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The Shell Scott Sampler
Richard S. Prather
The Guilty Party
There are days when you feel euphoric for no particular reason; and there are babes who make you feel euphoric for particular reasons. Put them both together and anything can happen.
Maybe that’s why it happened. Who cares why it happened?
She came into my office like a gal out in the woods in one of those sexy movies, smiled at me, flowed across the room with the fluidity of hot molasses, sank into the big leather chair opposite my desk, and crossed her legs slowly, gracefully, gently, as though taking care not to bruise any smooth, tender flesh.
I rose to my feet, walked clear around the desk and sat down again.
“Lady,” I said, “whatever it is, it’s eight to five I’ll do it.”
She smiled, but still didn’t say anything. Maybe she couldn’t talk. Maybe she was an idiot. I didn’t care. But if curves were convolutions, she had an IQ of at least 37-23-36, or somewhere in that neighborhood, and that’s the high-rent district.
Moreover, if some faces can stop a clock, hers would have made Big Ben gain at least forty minutes an hour. A lot of black hair, somewhat tangled, as if a horny Apache dancer had just wound his hands in it, preparatory to flinging her across the room. Narrow dark brows curving hotly—yeah, whether you think so or not, they curved hotly—over tawny brown eyes the indefinable shade of autumn. Lips that would burn holes in asbestos. And then that genius body. Man, whatever she had, it should be contagious.
She was looking me over, still silently. I leaned forward, waiting. And I started hoping she wasn’t really, truly an idiot.
Finally she said, “So you’re Shell Scott?”
“That’s me. And you? You?”
She didn’t tell me, darn her hide. Instead she cocked her head on one side and said, “I almost hate to take up your time with this little difficulty of mine. I mean it’s nothing big and exciting like murders or gangsters —”
“Now, don’t you worry, it’s big and exciting enough already, and I don’t care how little —”
“I mean, I’ve heard stories about the big cases you’ve handled and all. I hardly believed them. But I do now. You certainly look capable.”
“Yeah? Of … what?”
“Anything. You really do.” She smiled. “You look as if you just got back from an African safari. After shooting lions and tigers and things.”
Well, it was a new approach. So to hell with the old approaches. Maybe she was serious. Or maybe she was pulling my leg. But I’ll go along with a gag. Besides, I was feeling pretty wild.
“That’s me,” I said. “Just got back from darkest Zuluongo, where the pygmies are nine feet tall. Braved the poison swamps, the burning heat, the creeping goo —”
“Goodness! It sounds dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Why, it’s not even in the UN. But nothing daunts me when I’m on a trek.” I shrugged. “Killed a couple elephants this trek.”
She chuckled. “With your bare hands, of course.”
“Of course not. I … used a rock. But enough about me. You said something about a—a little difficulty?”
“Yes. It’s a bit embarrassing. And I wanted to get to know you a little first.”
“OK by me. In fact, you can get to know —”
“You see, there’s a thing under my bed, Mr. Scott.”
“Shell. A what?”
“A thing under my bed.”
“A thing? I don’t—is it alive? Hell, I’ll kill it. You came to the right place —”
“No, nothing like that, Mr. Scott.”
“Shell.”
“It’s a little funny metal thing. I thought it was a bomb at first. But probably it isn’t. When I got out of bed this morning I heard it fall from the springs or somewhere—that’s how I found it—and it didn’t go off. It’s sort of square, about three or four inches long, and has a small doodad on it. Can you guess what it is?”
“I couldn’t guess. What is it?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I came here. I told you it wasn’t anything important.” She sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t be interested.”
“But I am! It’s just that your description … Could you sort of narrow it down a little more? I mean, I can think of a million things it isn’t. But if we’re going to pin this thing down, we’ve—we’ve got to pin it down.”
I stopped. This wasn’t me. Or wasn’t I. It wasn’t either of us. This gal had me thinking with a stutter. I shook my head, remained silent, waiting.
She described the thing again, in more detail this time. Finally her description rang a bell.
“Ah-ha,” I said. “I think I’ve got it. I think your bed has been bugged.”
“It’s a bedbug?”
“No—look, a ‘bug’ is a term for a microphone, or listening device. The item in question sounds like a small radio transmitter. Though why in the world anybody would put a portable transmitter under your…”
I let it trickle off, as suspicion trickled in. The same trickle got to her at about the same moment.
“No!” she cried.
“You’re wrong, I’m afraid,” I said. “I’m afraid the answer is Yes!”
“But why?”
“Well, possibly somebody—” I started over. It was kind of delicate. “Do you talk in your sleep?”
“How would I know?”
“How indeed? Well, that’s out.” I paused. “OK, let’s be logical, what? Usually people plant them to hear or record conversations—for blackmail purposes, to catch crooks, get inside information, business secrets and so on. Now, who might benefit in some way by hearing your conversations?”
“In the bedroom?”
“Well…” She had a point. And it stimulated my thinking.
I said, “We’ve been going at this all wrong. We have assumed the bedroom bug is the only one. The place may be lousy with them. They may be all over the joint—living room, dining room, attic, everywhere. Where do you live, anyway?”
