Sam studied me for a few seconds, then said to me exactly what Kiffer had at one point: Say that again.
The difference was that Samson had followed my words with a much livelier intelligence than Kiffers, and added, This time lets get it on tape. He punched a button and I went over it again, knowing the words were being recorded.
After fifteen seconds of silence, during which Samson gently rubbed his big jaw with a bent forefinger, he asked, You mention four hoods, F, G, H, I. But you say the one who skipped was either F or G. Why not H or I?
I is Mac Kiffer himself. He told me one of the others in on this action got knocked off a couple of years back. That one was probably Casey, the guy I plugged myself that night in the alley when I also put a couple into Lash. No matter; I simply crossed off H for him, which leaves only F and G.
All right. What else did Kiffer tell you, either on purpose or by accident?
Well, D is Eddy Lash —
Kiffer told you that?
Not exactly. But he said, if he gets a soft deal youll be able to put Eddy Lash, among others, away. F, G, H and I are all hoods, they work for the boss, D. I is Kiffer, who when he did work for another man worked for Eddy. Thus D, the boss, is Eddy Lash.
Two homicides, not many hours apart. That right?
Right. Number one in the afternoon or evening, not premeditated, according to Kiffer. Either lead-piped, sapped or beaten to death; at least that’s the impression I got. But number two was planned, and was shot to death the next morning — plugged, to use Kiffers word.
Samson left the room for two or three minutes, then came back and sat down again. He pulled out a desk drawer, fiddled — rewinding the tape — then clamped his strong teeth on one of his foul black cigars while listening to the replay. After my last comment . . . plugged, to use Kiffers word, Sam reached into the drawer and I knew we were recording again.
OK, he said, speaking around the already well-chewed cigar. Whats this evidence Kiffer tried to sell you?
Beats me. He claims its solid, but weve got only his word. He cant put his hands on it, not right now at least. But he insists its available. He also insists it will for sure put Eddy Lash away, and presumably others.
Whyd he spill this to you? Even in his idiotic code.
I put it in code. Captain Samson, sir, I said, hurt to the quick. In order that it would make at least a little sense.
Whyd he spill it?
Mainly to keep from getting hit in the biscuit, he says. Actually, the reasons twofold: Put Lash and chums in the slammer for big time, and stay alive himself. Even if he has to take a soft fall.
Hell take a fall, all right. Even if every bit of this is straight, which isn’t likely from a guy as crooked as Kiffer. Samson shifted the cigar to the other corner of his mouth. He thinks Lash is the one trying to kill him, huh?
Kiffers certain of it, and the word he picked up is that the trigger man was Luddy. Clarence Ludlow.
Yeah, Sam said. Could be. What else you got?
Kiffers scared, no doubt about that. If Eddy Lash figures Kiffer knows too much — especially info that could hurt Lash himself — and even might spill that info, then Eddy would without any hesitation try to knock him off. And, as Kiffer himself indicated, when Eddy wants a fellow killed, the fellow rarely if ever dies of pneumonia. Which makes it seem all the more likely that Kiffers leveling. Hell spill his guts if he can cop a reasonable plea.
Well see about that. But I’ll talk to the Chief and the DA personally — unless the Chief wants to see the DA himself.
Nobody could ask for more. Heres another item. I told Kiffer Lash visited Gideon Cheim in his hospital room today, and Mac got all goose-pimply with excitement to know why. When I told him Cheim claimed Lash was looking for Wilfred Jellicoe — the missing chap I told you about — it kind of turned him on. It seemed, in some strange way, to reinforce his conviction that Lash was the boy trying to knock him off — but not for the reason Kiffer figured it was at first.
You haven’t had any luck getting next to this Jellicoe?
Not yet.
How come, if you’re on a simple missing-person job, you’re spending so much time lollygagging with the likes of Kiffer and Eddy Lash?
Lollygagging? You make it sound as if I’ve been on a picnic at Shangri-la. Sam, old buddy, I have actually been doing your work for you, and one would think youd have more —
How come? he repeated patiently.
