The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I told you not to get cute, One-Shot.

  After a few more minutes of talk, without further additions to what he’d already said, I told Voister that wrapped it up. And I was already wondering what the hell we were going to do with him. So far, he hadn’t even asked for a lawyer or started demanding his release, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his mind any minute. And if he did, he would almost automatically be sprung; in an hour he’d hit the streets.

  I, and the police of course, desired that none of One-Shot’s associates learn anything whatever about what had happened to him today, or that he’d spilled all the info he possessed to the law and me. But ten minutes after One-Shot was sprung, they would know, I had no doubt about that. They would know, and therefore almost certainly change their plans.

  When somebody seriously desires to kill you and you know at least part of the where and when and how, you do not want them suddenly changing those intentions and formulating other plans for your violent demise, new plans about which you are totally uninformed.

  After a while I said to One-Shot, This isn’t an offer — I can’t make an offer, anyway, as a private citizen — but I’ve got a hypothetical question for you.

  A what?

  Just call it a question. Suppose I could pull a wire and help get you sprung, on the condition that you return to Jersey in police custody for a day or —

  Jersey? You nuts? I ain’t going back to Jersey.

  Well, I’m just trying to help you get out. Maybe —

  Man, you don’t comperhend it at all, do you? I don’t want out. I ain’t going nowheres.He was silent for several seconds, and I swear I almost felt sorry for him, he looked so sad, and crushed, and woebegone.

  Finally, he looked at me from those pale grayish eyes, which still looked a bit glassy, and said quietly, After this screw-up today — where would I go?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BEFORE leaving the Police Building, I stopped off in Homicide and took Rawlins out in the corridor.

  Same song,I said, but Voister remembered one little thing.I passed on the mention of Samson’s name, but that was as puzzling to Bill as it was to me.

  Incidentally,I went on, when I left One-Shot he was still feeling very sorry for himself. Feels he’s a failure, pride wounded to the quick, you know. Says he doesn’t want to be sprung, apparently resigned to taking the fall — but you know how quickly he might brace up and change his mind.

  Yeah. Which wouldn’t be so good.

  Especially not for me. I’d take it as a big favor if you can help keep him feeling the jug’s the only place for him.

  Do the best we can.

  And get word to me if he springs out onto the streets.

  Can do.

  And one more little favor, Bill.

  I think friends should do friends favors whenever it is within their power, Shell.

  I began getting a little suspicious of his sweetness.

  Yeah, sure,I said. Who’d argue with that? The thing is, some hood is bound to be calling One-Shot’s room at that motel, and might get shook if there’s no answer. It would be of great benefit if an officer — perhaps one with showbiz ambitions, shall we say? — could stake out in the room and answer the phone. He could say, pretending to be One-Shot, that a big white-haired ape with the eyebrows and such almost grabbed him but he got away, after being severely crashed on the head, and immediately has to split for distant places. Which would explain why he isn’t able to meet any of his friendly cohorts . . . You do understand, don’t you?

  Perfectly. You say it would be of great benefit?

  Certainly would, Bill. At least, could be a lot.

  Benefit to whom?

  Well . . . everybody? Me, of course. Me especially, I suppose.

  All right. It’s done.

  You’re a brick, Bill, you really —

  I mean, it’s already done. Man’s at the motel now. But I will pass on the bit about mentioning your description, hadn’t thought of that. He’s fleeing from a big ape, ugly-looking, selfish, mean as hell, white hair and those nutty eyebrows should tag you. Might add that his pursuer dresses in hideous loud taste, is a coldly selfish man, one who professes to believe that favors —

  Bill, I can’t stand to see you going downhill like this. I will introduce you to this charming girl, you know that, don’t you?

