Shell Scott's Seven Slaughters (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I walked over beside her, had a cup of the stuff and let out a yip myself. It tasted like fermented cobra venom. Betty didn't say anything, just smiled and wrapped her arms around me and we started dancing. Then she stopped. “You scratch,” she said, looking up at me. “Haven't you got a suit?"

  “Sure. In the car."

  “Get it. And hurry. We'll have a dance, and a swim."

  I was back in two minutes, and it was really much better without scratching. After a couple of dances, Betty said, “Come on,” and ran toward the beach. I followed her down the path and caught up with her at the sand.

  On our right, flames leaped from a big pit dug in the sand. “What's the bonfire for?” I asked Betty.

  “That's where they'll cook the pig pretty quick,” she said. “An imu, they call it. Big deal. Crazy dinner later, poi and raw seaweed or something, all kinds of jazz.” She raced into the water.

  When we got back to the clearing the music and dancing were even wilder. It was almost dark, and somebody grabbed Betty and whirled her away. I went over to the punch bowl and had a drink as a woman older than most here, a gal about forty, stepped up beside me and dipped half a coconut into the purple venom. She gulped down the drink, gulped another slug immediately after it. She weighed about a hundred and fifty pounds, was maybe five-eight, and had a flat, rather unpleasant horse-like face. “Dance with me,” she said. “I'm Mrs. Brevoort. I'm the hostess, so you have to dance with me."

  She was soused to the eardrums. I said, “Sure,” and latched onto her. We took about four steps and she stopped.

  “I don't want to dance,” she said. “Go wiggle with those naked women."

  I swung around eagerly, looking for the naked women, then realized she'd referred to the gals in bikinis. Mrs. Brevoort's eyes were getting glassy. She waved her hand at me and said, “Go away. Go wiggle wi’ nake’ w'mn.” Then she hitched at her girdle and galloped off, tossing her head as though silently neighing.

  If I'd let myself think about the episode, it might have ruined the party for me. And I'm a great guy for parties. So I had a drink instead. It was dark now, and the glow from the fire down on the beach was warm and red; a few Japanese lanterns had been lighted, and the yellow-red flame of Hawaiian torches flickered in the clearing. I wondered where L. Franklin was. But then I forgot about him. I was having too much fun to wonder about the host or hostess—it was a typical party. I never did see Dolly.

  A couple of hours passed in a kind of Polynesian delirium. The music became more sensual, the dances wilder. Suddenly in front of me was a beautiful blonde, shaking all over like a plucked banjo string. It was Elaine. She came toward me going at least a hundred miles an hour, but making little forward progress, and I danced gayly to meet her. Soon we were on the edge of the crowd, next to the path leading toward the beach.

  Elaine spun around and raced down the path. I ran after her, past the pit where huge hot coals now glowed. From the corner of my eye saw something that jarred me oddly, but I kept on running. Then I slowed and stopped, went back and looked down into the pit, heat bouncing against my face. It looked like a pig at first, not much like a man. It was a man, though. I heard Elaine laughing.

  The guy was face down, but even face up he would have been unrecognizable, so horribly was he burned. Still sticking from his throat was the sharp metal spit that was to have been used for holding the pig. One arm was outflung and I could see the big ruby ring on his finger. My host.

  “Come on! What's the matter?” It was Elaine.

  I could barely see the dim white blur of her body outlined against the darkness of the sea. Behind her a comber broke with a sound like thunder.

  Back in the house Elaine, puzzled and a bit annoyed with me, waited in another room while I phoned local Homicide. Then I joined her and we located the kitchen. I gulped hot coffee, found some roast beef in the refrigerator and made a thick, sloppy sandwich with an inch of meat between two slices of french bread. Then I grabbed a frying pan and big spoon and led Elaine back to the clearing, where people were still squealing and dancing.

  “Are you crazy?” she asked.

  “Hold the frying pan for me, will you?"

  She shook her head in exasperation, grabbed the pan. I hit it vigorously with the spoon and yelled, “Chow time, everybody. Chow's on.” I walked around the clearing, munching on my sloppy sandwich and saying, “Chow, anybody?” to everybody. It didn't happen till I was almost at the punch bowl. Mrs. Brevoort's mulish face loomed beside me.

