I looked at my watch. Ten after nine. Time to go, I supposed. “Well, good-bye?” I said.
“Good-bye. You’d better hurry.”
“You can count on that.”
She smiled slightly. Softly. Warmly. “Don’t hurry too much. I’ll be soaking for … at least half an hour.”
That was all she said. But suddenly those hot-honey eyes seemed to have everything but swarms of bees in them. However, when there’s a job to be done, I’m a monstrosity of grim determination, I like to think.
I spun about and clattered through the front room to the door. As I went out, I could hear water pouring in the shower. Hot water. She wouldn’t be taking a cold shower. Hell, she couldn’t.
It took me less than five minutes to get to Bryn Mawr Drive. But the scene at Thor’s home was not the quiet calm scene I’d expected. Four cars were parked at the curb, and two of them were police radio cars. Lights blazed in the big house and surrounding grounds.
I followed a shrubbery-lined gravel path alongside the house to the pool. Two uniformed officers, a couple of plainclothesmen I knew who worked out of Central Homicide, and two other men stood on a gray cement area next to the pool on my left. At the pool’s far end was the little cabaña Joyce had mentioned, and on the water’s surface floated scattered lavender patches of limp-looking lather.
A few yards beyond the group of men, a man’s nude body lay face down on a patch of thick green dichondra.
Lieutenant Rawlins, one of the plainclothesmen, spotted me, said, “Hi, Shell,” and walked toward me. “How’d you hear about this one?”
I grinned, but ignored the question.
He filled me in. A call to the police had been placed from here a couple of minutes after nine p.m., and the first police car had arrived two or three minutes later—ten minutes ago now. Present at the scene—in addition to the dead man, who was indeed Louis Thor—had been Thor’s partner Bill Wallnofer, and Gerald Rose, an advertising agency executive who handled the Zing! account. Neither of them, I understood, had been present at the filming session earlier.
“What were they doing here?” I asked Rawlins.
“They were supposed to meet Thor at nine p.m. for a conference. About the ad campaign for their soap, a new angle based on this SX-21 stuff.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard more about SX-21 than space exploration lately. What is the gunk?”
“How would I know? It’s a secret. That was the new advertising angle—something about a Lloyd’s of London policy to insure the secrecy of the secret ingredient. Actually, only two men know what the formula is, Wallnofer and —” He stopped.
I looked at Thor’s body on the grass and said, “OK, so now only Wallnofer knows. How’s it strike you, foul or fair?”
“Can’t say yet. Deputy coroner says it looks like he sucked in a big pile of those thick suds and strangled on ‘em. The PM might show he drowned instead, but that’s what the once-over-lightly gives us.”
“Anything else?”
“According to Rose, he arrived here a couple minutes before nine and spotted Thor in the water, got a hooked pole from the pool equipment locker and started hauling him out. Then Wallnofer showed up, let out a yell and ran over. Together they got the body onto the grass there.”
Rawlins paused. “The way Wallnofer tells it, he arrived at nine sharp for the meet and saw Rose hanging onto the dead guy, either pulling him out—or holding him in. He also says Rose wanted them to take off without phoning us. But Wallnofer insisted on phoning and gave us a call.”
“Friction, hey? They and the dead guy didn’t all love each other?”
“They all hated each other. Thor shapes up as a classic bastard, sarcastic, the sandpaper type. Wallnofer’s the brain, the thinker. Control of the firm rested with Thor and Wallnofer, but neither liked the way the other operated. Each wanted to buy the other out, neither would sell. And I guess they both gave Rose a hard time.”
“Where’d you get all this so fast?”
“Part from Rose and Wallnofer, more from Casey there.” He gestured toward the other plainclothesman. “Used to be in the ad game and still keeps in touch.”
Oddly, when he said “Keeps in touch,” that old devil imagination of mine went from stalled to high gear, and either this was more wishy-washy thinking or else I was truly telepathic and clairvoyant and addled. Because for a moment, instead of Rawlins’ pleasant chops, I saw Joyce turning off the shower and sinking, all pink and glowing, down into the tub—my tub. She didn’t itch any longer, either, I noted.
