The Trojan Hearse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  If you want the truth, I never thought it had, but for years junk sculpture, drippy paintings, nonobjective objects and other forms of non-art had been bringing increasingly fantastic prices, and in the last few years the mania had become well nigh incomprehensible. At least to me; as the man said, I may not know much about art, but I know what I hate. There was, for example, one artist currently much in the news and lauded by top critics whose “thrilling ... witty ... transcendental” technique was to swallow the paint and then throw up on the canvas. He had sold half a dozen of his masterpieces of “upchuck art”—take my word for it, that's what they were called—for $4,000 per puke.

  Actually, some of them were right pretty. And, I suppose, there's nothing wrong with calling something like that a masterpiece, and transcendental, and so on—except that sometimes the critical glorification of such items becomes an excuse to downgrade all normal art, natural beauty.

  Anyhow, “Life and Death” wasn't anything like that. On the visible twenty-four square feet there was a black line at the left side, from top to bottom, and a red splotch in the upper right corner. That was all. I'm so dumb I could never figure out which was Life and which was Death, but I'm smart enough to figure $52,000 is living.

  Sebastian was still on the phone, so I got up and looked at the photographs on the wall. There were about two dozen portraits, and most of the faces would be known to the man on the street. These people were “celebrities,” award winners, names-in-the-news types, among the best known individuals in the theater, movies and TV, literature, the art world. There was Robert Dalton, the guy who'd painted “Life and Death.” He had fat eyes, a wide face, and a little thin mustache. That was the tip-off. You've got to watch out for those guys with little black mustaches. In the photo he was wearing a white shirt open at the throat, and around his neck a white ascot—not to cover up the hair on his chest, I'll bet.

  There was Gary Baron—dashing, with a dashing white streak in his black hair—announcer and “interpreter of news” on a local TV station. He'd become a Sebastian client before publication of his best-selling book, The Myth of Soviet Intransigence, which had been very favorably reviewed. I read it—between bouts with Prince Valiant and Li'l Abner—and became convinced it added nothing to our knowledge of the Soviet Union. In fact, it produced a gap.

  There was bug-eyed Professor Cartwright, with hair like Little Orphan Annie's, who was currently lecturing on “The New Economics” at a California university. He'd written several books, one of which hit the best-seller lists. It was all about his theory that to ensure prosperity we should burn money—I think. I never read that one.

  Sebastian hung up the phone and I walked back to my seat. As I started to sit down, I could see through the window opposite me and down to the wreckage across the street. The big old ball was swinging, carrash, down goes a hunk of bank. It looked like fun. Seemed to make sense, too. Knock down buildings, burn money, throw up—something in the atmosphere here was beginning to get me. Maybe it was the pictures of all those brains.

  “Sorry to have taken so long, Mr. Scott. I couldn't postpone the decision."

  “It's all right. Incidentally, no matter what caused Mr. White's death, I have to at least consider the possibility of homicide. That's my job."

  “Of course.” He nodded briskly. “I understand that. However, it simply seems fantastic to me. Charley didn't have any real enemies, at least not so far as I know. He's—was, I mean—an extremely nice, pleasant man. Almost a sweet man, I would say."

  He went on, saying he couldn't imagine anybody with a motive to kill Charley, and so forth. We chewed on that for a while, then I said, “Wasn't Mr. White in a lot of corporations with Johnny Troy?"

  “He and Johnny owned the major part of the stock of Trojan Enterprises, which is essentially all the Troy corporations combined. My agency itself owns the remainder. He also had several investments of his own—real estate, an apartment building, others I may not know about."

  “I see. One other thing. I'd like to see Mr. Troy but haven't been able to as yet. I wonder if you could tell me how to get in touch with him."

  “I'm afraid that would be impossible, Mr. Scott. You must know that Mr. Troy is a very, ah, sensitive man. And Charley's death has been a terrible blow to him. Devastating."