  I said, “Hi. Wanna dance?” and nibbled at the beef. She eyed the sandwich, fascinated. “I got so starved I couldn't wait for everybody else,” I said. “Hope you don't mind, but I carved a little meat off that pig down there in the pit."

  “You—what?” Her face was starting to get green.

  “I was famished,” I said. “There's plenty more, though, Mrs. Brevoort. Would you like—"

  Her mouth dropped open, her lips twitched, and her eyes rolled up in her head. Then she fainted. People around us kept dancing and going "Uuh!" and making Hawaiian noises.

  Half an hour later the police had come and gone. They handled everything quietly and took Mrs. Brevoort away. She spilled everything in the first few minutes: that she knew her husband had only married her for her money, and that it was her money he used for these weekly parties at which he and everybody else ignored her. She caught him on the beach tonight with a girl, waited until the girl left, then swatted L. Franklin over the head with the spit and stuck it through his throat. She dragged him to the pit and rolled him onto the coals.

  Elaine said to me, “I still don't know why she fainted."

  “She thought I'd made sandwiches of her hubby. She tossed him into the pig pit. She told the police she thought she could hide him there until she figured out what to do. She was all excited, and punch-drunk to boot. And she wasn't acting very logically, anyway; it was a crime of passion—she hated parties."

  We were standing by the melting punch bowl, and a number of people were still dancing. Elaine said, “How in the world did you know Mrs. Brevoort did it?"

  “I didn't. However, I had socked L. Franklin in front of numerous witnesses, so finding out whodunit, if I could, struck me as a capital idea. The rest was simple—since, clearly, only the person who'd killed him would have known what was cooking."

  “And I thought you were crazy."

  “Well, I'll admit it was a bit drastic. But I had to take drastic action or the cops might have hauled this whole gang to the hoosegow. And I couldn't let that happen.” I grinned at her. “It would have ruined this fine party."

  She smiled. “That's right, both the host and hostess are gone, aren't they?"

  “Uh-huh, they took L. Franklin away, too. So there's nobody to call this thing off—why, it may last for weeks!"

  “But will you?” Elaine smiled a smile that strongly hinted she wouldn't run lickety-split and said, “Race you to the water.” Then she whirled and ran.

  I gave her a little head start—not very much—and ran after her.

  Squeeze Play

  Pretty Willis was a killer as proud of his appearance as of his gun, and he had no use for private detectives unless he was hitting them over the head. Consequently he had no use at all for one Shell Scott. But at four o'clock Tuesday afternoon he barged into my office in the Hamilton Building and said flatly, “Get your coat, Scott. You're leaving.” It was an order.

  I was watching guppies in the aquarium on top of my bookcase, so all I knew at first was that there was a nasty-voiced slob behind me. But I turned around, recognized him and said, “The hell you say. Bag your lip, Pretty."

  His handsome face flushed. “You know who I am. You know better than to spring with a crack like that."

  To Pretty both statements meant the same thing: If you knew who he was, you talked softly to him. We'd never met before, socially or unsocially, but I knew a lot of things about him and all of them except his appearance were nauseating.

 
He was handsome enough in a tortured sort of way. He stood almost my height, six-two, but I had twenty-five pounds over his one-eighty—not counting the gun which would be under his coat. Besides the gun and his weight-lifter's build, he had porcelain caps on his teeth, jet-black hair the precise color of Tintair number fourteen, and carefully manicured, too-shiny nails. His eyebrows were dark and neat, the space between them plucked as bare and empty as I imagined his mind was. Pretty Willis was possibly the vainest man in Los Angeles—but also one of the toughest. He'd been in a number of brawls, and was still pretty only because he could take care of himself.

  He said deliberately, “Snap it up. Hackman wants to see you. We hear you been looking for Leroy Crane."

  He was right. Mrs. Leroy Crane had been my client for about twenty-four hours now. She wanted me to find her husband—or, perhaps, late husband. Leroy was four days late. He worked—or had worked—as Hackman's accountant, so I figured Leroy was already starting to decompose.

