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

Page 10

by Richard S. Prather


  “Frank,” I said gently, “I have a few questions for you to answer."

  He sighed. And when I asked him the questions, he gave me the answers without any hesitation whatsoever. Just dully, in a voice without springs in it.

  “Who hired you for the job on me last night?"

  “Noodles. He already had Frenchy with him."

  “Who hired Noodles? Who was he working for?"

  “I don't know."

  “Who banged Hamilton?"

  “Me and Noodles. Noodles handled the shotgun. Frenchy drove the heap. We seen you come at us, and took out. Noodles recognized you and made a phone call, then we went to your place and waited. Oh, boy, that was a mistake."

  “Yes, Frank, it was a big mistake. Who did Noodles phone?"

  “I don't know. You don't ask Noodles."

  “Why was Hamilton killed?"

  “I don't know that either. I was just along on the job."

  “The police know Frenchy was along on several heist jobs in the last few months. Cigarettes, Coke, meat, tires, and so on. Who else was in on those?"

  “Just me and Frenchy and Noodles. And Windy Jacobs on a couple. Most of them was for Lou Finney. Stuff he could use in his club."

  That answered one more of the questions I'd been carrying around. And while the Mouse was so freely answering questions was a good time to ask him one of the others. “How about the White Crow? Where did Finney get the money to open it all of a sudden?"

  “I don't know. Except—I heard somewhere that him and Douglas was tied up some way. In the club. I don't remember good.” His eyes rolled toward his skull again, as if he had a pretty good idea why he couldn't remember.

  “Who did the job on Erik Douglas?"

  “I don't know nothing about that one. It wasn't me."

  Finney had built the White Crow about four years ago, so I asked Frank, “How long ago was it that Douglas and Finney were tied up, as you put it, in the club?"

  “Three years, maybe. Maybe longer. It was around the same time Finney first hired Hamilton."

  “Hired him for what?"

  “All I know is Hamilton was Finney's mouthpiece, but nobody advertised it."

  “That was about three years ago, huh?"

  “Maybe more. That busty babe was Hamilton's secretary then, so it must've been over three years back."

  I bunked. And for a moment I felt like batting my head against the wall. Neither when I'd been talking to May Sullivan in Hamilton's office, nor at any time from then till now, had I considered the possibility that Hamilton might have had a different secretary before her. He might, of course, have had half a dozen. But May Sullivan had been, if anything, un-busty.

  “What busty babe?"

  “Never did know her name. That bazoomy blonde mouse."

  I got a creepy feeling, a coldness that brushed over my skin. I hadn't been worried that May Sullivan was in danger, even though she'd been Hamilton's secretary; she hadn't seemed to know anything of danger to Lou Finney or anybody else—and I was thinking now especially of Finney. But a previous secretary of Hamilton's might have known a lot more about the relationship between Finney and Hamilton—and Erik Douglas, too, perhaps—than May Sullivan knew; so much more, in fact, that if Finney had anything to hide he might have decided she was too dangerous to him to live. And I knew Finney had plenty to hide.

  And now, finally, I put two little things together. When I'd told Lou Finney a while ago that I'd learned “from a gal who should know” that he'd been chummy with both Hamilton and Douglas, he'd ejaculated in sudden surprise something that had sounded to me like “Bar—” or “Bah—.” And the “Miss Wexler” whom I had literally bumped into when I'd entered Hamilton's office had not only been both busty and blonde but May Sullivan had called her Barbara.

  Now I was sure that Finney had started to say Barbara. Barbara Wexler. It would have been natural enough for her to visit her ex-employer's office on the day after his death and offer May Sullivan her help; which, apparently, she had done. And it was that lovely pink-sweatered blonde with pale green eyes whom one of Finney's men might be killing right now—if she wasn't dead already.

  If Finney had belatedly realized that he would have to kill her, then it had been my questions that had made him realize it. If she were killed, I would feel responsible for her death all the rest of my life.

  I stood so long without speaking that Julie said to me, “What's the matter?"

  “Where's the phone? Quick!"

