The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  My name’s Shell Scott, Mr. Ragan. I’m a private detective.

  Detective?The other brow rode up above his glasses. You’re here to see me?

  That’s right. Well, it’s really about some people you know. At least, I think you know them.

  He started to speak, then stuck out his hand, shook mine, and said, Come in, please. We might as well be comfortable.

  I followed him into a small hallway. Ragan walked to a door on our left, opened it, waved me through ahead of him into a living room, large and very attractive. It was bright, with a lot of reddish-yellow and burnt orange, a pair of white fluffy-looking hassocks, and an enormous white sectional divan.

  Sit down, Mr. Scott,he said pleasantly, indicating the divan. Would you care for a drink?

  Thanks, I wouldn’t mind. Bourbon?

  Sure. Soda?

  Just water.

  He walked toward the corner of the room. I didn’t see anything that looked like a bar there. Ragan stopped before a barely visible foot-square screen in the wall, pushed a button next to it, and spoke into the screen. Harwell, a bourbon and water for my guest, and my usual. Bring some of those little crab things, will you?

  And from the intercom’s speaker, Right away, sir.

  Ragan came back to the divan, sat down, and said to me, smiling, All right, who are these people you wanted to ask me about?

  He was so pleasant, and charming, I felt a little grieved at having to ask him about crooks and hoodlums. Elroy Werzen, for one,I said.

  He pushed his full lips forward slightly, and his neat brows lowered as he shook his head silently.

  James Collett?

  He continued to shake his head. There must be some mistake, Mr. Scott. Am I supposed to know who these people are?

  Well, I’m not sure, really. How about an Alvin Hauk?He shook his head some more. Edward Brett, called Buddy? Incidentally, the man Werzen I mentioned is also known as Puffer, and Hauk is called Al the Clam.

  He scowled, beginning to look somewhat — quite a bit — less charming. I really fail to understand why you’re here, Mr. Scott. Who are these men?

  Most of them are hoods, ex-cons. But —

  Hoods? What the hell makes you think I’d know any ex-convicts?

  There was a little more starch in his voice this time, more muscle. But I couldn’t blame the man for being somewhat bugged if he’d never heard of the characters I’d mentioned. Just fishing,I said. It’s a large part of my job, and routine for me. I don’t mean to offend you, Mr. Ragan —

  Oh, it isn’t that, but — well, I’m active in a number of civic and political organizations. If you have some reason to believe I might know these men, and presumably you must, I’d like to know what possible connection you feel there could be between such men and me.

  Fair enough. It’s all pretty thin, but for one thing, I saw Hauk, Werzen, and Collett outside the Weir Building earlier today. They were talking to a man who might have been you — I don’t say it was you, Mr. Ragan. I’m not —

  The Weir Building?he interrupted, showing some interest. I have a suite of offices there.

  I know.

  He paused, head slightly lowered, staring at me. What do you mean, this man might have been me? I assure you, it was not, Mr. Scott.

  I said might’ because I wasn’t sure. He was about your size and build, dark-haired, that’s all.

  And these people were congregated somewhere around the building in which I have my offices.He smiled. Thin . . . is hardly the word.

  There was a nice sharp edge to his voice, and I had no doubt that Ragan could turn nasty enough to clabber milk if he put his mind to it.

  I smiled, leaned an inch or two closer to him. I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr. Ragan, so relax. If all I’m doing is wasting my time, and yours —

  Ragan glanced past me, saying, Thank you, Harwell.

  A short dark-skinned man wearing black trousers and a white shirt with long collars and French cuffs appeared, placed a tray on the table in front of the divan, smiled broadly at the far wall, and quietly left, still smiling.

  Ragan handed me my drink in a squat gold-rimmed glass, and said more pleasantly, Try some of these, Mr. Scott. I assure you, they’re delicious.He pushed a small plate filled with crispy-looking oddities toward me.

  I bit into one. It was one of the crab thingsRagan had spoken of. Delicious,I said. It was.

  Crab Rangoon. Or Rangoon-Harwell. One of his specialties; he’s a marvelous cook.

  He sure is.