Because that’s the way its happened. Besides which, the way I see it, Jellicoe’s got to be in this up to his ears. He assuredly has possession of Cheims stinking life story, or Revealing Chapters Concerning Hollywoods Backside, whatever it is. There’s blackmail material in those pages, unquestionably. I figure Jellicoe’s simply lying low for now, hiding out for a while. Consider the sequence of events, and all the sudden sweat, Sam. Jellicoe pops out of his rooms sometime early Friday. Sunday afternoon Luddy — or whoever — makes a good try at knocking off Kiffer. Today I’m hired by Jellicoe’s ex, get tailed by Kiffer and Putrid, go around and around with Cheim, run into Lash and have to push his mouth in, and among other things experience the rare dialogue with Kiffer which I’ve just related. It starts simply enough with his ex-wife wanting me to find Jellicoe, but then it turns out Cheim wants me to find him. Lash is looking for him, Kiffer is also among those eager to know where our boy is, and half a dozen people appear to be having fits. I paused. This is merely a boy avoiding payment of alimony?
Wouldn’t seem so, Sam remarked oddly. He was also gazing upon me oddly. I believe I heard you say you had to push Lashs mouth in. Was that it?
I winced. Now, Sam, don’t get your bowels in a ferment. I know you don’t — ah — appreciate it when I lower the boom on these chaps. But some of these chaps are not nice chaps, and they seem to have a way of getting my back up. . . .
I let it trail off. Then I said briskly, But, Sam, were overlooking the really important things — the vital clues, so to speak. One moment, and I shall delight you by recounting the opportunities which lie before us.
I got up, pulled an ashtray over to the corner of Sams desk, straddled my chair again and lit a cigarette. Puffing away, I said, We can now pin down several of the items Mac Kiffer mentioned, items which tell us more than he meant them to tell. We know Kiffer hasn’t worked for Lash during the past two years; thus the twin homicides must have occurred prior to two years ago. Further, the first man killed, in the afternoon of an as yet unknown day, was hauled off that night and buried by several hoodlum gravediggers. Thus, to wife, children, relatives, he would at first be only a missing person — and undoubtedly would have been so reported. The premedicated — that’s Kiffers word; maybe they doped the victim — murder was a shooting, occurring on the very next morning and is undoubtedly of record. All you need do is run through the files and find two open cases — a missing person not yet found, and a murdered man whose killer has not been apprehended. If the dates check — Whats the matter?
Samson was smiling, almost sadly, and shaking his head.
But he didn’t speak, so I went on, with enthusiasm. Even more exciting, Sam, in addition to closing those two cases, well know the dates of the crimes. And those dates can, with a little cagey detective work, help to pin down which one of Lashs boys skipped with —
I stopped.
A detective sergeant had just come into Sams office and deposited some brown envelopes, folders and papers, in three separate piles on his desk. That’s the first run-through, Captain, he said. More coming up from R and I, but this is everything you asked to see first. He started out.
But Sam said, Hold it. He was examining the contents of the top envelope, or package, in the left-hand stack. He handed it to the sergeant, saying, This one was only with Lash a month, then took off for Florida. I Division says he’s in town again. If it was him, he wouldn’t have come back.
The sergeant took the package and left.
Samson continued studying the brown envelopes, and the folders,
and said, Hmm, completely ignoring me.
When I started becoming bored — which was almost instantly — I said, That’s what you were doing when you left for a few minutes, huh?
Hmm, he said again, looking at a typed sheet of paper.
In less than five more minutes he had selected one item from each of the three stacks before him, pushing all the rest across the desk toward me.
While I sat there like a dummy, Sam made several phone calls to other departments within the Police Building. To the last individual, whom he had instructed to contact a man named Zinger, he said, If he isn’t home, try his office. He might still be there. And get right back to me with it.
I happened to know that an Oscar Zinger owned a theater called the Dionysia. I stubbed out one cigarette, lit another and said sweetly, Ahead of me on the burlesque cutey, too, hey. General?
Sam tapped the three items he’d stacked in front of him and said, I think its here. I think weve got it.
We? Why, all I did was give you a little bit of the alphabet, Sam.
