Three's a Shroud (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I pressed my luck. “I thought for a minute the dress was made out of creme de menthe."

  She didn't mind. She smiled and said, “You like it?”

  “It's terrific. Clever idea, too. What do you wear with champagne?"

  She laughed, and the laugh itself was a little bit like champagne, a soft, bubbling sound that came from far down in her white throat. “That's a rhetorical question, isn't it?"

  “Frankly, no.” The overhead light burned soft red spots in her dark hair, hair that hung just above shoulder length. It wasn't quite black, as I'd thought at first, but an off shade like the bar mahogany, a shadow darkness with touches of deep red in it. I had known a couple of dice girls in Hollywood and several in San Francisco, where they're more often seen. Some of them were near idiots, and some were brilliant women who could have been high-powered women executives but made so much at the tables that they stuck to the game. One thing, though, all of them had in common: they were beautiful women, the kind men would look at, women who could make men cheerfully lose a dime or a thousand bucks. Lois was no exception, and she didn't sound or look stupid. Her face was oval, with dark brown eyes and warm-looking red lips, lips that were still smiling now with white, even teeth behind them.

  I reached for my wallet and started to take a buck out of it, then changed my mind and found a twenty, laid it on the green felt.

  “What part of that?” she asked.

  “All of it. I feel lucky."

  “I like to tell the nice fellows they can't win in the long run."

  “Thanks,” I said. I looked at her, at the way the dice table fit just over her thighs as she sat on the low stool, light pouring down over her shoulders and silvering the tops of her breasts, highlighting their thrusting tips and leaving pools of shadow beneath them, and I added, “But they can't lose."

  She looked at me for long seconds, her brown eyes half-lidded; then she said, “Shoot it all."

  She shoved one of the leather shakers over to me and I rattled the dice and then rolled them up against the board. She looked at them, called my points and picked up the other shaker, held it in front of her and shook the dice vigorously.

  She rolled the dice. “See?” she said. “You lose."

  I grinned. “That breaks me. What am I going to do for dinner tonight?"

  “I don't know,” she smiled. “Will you really go hungry?"

  “Maybe I can bum a meal."

  “Maybe. Are you really broke?"

  “Uh-huh. Just fishing. Carefully."

  “You don't look like the careful type."

  “Depends."

  I had noticed something block out the dim light coming in through the entrance. I'd been so interested in conversation that I hadn't looked around, but now the cowboy stepped up on my left.

  “Hey, pally,” he said.

  I very clearly heard him say “pally.” I looked at him. There was a tight grin on his square face. “Remember a friend of mine was innerested in Lois?”

  “So he's innerested. So am I. So what?”

  “So here's my good friend, pally.” He jerked a thumb. I looked around at where I figured the guy's face would be and I was looking, so help me, at his tie clasp. I looked up. And up. And there it was. He wasn't a man, but a monstrosity. When I found his face I didn't recognize the features right away because I'd been too busy wondering when I'd get to it, but a few seconds after I saw the long thin head with the bony cheekbones and long sharp nose, the wide-spaced dark eyes and high forehead dwindling into wispy brown hair, I made him. Once you've seen a guy that big, you don't have much trouble remembering him.

  5

  Back in ‘45 you couldn't pick up a sports page without seeing his name and face. He'd been in college then, the basketball star of the States, center on the Indians, national high-scorer. Too big for any of the services, he'd made a name for himself on the courts. Maybe you remember his name. Tommy Matson, and they called him Cannonball Matson. Since then the nickname had been shortened to Cannon. In ‘46 he'd turned pro, finally been kicked out of the game because of excessive roughness, near brutality—and because he'd been questioned by the San Francisco D.A. about some fixed games; questioned and let go.

  After that he'd drifted. His name didn't hit the sports pages any more, but I remembered he'd been picked up for battery, released, then did a bit for second-degree burglary, a daylight job on which he hadn't carried a gun. The last I heard he'd been arrested in San Francisco, this time for first-degree burglary, a night job, but again he'd been without a gun. Cannon had been sent to San Quentin for that one. I'd brushed against him a few times on cases of mine, but I'd never been on his tail. He knew me, though, and didn't like me; I'd helped put a couple of his friends away.