  Was that all, Mr. Scott?

  I hadn’t even chewed up the first crab Rangoon, or Rangoon-Harwell. Yeah,I said. I hate to eat and run, but . . . There is one more little item. Another name. Do you mind?

  Why should I mind?

  Beats me. Aralia Fields.

  Who?

  I bit into another of the crab things, had a swallow of my drink. Ragan was shaking his head, the full lips pushed forward again. No . . . I — the name . . . I may have heard the name somewhere, but . . . No.

  One of the guys I mentioned phoned you recently, from Hollywood, about her. I assume it was about her.

  He smiled. You assume a good deal, don’t you, Mr. Scott?

  Don’t we all? You’re certain you know none of the individuals I’ve mentioned, and that none of them phoned you about Aralia Fields — or anything else?

  He was still smiling. When should I have received this alleged call?

  I was hoping you could tell me,I said.

  I’m sorry. I know you hate to eat and run, as you yourself phrased it —

  I’d been holding the rolled-up copy of Frolic in my left hand all this time. I tossed it over the couch toward him and said, Page thirty-eight. She’s at the top, name’s circled in red. A phone number’s written there, too, in red ink. Your phone number.

  The smile faded slowly as the lips were pushed forward once more and the neat brows lowered. He looked at the nude shot of Aralia, cocked his head on one side. That is my phone number. Of course, it wouldn’t be difficult for almost anyone to find out what my number is —

  It’s not in the L.A. book.

  He looked directly at me. The number is unpublished, but listed. Which means anyone could get it from the operator.

  Let’s assume that’s what the fellow did.

  His lips twitched, but then he gazed past my shoulder, cocked his head to one side again and said, Ah, yes . . . of course.He paused, nodded. Aralia. I thought that name was familiar.Ragan looked at the half-page photograph again. So this is Aralia. I understand now.

  I wish I did.

  You shall, Mr. Scott. A few nights ago a friend of mine, another attorney, phoned me here. It was quite late. He was at the home of one of his clients. At least, he said he was with a client, and I assume he was at the individual’s home. My friend had there seen a photograph of an extravagantly lovely young lady, as he described her — this must be what he saw — and asked if I might be able to arrange for him to meet her.He paused. As I’ve mentioned, Mr. Scott, and as my friend is aware, I have a rather wide acquaintance here in Southern California among, well, people who get things done, shall we say?

  It’s O.K. by me. Was it wide enough?

  I beg your pardon?

  Were you able to arrange the meeting?

  Oh, no, I wasn’t. I see what you mean; no, in this case my contacts were disappointingly narrow. I wasn’t even able to learn where the lady lives. And, too, I was damnably busy, preparing an important brief that had to be filed with the court clerk by ten the next morning. So, after a perfunctory effort, I simply forgot about my friend’s request, if you want the truth.

  That’s what I want. Would you remember when this guy with the hots called?

  With what?

  When your attorney friend phoned to request your help in locating Miss Fields?

  Oh . . . I’m sure, a few days ago. First of the week, I’d say. Monday, perhaps Tuesday.

  I smiled. Well, it would be the night before
you had to file that important brief at ten the next morning, wouldn’t it?

  I guess you could say he gave me a rather hard look then. So it would,he said mildly. You’re very helpful, Mr. Scott. Yes, I filed the brief yesterday, Thursday morning. So I must have received the call Wednesday night.

  Maybe, like, around eleven p.m.?

  It was before midnight.

  Right. Well, thanks, Mr. Ragan.I crunched the last of those puffy crab things between my teeth. They really were tasty little cookies. Then I got to my feet.

  I held out my hand, and Ragan leaned forward and shook it. But after he dropped his arm, my hand was still stuck out there. He looked at it for a while.

  Something . . .?

  I’d like my magazine back.

  Oh, of course. Where . . .

  He felt around, found the magazine, which had somehow managed to get shoved down almost out of sight between a couple of the big cushions, next to his right leg.

  There you are, Mr. Scott,he said. I certainly wouldn’t want to deprive you of your reading matter.

  I grinned. Like you,I said quietly, I only look at the pictures.