Rawlins bent his head toward me. “Did I say something that shook you, Shell?”
The moment ended. “No, I was watching—thinking about something else. Go on.”
“That’s about it. Could be a homicide, so we’ll take both these guys downtown for interrogation —”
“But that would take too long. All night maybe —”
“Too long? What difference…” He squinted at me, “You got a better idea?”
“I’ve got a much better—wait a minute. Let me think.”
I thought. Joyce was adding hot water to the tub. I thought some more.
“Rawlins, string along with me, will you? Tell Rose and Wallnofer you know it was murder and you’re taking them both to the clink. Then let me have at them for a few minutes—but if I shake the right answer out, no questions, OK?”
He wasn’t wild about the idea, and he growled and even swore a little, but finally said OK and led me over to the group of men. Rose, the ad-agency executive, was a small, thin, pale guy with sour eyes and the look of a man suffering from chronic misery. Wallnofer, about six feet tall and well built, with a receding hairline and a nose just wide enough to breathe through, stared at us and shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
Rawlins gave them a spiel and both men started looking grave as his words about murder sank in. Finally he stopped talking and turned to me.
Joyce was making little waves in the water with both hands.
I said to Rawlins, “I’ve seen enough. I’m sure.” Then I pointed at Bill Wallnofer. “That’s the guy who killed him.”
Wallnofer’s mouth dropped, his eyes popped open, he went back one step and said, “Wha … what? Are you nuts? I didn’t kill anybody. You are out of your cotton-picking mind.” But his lips were sort of wiggling around loosely.
“Sure you did,” I said. “I just wanted to get a good look at you, a check on the description. There was a witness. You were seen, friend.”
For a little longer his lips wiggled and he mumbled unintelligibly at me. But then he clamped his teeth together, took a deep breath, and said with complete clarity: “You are out of your cotton-picking mind. Nobody saw me here, mister, since that would constitute an impossibility of monumental proportions. I was not here.”
He sure sounded convincing. I stared unsmiling at him and went right on, “I said you were seen, friend. Not actually killing Thor—and keep that in mind. That means I don’t know if it was first degree and you’ve had it, or merely manslaughter and a much milder unpleasantness. But I’ll buy manslaughter. If you want to sell it.”
“You are out of your —”
“Keep listening. After you killed Thor you grabbed him, lifted him up right there —” I pointed to the general area Joyce had described, the concrete at this side of the pool. “He was dead then—or at least unconscious. You plopped him back in. Then you went running out—that way.” I pointed to a path leading alongside and beyond the cabaña. “On out to Quebec Street. And to your car I imagine. That part of it wasn’t witnessed.”
Wallnofer’s face had gotten a little paler, as if some of the blood had turned to gray ash beneath his skin; his lips pressed more tightly together. But he said, “I was not here. Either you are inventing this entire idiotic story, or someone else was seen here.” He swallowed. “However, common sense indicates I should say no more without the advice of my attorneys.”
That wouldn’t do. I said, “Common sense, huh? OK,
let’s try it that way.”
I glanced at my watch. Nine twenty-seven. I’d left the apartment at nine ten. Another five minutes to get here. So it had been only twelve minutes since I’d parked out front, and seventeen since I’d left the Spartan. I thought back to that TV commercial when this had started. Right then—at eight forty p.m.—my chimes had bonged. Taking off five minutes, the time it had taken Joyce to reach my place from here, would make it eight thirty-five p.m.
I said to Wallnofer, “You and Rose were supposed to meet Thor here at nine tonight, but you showed up early. About eight thirty—give or take five minutes either way—you killed Thor. Almost on the dot of eight thirty you dumped him into the pool. I’ve already told you what you did then. But instead of leaving the area, you waited around for Rose to get here, gave him a minute or two and then strode in casually for the meeting—pretending to be greatly surprised to see Rose with a dead man on his hands. Reason? You couldn’t afford to be found with the body, since you’d killed the guy; but if you didn’t show up at all that would tag you for sure.” I paused. “OK so far?”
“I told you I … wasn’t here.” His voice petered out on him momentarily in the middle.
