Three's a Shroud (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

I was on my feet and the words had popped out of me almost involuntarily. All I knew was that I didn't want to see Ilona's face change from the expression it now wore to one of hurt and disillusionment. Or maybe I was just out of my mind.

  But, anyway, I went on in a rush, “I can't sit around here all night listening to you two gab away. This is probably the same thing your husband said to me just a little while ago when I told him about the money you're inheriting. He said he was afraid you might not feel the same toward him, now that you're a millionaire."

  “Johnny!” she cried. She was shocked.

  I went on, “What I wanted to tell you about was the other half of the job you hired me for. Somebody really was trying to kill you, Mrs. Cabot. It was a woman named Ann Wilson. She was scheduled to inherit a million herself, but that wasn't enough for her, so she tried to knock you off. I think she's a little cracked—anyway, the cops have her in the hoosegow now, so all your troubles are over. Funny, you'll probably inherit half of the million she would have gotten."

  “All my troubles are over,” she said softly. “I just can't understand it—all this at once."

  Neither could Cabot. He was gaping at me, his mouth half open. I walked to the door and out into the hall, then I jerked my head at him. “I'd like to have a last word with you, Cabot."

  He came outside and shut the door. “What the hell?” he said, bewildered. “What happened just now?"

  “I had a cerebral hemorrhage. Shut up and listen. That little girl in there must be crazier than Ann Wilson, because she thinks you're the end. Well, I think you're the other end, but maybe you could be real nice to this Ilona-with-two-million-dollars, if you tried. And I've got a hunch you're going to try."

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah. You're making sense.” He paused. “I didn't think you were flipping your lid in there for me."

  I said, “I can still tell her, you know. I can still prove it. I'd hate to tear apart two people so much in love, though."

  “You know,” he said quietly, “she's really prettier now than when I met her. Not pretty—but less horrible."

  “Wait'll she gets that inheritance. She'll be beautiful."

  I was being sarcastic, in a way, but somehow I had a hunch that Ilona—with a lot more love, and a little more money—just might work her way up to not-half-bad. Well, time would tell.

  I nodded at Johnny Cabot and said, “Tell your wife I'll be sending her a bill for my fee. My big fee."

  I walked down the hall. Before I reached the elevator I heard the door shut behind me. When I looked around, the door was closed and Johnny Cabot was again alone with his wife....

  Because I kept wondering about Johnny and his Ilona even after I got in the Cad and started home, I was well out Beverly Boulevard and actually passing the Grotto before I remembered the other Ilona. Neptuna. My Ilona.

  I slammed on the breaks so suddenly that the car skidded to a stop in the middle of the street. A quick glance at the dash clock showed me it was three a.m. What was it Ilona Betun had said? She'd asked me to come back if I could, and said she would wait around a little while after closing. After two a.m. Well, it was only an hour after two. Maybe she'd still be here.

  I swung into the parking lot, parked the car and trotted to the club's rear entrance. With mild surprise I discovered that I was grinning. My Ilona had also said, I remembered, that sometimes she had a little swim all by herself here after everybody else had gone.

  I paused before the Grotto's rear door to catch my breath, then put my hand on the knob. It turned easily and the door opened. Inside, the club was dark. I could see nothing but blackness beyond the door. But the fact that this door had been unlocked was encouraging, I thought.

  Either the club was being burglarized, or Ilona was waiting. I went in, shut the door behind me, and walked ahead, still grinning, through the darkness.

  Hot-Rock Rumble

  1

  Somehow Mr. Osborne didn't look like the type. He was a tall, distinguished-looking guy of about fifty, with all his hair still on his head, rimless glasses over his blue eyes, and about three hundred dollars’ worth of clothes on his short body.

  He'd come in through the door marked “Sheldon Scott, Investigations” at ten this morning and he'd given me his whole story in five minutes, his sentences clipped and to the point. About every minute he'd gone to the window that overlooks Broadway and peered out to see if his wife were standing down there screeching.

  I said, “Sounds okay. I'll get on it right away, Mr. Osborne."