  “Why—there's one in Dr. Layne's office, of course, but—"

  It was all she had time for. I heard the sound behind me and whirled around expecting the big mugg from the entrance to be standing there with a large gun aimed at me. But it was a small man, fat, with a dark beard to compensate for the lack of hair on his head. It had to be Dr. Layne.

  He stopped suddenly and stared for just a moment and said, “What—” But then he spun around, started to leap out the door.

  I was still holding that bottled monkey brain in my right hand. In one quick movement I hurled the bottle at him and let my hand keep going on around to grab my .38. “Come on,” I yelled to Julie, and jumped out through the door after the doctor.

  But he was no further trouble. My aim had been perfect and the bottle cracked solidly against the back of his head, bursting open in a spray of brine and brain, sending the doctor sprawling. As he landed and got his hands under him, raising his head up, the now-unbottled little brain landed in the hall about six feet ahead of him and went bouncing and rolling nakedly down the corridor. I jumped toward the doctor, but I could have taken my time. If it had taken me five minutes to reach him, I doubt that he would have moved.

  His skull must have felt as if it had split, I had swatted him so hard with that now-broken bottle, and he was staring fixedly at the little bouncing brain, his face agonized, unbelieving, horrified, perplexed, tortured—in a word, ghastly. From between his tight-stretched lips came a weird hooting sound, rising and falling like the moaning of a man in the rack. Then, “Gah!” he cried. “Hoot!” and “Gah!” again.

  I couldn't help it. He presented such a peculiar picture that I had to slow up a little in order to watch him. As I reversed the Colt in my hand, gripping it by its short barrel, the brain hit the wall, bounced back into the middle of the corridor, and stopped, rocking just a little.

  “Gah!” the doctor cried. I swatted him on his head, and that was the last noise we'd get from him for a while. He clunked forward on his beard.

  But from that moment the kicks were over, and I knew it. “Show me that phone,” I snapped at Julie.

  She ran past me and on down the hallway. Just before we went by the entrance I remembered the guard there and pressed the white mask against my face as we passed him, then let it drop as I sprinted after Julie. She twisted a knob, threw the door open and I jumped past her, my eyes flicking around the room. There were green filing cabinets, chairs, a bookcase, a pine desk—with a phone on it, resting on the thick telephone book.

  I phoned Alvin Hamilton's office and May Sullivan answered. I said rapidly, “This is Shell Scott again. You told me that last week Mr. Hamilton met in his office with Erik Douglas and a man named Lou Finney. I think Lou Finney had your boss killed last night. If you know anything about Finney that might be dangerous to him, you'd better get into hiding or live at the Police Building. Just your knowing he met there with Hamilton and Douglas might give him enough reason to want you dead."

  She sort of squeaked and asked several questions, but soon said that she knew nothing about Lou Finney except what she'd already told me; she was, however, going to ask for police protection under the circumstances.

  I said, “Who worked for Hamilton before you?"

  “Barbara? You met her today. Miss Wexler. I'd been with Mr. Hamilton almost three years. She worked here for a year or two prior to that."

  So there it was. May Sullivan couldn't supply me with Barbara's phone number or address. As I hung up, I flipped
the phone book open to the W's, found the column of Wexlers. There was no Barbara Wexler listed. Tension was building up in me and I tried to shake it off. I had been correct in my deductions about the blonde gal's identity, but that didn't mean the rest of my deductions were correct; maybe I was imagining a lot of this. I hesitated, a half-formed thought in my mind. I turned it around, looked at it, decided it was at least worth trying, and tried it.

  I looked up the number of the White Crow fast, dialed it. Lou Finney answered. Under ordinary circumstances somebody else would probably have answered at the club—which supported my guess that these were not ordinary circumstances, that Finney had probably been waiting for a call.

  I forced my voice through my throat in a harsh whisper, “Lou?"

  “Yeah. Noodles? You sound funny."

  I coughed. “Been some bad trouble."

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble? Where you at?"

  I took a chance. “I'm still there, Lou."

  “You're still in the house? What the hell? Did you take care of the girl?"

  “Barbara?"

