The Trojan Hearse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Hey, there y'are,” he cackled. “You Scott?"

  “That's me. You're not ... not ... not Mr. Vanada? You aren't, are you?"

  “Yessiree, Bob. Ready to go? Here, put this on.” He handed me one of the packages. It looked like a parachute.

  “Wait, wait,” I said. “What's this?"

  “An old chute,” he said in his high, quavering voice. “Better put it on right away."

  “A parachute? Man, we're not even off the ground yet. Where's the plane?"

  “In the hangar.” He jerked a thumb.

  “There? It's in that little garage?"

  “That's the hangar. Come on."

  “OK. But I sort of expected ... Did you say an old chute?"

  “Come on."

  He went to the garage and opened the door and went inside and pushed the plane out.

  That's right. Here he was about eighty years old—at least—and he just lifted up the plane's tail and pushed it out. Like a wheelbarrow. I almost pulled my ripcord right away.

  “What ... what...” I said.

  “Don't see many of these any more, do you?” he cackled.

  “No, I guess not,” I said. “What is it, a Spad?"

  He cackled, but didn't answer. Maybe he didn't know. Or, more likely, it was parts of several things which previously had been planes.

  “Gives ‘em a big boot at county fairs,” he said. “Takes ‘em back."

  “Uh-huh."

  “Had another one, little newer, but I cracked it up."

  “You cracked up the other one? What happened to this one?"

  “Nothin'. Yet."

  This was a helluva time for me to team up with a negative thinker. The flying was supposed to be the easiest part of this operation. Merely incidental to my brilliant plan. I'd thought it was brilliant. At least not completely stupid. But then I'd been all fired up by David Emerson's speech. I'd been thinking, “There is no limit to the possible,” and such elevating things. Well, there is a limit.

  I said, “This is the limit."

  He didn't hear me. Or didn't understand me. Or didn't want to think about it. Surveying his wingèd beauty, he said, “How do you like her?"

  “You'll never get it off the ground."

  He laughed. “Well, let's go—oops."

  “What do you mean, oops?"

  “You got your chute on all right, but you better snap that there buckle in front."

  “Here? This?"

  “Yep, snap it ... there you go. There you go. Be bad luck if you pulled the ripcord and the chute opened, and then you fell out."

  I sort of blacked out. I had a vision. I was falling through the air, next to Vanada. I pulled the ripcord and pow, my chute opened and floated off in the air, way above me, higher and higher, and Vanada kept cackling, “There you go ... there you go...” his voice getting fainter and fainter, until —

  “What's the matter?” Vanada said. “You feeling ill?"

  “Yes."

  “You don't feel good?"

  “Yes, I don't. But it doesn't matter. I've got to go through with it. Can't back out now."

  “OK. Wait'll I climb in and you can spin the prop."

  “Spin the prop, huh?"

  He climbed in with the agility of an eighty-year-old invalid, and I took a careful look at our bird. It had two wings, one above the other—one almost above the other—a tail section, two wheels, and a prop. There were two holes in the body's top. Cockpits. Vanada was in the front one, fiddling with things.

  “Contact!” he yelled.

  “Oh, come on."

  He waved me over to the propeller and told me how to turn it, then give it a yank. I said, “What've you got, a big spring in there? Or—"

  “Contact!"

  I got the thing buzzing on the second try, then stepped back aghast. It was going hickety-hock-hocket ... ppppshaw, hickety-hock. I stood there, analyzing the situation. It was that ppppshaw that bothered me.

  But Vanada yelled for me to climb in, “Quick, quick!” and I threw my heavy, stuffed gunnysack into the rear cockpit and climbed in myself, positively blue with panic. Now I knew why he had those patches on his knees. He prayed a lot. We were moving, hitting what seemed to be big holes in the ground. Clunk, clank.

  Then the clunking and clanking stopped. There was only the whee of the wind and hickety-pshaw ... hock. We were airborne. It was four-thirty. Vanada had given me a pair of goggles, too, and I slipped them over my eyes. After a couple more minutes it wasn't so bad. Sounded awful, but we were soaring along nicely. Way up in the air. I began thinking anything was possible. Maybe it would work after all.

