What’s the matter?
I just realized I left my bag in the car. Shell. I have to fix my lips. I must be a fright.
Sure. You scare me, you’re so frightful. I’ll run down and grab the bag for you.
No. She stood up suddenly. I’ll get it.
But it’ll only take me —
I’ll get it, Shell. She paused, then smiled at me. You’ve much better things to do. Such as concocting those special drinks.
I stepped into the living room, holding the pitcher filled with ice cubes in one hand, bottle of gin in the other. June walked toward the door, then stopped and did a funny thing.
She stood before the door for a few seconds, then turned. She looked at me, took a step back toward me and raised one hand to her cheek. No, she said. It isn’t the way I —
But then she moistened her lips and smiled. Don’t mind me. I’ll be right back. You have those drinks ready.
And out she went. I shrugged, finished making the gimlets in the kitchenette, put the pitcherful and glasses on a tray, and carried it to the low coffee table before the divan. No sign of June yet. Maybe she was fixing her face in the car.
I poured the drinks, sipped mine, watched the fish slop around in the big tank for a while. June had been gone for quite some time. I’d finished my drink before I really began to get worried. But even then, I was worried merely about June.
I picked up the phone, talked to the desk man. Is a blonde gal down there in the lobby?
No. You lose a blonde, Shell? He sounded amused.
Well — no. I’m not sure. I looked at my watch and was surprised that so much time had passed. I said, I had one fifteen minutes or so ago. She left, said she’d be right back.
A blonde was down here for a minute or two. That was about twenty-five, thirty minutes ago, though. A real looker, stacked.
Pale blue dress?
Yeah. What there was of it.
She’s the one. It puzzled me. About twenty-five minutes ago we’d pulled up behind the Spartan. I’d spent ten minutes, at most, checking the apartment while June waited in the hall. Or maybe not in the hall. Muscles contracted gently in my stomach.
I said, What was she doing in the lobby? Did she say anything to you?
No, just walked past the desk. I didn’t notice where she went, Shell. But she waltzed back about half a minute later, went upstairs again.
Anybody else in the lobby?
No, empty all night. What’d you do, scare her off!
No, I don’t think so. Thanks.
I hung up. Very queer, I thought. And June certainly wouldn’t have been sitting down there in the Cad all this time. Unless — I didn’t like the next thought. I went out of the apartment, down the back stairs and outside. I could see the Cadillac parked where I’d left it. I stepped toward it — and stopped suddenly.
Two men stood near the Cad.
My hand slapped the butt of the .38 under my coat and I had the gun half out of its holster before I saw the uniforms. Police uniforms.
A flashlight beam struck my eyes. I ducked my head, squinting, muscles tightening along my spine. Maybe they weren’t police officers, just men in police uniforms. I stayed half-crouched, hand on the gun, ready to jump aside.
Then one of the men said, Take it easy, Scott.
His voice sounded familiar. The flashlight beam dropped lower on my body, and in its glow I could see the other uniformed man’s face.
Tanner? I said. Is that you, Tanner?
Yeah, Scott.
He was a patrolman from the Hollywood Division. A casual acquaintance, I knew him well enough to wave when I saw him. Further away, in the alley, I could see the police car.
What’s the trouble?
He walked up to me. You’re under arrest, Scott.
I’m what? Under arrest?
That’s right. He frisked me, took the .38 from its holster.
Wait a minute, Tanner, I said. Fun’s fun, but if this is some slob’s idea of a joke —
It’s no joke. His voice was calm and level, businesslike. Don’t give us a hard time, Scott.
I started to speak, then stopped, waited. Finally, I said, Spill it.
Want to tell us where you’ve been all night, Scott?
Since what time?
Suit yourself.
The other officer walked up to Tanner. I told them I’d left my apartment a little before nine p.m., had picked up a girl about nine-fifteen and filled in some of the details. I finished, And I was with her until about twenty minutes ago.
You drove back here about half an hour ago?
That’s right.
You were in your Cadillac all the time.
Yes.
You did the driving?
Of course, I did.
The Cadillac was never out of your possession, then, from nine p.m. until now?
What the hell is this?
Come on, Scott.
The Cad was not out of my possession; I did all the driving; the damn thing wasn’t even out of my sight until half an hour ago when I parked it right where it is now.
An unpleasant thought hit me. I couldn’t see the car clearly, in shadows beyond us, but it was there. And June had said she was going to get her bag from the car.
Slowly I said, There’s not — a girl in the car, is there?
A girl?
A blonde — I just told you about her. June. June Corey. She came down here, never came back.
Tanner didn’t say anything.
Quit being so damned cute, I told him. Is she in the car? Is she all right?
There’s nobody in the car.
I relaxed a little. You didn’t see her? Tall, blonde, good-looking woman?
We didn’t see her. He paused. Was there a blonde, Scott?
I squinted at him. Look, friend, I’m not going to tell you again.
Where is she? This blonde.
She came down to the car, to get her handbag, she said. But she didn’t show at the apartment again. That’s why I came down here, to see if she was O.K. I can’t understand —
I stopped. My skin seemed to tighten and turn cold. It was one of those things you barely notice, that makes almost no impression on your mind. I remembered watching June as she’d first walked to the car, climbed in. Then at the bar, later on that hilltop. I suppose it was odd that I’d failed to notice before.
