I said, “If you say ‘crooks’ once again I'll bat you. Now where the hell did your husband go?"
She started babbling, not one word understandable. But finally she got to her feet and started tottering around. “I wrote it down,” she said. “I wrote it down. I wrote—"
“What did you write down?"
“Where he was going. The address.” She threw up her hands. “Forty-one thousand dollars! Crooks! Forty-one—"
“Listen,” I said. “He have that much money on him?” “No. He had to go to the bank.” “What bank?” By the time she answered I'd already spotted the phone and was dialing. A bank clerk told me that Carl Strossmin had drawn $41,000 out of his account only half an hour ago. He'd been very excited, but he'd made no mention of what he wanted the money for. I hung up. I knew why Carl hadn't mentioned anything about it: it was a secret.
Mrs. Strossmin was still puttering around, pulling out drawers and occasionally throwing her hands up into the air and screeching. Gradually I got her story and, with what I already knew, put the pieces together. Her husband's appointment with “Shell Scott” had been made two days ago by real-estate dealer “Harrison” himself, here in Strossmin's home. After suggesting that since Strossmin seemed a bit undecided he might feel safer if he engaged a “completely honest” detective, Harrison had dialed a number, chatted a bit, and handed Strossmin the phone. Finally an appointment had been made for nine-thirty this A. M. Strossmin had been talking, of course, to Whitey who most likely was in a phone booth or bar.
Harrison probably wouldn't have suggested me by name to Strossmin, expecting the mark to accept his, the realtor's, suggestion, except for one thing, which was itself important to the con: my reputation in L. A. A lot of people here believe I'm crazy, others think I'm stupid, and many, particularly old maids, are sure I'm a fiendish lecher; but there's never been any question about my being honest. This phase of the con was based on making Strossmin—and Elmlund before him—think he was really talking to me when he met Whitey, the Shell Scott of the con, in my office. However when I popped back into the office and messed up that play this morning, the boys had to change their plans fast.
At eleven-thirty, about the time I was driving to Elmlund's, Whitey had come here to Strossmin's home, apologized for not being in his office when Strossmin had arrived this A. M., and said he'd come here to spare Strossmin another trip downtown. After learning what Strossmin wanted investigated, Whitey had pretended surprise and declared solemnly that this was a strange coincidence indeed, because Strossmin was the second man to ask for the identical investigation. Oh, yes, he'd already investigated—for this other eager buyer—and told him that the deal was on the level. No doubt about it, this was the opportunity of the century—and time, sad to say, was terribly short. Apparently, said Whitey, negotiations were going on with dozens of other people—and so on until Strossmin had been in a frenzy of impatience.
Finally Mrs. Strossmin found her slip of paper and thrust it at me. An address was scribbled on it: Apex Realtors, 4870 Normandie Avenue. I grabbed the paper and ran to the Cad.
Apex Realtors was, logically enough, no more than an ordinary house with a sign in the window: Apex Realtors. When I reached it and parked, a small, well-dressed man with a thick mustache was just climbing into a new Buick at the curb. I ran from the Cad to his Buick and stopped him just as he started the engine.
“Mr. Strossmin?"
He was just like his wife. His eyes narrowed. “Yes."
I took a deep breath and blurted it out, “Did you just buy Folsom's Market?"
He grinned. “Beat you, didn't I? You're too late—"
“Shut up. You bought nothing but a headache. How many men inside there?"
He chuckled. “They told me I'd have to hurry. Sorry my good man, but—"
About ready to flip, I yanked out my gun and pointed it at him. "How many men in there?"
I thought for a minute he was going to faint, too, but he managed to gasp, “Three."
I said, “You wait here,” then turned and ran up to the house. The door was partly ajar, and I hit it and charged inside, the gun in my right hand. There wasn't anybody in sight, but another door straight ahead of me had a sign, “Office,” on it. As I went through the door a car motor growled into life behind the house. I ran for the back, found a door standing wide open and jumped through it just as a sky-blue Oldsmobile sedan parked in the alley took off fast. I barely got a glimpse of it, but I knew who was in it. The three con-men were powdering now that they had all the dough they were after. There was a chance they'd seen me, but it wasn't likely. Probably they'd grabbed the dough and left by the back way as soon as Strossmin stepped through the front door.
