“No. I called her back this afternoon before I phoned you, arranged for us to have dinner here. She drove down and met me right outside. Thought we might find out what the score was.” He shook his head. “Didn't even get a chance to talk with her any more, though. She didn't act as if she wanted to talk, anyway. I kept telling her and telling her we'd better get down to business. But you'd think she was deaf or something."
“Or something. Maybe she's in a different business.” I grinned at him, then sobered. “Think she might have been some kind of plant? After all, Garr showed up right behind her."
“I don't know, never thought about it.” He wiggled his jaw gently. “Let's get out of here. Maybe we can think of something at my place."
“Meet you there."
In the Cad I unstrapped my too-obvious holster, shoved it under the seat, then U-turned and headed down Beverly. My route took me within a couple blocks of the Parker Hotel so I stopped there. Room 27 was empty; the desk clerk told me that Miss Delgado had checked out last night at seven p.m. Two men had come to see her and she'd gone away with them. No, she'd left no forwarding address.
I looked the room over, but there was nothing in it, except maybe memory of the first time I'd seen little Martita here. I'd got a tip from one of my informants, who'd been keeping an ear open for me, that this Delgado girl was an ex-flame of Blake's and could probably tell me plenty. I'd located her in the Parker and convinced her—for three hundred bucks—that she should tell Hershey and me her tale, which she'd done.
But when I'd knocked that first time and she'd answered the door, Martita had been enough to make me forget what I'd come to see her about. At least temporarily. She'd been wearing a blue robe, about as thick and opaque as cellophane, brushing long black hair that was spread out in a shining mass over her shoulders. We'd talked a little while and I'd told her what I was after, and finally she'd said sure, she'd be glad to cooperate any way at all.
But the room was empty now, and there was no way to know where she'd gone, or why. Walking down to the Cad I kept thinking of her softness, the devil in her big dark eyes.
4
Hershey had a couple of drinks mixed by the time I reached his house. He showed me where the guest room window had been jimmied, pointed out a deep indentation in the grass outside, undoubtedly where the safe had been shoved through the window before being carted away. Back in the front room Hershey sat on the edge of a chair while I used his phone to call City Hall and got Homicide. Captain Samson answered.
“Sam? Shell here.” Since Sam is about my best friend in L.A., he knew all about the job Hershey and I had been doing. I briefed him on the latest revolting development and told him that Andy Nelson, the only one of our three informants I'd located, was on his way down, shaking visibly.
“That'll make two,” he said. “We got another one down here."
“What do you mean, Sam?” I didn't like the sound of his voice. “Who do you mean?"
“Couple of the boys found the body in an alley about midnight last night. It was Willie Fein. He's in the morgue now. Three forty-five slugs in his chest."
“He's dead?"
“Of course not, he's in the morgue for a transfusion. Three forty-five slugs—"
“Okay, Sam, knock it off. I believe you."
Hershey asked me what was the matter.
“They got Willie,” I said. “Killed him last night."
Paul winced, shook his head slowly.
“Sam,” I said into the phone, “this might be important. Was he worked over first?"
“Plenty. Somebody beat the bejeezus out of him.” He was quiet a moment, then added, “Something else you might want to play with. Pretty near the same time, Highway Patrol found another guy in a ditch with three forty-fives in his ticker—and before you ask, he was dead too."
“Any connection?"
“Don't know if there is, but the guy worked for Joe Blake. Young punk, name of Stu Robb. Mean anything to you?"
“No, it doesn't,” I said slowly, “not yet, anyway.” Sam hadn't heard anything from or about Martita Delgado. I thanked him and hung up.
“They killed him,” Hershey said softly. “Murdered him."
He sounded, and looked, sick. He stood up and walked forward a couple steps, stopped and said hesitantly, “I never really thought they'd ... I guess I shouldn't have started this. It wouldn't have happened.” He looked bewildered.
