His eyes rolled around the clearing, at Shell — Shell — Shell — back at me — Shell — and there was stamped as though forever fixed on his face a picture of such total, unrelieved, absolutely hopeless and apparently indelible bewilderment that I knew it would be a most unkind and even dirty thing to crunch it with my sap. But, it seemed to me, if ever there was a time when I could be excused for a little unkindness and dirtiness, surely this was it. I really crunched him a good one, too.
Ragan had been so busy yelling and waving at guys I couldn’t see that either he hadn’t noticed me when I charged into the clearing or else he became aware of my presence — my real and solid presence — only when I sapped Collett.
For Ragan, of course, knew that the only one of us dancing around here who could fire a gun that really worked — or swing a sap that really worked — would be the real Shell Scott.
He knew which was the real one now, though. Knew he had me. There wouldn’t have been time for me to grab the automatic under my belt if I’d thought of it. Ragan had already swung to his left, so he was facing me, and his gun was aimed at my gut, and he fired, fired twice in fact, and missed by at least a foot and it could even have been a yard or a yard and a half.
Because just as he swung to his left, from his right came, Over here. Shell!in the clear, strong voice of Gunnar Lindstrom, and from very close on Ragan’s left, Hi, men! And thanks, you sweet darlings, for this wonderful welcome!
Even for Vincent Ragan, who knew all about 3-D pix and Lindstrom and the Amber Effect, these new sounds — and new sights — were too much. I just sort of strolled over to him and banged him on the skull. And, you may believe it or not, I just kept on strolling around, finding guys, and stunning them severely.
Actually, after Ragan went down, there were only two left, the long-haired lad with the bush growing on his face and the totally bald chap, both of whom were unarmed, not that it would have made any difference. And, if you really want the truth, when I heard the last bonk on that last guy’s skull — Baldy, it was — I was almost sorry there weren’t two, maybe three, more of them.
As it happened, Gunnar Lindstrom’s own suggestion when he got into the swing of things — which had then struck me as a marvelous we’ve-got-to-do-it kind of idea — turned out to be wasted, not needed, after all. So the great huge Shell Scott — twenty feet tall and carrying a World War II bazooka — merely crashed through the woods and into and through the clearing, feet only a little below the surface of the clearing, with a sound like an elephant walking over petrified dinosaur eggs, an effect produced by Gunnar’s jumping on wooden boxes and turning over tables and hitting all sorts of things.
The little fellows, too, it appeared, had no conscious audience except me. Four of them there were — the images more grainy, less perfect because they were the result of a double, or rather quadruple, exposure — but still quite effective because they were so impossibly small.
To me, they looked very much as had the individuals in that audience of four hundred when I’d gazed down upon them from the hillside yesterday afternoon. Yes, I thought, they looked rather cute as they came pitter-pattering into the clearing together, prancing on tiny feet and shooting teensy guns held in their wee little hands, like elfin quadruplets trying to massacre the Seven Dwarfs. Four little Shell Scott dolls, racing about and shooting and yelling, screeching all together in faint high tinny voices, You’rrre underrr arrresst!
And all for me, alone. But no matter. The job was done.
Finally, mwaa,and a nice little smacky sound.
Then, silence, utter silence, and emptiness, so still I felt it like a weight upon me. It was like being on the busy, crashing, rattle-de-bang street of a rushing city on earth, then blinking your eyes and finding yourself alone on the moon.
I just stood there for a while. I don’t know how long. Not very long, another minute or two.
Then I heard them coming.
Cops, including Bill Rawlins. And they were getting here just about when they were supposed to. After Samson’s call to me — not merely the fact that he did make that call, all of it right down the line with what we’d heard from One-Shot Voister, but the way he made it, a couple of things he’d said — indicated clearly that the police had more important jobs to do while I kept some of the lads occupied.