  It had to. If it didn't, on top of all the other crimes I was suspected of would be added a couple dozen more. Probably the penalty was immediate execution. I opened the top of my gunnysack and took a last look at my handiwork.

  Back there in Brown's Motel, after listening to David Emerson, I'd been so fired up that my brain had gone Click-click and in a trice all had become clear as a smogless day. The answer had been in Emerson and Tolstoy all along—as in Emerson quoting Tolstoy—from the sentence “It is only needful that each individual should say what he really feels or thinks, or at least that he should not say what he does not think,” clear on up to and including “And that which yesterday was the novel opinion of one man, today becomes the general opinion of the majority."

  The majority—that was the ticket. That was the ticket I wanted to convince. And if Tolstoy was right, they probably agreed with me already. All I had to do was remind them. What could be simpler? All I had to do was tell the truth. So I had written it all down: The whole ball of wax.

  Being hired, talking to Sebastian, Mordecai Withers, Johnny Troy. The dates of Francis Boyle's jail term and the date when the record “Annabel Lee” was made. Tony Anguish's confession. Joe Rice's admission that he'd contributed $200,000 to Humble's campaign. I charged Ulysses Sebastian, Mordecai Withers, and Gary Baron with making false statements, deliberately distorting the facts, on Baron's Sunday-night telecast. I included only things I knew, and not my conclusions, hoping enough people would draw the same conclusions from the facts. But I gave them plenty of material.

  Once it was all down, there remained the problem of seeing to it that people did get those facts. That the story wasn't buried. There was one way to be certain of getting the story to police, newspapers, on the air, to the general public, all at once. I had nine thousand copies printed.

  The one stop before Vanada's had been at a big job-shop printer's where I'd done business for years. The owner knew me well—he had to know me well to do what I'd asked. It took some persuasion and a large check, but he did it, and with maximum speed and efficiency at that. The sheets were half the size of a newspaper's front page, and he printed nine thousand of them, and just a bit more.

  Then I'd hired my plane. And—well, the final step was about to begin.

  I pulled out one of the sheets. In bold black letters across the top was printed: “sex—murder—rape—mafia—read all about politics!"

  Well, maybe I did include one little conclusion of mine, if only by implication.

  To make certain the leaflet would be widely read, just in case that wasn't enough—and also because I'd written it—it was signed in big type: “shell scott."

  I'd told Vanada simply to head for downtown Los Angeles, and now I could see the tall Sunset-Vine Tower, the Los Angeles Federal Savings Building, up ahead at the corner of Sunset and Vine. We would pass a little to the left of it, between there and the corner of Hollywood and Vine. The heart of Hollywood; it seemed a good place to start.

  I grabbed a double handful of the leaflets, held them out over the side of the plane—and hesitated. It was, of course, a hell of a time to be wondering if this was really a good idea. But it swept over me that once I let go and those sheets of paper started fluttering down toward Hollywood, I'd have a pretty hard time getting them back. Yessiree, Bob. Should I? I thought. Yeah, why not? I let go.

&nb
sp; Swoop, they were whipped back behind the plane. Then down they went, separating, fluttering, dwindling, getting smaller in my sight as they spread out above the city. That did it; I'd done it.

  Victor Vanada craned his head around and yelled over the sound of the engine and wind, “What in hell you doing?"

  “I dropped some little pieces of paper,” I yelled.

  “Looked pretty big to me."

  “OK, I dropped some big pieces of paper."

  He nodded, staring at me.

  “Watch where you're going!” I yelled.

  He shrugged, turned his head and we went hickety-hock on toward Los Angeles. The Hollywood Freeway was below and on our left, jammed with cars going in both directions. I tossed out a handful of my fact sheets, then another. I had lots of them. As we neared the City Hall, Civic Center, Police Building, I glanced over my shoulder. Way back, there was one hell of a traffic jam on the Freeway. I could see little dots I thought might be people scurrying about. Cars seemed to be aimed not merely in both but in all directions, every which way.

