Sam was quiet for a full minute. It sounds pretty good, Shell. It’s just — well, we never had one like this before.
I grinned. As far as you know, you haven’t.
Sam grunted. Still frowning he said, Even assuming a big-bore gun, smooth-bore, the bullet would likely twist. Without the barrel snug around the bullet, it would be likely to twist in the barrel, hit or at least brush the side. And that would mash out the marks of your Colt’s rifling on the slug.
Only where it, bit or scraped. And, Phil, as you know damned well, perfectly formed bullets are almost never dug out of bodies. They hit bone, get compressed just from flesh and muscle, are often so mashed up they’re either useless or there’s barely enough left to check under the comparison microscope. But identification can be made from a mangled slug just as human identification can be made from part of a fingerprint.
He nodded briskly. O.K. I’m sold. I’ll check that slug again, and the coroner’s report. The entrance wound was a little large. I remember thinking the bullet might have hit something before it entered the body — keyholed, like when the slug enters on an angle, not straight.
That figures. And I think I know how they got the bullet. Yesterday I was at Joe Cherry’s. I saw him lock my belongings — including my Colt — in his desk drawer. Then I spent half an hour or so alone in the next room. Just sat — no slugging, nothing. When I left, Cherry unlocked the drawer and gave the gun and the rest of my stuff back to me. I assumed my gun had, therefore, been in that drawer all the time I was in that next room. Probably Cherry unlocked and locked that desk drawer in my sight so I would think that — or, rather, wouldn’t think about it at all.
Uh-huh. So you figure he took out the gun and fired a slug somewhere, cleaned the Colt, put a new cartridge in the cylinder?
Right. Only he didn’t fire the gun just somewhere.’ While I was in that room I heard a shot. It sounded as if it came from near where my Cad was parked. And my Cad was parked ten yards from Cherry’s swimming pool.
Samson smiled slowly. Sure. Into the water.
Uh-huh. Probably as deep as the nine-foot water tank in SID — and they wind up with a perfect bullet from Shell Scott’s gun, complete with barrel impressions. All they had to do was dive in and pick it off the pool floor. Jake Luther did that job, I’m pretty sure. His hair was wet, flat on his bead when I saw him again. I thought he must have taken a shower. It seemed odd at the time.
Samson shook his head. It all fits, it could have been worked the way you say. But you still haven’t proved it.
I can’t prove it in here.
Don’t get restless. And what about your car?
That’s easy. From the time I left Joe Cherry’s until I parked behind the Spartan last night, I was not in my car.
You what?
I wasn’t in my Cad. That switch was made while I was at Cherry’s, too. When we left there, Jake was driving — and later I was driving without knowing it — another new Cadillac. Same year, model. Sky-blue, white leather upholstery. Hell, I had no reason, then, to think it wasn’t my buggy, no reason to search for the little things that would prove it was my Cadillac.
Maybe. They use it for the job —
Shoot the junk pusher they want to get rid of, run my Cad into Ruthie, Frank Eiverson’s girl friend —
Then make the switch again later, after you get back to the Spartan —
Guided, with a nice sense of timing, among other nice senses, by a gorgeous, blue-eyed blonde —
And you wouldn’t ever know a switch had been made. Could be. He puffed furiously on his cigar. The cell was beginning to stink, but I didn’t mind a bit. Samson continued, I’ll buy it. So how do we prove it?
I have delicately hinted at one requirement —
Yeah, yeah, we’ll see if you get a — leave of absence. Where’s the best place to start?
Maybe with June Corey. Her end was to keep me out of the way — in the substitute Cadillac — during the hours in which the frame was rigged. I think she made a phone call from the Spartan lobby immediately after we arrived there, undoubtedly so that another call, the anonymous one, could be made reporting my license number and description to the law. Obviously the police would soon know the car was registered under my name, and show up at the Spartan. So, after making sure I was settled, and giving her pals tune enough to switch the Cads, June took off. Find her, and she can tell a lot of it. Whatever part she knows, anyhow.