Don’t sulk, he said agreeably. Actually, he seemed almost happy. Shell, he continued gently, we of the Los Angeles Police Department do appreciate your unending efforts on our behalf. But it hurts when you assume we cannot function without the aid of your peculiar talents.
Ah, you’re just still sore at me because I wiped out the whole Jimmy Violet Gang in that fun sex-club case. And — well — maybe because I killed and mangled so many of them, and burned up the garage and those four cars, and . . . you know. But, hell, you put me in jail, didn’t you? Wont anything satisfy you? Do I have to — Sam, I’ll shut up.
Samson had reached into the middle drawer of his desk where he kept his long wooden kitchen matches, the kind that used to come in big boxes — where he got them I have never been able to discover. He took out one of the matches and lit it.
Not a peep, Sam.
I don’t think it was merely the gagging odor that filled the room when Sam smoked one of those black monstrosities. That was foul enough, of course, but I had a hunch there was something in the smoke to which I was truly allergic, an acid which gnawed at my nostrils, a poison which clawed my throat, a gaseous cirrhosis which headed straight for my liver. It was Sams ultimate weapon: When he lit one, I left. Especially when — as he almost invariably did — he blew enormous, boiling clouds of the faintly green smoke at me.
But this time he let the match burn, appeared to be making a decision, then blew the match out. You are ready, then, for a short lesson on police procedure, Sheldon?
I’m all ears, Captain, sir. I wait, silently, to be blinded by your brilliance. Hey, how about that? I wait, all ears, to be blinded —
I thought he was going to get another match, but instead he said, It isn’t brilliance, Shell. Sometimes, sure. Even a cop gets brilliant sometimes. But ordinarily its simple, routine police procedure. Look, you told your tale as spilled to you by Kiffer and arranged, in probably even less comprehensible order, by you. All right, I started with the assumption that, despite the damned alphabet, the facts were basically true. And — though I hate to admit it — you do, sometimes, draw a correct conclusion from assembled facts.
I nodded — silently — in agreement.
But you, Shell, suggested that we run through the files and find two unsolved cases — a missing person still missing, a murder unsolved, and so forth. That would be doing it the hard way. To the police mind, the logical, the routine procedure would be to begin with the relevant factor most easily checked. Namely, the member of Eddy Lashs shirting collection of heavies and thieves who left suddenly and of whom no more has since been heard.
I began nodding slowly as Sam continued. They are limited in number. We have records on every man who has in recent years been associated with Lash. We eliminate those still with him. We eliminate those who are dead or in prison.
OK, I said a bit sourly, I get the point. And you’re right, dammit.
During the five-year period beginning seven years ago and ending two years ago — the period during which Kiffer worked for Lash — all could be eliminated except six men. He tapped the stack of thick envelopes on his left, the packages nearest me. Only four were there now, since Sam had given one back to the sergeant, and had one in front of him.
Interestingly, he went on, in the package of one Henny Augrest is a notation to the effect that Henny had been seen on a number of occasions with a lady named — professionally — Scarlett OHarem —
You’re kidding.
If youd prefer her given name, it is Meribelle Webster. The Intelligence Division has a couple of pages on her, too, since, as the featured dancer at the Dionysia, one of our local burlesque houses, she met numerous unsavory characters. As well, I suppose, as some savory ones. Probably including you. He paused. You. remember Henny Augrest?
Yeah. They called him Ogre, but he wasn’t all that bad-looking. And I suppose on the date of the Ogres egress from LA, Miss Scarlett OHarem — really?
Really.
— also failed to appear and joyously fling off her clothing at the Dionysia.
Sam nodded. Looks that way. Were making sure of that now. But itll merely be confirmation. He pointed to the middle stack. Homicides. Victims shot. All DOAs, earlier than noon, and killed on a date within three days of the filing of a missing-person report which is still open. He pointed to the right-hand stack. Missing-person reports.
Pretty good, Sam. So its Henny?
