Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I slid back until I was leaning against a tree trunk and sat still in darkness for several minutes, then found my lighter, flipped it on and looked at my watch. It was a little after two in the morning.

  My Cadillac was a few feet away from me. I was still on the grass parking where they’d dumped me. I’d been unconscious for — I counted back — about three hours. The involuntary nap, though restful, hadn’t helped much. My brain felt bruised. Probably it was bruised. But after a few minutes of deep breathing and walking off some of the ache from my lungs, I was in reasonably good shape again, ready to take on people — two people, anyway.

  I still had my wallet, gun, car keys, everything that had been on me when Jake and Pot jumped me. Nothing was missing — except, of course, those two or three hours. They’d swiped those, all right. I didn’t know why they hadn’t taken anything from me but consciousness — why they hadn’t killed me, for that matter. But I had an inkling.

  One thing I felt pretty sure of: those slobs weren’t dreaming up all this activity themselves; they were taking orders from somebody. Jake and Pot could have killed me — but they hadn’t. Jake had said he’d finish the job if it was up to him. Had my way I’d bust his skull in. Something like that. So it wasn’t up to him.

  It was up to somebody else — who didn’t want me asking around about Dan Spring and Frank Eiverson, and maybe about Jim. Somebody who, perhaps, didn’t want me killed. At least, not right now. Not just yet. And that was a pretty big perhaps to begin with.

  I walked to my car and opened the luggage compartment. The Cad is a brand-new convertible coupé, with white leather upholstery, standard except for the equipment I keep in the luggage compartment — electronic and infrared equipment, walkie-talkie, and so on. This time all I wanted was a pencil-sized flashlight with a hooded lens. I dropped it into my pocket, smoked a cigarette in the car, then took off.

  A cemetery at three o’clock in the morning is not a cheery place under any circumstances. But at this particular three o’clock it would have caused Dracula to bite his own veins. A soft wind was blowing, warm and muggy like the last exhalation of an old man dying. Near me the wind stirred a tree’s branches and they clacked together, rattling softly.

  Except for the thin white beam from my flashlight, there was no illumination. The narrow beam fell on granite headstones: rest in peace . . . , here lies . . . , here lies. . . .

  I shivered. Depression grew in me. Probably much of the reason for it was the beating I’d just had, the ache which seemed to have spread from my skull down through my bones. But part of it was caused by the place, the miasma of death, the flat granite headstones with still-preserved bodies beneath them.

  The grave of Mr. Graves, I thought, and shivered again. I’d come to the Rand Brothers Cemetery to look for a real grave, a real headstone with the name Graves carved upon it. But now that I was here it seemed a senseless thing to be doing. I thought again of what Ruthie had told me, the words Frank had spilled in his drunkenness. A new grave, he’d said. Not old grave, new grave, Ruthie. I kept on looking.

  I examined tombstones, monuments, small headstones sunk flat into the grass. There were several new graves where I was now, recent burials. The first one I looked at was only a few days old, the simple indented inscription reading: benjamin pearson, january 11, 1871 — may 19, 1961. Died May 19, and this was the 24th — early the 25th now. He had probably been buried only a couple of days ago. Benjamin Pearson, ninety years old.

  There were others here who’d died this pleasant May: alice mons, july 12, 1890 — may 16, 1961; joseph judson, september 14, 1919 — may 13, 1961; george h. weissman, december 25, 1939 — may 8, 1961. Born on Christmas, dead at twenty-one. And emily thurmen, march 22, 1928 — may 2, 1961; robert william north, october 5, 1960 — may 1, 1961. Robbie, he would have been, or Bobby. Not quite seven months old.

  There were others for April, and earlier months of the year. And other years. Graves new and old. But no Graves. I looked at some of them. But not all. I’d been with the dead too long.

  I turned out the flashlight, walked in darkness to my car, and drove toward home.

  In the morning I awoke slowly — and painfully.

  I had been dreaming that I lay beneath the ground, and over my head was a massive stone on which was my own name and the phrase: here lies. . . . But that wasn’t what had bothered me in my dream; it had been the pressure of that stone on my head, its weight sinking downward and slowly crushing my skull.