  “Hell, yes, Barbara. Who else would I—” He stopped speaking. Then, his voice lower, he said, “What did we have to drink before you left here, Noodles?"

  That told me he wouldn't be fooled by anything else I might say. But he'd said enough. And that meant he had sent Noodles out to murder Barbara Wexler. From his words it seemed certain that Noodles was, right now—or had been—waiting in Barbara Wexler's house, waiting there to kill her.

  I said levelly, “This is Shell Scott, Finney. Call off that killer of yours or I swear I'll put a slug in you myself. If anything happens—” I didn't get to tell him the rest of it. The phone clicked painfully in my ear.

  My palm was moist on the receiver. There was a good chance that the girl was still alive, but I didn't have any idea where she was, or how to find her. I turned again to the list of Wexlers in the phone book. There were several, but I started calling them and hit pay dirt on the second try. The woman who answered said she was Barbara Wexler's mother. Barbara herself had a phone, but it was unlisted.

  “Where is Barbara?” I asked her.

  “Why, she just left here, on her way home. She should be there by now. Who's this calling, please?” The voice was pleasant, casual.

  “There's not time to explain,” I said rapidly. “Where does she live? I've got to reach her fast."

  “I'm ... not sure—” she hesitated.

  I swore silently. “Mrs. Wexler, I've time to tell you just once. I'm Shell Scott, a detective. I think your daughter is in danger of being killed. I'll stop it if I can. Now give me her phone number—and address."

  She gasped, and made up her mind. “Ten-twenty-one Bandini Street. It's a small green-and-white house. The phone is Emerald four-seven-three-three-six. But what—"

  “Get off the line. Quick.” I slammed the phone down, jiggled the receiver and dialed the number she'd given me. It rang a dozen times, with no answer. With each ring the coldness grew in my brain and I wondered if Noodles were still there, listening to that sound in Barbara's empty house—or if, perhaps, Barbara had already arrived and Noodles had gone, his job done. Finally I hung up, dialed the Police Building. While waiting for an answer the picture of Barbara Wexler grew vivid in my mind; the shimmering blonde hair, the soft wide-set eyes, her sweetly curving lips and sensationally curving body. A man's voice spoke at the other end of me line and I said, “Emergency. Get—"

  June screamed.

  As I spun around, I got a blurred glimpse of her leaping into the room, bending forward. Behind her in the corridor was the burly guy who'd been at the entrance. He knew who I was now, it was obvious, and it was equally obvious that he was on the opposing team. I moved just in time, a split second before the big gun in his hand roared and jumped, the slug ripping past my arm and smacking into the wall. I flipped up my gun and pulled the trigger twice, aiming for him, but unfortunately not at him.

  I missed him, but I scared him. He swung around and his feet slapped on the wooden floor as he ran. I jumped into the hall, yelling for Julie to follow me. She sure couldn't stay here now and live.

  She came alongside me, the sound of her breathing heavy and ragged. “Get out the way we came in,” I said to her. I was looking down the corridor, but it was empty except for the still prone form of Doc Layne—which must have been what the guard had seen. That guard himself was out of sight, but whether in a room or at the entrance I didn't know. And I didn't mean to stick around to find out, not with a possible half-dozen hoods still nearby.

  Julie had trotted past me, but moving slowly. “Run!” I barked at her. “Out the back way. My car's there.” Down the hall a door popped open and a man started out, saw me and sprang back inside. Julie picked up speed, but she just wasn't in it with me when it came to running, so I let her get almost to the door before I started after her. She went out into the yard and I barreled after her, yelled, “Keep going,” then stopped and turned around, looking at the windows on both sides of the building.

  A black-haired guy was staring from one window. The others showed no signs of life. I waved my gun at the one guy and the black head disappeared fast. The door stood wide and I saw the guard once again as he appeared at the junction of the corridors.

  I'd been looking at the black-haired man, and the guard saw me first. He fired twice, the second slug biting at the cloth of my coat. Then I had the Special aimed at him and I squeezed off a shot and another. He slapped his free hand to his chest and jumped aside, out of sight.