“Come off it, Paul. You'll have me thinking you popped the guy yourself.” He winced again, but he lost the bewildered look. “Blake had him killed,” I went on, “and Blake is the only reason he's dead; just because we dug up some dirt, and got part of it from Willie, doesn't change that. Willie was long overdue anyway."
He was quiet for a while. Then he frowned and said, “How did they find out we had the stuff? Or that it was here?"
“Looks like they got to Willie somehow, beat the truth out of him, then searched here. Willie wouldn't have known about the other affidavits, but we took all three here in the house. When Blake's boys got the affidavits with the names on them they probably took off to pick up the other two, Martita and Nelson, only Nelson had moved.” I paused. “And they killed Willie."
Hershey sat down again. “It's incredible. Can you imagine a man like Blake controlling men in the legislature, backing candidates who—"
I cut him off. “Yeah, I can imagine it. Look, those affidavits gave him our names too. They searched here; might be they gave my place a once-over. I'd better check."
I got up. “And don't look so glum, Paul. They can't have found the stuff at my hotel desk, so we've got that. There's still Nelson and you and me. Probably Martita too. We can do the damn statements over again, except for Willie's."
That didn't cheer him up much. When I left he was grim, still looking a little sick. I didn't feel so good myself. But I pushed thoughts of Willie Fein, who now had rigor mortis in his nose, out of my mind and climbed into the Cad. Under the right circumstances I wanted to see Blake; even Ed Garr. I rather hoped I'd see Lorry Weston again, too. She still had my coat.
I didn't get the car out of second gear. Half a block from Hershey's was a stop sign. A guy leaned against it smoking a cigarette, but most of my attention was on a car that had pulled out from the curb right after me. As I stopped at the intersection the other car swung up fast on my left—and the Cad's right-hand door opened. I didn't even have time to grab under the seat for my gun.
A big .45 automatic came inside followed by a young punk with thin brown hair and a permanent sneer stuck on his white, weak-looking face. I'd seen his mug shots at headquarters. Dee Tolman, and I knew all about him, including the fact that he was another soldier in Blake's army.
He said in a high, girlish voice that went with his delicate features but not with his personality, “Hands on the wheel, Dad. Don't get excited."
The other car was slanted in front of my left fender and I heard one of its doors slam; the Cad's door on my side opened and a guy fanned me for a gun and grunted. I could smell him. These were not the right circumstances, but it was Ed Garr.
“No heater.” His voice rumbled softly in my ear.
“No heater."
He shoved me roughly past the middle of the seat and got under the wheel. His shoulder mashed me against Dee Tolman and I could feel the .45's muzzle, knew where it was if I wanted to grab for it. I didn't want to. I could see two men in the other buggy. The gun in my side also helped discourage me. And then there was Garr.
He put the Cad in gear and I said, “Where we headed, Garr?"
“See Joe."
That was all of the conversation. The other car fell in behind us.
5
Joe Blake lived only four or five miles from the Hollywood business district, but his two-story brick home was at the end of half a mile of narrow dirt road lined with eucalyptus trees, the road being the only way in or out. There wasn't another house for a mile, just a lot of trees in rock and boulder-filled ground. The isolat
ion was some protection against guys who might not like Joe Blake, of whom there were plenty, but it was an open secret because Blake wanted it open, figuring it made even more sense to discourage people that way than having alarms go off in their ears. It was my guess that he also had everything from radar to tommy guns out here, and I knew several of his tough boys were always handy. Joe Blake didn't trust people.
At the road's end a gravel drive curved in front of the house, continued on around in an oval to join the road again. Grass filled the oval, and cement steps led up to the front door. Parked near the steps was a maroon Lincoln I recognized as Blake's.
A big ugly character opened the door, looked at us, then turned and walked ahead to the end of a short hallway. The leather loop of a sap dangled from his hip pocket. He unlocked a door at the hall's end, let us through into another hallway running left and right, locked the door again behind us. No open house here.