We lost him in August, four years ago. Exact date unknown, but weve nothing on him since that month. Nothing since on Miss Webster, either. What looks like the clincher is this. He picked up the missing-person report in front of him and said, Heres a young guy name of Roger David, semipro baseball player. Turned up missing in August four years ago, no trace of him since.
Whats the date when the report was filed? And who filed it?
Davids wife. She called the department on August twelfth, came in the next day and filled out the report. That was Tuesday, the thirteenth. But she said her husband went out somewhere Sunday and didn’t come home Sunday night at all. So if he’s the one, he’s been dead since then.
Uh-huh. Dead — and buried Sunday night. Lets see if I can guess the rest of it. Sunday night would have been . . . August eleventh. So the homicide victim, a guy shot to death, case unsolved, still open, no known motive — which I presume you have before you — was a DOA reported on the morning of Monday, August twelfth.
True. There is hope for you yet. Shell. Only it was a woman. Anne Ericson, or Mrs. Curtis Ericson, thirty-one years old, shot four times by a person or persons unknown, as she was leaving her home for work as a dentists assistant. Call to the complaint board received at seven-o-two a.m. Monday, August twelfth. Same day Mrs. David phoned in about her hubby. Which would seem to hit it on the button.
Sams phone rang. He grabbed it, made a couple notes on a pad, then said, OK, tell him the entire department apologizes to him for the inconvenience, and convey any expressions of gratitude which come to mind. He listened a bit longer, said, By the way, good work, Johnny, and hung up.
I raised an eyebrow. Scarlett? That is, Miss Webster?
Yeah. Did her shows as usual at the Dionysia on Thursday, but didn’t show up at all the next day. Which was Friday, of the same August, date the sixteenth.
All in a week, less than a week. Give Henny — cross off G for Augrest — a couple days to make up his mind, a couple more to sell his stuff to Mr. E, and it fits top to bottom, both ends and in the middle.
Sam played the tape back again. While listening, either Sam or I would speak, substituting a name for a letter. It made quite a bit more sense this time. After the tape ended I said, One of those hoods has to be Vic Pine. He’s been with Lash for the seven years you checked up on, and more. Luddys only been with Eddy about three years, Burper less than that. Besides, Vic is Eddys nearly constant companion. A hundred to one Vic was in on the whole thing.
Agreed, Sam said. He chewed on his cig
ar. Maybe we better pick Kiffer up, bring him in.
On what charge?
True. There arent many left for a cop to use.
Besides, Kiffer sees fuzz coming at him, he might change his mind entirely. If he’s going to come in under his own steam, thered better be something in it for that boy. Something better than a ten-to-life, too.
Sam said, I wont be able to see the DA or the Chief until morning. But I’ll have a talk with them then.
Yeah. Well, tomorrows another day. And I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night. I stood up and stretched so hard I heard something pop in my back.
Well, Sam, old buddy, I said cheerfully, now that I’ve practically solved two murders for you, revealed the existence of numerous heinous crimes and the criminous bounders who heinously committed them, provided you with a joker who will blab his guts out in the interests of justice and survival, and have even demonstrated that the Ogre skipped away with Scarlett OHarem — doesnt that have a lovely sound? — I believe I shall go home and fall into a coma.
Sam grinned. Well, if I’ve got to be honest, you did help. A little.
Gosh, I said gratefully. Then I left and went down in the elevator, out to the lot and into my Cad.
Then, just a bit wearily, I tooled the Caddy toward Hollywood and home, the Spartan Apartment Hotel, looking forward to a good, long, refreshing sleep.
Which, of course, I didn’t get.
13
I was dreaming of a redheaded american indian tomato who was doing a striptease. Just for me.
When there was nothing further she could accomplish in that direction, she walked slowly toward me — she looked, I noted, like a combination of Sylvia and Zena and an Indian nudist Id once met at a Sunshine Camp — and, stopping inches from me, gazing at me with unconcealed lust in her eyes, she said, You look very brave, and I said, You look very squaw, and she said, We go tee-pee, and I said, Crazy, and she said, When I stamp my feet in dance, the bells tinkle, and damned if she didn’t stamp her feet, and sure enough there were bells tinkling.
The Cheim Manuscript (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 13
