When I asked Barbara what Finney's connection with Erik Douglas was, she said, “A few years ago, when Mr. Finney opened the White Crow, it was Erik Douglas who financed him. He put up the money. I think it was two-hundred thousand dollars."
“What did Finney put up?"
“I don't remember anything in particular, except he was going to run the club. And handle the ‘special services’ I think it was.
“Uh-huh. And I'll bet I can guess: since neither of those bums could trust the other, they made it legal. There must have been something in black and white to tie both of them down, right?"
“A legal contract, yes, giving Mr. Douglas twenty percent of the profits in return for his capital investment. That's how I knew about it—I was working for Mr. Hamilton then."
“And he, being Finney's attorney, naturally drew up the contract."
She nodded again. “This was about four years ago. I typed the contract papers, so I knew all the details of the arrangement. As it was then, anyway—when I talked to May earlier today she mentioned that she'd recently typed a new contract to replace that old one."
I blinked. “May Sullivan? Hamilton's secretary?” Barbara nodded and I went on, “Did she say why there was a new contract?"
“No, she didn't go into detail."
“Where's your phone?"
She pointed. I jumped across the room and grabbed the phone, dialed Hamilton's office number again. It had been only a few minutes since I'd talked to May Sullivan, and she was still in the office. As soon as she answered the phone I identified myself and asked her about the contract between Finney and Douglas.
“Oh, that,” she said. “I didn't even think about it when you were here earlier—"
I interrupted, “What was the difference between it and the previous contract?"
“I don't recall ever seeing the previous one. But I suppose the big difference was in the financial arrangements, the sharing of profits from the White Crow. That's what I gathered from the wording of the contract I typed."
“What percentage was Douglas supposed to get?"
“Half. Both Mr. Finney and Mr. Douglas were to receive fifty percent of the profits."
And that did it. This wrapped it up. I told May Sullivan to get the hell out of the office. This time I convinced her.
Then I hung up and looked at Barbara. “Honey,” I said, “you'd have been dead yesterday if it weren't for one thing: Finney must have thought that only Douglas and Hamilton knew about those contracts. He hasn't thought of May Sullivan yet—and he didn't even think of you until I ... reminded him.” I grinned at her. “So in a way I'm the guy largely responsible for the close call you just had."
She looked at Noodles, quite mangled, resting quietly, then turned her big pale green eyes on me. And she managed a small smile. “All is forgiven. Hadn't you guessed?"
I had known that I would have to move fast, so I'd left Barbara Wexler in front of her house, waiting for the police, and went out to the White Crow in a taxi. When the police arrived, she was supposed to send them on after me to the club. I'd gotten out of the cab far enough from the White Crow so that it was unlikely I would be seen, and walked to the building's rear. I could easily pick out Finney's office. A light was burning in the room, sending a square of pale yellow through the half-open window. There was no outcry, no sign that I'd been seen, as I walked to it. The office was empty. I pushed the window up and climbed into the room.
I moved to Finney's desk and sat down behind it, put my gun on the desk top and opened the right-hand drawers. I started looking for anything which might show Finney's relationship with Alvin Hamilton or Erik Douglas, and specifically for copies of either or both of those two contracts between Finney and Douglas. It seemed likely that they would have been destroyed by now, but as it turned out, that didn't really make much difference—I didn't have time to find a thing.
Finney came in with his gun in his hand.
He came through the door fast, the gun pointing at me from the moment he entered, a tight grin on his dark, hard face, and he closed the door gently, leaned back against it. He must have seen me on my way around to the back of the club, or climbing in through the window. Anyway, he'd sure known I was here.
I slapped a hand toward my .38, but stopped. There wasn't a chance I could grab it in time. Finney didn't speak.
But when I stopped moving suddenly, hand in mid-air, he said, “Good boy, punk. That's the wise way. Make it easy on yourself."
He looked ready to squeeze down on the trigger and I said rapidly, “Hold it, Finney. You've had it. The police are on their way here right now."