  I could believe it. When Sebastian described Troy as “ah, sensitive,” that was the understatement of the week, at least. The entire country knew that Johnny Troy was neurotic as hell. Like many other of Sebastian's clients, he was—in his own way—a weirdo. He was the healthiest-looking “sick singer” in the land. He was afflicted with a literally paralyzing shyness, and hardly ever went anywhere unless Charley White was with him. He couldn't even sing unless Charley White was with him. He never went to the recording studio without him. Maybe he didn't even go to the john without him. He lived in the adjacent suite at the Royalcrest. They went out on dates together. Some said they probably took baths together, and traded socks.

  Don't jump to conclusions. There was a reason. A very good reason. If you've been around racetracks, you've heard the stories about high-strung thoroughbreds who get so accustomed to having a dog, or cat, or some kind of animal around that they can't race unless their friend is in the stall—or if they do race, can't win. Well, that's what it was like with Troy and Charley White—that and something more.

  But let me put it in the framework, the background.

  Johnny Troy was merely the biggest and best of a whole host of singers. This was a time, remember, when there were “singers” at every point of the compass. Everybody sang. A guy made a hit in a TV series—and he made a record. A kid did a bit part in a movie, got forty-four fan letters—and he sang. Tap dancers, character actors, everybody was getting into the act. Any day now a doctor was going to discover a new fungus and put it to music.

  Well, naturally most of these singers sounded as if they'd come up out of the audience. In nine cases out of ten the procedure was to have them tape a song—aided by modern mikes, echo chambers, electronic amplification or diminishing of frequencies to keep the kid on key, and such—maybe ten or twenty times and then splice the best bits of tape together and cut a master disk from the composite tape. From the master, the records were pressed.

  Obviously, if one of these manufactured singers sang in his ungimmicked and unimproved voice on a TV show, he'd bomb; if he sang live, he'd be dead. So one of his records was played off stage or off camera while the performer synchronized his lip movements with the words of his recording. We've all seen it—“lip syncing”—and it's interesting to watch for goofs, like when the guy sings “tomorrow” and it comes out “yesterday."

  Well, with a couple dozen of those characters around, you can imagine the blessed impact on tortured eardrums when Johnny Troy began to sing. No amount of gimmicking and electronic fiddling could transform one of those “singers” into a Johnny Troy. Forget how beautiful, warm, rich the sound and phrasing were; more important, it was a genuine, a natural voice. The people knew, somehow, that the voice was real. How, I'm not sure; maybe it was a kind of subconscious recognition or certainty, but it was true and everybody knew it. Sure, he undoubtedly employed the electronic and mechanical aids—just as everybody used the same kind of microphones; it was standard procedure—but with Johnny Troy it was like the gold frame around the painting; the art itself was genuine, and recognizable. It was like a tall man wearing cowboy boots; you knew he was tall even without those high heels.

  But even Achilles had his heel, and even the great Johnny Troy, when in public or live on TV, lip-synced his songs. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with his voice; on the contrary, it was what was wrong with Johnny—and the public only loved him more because of it.

  Years ago, so the story went, before Sebastian introduced him to a national audience. Troy started to sing before a big crowd in a nightclub, and had quietly gone to pieces. He opened his mouth to sing, and froze; nothing came out but a squawk. It was hysterical tension, th
e doctors called it, a muscular spasm, and it was nearly a month before he could sing again. And why had it happened?

  Well, that night Charley wasn't sitting out front, as usual. It was the very first time Charley hadn't been with Johnny, sitting in view, nodding, making an “O” of encouragement with his fingers, and little twitches of approval or moues of vice versa.

  Don't get me wrong. There was nothing homosexual, or “queer” in the unkind vernacular, about either of them. Johnny Troy cut a swath through female Hollywood like that demolition ball through paper bricks; and Charley White had not been far behind. That wasn't only publicity, either. I had talked to some of the ruined women, who simply couldn't wait to get ruined again. It was merely that the relationship between Johnny and Charley had been almost unique, and maybe more than a little bit sick.

  There'd never been any secret about Troy's neurosis or psychosis or whatisit; if anything, it had been purposely publicized, either out of simple honesty or by somebody with a very clear insight into the contemporary American character. Whichever the reason, the apparent frankness had paid off.