  “Thank you.” He got up, found a thousand-dollar bill in his fat wallet and dropped the bill on my desk. “I hope that's all right for now. I'll give you the other nine thousand in cash too, if you're successful. Is that satisfactory?” He went over to the window again.

  “Perfectly.” I was admiring Cleveland's picture and the number one and three zeros in the bill's corner when he said, “Ohmigawd. There she is. She didn't shop long. She can spend more money faster than anybody I...” He let it trail off, turned and went sailing out without another word.

  In his haste he left my office door standing open. I shut it, then walked to the window where he'd been standing. I saw him appear beside a plump woman in a fur coat. She put her hands on her hips and yakked something at him.

  It seemed likely she was asking him where in the hell he'd disappeared to, because Mr. Jules Osborne had sneaked away from his wife to see me. I went back to my desk and looked at the notes I'd taken while he'd talked. Mr. Osborne had spent $100,000 on jewelry which, unknown to his wife, he had given to what he described as “an, ah, er, young lady.” Two nights ago the jewelry had been stolen from the girl's—Diane Borden's—home. Diane missed her rocks so much that she brought forth an ultimatum: if Julie boy didn't replace them, or at least get the “old” ones back, Mrs. Jules Osborne might start hearing from the little birds. So, with a possible outlay of $100,000 staring him in the wallet, Jules was quite willing to pay me $10,000 if I could recover the originals.

  Osborne hadn't gone to the police because he didn't want any record of this deal anywhere. He'd checked on me, satisfied himself I could be trusted, and laid his problem in my lap. And time was important because he'd said to me, “I can trust the jeweler, I'm sure. The only one I'm worried about is Diane. She's apt to go berserk any day. Any—” he groaned—“hour. If my wife finds out about this she'll gouge me for a million-a-year alimony. What with alimony and taxes I'll have to borrow money."

  Anyway, Osborne wanted action. Diane lived in a rent-free house on Genesee Street. I put the thousand bucks in my wallet, got my black Cad out of the parking lot, and headed for Hollywood.

  2

  As soon as I saw Diane I knew she must have given Jules his hundred-thousand-dollars’ worth. There were several things about Diane that were obvious, the first one being that she was a woman. A lot of women these days look like thin men, but not this kid. She was dressed in red-and-black hostess pajamas with a silver belt tied around her tiny waist. The pajama bottoms were the black part, with full flowing legs slit up the side to her knees—which I automatically assumed were dimpled—and the red part was a thin, shimmering blouse which was crammed either with gigantic falsies or one hell of a lot of Diane.

  She peered around the door and up at me, letting a strand of red hair droop fetchingly over one eye, and she said, “Hello, hello, hello."

  I looked behind me but there was nobody else around. “That all for me?” I asked her.

  “Sure. You're big enough for three hellos. You're Scotty, aren't you?"

  “Shell Scott. How did you know?"

  “Daddy phoned me. He said you'd come around and see me.” She had the door about halfway open and she slid around it, one arm and leg on each side of it and her body pressed against the thin edge. She was silent for a few seconds, smiling at me, then she said, “He told me you were big, and your nose was a little bent, and you had real short white hair that stuck up in the air, and I should be nice to you and help you any way
I could.” She laughed. “Come on in, Mr. Scotty. I'm Diane."

  There was a chance conversation with this gal was going to be difficult. I walked by her but before I got past she said, “He didn't tell me about the funny white eyebrows. They glued?” She reached out and playfully tugged at one.

  “No,” I said. “They are not glued. And I—"

  “You bring my jewels?"

  “What the hell—"

  “I know you didn't. I was just teasing. Don't be mad. Come in and sit down. You want a drink or anything?"

  “Nope. I want some conversation. You sit down in a chair clear the hell across the room from me and let's talk. Okay?"

  She pretended to pout, which let me notice how full and sensually curving her lower lip was. While I sat down she plopped into a chair and crossed her legs. That black cloth parted at the slit and fell away from skin that looked white and soft as a cloud. Then she bounced up and sat on a long gray divan for half a second, then rolled over and lay on her stomach looking at me. She was a fluffy little bit of a thing, very young—maybe seventeen, I figured, all curves and bounce and energy. She was beginning to make me feel decrepit and full of hardened arteries at thirty.

