I might have killed Joe Rice, but I didn't find him, either. Or the blond twist. I looked, you can bet I looked. But they knew I was looking.
* * * *
It was well after 9 p.m. when I parked in front of the big white house in Beverly Hills. The man who lived here was a long-time friend named Steve Ferris, an actor and now part-time producer of films for television. He was in his fifties and I'd known him for almost ten years, and knew he was a hi-fi and stereo nut.
I'd made a dozen calls earlier, and finally rang the bell with Ferris. He had—or had had, he thought—a copy of the old “Annabel Lee” forty-five. He'd told me to come on over, while he rummaged around in his record stacks.
I'd headed straight for Beverly Hills. Because I really wanted to get my hands on that record now. If it was important enough for Bill Bonchak to steal, it was damned important to me. Bonchak, of course, had heard me talking to Sylvia about it, when we'd been on the phone shortly after 4 p.m. But he wouldn't have been acting on his own when he barged into my apartment. Somebody—Rice, surely—must have given him his orders by phone.
I went up to the front door and rang the bell. Chimes bonged inside, then Steve opened the door. There was a peculiar expression on his lean, tanned face.
“Come on in, Shell,” he said.
“Hi, Steve. Any luck with that record yet?"
“Not yet.” As I went inside and he closed the door, Steve said, “What the hell's going on? What's this about a dead girl in your apartment?"
I blinked. “Where'd you hear that?"
“I had the radio on. News program. Didn't get it all, but there was something about a girl killed in the Spartan—your apartment. Dead when the police got there. And...” He stopped.
“Well, finish it."
“And you fleeing the scene, was the phrase."
“I wasn't fleeing away, I was fleeing at. Or, rather, chasing the bastard who killed her."
“It did happen, then?"
“Yeah. That first flash must have been a little bare of detail."
He was frowning. “It didn't make you sound too good, Shell. That's a fact."
It still didn't worry me. I said, “Well, I'd better phone Sam before they throw out a dragnet. I just hadn't been thinking about that angle until now. Hell, I'm the one called the police and ambulance."
He nodded, noncommittally, and I said, “Let's shake it up on that record, OK?"
“I'm going through the old forty-fives now. Sure I had it around here at one time."
I used his phone in the record room, got Homicide but not Samson. He was busier than hell, I was told—by somebody. I didn't know who I was talking to; nor did the other guy, for that matter.
So I hung up, planning to call back in a few minutes. And right then Steve called out, “Hey, here it is. Knew I had it."
I grabbed the record. Same one, obviously. I hadn't really seen either of the others, but this was the Imperian label “Annabel Lee"—"Comin’ Home” disk. “Put it on, will you, Steve?"
He set it up, and as the needle dropped into the first groove, said, “News on TV at ten o'clock. Might be a mention of you, Shell. Want it on?"
“Fine. Warm it up, anyway. I want to hear this."
I listened to the record, “loved with a love...” Same one I'd heard in Troy's living room, same that Sylvia had heard Charley playing over and over. It didn't tell me anything. It was Johnny Troy's voice, but in embryo, the same lovely lilt and phrasing—though, to be sure, inferior to the other records I'd heard and owned. But he'd been a lot younger then, a lot less experienced—and without the Sebastian polish or the ton or two of electronic equipment which now smoothed out any rough spots.
I felt a vague disappointment. I'd thought maybe everything would open up if I got my hands on the record. The other side was the same. Young Johnny Troy singing up a storm, even then enough to curl a teen-ager's toenails.
I couldn't figure out why Bonchak had wanted Sylvia's copy. Was it somehow different from this one? Had he, maybe, wanted that copy, not just any copy? I was looking at the record itself, studying the label, when Steve said, “Here's the ten-o'clock newscast, Shell,” and turned up the volume.
I put the record down, relaxed in a big soft chair near the set. The lead announcer came on with national and international news. A couple of Soviet diplomats, assigned to the UN, had been caught spying. They couldn't be arrested because of their diplomatic status, so they'd been asked to go back to the Soviet Union.