  When I was fully awake, I realized the pressure on my head was from my own hands squeezing. That, and the pain from inside my skull. I recalled it all then. Jake and Pot, those grisly hours in the graveyard. I sat up and smacked my lips, and my head banged for a while. Wisps of that dream floated into my mind and I remembered there’d been a date on my headstone. For a few seconds I tried to remember what in hell it had been, then I rolled out of bed, creaking almost audibly.

  A hot shower steamed some of the ache from me, but none of the burn. It was nearly ten, and I felt refreshed, mentally alert. Over my breakfast mush and black coffee I thought back over the events of yesterday.

  One small item stuck in my mind. When Pot had braced me in the dive on Main Street, he’d mentioned my asking questions about Dan and Frank, adding, and Mac. After a moment he’d changed it to Jim. I’d thought he was just being casual, pretending the name was hazy in his mind, but maybe there was another reason. Floating up from my subconscious came a memory.

  I once had been looking for a man named Harold Lanson, a small-time hoodlum known as Hal the Dandy, but whom I called simply Dandy. One morning, in the L.A. police building, a friend said to me, Hal’s looking for you, Shell; he’s up in the Homicide squadroom. I’d blinked at him and replied, What in hell is Dandy doing so near the clink? My friend was puzzled, since he had been referring to Hal Rider, a police lieutenant.

  The word had gone into my ear as Hal, but had been translated automatically into Dandy. Maybe something similar had happened to Pot. That little subconscious nudge had started yesterday when I’d examined the missing person report on James Randall McCune. Maybe when Pot heard me mention Jim, it had meant Mac to him. James — Jim? McCune — Mac? Maybe. And maybe I was reaching into the next county.

  The missing person report had stated that McCune owned some kind of automobile agency. I looked in the L.A. phone book’s yellow pages, and under Automobile dealers, new cars found McCune Motor Company. I dialed the number. A man answered.

  Scott here, I said. I was checking the missing person report on McCune yesterday. Got a couple questions. O.K.?

  Oh, yes. Of course. Officer.

  I grinned. You heard anything from McCune?

  No, sir. Not since the last day he was here.

  And that was when?

  Saturday, it was, the thirteenth, just before soon when he went home. We close at noon Saturdays.

  And you expected him on Monday, right?

  Sure. He just didn’t show.

  Uh-huh. By the way, what do you call him? People who know him well, I mean. Jim?

  Some do. Most of us call him Mac.

  I thanked him and hung up, found McCune’s home phone number in the book, Zenith 4-4394. I dialed it

  The phone rang a few times, then a woman answered, Hello?

  Mrs. McCune?

  Yes. Who is this?

  My name’s Shell Scott, but you don’t know me. At least, we haven’t met. I wonder if I could come out and talk to you this afternoon?

  I’m sorry. I was just leaving the house when the phone rang. What is it you want?

  I’d like to talk to you about your husband.

  Oh. Her voice showed sudden interest. Do you — have you news of him?

  No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I just want to ask you some questions.

  I see. You’re with the police department, then?

  Tha
t tore it. No, I’m a private detective. This is in connection with — another matter. But I’d greatly appreciate your seeing me.

  I’m sorry. As I told you, I was just leaving the house when the phone rang. And I really must go. My cab is waiting out front now.

  If you can spare me a minute more on the phone, maybe that’ll be enough.

  There was a brief silence. Then she said, Just so it’s no longer than that.

  O.K. You haven’t seen or heard from your husband since Monday the fifteenth? That was the date she’d included in the missing person report filed downtown.

  She told me, no, she hadn’t. There’d been no word, nothing. Mr. McCune had left Monday morning, presumably to go to his agency, but hadn’t come home that night. She’d then learned he hadn’t arrived at work. She had not filed the missing person report immediately because she kept expecting him to return; he’d gone off like that a couple of times before.

  Occasionally he had one drink too many, she said. The way she said it, that one drink sounded like a couple of gallons.

