She was stark naked. Stark. I had seldom seen anything so stark. She had obviously just gotten out of bed, and just as obviously had been sound asleep. She still wasn't awake, because blinking at my chest she mumbled, “Oh, dammit to hell, John."
Then she turned around and walked back into the room. I followed her, as if hypnotized, automatically swinging the door shut behind me. She was about five-six and close to 130 pounds, and she was shaped like what I sometimes muse about after the third highball. Everybody who had described the blonde, and she was a blonde, had been correct: she was not only “stacked” but “ah, curvaceous.” There was no mistaking it, either; the one time a man can be positive that a woman's shape is her own is when she is wearing nothing but her shape, and this gal was really in dandy shape. She walked away from me toward a bedroom next to this room, like a gal moving in her sleep. She walked to the bed and flopped onto it, pulling a sheet up over her, and I followed her clear to the bed, still coming out of shock, my mind not yet working quite like a well-oiled machine. I managed to figure out that my Frank Harrison was actually named John something. Then she yawned, blinked up at me and said, “Well, dammit to hell, John, stop staring."
And then she stopped suddenly with her mouth stretching wider and wider and her eyes growing enormous as she stared at me. Then she screamed. Man, she screamed like a gal who had just crawled into bed with seventeen tarantulas. I was certainly affecting people in peculiar fashion this morning. She threw off the sheet, leaped to the floor and lit out for an open door in the far wall, leading into the bathroom, and by now that didn't surprise me a bit.
She didn't make it, though. She was only a yard from me at the start, and I took one step toward her, grabbed her wrist and hung on. She stopped screaming and slashed long red fingernails at my face, but I grabbed her hand and shoved her back onto the bed, then said, “Relax, sister. Stop clawing at me and keep your yap closed and I'll let go of you."
She was tense, jerking her arms and trying to get free, but suddenly she relaxed. Her face didn't relax, though; she still glared at me, a mixture of hate, anger, and maybe fright, staining her face. She didn't have makeup on, but her face had a hard, tough-kid attractiveness.
I let go of her and she grabbed the sheet, pulled it up in front of her body. “Get the hell out of here,” she said nastily. There was a phone on a bedside stand and her eyes fell on it. She grabbed it, pulled it off the hook. “I'm calling the cops."
I pulled a chair over beside the bed and sat down. Finally she let go of the phone and glared some more at me.
“I didn't think you'd call any cops, sweetheart,” I said. “Maybe I will, but you won't. Quite a shock seeing me here, isn't it? I was supposed to meet Frank—I mean, John—in the Cinegrill, not up here. You're in trouble, baby."
“I don't know what you're talking about."
“Not much. You know who I am—"
“You're crazy."
“Shut up. Miss Willis. I got a call from your boy friend at nine sharp this morning. I was supposed to rush out here for an important job; only there isn't any important job. Your John, the guy I know as Frank Harrison, just wanted me out of my office for an hour or so. Right?"
She didn't say anything.
“So another guy could play Shell Scott for a while. Now you tell me why."
Her lips curled and she swore at me.
I said, “Something you don't know. You must have guessed the caper's gone sour, but you probably don't know John has powdered. Left you flat, honey."
She frowned momentarily, then her face smoothed and got blank. It stayed blank.
She was clammed good. Finally I said, “Look, I know enough of it already. There's John, and Bob Foster, and a big white-haired slob named Flagg who probably got his peroxide from you. And don't play innocent because I know you're thick with all of them, especially John. Hell, this is his room. So get smart and—"
The phone rang. She reached for it, then stopped.
I yanked the .38 out from under my coat and said, “Don't get wise; say hello.” I took the phone off the hook and held it for her. She said, “Hello,” and I put the phone to my ear just in time to hear a man's voice say, “John, baby. I had to blow fast, that bastard was in the hotel. Pack and meet me at Apex.” He stopped.
I covered the mouthpiece and told the blonde, “Tell him O.K. Just that, nothing else."
I stuck the phone up in front of her and she said, “The panic's on. Fade out.” I got the phone back to my ear just in time to hear the click as he hung up.
