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just curious.” I thought a minute. “Doody, I’m going to toss some more names at you. Tell me what you know about each of them, anything you might have heard around the office — or from Dr. Noble, or Axel Scalzo last night, anywhere. O.K.?”

  She looked at me calmly, light-brown eyes a little puzzled. Or wary, maybe. “All right.”

  “Dan Quick.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never heard that name.”

  “Julie Tangier.”

  “That I’ve heard. She’s the daughter of the man who went to prison. The one who embezzled the money. Don’t you remember, we talked about him last night, Shell?”

  “That’s right.” I paused. “Ardis Ames.”

  Something changed in her eyes. For the first time. Something, maybe a barely perceptible widening, or a new sharpness deep within her eyes, but a change. She said, though, “I’ve never heard that name either. Who is she?”

  “I wish I knew. When did you meet Scalzo?”

  “Last night. Dr. Noble told me we’d go to the South Seas when we made the date, and said he’d introduce me to Mr. Scalzo. Maybe I could get a screen test, and all that.”

  “Yeah. With Scalzo, ‘all that’ covers a lot of territory. Well . . . speak of the devil.”

  I’d spotted Scalzo. He was just entering his box below us and well to our left, flat-faced Hale and me young hood named Deke with him. They got settled in their seats and Scalzo started marking his program.

  I wondered if his day at the races had begun the same way last Thursday, the day John Kay had been killed. And if Matthew Wyndham had been sitting near Scalzo then. No sign of Wyndham yet; but I had a hunch he’d show. Well, there was nothing much to do now but wait and see. And in the meantime, Doody and I could place a few bets.

  It looked like a good card — and I have a ball at the races ordinarily. While awaiting developments, I might as well enjoy myself, I figured. Maybe I could win back that hundred and twenty-five bucks I’d lost so far on my Universal Electronics stock.

  I studied my Racing Form for a while, then turned to Doody. “Honey,” I said, “if you want a hot tip on the first race, the solid horse is Red Acorn. . . .”


  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Nuts to Red Acorn.

  And precisely the same sentiments to Vapor Trail, King Tuttle, Gay Lovely, Dancearound, and Sirocco. I had lost three hundred and ninety dollars on those nags. Added to the one-hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar UE loss, I was exactly five hundred and fifteen dollars in the hole. In only twenty-four hours at that. I was killing myself — and losing nearly twenty-one-fifty an hour.

  The hell with the races. The hell with Wall Street. The hell with capitalism. Down with —

  “Oh, this is fun,” Doody said.

  “Arrggh.”

  “Which horsie do you like in the seventh, Shellie?”

  “Let’s do it different this time,” I said sweetly. “Tell me which horsie you like.”

  “I’m going to bet on Silver Arrow.”

  “Not . . . Thunder Boy?”

  “No. Is he your pick?”

  “Well, he was.”

  This wouldn’t do. I was losing my confidence. Once you lose your confidence, you’re dead. No, by golly, I’d stick to my guns, plunge ahead, go down with banners flying. I’d bet on Thunder Boy — even if Doody was three hundred and eighty bucks ahead. It was dumb luck, that’s all; I’d stick to science. I’d charge up to the sellers window and plunk it all down on Thunder Boy. Yeah! I thought of Marshal Foch at the Battle of the Marne: “My right is driven in. My left has vanished. My center is hard pressed. The situation is excellent. I will attack at once!”

  Man, that was it! Attack! I couldn’t lose! I was so damn near broke now, the situation was excellent. I was as nuts as Marshal Foch. It thrilled me. Yeah! I would throw sanity to the winds and bet a bundle!

  Doody’s voice broke in on my thrilling thoughts. “Shell, what’s the matter?”

  “Matter? Nothing’s the matter!”

  “You just cried out, ‘Attack!’ It sounded so strange.”

  “I’ll bet it did.” I paused. “Too much, really. After all, it’s only a horse race, isn’t it?”

  “And you were gnashing your teeth, like.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like — in pain. Are you hurting?”

  “Boy, am I hurting. I mean, I was thinking.”

  “It hurts you to think?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I shifted my position haughtily and scraped the still-very-sore spot where I’d been pinked. “Ow,” I said, and added, “It only hurts when I sit on my right, uh, side.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I got shot there last night, that’s why.”

  “Shot? With a bullet?”

  “No, a crossbow. A cannon. A machine gun. Hell, yes, a bullet.”

  “I didn’t know — how did it happen?”

  “Two pals of Scalzo’s were beating up a friend of mine, and when I appeared they expressed their pique and displeasure by shooting me.”

  “There?”

  “There.”

  “How . . . were you going away from them?”

  “No, I was not going away from them. I was going at them — like Peter Pan, I recall my friend saying. I know this sounds silly, but . . . well . . .”

  “How did you get shot there?”

  “Don’t ask me. I didn’t do it. But I was, well, flying through the air in what appears on reflection to have been an awkward position. Anyway, it happened. Doody, do you really like Silver Arrow?”

  “You say they were friends of Mr. Scalzo’s?”

  “They sure weren’t friends of mine.”

  “Shell . . .” Her voice was different. “I think I’ve made a serious mistake.”

  “Not in the first six races you haven’t. What do you mean — are you betting on Thunder Boy? — Hey, now.”

  I stopped, because that was when I saw Matthew Wyndham. He went straight to the box next to Scalzo’s, the “George M. Williams” box. He and Scalzo didn’t even look at each other. Not then. Wyndham opened his Racing Form and seemed to be studying it.