Ho-hum, I thought. Same old news.
But then the news changed. Changed my life.
The announcer said, “In one minute, Gary Baron with tonight's ‘Top of the News’ file. The story of a local private investigator, Sheldon Scott, a story of murder—and rape.” He paused. “Right after these important announcements."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I didn't even see the commercials.
I was, understandably, wondering how the story would be handled. True, I'd been out of touch. But the police knew I'd called them.... They didn't know a hell of a lot more than that, actually. I hadn't been concerned with filling out reports and signing statements and such.
Maybe it would be a routine story. But I hadn't liked the implication in the way it had started. And “Top of the News” was newsed by Gary Baron.
It started out all right. A man claiming to be Sheldon Scott—I wasn't too happy about the “claiming,” but Baron moved along from there all right—had phoned the Hollywood Division police station at 5:36 p.m. and asked that the police and an ambulance be sent to the Spartan Apartment Hotel. As Baron talked, the TV camera shifted to a screen on which a shot of the Spartan was being projected. Then there was a view of the lobby, and finally the interior of my own apartment. Baron's voice over the shots identified everything, and sure mentioned my name a lot, I thought.
The police had arrived, checked Mr. Scott's apartment and discovered the body—here a shot of body under a sheet, then cut to an ambulance, stretcher being rolled into its back.
A still shot of lovely Sylvia; one of Charley White, brother of the murdered woman. The coroner had stated Sylvia White had been raped, her neck broken.
It was all covered without undue emphasis, all the facts brought in neatly—and fast; Baron had only a ten-minute segment. Everything was made quite clear, except who had committed the bestial crime. An idiot might have guessed that Shell Scott possibly had something to do with it, but I hadn't been accused of anything. It was even stated that I had often worked very closely with the police in the past. Which helped me. If not the police.
Then Baron's face filled the screen again.
Then it began.
“Yesterday afternoon your reporter sat next to Mr. Sheldon Scott in the living room of Johnny Troy's suite in the Royalcrest Hotel. And I must now confess that I did not protest as Mr. Scott opened up old wounds—no, new wounds, for Charles White was dead only two days, not yet in his grave—by almost literally forcing Johnny Troy to speak of his dead friend. Without the slightest evidence of any compassion or sensitivity for the feelings of Johnny Troy, he spoke bluntly of suicide, even—ridiculously—of murder.
“I watched as Mr. Scott callously interrogated Johnny Troy until, when the pressure became too great for this sensitive artist to bear—though he did bear it without verbal complaint, without a word of protest—he crushed a glass in his hand, laying it open to the bone.
“I watched as Mr. Sheldon Scott manhandled and callously insulted one of the most brilliant stars on our literary horizon, young Ronald Langor, author of Lie Down and Die, which is now on The New York Times' best-seller list. I have seldom if ever witnessed such a vicious tongue-lashing of a fine artist in my career.
“But enough. I mention this only because Johnny Troy is now dead and these two stories seem to blend into one—these three. The coincidence of Mr. Scott's, ah, questioning of Johnny Troy so soon after Mr. Charles White's death, and the rape and murder a few hours ago of Sylvia White, the dead ma
n's sister, is, of course, merely that: coincidence. But it is news; it is a coincidence which shrieks for explanation. I, for one, am sure that Mr. Scott will be found—he is hunted by the police even now—and will be able to explain the truth of this horrid affair. If Mr. Scott is within sound of my voice, I plead with him to turn himself in. Explain the truth, clear up the mystery surrounding the death of Sylvia White."
I checked my watch. Only three minutes used up. Seven to go—and he could use it all on me, if he wanted to. And he would.
I was suddenly, and quite seriously, alarmed, almost frightened.
I knew what was going to happen.
I watched it happen.
Ulysses Sebastian: “Yes, I'm afraid I did arrange for Mr. Scott to see Johnny. He couldn't have gotten in otherwise. I had no idea ... He did seem obsessed”—that tiny lisp, very faint, not quite “theem obthethed”—“with the idea that Charley White had been murdered. Thrown from his balcony. And ... I really don't like saying this."