  He flushed slightly and started to speak, but didn’t.

  I went on. I guess we’re safe in assuming the red-ink notations were made by the friend who phoned you. Right?

  Why, I would assume . . . of course. Yes, of course.

  Would you mind giving me his name, Mr. Ragan?I waited, added, Which would wrap this little matter up, so we could file it all in the wastebasket.

  He was silent so long, I thought he wasn’t going to reply. But at length he said flatly, Wallace Epplewhite. He’s an important man, Scott. Married. With many powerful friends. I would strongly suggest that you refrain from — bugging Mr. Epplewhite.

  I try not to bug anybody, Mr. Ragan. But, sometimes, I fail. Thanks again.

  We smiled at each other, much as two ladies in identical gowns at the annual ball might smile at each other across the crowded room. Which is to say, with no more warmth than a couple of one-watt light bulbs.

  Then I walked out, into velvet dusk laced with the faint scent of distant fertilizer, and tooled my Cad back toward town.

  Toward the extravagantly lovelyAralia, I hoped.

  But also, unavoidably, toward the sometimes unlovely captain, Phil Samson.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I knew, and knew very well, that I should get down to the Police Building with reasonable, if not remarkable, speed.

  But I intended to visit the Spartan first, at least briefly.

  Both before and immediately after my visit with Vincent Ragan I had stopped at a phone booth to call Aralia again, and each time, which made it three times now, there had been only the phone ringing, and ringing, unanswered.

  At the Spartan’s desk I stopped and asked Jimmy, the night man, if he’d seen Miss Fields go out.

  He smiled a dirty smile. Not since I let her into your place, Shell. That was hours —

  My place? She’s in my apartment now?

  Far as I know. She asked me to let her in. And like you once impressed on me with plenty of sincerity, any time a good-looking broad wants —

  What’s she doing up there, Jimmy?

  He gave me a dirty smile again.

  He was young, diligent, ambitious. But his head was filled with fantasies. I told him what would happen to him if he didn’t reform, then left him grimacing in mock horror and trotted up the stairs.

  At 212 I banged on the door. Nothing for a while. Then I hammered some more and called, For Pete’s sake, let me in, will you? I live here.

  That got results. Small shuffling or thumping sounds, somebody moving over the carpet, then click of lock and the door opened a crack. One eye, the clear hot blue of a small arc light, framed by a thick loop of strawberry-colored hair, eyed me.

  Then the soft warm voice, Oh, good! It’s you!

  Who else lives here? Besides us, I mean.I said it with a big smile.

  Come in, Shell, come in.

  Thanks.

  I went inside, shut and locked the door, leered at Aralia, who was wearing a smooth white blouse held precariously together in front with four small pearly buttons, the blouse itself so thin it was pink where the points of those high heavy breasts thrust against the cloth, and a pair of brief white shorts that I guess are called hip-huggers, or should be, even if they are not.

  Shell, I hope you’re not mad at me for asking Jimmy to let me wait here.

  Mad? I’m not even peevish —

  The phone was ringing till it almost drove me out of my mind! Newspaper reporters, television men, all kinds of people, even that policeman.

  I got a little twinge right there. But Aralia kept on going so fast, I wasn’t able to clearly define its source, which was unfortunate.

  And I got a call from people financing a . . . contest — it’s something I haven’t told you about yet, Shell.

  I think —

  But I will. Anyway, almost everybody knows everything there is to know about it, practically.

  What do you mean, practically?

  And then I started getting, oh, a little scared, too. So I thought I’d feel better here in your apartment. I hope you don’t mind.

  By this time we were sitting on the chocolate-brown divan in my living room, she in the middle, me very close to the middle. Mind?I said, smiling. Of course not. If I had a lick of sense I would have suggested it myself.

  You did suggest it. Last night.Her tender-looking lips were curving slightly in the soft start of a smile.

  Ah. Of course,I said. I remember, I think. At any rate, I’m glad you’re here, Aralia. For one thing, I have a few questions to ask you, and I’ve got only a minute —

  I didn’t get much sleep last night, anyway. Did you?

