Three's a Shroud (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Then she answered the phone.

  “Lois? Uh, Shell Scott here."

  “Oh ... hello, Shell."

  “You all right?"

  “Yes. How about you? I saw the papers."

  “That was a frame. I'm okay; a little stooped over, but on my feet. What happened to you after I—after I left?"

  Her story was that she'd gawked at Cannon while he dumped me into my Cad, then tried to slap his eyeballs out, at least so she said, then they'd had a word battle during which she'd called him all kinds of names. After a minute or two of this, they'd finally gone back into her apartment and were there when I'd banged on the door, Cannon ready to clobber her if she'd peeped—and after my departure the fireworks continued.

  She went on, “It lasted about an hour, but when he left, I told him not to come back."

  “I called you last night but your line was busy. What—"

  “Even after Cannon left, he phoned me a couple times. He was so persistent I took the phone off its hook and went to bed."

  I was quiet for a minute, then, “Honey, I guess you haven't changed your opinion of me. Or, have you?"

  “When I found out you were a detective I wondered if you wanted to take me out because you ... let's say, just couldn't resist me, or if you had a detective's reason. So naturally I was a little disappointed last night. But then I realized you were right; I knew the kind of man Cannon was, but I took the things he gave me anyway. I feel better now, though; as long as I thought he might have bought those things for me I could enjoy them. But when I knew he probably stole them, naturally I gave them back."

  “You what?"

  “I gave them back to him. Last night."

  “You what?"

  “Well ... he suggested it, and I was afraid not to. And I didn't want them any more, anyway."

  I ground my teeth together. Right now I wasn't nearly as interested in the jewelry itself as I was in getting the guys who had lifted it, but I should at least have wrapped up that bracelet last night. I was even starting to wonder what could have made me so stupid as to leave the thing loose, when I remembered it was Cannon who'd made me so stupid. It was just another reason to hate him, and maybe before long it wouldn't make any difference.

  I said, “Honey, listen. You shooed Cannon out last night, but do you think he'd jump at the chance to come back? If he has any sense he would."

  “This might sound egotistical, but I'm sure he would. He was practically on his knees when he left. But—"

  “What would you say if I asked you to get in touch with him, tell him you're sorry, that you'd like to see him tonight?"

  It took her a while to answer that one, but she said, “All right, Shell. You're a very strange and thorough detective, aren't you?"

  The same tone was in her voice now that had been there when I'd asked her last night to wear the bracelet. I started to explain everything, then made myself shut up. It wouldn't be any good that way. And I wondered for a moment if she could possibly be conning me. I said, “You'll do it then?"

  “When am I supposed to see him and where are we going?"

  “Never mind where you're going. But you want to see him around ten."

  “All right. Good-by."

  “Hey, I called earlier this morning but couldn't get you. What—"

  “Believe it or not, I was buying some rhinestones."

  She hung up. I hung up. By four-fifteen I'd finished all the checking in town I was going to do. It was quite a trio I'd been checking on: the Professor was the brain, the Cowboy was the Houdini, and the Cannon was the muscle and boss. From Hooko, who had long known Cannon well, I'd learned that he should have been called No-Cannon Cannon, because he never carried a gun; Artie and Cowboy Tinkle always kept their arms warm with heaters. I had talked to a man named Sylvester Johnson, who lived next door to the attorney who'd been killed, beaten and shot during a burglary. Sylvester's story, condensed: “Yes, sir, that night we were sitting out back by the barbecue pit, drinking beer. No, we didn't see or hear anything till Mr. Drake came home. He parked his car and went inside. About a minute after he turned on the lights we heard a shot. Called the police. No, didn't see anybody leave. Glad to help."

  I'd checked the dates of all nine reported robberies—and Diane's—against weather-bureau records. They'd all been pulled off on moonless or overcast nights. All between roughly, ten and two. If people were going to be out, they'd be gone by ten; and often they were home shortly after the bars dosed. A heavy fog was predicted for tonight.

