Double in Trouble (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “From L.A., huh? Then why aren’t you in L.A.?”

  “Several reasons. For one, I’ve had a lot of trouble with one of your hand-picked champions of labor on the Coast—”

  “This isn’t the complaint department, Scott. If you come here to tell me somebody stepped on your toes, you’re wasting my time.”

  I bit off the first words that started out, then said quietly, “In an outfit like the Truckers, you probably get lots of complaints to ignore. But that’s not why I’m here—”

  “Then get to the point.”

  “If you’ll clam up for a second, I will.”

  He burned the dark eyes into me, but I went on, “For one thing, I’d like to get in touch with your wife.”

  He looked surprised. “Why in hell would you want to get in touch with her?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  He frowned and seemed puzzled. He hadn’t even blinked when he’d seen me come in, or when I’d told him my name. Ever since I’d found out my client was Mrs. Mike Sand, I had assumed she must have hired me with her husband’s knowledge; if that wasn’t true, this was an even stranger situation than I’d thought.

  Sand said slowly, “How in hell would I know why you want to talk to her? I never saw you before. I never even heard of you.”

  Maybe it was true. I said, “Did you hear anything about a guy named Braun Thorn getting killed in L.A.?”

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I heard it.” He frowned. “Yeah, you must be the dick mixed up in the thing there.”

  “Now you remember. But it was just a little thing. Some of your Trucker officials beating a guy and shooting him.”

  Finally he unwound his arms, put his hands together on the desk in front of him. He leaned toward me and said, “Don’t give me no big mouth, mister. You got no idea the trouble it could get you in. So watch that mouth.” He glared at me. “Why do you want to talk to my wife?”

  On rare occasions you meet a man it would be a joy to hit. This was one of those occasions. But I made myself count ten, lit a cigarette slowly, had a drag on it. “I’m looking for Dr. Frost,” I said. “It’s just possible Mrs. Sand might know something that would help me.”

  “I don’t know where she is right now.”

  “How about Chester Drum?”

  “What about Drum?”

  “He seems pretty chummy with you. Or Mrs. Sand.”

  “He’s not working for me, Scott. I got no use for Drum—or you. For no damn keyhole snooper.”

  “You wouldn’t have any idea where Dr. Frost is, then?”

  “No, I wouldn’t have no idea.”

  “You’ll at least admit you know who he is, won’t you? That wouldn’t be spilling any beans, would it?”

  “You know damn well he’s my wife’s old man.”

  “Yeah. He’s also one of the guys about to carve you up in the hearings next week.”

  He grunted. “Nobody’s going to carve me up.”

  A long ash was on my cigarette. There wasn’t an ashtray in sight; Sand’s desk top was bare, except for a phone. I asked him, “You got an ashtray somewhere?”

  “No. And don’t drop no ashes on the rug.”

  I do not often count ten twice. But I held the burn in, flicked the ashes into the cuff of my trousers. Then I said, “You’ve got it wrong, Sand. I hear there are a large number of guys ready to start carving. Besides Frost and Hartsell, there’s John Ragen on the Coast, for, instance.”

  His lips twisted. “That—” he spat out an unpleasant epithet. “He’s washed up, even if he don’t know it.”

  I grinned at him. “He sure doesn’t know it. In fact, according to Ragen, he’s going to take over here right after the decline and fall of Mike Sand.”

  His eyes smouldered at me. It was a look that could almost have driven spikes into a plank. “There ain’t going to be no decline and fall of Mike Sand.”

  “I got the impression there was some anticipation of that decline—even here. From Abbamonte.”

  He started to speak, then the lids fell lower over his eyes and he went on casually, “Abbamonte takes a lot of routine off my hands. I can’t handle every little thing. He’s a good, loyal member of the Brotherhood. My right-hand man.”

  It came out as phony as a Kremlin guarantee. Sand had almost let something slip, I thought; so I got out a bigger needle. “Sure,” I said. “About as loyal as Ragen, maybe.”

  “I’ll take care of Ragen and anything else comes up.”

  “Including Hartsell and Frost, I suppose.”

  “That lousy committee don’t bother me. The rank and file know what I’ve done for them. I’ll stand on my record.”

  “You do and you’ll get fifty years in the slammer.”

  His voice was deceptively gentle. “Everything I ever done was for the working man, so he could have a living wage, decent working conditions—”

  “Add the dynamite, blackmail picketing, phony strikes, murder. Living wage, huh? Decent working conditions?”

  He squeezed his hands together so hard a couple of knuckles popped softly, like necks breaking. “I’m getting damned tired of you, Scott. But I’ll tell you this: If it takes toughness to protect the rights of labor, then I’ll play it tough.”