I said roughly, “Look, we know it was one of you two guys. Assume for a moment it was Rose. OK, then he tossed Thor in the soap, at eight thirty-five as witnessed, and then what? Why, then he cleverly stood around for twenty-five minutes waiting for you to show up, whereupon he began hauling Thor out again. No, the same logic applies to him as to you. If Rose had killed Thor, he’d have left—and let you find the body. But that’s not the way it happened.”
Wallnofer didn’t speak. He got a little grayer, though.
“Look,” I said, letting the hardness out of my voice, “even a very dim wit indeed would know the party’s over. I’ve just told you everything, exactly as it happened. Except for why you did it—and how. Man, that’s the only out you’ve got, that’s the part for you to tell us.”
His eyes didn’t seem to be focused on anything. I said, “Wallnofer, no matter how it happened, you’ll feel better once you get it off your chest. You really will. And you’re stuck; you know you’re stuck.”
Well, either he did know or he didn’t. Which is to say, either he was stuck or I was stuck. But I’d used up all my ammunition.
Wallnofer swallowed. That odd glaze slowly left his eyes. He looked at me. Then he said, “You’re right, of course. I … will feel better.” He ran his tongue over his lips, but the lips stayed dry. “It was an accident. Honestly it was. Lou was a bastard. Always, as if it was a career with him. We never got along. Tonight it started again, he took a poke at me. I hit him on the chin, just once, knocked him into the pool. I started to leave, got clear out to my car, then calmed down, went back. But it was all over by then. He … I guess he’d started choking, tried to reach the pool’s ladder but couldn’t quite make it. I managed to get him out, but he was dead. I knew it wouldn’t look like an accident unless he was in the water. So I pushed him back in.”
And that was it. Rawlins was looking at the skull above my ear, as if he saw a big ugly crack there. Then he peered up at the sky, dropped his gaze to Wallnofer. He said quietly, “What was the argument about?”
Wallnofer sighed. “SX-21—at least that’s what it boils down to. Lou insisted we take out a huge policy insuring the firm against loss if anybody discovered the formula.” He laughed suddenly, for no apparent reason. “The insurance angle was to be the basis for a big ad campaign coming up. I told Lou we couldn’t get that kind of policy without revealing what the stuff was, but he said we could hire a chemist to figure out something impressive.”
That stuck me a little and I started to speak, but Wallnofer was going on, “Lou claimed publicity from the Lloyd’s policy, and the ad campaign playing it up, would boost sales twenty percent. I told him I didn’t give a damn. We were making all the money we could keep after taxes. I told Lou I didn’t want to make more profit—especially from SX-21—there just wasn’t any … any incentive.”
Wallnofer took a deep breath. “Well, we got into a beef about it, the usual beef. I never liked the damned SX-21 angle from the beginning anyway, it was his baby.”
“What is the magic stuff, anyway?” I asked him. “And what did you mean a second ago about having a chemist figure something?”
Wallnofer looked at me but remained silent.
“It doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference to you now, does it?” I paused. “Or to Louis Thor.”
He chewed on his lip for a while. “I guess it doesn’t, at that. Well, it’s air.”
“It’s—I don’t quite get the message here. What about air? Is that what you said?”
“That’s what I said—that’s what it is.” He sighed again. “Originally, when times were tougher, we bubbled hot—make that heated—air through the liquid soap to save money. The more air in it, the less soap. Pardon me, the less Zing! It did change the texture and appearance a little, so Lou decided we might as well capitalize on the new look. He thought about it for a few days. And SX-21 was born.”
“Air?” I said dully. “Air is the secret ingredient in Zing!”
“That’s it. Neither of us expected it to catch on so.”
Feeling as if I had a firm grip on unreality, I said, “What in hell is so secret about air? Air’s not a secret ingredient.”
“You don’t understand,” Wallnofer said, just a bit stuffily. “We never told anybody SX-21 was air. We kept it a secret.”
In the ensuing silence I heard a small hissing sound, a very wee sound, like an ant unburdening its bladder near my ear.
