That’s me. I stood up and smiled at her. Come on in.
I walked around the desk, moved one of the deep leather chairs for her and she sat in it. I returned behind my desk as she said, I’m Miss Spring, Mr. Scott. Evelyn Spring. I — never hired a detective before —
She relaxed a little as we went through the usual preliminaries, then got to her trouble. It was her brother. So often it is a brother. This one had disappeared.
Both Evelyn and her brother, Danny Spring, lived alone, each in a small apartment, but he telephoned or dropped in to see her two or three times a week. She’d last seen him on Saturday, May thirteenth, and he’d promised to visit her the next day. But he hadn’t shown up, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him since.
I said, You’re sure of the date?
Yes. Sunday was my birthday. Danny said he was going to bring me a present. So I know he would have come by. She paused. If he could. A week ago I went to the police, made a missing person report. But they haven’t found out anything.
That didn’t sound so good. The L.A. police are an efficient bunch, and if they hadn’t run down anything on Danny Spring there probably wasn’t much to run down. I dialed the police building and got homicide. I’ve worked with the L.A. police for years and we have a very friendly relationship. In fact, Phil Samson, Homicide Captain, is the best friend I’ve got in town.
In a few seconds I was talking to Emerson in the missing persons section of Homicide. After determining that Spring wasn’t in police custody or a local hospital, they’d checked his apartment, found it empty and undisturbed, as if he’d left it expecting to return. No trace of him anywhere, including the morgue.
I hung up, turned to Evelyn and said, Nothing there.
She sat quietly, looking at me from the lovely eyes. They were a soft green, and around the iris, clear white. They made me think of green sea and white surf, of quietness, coolness, steadiness. The ash-blonde hair was cut fairly short and loosely waved, her skin was tanned and looked healthy. The gray suit swelled smoothly over her breasts, dipped in abruptly to hug her waist.
She sighed. The police would do all they could, she knew, but she hoped I could work on it, too. She’d brought two hundred and fifty dollars with her, and I accepted a hundred of it as a retainer. Then from her handbag she took a glossy four-by-five photo.
That’s Danny, she said. Three or four months ago. He’s twenty-nine.
He looked older. Dark eyes, curly black hair that was probably taut and springy, a go-to-hell grin. Good looking, but a little hard, an odd heaviness to his face as if the features were thickening. Evelyn told me she’d been worried about her brother for months, she didn’t like the company he kept. And he’d changed in the last year.
This company he kept, I said. Can you tell me their names? And does he have any special girl friend?
I don’t know who his friends are, really. Just people I’ve seen him with. Most of them were dirty-looking men, like beatniks or bums, but I never heard their names, except Frank. I guess Frank is Danny’s closest friend.
Frank who?
She shook her head. Just Frank, that’s all Danny ever called him. She described the man, told me a little more about her brother. Then she started to say something, stopped, finally blurted it out.
I think Danny’s using dope.
You mean narcotics? The hard stuff — Heroin? Or morphine?
One of those — that kind of dope.
Did you mention this to the police?
No. I thought they’d have found out something by now. Without my saying anything about it. But I’m really getting worried.
What makes you think he’s a user?
I didn’t for quite a while. But he acted — well, he’d get so irritable. Then a little later he’d be all right — when I’d see him at his place. Sometimes he yawned and sneezed a lot, and his eyes looked funny. It just didn’t dawn on me for a long time. Then I went to the library and read about the symptoms. Withdrawal symptoms, it’s called.
A simple name for hell. Withdrawal symptoms. They can start any time after the addict’s last shot, depending upon how badly he’s hooked, how much of the junk he needs. Easy at first. The yawning and sneezing she’d mentioned, nervousness; sleepiness. Then the eyes play tricks, get glassy, watery. Not much pain at the start. It takes a couple of days, sometimes a little longer, to get all the way to hell: the violent and wrenching shaking, flashes around and through the eyes, vomiting, diarrhea, leg cramps and then cramps all over, the whole body pulled and tugged and torn, chills and fever and sweat — and pain, pain, pain. Screaming, aching. Panic. That’s when the addict will do anything for a pop. Stealing, mugging, prostitution, murder — anything.