  Over the Los Angeles Police Building I gave it a real go, throwing out two double handfuls, then another handful as we turned and soared in an arc over the city. Phil Samson would soon be reading my defense. I spotted the Hamilton Building on Broadway between Third and Fourth—where my office is—and had Vanada fly low over it while I tossed out another gob, more as a sentimental gesture than anything else. Then we headed back toward the airstrip we'd started from.

  I was down at the bottom of my gunnysack by now, and I gathered up the last handful as we flew over Hollywood again. Up ahead were the green contours of an eighteen-hole golf course, green of fairways, deeper green of greens, beige of bunkers. Little people down there locked in grim combat over a little ball, worrying about their scores. I'd give them my last handful. Might as well reach the country-club set, too; let them in on it.

  It was kind of nice up here. Peaceful. Above it all. You get an entirely different view of things. I began feeling almost euphoric. Everything was going to be all right, fine and dandy. Down there on earth were millions of people, a lot of them by now getting my message. Some impressed, others feeling “So what?” and others hating me. Probably plenty hating me. No telling what kind of feverish pitch they'd been raised to since I'd been out of touch. So they wouldn't be likely to believe my printed story right off the bat. It would take some time for the truth to be absorbed, digested, accepted. Despite Tolstoy. So right now, I'd have been willing to bet, a lot of those citizens were virtually frothing at the mouth when they even thought about me. Killer, fiend, monster. Hating, hating, hating!

  It was a good thing I was way up here where they couldn't get their hands on me.

  And then —

  The engine made an ominous sound. And since it was damned ominous to begin with, it just about scared my pants off. From an almost soothing hickety-hock-hocket ... ppppshaw, it changed and went: hick-hick-hock and then ppppshaw-waw-waw and then just ppppppppp.

  There was no mistaking it. Something was wrong.

  Vanada pulled his head around and said, “I was afraid of that,” and he didn't look happy-go-lucky, either.

  Then something went spong!

  “What's that?” I yelled.

  “There goes a strut,” he yelled without looking around.

  “What in hell's a strut?"

  Spong!

  There went another one, whatever it was. I didn't know what it was, but I was pretty sure we needed it. Then, for an unforgettable moment, it was: Spong-pppppppp-hocket—hocket—wow—spong—spong—spong—spong—spong—ppppppppp.

  And then zowie! The engine stopped entirely.

  A wing on my left bent downward.

  “Hey-hoy,” Vanada yelled. “There she goes. Got to bail out."

  “Bail out, huh?” I said. Then there was a little pause. “Bail out?"

  “Yup."

  “OUT? OUT where?"

  “Where else?"

  “Where?"

  He jerked a thumb.

  Later, perhaps, I would realize his thumb had made a very pithy remark. But not yet.

  I said, “Are you out of your mind?” Zoop, he was gone. I leaned over the cockpit and yelled at him, “Are you out of your cotton-picking mind? Why, the very idea is ridic—"

  Oh, he was way down there.

  He was gone. He'd jumped out of the plane, all right. I was alone. Here in ... aloneness.

  But I wouldn't panic. Not much. Wind whistled past my ears, and out of my mouth, like a gas well coming in. Ahead of me, Vanada's parachute opened, bloomed whitely. Sure. He'd kept the new parachute.

  Then a sticky thought stuck me.

  Ahead of me?

  He should be way down below me. And even behind me. If I was flying along on a level—Ah, that was it. I wasn't flying along on a level. I was diving. I was preparing to crash. Yeah, that explained it. In fact, if old Vanada didn't get out of the way, he'd get what for. I grabbed for the joystick or whatever they call the thing down there, so I could pull the plane's nose back up. I was full of ideas; I was ready to climb out there and fix that wing, tack those spongs back on. But there was no stick. No joy, either. Nothing but my empty gunnysack.