  Well, of course I do, buddy. I mean, you’re a fair man, Shell. Always have been. Very fair. And when I’m doing so much for you, almost prepared to put the entire Los Angeles police force at your disposal —

  Sure. Yeah. Well, maybe tomorrow, Bill. Look, I’ve got a lot of things to do, a lot —

  I really do have to talk to her, you know. Officially, that is — since I’m in charge of this case, if there is one, whatever it is. It is my duty, you see. I suppose she’ll give me the same totally unhelpful jazz you’ve been giving me, or not giving me, but —

  Yeah, she will. I can guarantee it. But just as soon as we can tell you, we will —

  — entirely aside from that, there are other matters that should be discussed, or at least mentioned. Such as the fact that I am an eligible bachelor, considered extraordinarily fetching by all and even gorgeous by some, and that as a police lieutenant it is my sworn duty to interrogate her stupendously —

  Look, Bill, if you do talk to her, I wish, ah, you wouldn’t use words like interrogate, especially, ah, along with stupendously. This might confuse her, particularly if she thinks it’s your duty —

  Where is she now?

  She? Who . . . ah, hell, I won’t even pretend I don’t know who you mean, Bill, even though her name has not passed our lips. How’s that for fair? She’s at the Spartan, of course. That’s where she lives, you understand.

  Not in her apartment. No answer when the phone rings there. Do you suppose she’s dead, Shell?

  Not . . . exactly.

  Aralia? Hi, this is Shell.I was calling from Samson’s office. Rawlins smiled at me while I spoke.

  Will you do me a favor, Aralia? I’ve got all screwed up, uh, involved with favors here, and . . . well, naturally there are a lot of men who would like to meet you, who would even take advantage of a friendship . . .

  Well, there’s this friend of mine, Aralia. He is a police lieutenant, you see, and he has placed me under arrest — that’s a joke. I think. Well, he’s been wanting to meet you . . .

  Aralia, you don’t have to be so goddamn eager . . .

  Well, his name is Bill Rawlins. I casually mentioned to him one day that he should meet you someday, because the two of you have so little in common that it would be different from the usual having-fun kind of . . .

  Aralia, you don’t have to be so goddamn eager . . .

  Sure, here he is, Aralia.

  I handed the phone to Bill.

  It would not be worth reporting any of the conversation. I could listen only to Bill’s end, anyhow, and you really have to hear both ends of a dialogue to make any sense out of it.

  Well,I said to Aralia, as soon as I closed the door of my apartment behind me, didn’t he make an ass of himself.

  Who?

  Lieutenant Rawlins. The dummy on the phone.

  Oh, you mean Bill.

  Bill, is it — ?

  I thought he was sweet. Aren’t you going to say hello?

  Hello.

  Would you like me to make you a drink, Shell?

  What for?

  Oh, Shell, you don’t have to act so jealous.

  Jealous? Me — jealous —

  After all, I’m living with you, aren’t I?

  Hmm? You’re . . . Well, Friday, Saturday, Sunday . . . You’re . . . By God, you are at that.

  So let me make you a drink, darling. And I’ll have one, too, and sit with you, and we’ll talk about today . . . and tonight.

  There’s no denying it, she did have a way about her.

  It was eight p.m., and I was toying with a wild idea — or, another wild idea. I had been thinking for the last half ho
ur of One-Shot Voister, his fuzzy comments about a plan to kill me tomorrow, the mention of Sam’s name, other bits of the day, a lot of things.

  I knew the place where One-Shot said I was supposed to go tomorrow, like the village idiot, if I was dumb enough to fall for whatever trickery my would-be slaughterers had in mind. Green Mesa Resort was twenty miles away, a pleasant woody rest-and-vacation spot, where I’d spent a few days during a couple of past summers.

  Centered around the Green Mesa Lodge — guest rooms, dining room, bar, and such — were about fifty small cabins and a half-dozen larger deluxe units, plus community swimming pool, big barn for dances and come-as-you-are parties. The elevation was high enough so fir trees grew on the property, along with a lot of big oaks and cottonwoods. A stream snaked through the approximate middle of Green Mesa, wiggling brightly past many of the cabins. I’d had fun there, enjoyed the big steaks served with baked beans, and the nightly sing-alongs in the cleared space around an open campfire.