Sometimes, if they don’t get that pop, they collapse, just fall over. With a few, that’s the end of it — sometimes they die. Just like that.
I said, This makes it a little different, honey.
She blinked rapidly at me, eyes widening. At first I didn’t understand, then decided it was probably my casual choice of words. Don’t mind the honey, I said smiling. Put it down to the corrupting influence of Hollywood.
It just surprised me. Everything was so serious, and then — it surprised me.
Well, I call practically everybody that. Except men, of course. Not even Hollywood is that corrupting. But I shall call you Miss Spring henceforth —
Oh no, don’t. Suddenly she clasped her hands, put her arms straight down with her hands caught between her knees, and laughed merrily. At that moment she was so appealing and childlike, I wanted to pick her up and put her on my lap. Two seconds later she was more sober, a mature adult, smiling and taking a deep breath, and I still felt like picking her up and putting her on my lap.
I shook my head and said, Well, Miss Spring, honey — ah. Miss Spring, this does make a difference. You’d better tell me everything you can about Danny. And the change you’ve noticed in him.
It had started about a year ago, she guessed. For six or seven months Danny had borrowed money from her, never explaining why. Almost a thousand dollars before it ended. Then four months ago he’d stopped borrowing, seemed to have money of his own. No, he didn’t work anywhere; at least, she didn’t know about any job he held.
She paused, frowning. There’s one other little thing I want to mention, Mr. Scott.
Shell?
She smiled. AH right. But this — I don’t know if it’s important or not, but it was certainly strange. And it happened Saturday — the last time I saw Danny. He was at my apartment. The phone rang and I answered it. A man asked if Dan was there and I gave Danny the phone. He listened a while, then said, Sure, Jim. I’ll hunt up Frank and — Then the other fellow yelled something at him. I could hear the squawking through the receiver. Danny seemed scared, apologized and hung up. I asked him what was wrong and he said nothing, everything was fine. So, just conversation, I asked him who Jim was. He got white and angry, said he didn’t know anybody named Jim.
But he’d just called the guy that on the phone, huh?
Yes. I told Danny I’d heard him say the man’s name. He got really mad at me then. Either mad or scared. First he said he didn’t know anybody called Jim — then he made me promise I’d never tell anybody he’d mentioned that name at all. And he left right after that. You don’t know this Jim’s last name? No. I never heard of him before. Or since. We talked a couple of minutes more and she gave me her address and phone number. Then I walked her to the door.
I’ll get started and call you tonight or in the morning, Miss Spring. I grinned down at her and said, Miss Spring, honey.
She laughed merrily again. Call me Evelyn, honey.
She paused, looking up at me, then said seriously, Thank you, Shell. I feel so much better now. She was quiet for a moment. I really do feel a lot better. You seem so — strong, so capable. I’ll bet if anybody can find out what’s happened
to Danny, you can.
Yeah, this little one had it, all right — something that could make a man take on fire-breathing dragons armed with only a portable fire extinguisher. I beamed down at her and said, If he’s anywhere to be found, I’ll find him!
It had the ring of Patrick Henry ending a speech, of Lincoln freeing the slaves. I guess I overdid it a bit. I mean, I was sincere as can be, but I’m not really that good.
Evelyn, though, beamed back at me, sighed, turned and walked down the hall.
Leaning against the door jamb, I watched her go, then took the .38 Colt Special from its shoulder clip and eased out the gun’s cylinder, smiling. I looked at the five loads in the chambers, their round brass bases like little bull’s-eyes — my fire extinguishers. I put the gun under my coat again and locked the office.
When Evelyn Spring left she seemed to feel better about Danny.
But I didn’t.