Sam’s comment about Miranda, for one thing. It might have been merely to top me; but he could have used a dozen other phrases that would have done the job as well. Add to it the bump in his reply when I’d told him to give Miranda my love.And, the most important tip-off of all. Know Samson as well as I do, then ask yourself what would make him call me and try to get me to an isolated spot where I could be killed.
Not a hood holding a gun to his head and saying, Go ahead, call him, or I’ll blow your head off.Samson — you can take my word for it, friends — would have said, So blow.
I waited as they came closer, moving fast.
Rawlins was first. But close behind him, to my vast relief — and surprise — was older, heavier, but damned speedily moving Phil Samson. And then a considerable number of cops. You wouldn’t believe how much fuzz was suddenly there, in and around the clearing, and maybe out among the trees as well.
There was a lot of fast, and somewhat disjointed, conversation where Sam, Bill, and I stood together, but much was made clear. And after a bit Rawlins said to me, They had Mrs. Samson, all right. In one of the big guest cabins here. One guy there with her, we’ve got him. She’s O.K.
And Samson put his big horny hand on my shoulder and said, Shell, thank God you knew what I meant — and let me know you did. I swear, if I hadn’t been sure, I’d have popped out with something else to make sure, no matter what —
I know, Sam. Don’t be so goddamn nice, O.K.? I get very uncomfortable around you when you’re not obnoxious. Mira’s all right, huh?
Yes, you exasperating sonofabitch, she’s fine. Way it was, I never did see any of the bastards, haven’t yet except the one who was with her in the cabin here. They grabbed her while I was out, and everything after that — with me, anyhow — was, first, by a note left in my cabin for me, and then conversations on a pay phone I was sent to. Mira didn’t see any of them, either. Masks on, kept her looking away from them. Christ, I never thought there’d be a try for me, or my wife.He shook his head. They’re getting wilder, crazier, these days.
Yeah. Takes strenuous methods sometimes to counterattack and confound the bad guys. Well, even if you haven’t seen any of them, I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.
I pointed at a couple of them, lying still and prone.
Sam stalked around for a few seconds. Then he waved an arm at the police officers, both uniformed and in plain-clothes, and roared, Back! Clear the — the clearing. Move!
In seconds the immediate area was empty, except for Sam and Rawlins and me, and a lot of lumps on the ground. Samson looked at the large number and variety of lumps.
Then he faced me directly, looked at me sternly, and said with unusual solemnity, Shell, I want you to understand that — no matter what you’ve done — I will be indebted to you, as long as I live, for . . . what you’ve done.
Sam —
Don’t interrupt. You know how it is with Mira and me, we won’t go into that. And because she’s all right, safe, you can from now on ask almost anything of me and I will do my utmost to see that you get it. Almost anything. But this time— he swept a big hand around loosely — you have gone too far.
Sam —
Don’t interrupt. This is difficult for me, old friend. Difficult, but I’ve got to do it. When you gave me your word you wouldn’t shoot anybody, wouldn’t even shoot at anybody, I thought I could believe you. I never doubted it for a second. It never entered my mind that you would —
Sam —
— even plink with a twenty-two, much less perpetrate the kind of mayhem we witness horrible evidence of here. After this, Shell, how can I ever trust you again?He looked at the Colt .45 in my belt, shaking his head sadly,
then took the gun. It pains me to do this Shell, you’ll never know how much, but I’m afraid I have to place you under arr — what was that?
Thatwas some bubbling and babbling and high keening noises. It was Hauk, sitting up, and mumbling. We could pick out some of the words. . . . giant, goddamn jolly crappy giant . . . right over me, ho-ho-ho, then . . . aaaahhh them little fellers, right under my perishin’ nose . . . beebbledebeebbledee . . . bingy-bangy. . . .
Who’s that?Sam said.
Al Hauk,I said.
What’s he babbling?
Well, I guess the last bit here wasn’t entirely wasted, after all. Hauk must’ve been conscious, but not really in the spirit of things anymore, and it would seem he was suitably impressed by the show, which was the idea.