I bummed a cigarette from Samson, lighted it. Then there are the two Cadillacs. These guys planned too well to leave any prints in my own car, but maybe that substitute Cad will have my prints on it somewhere. And here’s another angle. When Jake and Pot left me in the Cad outside Rand Brothers — and, oddly, I thought, didn’t shoot me — I pulled the black friction tape off my wrists and stuffed it under the seat. Those guys must have figured their substitute Cad would never be checked if they managed to pull the switch off later, which they did. So they probably didn’t go over it carefully after that. The tape just might be there — if you find the car.
Samson was grinning, openly now. Probably stolen. If it’s on the hot sheets, we’ll know about it in half an hour.
When you come back, bring me the recent obits from a local paper, will you?
Bring what?
Obituary notices for the last couple of weeks.
He opened his mouth, then sighed and got up. What in hell do you want obits for?
The last link should be there, the piece I need. Actually, it’s just a check. I think I know the answer already.
Answer to what?
Where Dan Spring and Frank Eiverson are. And, probably, James McCune.
Samson’s big jaw wiggled like the end of a sledge hammer. And where would that be?
At Rand Brothers. In the cemetery.
Alive?
It isn’t likely. I figure they’re buried there. I hesitated, then went on rapidly, Of course, I won’t be sure until you dig them up, but I’m pretty sure —
Until what? Until I dig — He bit the words off, snorted, then went on less wildly, If you think I am going to dig up a whole damn cemetery to satisfy one of your goddamned whims —
This is no whim, Phil.
Then you had better re-think —
Hold it, Phil. I’m almost certain.
You’d better be more certain than almost certain. I’ll have a hell of a time explaining even one exhumation order.
You want to find them, don’t you? You want Joe Cherry, don’t you? You want me out of this dump, don’t you?
Find them, yes. Cherry, yes. But I’m half-convinced you belong in this dump, as you so generously refer to the finest cell block in the country. Samson paused, then asked me, How sure are you that these guys are at Rand Brothers?
Well — pretty sure. I’m not certain about McCune, that’s a queer situation. But either I’m all wet or both Dan and Frank are there. I’m sure of that, Phil. I paused, thinking. I’d bet my life on it.
He clamped his teeth on the well-chewed cigar. Yeah, that’s what you’re doing, you know.
And with that cheery thought, he left.
Chapter Fourteen
At nine-fifteen a.m. Samson came back to my cell.
He dropped the stack of clippings I’d asked for onto my bunk, then handed me a morning newspaper.
I wasn’t in the headlines, but I’d made the front page. The story gave me the impression that Shell Scott was not only in jail, but already convicted and serving his term in prison where he belonged. There was also a most unflattering picture of me.
Samson said, No Cad on the hot sheets. Shell.
Bang, like that. No Cad like mine reported stolen?
No Cad at all.
That’s great. What about the rest of it?
O.K., so far. The slug’s base is banged in on one side. No reason to l
ook for it before, but the Crime Lab boys say you may be right — probably are. Could be from hitting the gun’s barrel on the way out. And at the base are some unusual little marks. Could’ve been made if the bullet was reloaded into another cartridge case. SID’s running tests on the powder residue around the wound now.
We’d have it if the damned car — I stopped. Wait a minute. Here’s something else — McCune.
What about McCune?
Your missing person report says he owned an automobile agency. In fact I phoned it once — the McCune Motor Company.
Used cars?
New.
Samson left again. During the ten minutes he was gone, I checked the stack of newspaper obits he’d brought.
Then Samson returned. This looks like it. McCune Motors is a Cadillac agency. Here’s how we’ll handle it. He spoke briskly now, We can’t afford to tip our hand, so I don’t want to haul in Cherry or his boys yet. I’ve sent Rawlins out to the McCune agency. Sam grinned. By the way, Rawlins says for me to tell you, you’re a hell of a lot of trouble.