  Finally we got around to the jewelry. On my way here I'd stopped at Montclair Jewelers, where Osborne had bought the stuff, and picked up a typed list and description of the missing items. Osborne had arranged to have it ready for me. The pieces were mostly diamonds, with a couple of emerald brooches thrown in. I checked the list against Diane's memory, which was just as good as the list, then asked her to tell me what she could of the actual theft.

  She rolled over onto her back, stretched her arms above her head, and presented such a charming picture that I hardly heard what she was saying. But she told me she'd gone with “Daddy” to an out-of-the-way spot and worn some of her diamonds. Back home, after Mr. Osborne had gone, she'd left the stuff on top of her bedroom dresser alongside the jewel box.

  She said, “And when I woke up yesterday morning the little pretties were just gone. I'd locked the doors when Daddy left and they were still locked this morning. Windows too. But it was all just gone. Some robbers stole it all."

  “You mean somebody walked right into your bedroom and lifted the rocks without your knowing anything about it?"

  “Well, they must have. I sleep soundly enough, but if anybody was banging around and flashing lights and things it should have awakened me.” She giggled at me. “I wasn't very tired, anyway."

  “Yeah. You know, I expected to find you all broken up, yanking your hair out and wailing. You sure you want these things back?"

  “Well, I like that. You want me to run around bawling and yelling ‘My jewels, my jewels'?” She was still smiling and didn't seem angry. “Now, wouldn't that be silly, really? I really feel bad, but Daddy said you'd get them back ... or else he'd get me some more. So it's not as if my little old pretties were gone forever."

  “I was just thinking, wouldn't it be a big laugh if you still had those little old pretties around somewhere and I naturally can't find the robbers and you get another hundred grand's worth from Da—ah, from your father?"

  She sat up straight on the couch. “Let me think about that a minute,” she said. Then she laughed, flopped back on the couch and threw her legs up in the air. “Oh, how funny,” she said. “That would be a scream. But I never thought of it—wish I had. And he's not my father, you silly. You know what I hope?"

  “No, what do you hope?"

  “That those robbers didn't see me.” She swung her legs around to the floor, got up and scooted across the room and curled up on the floor at my feet. She put her arms on my knees, leaned forward and said, “If they saw the diamonds, right in my bedroom there, and stole them, they must have been able to see me, it seems like. And golly I hope they didn't. I sleep without anything on, nothing at all, you know, and I'm restless. I kick and turn and wallow around all night I guess. Almost always I wake up all uncovered.” She shook her head and let red hair fly around.

  I said in a voice that was practically normal, “And if those robbers did see you, you'd better lock and bar all the doors tonight, because they'll be here again come hell or high water, jewels or no jewels. Now go back to your couch."

  She laughed and said, “You're fun. You know, you're lots of fun. And you know what I meant. Well, what else do you want to know?"

  “You got any picture of you wearing some of the rocks?"

  “Just a minute.” She got up, taking her arms and what-not off my shaking knees, and trotted out of the room on bare feet. I hadn't noticed before that she was barefooted, but then I've never been much of a guy to look at feet.

  She came back with two snapshots and a nightclub photo in which she was practically sagging under the weight of diamonds and emeralds. The nightclub photo showed a necklace, pin, and bracelet clearly. The dress she'd been wearing was strapless, and the photo showed Diane clearly, and it was clearly all Diane.

  “You can borrow the pictures,” she said. “Daddy took the first two snaps, and he was in the other—but he cut himself out. Well, what now?"

  “Now I go look for these things. And I'd be awfully sad if there weren't any robbers."

  “There you go again. Don't be so nasty. Somebody stole them, all right. You have to go right away?"

  “Immediately.” I stood up. I looked at her for a minute and said, “Aren't you being a little rough on the guy? I mean this business of either you get the rocks back or it costs him another hundred G's? The guy might collapse from anxiety, start selling his Cadillacs, get rocks in his head—"

  “Wait a minute.” She raised an arched eyebrow and looked me up and down slowly. Then she said, “Come on now. You know better than that. I'm doing him a favor. A lot of men think price is value. Daddy wouldn't have a Cadillac if it cost only five hundred dollars."

