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

by Richard S. Prather

  Finally she said, “You're bleeding! Shell, you're bleeding!"

  “Don't get excited. It's nothing to—"

  “But you're shot! You're in pain!"

  “It's—only a little shooting pain."

  “I'll call an ambulance."

  “Robbie, dammit. I've got healed scars on me more dangerous than this. Really, relax.” Her face was pale and she looked weak. I said, “Robbie, we'll get it all fixed. But it isn't bad—it's just all the blood.” I grinned. “My blood, you see, is so red—"

  “Are you really all right?"

  “Yes. I'm just so red-blooded—"

  “Come in and sit down."

  She wouldn't let me get the conversation headed in the right direction at all. I mopped some of the blood off, clamped a towel under my arm and went into the front room with her. She insisted we call a doctor—which I had fully intended to do anyway—so after phoning the police I called the room two doors from my own, where Dr. Paul Anson lives. Paul is a good M.D., with a very sharp eye for the ladies, and is also a very good friend of mine. He said he'd be over in a couple of minutes. When he knocked I yelled for him to come in and he stepped inside, pushed the door shut with his medical bag. Then he walked toward the chocolate-brown divan on which Robbie and I were sitting, and he did not see me at all. His eyes landed on Robbie and opened wide, then went back to normal, except that they had a sly little squint to them, a squint I had seen before.

  Very tall, ruggedly good-looking, fired with purpose, he strode straight across the room to Robbie and said, in his best bedside manner, “Well, what seems to be wrong with us, my dear?"

  "I," I said, “am what's wrong with us."

  He looked at me and grinned. “Ah, well. What is it this time? Shot again, hit on the head, busted eardrum—"

  “Your tender solicitude gags me, Doctor. Dedicated Paul Anson, swooning on the altar of humanity. ‘I swear on the holy scalpel of Hopocraxopy—‘"

  “Hippocrates?"

  “You know what the hell I mean. I'm shot. I'm bleeding to death. I feel faint, I'm getting dippy!"

  “You sure are. Let's take a look.” He examined the sliced area of my chest and side, going “Hmm,” and “Ahh,” and then said, “I think a large bandage will do it. But I'll give you an expensive shot."

  He expertly cleaned and bandaged what he referred to as my mortal wound, stuck a needle into me, keeping up a running fire of sophisticated chatter and worldly commentary—looking at Robbie all the time; he didn't say another word to me—then had a drink with us. Just before he left—I had to tell him to get the hell out, of course—he tugged his eyes from Robbie, leaned close to my ear and said, “You rotter, you despoiler—wait till you get my bill."

  “I know. Two appendectomies, a tonsillitis—"

  “Tonsillectomy, you ignorant—"

  “—removal of spleen and gizzard, go."

  He went. With one last leer at Robbie.

  As the door closed behind him she said, “He's nice, isn't he?"

  “Is he? I hadn't noticed—"

  “But he's so witty, and knows so much about the world and all—"

  “Nuts, he makes half of it up. Sheer fabrication. It just sounds good in that oily voice of his. Hah, witty, knows so much—"

  “Why, Shell, you actually sound jealous."

  “Jealous? Me? Why, I never heard such a—"

  “She laughed. “Are you all right?"

  “Yeah, now that he's gone, I'm all right. What do you mean, witty? He didn't say anything even intelligent—"

  “Shell, lean over here and rest a little."

  She indicated, with a gentle pat of her hand, where I was to lean. I stopped arguing. I leaned. Resting dandily, I said, “Robbie, I have a splendid idea. You must stay here while I recuperate. It may take days, of course, but—"

  “The doctor's right down the hall. What could I do?"

  “Well, you could—what good is a doctor? You can be my nurse, dear. And nurse me back to health."

  “What exactly do you mean by that?"

  “Why, you could undress my wounds—dress them, I mean, and cool my fevered brow, fever my—"

  “You be quiet. Now I'm sure you're all right. And I have to go."

  “Go?” I said. “GO?"

  “Yes. I can't stay here."

  “Who says?"

  “I says. Really. Oh, Shell, sit down. Don't stand out there waving your arms. You'll spring open and bleed to death."