I raced out front again and sprinted for the Cad, yelling to Strossmin, “Call the police!” He sat there, probably feeling pleased at the coup he'd just put over. He'd call the cops, next week, maybe. I ripped the Cad into gear and roared to the corner, took a right and stepped on the gas. I had to slow at the next intersection, looked both directions and caught a flash of blue two blocks away on my right, swung in after them and pushed the accelerator to the floorboards. I was gaining on them rapidly, and now I had a few seconds to try figuring out how to stop them. Up close I could see the Olds sedan, and the figures of three men inside it, two in the front seat and one in back. Con-men don't usually carry guns, but these guys operated a little differently from most con-men. In the first place they usually make the mark think he's in on a crooked deal, and in the second they almost always try to cool the mark out, allay his suspicions so he doesn't know, at least for a long time, that he's been taken. The boys ahead of me had broken both those rules, and there was a good chance they'd also broken the rule about guns.
But I was less than half a block behind them now and they apparently hadn't tumbled. They must figure they were in the clear, so I had surprise on my side. Well, I'd surprise them.
We were a long way from downtown here, but still in the residential section. I caught up with their car, pulled out on their left and slightly ahead, then as we reached an intersection I swung to my right, cutting them off just as I heard one of the men in the blue Olds yell loudly.
The driver did the instinctive thing, jerked his steering wheel to the right and they went clear up over the curb and stalled on a green lawn before a small house. I was out of my Cad and running toward them, the Colt in my fist, before their car stopped moving twenty feet from me. And one of them did have a gun.
They sure as hell knew who I was by now, and I heard the gun crack. A slug snapped past me as I dived for the lawn, skidded a yard. Doors swung open on both sides of the blue Olds. Black-haired Pretty Boy jumped from the back and started running away from me, lugging a briefcase.
I got to my knees, and yelled, “Stop! Hold it or you get it, Foster."
He swung around, crouching, and light gleamed on the metal of a gun in his hand. He fired once at me and missed, and I didn't hold back any longer. I snapped the first shot from my .38 but I aimed the next two times, and he sagged slowly to his knees, then fell forward on his face.
Gray-haired Harrison was a few steps from the car, standing frozen, staring at Foster's body, but Whitey was fifty feet beyond him running like mad. I took out after him, but as I went by Harrison I let him have the full weight of my .38 on the back of his skull. I didn't even look back; he'd keep for a while.
I jammed my gun into its holster and sprinted down the sidewalk, Whitey half a block ahead but losing ground. He wasn't in very good shape, apparently, and after a single block he was damn near staggering. He heard my feet splatting on the pavement behind him and for a moment he held his few yards’ advantage, then he slowed again. He must have known I had him, because he stopped and whirled around to face me, ready to go down fighting.
He went down, all right, but not fighting. When he stopped I bad been less than ten feet from him, travelling like a fiend, and he spun around just in time to connect his face with my right fist. I must h
ave started the blow from six feet away, just as he began turning, and what with my speed from running, and the force of the blow itself, my fist must have been travelling fifty miles an hour.
It was awful what it did to him. I caught only a flashing glimpse of his face as he swung around, lips peeled back and hands coming up, and then my knuckles landed squarely on his mouth and his lips really peeled back and he started going the same direction I was going and almost as fast. I ran several steps past him before I could stop, but when I turned around he was practically behind me and there was a thin streak of blood for two yards on the sidewalk. He was all crumpled up, out cold, and for a minute I thought he was out for good. But I felt for his heartbeat and found it.
So I squatted by him and waited. Before he came out of it, a little crowd gathered: half a dozen kids and some housewives, one young guy about thirty who came running from half a block away. I told him to call the cops and he phoned. Whitey was still out when the guy came back and said a car was on its way.
