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

by Richard S. Prather

  That rang a bell. Six months or so back, the Western-Federal Savings and Loan had been burglarized. The thieves had broken through the wall between it and the adjoining clothing store, blown the safe, and left before dawn with eighty thousand dollars. Leaving, they'd been spotted by a police car and chased, but they'd gotten away, after several shots had been fired. A police officer in the car had been hit, and died the next day.

  This guy just might make it, I thought. Through the hole, out the shoe store, and home free.

  “O.K., Scott, let's get the films. In case anything goes wrong, you get a pill in the head.” He paused. “And don't try to get close to me. I've been awake all night. I'm tired. I'm sleepy and damned hungry. What I mean, I'm on edge."

  I didn't say anything. We went out, down the short hallway into the empty theater. If I told Spade there weren't any films, he wouldn't believe me; and no matter what I said, he'd check for himself after coming this far. We started up the aisle. The music still throbbed around us; it was an incongruous note now. I felt a little as if this were a funeral march, but the record was When the Saints Come Marching In! Which isn't exactly a funeral march these days.

  I said, “Why'd you kill the guy at the beach, Spade?"

  “Personal thing, Scott. He was the only guy knew I shot that cop after the Western-Federal job. He was cracking up, first the booze, then H. Sooner or later the cops would sweat him, keep him off the dope—and my tail would be in the sling. Just one of those things that had to be done. Like this."

  We were twenty or thirty feet up the aisle when a weird sense of unreality started creeping over me. I thought I had heard a squeal. One of those high-pitched feminine squeals you sometimes hear —

  I shook it off, took another step. Couldn't be. Just something wrong with my ears. Then I heard it again. Either my ears were getting very musical, or—I knew. All of a sudden, I knew.

  Before I stopped, before I turned my head and looked, before the sight actually walloped me in the eyes, I realized what was happening. As I stopped stock still and started craning my head around, and Spade mumbled something I didn't catch, I heard it again: "Yee-yi!" it sounded like. High and full and fruity.

  “No—” I said to myself, aloud, my voice hollow. “No—It can't be—"

  It was.

  Robbie. There she was, on the stage, gliding about, wiggling, gyrating. She wore a pink brassiere and pink pants and was twirling her skirt around her head. "Eee-yi-ooh!" she went.

  Spade shook all over, yanked his head around and gawked at me, his face twitching. “What in the hell?” he said.

  My mind was racing—every which way. He might decide just to shoot me. He might decide to shoot Robbie. He might decide anything. He backed over against the seats at the edge of the aisle, moved up a couple of feet to where he could watch me and the stage at the same time.

  “What in the hell,” he said again.

  I didn't say anything. My mind refused to function. I opened my mouth, in there trying, but nothing came out.

  On the stage: “Eeee-ooo-eee!"

  The skirt had gone flying through the air, and her brassiere was sliding off. While she swayed and gyrated and snapped her head, brush of auburn hair flying wickedly.

  When the Saints—come marching in—POM—POM!

  When the Saints—POM—come marching—in — POM-POM!

  Oh, she was glorious, stupendous, unbelievable. Only I couldn't enjoy a bit of it. Not a glide. Not a POM! I broke out in a cold sweat, then hot flashes, then got gooey all over. My brain seemed to unravel, crumble, get all soupy. I couldn't think straight. What in hell did she think she was doing up there? Why here? Why now? Why?

  Spade's head snapped back and forth, from me to the stage, his jaw sagging about half an inch. He was bewildered—even more bewildered than I. And a small surge of hope fluttered in me. His snaps were getting less snappy. He was looking more at the stage, just rolling his eyeballs back toward me.

  And slowly hope turned to certainty. My confusion disappeared, my thoughts steadied, focused. In a moment of peculiar clarity it seemed that this had a kind of inevitability about it, and all I had to do now was let it happen—merely watch history unroll while I played my small part in it.

  Because history, I suddenly realized, was now repeating itself. This was essentially the same scene with which all the trouble had started. Same girl, Robbie; same dance; same guy, me; same lousy intruder, Spade. Except that it had then been on the beach and was now in a theater, all of the original elements were again present—only, like a big flea with small cats on it, the positions were reversed.