  In that clearing — where, after the big log fire had been nursed from burning to roaring by the Green Mesa boys,including waiters, busboys, bartenders, anybody working at the place, the whole gang of guests, in festive mood gathered, had sung Home on the Rangeand other good do-it-yourself songs — I was supposed to get shot ten or a dozen times tomorrow.

  Right there where I had so lustily sung Home on the Range.Struck me as pretty dirty. But I had to admit it was a splendid spot for massacring me if anybody could get me out there. That clearing where the summer-evening fires had burned was only about fifty feet in diameter, and some of the seats were the stumps of trees cut down in order to make even that much space available. The whole rough circle where we’d sat and sung was enclosed by shrubbery and trees thick enough to keep the bears out, if there’d been any bears around, which there weren’t.

  I could visualize myself standing there tomorrow, though. And I could imagine half a dozen armed bums less than fifty feet away but totally hidden from my sight. And then — bingy-bangy — I’ll shoot you once, and shoot you twice, and shoot you once again. . . .

  It had been that kind of half hour. All sorts of things crowding my mind, slipping in and sliding out, some sticking, images and pictures and illusions and ideas, with memory of Norman Amber’s dead body blending with vivid recall of Aralia’s live one. And, somehow, while I just sat and let all those things flow like that little Green Mesa stream through my brain, I had a hunch I might actually be going out there tomorrow sometime. Might be going. I’d make up my mind after I got the a.m. phone call, if there was any.

  But it was clear that if it happened that I buzzed out to the resort, it should be with reasonable understanding of what I might find there and reasonable preparation for coping with whatever I might find.

  For one thing, the place would be deserted this year. This September, at least. Only the month before, in August, there had been a fire at Green Mesa, with most of the deluxe cabins and several of the smaller ones damaged, and the big million-dollar main building, the Green Mesa Lodge, completely destroyed. So it would probably be next year before the operation was in full swing again.

  But deserted, half-burned, the countryside made green by thousands of trees and a profusion of mountain shrubbery, with only a few isolated privately owned cabins scattered in the area and not another development, or city, for miles around, it was a great place to go if you wanted to disappear. Or make somebody else vanish without a trace. Or, maybe, even for what I was beginning to have hazily in mind. . . .

  Another thing I’d thought of a time or two was that one of those privately owned cabins in the area — not at the Green Mesa Resort itself, but only a few miles away — was Samson’s. That was where Sam and his wife, Mira, were spending their idyllic and restful two weeks. It was four or five miles from the resort, higher up, built right next to the same stream that wiggled down through Green Mesa and on past the clearing where sang the sing-alongers.

  It was that knowledge, combined with One-Shot’s fuzzy report about Sam’s name being somehow connected with the plan to get me into the area, that kept nagging me. So when Aralia walked in from the kitchenette, I sighed and stood up.

  She was munching an apple again, and said, Thanks for restocking the frig, Shell. Those are the thickest steaks I ever saw.

  Yeah, I thought maybe we could charcoal a couple of those beauties tonight — but I have to leave, sad to say. And I might be pretty late getting back.

  Oh? Where do you have to go?

  Lindstrom Laboratories again. At least, I must confer once more with Gunnar Lindstrom.

  She eyed me silently for some time.

  Then she said accusingly, Shell, are you planning to do something dumb?

  I thought about it before answering. And I tried to be honest and fair in my thinking, open and candid in my reply.

  Yes, Aralia,I said finally, I believe I am.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE call came in at ten o’clock Monday morning.

  Since my return to the Spartan — less than two hours earlier — I had been napping on the divan in my living room, phone on a small table near my head.

  When the phone rang I sat bolt upright, reached automatically for it, then stopped. I shook my head, blinked my eyes rapidly, smacked my lips, shot my tongue out and snapped it back in, and then picked up the phone.

  Hello,I said, wide awake.

  Shell? Sam. How about getting your butt up here to the cabin? Couldn’t reach you at your office, so I guessed you’d be goofing at home.