The blonde was smiling at me. But she stopped smiling when I stuck my gun back in its holster, then juggled the receiver and said, “Get me the Hollywood Detective Division."
“Hey, wait a minute,” the blonde said. “What you calling the cops for?"
“You can't be that stupid. Tehachapi for you, sweetheart. You probably have a lot of friends there. It won't be so bad. Just horrible."
She licked her lips. When the phone was answered I said, “Put Lieutenant Bronson on, will you?"
The gal said, “Wait a minute. Hold off on that call. Let's ... talk about it."
I grinned. “Now you want to talk. No soap. You can talk to the cops. And don't tell me there isn't enough to hold you on."
“Please. I—call him later if you have to.” She let go of the sheet and it fell to her waist. I told myself to be strong and look away, but I was weak.
“You got it all wrong,” she said softly. “Let's—talk.” She tried to smile, but it didn't quite come off. I shook my head.
She threw the sheet all the way back on the bed then, stood up, holding her body erect, and stepped close to me. “Please, honey. We can have fun. Don't you like me, honey?"
“What's with that white-haired ape in my office? And what's Apex?"
“I don't know. I told you before. Honest, Honey, look at me."
That was a pretty silly thing to say, because I sure wasn't looking at the wallpaper. Just then Lieutenant Bronson came on and I said, “Shell Scott here, Bron. Hollywood Roosevelt, room seven-fourteen."
The blonde stepped closer, almost touching me, then picked up my free right hand and passed it around her waist “Hang up,” she said. “You won't be sorry.” Her voice dropped lower, became a husky murmur as she pressed my fingers into the warm flesh. “Forget it honey. I can be awfully nice."
Bronson was asking me what was up. I said, “Just a second, Bron,” then to the girl, “Sounds like a great kick. Just tell me the story, spill your guts—"
She threw my hand away from her, face getting almost ugly, and then she took a wild swing at me. I blocked the blow with my right hand, put my hand flat on her chest and shoved her back against the bed. She sprawled on it, saying some very nasty things.
I said into the phone, “I've got a brassy blonde here for you,"
“What's the score?"
“Frankly, I'm not sure. But I'll sign a complaint. Using foul language, maybe."
“That her? I can hear her."
“Or maybe attempted rape.” I grinned at the blonde as she yanked the sheet over her and used some more foul language. I said to Bronson, “Actually, it looks like some kind of confidence game—with me a sucker. I don't know the gal, but you guys might make her. Probably she's got a record.” I saw the girl's face change as she winced. “Yeah,” I added, “she's got a record. Probably as long as her face is right now."
“I'll send a man up."
“Make it fast, will you? I've got to get out of here, and this beautiful blonde hasn't a stitch of clothes on."
“Huh? She—I'll be right there."
It didn't take him long. By ten-forty-five Bronson, who had arrived grinning—and the three husky sergeants who came with him—had taken the blonde away and I was back in the hotel's lobby. I had given Bronson a rundown on the morning's events, and he'd said they'd keep after the blonde. Neither of us expected any chatter from her, though. After that soft, “I can be awfully nice,” she hadn't said anything except
swear words and: “I want a lawyer, I know my rights, I want a lawyer.” She'd get a lawyer. Tomorrow, maybe.
I went into the Cinegrill and had a bourbon and water while I tried to figure my next move. Bron and I had checked the phone book and city directory for an “Apex” and found almost fifty of them, from Apex Diaper Service to an Apex Junk Yard, which was no help at all, though the cops would check. That lead was undoubtedly no good now that the blonde had warned Harrison. I was getting more and more anxious to find out what the score was, because this was sure shaping up like some kind of con, and I wasn't a bit happy about it.