  “It wouldn't happen. Even if it did, I have blood to spare, red blood, wild blood, it sings in my veins and yodels in my arteries, savage blood—listen to the drums! Don't you hear it? Can't you feel it? I—"

  “Shell, stop waving your arms around. And sit down here and rest.” She patted again. “Or don't you want to rest?"

  “It isn't exactly what I had in mind. Listen, you don't know all there is to know about my blood yet—"

  “I know more than I realized was possible. And if you want the truth, I believe you. But I really do have to go."

  "Go?" I said. "GO?"

  “Yes. In about—five minutes. But I'll go right now if you don't sit down and behave yourself."

  “Well, O.K. I'll sit down."

  She meant what she'd said. After five minutes of resting, she got up and said, “Will I see you tomorrow?"

  “Yep. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—"

  “I'll call a cab."

  “The devil you say. I'll drive you home."

  “No, I wouldn't think of it."

  “I will drive you home."

  I won that argument, too. The first one since she'd fainted.

  Later, alone and relaxing in bed before going to sleep, I thought about what had happened today. The police didn't yet know who the dead man was, much less the identity of his killer; the killer, therefore, might be roaming around free for days or even weeks. He, on the other hand, obviously knew who I was, realized I'd made a movie of him which could be his ticket to the gas chamber, and probably believed I knew what he looked like. Clearly he did not know his last shot at me had ruined the films.

  So he would be roaming around with a purpose: to get those films—and kill me.

  Maybe I ought to take a full-page ad in the local papers, I thought, addressed to the killer: “You shot a hole in my camera before you shot a hole in me. The films are kaput. Stop worrying!” And sign it Shell Scott. But he probably wouldn't believe me. The fool would probably just go on trying to murder me.

  Then another link formed in my chain of thought. Maybe I should take that ad after all, and phrase it differently. Something like: “Sensational Films of Murderer! Shell Scott shoots killer, killer shoots Shell Scott! Stupendous film sequence, blazing guns, murderer fleeing! Have You Seen This Man? See colossal preview this afternoon at the—at the Chasen Theater—"

  I grinned in the darkness. It might work. Still thinking about it, I fell asleep.

  It was ten A. M. Tuesday morning, I was driving down Hollywood Boulevard toward the Chasen Theater, off Hollywood on Van Ness Avenue. The thing was set. I knew Jim Chasen, owner of the theater, which was why I'd chosen his movie house. With his cooperation, I had run my advertisements in several newspapers yesterday and today. As long as the killer believed his chops were really going to be on the big screen, he would almost certainly try to grab the films. Since we had no way of recognizing the man among the other customers, and therefore couldn't keep him from getting inside with the crowd, we'd have to wait until he made his move. Jim figured, and so did I, that the action would take place in the projection room, where the killer would naturally expect the films to be.

  The Chasen wouldn't open for business until one-thirty p.m., the bill to start at two, but I wanted to be staked out inside well before then. The Fleeing Murderer—Guns Blazing! added attraction was scheduled for 3:45 P. M., at the break between two halves of a double feature. We figured our man would make his move sometime during the first half of the twin bill. It all seemed logical.
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br />   Robbie, however, had not been logical. I hadn't told her of my plan, but she'd seen the ad and called me, raising hell. If I was going to the theater, she wanted to go along; I'd do something crazy and get killed if she didn't keep an eye on me; a lot of other people would be there, one more wouldn't hurt. I told her no. We argued. I told her no. Firmly. And that settled that.

  I parked a block from the Chasen, walked to the alley entrance behind it. Jim Chasen let me in.

  “All quiet?” I said.

  “Yeah. Glad you're here, though. I'll be in the projection booth, you know."

  “So will I. He'll have to shoot me before he can shoot you, Jim.” I grinned. “He may not even show up. If he does, there probably won't be any trouble."

  He laughed sourly. “You make it sound like fun. Want some coffee?"

  “Sounds good."