  So it was going to happen. That tied it. Doody hadn’t been lying. And there sat Scalzo and Wyndham, cheek by jowl. And soon we would all be eyeball-to-eyeball, and no telling what then. The big pieces fitted together now; not all the little pieces, but maybe I could find them and squeeze them in later. I could feel my pulse beat picking up, the growing pressure in my arteries.

  I hadn’t decided whether to stroll down and confront that gang or to wait until after the races and tackle them one at a time. Wyndham, I knew, was the softest; he was the cookie about to crumble. If I could find the right spot to apply pressure, and I thought I could.

  I was still considering which course to follow when Doody went back to what she’d been saying before. “Shell, please tell me exactly why you’re so interested in Mr. Wyndham. You’ve never really told me, you’ve avoided it whenever I asked. And I’ve got to know.”

  I turned and looked at her. “I didn’t tell you because there was a chance you’d pass on everything I said to your boss, and that would have complicated things for me. But it doesn’t make any difference now. Your boss is down there with Scalzo at this moment, and I’m soon going to tell him the whole bit myself.”

  She looked toward Scalzo’s box, nibbled her lip. “I hadn’t seen him. When did he arrive?”

  “Just now. O.K., you want to know, here it is. I think Matthew Wyndham — not Ryder Tangier — swiped the loot from Universal Electronics. I don’t know the mechanics, but that’s not important. More important is the fact that Scalzo down there does know Matthew Wyndham, does now meet and undoubtedly has before met him — right here, in the paradoxical privacy of a teeming race track. Since Scalzo does not want me to reach Wyndham’s ear and put a bug in it — about a Dr. Quick, among other things — he had to set up another meet today and most likely at the moment is telling Wyndham to help get me killed, or blow town until the heat’s off. The heat I’ve helped build under those boys, and that John Kay, who got killed for it, started. The fact that Wyndham is chummy with Scalzo is excruciatingly significant because Wyndham is president of UE, and Scalzo is a crook from the word go. His last and only recent arrest was for fixing a horse race, I think he’s graduated and is now trying to fix an electronics company, namely UE. And I also think now I’ll be able to prove it.”

  “Shell,” she said, “I’m Julie Tangier.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It rocked me.

  It hit me so hard and so suddenly that it almost literally made me numb. But it shouldn’t have.

  Once the words were out of her mouth a dozen things I’d seen or heard, widely separated before, came together into a pattern. And I said slowly, “I should have guessed.”

  She put her hand on my knee again, leaned close to me. “I didn’t tell you before, Shell, because I didn’t know who you were, what you were after. We only met yesterday afternoon, remember.”

  “I sure remember.”

  “I think Dr. Noble, and perhaps Mr. Wyndham, too, may have begun to suspect who I really am. And just two nights before you and I met, I talked to Mr. Kay, told him who I was and all I’d learned — then the very next day he was killed. I don’t know what he might have said before then. He might have revealed who I was, or at least part of what I’d told him. Then one day after his death you showed up and said you were a detective too. You could have been lying, working for them, trying to find out how much I knew.”

  “For them? For those — those gangsters?”

  She smiled. “Well, you look like you could be a gangster.”

  “I do, huh? Fine. Great.”

  “A nice gangster. I mean you don’t look retiring or weak. You look more as if you’d just killed something with a stone ax. After all, Shell, it didn’t matter much what you looked like. There are nice-looking criminals too. I had to find out if I could trust you — especially after what happened to Mr. Kay.”

  I looked at her, and she looked different. She was different. “Hello, Julie,” I said. “Hello, Julie Tangier.”

  She smiled. “Hello, Shell Scott. Incide
ntally, Doody was really my nickname, when I was about six years old. But I invented Nell Duden.”

  “I’ll stick with Doody then. I kind of got used to Doody, the dumb blonde.” I shook my head. “I’m still trying to absorb this. Tell me, do you really speak seven languages, and ride jumping horses and swim and golf and such, and read Plutarch in the original Greek, and split atoms — ”

  She laughed softly. “I speak the seven languages, Shell, but I don’t split atoms — ”

  “The hell you don’t. You sure split some of mine.”

  I looked at her, still feeling a bit numb. As striking as the rest of it was the change in her voice now, her manner of speaking. It had gone in the bat of an eye from battiness and a somewhat nasal twanginess to a soft, cultured, whispering zippiness. “Wow,” I said. “Look, Doody, you’d better fill me in, tell me what you told Kay, the whole story. I’ve probably got an item or two you’d like to know, too. Together, we might have something.”

  “All right.”

  Down on the track the bugler tooted his long trumpet and the horses came onto the track for the seventh race. As Doody talked, they lined up and started walking single file toward the starting gate, a hundred yards or so to our left.

  “I was in Paris,” Doody said, “when the scandal broke about Dad’s embezzlement — alleged embezzlement. I didn’t learn of it then. Dad didn’t tell me — he wouldn’t. You’d have to know him to understand, but he wouldn’t have wanted me to worry. By the time I found out what was going on, the trial was almost over. I got back to the States last month, just before he was sentenced. I talked to him twice.” She bit her lip. “It was horrible for him, but he didn’t complain, just told me he was innocent.”

  “It looks as if he is.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Of course he is. But nobody else thought so, not the police, or the jury — nobody. It looked impossible, but I knew he was innocent, and if there was any way to prove it, I meant to prove it.”

  “Like Foch at the Marne,” I said, apropos of practically nothing.

  She looked at me, one arched brow rising. “After all,” she said, “he did win the battle.”