  It was solid enough. I called Homicide and got Samson on the phone. After the hellos I said, “Sam, I'm coming down to get my Caddy in half an hour—boys said it would be ready. You're buddies with Turner in Scientific Investigation. How about having his infrared flashlight, and the red-lensed goggles that go with it, in the back of my Cad along with all my junk?"

  “What? Why in blue hell do you want that stuff?"

  “I, uh, lost something in a dark cellar. I want to go look for it. I'd be awful happy if you didn't ask me any more."

  “God damn it, Shell, have you got something we need?"

  “Nothing that's any good to anybody but me. And not a thing that's worth a damn as evidence—yet. That's straight, Sam. But go along with me and maybe there will be."

  “I'd like to, Shell, but..."

  “And, Sam, you saw the papers. Can't be helped, but I'd sure like some more stories in them tomorrow or the next day. A story that would rub out the smell before it sinks too far in. And besides, you don't know what I want the stuff for. Maybe I'm going out to Lover's Lane and spy on the high-school kids."

  “Shell Scott shot in the head would make a nice story. And what the hell am I going to tell Turner? Well...” He was quiet for a few seconds. “I ought to put you in jail for sending me out to get that crazy woman last night."

  “Was she trouble?"

  “When I got to the Grove she was singing. Into the bloody microphone. I like to never got her out of there. And when I did—let me tell you."

  I got my first good laugh of the day from his story. Then he said, “Well, hell, look in your trunk when you get down here. I can't promise anything."

  “Thanks, Sam. See you."

  There was no trouble getting the Cad, and Sam had left what I wanted in the trunk. The goggles looked much like red-lensed glasses, but the light was a big son of a gun, well over a foot wide, and long, perhaps four inches thick, with a curved metal handle on its top. I put them both in the front seat and drove to Eighth Street, parked before Porter's Radio Shop and went inside. This was my second trip today; I'd been here about noon. Porter, a young, studious-looking ex-G.I. came out.

  “Hi, Shell. I just finished it up. That's fifty bucks."

  “A hell of a price for one vacuum tube and a dry-cell battery in a beat-up cigar box."

  He grinned. “You're paying, my friend, for my genius and brilliant know-how."

  “I'd have made it myself if I'd had the time."

  He sneered, then went into the back room and came out with the “squawk box” I'd ordered. He sat it on the counter beside the compact radio receiver complete with loop antenna. I gave Porter his fifty bucks and he frowned.

  “You know, I ought to have a deposit on that receiver,” he said. “Only one I got with a loop."

  “I'll bring it back tomorr—” I stopped. “Maybe I'd better leave a deposit at that."

  I gave him some more money, then used his phone to call Lois again. She answered right away.

  “Shell, honey. Well?"

  “He ... I guess I overestimated myself. He—well, he couldn't make it. He was awfully apologetic, but he said he'd see me tomorrow instead."

  I laughed. I felt like a million. “Baby,” I said. “He won't see you tomorrow—or the next day, or even the next."

  “Shell, I've been just sitting here for almost an hour, thinking a lot. You knew he wouldn't see me tonight, didn't you?"

  “I knew he wouldn't because if he tried I wa
s going to clobber him with a tire iron. But I did have a hunch he wouldn't try."

  “Shell! Darn you, can't you let a girl in on anything?"

  “I'll tell you the truth, sweetheart, I wasn't sure I could trust you."

  “You sure now?"

  “No. But sure enough."

  “Shell, darn you—damn you!"

  “Still friends?"

  “Oh, I suppose...” Then her voice dropped lower, softened, got like champagne again, and I remembered her at the dice table in her creme-de-menthe gown, the way she'd looked when I'd asked her what she wore with champagne. She said, “No ... I don't think you and I can be friends.” The “friends” was slightly accented. She went on, “Shell, it seems that every time I talk to you or see you, I learn more about you."