  We walked through the empty theater. Soft music was playing; as we went into the projection booth up front I commented on it and Jim said, “I always pipe the records in while I'm setting up. Sort of creepy otherwise. Good for the customers, too, when they come in. Gets them in a pleasant mood while they're waiting for the show.” He poured hot black coffee. I raised the steaming brew toward my mouth, then froze, cup halfway to my lips. “Jim,” I said. “I'm an idiot."

  “Huh? What's the matter?"

  “We've been figuring the guy would walk in unobserved with the other customers. We'd have to let him come in, because we don't know what he looks like. But he doesn't know that. He undoubtedly thinks we've got him made, even having a moving picture of him—that's the whole idea of this setup. We've been looking at this from our point of view, instead of his."

  “Sure, I—Oh."

  “Yeah. If he thinks we know his face, he's not likely to show it on the way in.” I swore. “More likely, he'd try to sneak in here before the rest of the customers. Maybe—about now."

  Jim tried not to show that he was worried. He just spilled his coffee. “You don't think—"

  “Did you look the place over yet? Johns, closets, backstage?"

  “No.” He swallowed. “I thought—you said—"

  “Yeah. I know what I said.” I stood up. “Maybe it'll work out that way, too. But I'll take a look around, anyway.” I paused. “Just in case—maybe you'd better wait out front until I give you the all clear. If he should be here—"

  “You're right!” He didn't let me finish. “If something happens, ah, I can call a cop. That seems like a good idea anyway. Call several cops."

  “Yeah. They won't be overjoyed by my little plan, but that seems the least of our worries at the moment."

  He said there were two rest rooms off the lobby, another small one, for employees, down at the left-front corner of the theater, and told me where closets and a storeroom were. We left the projection booth and went into the empty lobby. As I took my Colt from its new clamshell holster, Jim scooted with unseemly haste out through the lobby doors. I checked both rest rooms. They were empty. I walked back past the projection booth, down the carpeted aisle. When I was a few feet from the rear entrance through which Jim had admitted me earlier, I heard the door rattle softly. The knob moved slightly; it couldn't be turned from the outside, but could be opened from inside.

  I stepped quickly to the door, held my gun ready, turned the knob and yanked. As the door flew open I stepped forward, brought up my gun and jabbed it into a soft, white breast. I knew it was soft; I knew it was white; it was Robbie's.

  For a moment my nerves sputtered, and I sputtered, and then I grabbed Robbie's arm and yanked her inside, pushed the door shut. “You little fool,” I said. “What in hell do you think—"

  “Don't be angry—"

  “Don't be angry? Don't be—"

  “I just wanted to be here. I was in at the start, and I want to be in at the finish."

  “It'll be your finish, if you don't—"

  “Anyway, I told you I was coming."

  “And I told you you weren't."

  “Poof."

  I groaned, turned around and slapped a hand on my head. Then I got a grip on myself. “Robbie, please listen. The guy may be here right now. Or he may show up any second."

  “But you said—"

  “I know what the hell I said.” I paused, thinking. “Did anybody see you come down the alley? Or come inside?"

  “No. Nobody was out there. Only a fellow sweeping."

  “Sweeping? Sweeping the alley?"

  “No, silly. Just in back of his shop. I suppose it was his shop. They sell things made out of driftwood—"

  “Maybe it was his shop. I'll brace that guy and make sure before you go back out there. You'd better wait in the projection booth—No. That's the place he'll head for. Just stand still a minute."

  I eased the door open, looked up and down the alley. Nothing. Nobody was in sight. Probably Robbie was right, just a guy sweeping out his shop. But I couldn't be sure—and if he'd seen her come in —

  I turned to Robbie. “Of all the damnfool—"

  “Don't swear at me."

  “Well, if this isn't a damnfool—"

  “I thought you'd be glad."

  “You what?"

  “I thought you'd be glad. That I wanted to be with you, in the heat of battle, in the thick of—"

  “Never mind. Boy, here we stand yakking like a couple of psychos while that guy may be drawing a bead on my fat head, squeezing—look, you stand right here while I look around—no, I can't leave you alone. Come with me. No—"

  “Make up your mind."

  “I will make up my mind to sock you if you don't shut up. Come along while I check this joint. But stay behind me. I'm thick enough to stop at least a couple of bullets. And I probably will now. Oh, brother, one of these days—"

  “I thought you'd be—glad."