Tell him I was born cursed, under the sign of —
Never mind. He’s going to be a customer, looking for a new Cad. He’ll just happen to like the looks of any blue convertible with white leather upholstery he sees on the lot.
It might seem odd, if it’s the same car.
Can’t be helped. If the Cad’s there at all, they’ll expect customers to look at it. Besides, the way you tell it. Cherry’s boys should think they’re clean as soap by now. Especially after seeing the morning papers.
Uh-huh. The people at McCune’s lot probably don’t know about this, anyhow.
Rawlins is already on his way there. If he finds anything, we’ll soon know.
Samson was gone over an hour. When he came back, Bill Rawlins was with him. Something was in Bill’s right hand. He said, Hi, and tossed the thing to me. It was a wadded mass of black friction tape.
I’ll be damned, I said, grinning. They probably didn’t even wash the car.
Rawlins grinned back. We haven’t checked it that close. I looked at half a dozen other cars and decided not to buy any. Left the Cad there, so I wouldn’t stir up suspicion, just in case.
I’d hate to lose —
Don’t worry, he said. Keene’s out there keeping an eye on it. It won’t get away. He paused, then added, I stopped at the Crime Lab on the way here, Shell. There was powder residue on Kovin’s clothing and around the wound. They’ve checked it. Not the kind of powder used in the cartridge for your .38.
Well, that helps. What kind of powder?
They’re still testing, but it looks like it could be powder from a shotgun shell.
I nodded. Sure, I said slowly. That settles the other angle — how they fired the slug. I was thinking of pistol or revolver cartridge cases, but a shotgun shell would be perfect. Probably they used a shotgun to fire it. Sawed off very short.
I sighed. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been wound until suddenly the tension left me, all at once. I sank down on the side of the bunk.
Well, I said, it’s a nice clean jail. But I’d kind of like out.
Bill and Samson grinned at each other, then looked at me. Almost in unison they said, You’re out.
Well, I was out. Not free of charges, not free as a bird, but out. In the custody of the police, sure, technically under arrest. But out.
I sat in the back seat of a police radio car with Rawlins. Samson was driving; an officer named Bailey sat up front with him. In another two or three minutes we would be at Rand Brothers Mortuary — and cemetery.
At the end of a hunt. Or the beginning of a lot of misery. Misery for me, but also for Samson and everybody else involved in what we were about to do. If I was wrong, not only would I be suddenly, swiftly back in jail, but Samson would be in hot, even boiling, water. Rawlins and the rest were acting under his orders, but even so, they would be criticized, reprimanded. Sam was sticking his neck far out, and I was beginning to have misgivings.
I wasn’t sure. Not sure at all.
Back in my cell, when everything had been, in one moment, black and miserable and in the next, bright and hopeful, I’d thought I was sure. I’d thought everything fit — like a zipper. But maybe I was caught in the zipper.
Samson’s voice interrupted my growing jitters. First car should be there now, he said. I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.
I, uh, yeah. I hope so, too.
That first car he’d mentioned was another police car with two men in it. They were to enter the mortuary, talk to everyone present — talk; the officers had no authority to arrest anybody. Not yet. Not until there was evidence of crime. But, nonetheless, they were going to make sure nobody at Rand Brothers made a phone call. That was important. We couldn’t afford to have word of what we were doing reach Cherry, or any of the others involved.
You know, I said, after this, I never want to see another graveyard.
Nobody answered me, but I had a hunch they felt the same way. For a moment I wondered if I should try to call it off — if it wasn’t already too late. But then I thought about the consequences, all the consequences. No matter what happened, it was worth taking the chance and going ahead.
We pulled into the cemetery grounds. The other radio car was parked before the beautiful mortuary building. As we stopped behind the car, a plainclothes officer walked down from the mortuary’s entrance and spoke to Samson.
