“What did you say?”
“I said I'm curious to —”
“No, the name of the place.”
“Desert Trails Guest Ranch. Dude Ranch near Palm Springs.”
“Yeah, I know where it is. Don't you know who owns that neon rangeland, Shell?”
“No. Should I? Is it important?”
“I don't know whether it is or not. You figure it out. Papers say the owner is William Layne, but that's just the paper. Real owner is Nick Colossus.”
Nick Colossus. That jarred me. Painfully.
Half a dozen angles and ideas got scrambled in my head. Lou Rio in the case had been had enough. But of the two evils, Rio and Nick Colossus, Rio was much the lesser.
Stacked up alongside Nick Colossus, Rio—the guy who had slugged me and kicked me in the face, who actually seemed to enjoy the company of Gangrene—was practically a softy. He was like a daisy alongside a cactus. He wasn't as big, he wasn't as tough, he wasn't as smart as Nick, not by a long shot. Of course, he was quite enough of all those things, as far as I was concerned.
“Shell? You there?”
“Yeah. That surprised me.”
“Mean anything to you?”
“Just that I don't want to vacation at the Desert Trails. Nick is included among the many who fail to be overcome with gladness at the mention of my name.”
“Something else you might be interested in. Shell. Monaghan over at the D.A.'s office called the Captain about it. Only reason was because he remembered Valentine's name; probably not important.”
“What's not important?”
“Last Monday this Theodore Valentine called the D.A.'s office and asked if they'd gotten a letter from him. They hadn't. He seemed anxious about it—didn't want them even to open the thing if they got it. Said he thought he'd mailed it to them by mistake, but wasn't sure he'd mailed it at all.”
“What kind of letter was this?”
“Four page letter, he said. Sent special delivery. That's all any of us know. He called the next day or two, then stopped.”
“Any letter ever show up?”
“Nope. That's all there was to it. Only reason Monaghan called the skipper was because of the guy taking a dive this A.M. Well, file it away, Shell.”
“I will. Thanks. I'll bring this letter down.”
We hung up. Feldspen said, “What was all that about?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. It could be something's real screwy here. I just don't know.” More than anything else I was curious to know if Nick Colossus was tangled up in this case anywhere.
And I sure hoped he wasn't. I would have much preferred Dracula.
Before heading for downtown L.A. and the police, I waited inside the gate and caught all three of Magna's allegedly blackmailed stars as they came in. I told each of them, bluntly and without warning, where Valentine was now, and why.
I got one unusual reaction.
Coral came in first, and she was shocked and sorry. It was, I thought, a normal enough reaction. She had to get to Makeup, and I spotted Johnny Palomino parking his car, so we went our separate ways. The last thing she said was a little strange. It was, “Well ... that—that changes things.”
Palomino was cool enough about it. He seemed surprised, but that was about all. As if he'd just heard that a distant cousin had robbed a bank. He asked me, “Where'd he do it?” and I said he'd jumped from his hotel. He shook his head, and went on into the lot. He seemed still to be using his “drops.”
So far, so-so. But with Suez, it was different. She parked her white Thunderbird, jumped out energetically and walked toward me, green skirt swirling, dark hair bouncing against her shoulders. She wore a very well fitted, snug sweater in just about the color of green that most other gals would turn with envy when they saw it.
She spotted me and waved, smiled a flashing white smile, then stopped in front of me. “Hi. Out of hibernation for another day, hey?” she said cheerily.
“There was nobody else in the cave. I got lonely. You hear about Valentine?”
“No, what did he do?”
“Killed himself this morning.”
Her face was still pleasant enough. It just froze in the expression it had had when I'd spoken. It took a little time to penetrate. She said, “Killed himself?”
“Yeah. Jumped off the roof of his hotel just about sunup.”
For a moment I thought she was going to faint. She got paler and her eyes sort of went out of focus momentarily. Then she said in a tight, twisted voice, “Oh, God, no. Oh, my God. No ... no.” She put a hand out and kind of wobbled a little as she said, “I should never have —” She stopped suddenly.