He laughed out loud. “Sure, Scott,” he said, still amused. “Sure. But if they were on their way, they could take you to the morgue. When I caught you searching my office, naturally I shot you.” The gun moved slightly in his hand.
“I know the whole setup, Finney.” I was simply making noise, trying to keep the man's attention on my words—instead of on shooting me. “I know about your contracts with Douglas, for one thing."
“There's no proof I ever had a contract with Douglas. No legal proof.” He looked puzzled.
I went on fast. “There's enough to kill you. You made more mistakes than an amateur."
He frowned. But I had him hooked, temporarily at least. “Keep talking,” he said.
“You and Erik Douglas were partners in the White Crow for four years, and he had a contract to prove it. A contract that gave him twenty percent of the take. About a week ago he decided it was time he got a bigger cut, and met with you in Al Hamilton's office. I imagine he threatened to make trouble if you didn't see things his way—maybe by tipping the law about the stolen stuff you've been pushing in the club. Items like Coke and cigarettes and meat,"
I couldn't be sure of what Douglas had actually said, of course, but I must have hit pretty close to the mark. Finney's frown got deeper, and his lips parted enough so I could see the gleam of his teeth between them. He didn't say anything.
“I imagine Douglas had himself covered pretty well, Finney, so he'd be clean—but you wouldn't be, not with your record. He had you over a barrel, so you pretended to go along with his demand for a bigger cut. And then you killed him.” I paused and went on slowly, watching his face. “But that old contract could have caused you trouble after his death if it were found among his papers. The D.A. would have pounced on the evidence that you and Douglas were partners in crime, so to speak, as a beautiful motive for murder. Douglas wasn't about to hand that old contract over to you, naturally—that was his protection—so you had Al Hamilton draw up another contract, a legal one, giving Erik the fifty percent he'd asked for. Then you went to Erik's home. With that new contract, you managed to get him to hand over the old one. With both of them in your possession, you shot him in the head.” I stopped, then went on, “I can't be positive of it all, Finney, but I'll bet that's just about what happened."
He licked his lips. “Close enough, Scott,” he said finally. “We both actually signed the new contract before he got the other one out of his safe.” Finney paused, as if recalling the scene. “He was pretty happy about it. I remember he was smiling when I shot him. At least he died happy.” Finney smiled himself, but it wasn't a jolly sight.
I hadn't had much time to think about it, but I didn't understand why Finney hadn't already shot me. But then I got it. The wild drive from Doc Layne's Sewing Center to Barbara Wexler's house, and the quick though violent activity there with Noodles, had taken at the most ten minutes; and the drive here would have added only five minutes more. So, since it had been only fifteen to twenty minutes since I'd phoned Finney pretending to be Noodles, he must think that I had come directly here from the hospital. Consequently he couldn't have any idea that Noodles now looked more like spaghetti, that Barbara was still alive and talking, and that the police would soon be here. Soon—I hoped.
Finney said softly, “Funny thing, Scott. Erik threatened me with tax trouble, too. Naturally neither of us pai
d taxes on the extra profit from the stuff my boys heisted, nor from the bootleg hooch I use, but Erik had himself covered pretty well, like you said.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, after I shot him, I tore up the new contracts and the old one, too, left the gun under his hand and was home free."
“Not quite.” My mouth was getting dry. I looked at my .38 on the desk but it was too far from my hand. I was going to have to try something. I couldn't simply sit here at Finney's desk and let him shoot me.
And that phrase in my thoughts, “At Finney's desk,” triggered memory of the moment this afternoon when our positions had been reversed—when Finney had been sitting here and I'd noticed him ring, with his knee, a long signal that had brought Windy bursting in here. I glanced down at the desk and saw the projecting button of the buzzer there, near my knee.
“What do you mean, not quite?” Finney said.
He was still standing right in front of the door, gun aimed at my chest. “There was Hamilton,” I said. I pressed my knee against the buzzer. “He knew about both contracts. So you had to kill him, too—or have him killed. You phoned him last night, told him to come out to the club—and bring his copy of the contract."