  Then it had been Spade who ruined everything for me—and maybe for Robbie. Now, with Robbie's marvelous help, I was going to ruin everything for Spade. It seemed a thing of beauty, almost poetic: Justice!

  I almost smiled as Spade's eyes wobbled toward me and then snapped back toward the stage. In a kind of starchy tone, stiff and yet gummy, he said, “Do you see what I see?"

  “What are you talking about? I don't see anything.” It was a hot flash of inspiration. Logic would tell him this couldn't be happening. If I agreed with logic, he might get completely unstrung.

  “But—that music,” he said. “What music?” He twitched. “Don't you hear the music? Don't you hear the music?” “What music?” “Something is cuckoo."

  “Spade,” I said, “you are getting all pale, Spade.” On the stage, plenty of movement. Just high-heeled shoes and pink pants now. And Robbie's hands were at the top of the pink, diddling and dawdling as she had diddled and dawdled that grand afternoon at the beach. I remembered how that sight had transfixed me, riveted my entire attention even while murder had flickered in the corner of my eye. I took a deep breath, squeezed the fingers of my right hand together.

  “She's there!” Spade cried. “Hear the music?” “Spade, you're getting awfully pale.” I guess at this point he didn't care if he turned purple.

  Spade hadn't forgotten me completely, but I was growing less important by the minute. It was inevitable. Robbie's fourth dimension had practically zoomed into the fifth, and now she was approaching the most climactic climax this stage—maybe any stage—had ever experienced.

  Down slipped the pink, then it was a pink blur in her hand, and a moment later, flying through the air. Spade's jaw sagged two more inches.

  Robbie gyrated, wound up. The music was screeching to a nerve-shattering peak of wildness. Any second, it was going to happen. It was, I knew, going to be memorable, marvelous.

  Something had happened to Robbie up there. She knew she had an audience, she was on stage, doing the thing she'd always wanted to do, and it was as though slow lightning flowed through her. She was getting rid of those repressions and suppressed desires all at once, flinging them every which way, and she had in these moments risen to peaks of magnificence even she might never reach again.

  And, as I moved toward Spade, a kind of hot sadness wallowed all over me. I'd missed three on the beach, and now I was going to miss the grandest one of all. But it was sure doing the trick. I pulled my eyes from Robbie and looked at Spade, stepped toward him.

  Spade didn't know I was there. He didn't know he was there. All he knew was that Robbie was there.

  He was bent slightly forward stretched taut like a bowstring and sort of tilted toward the stage, his eyes stretched wide and protruding just a little. His mouth flopped open completely and his gun wavered a full six inches. I planted my feet solidly, hauled back my right arm, wound my fingers into a fist like a gob of cement, and started to launch the blow.

  I must have started to launch at the same split second when Robbie started to really let go. The music had risen to its crashing crescendo, as if the musicians were all busting their lungs. My fist whistled through the air, past my ear, on toward Spade's chops. In that last grand, climactic moment, he was transfixed in a kind of rapture. Timed to perfection, the music, Robbie's masterpiece, my fist, and Spade's transfixed expression all blended into a moment of explosi
ve completeness—POW!

  Spade had completely, entirely, absolutely forgotten about me. His concentration had been totally on Robbie's masterpiece, it was his entire area of being, his all, and that sudden POW! must have been the most shocking thing that had ever, ever happened to him. He must have thought the impossible had happened and it had catapulted through space and smacked him. Maybe she was there, maybe she wasn't there, but something had sure walloped him a good one.

  He didn't go out immediately. There was a delayed reaction of perhaps two or three seconds, as if he were by sheer force of will and gargantuan desire hanging on in defiance of man and nature. He twirled around, slammed back against the edge of a seat, and there was for a moment on his face the most stunned and perplexed expression imaginable, a kind of stupefied disbelief blending with petrified contentment.

  Then his eyes suddenly looked artificial, his face went blank, and he flopped to the floor.

  As he fell, his gun went off. Either he'd convulsively squeezed the trigger, or the impact had fired the gun, but it made a great crash.

  I bent over and grabbed the revolver, straightened up as a door slammed. Feet pounded, getting closer. On the stage, Robbie looked toward the entrance of the theater and let out a squeal, hopped four inches up in the air, spun around and grabbed her clothes, ran off stage. I got a glimpse. Again.