  Hackman was Wallace Hackman, Crook in capitals, with his fat fingers in everything from dope to sudden death. He was not only ruthless but stupid, and would never have got as high in the rackets as he had except for one thing: he didn't trust any man alive. He wouldn't give you the correct time if he could help it, and he didn't even trust his right-hand man, Pretty Willis, behind his back. His complicated little hierarchy was a lot like a communist club: crooks watching crooks who in turn watched other crooks, and all reporting to the top, Hackman.

  Complicated, maybe, but as a result nobody had ever got enough on Hackman to haul him into court, much less put him behind bars. His previous accountant, who by the nature of his work would naturally have learned more than anybody else about the boss’ business, had simply disappeared a couple years back—after which Leroy Crane got the well-paid, unhealthy job. It seemed likely that Hackman wouldn't want me to find Leroy.

  Pretty Willis said, “Get a move on. Hack don't like to wait. And don't give me no more lip."

  “You run along and pluck your eyebrows, Pretty,” I said. “Tell your boss I'll see him when and if I get time.” I wasn't exactly dying to see Hackman because a lot of times seeing Hackman and dying were practically the same thing.

  Pretty walked up in front of me, stopped, started to say something and then strangled it in his throat. It's funny, but I wasn't thinking about much of anything except the best way to tie him up. I knew Pretty was handy with his hands—and feet and knees for that matter—but even if that was part of his business, it was also part of mine and had been from my Marine days down to here. I just wanted to be careful that I didn't mark him up. He would be mad enough at me for simply clobbering him, but there was no point in driving him insane. His face was to him what soft lingerie or French postcards are to some other guys; it was his fetish; he was in love with it. If I mashed his face, he'd kill me when he could, if he could. Actually, the best way to handle Pretty was with a gun, and I glanced toward my desk where the .38 Colt Special and harness were draped over my coat.

  I learned one thing for sure: You should never take your eyes off a guy like Pretty. While I was looking toward my gun, he knocked me down. I'd expected him to chat a bit more, but I had hurt his feelings so he just hauled off and caught me not only off guard, but behind the ear. I landed on my fanny, more surprised to be down there on the floor than hurt, and I was too surprised for too long.

  Pretty swung his leg forward and the pointed toe of his shoe went into my stomach like a meal. It caught me in the solar plexus and I bent forward, grabbing for his leg, my sight blurring as tiny red and black spots danced in the air around me, and I got a grip on his foot and twisted. I did all of it just like the book says, but the book didn't say what happened when you were dizzy, paralyzed, and couldn't twist a wet noodle.

  But I found out. I knew Pretty was way up there above me, that he'd be swinging his gun down toward my head, but it was like knowing the earth is moving; I couldn't do a thing to stop it —

  When I came to I was on a soft couch, though I didn't realize even that at first. My head ached, and I couldn't remember what had happened or why my head should be throbbing. I felt my skull and found a large bump. There was a clue. Then I remembered and opened my eyes. A few feet from me, in an overstuffed chair large enough to hold his overstuffed bulk, was Hackman. That meant I must be in his suite on the top floor of L.A.'s new Hotel Statler.

  “Hello, Hackman,” I said. “Hello, you sonofabitch."

  He chuckled. A lot of the top racket boys are pleasant, personable men, but not this oily, pudgy, baby-faced and round-bellied slug. I shut my eyes and shook my head to clear fog from my brain. I knew Hackman would want to talk about Leroy Crane, and I thought back to what Crane's wife had told me.

  Yesterday Ann Crane, a cute little wide-eyed doll, had phoned me and I'd gone to see her. She'd cried and told me that three nights before, husband Leroy had phoned her and said he wouldn't see her for a few days.

  He had a big deal cooking and would make up for the separation—their first—with mink coats and diamonds. She hadn't heard from him since.

  She'd convinced me not only that she had no idea what he'd been talking about, but that she was ready to crack up. I got a photograph of thin-faced, rather homely Leroy, learned all I could about him, including what his job was with Hackman, and through it all were her tears. Tears out of brown eyes, trailing down over soft cheeks, glistening on curved red lips.