Show? Impressed? Idea?
Uh, maybe this isn’t the best possible time to attempt an explanation. Besides, I may still have to get permission first.
Hauk? You mean one of them’s still alive?Sam asked.
Hell, they’re all alive.
Come now,he said.
I was trying to tell you, Sam. I didn’t kill ‘em all — didn’t kill anybody. Just knocked them on their heads a bit. Couple of them I didn’t even touch. They did themselves in.
Come now. We heard — we all heard — the shooting. Like a revolution, yelling, shooting, and automatic fire, a machine-gun for sure, I know a machine-gun when I hear —
Sam, I didn’t even fire that forty-five automatic you’ve got in your mitt. Look at it, smell it. But be careful, it’s loaded.
It took a little time to convince him that all seven of the guys were merely unconscious. By then a couple more had started coming to. Cops were putting cuffs on the men; Rawlins and a sergeant were squatted by Hauk, talking to him. After a minute or so, Rawlins came back over next to Samson and me.
Sam was listening, head cocked to one side. Who’s that spilling his guts? Murders, stickups, parking tickets — even this caper here, snatching my wife. Who’s the blabbermouth?
I realize now that wonders never cease,Bill Rawlins said wonderingly. That blabbermouth is Al the Clam.
Phil Samson, captain of Central Homicide, was silent for a long time.
Then he looked at me and said, Shell, I do not understand how you have accomplished . . . whatever it is you have accomplished. But — well, is there any little thing I can do for you?
There is one little thing, Sam.
You just name it, Shell.
I will not describe his reaction, except to say that I got the distinct impression the captain was not immensely pleased by my reply.
Well, Sam,I said, can I have my gun back?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AND, after we put together everything we got from Al Hauk, and some of the other boys,I said to Aralia, along with what Gunnar Lindstrom told the police, plus a bit from One-Shot Voister and a contribution here and there from me, we had it all.
But . . . Ma and Peter, did they know I was supposed to get killed? Be murdered?
They weren’t told that, not in so many words. But they must have suspected, maybe they even knew. But it’s not too important now. Look, let me give you the quick nickel tour of the high points, then we’ll drop it and finish these martinis, O.K.?
It was that same Monday, several hours after Ragan — who, among other things, had been present at Norman Amber’s murder, since only he knew for sure what to steal — and his cohorts had been hauled off to the can. Night now, dark and velvety outside, warm and softly lighted and kind of velvety inside — inside being again, or still, Apartment 212 in the Spartan Apartment Hotel.
And Aralia was still here with me, though she could go anywhere, anytime, now. And, as I’d told her once, I had a feeling she was going a long, long way.
I hadn’t got back to my apartment until after ten p.m., and it was nearly midnight. I’d showered and dressed in marvelous lavender slacks and a long-sleeved long-collared white Byron-type shirt, with white shoes, socks, and belt, and I knew I looked pret-ty wonderful. At least, the outfit did.
Aralia’s outfit was great, too. She didn’t have anything on. She did have a way about her, but I’ve said that before, too.
For the last half hour or so we’d been sipping martinis while I told her what had happened out at Green Mesa and in the hours since then. I was unwound finally, deliciously relaxed, with that warm gin-and-vermouth glow in my midsection.
Wonderful,Aralia said, this martini of mine has no martini left in it. And that’s like no martini at all, isn’t it?
Good thinking.
Leave the olive out this time, will you? I don’t eat them, anyway, you know.
Yeah. It’s just that they’re so pretty. . . . Aralia, I wish you wouldn’t do things like that.
She’d picked up the pimiento-stuffed olives from her first two martinis, and was holding one in front of each breast.
It’s an interesting effect, though, isn’t it?
Well, yeah, I guess interesting —
And you just said they were pretty.
In the martinis they’re pretty.
Can you finish in two minutes?
Finish what?
Explaining everything.