  I could feel my throat tighten up. The guy wasn't ten feet tall, he was a long six-feet-nine and a lumpy three hundred pounds, but Joe's story wasn't so crazy any more. This was the boy Joe had seen in here yesterday. I turned around with my back to the dice table and said, “Hello, Cannon. I heard you fell from ‘Frisco. Didn't know you were down this way."

  “Now you know.” He looked past me to Lois. “This chump bothering you, honey?"

  “He's not bothering me, Cannon."

  “I figure he is."

  I butted in. “I think the lady knows more about it than you do, Cannon. And you know my name. It's not chump."

  The cowboy said, “It's pally. Ain't that right, pally?"

  I looked at him. “You got a short memory, friend. Next time I'll put a hinge in your elbow.” Actually, right at that moment, I didn't feel too happy about all this. Another guy had come inside with Cannon and was standing by him. He was a little short guy about six feet tall, slim, bald, about forty-five. There was a scar, probably a knife scar, on his forehead just where his hairline should have been. That made four guys lined up against me, counting Cannon as two.

  “Move along, Scott,” Cannon said.

  “I'm busy.” I turned my back on him and said to Lois, “Guess we were interrupted. And I was just about to ask you something."

  She was frowning, biting her lower lip. “I know,” she said.

  From behind me Cannon said softly, “I want you should blow, Scott, and keep going, and don't come back."

  I felt a hand yank on my arm. As it spun me around I saw that it was the cowboy pulling at me and I made a mistake and concentrated on him. He got hold of my coat sleeves with both hands just as I started to chop at his face with the edge of my palm and maybe cave his face in for him, but I was concentrating on the wrong guy.

  I heard Cannon grunt on my left, and I saw the big fist swooping down at my head, and I rolled with the punch just a fraction of a second too late. I was rolling when he hit me, and I damn near rolled over the dice table into Lois's lap, and a gray film dropped down over my eyes. My muscles were suddenly like jelly, and when I felt Cannon's big hand bunch up my coat and pull me toward him I was having a hard enough time keeping my legs straight under me, much less getting a fist up to his chin. I fought to clear my head as I heard Cannon say huskily, “I said blow, and stay the hell gone,” and then I saw the dim blur of his fist looming up in front of me again, and just as I rolled my head to the side my head finally cleared. Everything got very clear and very black.

  6

  I was in a booth. It seemed pretty sure that I was in a booth, but I didn't yet know where the booth was. I had just got my face up off the table and slowly I remembered what had happened. I wiggled my jaw, and pain cleared fog from my brain. I looked around. Lois was walking from the bar toward me, and because my eyes hadn't yet focused properly it was as though there were two of Lois walking at me, and the way just one of her navigated this was almost more than man could bear. But when she reached the table she was back to one, and it was a one-shot glass she put in front of me.

  “Brandy,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I drank it, waited half a minute, then started to stand up. “Where is that—that—that—"

  I
was coming out of the booth when she put a hand on my chest and said, “Sit down. I admire your stupidity, but they've left. Hadn't you better relax for a while?"

  “I've been relaxed for a long while.” I sat down and as she slid into the seat opposite me I said, “What's going on out there now?"

  “Nothing. All the customers left too."

  “They show remarkable good sense."

  “Cannon and Tinkle and Artie looked through your clothes and wallet, then put everything back and left."

  “That's great.” I thought for a minute. “Tinkle?” I asked her. “Tinkle Miller?” It had to be; there wouldn't be another hoodlum with the same monicker.

  “Uh-huh, the cowboy. And Artie Payne. And you're Shell Scott. A detective."

  I looked across the table at her. “True. Is that bad?"

  “I didn't say that. But it made me—wonder."

  “Yeah. I suppose it would.” I didn't add anything to that; I wasn't going to con the gal; she could take her chances or leave them. I said, “I didn't know you'd chosen Cannon."

  “I didn't. He chose me. He's—after me, you might say. But he hasn't got me yet."