Nobody in there but Truepenny, Captain. Everything’s under control. He paused. When we showed him the court order for the exhumation, he got real upset. I thought he was going to be sick.
Samson glanced around at me, then turned back to the officer. He say anything?
Protested for a while. Said we couldn’t dig up the graves. Desecrating the last resting places of the dead, he called it. The officer hesitated, then went on. Said he’d sue us, and all that. Give the story to the newspapers, raise hell.
Samson glanced at me again — with eyes like brown ice cubes.
The officer finished his report, Then he shut up, when he knew we were going ahead anyway. Hasn’t opened his mouth since.
Well, Samson said, let’s get it done.
It was a splendid day, warm, with a just-cool-enough breeze, and not even a shred of cloud against the blue sky. Tree leaves, stirred by the soft wind, rustled pleasantly; the grass was as smooth and vivid as a putting green. May usually brings good weather to Los Angeles, and this was one of its finest hours: two o’clock on a balmy afternoon.
The square spade made its first clean cut down into the grass — another, then several more. A rectangular piece of turf was lifted from the surface of the grave and placed neatly to one side.
Samson, standing next to me, puffed furiously on his cigar. Without looking at me he said, You’re pretty certain this is the one you want. Shell?
I — it — well, Phil —
Never mind. Don’t tell me.
I took a few steps to the right, looked at the headstone again, read the carved inscription: joseph judson, september 14, 1919 — may 13, 1961.
I stepped back alongside Samson. That’s the one I want. It’ll either be this one, or Alice Mons’ grave. If — if it’s any of them at all.
It better be this one. He scowled at me. You get one free, Shell. This one.
I knew what he meant, precisely. We couldn’t go from one grave to another, casually tearing them up. If this wasn’t the one, he wouldn’t even start on a second.
Samson said, Shell, tell me just a little more. You don’t think this Joseph Judson is in there?
Oh, no. He’s in there.
Grass squares were piled a few feet to the side, and dirt was heaped at the foot of the grave. The day was warm, but I felt cold. Then a shovel scraped on the casket. My throat felt as if it had closed up completely. Oddly, at that scraping sound
, Samson, Rawlins, and the two other officers present turned as one and looked at me. I looked at the gaping hole, brown in the smooth green grass.
In a few minutes the casket lay on the grass before us. Large, long, square-sided, with the rounded lid arching above it. The lid, still closed, was ready to be opened. One of the officers placed his hands at the side of the casket.
Hold it, Samson said.
I actually jumped — about an inch into the air.
What’s the matter? I asked him.
Nothing. It’s just that, since this is your idea, you should have the — reward of opening the casket.
The reward of opening — I echoed in a flat voice. Of course.
The officer stepped aside. I took his place — gripped the lid and pulled. I felt weak, now that the moment was actually upon me. The lid moved, began to open.
I couldn’t have been more anxious if I’d been opening the casket from inside. I gave a sudden yank, let the lid fall open wide.
Samson was the first man to speak.
I’ll be damned, he said.
I stared into the casket. He was there. I’d never seen him alive, but he looked like his photo, even now. Danny Spring. A hole in his head.
Chapter Fifteen
For half a minute or so nobody even moved toward the open casket. Danny Spring’s body was easy to see. It was very high in the casket, resting on something. Something big. Like a body. Precariously balanced now, his body barely would have fit beneath the curved top of the coffin. But it had fit.
Finally, Samson stepped alongside me. Spring? he said.
Yeah. And that would be Joseph Judson underneath him.
Sam looked at me, shaking his head. What a place to get rid of a body. Who in hell would think of looking in a grave? How did you know?
I didn’t know. I mean, I wasn’t sure. But I was here two nights ago looking for a particular grave. I didn’t find it, but I did see this headstone, and the others I mentioned to you. Names and, most important, the dates of death. The newspaper obits show Judson died on the thirteenth, which is the date on the headstone, and show also that he was buried here on the fifteenth.
Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 11