Shot of Baron from the waist up, holding a microphone. “Mr. Sebastian, don't you feel it is your duty to tell us whatever you can? After all, we are making no accusations. But we must have the facts."
“Yes ... I suppose so. But I do dislike—"
“Of course, Mr. Sebastian. That's understandable. But you were saying Mr. Scott was convinced Charles White had been murdered...."
“Yes. Well, he seemed to have this fixed idea that Johnny Troy must have killed Charley. You understand, the falling out of old friends, the moment of sudden anger...."
Baron again, nodding soberly. “I see."
Ulysses Sebastian, shaking his head, rubbing the heel of one hand along the silver-gray at his temple. “Looking back, it almost appears that he had a—What do the psychiatrists call it? A fixed delusion? But of course Mr. Scott was perfectly charming. Quite pleasant, jolly..."
And that was all for Sebastian. It was enough. He had simply stood there and, quite baldly, lied.
But how, I wondered, could I prove he'd lied? We had been alone in the office. We could face each other and both say, “You're a liar.” Fine. I knew who would be believed—despite the fact that those who know me know I wouldn't lie to get out of a seat in hell. “Those who know me” did not include the million or two people drinking in this jazz.
I'd supposed it couldn't get much worse. It did.
I watched the rest of it in a kind of daze, not quite comprehending it all. Baron had a rapid, breathy delivery and was able to cram a lot into his ten minutes. It was beautifully done.
Right after Sebastian. Right after his quiet, casual use of “obsessed” and “psychiatrist,” his almost offhand reference to “fixed delusion.” With the words still buzzing in the community ear. Dr. Mordecai Withers.
Not a psychiatrist—an analyst. There's a world of difference. Psychologists, psychiatrists, they're a different breed, and many of them do a great deal of good—those, that is, not affected, of afflicted, with the Freudian or Duerfian delusions. Dr. Mordecai Withers wrapped it up.
“Yes, Mr. Shell Scott—the name he gave me—visited me at my office yesterday. My professional opinion is that he—without being aware of it, of course. It's unconscious. Can't be aware of the unconscious. Um, as I say, he presented a splendid case of ... um...” He hesitated a moment, then went on.
“He was an extremely disturbed man. His basic problem was obviously Supideo, with repressed cannibalismus escalating toward traumatic implosion. He struck me, essentially, as a disturbed man expressing his repressed cannibalistic urges outwardly in violence. And I have no doubt that if I could observe him at greater length, I could find evidence of a highly progressed oge in stressed conflict with both di and ogerepus."
I didn't doubt it, either. He found it in everybody. They didn't know they had it because it was buried in their unconscious, where they couldn't peek. Only Mordecai could peek.
He finished it up gracefully. “As a professional man I found him very interesting. Extremely violent, obviously. Almost frightening, I thought ... um.” Then the wise plump old face grew a benevolent and kindly smile. “If I may interject—"
Gary Baron's face. “Of course, Doctor."
“This is one of the ills—or, rather, disturbances—of mankind which Duerfism can with certainty ... um ... eradicate. Even so extreme a case as Mr. Scott would, I am sure, be completely changed if only he would consent to be Duerfed. He would lose his hostility, his anger, his paranoid reactions, and become filled with love, understanding, and peace. He would lose his terrible individuality. Only by becoming one with the great brotherhood of all mankind can these stresses and traumas of naked individualism be stamped out—be removed as thorns are removed from flesh ... um—"
That was all the Withering for tonight.
“Thank you, Doctor. That was Dr. Mordecai Withers, the foremost Duerfianalyst in the world."
I thought he was signing off. No. There was one minute left. A series of ten-second interviews.
An obviously ill-at-ease police officer. I knew him well—and he knew me. “...when the call came in. Yes, I took the call. He said he was Shell Scott. No, I—well, it didn't sound exactly like Shell. I mentioned it to—to the man on the phone. And I know—” He was cut off then, but I saw his mouth move without sound as he said “damned well...” I knew what he'd have been going to say. “I know damned well Scott didn't have anything to do with murder and rape or any of this baloney.” Something like that—he was one of the men who knew me. But, naturally you can't have profanity on television.