The confidence man is, in many ways, the elite of the criminal world. Usually intelligent, personable, and more persuasive than Svengali, con-men would be the nicest guys in the world except for one thing: they have no conscience at all. I've run up against con-men before, and they're tricky and treacherous. One of my first clients was an Englishman who had been taken on the rag, a stock swindle, for $140,000. He'd tried to find the man, with no luck, then came to me; I didn't have any luck, either. But when he'd finally given up hope of ever seeing his money again, he'd said to me, of the grifter who had taken him, “I shall always remember him as an extrah-dn'rly chahming chap. He was a pleasant bahstahd.” Then he'd paused, thought a bit, and added, “But, by God, he was a bahstahd!"
The Englishman was right. Confidence men are psychologists with diplomas from sad people: the suckers, the marks, that the con-boys have taken; and there's not a con-man worthy of the name who wouldn't take a starving widow's last penny or a bishop's last C-note, with never a twinge of remorse. They are the pleasant bastards, the con-men, and they thrive because they can make other men believe that opportunity is not only knocking but chopping the door down—and because of men's desire for a fast, even if dishonest, buck, or else the normal greed that's in most of us. They are the spellbinders, and ordinarily don't resort to violence, or go around shooting holes in people.
And it looked as if three of them, or at least two, were up against me. The other one. Pretty Boy Foster, was a bit violent, I remembered, and swung a mean sap. My head still throbbed. All three men, now that the blonde had told Harrison there was big trouble, would probably be making themselves scarce.
But there was still the girl. The gorgeous little gal with black hair and light blue eyes and the chrome-plated pistol. I thought back over what she'd said to me.
There'd been a lot of gibberish about $24,000 and my being a crook and—something else. Something about Folsom's Market. It was worth a check. I looked the place up in the phone book, found it listed on Van Ness Avenue, finished my drink and headed for Folsom's Market.
It was on Van Ness near Washington. I parked, went inside and looked around. Just an ordinary small store; the usual groceries and a glass-faced meat counter extending the length of the left wall. The place was doing a good business. I walked to the single counter where a young red-haired girl about twenty was ringing up a customer's sales on the cash register, and when she'd finished I told her I wanted to speak with the manager. She smiled, then leaned forward to a small mike and said, “Mr. Gordon. Mr. Gordon, please."
In a few seconds a short man in a business suit, with a fleshy pink face and a slight potbelly walked up to me. I told him my name and business, showed him my credentials, then said, “Actually, Mr. Gordon, I don't know if you can help me or not. This morning I talked briefly with a young lady who seemed quite angry with me. She thought I was some kind of crook and mentioned this place, Folsom's Market. Perhaps you know her.” I described the little doll, and she was easy enough to describe, particularly with the odd gray streak in her dark hair. That gal was burned into my memory and I remembered every lovely thing about her, but when I finished the manager shook his head.
“Don't remember anything like her around here,” he said.
“She mentioned something about her father, and twenty-four thousand dollars. I don't—"
I stopped, because Mr. Gordon suddenly started chuckling. The cashier said, “Oh, it must be that poor old man."
The manager laughed. “This'll kill you,” he said. “Some old foreigner about sixty years old came in here this morning, right at eight when we opened up. Said he just wanted to look his store over. His store, get that, Mr. Scott. Claimed he'd bought the place, and—this'll kill you—for twenty-four thousand dollars. Oh, boy, a hundred grand wouldn't half buy this spot."
He was laughing about every third word. It had been very funny, he thought. Only it wasn't a bit funny to me, and I felt sick already. The way this deal was starting to figure, I didn't blame the little cutey for taking a few shots at me.
I said slowly, “Exactly what happened? What else did this ... this foreigner do?"
The manager's potbelly shook a little. “Ah, he gawked around for a while, then I talked to the guy. I guess it must of taken me half an hour to convince him Mr. Borrage owns this place—you know Borrage, maybe, owns a dozen independent places like this, real rich fellow—anyway this stupid old guy swore he'd bought the place. For the money and his little grocery store. You imagine that? Finally I gave him Borrage's address and told him to beat it. Hell, I called Borrage, naturally. He got a chuckle out of it, too, when I told him."
Anger was beginning to flicker in me. “Who was this stupid old man?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Hell, I don't know. I just told him finally to beat it. I couldn't have him hanging around here."