Chapter Three
In Los Angeles there is Wilshire Boulevard, the justly named Miracle Mile, lined with smart shops, towering office buildings, acres of department stores, the Ambassador Hotel, Cocoanut Grove, Brown Derby, Perino’s. That’s one end of the scale.
At the other end is Main Street, especially the decaying blocks between First and Third. Evelyn had told me her brother spent a lot of time there, drinking beer, talking to B-girls and men he knew or met in the smelly dives. A place called the Gayety, she’d said, was one of Danny’s hangouts.
The Gayety is a dark, damp, sour-smelling joint, almost empty at one o’clock in the afternoon. I had a beer. The bartender knew Danny well. Frank too. He knew them only as Dan and Frank. They usually came in together.
I asked him, When was the last time you saw Dan?
Saturday. Him and Frank come in.
Last Saturday?
No, Saturday before, it was. Didn’t see neither of them last weekend. Kind of odd. Theys usually in for a belt or two Saturdays.
An hour and a half and four beers later I’d talked to a dozen people along Main who knew Dan Spring. Most of them said he usually was with Frank. None of them knew Frank’s last name. Nobody I talked to had any idea who Jim might be.
One frowzy brunette with a puffy face waited until I’d bought a shot of bourbon for her, then told me, I heard Frank’s last name once, I think. Ivor — Iver — Ives. Something like that. She burped and smacked her lips. How about another shot of that juice, sweetie? Maybe I’ll remember.
I didn’t think she’d remember. I didn’t buy her any more juice.
She said, Go to hell, sweetie.
At nearly three-thirty p.m. I was having my last beer in a dump called the Starlight Roof. Why it was called the Starlight Roof will remain one of life’s little mysteries, since it was on street level, right off Main, and bore a marked resemblance to a bombed outhouse. I’d gotten the same story here and was ready to leave behind me the Starlight Roof, the Paradise, the Versailles Gardens, and even the Splendide, when the guy thumped his weight heavily on the stool next to mine.
Lemme buy you a beer, cousin, he said.
I barely glanced at him. No, thanks.
I started to slide off the stool. He reached out and clamped the fingers of his left hand around my forearm — and clamped is the word. It was like getting an arm caught under a truck.
He was half-turned toward me on his stool and appeared relaxed despite the muscle he was putting into ruining my arm. He was a wide man, and I’d seen him twice before in the last hour. Both times he’d come into bars, after me, taking a seat a few stools away — but close enough so he could hear what I said. He was a thick, overmuscled ape with thinning hair and a face like pale shoe leather pulled tight over steel or concrete. He must have weighed close to two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it muscle.
I managed to keep my voice calm and quiet. Unwind the hand.
He didn’t unwind it.
I was in an awkward position, half off the stool and pulled a little forward by his grip. My beer bottle was still on the bar in front of me, so I picked it up with my free hand. I was going to hit him on the mouth with it.
But then he let go. I could feel the sharp puff of pain in my arm, followed by a dull ache I would have for a while. I put the bottle down, slid off the stool and faced him.
He said, Sorry, cousin. Didn’t know you were touchy.
Now you know.
Don’t get so hot. Lemme buy you a beer.
I told you no. I’m going to tell you something else, friend.
Pot. The name’s Pot.
Keep your hooks off me.
Ah, nuts. I wanted a little talk, that’s all.
I still wanted to hit him. I probably would have broken my hand, but that’s not why I didn’t do it. I was curious to know why this character had been following me.
He squinted at me, raked crooked teeth over his lower lip. I just happened to hear you asking around about a couple of dudes I know. Dan and Frank.
You just happened to.
Yeah. We heist a few beers once in a while. They in trouble?
I didn’t say anything.
He said, You’re Scott, aint you? The private dick?
I nodded.
What’s a dick interested in them for?
Come on, get to the point.
The face got hard — or, rather, harder. That’s the way you want it, O.K. The point is, lose interest in them two. Just forget all about them. He looked at the bartender standing a few feet away polishing a glass. Beat it.
The bartender’s brows pulled down. The hell. I got to watch the bar.