She hadn’t had a bag.
No one spoke for several seconds, then I asked, What’s it all about, Tanner?
Were you on Twenty-first Street tonight? Any time around ten-thirty?
Twenty-first? That’s in L.A. I wasn’t anywhere near L.A. I told you, chum, we were in Hollywood, then up in, well, on that hill.
That’s where you were about ten-thirty, huh?
We were parked there before ten-thirty, at ten-thirty, and after ten-thirty. I sucked a breath through my teeth. And that’s it, Tanner. I’m through being nice and happy about this. Either spill the whole story or try to stop me from leaving.
We’ve got to take you in, Scott. Couple of men coming out from Central right now. Suspicion of hit-and-run.
Hit-and-run. Me? You mush-headed —
I stopped. Neither of the officers said anything, but the man with the flashlight turned its beam on the front of my Cadillac. The right front fender was crumpled inward, one side of the grill was bent. On the hood, near the ornament, was a concave impression. Something was smeared there — on the fender and bumper, too. I walked to the car, leaned close to look.
It’s blood, Tanner said.
For a second or two, my mind didn’t function. It was as if I’d been presented with an impossibility, something my mind couldn’t grasp. Then I turned and said, Something’s goofy. But this isn’t my car.
It isn’t?
It can’t be. I was in my car all night — except for the last half-hour or so. Something stirred in my mind.
Tanner said, It’s yours, Scott. Hell, we all know your Cad. Just take it easy.
He wasn’t playing it tough, simply doing his job. He was a nice, easygoing guy, who’d always seemed to like me well enough.
I tried to keep my voice pleasant. Tanner, it cannot be my car.
I walked to the door, leaned in and looked at the registration slip, read the name, Sheldon Scott, and my address. Muscles pulled tight in my stomach. The other officer flashed his light over my shoulder. I looked at the dashboard, the seat. My car is new, but even so, there are the little things which marked it as mine — A burn on the floor mat where I’d dropped a cigarette two or three weeks ago, a small nick in the steering wheel, a dark smudge inside the glass over the ammeter. I fumbled in my pocket, found the car keys and walked to the back of the car, opened the luggage compartment I looked blankly at all of my equipment, electronic gear, walkie-talkie, and the test. It was my car, all right.
I said to Tanner, O.K., it’s my Cad. Sure. But this was done in the last half-hour or so. I’m starting to understand —
A police radio car came down the alley, stopped nearby. Two more men joined us. One, in plainclothes, was Lieutenant Rawlins from downtown. My good friend Rawlins — from Homicide.
Tanner spoke to Rawlins, handed him my Colt. They moved a few feet away and talked for a minute, then Rawlins walked over to me and said hello.
Hi, Bill. I suppose you’ve got the picture.
Uh-huh.
I was just starting to tell these guys, the front of my Cad must have been banged in during the last half-hour. This is some kind of frame, but it won’t hold up. Somebody bangs in the fender, smears blood around, calls the cops. I stopped. What brought you guys here, anyway?
Hit-and-run, Shell.
Hell, there probably wasn’t a hit-and-run at all. This is just a half-clever —
There was a hit-and-run. Twenty-first Street. About ten-thirty.
Maybe there were half a dozen; but not with me anywhere near them.
That’s not all, Shell. It’s more than a hit-and-run this time.
More? What do you mean, more?
Murder. We’ll go over it downtown.
Are you nuts? What kind of damn fool —
Downtown, Shell. Don’t make it rougher than it is.
I sighed, tried on a grin. O.K., I’ll go quietly, Officer.
Rawlins didn’t smile. He opened the back door of the police car, shut it after I climbed inside. He got in front, and the other officer started the car.
I said, Bill, there was a blonde here. I don’t know what happened to her; but I was with her all evening. And not in L.A.
We’ll check it out.
Chapter Twelve
We walked into the Homicide squadroom in the police building a little after one. Not until then did I remember the call I was supposed to receive in my apartment at one, but I didn’t mention it.
First, there was Phil Samson.
Phil looked very tired. One of his black cigars, unlighted, was stuck in the corner of his wide mouth, and his teeth were clamped down hard on it. We said hello; then, impersonally, he asked me to repeat my story. The Homicide captain seldom takes an active part in interrogations, but this was a special case for Phil. In fact, he should have been home, in bed. So, I thought glumly, should I.
Besides Samson, Rawlins and three other Homicide men were present in the squadroom. I was getting special treatment. We weren’t in an interrogation room, but in the room where I’ve come hundreds of times before and I’d even been given a paper cup filled with hot coffee. Still, the atmosphere was unpleasant, strained, unhealthy. I went over the story a couple of times, leaving out only a few points. Then there was silence for almost a minute.
That knot of muscle in my stomach had spread through my whole body. I seemed to tighten up even more during the long silence. Finally, I said, Well? Do we just sit here? What are we waiting for?
Nobody spoke for a while. Then Phil took the cigar from his mouth, looked at it. Ballistics, he said.