  I blinked at her, thinking that maybe her brain wasn't as soft as I'd suspected. Then she went back to normal and wiggled a little and smiled at me, and I thought: Hang on, Scott, you'll be out of here in a minute and Jules isn't paying you for what you're thinking. I started for the door and Diane walked along with me, hanging onto my arm, which also started getting hot.

  “If you find them,” she said, “you bring them back to me. Don't take them to Daddy. They're mine."

  “Don't worry. I'm not supposed to go within a mile of him. I'll bring them to you—if I find them."

  She opened the door and slid around it again in that oddly interesting fashion. “All right,” she said smiling, “just you don't sneak in at night like they did, and leave them on the dresser."

  I grinned. “If I do, I'll look the other way."

  “Sure,” she said. “Away from the dresser.” She giggled. “I bet you make lots of money."

  “Not that much. And it all goes in taxes. Well, good-by, Miss Borden."

  “'Bye, Mr. Scotty."

  I went out onto the porch and just before she shut the door she said, “Don't call me Miss Borden.” I looked over my shoulder at her and she said, “Call me Diane.” She took one arm off the door and kind of waved it at me, letting her hand fall limp from her wrist, then winked at me and said, “And listen, you. I'm older than I look."

  Then she shut the door and I thought about sitting down on the grass and rolling around howling, and I thought about jumping up and running back and crashing through the door, but what I did was go out to the Cad and lean my head against the cool steering wheel for a couple seconds, then shiver spasmodically and put the buggy in gear thinking that Jules Osborne should have told me more about Diane, and offered me at least twenty thousand dollars.

  3

  At the office I reviewed what little I knew and phoned Burglary Division in City Hall to refresh my memory. Then I propped my cordovans on the desk and thought for a couple of minutes. Starting about three months back, there had been a number of night burglaries in and near Los Angeles, ranging from Beverly Hills to Boyle Heights. This particular rash of burglaries total
ed nine reported so far; the m.o. was the same in all of them and unlike any known gang which Burglary had any record of. The capers always came off between ten at night and two in the morning, there was never any sign that doors or windows had been forced. Nobody had ever reported any lights in the burgled houses, though some of the jobs had been pulled off next door to houses in which parties were going on or in which the occupants were chatting or watching television. The doors were always still locked when the people got home to find their jewels, money, furs, silver gone. The jobs had been well cased and the hauls were always good ones, the loot taken from wealthy people. The burglars had never been seen or heard, and Burglary didn't have a solitary lead.

  Homicide was interested too, because on one job, which both Burglary and Homicide agreed was obviously the work of the same ten-to-two gang, a wealthy attorney named William Drake had been murdered. And in messy fashion. It was assumed that he'd left his wife at a party and come home alone while the gang was in his big house on San Vicente Boulevard—the coroner set the time of death at around midnight—and the attorney had been brutally beaten by what must have been an exceedingly powerful man. The attorney's face was a pulp, and one blow had broken his neck. He'd also been shot, a bullet from a .45 blowing away much of his brain.

  Three of the jobs had been in the section between Wilshire Boulevard and Pico, the area in which Diane Borden lived, and there was a fair chance that Diane's pretties had been number five. The m.o. seemed the same in every particular.

  I took my feet off the desk and made half a dozen more phone calls, then left the office and talked to a shoe-shine boy, two cab drivers, a bookie's runner, a bartender, and a barber. With several lines out I went back to the office and waited for a bite.

  A lot of any private detective's time is spent in waiting, and more cases are broken with phones than with guns. At the core of any investigator's success, whether he's police or private, are his sources of information—the informers, stoolies, canaries. That's the unofficial staff. Over the years in Los Angeles I'd built up a long list of them and many of them were now, I hoped, out working for me—or might, already, know something that would help. I'd dropped several words in several places, and sent out a thumbnail description of some of the most distinctive items I was interested in.