Finally Whitey stirred, moaned. I looked around and said to the women, “Get the kids out of here. And maybe you better not stick around yourselves."
The women frowned, shifted uneasily, but they shooed the kids away. Whitey shook his head. Finally he was able to sit up. His face wasn't pretty at all. I grabbed his coat and pulled him close to me.
I said, “Shell Scott, huh? I hear you're a tough baby. Get up, friend."
I stood up and watched him while he got his feet under him. It took him a while, and all the time he didn't say a word. I suppose the decent thing would have been to let him get all the way up, but I didn't wait. When he was halfway up I balled my left fist and slammed it under his chin. It straightened him just enough so I could set myself solidly, and get him good with my right fist. It landed where I wanted it to, on his nose, and he left us for a while longer. He fell onto the grass on his back, and perhaps he had looked a bit like me at one time, but he didn't any more.
The guy who had called the cops helped me carry Whitey back to the blue Oldsmobile. We dumped him and Harrison inside and I climbed in back with them—and with the briefcase—while he went out to the curb and waited for a prowl car. I got busy. When I finished, these three boys had very little money in their wallets and none was in the briefcase. It added up to $67,500. There was Elmlund's $24,000, I figured, plus Strossmin's $41,000, plus my $2500. I lit a cigarette and waited for the cops.
It was two P. M. before I got away. Both cops in the patrol car were men I knew well; Borden and Lane. Lane and I especially were good friends. I gave my story and my angles to Lane, and finally he went along with what I wanted.
I finished it with, “This Strossmin is still so wound up by these guys he'll probably figure it out about next week, but when he does, he should be a good witness. No reason why Elmlund can't be left out of it."
Lane shook his head and rubbed a heavy chin where bristles were already sprouting. “Well ... if this Strossmin doesn't come through in court, we'll need Elmlund."
“You'll get him. Besides, I'll be in court, remember. Enjoying myself."
He nodded. “O. K., Shell."
I handed him the briefcase with $41,000 inside it, told him I'd come to headquarters later, and took off. I'd given Lane the address where I'd left Strossmin, as well as his home address, but Strossmin hadn't waited. I drove to his house.
I could hear them going at it hammer and tongs. Mrs. Strossmin didn't even stop when I rang the bell, but finally her husband opened the door. He just stood there glowering at me. “Well?” he said.
“I just wanted to let you know, Mr. Strossmin, that the police have caught the men who tricked you."
I was going on, but he said, “Trick me? Nobody tricked me. You're trying to trick me."
“Look, mister, I just want you to know your money's safe. The cops have it. My name is Shell Scott—"
“Ha!” he said. “It is, hey? No, it's not, that's not your name, can't fool me. You're a crook, that's what you are."
His wife was in the door.
She screeched in his ear, “What did I say? Old fool, I warned you."
“Mattie,” he said. “If you don't sit down and shut up—"
I tried some more, but he just wouldn't believe me. A glowing vision could have appeared in the sky crying, “You been tricked, Strossmin!” and the guy wouldn't have believed it. There are marks like him, who beg to be taken.
So finally I said, “Well, you win."
“What?"
“You win. Nothing I can do about it now. Store's yours.” I put on a hangdog look. He cackled.
I said, “You can take over the place today, you know. Well, good-bye—and the better man won."
“Today?"
“Yep. Folsom's Markets, isn't it?"
“Yes, yes."
“Well, you go right down there. Ask for Mr. Gordon."
“Mr. Gordon?"
“Yep.” I shook his hand. He cackled, and Mrs. Strossmin screeched at him, and he told her to shut up and I left. They were still going at it as I drove away to the Elmlunds.
Mr. Elmlund didn't quite know what to do when I dropped the big packet of bills on his table and said the hoods were in the clink. He stared at the money for a long time. When finally he did speak it was just, “I don't know what to say."
Jan came out onto the porch and I told them what happened and I thought they were going to crack up for a while, and then I thought they were going to float off over the trees, but finally Mr. Elmlund said, “I must pay you, Mr. Scott. I must."