  “I imagine he'd put on quite a campaign. He'd have to. You know, flowers, candy, pretty baubles, things like that."

  “Things like that. He ordered me to stay away from you."

  “I had you picked as a gal to ask, not to order."

  “I am."

  “Well, I'm asking."

  “What and when?"

  “Dinner. Tonight."

  “Maybe.” She glanced toward the door. “Couple customers,” she said. “I have to get back to the table.” She left. Naturally I watched her walk away.

  I ordered and slowly drank a last water-high while I added some bits and pieces. Tinkle Miller. A hood who'd been lucky with convictions, but had been charged with half the book, mostly suspicion of burglary. A Jack-of-all-trades hoodlum, he'd been a dishwasher, bank clerk and burglar, labor goon and locksmith, soda jerk and short-con man, strikebreaker, and, of course, a cowboy. I filed the one important point in my aching head and added some more. Yesterday Joe had stumbled in here in an alcoholic haze, seen Cannon bestowing a pretty bauble on Lois. I wondered about Lois. Today Tinkle Miller had seen a similar pretty bauble among those on my typed list, called Cannon and Artie Payne, and Cannon had proceeded to knock me silly. It looked pretty good. I got up.

  On my way out I stopped at the dice table. Lois was alone there and I said, “Well?"

  She nibbled on the inside of her lip. “Where we going?"

  “Grove okay?"

  “Cocoanut Grove?"

  “Uh-huh. Then the Strip, Ciro's, Mocambo, maybe catch Kay Thompson and the Williams Brothers."

  “Your face is already swollen. Won't you mind?"

  “I'll put ice packs on it."

  “I'm supposed to work."

  “Get a headache. Then we'll be even."

  “All right."

  “You got a long slinky dress you feel like trying out?"

  She smiled. “Umm-hmmm. Long—and low."

  “Wonderful.” I grinned at her. “What color?"

  She looked up at the ceiling, then slanted her eyes down at me, lips curving into an amused smile, slightly wicked. “Rum and coke."

  “The time and the place?"

  She scribbled on a paper and handed it to me. I looked at it and said, “So long, Lois. See you at nine."

  “So long, Shell. Don't be late."

  “You kidding?” I left. It was just getting dark....

  I reached the Spartan Apartment Hotel, home, at seven p.m. Inside I mixed a weak drink, then settled on the oversized chocolate brown divan in the front room, winked at Amelia, the nude over my fake fireplace, and put in a call to Diane Borden.

  “Hello-o?"

  “Diane? Shell Scott. I want—"

  “Ooooh, Scotty. How nice. You missed me. Really missed me."

  “No. I want—"

  “You didn't miss me? Scotty! Please!"

  “Okay, I missed you. Now listen. Reserve two tables at the Ambassador tonight. The Grove, adjoining tables. If you need glasses, wear them—"

  “I don't need glasses—"

  “Keep quiet a minute. One table is for you; the other is for me and a gal. I'm hoping she'll be wearing some rocks. Maybe yes, maybe no, but just in case, I want you to be there to take a peek. If you see anything that looks like yours, just sit tight. I'll get the word from you; I'll table-hop or something. Okay?"

  “What are you talking about?"

  I went through it again, more slowly and clearly, telling her to get the tables for nine-thirty, and she said, “Is she pretty?"

  “Who?"

  “The girl."

  “Yeah, she's a beauty. What's that got to do with your bracelet and chokers and—” I broke it off. “Oh, hell, I forgot. Drink cokes or something till we get there."

  “I'll drink anything I want."

  “But you'll get in—"

  “You dope. I'm twenty-one. I told you I was—"

  “You're what!"

  “Twenty-one. You can look it up if you want to, just like a detective. I was twenty-one six days ago. So there."

  She hung up.

  Well, I thought. Well, well....

  It was nine sharp when I read the neat card, “Lois Sanders,” and rang the buzzer. A gong went off inside, then she opened the door and a gong went off in my head. This time she was in a gown like deep maroon skin, just the right size. The dress wasn't high on her throat like the green one; it was strapless, smooth, low on her high breasts, snug around her trim waist, gleaming over her curving hips, gracefully draped almost to the floor.