“No.” I said. “Of course not. He was a foreigner, huh? You mean he wasn't an Indian?"
Mr. Gordon blinked at me, said, “Hey?” then described the man as well as he could. He told me he'd never seen the guy before, and walked away.
The cashier said softly, “It wasn't like that at all, Mr. Scott. And he left his name with me."
“Swell, honey. Can you give it to me?"
Her face was sober, unsmiling as she nodded. “I just hate that Mr. Gordon,” she said. “The way it was, this little man came in early and just stood around, looking pleased and happy, kind of smiling all the time. I noticed he was watching me for a while, when I checked out the customers, then he came over to me and smiled. ‘You're a fast worker,’ he said to me. ‘Very good worker, I'm watching you.’ Then he told me I was going to be working for him, that he'd bought this place and was going to move in tomorrow.” She frowned. “I didn't know any better. For all I knew, he might have bought the store. I wish he had.” She glanced toward the back of the store where Mr. Gordon had gone. “He was a sweet little man."
“What finally happened?"
“Well, he kept standing around, then Mr. Gordon came up here and I asked him if the store had been sold. He went over and talked to the old man a while, started laughing, and talked some more. The old man got all excited and waved his arms around and started shouting. Finally Mr. Gordon got a little sharp—he's like that—and pointed to the door. In a minute the little guy came over to me and wrote his name and address down. He said there was some kind of mistake, but it would be straightened out. Then he left.” She paused. “He looked like he was going to cry."
“I see. You got that name handy?"
“Uh-huh.” She opened the cash register and took a slip of paper out of it. “He wanted us to be able to get in touch with him; he acted sort of dazed."
“He would have,” I said. She handed me the note. On it, in a shaky, laboriously scrawled script, was written an address and: Emil Elmlund, Elmlund's Neighborhood Grocery. Phone WI 2-1258.
“Use your phone?” I asked.
“Sure."
I dialed WI 2-1258. The phone rang several times, then a girl's voice answered, “Hello."
“Hello. Who is this, please?"
“This is Janet Elmlund."
That was what Pretty-Boy had called the girl in Pete's; Janet, and Jan. I said, “Is Mrs. McCurdy there?"
“McCurdy? I—you must have the wrong number."
I told her I wanted WI 2-1259, apologized, and hung up. I didn't want her to know I was
coming out there. This time she might have a rifle. Then I thanked the cashier, went out to the Cad and headed for Elmlund's Neighborhood Grocery.
It was a small store on a tree-lined street, the kind of “Neighborhood Grocery” you used to see a lot of in the days before supermarkets sprang up on every other corner. A sign on the door said, “Closed Today.” A path had been worn in the grass alongside the store's right wall, leading to a small house in the rear. I walked along the path and paused momentarily before the house. It was white, neat, with green trim around the windows, a porch along its front. A man sat on the porch in a wooden chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He was looking right at me as I walked toward him, but he didn't give any sign that he'd noticed me, and his face didn't change expression.
I walked up onto the porch. “Mr. Elmlund?"
He slowly raised his head and looked at me. He was a small man, with a lined brown face and very light blue eyes. Wisps of gray hair still clung to his head. He looked at me and blinked, then said, “Yes."
He looked away from me then, out into the yard again. It was as if I weren't there at all. And, actually, my presence probably didn't mean a thing to him. It was obvious that he had been taken in a confidence game, taken for $24,000 and maybe a dream. I couldn't know all of it yet, but I new enough about how he must feel now, still shocked, dazed, probably not yet thinking at all.
I squatted beside him and said, “Mr. Elmlund, my name is Shell Scott."
For a minute nothing happened, then his eyebrows twitched, pulled down. Frowning, he looked at me. “What?” he said.
I heard the click of high heels, the front door was pushed open and a girl stood there, holding a tray before her with two sandwiches on it. It was the same little lovely, black hair pulled back now and tied with a blue ribbon. She still wore the blue clam-diggers and the man's shirt.
Shell Scott's Seven Slaughters (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 13