  It seemed time to try pressing my luck again. “How much would you like to learn?"

  A soft chuckle was her answer. Then, “Will I see you? Later maybe?"

  I thought about that. “With any luck honey, I'll see you later."

  “Promise?"

  “Sure, honey."

  We hung up. I lugged the squawk box and receiver out to my Cad and sat it on the front seat alongside the flash and goggles I'd got from Sam. I was ready to go.

  I drove to Artie Payne's first. During the afternoon I'd learned where the Professor and the other two lived, and where Professor Payne kept his ‘50 Chrysler—which was used on the trio's jobs. It was dark when I reached his place, and it took me only a couple of minutes to tape the small squeal box to his car's rear axle. I brushed off my clothes and drove three miles to Cannon's hotel on National Boulevard, went four blocks past it, made a U-turn and parked, lit a cigarette and waited. The big light, red glasses, and radio receiver were on the seat beside me.

  If the boys went ahead with their planned caper tonight, I knew Artie would pick up Tinkle and Cannon and they'd go from here to whatever spot they'd cased—and I couldn't think of anything like which would keep Cannon away from a repentant Lois. But they'd know what I'd been doing today, and they'd be even more jumpy than usual. A close tail was out; damn near any kind of tail was out. If they didn't find that squawk box, though, there was one tail that could work. The little cigar box on the axle of Miller's car was no more than a small and simple radio sending set which would put out a steady howl that I could pick up on the receiver beside me, locating the car's direction from me with the loop antenna.

  I waited. The moon was barely past the crescent stage tonight, and it was cold. Fog had just started to drift in from the beaches a few miles away, mixing with the smog, dimming the street lights around me. I waited, smoking one cigarette after another.

  I was wondering if the boys had been scared off, when I picked up a squeal while I was turning the loop antenna. It was eleven o'clock and the Professor was on his way.

  8

  The howl got louder in the radio receiver and I started the Cad's motor. In a minute I saw the fog-dimmed headlights of a car pull into the curb and stop four blocks away, at Cannon's hotel. Two minutes later the car started up again and took a right at the corner. Immediately the howl in my radio receiver stopped. I threw my old cigarette away and lit another.

  They wouldn't take a chance on a ticket the night of a job, so I estimated their top speed at thirty and gave them a full minute, then put the Cad in gear and swung left off National Boulevard at Sepulveda, where they'd turned. I figured they shouldn't be more than half a mile ahead of me. I pointed the loop antenna ahead, but there wasn't any squeal so I turned it around ninety degrees and kept going straight down Sepulveda, past Rose Avenue and Ocean Park Avenue and Charnock Road, and there wasn't a peep out of the radio. But at Venice Boulevard the howl came in strong and I swung left; it stayed steady so I knew they weren't going in the opposite direction. I gave the Cad more gas and closed the distance between us.

  From there it was easy enough. They made only two more turns, a left at Cochran and a right at Twelfth. On Twelfth they stopped, and eight blocks after I made the last turn, I passed Artie's car, parked. Now it was going to start getting a little precarious.

  I knew they wouldn't park in front of the house they'd cased, and maybe not even on the same street, but they wouldn't work too far from the car, and I at least knew where the Chrysler was. I could get them there if it came to that, but I wanted to catch them cold, right on the job. Right here was where I found out if I'd figured how they worked correctly; I didn't know for sure, but it was more than a hunch. I put on the red-lensed glasses and drove slowly ahead looking at the houses on both sides of the street. Nothing. After four blocks I went right a block then and headed back. There on Dockweiler Street, less than two blocks from where their car was parked, I passed a big two-story Georgian-type mansion dark except for a faint light showing at one upstairs window. When I took the goggles off, the house was completely dark; not a glimmer of illumination came from any part of the house. But with the glasses on again, the light was there. I'd found them.