  “Rights of labor again. How about the wrongs of labor, Sand? How about the right of guys to make a living without paying off muggs like you and Ragen?”

  That one did it. “Get out,” he said. “Or I’ll throw you out.” He seemed ready to try it.

  So I said, “I already got that message from Abbamonte. I came here to see the boss—and was shown to him. It almost seemed he was calling the shots here, not you, Sand. In fact, talking to Abbamonte, I got the impression you were some kind of flunky.”

  Sand glared across the room, not seeing me. “That sonofabitch,” he said. He raised his hand and pawed hard at the welt on his jaw, pawed it some more. “That sonofabitch,” he said again. “He may think he’s calling some shots. But he may not even be around when them hearings—”

  Suddenly he broke off, turned to look at me, glaring. I could see the anger growing in his dark eyes. He stood up, walked around the desk and over to me, moving quickly. He wrapped a hand around my forearm and squeezed it tight.

  “Either way you want it, Scott. Out your way or my way. But you’re going out.”

  “Let go of me, Sand.”

  His fingers bit into my arm. The short butt of my still smouldering cigarette was in my free hand. Somehow it kind of collided with his wrist. Sand roared, yanked his hand back, balled it into a fist.

  “Don’t do it, Sand.” I got to my feet. “We’ll really go around, friend.” He didn’t quite swing. He was still making up his mind when I said again, “Don’t do it. Think of how much I’d enjoy it. Think of all the reporters who’d come to interview you in the hospital.”

  He bit down on his lower lip, eyes glaring at me. But he didn’t swing that right hand.

  “Good loyal man, huh?” I said.

  His face sort of congealed, like quick-drying cement. “You got it wrong, crumb. You got everything wrong.”

  I’d said all I wanted to say. And Sand, apparently, had said more than he’d meant to. I walked to the door, and out. I still didn’t know where Mrs. Sand was, or Chet Drum, but the trip here had been profitable, nonetheless.

  On my way out I looked into Townsend Holt’s office. Tootsie had told me a gal named Hope Derleth would be in charge of publicity now that Holt was dead, but the office was empty. In a bookcase against the wall I found a phone book. Only one Derleth—Charles—was listed in it. I picked up a phone on one of the desks. A woman’s voice said, “Yes?” Switchboard. I hung up. I didn’t want this call going through the Truckers’ switchboard, and I had the feeling it was time I got far from here, anyway.

  My cab was still waiting. So was the snow.

  Before the driver started the cab Sand came through the wide doors of the Truckers’ Building. He was moving in a hurry, short legs driving like pistons, he
ad down. He didn’t even see the cab. He hustled to the sidewalk and turned right.

  I had the cabbie follow him, well back. Sand walked two blocks, went into a pay phone booth outside a garage, dialed a number. He talked for a minute or so, slammed the receiver down, headed back for the Brotherhood’s building. It seemed a bit odd. I told the driver where I wanted to go.

  The Derleth address was only a few blocks from Truckers’ Headquarters. I walked up three flights in the building, started looking for the number of the apartment. I found it. I also found a uniformed policeman sitting outside the door.

  I identified myself, asked him why a guard was outside the apartment.

  He handed back the copy of my California license and said, “The Hartsell Committee wants Miss Derleth under protective custody until she can testify next week.”

  “Friendly witness? Or unfriendly.”

  “She’s going to cooperate with the Committee.”

  That sounded good. It indicated that Hope Derleth and I were on the same side, which would be a relief after the people I’d been talking to. “Okay if I have a word with her?”

  “You can ring the bell and ask her.”

  I rang the bell. In a moment I heard quick, light footsteps. The door swung open. And suddenly I forgot the snow outside, began wishing I’d brought along another suit and had just changed into it. I was very conscious of my sort of clammy moistness.

  She was a dark-eyed brunette, and she was a sweetheart.

  She had a trim little figure that hadn’t been trimmed too much, all of it nicely encased in a pale blue blouse, dark blue skirt, smooth nylons and high-heeled blue shoes. She seemed to like blue. I was starting to like it pretty well myself. Her smile was nice, curving up just right at the corners. She curved up—and in and out—just right at the corners, too. In fact, there weren’t any corners.

  She had been smiling when she’d opened the door. But as she looked at me the smile went away. As if she might have been hoping I was somebody else.

  I grinned at her. “I’m in luck.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Finding you behind this door. All I knew was that Hope Derleth was in here. Are you Hope? I hope.”

  She smiled that nicely curving smile again. “I am.”

  I liked her smile. So far I liked everything about this lovely. I said, “My name’s Shell Scott. I’d appreciate a short chat with you. All right if I come in?”

  She glanced at the officer. “All right.”