I think maybe I can do it in one.I paused. Well, your dad went to the jugs — jug, you know that. And apparently he was guilty as charged. I haven’t dug into it all yet, but that’s how it looks at the moment. The important thing is, he shared a cell in the joint with Buddy Brett, pal of Puffer Werzen and others, all of whom were already involved in a complicated caper with Vincent Ragan — which I needn’t now burden your pretty head with.
That’s stealing the inventions and all?
Close enough. In a cell, in prison, there’s not a great deal to do. Amber talked a lot to Brett — and later to Puffer Werzen — and convinced them he was a scientific genius who’d been working on an invention worth hundreds of millions, maybe billions of bucks, at the time he was arrested. Busted, apparently for appropriating items he needed for his work. And it was clear to those cons that he meant to complete, to perfect, his invention as soon as he was released from prison.
I finished the last of my martini, lit a cigarette. Puffer and Brett got this word to Vincent Ragan, who checked up on Amber. Your dad’s track record was impressive, a lot of important patents, that sort of thing. Ragan got excited about the huge monetary possibilities, but after Amber was released, and completed work on his process, he applied for a patent on his invention before Ragan could get to him, one way or another. Well, with the patent on what Lindstrom calls the Amber Effect granted, Ragan had to go another way if he wanted control of it, and more than anything he’d ever stolen in his miserable life he did want control of the Amber Effect.
Is that what got Ma and Peter into this? And me?
That’s right. Your dad didn’t have a will. If he died, his estate — including patents — would, after probate, go to his closest kin. He’d never remarried, had no other issue or close relatives. So closest kin would be his only child.
But there were two of us, Peter and me.
Yeah, only Norman Amber didn’t know that. He really didn’t know about you, Aralia.
Just like — I didn’t know he was alive?
Exactly, and for the same reason. Your parents split shortly before you were born. Your mother told her ex-hubby, on the few occasions when they saw each other after the divorce, that you’d died at birth. And he believed that, believed it all his life. Just as you’ve believed all your life that your father died before you were born.
Isn’t it wild? Awful, really. How could Ma do it?
Apparently it wasn’t too tough for her. She thought she had a good reason. Which brings us up to now. To make it simple, Ragan figured if he could make a deal with the former Mrs. Amber — since it appeared that her son, Peter, also Norman’s only son, would inherit all the goodies if Dad died — for all rights to Amber’s patents, he could then kill Norman Amber and wait for those goodies to come to him
. It’s more complicated than that — a sizable cash payment to Mrs. Fields, a contract signed by both her and Peter, the only copy of which was kept by Ragan, some complex legal maneuvering and so on — but it would have worked, given time. Except for you. And maybe me.
Me?
Yeah. And maybe me.
Me? What did I do?
You were alive. You see, your dad believed you’d died at birth, all right. But he knew this second child, if a girl, was to have been named Aralia. And he’d wanted a girl. He never really got over the fact of your
I don’t see what difference . . .
Well, first, understand that Ragan has everything set, he’s on his way to being a bloody billionaire, he thinks, he’s sure — just so no little thing goes wrong. In fact, with everything worked out as far as Mrs. Fields and Peter were concerned, he had actually gone ahead and arranged for his boys to murder Norman Amber. Which they did, in Ragan’s presence. Late last Tuesday night. So now we come to a couple of little things, or very big things that appear little, upon which everything else turns, spins, and does conniptions.
She really looked interested now. Is this where I come in?
Like a bomb, dear. First little thing: Aralia, the name of Norman Amber’s long-dead daughter, is an unusual name. So unusual, at least, that I’ve never come across it before, and I have done some research in this area. Second little thing — big to you, of course, but in a different sense — you won the Miss Naked California contest.
She stuck out her tongue, bit it gently, nodding. I’m beginning to see now. The stories about me, the publicity, and especially that story and picture in Frolic magazine.
On the nose, to phrase it loosely. Picture of you, and below it your name,
The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 22