  I said, Do you know if your husband was friendly, or acquainted with, men named Danny Spring and Frank Eiverson?

  I don’t recall those names. Of course, he knew many people I never met.

  But you don’t remember his mentioning them, Danny and Frank?

  No.

  How about anybody named Jake or Pot?

  Jake or — Pot? Goodness, no.

  Their full names are Jake Luther and Vince Potter.

  My husband certainly never mentioned them to me. Is there anything else, Mr. Scott? I really must go.

  Just one thing. Do you refer to him as Jim or as Mac?

  What an odd — well, I always called him James. Why do you ask?

  It was just an idea. Thanks, Mrs. McCune. Will you be home later today?

  No, I have to go out of town for two or three days.

  Well, thanks again. Perhaps we can talk when you get back.

  Of course, Mr. Scott.

  We hung up. Something bothered me about the conversation. Possibly it was simply that she hadn’t sounded exactly prostrated with grief. However, she had also, a time or two, spoken of her husband in the past tense. But, then, some women start thinking of their husbands in the past tense the instant they say, I do. And maybe it was merely my aching head.

  I’d started on this McCune thing, though — or it had started on me — and I meant to finish it. A contact in the telephone company checked long-distance calls to and from McCune’s home for me. Since the fifteenth, when James Randall McCune had last been seen, no long-distance calls had been made from Zenith 4-4394, and only one had been received. That one had been a collect call from Newport Beach, placed at 11:56 a.m. on Sunday, the twenty-first.

  I jotted the Newport number in my book, thinking it was probably from James’s Aunt Agatha. I didn’t really expect to get any new information, but I called the number, anyway. Fishing for minnows, I got a shark.

  The number was at the Orange Coast Motel, on Coast Highway between Newport Beach and Corona Del Mar. I spoke to the manager and, merely as routine, described James McCune, asked if anybody with his description had been registered in the motel during the last week or two.

  What was that description again?

  I told him what I had noted from the missing person report and accompanying photograph. Six feet tall, two hundred pounds, forty-three years old, red hair, ruddy complexion, brown eyes. In the picture, his face had appeared strong, I remembered, with straight brows over the dark eyes, and a firm, almost cruel mouth.

  The red hair probably did it. Sure, the manager said, You must mean Mr. Wilson.

  Wilson? He there now?

  No, sir. Haven’t seen him since Sunday. He was here a week, Monday to Sunday.

  He checked out, then?

  No, never checked out. Just — I don’t know. No sign of him.

  Wilson had checked in on Monday morning, the fifteenth, for an indefinite stay. The manager had seen him briefly Sunday morning, the twenty-first. And that was the last time he’d seen Mr. Wilson.

  Chapter Seven

  I called the police building, asked Missing Persons to have a photo of McCune ready for me, then drove to downtown L.A. and stopped off long enough to pick up the print. It took me about forty minutes, driving on the Santa Ana Freeway, to reach Newport and then find the Orange Coast Motel. The manager readily identified my photograph of McCune as Mr. Bill Wilson, but couldn’t add anything to what he’d said on the phone.

  The Orange Coast consisted of fourteen units in the shape of an angular U with its arms extended toward the highway. A small swimming pool was centered between the two rows of rooms, and a couple of gals were splashing in it. McCune had spent his week in Number 4, and I talked to the occupants of rooms on either side of his. He’d been seen a time or two; but nobody could tell me anything else about him.

  The two girls had climbed out of the pool and onto inflated mats. One of them was patting herself with a blue towel, the other was lighting a cigarette. I walked over to them. The one lighting the cigarette was a slinky blonde about thirty-seven or and no more than twenty-one years old. She rolled dark-blue slinky eyes up at me, blowing smoke from puckered lips. Her swimsuit was a sort of two-piece negligee, and wet.

  Hi, I said.

  Hi. She leaned back on her elbows, slid one bare foot slowly up the mat, knee bending excitingly.

  As she smiled and waggled her nude knee I said, Ah —

  She smiled and waggled her knee some more. Are you staying here? she said brightly.