“I’ve a suite in the Montclair.” The Montclair was a swank hotel only three or four blocks away.
We attacked the problem from all angles for a few minutes. She was a lingerie model—it figured—and thus didn’t have any big business secrets to discuss in her suite. She didn’t dictate important letters or help plan union strikes, didn’t know any criminals, and so on. She didn’t even entertain anybody in her suite, although she did mention one name, which obviously I heard incorrectly.
All in all, there seemed no reason whatsoever for anybody to bug her rooms. It was a puzzler.
Finally I said, “OK, you live in the Montclair. And your phone number?”
“Will that help?”
“It’ll help me.”
She smiled. “Oxford 4-8096, that’s the Montclair’s number. And I’m in number Twenty.”
“And your name?” I said, all business.
“Lydia Brindley. At least until next week.”
“It won’t be Lydia next week?”
“It won’t be Brindley. It will be Fish.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, you do too. Stop joshing me. That’s the name of my fiancé.”
“Your—oh.”
I got a sharp shooting pain, in an area which it is impolite to mention. An area, in fact, which it is ghastly to mention.
I went on, “Say what you said again. About—about you won’t be Brindley.”
“It’s nothing, really. My fiancé is Rothwell Hamilton Fish, and we’ll be married next Friday.”
“Nothing, huh? Maybe to you it’s nothing. Rothwell Hamilton Fish, huh? I never heard of him.”
“I mean it’s nothing to do with my difficulty. And Rotty hasn’t lived in Los Angeles until just lately. He’s from Las Vegas. That’s where we’ll be married.”
“Uh-huh. So he’s from … wait. He’s not—he’s not Rotty Fish!”
“Yes. You do know him, then?”
“My God, no.” I paused, closed my eyes. “That’s what you said before. Rotty Fish. I thought it was a cat food or something. You remember. When we were wondering who might benefit from recording anything you might say, you mentioned that there was hardly ever anybody in your suite except you and Rot—Rothwell. Right?”
“Right.”
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Where does Rot—Rothwell live?”
“At the St. Charles in Hollywood.”
“Way out there? That makes it tougher. He doesn’t live at the Montclair, then.”
“No, but he was visiting a friend there one day, and that’s how we met. In the elevator. It was so romantic—he kissed my hand and everything.”
“No!”
“He’s very polite and polished, a real gentleman.”
“Uh-huh. He’s at the St. Charles now?”
“No, he’s out of town for a few days. Wrapping up business affairs and things before we get married.”
“Uh-huh. I see. Yeah. I’ve solved it. He did it. He bugged you.”
“What? That’s preposterous. And why?”
“Why not? He’s bugging me—and I don’t even know him. Besides, we eliminated everybody else.”
“Oh, we did not.”
“Maybe you didn’t. Well, he won’t get away with it! I’ll catch him.” I stood up. Then I sat down again. “Tell me,” I said, “about Rothwell. All about Rothwell.”
They had met two months ago in that romantic spot, the elevator. Love or something blossomed, a marriage date was set. Rotty, Lydia said, was tall and slim and dark and divine, and had a little thin black moustache. He danced like a dream, and when they’d met in the elevator, as she’d said, he had kissed her hand, like those fruity Continental bounders.
“He sounds like a con-man to me,” I said.
I was all steamed up. In this life, a man has to fight for what he wants. The Government can’t give you everything. Some things a man has to do for himself, no matter what you’ve heard. Fight fair, yes; but fight.
“Why, Mr. Scott,” Lydia said, blinking the big brownish eyes hotly at me. “How can you say that?”
“Easy. Call me Shell, huh?”
“Shell. But how can you say such a thing? He’s priceless. And he’s horribly jealous, isn’t that wonderful?”
“No, that’s horrible. Either he trusts you or he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that.”
“Well…”
“You see? He’s horribly jealous. That means he doesn’t trust you. Besides, he has a little thin black moustache—you said so yourself.”
“But you don’t even know him.”
“Lydia, give him up. We’ll all be happier —”
“Why are you talking like this? What do you care —”
“Well, I’m jealous.”
“But you just said —”
“Never mind what I said. Tell me more about Rotty.”
There wasn’t a great deal more. They had dined and danced and had wine and crepes suzette—he could even order in French.
“He sounds like a con-man to me,” I said.
“He’s not, either. Oh, at first I thought maybe he was only after my money, but now I’m sure it isn’t that.”
“That’s clear thinking…. You’ve got money, too?”
“Yes, my father was the Brindley of Brindley Nuts—canned pecans, almonds, cashews and so on. He left me several million.”
“Nuts?”
“No, dollars, silly. I’m—well, I guess you’d say loaded.”
“That’s what I’d say.” I paused, thinking, considering all angles. Then I stood up.
“Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the Montclair.”
* * *
Lydia’s suite was composed of living room, sitting room, kitchenette, bedroom and bath. I cautioned Lydia to be very quiet and we went in silently. I then spent half an hour going over the place, but all was in order except for the “thing” she’d mentioned finding under the bed. It was a compact portable transmitter, all right. I left it under the bed, undisturbed, then joined Lydia in the front room.