I said, “No. Besides, I got paid."
Jan was leaning against the side of the door, smiling at me. She'd changed clothes and was wearing a smooth, clinging print dress now, and the way she looked I really should have had on dark glasses. She looked happy, wonderful, and her light blue eyes were half-lidded, her gaze on my mouth.
“No,” she said. “You haven't been paid."
Her tongue traced a smooth, gleaming line over her lower lip, and I remembered her fingers on my cheek, her lips against my skin.
“You haven't been paid, Shell."
I had a hunch she was right.
Film Strip
Robbie was wearing a two-piece pink bikini in extremely brazen fashion, or at least without false modesty, and seldom had such astounding curves been so joyously uncensored.
The day was a sparkling Sunday in July, the place was a secluded half-moon beach on California's coast a few miles south of Laguna. It was my first day in a long time away from downtown Los Angeles and my office, but one day like this could make up for months of smog.
The sun was bright, the air clear, the sand under our bare feet voluptuously warm. The sea was, as always, bluer than I remembered it, and the combers boomed a few yards away, white jets of foam slashing the beach like fangs.
And the girl was Robbie.
Roberta Greta Ducharme. Twenty-four years old, but wiser than twenty-four, and in her blood and bone the best of Mexico, Sweden, and France. Tall enough, with red-burned chestnut hair, sweet lips, gray eyes like warm, solid smoke. And a body—indescribable. I live and work in Hollywood, I've seen a lot of them, but Robbie stood in the sun and left most of the rest in the shade. The measurements were there, splendidly there, but they were statistics which merely whispered; her body did the shouting.
Robbie, at the moment, was very much full of hell.
I was trying out a big Zoomar telescopic lens on my new Bell & Howell movie camera, holding on Robbie while she danced and pranced. She posed, flew around, wiggled a little. The word for it was: sensational.
“Shell,” Robbie called to me.
“Yeah?"
“Let me take a picture—I haven't any of you yet."
“Ah, what a tragic—"
“Really. You can give it to me when it's developed, so I'll have proof."
“Proof?"
“Uh-huh. If I tell my girl friends I went out with a devilish private detective with all those muscles and al
l, they wouldn't believe me. But if I have a movie to show them—” She frowned, very prettily. “They may still not believe me."
I grabbed her, picked her up and ran toward the water, but she squealed and wriggled so frantically, yelling, “My hair, my hair! You'll get my hair wet!” that I stopped before she got inundated, turned and carried her up the beach again. She rested limp in my arms, let her head fall back, thick glossy hair brushing my thigh. She sighed, then said, “Fun, Shell. Very Fun."
“True, Robbie. Very fun."
It was. I'd talked to Robbie several times before. She was a model, part-time actress, part-time cocktail waitress. I'd met her during a part-time cocktail-waitress period and we'd had fun yakking, but this was our first date, first outing together. The beach had been the right choice, for sure. We were completely alone here, sea on one side, half-circle of cliffs on the other. The only ways in or out were along narrow paths down the cliffs, one at each end of the beach.
I put Robbie on her feet again and she winked at me, tossed her hair and pranced away like a skittish colt. I got the camera focused on her, took a long shot and then pushed the little lever which moved the adjustable lens, to bring her up close in the view finder, and zoom, right up there! It was wonderful, and got even better. These were shots I would look at when I got old, to get me young again.
“Shell,” Robbie called, gyrating around, “I never told you."
“Told me what?"
“Ever since I was a teenager, I've had a suppressed desire to be a striptease dancer."
“Aha, so that's what you're doing out there?” I lowered the camera and grinned at her.
I thought something moved against the skyline a couple of hundred yards away, up at the top of the cliffs. I glanced in that direction, but nothing was in sight. A comber hit jagged rocks at the cuff's base and spurted thick feathers of spray high above them. Maybe that was what I'd seen.
Robbie laughed. “I'm just getting loosened up now. But really—I'm serious. Just once, just once, I'd love to really do it! It's crazy, I know—"
Shell Scott's Seven Slaughters (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 15