  Feeling its rough gunnysacking between my fingers, I thought: It's a sign. It's a sign I shouldn't have done it. This is my karma. Instant karma, that's what. I'm paying for my sin before I even get to commit it.

  I'd missed Vanada. He was way back behind me now. I was close enough to earth by this time that I could clearly see four guys on one of the greens below. I've always figured if I had to die, I'd like to die in bed. Even my bed. But I was going to die on a golf course.

  No, by golly! Moving like lightning, I had the safety belt unbelted and my legs uncoiling and then I was out of the plane, tumbling through space, grabbing the ring of the ripcord and yanking it.

  Nothing happened. That goddamned Vanada —

  But then the chute opened with a crack. It was my back that cracked. Vertebrae snapped and popped and rearranged themselves in new combinations. But the chute was open and I was still a good hundred yards from the ground.

  There was a great thudding, crashing, rending, and ripping sound as the plane tore into the fairway and exploded. Flames leaped up and licked at the fuselage.

  I was turning in the air, and I just happened to turn toward those four golfers below me on the putting green. I'm told that golfers are very serious about their game. Especially when putting. They've got to have absolute quiet. You can't even say, “Shh."

  One of them was lying flat on his back on the grass, rigid. Another was running wildly through a sand trap, both arms waggling above his head. A third was squatting with his hands over his ears. There wasn't a fourth guy. I guess he was a very speedy guy.

  Don't let anybody tell you that you just float to earth when you parachute. You, land as if you'd jumped out of a second-story window. My feet were under me when I hit but my knees buckled and I went down pretty hard. But nothing broke, and I seemed unsprained. I yanked on lines and rolled, managed to spill the air from my chute, started trying to get out of the contraption.

  Just as I got loose, I saw those three remaining golfers. They were staring at me. Then one of them jumped straight up in the air, like those guys in old Mack Sennett comedies, and started running at me. The other two charged after him, brandishing their putters. Some of these golfers bet pretty heavily, I'm told.

  Then I heard some yelling and yowling. On my right maybe a dozen guys were sprinting toward me, some of them waving pieces of paper. Well, I wouldn't have taken offense, really, except that those were my own pieces of paper. So they knew. On the fringes of the small crowd two guys at the steering wheels of electric golf carts came at me, hunched over like daredevil racers. They were going a good fifteen miles an hour, but it was still too fast to suit me.

  A couple of hundred yards beyond them, up at the top of a rise before a big red-brick clubhouse, more carts were in motion. There mu
st have been two or three dozen of them coming down the hill like a fleet of small tanks, some just getting started, others well on their way.

  They'd heard, too.

  I jumped straight up in the air like that golfer, spun about and ran. I didn't know where I was going, but a sign told me when I passed the seventh tee, a 480-yard par-five hole, and I made it to the green in what I was positive must be a new record for the distance. An arrow pointed up the eighth fairway, a short par three, and I veered that way, sprinting, arms pumping, legs driving, tongue hanging out—Then I thought: What am I doing? Where the hell am I going? I'm not golfing. So I angled right and sped into the rough.

  I was running from the dozen running guys, the two fiends in golf carts, those other descending vigilantes in the two or three dozen golf carts, but mainly I was flying away from those three golfers who'd been on the green. It would be bad enough to get killed by being shot with a big .45-caliber automatic, or even brained by a golfer with a driver—but those guys with putters? What a way to go!

  “Yeah, they caught him in the rough off the eighth fairway. Real heavy rough off the eighth there. Yeah, putted him to death."

  It gave wings to my feet. I flew. They didn't have a chance to catch me in golf carts. They couldn't have caught me on horses, mountain goats, cheetahs.

  And they didn't.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When the cab pulled over to the curb four miles from the Ellendale Golf and Country Club, where I had put a large hole—and an airplane—into the middle of the sixth fairway, I ducked into the back seat, keeping my face averted, and stroking my beard.

  Yes, I still had the beard and hat. During the plane ride I'd stuck them both into my pants pockets. I hadn't really realized I'd be using them again so soon, but in this life you never know.