I thought maybe I could get to her while she was still shocked, still not watching her tongue, and find out what she'd meant by all that, but there wasn't time for a good try. I said, “Should never have what, Suez?” She whirled around and ran to the Thunderbird, jumped in and was out of sight before I could even get my Cad started. I tried to catch up with her and find out where she was going, but she was long gone. Feldspen had given me her address, on Pepper Street, so I drove there. It was a pale brown stucco apartment building, and Suez lived in Apartment Six. But she wasn't there now. I left, hit the freeway and drove into downtown L.A., parked in the lot at the Police Building and went on inside.
I took the letter to the Criminalistics Lab and met Lieutenant Perkins, on his way out after delivering Valentine's suicide note to them. He said, “Hi, Shell. You think something smells about this suicide, huh?”
“I didn't say that, Perkins. I'm just curious about the notes.”
“Yeah.” He had a half-smoked cigar butt clamped between his teeth. “I'd be curious about anything that's got Colossus’ name within a mile of it.”
“How about this Guest Ranch you say is his? Any angles?”
“Just an investment, I guess. And a spot for his punks to hang out. Nick stays there most of the time, himself. Must have spent a fortune on his own rooms.”
“Fancy, huh?”
“Not that so much. You know we've been after the bum for ten years.”
I nodded. The police knew that Nick Colossus had personally committed or been accessory to the commission of virtually every crime in the book, but he'd never spent even a day in jail. He was smart, and he was careful.
Perkins said, “He must have spent a fortune to make sure he'd be safe out there. No chance of anybody getting a mike in; that place is thoroughly debugged—his rooms anyhow.” He grinned. “We tried to bug it. That's probably the only place in California where he really feels safe. Nobody's going to get anything on Nick at his own place, that's for sure.”
“Which also proves he's got plenty to hide.”
“A fact we've known for ten years, pal. And it's not the kind of proof you take to Superior Court.”
We jawed a little longer about Nick, and then I changed the subject. “By the way, Perkins, if somebody kills me today, pick up Lou Rio, will you?”
He grinned. “Sure, I'd love to. You planning to get killed?”
“No, but I think that slob's planning to kill me. It's a sure thing that Gangrene is.”
“Well, it was nice knowing you, Scott. Wish we could solve all the murders this quick.”
And on that happy note he went back to Homicide. Before leaving the Police Building I checked with Criminalistics. They hadn't run all the tests possible, but they'd done enough. The two sheets were identical except for the heading on the letter to Feldspen; the top of the suicide note had been cut off with a sharp instrument, probably shears or a razor blade. It was Valentine's handwriting on both sheets of paper; the police handwriting expert was positive of that.
I'd left my apartment without breakfast, and I was getting hungry. While I have absolutely no appetite on arising, after two or three hours I can eat a horse. So I took off and had a late breakfast at a new and unfamiliar place which was never going to become one of my old familiar places. I ordered planked steak and it tasted as if they
had cooked the plank. It was served with whipped potatoes that looked like old shaving cream with the whiskers still in it, and all that breakfast did was spoil my breakfast. So I went to one of my old familiar places for a sirloin, and by the time I had strength enough to reach the office, it was eleven-thirty A.M.
The phone was ringing when I went through the door, but I didn't reach it in time. I looked through the mail, then called Feldspen and told him about the reactions of Palomino, Coral, and especially Suez. He said Suez still hadn't reported for work; he had no idea what could have been eating her.
I said, “I'll be out of touch for a few hours, Harry. I'm going to follow up a lead at the Desert Trails. I'll check with you later.”
He wished me luck and we hung up. Almost immediately the phone rang again. I grabbed it and a man's soft voice said, “Is this Mr. Scott?”
“That's right.”
“Sheldon Scott, the detective?”