  Instead of making the public like him less, Johnny's “sickness” seemed merely to endear him to the fans even more. His weakness apparently made the public feel a little superior to him, at least in that one area, and I guess it's always easier to worship an idol with at least one foot of clay. Besides, a lot of people can't stand up after a dinner and say ten words without stumbling over every word but “Uh,” so it wasn't as if Troy had tuberculosis or constipation or something really unpleasant.

  Anyhow, Troy simply couldn't sing unless his buddy was around.... A thought struck me then. Finally. A little late. What if Johnny Troy—now that his buddy, his closest friend and constant companion was dead—couldn't sing at all? What if his voice was gone? What if he went quietly to pieces again, this time permanently?

  The thought couldn't have pleased Sebastian very much. That golden voice meant golden albums, profits for Johnny himself, for the agency, for Trojan Enterprises—millions of bucks caught in a closed throat.

  Judging by the expression on Sebastian's face, he was thinking the same thing. Not much time had passed since he'd said Charley's death had been a “terrible blow” to Troy. Now he sighed and went on, “Johnny's been very withdrawn these last two days. Since it happened. I don't know if you fully understand...."

  “I think I do. I've heard that he, well, isn't at ease unless Mr. White is with him."

  “Yes.” Sebastian rubbed the heel of his palm along the side of his hair again. “There's no secret about it. We discovered it when we were introducing Johnny to live audiences, a few months before release of his first album. We were trying him out in small towns. He'd always been a victim of perfectly ghastly stage fright but it wasn't until that night when Charley wasn't in the audience—” His phone rang again.

  He frowned, shrugged, and grabbed the phone. It made me feel a little guilty. Probably his time was worth plenty per hour. Say a thousand or two. I must have used up a few hundred dollars’ worth already. But by the time I'd lighted a cigarette and inhaled a few puffs, Sebastian was through and had hung up the phone again.

  I said, “Well, if you can't help me contact Mr. Troy, I guess that's about it. I've taken up enough of your time already."

  He pulled at one hand with the long, slender fingers of the other, thinking. “After all, it's up to Johnny himself, Mr. Scott. Not me. Oh, I could arrange for you to see him. I'm sure he wouldn't refuse me.” He paused again. “It might even do him good to talk about it. He's got to face it.” He wound his fingers together, then said, “Actually, Mr. Scott, it might even be of benefit to me if you did see him. That is, if you would try to force—not force—I mean, draw him out a bit, coax him out of his shell, so to speak."

  “Well, I'm not exactly a coaxer."

  “It would be enough if you would merely insist that he answer your questions. Make him think about the possibility of suicide, even of murder—which, I must admit, I feel will be of no real help to you, Mr. Scott. I'm positive Charley's death was an accident; therefore your questions will merely corroborate the fact. But it should be of help to Johnny. And, indirectly, to me. Do you understand?"

  “I guess—"

  A buzzer sounded on a small box atop Sebastian's desk and an expression of vast irritation swept across his face. He depressed a plunger and a girl's voice said, “Mr. Sebastian—"

  “Thelma,” he snapped, “I—” He cut it off, released the plunger and got up, walked to the door. As he went through it I heard him say, “I told you not to disturb me while—” Then the door closed.

  Apparently, however, Thelma had something important to tell him, because he didn't come back right away. I got up, glanced at the photos again, then moseyed over to the two-by-twelve-foot thingumajig. It fascinated me. Yep, just a black line and a red splotch on a big hunk of wood. Probably took the artist a good three minutes to paint it. Of course, he might have spent months thinking about it, getting it just right.

  As I turned I saw, under the top of Sebastian's desk at about knee height, a little white button. I've seen similar gadgets before, and this one interested me. One guy I knew used the button to call help into his office when and if he needed it—armed help; he was a hood. Another guy pushed the button to unlock his steel door; he was a hood, too. I wondered what a respectable gentleman like Sebastian would use the thing for, so I went over and gave it a little bit of a nudge. I was hoping the desk wouldn't blow up, or that three wild-eyed secretaries wouldn't come in all panicky, but I couldn't resist that one little bit of a nudge.