  After reaching an agreement about my fee I'd gone back to the office and put my lines out, let it be known in the right places that I was looking for Leroy. And then in had walked Pretty Willis.

  I opened my eyes and said, “Get it off your chest, Hackman."

  He glanced toward the door. “Wait outside, boys."

  The “boys” were Pretty Willis and a little hood named Shadow who was so skinny and dishonest that he always weighed himself with his gun on. He must have helped Pretty lug me up here. When I saw Pretty, anger exploded inside me and I got to my feet, wobbling a bit. But before I could take a step toward him both men had gone out the door and closed it. I started after them but Hackman said, “Sit down. All I gotta do is grunt and you've had it."

  I told him to shut up, but I sat down. He was right. If I'd had a gun, though, he might have been wrong. Hackman wheezed and jiggled, shifting from one monstrous buttock to the other, then he said, “Scott, I know you don't like me. And I got no love for you, neither. But we don't have to like each other to cooperate."

  “Get to the point."

  “I want Crane myself. In case you get to him before me, I want him, see? I can make it worth your while."

  “Nuts. I wouldn't give you a drink in the desert. I wouldn't even give you conversation if you hadn't asked me so politely.” I went on from there. I watched him get angry, watched his oily face shade from white into pink, and when I finished he knew for sure I wasn't going to give him a damned thing except trouble.

  Suddenly he said, “Shut your face, Scott. And blow. Blow fast before you start leaking someplace besides your mouth.” He leaned forward and said, “But understand this, Scott. I want Crane myself. And I mean to get him. You get in my way an inch, move one inch out of line, and I'll see that you get dead."

  Some of the hot anger drained out of me because it finally had occurred to me that this was a strange conversation we were having if Leroy Crane were alive. And if Hackman was still looking for him, he almost surely was alive.

  I thought about that for a moment, then said slowly, “So that's it. Crane powdered and now you're sweating."

  In his own cute way he told me I was constipated. Then he went on, “You drop it. Stop looking for Crane. Forget you ever heard of him.” He didn't make any more specific threats, but his voice was lower and the words came out like ice cubes. I started to say something else but Hackman said, “Get out,” then raised his voice and shouted, “Pretty!"

  Pretty Willis came inside followed by Shadow. There weren't any guns in sight, but I knew there
would be if I wiggled. Hackman said, “Beat it, Scott. Don't forget nothing I told you."

  I walked to the door and as I passed the two thugs I said pointedly, “Be seeing you. Pretty.” He showed me his too-white teeth and chuckled, “I'm panicked.” He and Shadow followed me to the outer door. Shadow opened it and I went through, then started to turn around for a last word. I didn't make it. While Pretty was behind me he must have taken his gun out. I assume that's what he slammed against the back of my skull.

  I stumbled forward, fell to my hands and knees and there was barely enough strength in my arms to hold me up off the floor. Laughter grated behind me. I guess it took me about a minute to get to my feet and turn around, and by that time I was alone with my insanity. I left, went back to the office, found my gun still there and strapped it on, and returned to the Statler lobby before even a semblance of reason returned.

  Half a dozen of Hackman's boys were scattered around in the chairs and divans. One of them stood up and the rest looked at me, grinning. There wasn't a thing I could do about it. I had been knocked down, kicked, threatened and sapped, and if I wanted to keep on living I had to take it—at least for a while longer.

  But from then on I stopped sleeping except for short naps in my Cad or slumped over my office desk. I didn't go near my apartment. I looked for Leroy Crane. Every ex-con, every tipster and stoolie I'd ever had anything to do with got word one way or another from me that they could name their price if they gave me a lead to Crane. I saw Ann again, told her that her husband was at least alive, and that I'd find him, but I learned nothing new from her except that she was the cryingest babe I had ever seen. I kept my eyes peeled for any of Hackman's pals, and I looked for Pretty as hard as I looked for Leroy. For two long days nothing happened.

  On Thursday afternoon my office phone rang and a woman's soft, lilting voice said, “Mr. Scott? I can take you to Leroy Crane. For a hundred dollars."