  I quit. “Come on,” I said.

  We gave the backstage area a good going over. It was a little spooky back there, with the ropes and electrical cables, speakers and back side of the big screen, and the gloomy corners. But the area was empty of people. I figured I'd checked everything except the employees’ john that Jim had mentioned. It was reached through a short hallway behind curtains at stage left, under a softly glowing “Exit” sign. I went down the little hallway, Robbie silent behind me, and reached the door of the small rest room.

  I was thinking that after I had checked this spot, and looked around in the alley for the egg who'd been sweeping, I could send Robbie on her way. I was thinking that the guy I was after might be clear across the Mexican border by now. I was thinking once in a while of Robbie, and the fact that although she'd complicated things a bit, it was pleasant in a way that she'd wanted to be with me, and even thinking—briefly—of other facets of Robbie. I was thinking of entirely too many things.

  I pushed open the door and didn't see anybody, and stuck my head inside for a better look, and from behind the door on my left he jammed the gun so hard against my temples that it knocked my head six inches sideways.

  The .38 was in my right hand. I started to slap it forward. Six inches from my ear the click-click of the hammer going back on a revolver. And two words: “Go ahead."

  I heard the soft intake of breath outside, a few feet away. Robbie. For a moment she was all I could think of. I wondered if the guy had heard her soft, sudden breath. I hadn't even seen the man yet.

  There were faint whispering movements behind me. Robbie. Moving, no telling where. I started talking, not worrying about what I said, just stringing words together to cover the sounds Robbie was making.

  “You're stuck, friend. You can't get out of here—the place is lousy with law. You don't think I'd come here alone, do you?” My head was throbbing; he'd really banged me with the gun.

  He spoke again, his voice flat. “I figured it for a setup. But I also figured you'd expect me today, pal. That's why I came in last night. I'll get out, Scott."

  “You know my name, huh?"

  “Sure. And you know me. Drop the heater."

>   I dropped it, slowly turned my head. As I did, he stepped back, kept the gun in his hand out of my reach. But it looked me in the eye.

  I did know the guy. Only by reputation, mugg shots. And I'd seen him a time or two in bars where heavy men hang out. His name was Billings, or something like that, but he was called Spade because another gambler had caught him with an extra ace—the ace of spades—in a poker game and shot him. Unfortunately it hadn't killed him. He was a professional thief, a safe-cracker.

  He was about my height, thin, with a dark angular face and a nose sharp enough to slice cheese. His eyes were red-rimmed, lids drooping. I said, “You were right. It is a setup. And you walked into it."

  “I'll walk out, too. Pal, we're going to get them films—only I'm not going to try getting away with them. I'll ruin them right here, see? When they're gone, there's nothing left but your word—and I can beat that if it ever comes to court. That's if I'm stopped. But I figure to make it out, pal."

  “Not if I can help it."

  He grinned unpleasantly. “You won't be able to help it. And if there's no films, and no Scott, nobody's going to tag me with any murder rap. Not in a hundred years."

  He didn't know how right he was. Even I hadn't known until now that it was Spade we wanted. He'd actually be in the clear—if he got out. I said, “There's just one thing wrong, Spade. You got in all right. But the only way you'll get out now is on a stretcher."

  “You're just as dumb as all the cops I ever met. I told you I figured this for a trap. So I don't plan to be seen going out.” He stepped back against the wall. “Take a look, pal."

  I moved forward a little as he gestured with his gun. “Maybe I'm not so dumb, Scott."

  Maybe he wasn't. I started to get it when I saw the hole. In the wall of the rest room was a jagged hole about two feet in diameter. The wall of this rest room was also the outer wall of the Chasen Theater. But I didn't know what was on the other side of the wall.

  Spade told me, bragging a little. “Next door's a shoe store, Scott. I had a friend get me the architect's plans of this dump, plus the joints on both sides. The shoe store was perfect.” He gestured at the hole. “Through there's a storeroom, back end of the shoe store. The old duck that runs it's in there now, tied up and gagged.” He grinned. “Took me most of the night to get through. Just about like the Western-Federal job."