  “Come in,” she said. “You're right on time. And you know something? My headache is miraculously gone."

  I stared at her. “You know something? I am miraculously gone. You look lovely, Lois.” She held the door and I went inside.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You're rather pretty, too. You look right at home in a dinner jacket."

  I'd showered and shaved and climbed into the old tux and black tie. If I'd had soup and fish I'd probably have worn the silly things. I wanted this to be “formal” enough so Lois would feel lost without some glittering jewelry. Funny thing, though, I was beginning to feel a little lousy about this deal.

  Lois took both my hands in hers and backed across the room to a divan that faced a wide window.

  “You sit there, Shell. Drink before we leave?"

  “Swell."

  “You'll have to take what I've got. But it's not too bad."

  She was still holding my hands, her back to the window and faint illumination behind her softly outlining the curve of her waist and hips. “Sounds delightful,” I said, and tightened my hands on hers.

  She slipped her fingers free and said, smiling, “I meant rum and coke."

  “I was afraid you meant something like that.” I looked out the window until she came back with the drinks. We chatted about nothing in particular, pleasantly, so pleasantly that I didn't want it to end and decided I liked Lois perhaps a bit too well. It was nine-fifteen when we finished our drinks.

  “Ready, Lois?"

  “Uh-huh. I'll get my stole."

  I followed her to the bedroom door. She picked what looked like a mink stole off the bed, draped it over her shoulders and walked back in front of me. She didn't have on a single diamond, ruby, bracelet or necklace. She wasn't even wearing a ring.

  I opened my mouth to comment on that, and stopped. This wasn't at all clever or funny any more. But finally I said, “Here I am all decked out in studs and links and a he-mannish after-shave lotion, and you haven't so much as a watch. I'll have to buy you some baubles."

  It came out flat, toneless, and cruelly obvious. I had no way of knowing what Cannon might have said to her earlier in the Zephyr Room. Nor what he'd said yesterday when he gave her what I felt sure was Diane's bracelet. She could know Cannon had given her a stolen bracelet, she might eve
n be in with him; she might suspect the thing was stolen, or she might think it was a paste offering from a smitten suitor. And she might not even have it now, whether it was the one I was after or another one entirely—but I had to find out, and I was stuck now with the way I'd played it.

  If Lois had wondered, during the evening or earlier, if I'd say anything about her wearing jewelry, she hadn't given any indication of it. She'd been sweet and happy and smiling, but now the half-smile went away from her face and something went out of her brown eyes.

  “Maybe you're right, Shell,” she said. “I suppose I should wear something."

  She turned away from me and went to a dresser against the left wall, opened the second drawer and took out a square box. “Well, help me out,” she said, not looking at me. “What should I wear?"

  She opened the box and watched me as I walked over and looked down into it at the crystal-white stones, and the red ones, the bracelets and chains and pins.

  And it was there. The bracelet with the snake's head, ruby-red eyes, and a forked gold tongue flicking out of the mouth. I picked it up. “How about this?"

  Right then, if it was all going to come apart, was when it should have happened. But she went along with it, neither of us fooling the other. “All right,” she said quietly.

  I picked up a glistening choker, gems set into a thin black band. “This would be good."

  “It's rhinestones. I bought it myself. Most of the others were given to me.” She swallowed. “By men, of course."

  I lifted her wrist. She'd already slipped the bracelet on and I asked, “More rhinestones?"

  “I don't know. I don't think so.” She hesitated. “Cannon gave it to me, Shell. I suppose you know that."

  “I ... I had a hunch, honey."

  She was facing me, and she put the choker around her throat, her hands behind her neck to fasten it there. Her full breasts lifted and pressed against the edge of her dress. She said softly, “I don't know why I'm putting this on. I hope you didn't make reservations."

  I winced. “Look, Lois. Let's get this straight. We might as well now. Cannon gave you the rocks. I think they're hot—stolen. There you've got it. I didn't know I was going to get into a screwed-up mess like this, but there it is. Now what about it? Anything you can tell me? Or should I keep on guessing?"