  I turned and sprinted after Julie. She was still going, arms and legs awkwardly flying, white uniform a bright spot in the late-afternoon sunlight. She was nearly to the Cadillac. I shouted at her to get in, and she veered toward the car. She was just slamming the door when I climbed inside with her and started the engine.

  Julie was breathing rapidly through her mouth and trying to talk but not saying anything intelligible. I yanked the wheel, jerked the car around in a backward arc and then shot it forward. In a minute more we were a mile away.

  The speedometer needle quivered at 80. I pushed the accelerator to the floorboards and dropped my .38 in Julie's lap. “Load that,” I said. “Bullets are in the glove compartment."

  In a couple of minutes the Special was loaded and back in my holster.

  “When we get where we're going, you drive this buggy away, fast. O.K.? There might be some more shooting."

  “All right."

  “Get away from the house, then call the police and send them to ten-twenty-one Bandini. Which is where we're going."

  She didn't ask any questions. But by this time we were going so fast that she was holding her breath, and squeezing her hands together. But we were almost there. Ahead was Wilson Street, and a quarter-mile down it was Bandini. I didn't know where the 1000 block was, but we had to find it fast.

  We did. I spotted a sign at the corner, giving the street name and number, and halfway down the block was a small green and white house, a blue coupe parked before it—and a blonde in a dark skirt and pink sweater was just opening its front door. I hit the brakes and we skidded to a near stop almost opposite the house.

  “Grab the wheel, Julie.” I was out of the car before it came to a full stop, and sprinted on around the front of it, the Colt in my right hand.

  Not even the shriek of brakes had stopped the blonde—and I knew it was Barbara. Barbara still alive, but almost surely now nearly face to face with Finney's hired killer. She had gone in the door. It still stood open and as I ran, legs slamming over sidewalk and then lawn, I could see the pink of her sweater in the gloom inside the house.

  And then she screamed, a scream that was suddenly cut short. Her body jerked. I made one last leap through the air and landed squarely in the middle of the doorway, still going forward. As my left shoulder hit the partly open door I saw what had happened to Barbara, what was happening now.

  Her body was still moving to the right—toward Noodles. He had w
rapped something around her neck, was straining to pull it toward him, his left hand at the base of her skull. But his death's-head face was turned toward me. I drove my left foot hard against the floor, slowing myself even while I skidded on the carpet, but I managed to change my direction, get my footing and jumped toward Noodles. He pushed Barbara from him and tried to set himself to swing at me, not having time to reach for a gun. And he didn't have time to swing at me, either.

  I hit him with a left in the gut, swinging with all my strength, 205 pounds moving fast behind the blow, and that would have been enough, that one punch. Noodles was thin, bony, and I'll swear I felt the bones of his spine hit my knuckles. But I swung my right hand up at his jaw, forgetting for the moment the gun in my hand, and it ripped across his face, clicking as it tore into the cheekbone.

  He flew back and slammed into the wall. He was out. He was cold, just starting to fall, his body sliding down the wall, and his head swinging to the side, the back of it pressed against the wall's plaster. I stepped toward him, measured him fast, and swung my left again, this time at his face. It was like an explosion of knuckles on his mouth and nose. He went down, but when he hit and lay quietly on his back that death's-head face looked more like hamburger dipped in ketchup. And that almost made Noodles and me even. Almost.

  I turned toward the girl. But she was all right. Both hands were at her throat and she had pulled a quarter-inch cord free from her neck. I could see the red ring where it had dug into her flesh. She looked panicked and pale.

  I stood still and said, as quietly as I could. “It's all right."

  Slowly she lowered her hands, ran her tongue over dry lips. Her face smoothed a little.

  I put my gun away, pointed toward Noodles. “He was hired by Lou Finney. That make sense to you?"

  Slowly she nodded.

  “Think you can talk about it?"

  She could. It took a few minutes, but all became clear. I'd guessed the general picture; she just filled in details. While we talked, I tied Noodles’ hands and feet with the cord he'd brought along to use on Barbara's lovely throat. I wasn't gentle. And I finally got out of that medical gown.

 

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