  I parked around the corner and cut the headlights and motor. Even now that I'd found them, it still seemed like magic to me. I'd worked with infrared light before; I knew that New York Harbor boats were equipped with infrared spotlights and binoculars, and that Army snipers picked off the enemy outlined in infrared from scopes mounted on their rifles—but it still seemed like a trick of Merlin.

  I knew my gun was ready, but I took it out of the holster and checked it again anyway, then slipped it back. My heartbeat speeded up involuntarily; my throat dried; I could feel a slight, cold shiver brush over my skin. I picked up the heavy light, shoved the goggles up on my forehead and got out of the car. Fog was damp against my face.

  Near the house I slipped the glasses down over my eyes again and saw the light still visible above. I was damned careful getting to the house and walking to its front, my body pressed against the wall, but I made it without trouble to the front door. I switched the light on and in its glow I could see the door was slightly cracked. Tinkle, the ex-locksmith, wouldn't lock it again till they left; there was always a chance the boys might want to leave in a hurry. The boys were pretty positive about this job. They didn't bother to leave a lookout. I loved them for it.

  Before I went through the door I slid out the .38 and held it in my right hand, the burning flash in my left. I went inside, swung the flash around till I spotted a stairway leading above, then started walking up it. I couldn't see as well as I'd have liked, but I wouldn't bump into any chairs or walls—and Cannon, Artie, and Tinkle, working in infrared above me, wouldn't be able to see any better. For a moment I thought of the attorney these bastards had killed, wondered if he'd walked into a darkened room, unable to see a thing, while the three men above me now could watch his every movement, see to beat him, to kill him.

  I followed a hall at the head of the stairs till I could see a glow from the room in which I knew they were, then I turned off my light. If I could see their light, they could also see mine. The door was ajar. I heard their soft movements, but I couldn't yet see them. I kept moving forward, slowly, my hand sweaty and slippery on the butt of my .38.

  A yard from the door I pulled the Colt's hammer back on full cock and took the last step, spotted them inside the room, and then I moved through the doorway. For that first second none of them saw me. Cannon stood at the window, his back toward me; Artie was at a safe in the right wall, Tinkle holding a bulky light similar to mine, bathing Artie and the safe in infrared light.

  My heart had suddenly started racing and I could feel the blood tingling clear down in the tips of my fingers. It was as though the blood were hot inside me, warming my body. I could feel perspiration on my face and chest, in my armpits. I tightened my finger on the Colt's trigger and snapped on the beam of my flash just as Artie glanced over his shoulder, eyes behind the goggles like round black holes in a skull's head, and spotted me.

  I saw his mouth open and I shouted, “Freeze, you sons, don't—” but that was all I had time for because a lot of hell broke
loose in that instant. Artie yelled at the top of his lungs and leaped to the side as Tinkle spun around and the light he'd held thudded to the carpet, still burning. Cannon's huge bulk dropped to the floor. I flipped my gun over at Cannon, rolling now toward the wall, but flame jumped at me from Tinkle's hand and the room exploded with sound.

  I dropped to one knee, snapped off a lightning shot at Tinkle as I saw his gun leveling at me; I pulled the trigger once more and saw him stagger, but his gun boomed again and I felt the slap of a bullet against my left hand; the impact of that heavy slug spun me halfway around, the light tumbling to the floor and going out. I went down on both knees, forcing my gun hand back toward Tinkle, twisting my body and snapping a wild shot at him, then getting the gun barrel centered on his chest and firing twice so fast the shots blurred into one sound.

  He started falling as I saw Artie's hand digging under his coat, coming out with a snub-nosed revolver, but Artie never got the gun an inch away from his chest because I shot him in the head. Dimly I saw his body go limp, but like a crazy man I fired at him again, and heard the hammer fall on an empty cartridge. It was suddenly dark, but I triggered the gun still again, not even realizing the chambers were empty, not comprehending the darkness. I was like a man in a trance, sweat drenching my body and the taste of blood on my lips where I'd bitten them, the smell of cordite in my nostrils, and the drumming of blood in my brain.