He sounded a little worked up about something. I said, “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I just saw the TV news. I've been watching all morning, waiting for something about the man that got killed this morning.”
I sat up straight. “Valentine?”
“Yeah, that's it. It just mentioned you were there, working for the guy's boss, something like that. So I looked up your number.”
“What about it? And what do you mean, you were waiting for the broadcast?”
“You alone? In your office there?”
“I'm alone. Do you know something about Valentine's suicide?”
“Yeah. It wasn't no suicide. The guy was thrown off the roof. He was murdered.”
It gave me a small shock to hear the man say it, but I wasn't really surprised.
I said, keeping my voice normal, “How do you know he didn't jump? And why don't you go to the police?”
“Man, I tell you I saw those guys toss him off there. You think I'm nuts? I go to the cops, and maybe those same guys find out about it and drop me off a bridge. No, thanks. I'll do it this way.” He paused. “I thought for a while I'd just let it ride, but I couldn't. It kept eating me—so I'll give you the whole bit. But no cops, man.”
“Do you know who the men were?”
“Huh-uh. Two men, that's all. One on each side. They dragged him over the roof, put him down for a minute and did something I couldn't make out. Like they were maybe putting something there on the ledge. Then they go and give him a toss.”
I asked him how he'd happened to see all that and he said he'd been up on the roof “with a babe” until a few minutes before. She'd gone down to sneak back into her room and he was having a smoke, to give her time to get in, before going down himself, and back to his own home.
“Where are you? And what's your name?”
“Hang up, man. That's all, all.”
“Look, I'd like to talk to you in person. Maybe you'll remember things, if I ask you, that you think you've forgotten. Or that you don't think were important. Besides, I'd like to get a signed statement from you, if nothing else.”
He wasn't for the idea, but in another half a minute he said O.K., he would at least talk to me. He wasn't promising to sign anything, though, and I had to give him my word that I wouldn't mention his name in connection with the killing without his permission. The kid wanted to help, I figured, but was still talking himself into it. I thought of him as a kid, though I didn't really know how old he was. His voice and speech didn't seem that of an old codger.
I gave him a few more reasons why he should see me, and finally he said, “O.K., Dad.”
But he still wouldn't give me his name. He said that he would meet me in York Park, a small park out on Belmont Street in half an hour. He added, “I'll talk to you, but that's all. I want to cooperate, but I'm not signing anything or telling you my name. I'll give you the ball, Dad, but you got to take it over the goal line.”
“That's good enough for me, friend,” I said. “How'll I know you?”
“I'll have a hibiscus in my ear—hell, I'll know you. They showed your picture on that TV news show. But I am a tall and skinny cat with black hair and eyes like pools of blood—how's that?”
“I'll find you,” I said, grinning slightly. I could imagine the sweet nothings this cat must have whispered to his doll there on the roof—“Baby, you bop me,”—or whatever such characters say at times like that. “See you in half an hour.”
We hung up. My grin slowly faded. Not because of the news about Valentine's murder, but because now that the guy was off the phone a couple of things he'd said seemed a bit odd. There wasn't really anything wrong with his tale, and all he'd said might very well have been true—probably was. But I didn't much like meeting him in a wooded park. York Park was wooded, too; there were a lot of trees and brush there, as well as the cool green lawn and goldfish pond.
And what had actually occurred to me was the possibility that somebody who disliked me to the point of frenzy—like Gangrene, for example—might have pulled this just to get me out to a relatively lonely spot I shook my head and told myself that I was reaching for trouble now, and undoubtedly that call had been exactly what it seemed to be. But I took out the .38 and checked it, felt its comforting weight in my palm for a moment, then put it in the holster and got up.
I was at the door when the phone rang again; I hesitated, then went back and lifted it to my ear.
“Shell?” It was a woman's voice. Low and cool and sweet.
“Yeah. Would this be the lovely Coral?”
“It would be Coral. Thanks for the adjective. Shell, yesterday I said that when I was sure of something I'd tell you, remember.