  What happened was that at that precise moment the phone rang and I damn near sprang out the window.

  Well, I didn't want Sebastian to catch me here fiddling around with his desk, and buttons, and all, so I hopped back to my seat and was settled there—very casual—when he came rapidly inside. He hurried back behind his desk, reached for the phone, starting to look a little puzzled. I was getting a little puzzled myself. The phone hadn't rung again.

  He picked up the phone, listened, frowned, hung up the phone. Then he looked at me.

  Oh-oh, I thought. Undoubtedly Sebastian often had to make important decisions, right on the spot, no hemming and hawing, while somebody sat across from him waiting. But important decisions should be considered at least for a little while, without distraction, with concentration. What better way to get a breathing—or thinking—spell, yet still come up with an instant decision, than for Sebastian to press his button and answer the convenient ring? Pretty good, I thought; pretty neat.

  “That's odd,” Sebastian said. “There's nobody on the phone."

  “Yeah? Maybe it was the same guy who called last time."

  It just popped out—I didn't have any damn button to push. But suddenly there was that kind of silvery glitter in Sebastian's black eyes.

  He said, “Perhaps. Well, Mr. Scott, did you wish me to arrange an interview with Mr. Troy?"

  “Yes, I'd appreciate it."

  “All right. Just go on over and call from the lobby before you go up. You know where it is, don't you?"

  I nodded.

  “In about an hour, say?"

  I had that 3 p.m. appointment with Dr. Withers. Probably take a good half hour, then there'd be the drive back to town. I said, “I've something else I should do for an hour or so. Would about four o'clock be OK?"

  “That will be satisfactory, Mr. Scott,” he said, with that tiny trace of a lisp.

  Then he just sat there and looked at me. So I got up, thanked him, and left.

  It wasn't until I was going out of the building that I started wondering about a couple of things. If Sebastian had been so anxious not to be disturbed that he'd chewed out Thelma because he had been, why hadn't he also requested that no calls be put through the switchboard? And I wondered if, just maybe, one or both of those phone calls he'd received while I was there with him had been in response to his knee on that little white button.

&nb
sp; If so, what big decision could he have been making about me?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Across the street from where the State Bank had recently stood was a big billboard with its left half filled by a huge blowup of Horatio M. Humble's smiling face. The right half was solid black except for big eyecatching yellow words: “president humble can do more for you!"

  He wasn't President yet, but I guess the experts figured this might start even more people thinking of Horatio as elected. Enough, apparently, already were. It looked as if Humble would in fact be the next President of the United States.

  All the polls had him ahead. Of course, some of them were fixed; they would have had Mickey Mouse ahead if he'd been running in Humble's place. But even the honest polls gave it to Horatio in a run, if not a walk. Besides, I'd talked to a lot of people who thought he was handsome, amusing, sexy, charming, and a marvelous orator, so obviously he had the qualities essential for election to high office.

  Seriously, he did have more real honest-to-goodness charm than seemed fair to the rest of mankind; it oozed from his pores, virtually dripped from him. He practically sweated charm. He was six feet tall, ruggedly handsome, and a truly superb speaker. More, he had a voice that could charm angels out of heaven and at least halfway into hell. In that, he reminded me of Johnny Troy, and it could hardly be denied that he was to politics what Johnny Troy was to the musical world. In fact, I considered them the two most glamorous creatures in show business.

  Maybe you've guessed by now. Emerson was my man.

  David Emerson was pleasant-looking rather than handsome. There was nothing wrong with his voice, except that it was a little flat, with perhaps a slight Western twang woven into it. He sounded a bit blunt when he spoke. That, however, was more what he said than how it was said. He was blunt. That was his trouble. That and the fact that he was more given to quoting the Founding Fathers and the U.S. Constitution than advanced thinkers like Professor “Burn Money” Cartwright.