Right after that, with perfect timing, a middle-aged couple. “Yes, it was Mr. Scott, all right. White hair and all. We've seen him taking girls up to his apartment before. Sometimes it looked like they were both drunk—laughing and all. He was what? Oh, yes; he was leaning out the window, shooting at those two people. We thought he was going to kill us.... I don't know. Just people."
The little girl. They'd managed to get her crying. “Yes, sir. Bang, bang, bang, I don't know how many times. I ran home."
Then—though I was beyond shock by now—possibly the most damning evidence of all: a photograph of Shell Scott.
You know what I look like, right? Kind of crazy stand-up white hair, white bent-boomerang eyebrows, gray eyes. Not really bad-looking. Good teeth. Good strong jaw. A little marked up, yes; nose broken and not set exactly straight. And the wee piece shot from my left ear. You remember, huh? The hell you do.
I look like Dracula descending on a blood bank. I have teeth which appear to be pointed cavities. My nose has one nostril, and even it's no great shakes. Where they got that photo I don't know; it wasn't retouched. It didn't have to be retouched. Maybe I need to be retouched, but they just happened to find a picture of me which had been shot from all possible bad angles at the same time.
The camera pulled back from Dracula, lusting for the fresh, gurgling young blood of innocent maidens, to show the fresh, unravaged face of Gary Baron. Hoo-boy, he was handsome. He looked like a shy girl. He didn't quite pucker up and kiss the camera as he said, “Let me hasten to make it clear that there is as yet no real evidence to connect Mr. Sheldon Scott with this fiendish crime."
The hell there wasn't. It was right there behind him, looking over his shoulder, about to eat him.
“But because the dead girl was found, raped, in his own apartment, and he was seen emptying his gun at two passersby, and allegedly phoned the police before fleeing in great haste from the scene in his expensive new Cadillac convertible—"
That did it. I was a goddamned capitalist. That did it. Now I was in real trouble.
“The police are searching for him. That's tonight's ‘Top of the News,’ folks."
The original announcer said heartily, “Thank you, Gary Baron!” Then he told us to stay tuned for something, “right after these important announcements."
Came a film of a girl in a bathtub, apparently being seduced by a bar of soap.
I stood up. “Steve? You still here?"
/> He was. But he didn't look so good. Probably I looked just great. “Steve,” I said, “I didn't do it. I didn't do ... what they said."
“I'm glad of that,” he said dully.
“I have to leave, of course. You'd get lynched if I was found here in your house. But I'd like to ask a favor."
“Sure, sure,” he said, too readily.
“Let me use your phone first. Then I've got to get far from here—apparently I was lucky to make it this far in my Cad. Can I borrow your car? Hell, you can say I stole it. It won't make any difference."
“Sure, sure,” he said.
I called Samson. I told him who it was.
“Good God almighty,” he yelled. “Where in hell are you?"
“Sam, don't mention my name, for Pete's sake. Did you happen to catch the ten-o'clock news?"
“No, but I've been catching—"
“Listen, I've only got a minute. Here's what happened—Hey, are you tracing this call?"
“Shell, you've got to come in. Right away. I'll stand behind you—"
“Sure. I come into town, I'll get torn limb from limb. I'll get smothered under a thousand mothers. Fathers will—"
“Just tell me what happened. From the beginning."
I hung up. I knew the honest, dedicated old cop too well. I knew that note in his voice. He was tracing the call, and lickety split there were going to be eight squad cars outside. He was my good friend; but he wasn't going to lie for me or to me; he was supposed to haul me in, and he was by God going to haul me in, and slap me in a cell. And then he was going to fight everybody up to and including the Supreme Court—which would fix my wagon—to help me prove I didn't do it, whatever it was. He was my very good friend. “Quick, your keys, Steve,” I said.
“Are the police coming out?"
“Sam didn't have time to trace the call, but I'm on my way. Look, if you're worried—"
The Trojan Hearse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 12