Joe Blake was waiting for us in one of the bedrooms, wearing a terry cloth robe and leather slippers. A big briar pipe was stuck in his mouth. He looked a bit Hollywoodish, but it wasn't a pose. Blake liked to be comfortable, and he liked to smoke a briar pipe, and he usually did what he liked to do. If he felt like having a guy shoot you, say, he told the guy, “Shoot him.” He wore horn-rimmed glasses and didn't look like a man who controlled much of California politics and crime. Who does? Blake was about five-ten, forty-six years old, slender, and not bad-looking, except that he looked meaner than hell. Of course, he was meaner than hell.
He grinned at me and said, “Hi. Have a chair, Mr. Scott.” He pointed, and sat on the edge of his bed. “Good to see you. Glad you came."
“I got your invitation.” I sat down.
He laughed, pushed his glasses up a little with his thumb. “The boys are good at delivering invitations."
“They gave a beaut to Willie Fein."
He laughed some more. Pretty soon somebody would come in with tea and cookies. “Who's Willie Fein?"
This time we laughed together. It was warm and friendly here. And the way this crumb was acting I began thinking maybe he'd actually brought me out to kill me. But he could have told his boys to take a stab at it earlier if that was what he'd been after.
I said, “Okay, I'm here. What do you want?"
“Lorry Weston, for one thing,” he said. “I'd like to know where she is."
I said truthfully, “So would I. But I don't know."
“You might as well tell me now if you do. There are several ways to make people talk."
“The answer would still be the same. You can't get blood out of...” I stopped, because the cliché wasn't sparkling conversation and I am no turnip anyway. Garr stared at me, long arms hanging loosely at his sides and his mouth half open; Dee Tolman leaned against the door, the .45 in his hand.
I said to Blake, “Look, I can't jump you and your boys, eat all the guns and bang your heads together. But you can hardly work me over, either—or whatever you've got in mind—and expect to get away with it. Not even you, Blake. That would make a bigger stink in Los Angeles than Ed Garr does. So let's quit playing around."
“All right, Scott. I'll lay it out.” He leaned back on two pillows at the top of the bed, laced his hands behind his head and said casually, “We aren't fooling each other a bit anyway. I know you and Hershey have been after my neck for quite a while—” he smiled gently—“and never mind how I know."
“Wouldn't have anything to do with Willie Fein."
He grinned. “Who's Willie Fein? You and Hershey got little stories from three people; you don't have them any more. But you two, with Nelson, might get together with a cop or a grand jury and embarrass me a little. Follow me? You couldn't hurt me, but it wouldn't be good this close to election."
He paused for a moment. I knew why he hadn't included Willie Fein. Willie wouldn't be talking to anybody any more. But I wondered why he'd left out Martita Delgado.
“So,” Blake continued, “I'd like for you to drop out."
“What do you mean, drop out?"
“Just that. Drop Hershey. Give me your word that you won't help him another minute, won't spill any testimony against me or my boys—in other words climb clear out of my hair."
I started to interrupt, but he raised his voice and went on, “You see, Scott, without your help, Hershey's dead.” He laughed. “I mean in the election—I can't touch him physically; too well known that I'm out for his scalp. But without your testimony, your help, the screws you've got in Andy—I know Nelson's in the damper, but I can get to him there—the weight you can swing, I haven't got a thing to worry about. Clear?"
“Sure it's clear. And maybe you're right. Only I wouldn't help you cut your throat.” I wasn't going to give this bum my word on anything. At least not for the first half-hour or so of the beating. Besides which I wasn't simply going to lie down and say, “Hit me, boys.” Dee was wiggling his gun gently, as if he enjoyed the feel of it, or were anticipating my lack of enjoyment at the feel of it.
Blake said, “One other thing. I could tell by looking over the stuff I got that there was more somewhere. You must have it—not in your apartment or office, though."
“If some of your goons ripped up—"
“Neat as a pin,” he interrupted. “Boys looked around, but you won't be able to tell they did. I'd like the rest of the stuff, Scott."
I didn't say anything. It was his party.