“I remember.”
“Well, now I'm more sure. I told you that once somebody tried to blackmail me. I didn't want to say who it was yesterday because if I was wrong, it might hurt him. Well, it was Valentine I had in mind. It can't hurt him now.”
“Valentine? You think he tried to blackmail you?”
“Yes. It's a little complicated, Shell. I'm calling from Magna. I'll leave here about five, so why don't you come by my place at six and I'll tell you then, all right?”
“Fine, Coral. See you tonight then.”
We hung up. For a minute I thought about what she'd said, then I dialed Magna Studios and got Feldspen on the line.
When he answered I said, “Harry, this is Shell. I've been thinking. I know you liked Valentine, so I hate to say this—but there's a chance he was behind the blackmail pitch. If so, now that he's dead there may be nothing more to worry about. Maybe the squeeze is over —”
He interrupted me. “I just had another phone call.”
“Don't tell me —”
“Not half an hour ago. The same man, same voice.”
“Oh.” My own voice sounded rather dull, even to me. “What was it this time?”
“Essentially the same. He said that he had heard about the suicide of my assistant. And that I wasn't to assume anything was changed.”
“I wonder why that was mentioned.”
“I haven't the vaguest idea. He repeated the preposterous demand for one million dollars. In cash. And said he would phone again in six days, perhaps sooner.” Feldspen paused and then added, “Shell, I'm getting rather frightened by all this.”
“It's a screwy one.” I glanced at my watch. I'd already spent over five minutes on the phone, and I had to get on my way. That reminded me and I asked, “Has Lou Rio been around the lot this morning? Or Death-cooled-over?”
“Who?”
“Gangrene. Little Boy Black-and-Blue. The man wearing tights-colored flesh. The chap who tried to shoot me in your office.”
“Oh, no. I haven't seen either of them. Why?”
“I'd just feel better if I knew exactly where they were at this moment. Harry, I've got something important to do, but I'll see you as soon as it's done, and we'll go over all this.”
He said fine, we hung up and I took off.
Automatically as I walked out of the Hamilton
Building onto Broadway I looked around, and even tried to check the windows of the building across the street. There was about one chance in a hundred thousand that if anybody tried to pot me here I'd be able to see him first, but I looked anyway. Once before I'd had two rifle slugs tossed at me from a building not far down Broadway; once was enough. In fact, once was too often. But I didn't see anything except what looked like a million people, none with rifles, so I climbed into the Cadillac and dug out.
I made excellent time to York Park, but got there five minutes late. I pulled into a spot at the curb, on Belmont, got out and went down one of the sandy dirt paths into the park. The path was lined with cement-and-wood benches and curved slightly to enter the central area of the park. This was a cleared place about fifty feet across, with benches and three stone statues around its perimeter, a circular pathway before them, and a twenty-foot-wide pool in the middle, filled with fat goldfish.
Three people were in sight when I arrived. One of them, a thin guy about thirty-five, got up from one of the benches as I looked around. Except for an old lady knitting and apparently listening to the birds—on her face the distant, sort of sappy look of people who sit in parks knitting and listening to birds—the only other person was a young guy, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two years old.
He spotted me and stood up, waved a hand. He wasn't “a tall and skinny cat” as he'd described himself, but short and fat. Maybe he hadn't wanted me to know what he looked like; or maybe he'd just been horsing around conversationally, which seemed to be characteristic of him. It occurred to me as I walked toward him that this little fat guy and I were, except for the killers, the only people who knew for sure that Valentine's death was murder.
The kid grinned when I was just a couple of yards away from him. “So I ain't got a hibiscus,” he said. “But I'm your boy, Da —”
I suppose he was going to say Dad, or Daddy-O, something like that. I didn't know. And I would never know. That was his last word, and he didn't even get to finish it.
I didn't hear the shot. I just saw half his chin torn suddenly from his face.
Chapter Seven
Slab Happy (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 7