Pot got up, walked past me, stepped to the bar and reached across it. He grabbed the bartender’s belt and the top of his pants in his left hand and yanked the man against the bar. Then, as if he were lifting an empty carton, he raised the bartender two feet in the air, held him tight against the bar, and said pleasantly, Beat it.
The bartender was fat, but he looked as if he were losing a pound a minute. Pot let him go. The bartender’s legs went out from under him when he hit the floor. His chin clipped the bar’s edge as he went down. He got up immediately, walked away without a word, out of sight somewhere in back.
Pot thumped onto his stool again and said, Where were we, cousin?
You were scaring me.
He chuckled. Yeah, like I was saying, forget about them dudes. You play ball, there could be a nice piece of change in it for you, Scott. Otherwise, well, I hate to even mention —
You’re wasting your time.
Could make it rough on you, cousin. This is just friendly advice so far. I don’t want to see you get hurt, see?
Why the excitement? I ask a couple of questions about Danny and Frank, and somebody sends a big bazoo to sound off at me. Or was this your brilliant idea?
Pot tried to keep a smile on. You were asking about somebody else, too, weren’t you? Mac, was it? He frowned suddenly. No, Jim. That was it
He was too casual. Yeah. Jim. I frowned. What’s his name? Maybe I was also too casual.
Pot grinned. Don’t know, huh? No matter. Just skip the whole bit, Scott. You could live to be ninety.
He got off his stool. He was four or five inches under my six-two, but he looked like a squashed seven-footer. Pot turned without another word and walked out to Main Street. I walked to the door in time to see him climb into a black Buick sedan, a new Electra, parked a few yards down the street. Somebody else was driving and pulled quickly into the traffic. I didn’t get a look at the driver, but I got the car’s license number.
I walked back to my stool and swallowed the last of my beer. Then I unbuttoned my shirt cuff, pulled up the coat and shirt sleeve, and looked at my arm.
The marks from Pot’s fingers were still there. I was going to have five bruises — which made five I owed Pot.
Homicide is on the third floor of L.A
.’s police building. When I walked in, Lieutenant Rawlins was perched on the corner of a desk talking to another plainclothes officer, and the door to Samson’s office was open. I said, Hi, to Rawlins and went in to see Samson.
Captain Phil Samson is a career cop, for several years head of LA.’s Homicide Division. He’s a big, strong guy, gray-haired and gruff. And tough. Very tough. The hard-boiled cop shows in the set of his big jaw, the steady brown eyes, the crack of authority in his voice. But he’s not quite as tough as all that on the inside.
He had his usual black cigar going, so there was a ghastly stink in the room.
I said, Ah, the perfumed air of all outdoors. How gay —
Stow the bull, Shell, he grunted, scowling at me. What trouble are you in now?
Trouble? Why, Phil, you must be dizzy from this perfumed —
Come on, come on. What work, that you should be doing, do you want the Los Angeles Police Department to handle for you this time?
Well, there are a couple of little things. You got a missing person report, Wednesday, the seventeenth, on one Daniel Spring. His sister — a lovely girl, by the way — has hired me to find him. So I intend to pluck the city clean, scour the sewers —
Shell, Samson said wearily, trying to look disgusted, I really do have a couple of my own things to do. Nothing as important as all this. But, please, tell me what in hell you want.
I grinned. I was asking around about Danny Spring, down in the Main Street caves, when a large, unpleasant individual braced me with the old lay-off-or-else routine. Weight, about an eighth of a ton, five-nine, lumpy, and overconfident. Name of Pot, he says.
Got him. He with a thin, mean-looking gay named Jake?
He was only with me; and, Sam, it was one too many at that. Drove off with somebody else in a black Buick, though. Who’s Jake?
Side-kick. If you see Pot again, you can bet Jake will be with him. He paused and added pleasantly, If you see him. They’re both pretty hard boys. What’ve they got to do with your missing person?
Pot didn’t say. He’s got a record?
Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 2