“At least I had him come toward the club.” Finney smiled again, and again it was not a jolly sight. “You're right this time, too, Scott. But it's the last time."
He was through talking. It was obvious in his words, his tone, and his bearing. Nothing had happened since I'd rung that buzzer—or tried to ring it. I hadn't heard anything, of course, so I couldn't be sure the thing had made any noise anywhere. My throat had been dry before, but I was breathing through a bone now; I managed to spit the words out fast, “Noodles, about Noodles. Don't you want to know what happened to him?"
He looked annoyed. “What about Noodles?” His glance went from me to the phone; he was wondering, probably, why it was taking Noodles so long to report in.
My heart was pounding, clattering around in my chest like a soft rock. “I caught up with Noodles before he got to Barbara. The law has him and she's talking to the police. They'll be here any minute."
“Quit stalling.” He swore at me angrily, face getting reddish, then he moved the gun slightly, aiming at the left side of my chest, and he must actually have started to bear down on the trigger as he snarled, “You lousy, lying—” but that was the end of it.
There was a hell of a commotion then, all of a sudden. I hadn't heard any sound, the door just flew open suddenly—exactly as it had earlier this afternoon—and little Windy tried to jump into the room. With Finney standing as he was in front of the entrance, the violently opened door caught him hard in the back, banging him forward and turning him to the side. His gun went off with an ear-cracking roar and the bullet hit the desk a foot from me. Windy reeled as he stumbled into the room. And by that time the .38 Colt Special was off the desk and in my hand.
I fired twice, just twice. I shot Finney first, aiming carefully so that the slug wouldn't kill him, and the bullet caught him in the chest near his right shoulder. The second shot was for the little gunman, but I didn't have much time for aiming by then. He'd caught his balance and was starting toward me, still confused, but swinging the automatic toward me.
I tried to hit him in the same spot where I'd caught Finney, but I had to rush the shot. Even so, Windy managed to pull the trigger of his gun. But it was his last shot. His last anything. My .38 slug caught him in the chin and tore on through his throat. He was dead before the gun dropped from his hand, before his knees sagged. It was a dead man that fell silently and crumpled on the floor.
Finney had let out a cry of pain, his own gun falling from limp fingers to the floor. He bent forward but didn't go down. In the sudden silence I said, “That's it, Finney. Just stand there.” He froze. I went on, “Whoever comes in here, tell them to beat it—tell them loud, and mean it. Let them know you mean it, friend."
The sound of pounding feet was outside the door. “Now, Finney,” I said.
His left hand was pressed to his chest. Blood flowed over his fingers, turning them red. He yelled. “Keep out. Stay the hell out of here, Ross. Keep the rest out!"
A big guy loomed in the doorway, hesitated and turned away. I'd cocked the gun, just in case. But then, and a sweet sound it was, too, I finally heard the sirens.
“There it is,” I said. “You can park at the curb.” Barbara pulled her Buick coupe over to the curb and stopped. We'd both finished our stint with the police, and I had reported to my client, Mrs. Hamilton. She had been pleased at the outcome, but not greatly cheered, naturally. She'd insisted that she would pay me a fat fee, even though I'd told her that all during this past night and day I had been trying to save my own neck more than I'd been trying to do a job for her. The money, she'd said, wasn't important to her now.
Finney was in custody, as were nine other hoods and Doctor Layne. When I'd phoned the police from the hoodlums’ hospital, even though I'd had to drop the phone and hightail it out of there, the policeman I'd reached on the other end of the line had heard numerous shots and the sound of frantic activity, and after tracing the call had dispatched a couple of radio cars to the scene. They'd rounded up Layne and the guard and Frenchy, plus seven other convalescent lobs who would finish their convalescence in police custody. Nothing now remained but unwinding, relaxing again.
Since I was still Cad-less, Barbara had offered me a lift home, and we were now parked opposite the Spartan Apartment Hotel. She said, “It's really just dawning on me that if it weren't for you I'd be—I'd be dead. I can't tell you how grateful I am, Shell."
“Oh, it was nothing. Nothing."