  The cabin? What — Sam?

  I hadn’t been expecting an invitation to Sam’s cabin, no matter who might call. That screwed everything up.

  Both Gunnar Lindstrom and I had been at that clearing in Green Mesa until after six-thirty this a.m. Assuming I might receive a call in the a.m. sometimeand would then proceed to Green Mesa, if I went anywhere at all, Gunnar and I had arranged for the climax of our night-long efforts to commence automatically, precisely at eleven-thirty a.m., figuring I could stall until then if the call came much earlier.

  But that climax was set for Green Mesa, which added up to a lot of time and effort down the drain if I was supposed to go someplace else.

  More, it was Samson’s voice in my ear, not somebody mimicking him. I’d have bet my life on it — and very likely was going to do just that.

  Yeah. Or — maybe we’d better meet someplace else, Shell,Sam went on. I need your help up here, right away. This is important, but I don’t want Miranda to know anything about it.

  And suddenly there was ice on my spine again, goosebumps visible on my arms. Sam’s wife was named Miranda, but I’d never heard him call her anything but Mira. Never.

  I almost blew it right there. But then, For chrissakes, Sam, give me time to wake up. Just taking a nap — had a big night this morning. Now . . .I yawned into the mouthpiece. Someplace else, huh? Hell, you name it. But what the devil’s going on, what’s so important? I thought you were on vacation.

  Still am, but something’s come up. I’ll explain when you get here, O.K.?

  O.K. Where you calling from? Your cabin?

  I thought you knew I don’t have a phone here, Shell.

  Yeah, I forgot.

  I’m at a gas station, pay phone. Let’s see . . . you know where Green Mesa Resort is, don’t you?

  So here it came.

  Sure,I said. I’ve had a lot of fun there.

  He told me where to meet him. All on the button, right down the line. That little clearing, where they had the campfires in summer.

  But as he spoke I was giving his words only half of my attention. Someone else almost had to be listening to our conversation, at least to Samson’s end of it. And I knew Sam; he might, under certain very limited circumstances, go along with inviting me to a spot where my head could be blown off, but only if he felt sure I realized what he was doing, that the invitation was a phony.

  He’d tipped me, sure, and knew if I had a brain in my head I’d picke
d up on it. But he couldn’t be aware of what One-Shot Voister had told me. And, if I didn’t let Sam know I was wise, he would sure as hell try to tip me again — and, next time, it might be more obvious.

  So when he finished telling me where we were to meet, I said, Good enough, Sam. Some restful vacation for you this is. You can fill me in later, but what pulled you away from your hammock? Must be police business, right?

  He hesitated only briefly. You guessed it. That’s why I need you. I’ve bugged you plenty about how you operate, Shell, but I’ve got to admit, your way does have its peculiar advantages at times. Now me, I’ve got to go strictly by the book, the law is the law —

  Is the law, yeah. I’ve tried to tell you, Sam, there’s no imagination in the book. Well, if it’s police biz, I guess I’d better come armed to the teeth. Or at least bring along my never-miss Colt Special.

  I actually heard his small sigh. Might as well,he said. You won’t need it, it’s not that kind of a job, but I know you don’t even go to the can without that popgun. See you here, then — oh, when do you think you’ll make it?

  Give me a chance to do a couple things, like putting my pants on. Let’s see . . . eleven-thirty be O.K.?

  Sure, anytime.

  Look, just anytime won’t do, pal. I’m not about to stand around waiting for you to get through catching a fish. Eleven-thirty sharp, right?

  Right,he said quietly.

  See you, Sam. Give my love to Miranda.

  I — He got a little bump in his voice there. I will.

  I hung up.

  Two seconds later I dialed the LAPD, got Homicide, asked for Lieutenant Rawlins. When he came on I said, This is Shell. I’m home. Get over here fast, and come alone. I’ll explain when I see you — and I haven’t got much time. So jump, pal.

  Then I hung up and waited. For him. And for eleven-thirty sharp.