  That's all. Just a glimpse. It seemed like that was all I ever got. Bodies falling, squinty-eyed doctors, safe-crackers interrupting everything, doors slamming. I was beginning to get pretty sour about it.

  A uniformed policeman ran up. I briefed him quickly, wound it up, “This is the character who did it,” and started backstage. Then I stopped, turned to the officer and said, “Incidentally, when he comes to, don't believe everything he tells you. Some of it may sound strange. We—I hit him pretty hard."

  He bent down by Spade. I trotted back stage. Robbie was practically dressed, just zipping up her skirt. As she slipped on her blouse I told her she was marvelous, she'd saved the day, but what in hell had ever possessed her to do it?

  “First, I just got away,” she said rapidly, a throb of excitement in her voice, “went backstage and hid there. I was scared—that was all I could think of. But then I started worrying about you—then I heard you both talking. I looked, saw you both walking up the aisle, and he was pointing a gun at you. I almost died!"

  She paused, eyes wide. “Yes,” I said, really interested now. “Go on, go on."

  “I knew I had to do something, but I thought: What can I do? What can I do? I'm only a woman, only a woman—And suddenly it came to me. I couldn't help myself. Something moved me."

  “It sure moved you in the right directions,” I said.

  “Actually, there wasn't time to think about it.” She chuckled suddenly. “I always wanted to—to, you know—anyway. And all of a sudden I was doing it.” She sighed. “It was as if my cocoon dropped away, as if something told me."

  Her face was flushed; she looked ecstatic.

  She sighed again. “I knew if I could get his attention, you'd do something clever."

  “Not so clever. All I did was sock him."

  “That was clever. Anyway, I knew you'd do something. And I thought I knew how to get his attention."

  “You sure did. You petrified it. And it was wonderful. Probably saved my life."

  “Oh, that,” she said, as if it were nothing. “But how was I? How was my dancing?"

  “Tremendous,” I said a little sadly, thinking of how much of it I'd missed. As I thought about that, the sadness started getting a bitter edge to it. Would it always be like this? Would history keep repealing itself in a vicious circle? With me always brought to the brink but never shoved over the cliff? Always a bridesmaid and never a bride?

  While I was trying to untangle that, Robbie said, “Shell, how was that last one? The only real one. And I did it for an audience. It gave me goosebumps."

  “Yeah."

  All we ever seemed to do was talk about it. It was really starting to sort of burn hell out of me. Here it was all over, and she was buttoning up her blouse.

  “Well, how did I look?” she asked me.

  I could feel the corners of my mouth turning down. “I haven't the faintest idea,” I said. “How in hell would I know? I'd be the last person to know—"

  “I mean there at the end, when I just got all zizzly and went around, and around, and then—oh, there I go, almost did it again."

  “Yeah. Almost. Yeah. It's always almost. Dammit. Yeah."

  “Shell, what's the matter?"

  “Matter? Nothing's the matter. Dammit. Everything's grand. Swell. Dammit. Hunky-dory. Yeah, dammit, I swear—"

  “Shell, what in the world is the matter?"

  I told her. She put her arms around my neck, pressed close, and said, “Is that all?” and spoke in whispers.

  “Let's go!” I said.

  “Let's go'” she said.

  We went.

  Seldom had such astounding curves been so joyously uncensored. The day was a sparkling Tuesday in July, the place was a secluded half-moon beach, the sun was bright, the air clear, the sand voluptuously warm —

  And the girl was Robbie.

  Well, friends, that was all months ago. And the spirit which moved Robbie that day continued to move her. Maybe that, too, was inevitable. There was an enormous amount of publicity, and Robbie was all fired up with hot goosebumps anyway. She went on to become the toast of Hollywood, then the toast of New Orleans, Miami, New York—everything but a command performance, which she may get yet. Maybe you saw her here on the Coast, or back East—you'd know her name, if I told you. Robbie, of course, is not her real name.

  Those next months led to several interesting escapades, some involving me —

  But that's another story.

  THE END

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1963 by Richard S. Prather

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4804-9853-2

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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