“It's so good to be so—so alive."
“You're sure alive, all right.” She was. Even that pink sweater seemed to be alive. She was what guys like you and me call a live one.
Barbara blinked those big pale green eyes at me and, breathing deeply—so deeply that I, too, was beginning to breathe deeply—said, “I don't know how I can ever repay you."
It sounded a little bit like a line from The Drunkard. “Well, I can give you a hint,” I said. “Though there's really no debt, you know."
“Oh, tell me.” There was another of those Drunkard-type lines.
I said, “Well, I've got a lot of bourbon and Scotch and gin and everything but benzedrine just going to waste up in my apartment. If you feel reckless as can be, you might come on up and sample my stock."
There was something wicked about the way she smiled. “I was hoping you'd ask me just that,” she said.
In practically no time we were through the lobby, up the stairs, and before the door of my apartment. I started to unlock it, but it was already unlocked and began swinging open from my touch. Alarm jangled along my nerves and I had my hand on the gun under my coat by the time the door opened far enough so I could see the woman on the couch.
I sort of tottered forward. It was Julie. Little black-haired, cute and curvy Julie. Julie, still in her white uniform. Julie, looking past me at Barbara, who had come in and shut the door and cried softly “Ooh! What's this?” Julie, with half of her face smiling and the other half frowning, making her look odd indeed.
“Ah, there.” I said. “Well!"
Julie said, quite gently, too gently, “I brought your car back. It's in the garage. I suppose I should have left."
“No, no. You did the—” the words stuck in my throat—"the right thing.” I swallowed. “Julie, this is Barbara, Barbara this is Julie, my—” there was a horrible silence—"my nurse."
Barbara looked at me with not quite so much gay abandon, and said, “I thought you were pretty healthy."
“No, I'm sick. Boy, am I sick."
We all sort of reeled around and wound up on the couch, me in the middle, between the two dolls. Barbara said, as if daring me, “Go on. Tell me you saved her from getting shot or something."
“As a matter of fact,” little Julie said, “he did."
Well that started them. They began exchanging experiences and crying �
�No!” and “My!” and by the time they finished they were calling each other “Honey,” and “Dear."
And when I said, “I'll tell you what. Why don't we just get plastered and see what happens?"
They didn't say anything, but squealed and giggled.
I got up and went to the kitchenette and began mixing highballs. I didn't know what those squeals or giggles meant, but I was sure as blazes going to have a stiff bourbon and water, and find out.
I thought back to the way this latest case had begun, the party which had definitely not been my kind of party, with the ancient babes and old ducks and sherry, and the morgue-ish quality of it all—and I grinned.
I was still grinning as I carried the three stiff drinks into the living room. Maybe it had started miserably, but there's always a happy ending.
This was my kind of party.
The Double Take
This was a morning for weeping at funerals, for sticking pins in your own wax image, for leaping into empty graves and pulling the sod in after you. Last night I had been at a party with some friends here in Los Angeles, and I had drunk bourbon and Scotch and martinis and maybe even swamp water from highball glasses, and now my brain was a bomb that went off twice a second.
I thought thirstily of Pete's Bar downstairs on Broadway, right next door to this building, the Hamilton, where I have my detective agency, then got out of my chair, left the office and locked the door behind me. I was Shell Scott, The Bloodshot Eye, and I needed a hair of the horse that bit me.
Before I went downstairs I stopped by the PBX switchboard at the end of the hall. Cute little Hazel glanced up.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“I know. I think I'm decomposing. Listen, a client just phoned me and I have to rush out to the Hollywood Roosevelt. I'll be back in an hour or so, but for the next five minutes I'll be in Pete's. Hold down the fort, huh?"
“Sure, Shell. Pete's?” She shook her head.
I tried to grin at her, whereupon she shrank back and covered her eyes, and I left. Hazel is a sweet kid, tiny, and curvy, and since mine is a one-man agency with no receptionist or secretary, the good gal tries to keep informed of my whereabouts.
Shell Scott's Seven Slaughters (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 11