  Once I fell asleep, I did. But getting there took most of the night —

  I kept thinking about that naked man in my apartment. Is that what kept you awake, too, Shell?

  Well, pretty close.

  Oh, I’ve just been babbling on, and I haven’t even asked what you’ve been doing today.

  She stopped, and smiled sweetly at me.

  Is that a question?I asked her. Well, I snooped around, shot a guy . . . Oh-oh, now I remember. I knew there was something I had to do. You really should wear serapes, or shawls, or an asbestos dickey.

  You shot someone? Shot?

  Yeah. I’ll fill you in later. Right now time is short, and shortening. Let me throw some quick questions at you, O.K.?

  She nodded, bright eyes interested, fixed on my face.

  A little earlier I was thinking back to our conversation here last night. I remembered you said your mother remarried a man named Fields. Charles Fields. Right?

  Yes. Of course, Charlie ran off somewhere after a couple of years, so I never knew him. I don’t even remember him.

  What I’m getting at, if your stepfather’s name was Fields you weren’t born with that name. So what was your real father’s name?

  Amber. Of course, he died before I was born, you know. And Ma wanted us all to have Charlie’s name, so Petey and I just grew up with it. We didn’t really have anything to say about it.

  She was telling me something else, but I wasn’t listening. I was staring past her shoulder, head bent to one side, thinking — much, I suppose, as Vincent Ragan had earlier gazed past me after I mentioned Aralia’s name to him.

  Amber . . . Norman Amber. He was one of the men who’d been serving a sentence in San Quentin Prison during the time Buddy Brett was an inmate there, had even shared the same cell with Brett for a while.

  Aralia,I said, was your father’s first name Norman?

  Yes, but I never really knew him at all. . . .Her bright eyes widened and she held her lips in an Ofor a few seconds. How did you know that?

  I almost blurted out that I’d seen some info about his prison record, but stopped. Because clearly Aralia believed — all her life had believed — that her father was dead. Which, for all I k
new, maybe he was.

  I saw— I began, then went on — or read, heard, the name somewhere. I think. It’s not important. How about your mother, does she still use the name Fields?

  I suppose so, unless she married again after I left home. It was Laura Fields then, but I don’t know if it still is. I told you, I haven’t been back to Burbank since I went on my own.

  Uh-huh. Did she tell you much about your father? What he did, what kind of man he was?

  Aralia seemed surprised by the question, but after a moment answered, Ma didn’t say much about him, and never anything good when she did. Oh, she mentioned a few times that he was so smart — smart-head’ she called him, or old dumbsmart’ — she didn’t understand him half the time. He was some kind of engineer, and Ma said right after they were married he started puttering around and trying to invent things, instead of holding regular jobs — that was one of the things she couldn’t stand, I guess.Aralia shrugged, apparently having exhausted her fund of knowledge about him.

  How did he die? He must have been a fairly young man, I’d imagine.

  I think he was like thirty, maybe not that old. One of his inventions — some dumbsmart thing’ Ma called it — blew up, or electrocuted him, I’m not sure.

  There were other questions I might have asked, but I let them ride and said, Well, enough of this folderol, Aralia. Let’s get down to the really important things — or, why are you sitting here with your clothes on?

  What? Clothes on?

  Exactly.

  Don’t most people . . . oh. Do you think I should take my clothes off, Shell?

  Exactly. Ah . . . What I mean, would a pilot try to fly without wings? Would a general make a speech without his medals? Why, then, would Miss Naked USA — or, at least, California — appear without her identifying . . . ah. Let me have another go at it.

  I didn’t get a chance. Aralia sprang to her feet, smiling joyously, and clapped her hands. Oh, Shell, when you said Miss Naked USA’ it sounded so wonderful! I got a thrill all the way from my toes clear up to my nose.

  That’s quite a ways,I said, as she wiggled her nose, and possibly even her toes, enticingly.

  You know then, don’t you? I thought probably you must by now. I think I really do have a chance, Shell. To be Miss Naked USA, I mean. Maybe only a little chance, but I want it so much, and I have to think positively, don’t I?