  Well, no. Not yet. But it seems a dandy idea, all right. Lots of fun. Are you?

  Am I lots of fun?

  Yes — no. I mean, are you staying here?

  Uh-huh. Me and our husbands, we been here five weeks already.

  Our husbands?

  Uh-huh. Me and my sister, here, and my husband, and hers we been. They work all day, though. Down at the glue factory, whatever it is.

  Something like a small pain shot through my forehead. I didn’t know exactly what she’d said, but I’d heard enough.

  Well, I said, business-like, I am looking for a man named Bill Wilson. Do you know him?

  Who’s Bill Wilson? the blonde asked.

  My dear, that is what I am asking you.

  She puckered her lips on the cigarette while I took McCune’s picture from my pocket, showed it to her.

  That him?

  Yes.

  Well. So that’s Bill Wilson.

  Ah, you know him!

  No.

  That little shooting pain got me again. But — but you said, So that’s Bill Wilson.’

  So? You said you were looking for Bill Wilson, and then you showed me his picture, so I naturally said, So that’s Bill Wilson.’You don’t have to make a Federal case out of it. So that’s Bill Wilson, I says, and he goes into all this.

  Right then I almost wished I hadn’t come. I took a deep breath, snorted some of it out and said, Then, you can state clearly, with finality and conviction, that you have never seen this man?

  The other girl spoke. I’ve seen him.

  You have? You really have?

  Yes. That’s Mr. Wilson. He was here till Sunday, then he left with a couple of men.

  I looked at the girl who had spoken. She was two or three years older than the blonde — her sister, I guessed. Certainly not her brother. She was about five and a half feet tall, in about five and a half inches of bikini, a redhead with saucy eyes and nose and lips and breasts. She was leaning forward to peer at the photo in my hand.

  Yes, she said. That’s Mr. Wilson.

  You say he left on Sunday?

  Yes, with two other fellows.

  Then it filtered in. I showed my mug shots of Jake and Pot to the redhead. Did those other fellows look a
nything like these two?

  She took the pictures and examined them, nodding.

  Exactly like them. I’ll bet they’re the same fellows.

  I’ll bet, too. You ever see them before?

  No, just Sunday.

  What time was it when they left with Mr. Wilson? And do you know when they arrived?

  Let’s see. I’d just come out for a swim, my strap broke and I had to fix it, so I was late. It was about one o’clock. They weren’t here more than five minutes. Knocked on Mr. Wilson’s door and went in, then came out again in just a little while. I was right here by the pool all the time. Didn’t swim any that day. I’d just tacked the strap, and I was afraid it might give.

  I could understand why. I said, Did Mr. Wilson seem to go willingly?

  Willingly?

  Of his own free will.

  Free will?

  Well — he didn’t come out all covered with blood and staggering and whooping, did he?

  Oh, no. I’d have noticed anything like that. No, they just walked out, all together.

  I talked to them a little longer, but learned nothing more.

  Before I left, the blonde examined the mug shots of Jake and Pot, and said, They sure look mean, don’t they both?

  She wasn’t so dumb after all. She’d hit it right on the head that time. I thanked them, said to the blonde, Well, I hope everything’s swell at the glue factory, and to the redhead, You watch that strap, now, and left feeling divorced from reality.

  But the divorce was annulled when I got a block or two away from those gals, and thought about what the redhead had told me. Then I went to the local telephone company. It took twenty minutes and some persuasion, but a long-distance operator checked calls made to the Orange Coast Motel for me. Only one had been received from the L.A. area on Sunday, the twenty-first. It had been placed from another Zenith number, 4-6089 this time, at five minutes after noon. I jotted the number in my notebook and wondered what the hell it meant.

  James McCune lived in a large home on Sunset Plaza Drive in Hollywood. Large and impressive — the landscaping alone must have cost as much as a couple of small houses. I parked in front. Mrs. McCune had told me she’d be gone for a few days, but this was a peculiar situation, so I poked the bell anyway. Chimes rang pleasantly inside the house. There was no answer, no sign of life.