Only when it got louder did I realize the noise was coming from Gerald Rose. Rose, the advertising-agency executive who had composed tone poems, if not complete symphonic epics, about SX-21.
His head was thrust forward on his neck, his eyes were thrust forward in their sockets, a vein pulsed snakelike on his forehead, and hissing between his tight-pressed lips was—well, SX-21.
Slowly he stepped toward Wallnofer, slowly his thin right arm came up from his side, slowly the small fingers balled into a fist white at the knuckles. Then Gerald Rose opened his chops and delivered his one statement of the evening: “You utter monster!” he cried, in the tone of a man with his dearest possession being run over by a road grader. “I am going to hit you right on the mouth. Right on the mouth. And hit you and hit you, and hit —”
But that was as far as he got. Rawlins grabbed him, and Rose seemed to wilt. An officer led him, drooping, away.
Soon, then, the area was empty except for Rawlins and me. He looked at the lavender-dotted pool, at the sky, then at me.
“Shell, will you just for hell tell me —”
“Ah, ah. No questions. You agreed to that, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah, but tell me this. How in hell did you know it was Wallnofer? Not just some guy named Schultzbinder.”
“I didn’t. But I knew somebody did all those things I mentioned. And it looked much like Wallnofer for the reasons you heard me give him. Besides, you can’t play it safe all the time, and I was in a hurry. What could I lose?”
“Uh-huh. You knew somebody did those things.” He squinted at me. “There really was a witness, then? You weren’t just making it up?”
I smiled. He frowned.
I walked to the cabaña, and in a small locker found feminine clothing—some of it black and wispy—plus a handbag. I grabbed the stuff and headed for my Cad. Rawlins was still standing by the pool. As I walked past him he scowled at the items in my hands, and at me, swearing colorfully.
I grinned, trotted to the car, started the engine and headed for home.
As I drove, odd thoughts and symbols drifted through my skull. Ah, I thought, the marvels of Science and the Advertising Mind: SX-21 … GL44 … Contains Bacillaurum! … Hyperoricrud … and a half a hundred others, including Hydroatomalkafluorium, the most-secret secret ingredient of them all. Probably, I thought, it was old crankcase draining
s.
I thought of Louis Thor strangling—ah, how men initiate their own ends—on Zing!
And I thought of all the women bathing all across the land—some hopefully, some giddily, some cautiously—on Zing!
And I thought of one particular woman bathing … under waterfalls … in lavender pools … in a tub at the Spartan Apartment Hotel.
But by then, because I had been tromping on the accelerator, I was at the Spartan Apartment Hotel.
As I got out of the car I glanced at my watch. Nine forty p.m. Exactly. From the Spartan and back to the Spartan in half an hour. Probably the speediest case of my career.
But after all, I thought, I’d had incentive. And that’s the secret ingredient.
The Cautious Killers
Her name was Jasmine, but she had asked me to call her Jazz.
Both names fitted her well enough, I supposed. Anybody with eyeballs could tell she looked very jazzy indeed; and I could personally attest that she smelled splendid.
I knew she smelled splendid, because on two previous occasions within the past week, both of them at her soon closed—and locked, and probably barred—apartment door, I had managed to get a sniff of some kind of aphrodisiac which she dabbed behind her ears.
Whether she dabbed the stuff—Sortilège, I think it was—anywhere else, I hadn’t the haziest idea. And to a thirty-year-old bachelor named Shell Scott—that’s me—smelling ears is not exactly the high point of a wildly exciting evening.
Consequently little Jazz had begun to strike me as a bit waltzy. But this was our third joint expedition into the night life of Hollywood, and Jazz had hinted that tonight’s foray might be even more orgiastic than the first couple. At least, she had if you can call unbelievably steamy glances from hot brown eyes a hint. Or the implied promise of tomato-red lips on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Or occasional deep breaths of such magnitude that the next might split and even remove entirely the form-fitting blue-silk cocktail gown clinging, strapless, to her 38-23-36, which was higher mathematics for a gal only five feet, three inches tall. But I was only guessing, since it was pretty hard to tell for sure, when she was putting away a meal which would cause a horse instantly to founder.
The Shell Scott Sampler Page 10