“I know what you're thinking,” he said pleasantly. “You're not going to give this crumb Blake the back of your hand, right? But you're not a complete fool, Scott. I'll get what I want one way or another. If you cooperate, we settle this and nobody gets hurt. Not you, not Hershey, not anybody. You keep playing tough-boy and it'll just be a mess all around. And I'll still get what I'm after."
“Forget it, Blake."
“Would you cooperate to keep somebody from a very bad time?"
“Like what?"
“Like having some teeth knocked out, and developing a few internal injuries. And—” he gave me that gentle smile again—“dying."
He's talking about me, I thought dismally. “Blake, you may be clear out of your mind, but Robb and Willie are already in the morgue. You scatter any more corpses around, and people are going to start talking about you. The election will be the least of your worries.” I stood up. “And just one little thing I hadn't mentioned. You or your boys lay one finger on me here and now, and somebody else is going to get killed here and now."
He chuckled and got off the bed, walked past me to the door. “Come on."
He went out. Dee pointed his gun at me, a smile on his girlish face. I followed Blake from the room, halfway down the hall, and stopped beside him at another door. He stuck a key in the lock and shoved the door open, then said, “Look in there, Scott. I wasn't talking about you."
Then I saw her. He'd been talking about Martita Delgado.
6
She lay on her back on a bed at the far side of the room, hands bound beneath her, a white gag over her mouth. A reddish-purple bruise was ugly on her left cheek. She was fully clothed, even to high heels and nylon stockings, but her white blouse had been torn. Her eyes were closed, but as I walked toward her she raised her head slightly and her lids parted. Then her eyes opened wide and automatically she started to speak, the gag muffling her voice. The black eyes seemed enormous.
Blake put a hand on my arm as I stepped toward her.
“You filthy—” I said.
It bounced right off him, but he stepped back out of reach, and it was just as well that he did. For both of us. Garr stood inside the room, Dee behind him.
Blake said, “I don't have to spell it out for a smart guy like you, do I?” His voice had changed, and it wasn't just the sarcasm in his tone. It was tighter, less pleasant. “The boys here could pound on you a while, but if we let you go you might keep on giving me trouble. And, frankly, if they polished you off and dumped you somewhere, there might be a little noise. There's fifty other guys in town with
good reason to knock you off, Scott, but it wouldn't look too good for me—although I can get away with it if you make me. But this way I figure you'll cooperate."
“Go to hell."
He shrugged. “You know what happens to her if you don't play along with me. Oh, we'll get a little amusement out of her before we kill her."
I stared at him, and my revulsion and disgust must have showed in my face. He laughed softly and went on, “Yes, she's very amusing."
“Shut up, Blake.” I had spoken so softly that at first I wasn't sure he'd heard me. But he stopped talking, licked his lips and glanced toward the door. “I wonder how wise you'd be,” I said, “or how tough, if those two guns weren't right behind you."
That was the first thing I'd said that ruffled his composure. His face got harder, cold. But in a moment his expression smoothed. “It should be clear, Scott. Just agree to what I said and she'll be okay—and so will you. That last is something we haven't talked about."
“Yeah, just agree, and Martita and I walk out of here hand in hand."
“Not quite like that. Not that I think you'd cross me once you make up your mind to go along, but I'll have to keep her here for a while—till the elections. Just to make sure you stay in line."
I looked at Martita. Her eyes were fixed on my face.
Blake said, “No matter what you decide, you walk out anyway."
“Sure."
He explained, “I mean, you can leave right now if you feel like it. I wanted to show you this—” he nodded toward the bed—“and let you know what I expect. You've got the picture now. Take it or leave it."
I didn't say anything. On the bed, Martita made muffled noises.
Blake said, “The boys aren't even going to work you over. I told you why, but I didn't think any argument would be needed. I thought you were a regular Good Samaritan, sort of an unchaste Galahad. So they tell me, sucker."
He'd used the right word. It is well and widely known that I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress. She doesn't even have to be in distress.
Three's a Shroud (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 2