Ballistics? What in hell has ballistics got to do with a hit-and — I let my question trail off, turned to Rawlins who was perched on the edge of a desk. You said something about a — a murder, Bill. Was it a shooting?
Yeah, a shooting.
What’s that got to do with me? I looked around at the five sober faces. I don’t get it. They all remained quiet. Listen, I said, anger creeping into my voice, I’ve been Little Lord Fauntleroy so far, but it’s a strain. It is not going to last. Now, can this treatment, boys.
Samson stopped looking at his cigar, put it back into his mouth. He took a wooden match from his pocket, fumbled with it, put it back. Rawlins stared at me, silently.
I felt my hands ball into fists, forced them open. Keeping my voice level, I said, I’ll give it to you once more. You know where I was all night. You also know damned well I wouldn’t lie about it, if it meant I’d boil in hell. But forget that. Suppose I had been on Twenty-first. Suppose I ran somebody down. Do you think I’d keep going? Don’t you know I’d stop, do what I could — call you guys myself?
After another heavy silence, I went on, Nobody who knows me would think for a minute I’d pull anything that rotten. And you guys know me. I looked at Samson. Especially you, Phil. And you, Bill. I glanced at Rawlins.
He lit a cigarette, then said to Samson, Want me to fill him in on the rest?
Samson did it himself. At ten-twenty-seven, a minute or so either way — he was still bleeding when the first car got there — a man was reported shot and killed in a room on Twenty-first Street. The suspect ran to his car and got away, racing down Twenty-first. Two blocks from the scene of the killing, he hit a woman, kept going. The woman was killed instantly. That was close to ten-thirty. We’ve had a local out since then. At — he checked a paper on his desk — eight-after-twelve a call came in to the complaint board. Witness to the hit-and-run reported seeing the accident. Said the car was a blue Cadillac convertible, top down, and he could see the driver. Looked like a big guy, light-colored hair. He had the license number.
And the number, of course, was mine.
SRT 210. That’s your number.
It stinks.
Nobody said anything. I asked, Man or woman on the phone? You said he got the license number.
It was a man.
It still stinks. Why an hour and a half after the alleged hit-and-run?
Not alleged. It happened. And you know as well as we do that witnesses to a crime often wait an hour — or a day — before they spill. Sometimes they never spill. Don’t want to get involved.
Eight-to-five it was an anonymous call.
Yeah, it was. You know that’s often part of the pattern, too.
Sure. But not this pattern. I stopped. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Are you all sitting around waiting to see if that ballistics report —
Rawlins spoke then. Tanner gave me your gun. When we got here, I fired a slug into the tank myself. It’s being compared now with the lethal bullet taken from the body of the man killed on Twenty-first Street tonight. We’ll have the report from SID in a minute or two.
For a few seconds I couldn’t speak. The tank Rawlins had mentioned is in the Crime Lab, a nine-foot-deep cylinder filled with water. A bullet from a suspect’s gun is fired into it and recovered, then matched under a comparison microscope with the lethal bullet from the victim’s body. The lands and grooves and imperfections of a gun’s barrel leave distinctive striations on the sides of a bullet. Those marks show, as conclusively as fingerprints identify a man, whether or not the two bullets were fired from the same gun.
I relaxed a little. I knew nobody could have been shot at ten-thirty with my gun, because it had been on me all during the evening, from
the time I left the Spartan until Tanner had taken the Colt from me.
Samson said, About this girl, the blonde. You say she works at Rand Brothers Mortuary?
That’s right.
And she called you about eight p.m.?
Yeah. That reminds me. The reason she called — she’d heard two men on the phone talking about the fun they were going to have killing me. I repeated the story, and finished, The call was supposed to come around one tonight. To get me out of the apartment. Then Luther was to put a bomb under — my bed. My story was sounding very weak, very strange.
There was no comment from the five men. I said, It’s true. At least that’s what she told me. But it’s starting to look —
You’ve had your gun on you all night? Rawlins asked.
Yeah. Well, except for a little while. I, uh, put it in the glove compartment.
Why?
Well, it was — lumpy. You know, when you’re with a blonde —
But nobody could have taken it from the glove compartment?
Bill, stated simply, nobody possibly could have taken the gun — or the car. And, hell, I was clear on the other side of Hollywood, nowhere near L.A.
Samson said, You’re positive nobody other than you could have been in possession of either your Cadillac or revolver during any part of the evening.
Yes. I’m positive. Absolutely and finally. When the report on that slug gets here, you can eat your cigar.
The phone had rung a few times and Samson had made notations on a paper before him. Now he lighted his cigar, deliberately. The choking fumes started smelling up the room, but there were no jokes about it this time.
Then Samson looked at me and said, No June Corey registered at the Weatherly. No place else near there, either, from what’s been checked so far.
But —
No June Corey works for Rand Brothers. Never has. No woman works for Rand Brothers. Two officers showed your picture to this Mr. Truepenny, got him out of bed. He says he’s never seen you —
What? I was out there this afternoon. I set off some — firecrackers.
Rawlins said incredulously, You did what?
Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 9