As far as I could figure it, there were only two probabilities, especially since there were no other transmitters to be found. First, the culprit was a hi-fi bug, one of those cats who sit around listening to trains hooting and crickets cricketing and wild birdcalls and such. Second … that was the one I liked.
But how to prove it? I could call all the people in town who sold electronic eavesdropping equipment, trace the men who’d recently bought such items. That could take days, though. Or, if the receiver were here in the Montclair I could start knocking on doors—a method that also failed to strike me as speedy or efficient. And nothing would really be proved even if I found a receiver. Besides, the little transmitter had power enough to broadcast on its special frequency for several blocks.
Or I could … I had it.
I whispered, “When did Rot—Rothwell leave on his trip?”
“Let’s see. This is Friday, so it was Tuesday. Three days ago. He’ll be back Monday.”
“He may be back today.”
I started to tell Lydia about it, but decided not to. It was eight to five she’d think I was nuts, and ten to one she wouldn’t cooperate anyway. I would simply let it happen, and trust in my fairy godmother or whatever it is that watches over me. It might even work better this way. Moreover, the other way Lydia might get confused. There was a pretty good chance she’d get confused anyhow, but in this case to think was to act.
I jumped up, walked to the front door, opened it and slammed it shut again, careful that it didn’t lock. Then I thumped over the living room carpet.
“Well, here we are!” I bellowed. And I thumped across the living room to the bedroom and whacked the door open.
Lydia, a puzzled expression on her face, walked up behind me.
“Here we are,” I said loudly, “alone at last.”
“Shell,” she said, “we have been alone for —”
I interrupted. “Let’s have some more of those hot martinis!”
Lydia was starting to look a bit unnerved. “Hot martinis!” she said.
“That’s the ticket,” I shouted.
“What’s this?” she said, peering at me dubiously. “Why hot?”
“Yes, why not? Let’s try something new. Let’s not be hidebound by static old conventions. I’m tired of that static. Let’s be different, let’s be gay. Oh, Lydia, Lydia!”
“Huh?” she said.
I trotted back and forth over the bedroom carpet, stamping my feet. “No, you don’t!” I roared. “You won’t get away from me now. Ha! Got you!”
Lydia stood motionless in the bedroom doorway, staring at me. A slow paralysis seemed to be creeping over her. Except for her head, which was wagging back and forth.
“Here we go!” I yelled, and sprang through the air and landed with a thump in the middle of the bed. Then I got my feet under me and started springing about. I was beginning to have a few misgivings about this; if it didn’t work, Lydia and I would be all washed up. But it was too late to stop now, I had burned my bridges, cast the die, flung the gauntlet. Too late. So I kept bouncing.
“Shell!” she cried.
“Lydia!” I cried.
“What are you doing?” she yelled frantically. “What are you doing?”
Lydia was doing marvelously, I thought, even without coaching. I bounced up and down on the bed as if it were a thick trampoline, the springs wailing and shrieking, letting out noises actually un-bedlike. I was going higher and hi
gher now, getting the hang of it.
“Shell!” Lydia wailed, “have you lost your mind, are you mad?”
“Yes! This is madness —”
“What happened? This is crazy.”
“— madness!”
I bounced almost to the ceiling, and when I came down, some springs let go with the twanging sound of coiled ricochets.
Lydia almost screamed. “Stop it, Shell, stop it, STOP IT!”
“DARLING!” I yelled.
“STOP!”
“DARLING!”
“Cops—murder—help!” she yelled, all unstrung.
I lit on the edge of the mattress and the bed broke, the frame splintering with a crashing sound that blended with the grating and twanging of springs giving up and letting go. I figured this had gone far enough, and stopped bouncing.
Lydia had just spun about as if preparing to sprint for miles. “Wait,” I called to her. “Don’t leave. Listen.”
She stopped, looked back over her shoulder at me. “But —”
“Shh. Listen.”
There had been, I thought, the sound of a distant crash. Like a door slamming maybe. Fifty feet or so away? Then came faint thumpings. Was it … ? Yes, more thumpings, feet pounding, pounding nearer, getting louder. And a high, keening sound out there: “Lyyyydia! Lyyyyydiaaaa!”
I climbed down off the slanting bed.
“What’s—what happened to you? What’s going on?” Lydia asked me.
“We’ll soon know. We stirred something up. I’ll explain later —”
That was all there was time for.
The thumping and keening sounds were almost upon us now.
The front door crashed open.
Feet thumped across the living room, reached the bedroom.
He was tall, slim, dark, moustached, and very speedy. He took one step into the room, left his feet and flew four yards through the air straight toward the bed, without even looking. He landed atilt and bounced and wound up in a heap over at the intersection of the walls.
But he was up in an instant, head snapping about, teeth gnashing, eyes rolling.
“Hoo!” he snorted. “Hah!” He lamped Lydia, then focused on me and sprang again. At me this time. He came at me like a windmill, arms flailing.
The Shell Scott Sampler Page 1