  I went inside, and as she shut the door she frowned slightly and said, “Shell Scott. I’ve heard that name.”

  Oh, oh, I thought. But I said, “It seems to have been bandied around out here. So far, everybody I meet who’s heard it makes ugly faces. As if I’m something incurable and they’re afraid they’ll catch me. So please don’t frown.”

  She asked, “Who’s been making faces at you?”

  “A blob named Abbamonte for one.”

  It got the right reaction. If Abbamonte frowned at me, then maybe she would smile. I added, hopefully, “And two muggs named Glasses and Rover. They actually hate me.”

  The smile came back. “Well, you must be all right. Let’s sit on the couch.”

  My, I was doing splendidly. I walked to the couch, feeling very jazzy. Washington D.C. was a pretty good place when you got to know it. And I felt I was now getting to know it. We got seated and I said, “Morty hates me, too. And especially Mike Sand. Everybody hates me.”

  She chuckled. “Don’t beg for sympathy, Mr. Scott.” It was said lightly, pleasantly.

  “Shell.”

  “Shell, then. What did you want to see me about?”

  “Well, several things, Miss Derleth.” I paused, but she didn’t plead with me to call her Hope. “I got the impression you weren’t exactly enamored of those eggs I named.”

  “I’m not.”

  “There’s just as rotten an egg named John Ragen on the Coast,” I said.

  Naturally she knew of Ragen. She nodded.

  “I’ve had some trouble with the man and I understand he was in communication with your immediate superior, Townsend Holt, quite a bit recently, right?” She nodded, and I went on, “Since you know that much, I’m hoping you can tell me what some of those calls were about. Especially one that Holt made to Ragen last Monday night.”

  She seemed a bit guarded now. “I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me a little more about why you’re interested.”

  “Well, I think Ragen may have been happy to see Townsend go. Him and a guy named Drum. The way it stacks up—”

  “What?” Her dark eyes were suddenly wide. And there was a very strange expression on her face. “What did you say?”

  “I said Ragen might have—”

  “No, about Chet—Drum, you said.”

  “Yeah, Chet Drum. Do you know him? I’d give my eyeteeth to catch up with that boy. Where is he?”

  “I haven’t heard from him.” She spoke in a rush. “He’s ... all right, isn’t he? He hasn’t been ... hurt?”

  Something was screwy here. “Not yet,” I said slowly. “But I haven’t caught up with him yet. What’s with this Chet business? Don’t tell me—” I didn’t get to finish.

  She said with ominous calmness, “I get the impression you don’t hold Mr. Drum in high regard.”

  “That’s one way to put it. After all, he—”

  “You can just leave. Why, you’ll never meet a finer man than Chet.” Her voice rose a little higher. So did she. As she straightened up she went on rapidly, “It’s a good thing he’s not here right now.”

  “Good thing for him, maybe—”

  “You! Coming here and trying to get me to answer all sorts of—of loaded questions! I’ll bet Abbamonte doesn’t like you.”

  She was on her feet now, and she stamped one of them on the carpet. Those eyes had a lot of spark and snap in them, even fire. But the fire had gone out—at least for me. Ashes I got. And it began to seep into my skull that maybe the fire was for Drum. For Chet. Dear Chet.

  I stood up. “Lady, I hope you haven’t let this guy con you, too, along with half the United—”

  “Please go, Mr. Scott.”

  There was no question that she meant it. Her tone, her pose, her gesture toward the door, the ashes in her eyes, all told me she meant it. I would get no more information from this one. Not only no more. I hadn’t gotten any information.

  But maybe I had. Apparently she and Drum were on the same team. Obviously it was not my team. So, since I was on the good side, she and Drum had to be on the bad side. Somehow, though, that didn’t set quite right now. Didn’t please me. Two minutes ago I would have bet my income tax that Hope Derleth was one of the good ones.

  I walked to the door and outside, thinking that I was in a kind of rotten business. I turned and said to Hope, “Lady, I hate to see a gal like you—”

  And the door slammed in my face.

  I looked at it for a while. Not very long. The officer seemed amused. I was not amused. I went down to the cab and told the driver to take me to the Statler. As he pulled out into the slush I tried to figure out what had just happened. Either she and Drum were in cahoots, or she was just as nice a gal as I’d thought and Drum had snowed her somehow. He had sure snowed a lot of people.

  I didn’t even know yet what the bounder looked like, but I had been thinking of him as closely resembling the picture of Dorian Gray. After Dorian kicked the bucket. But that didn’t fit now, either. I remembered the reaction of the curvy little waitress in the F Street Cafeteria when I’d mentioned his name. His slightly sour landlady. And now Hope.

  I wondered if there could be a third possibility. That Drum wasn’t quite the murderer, despoiler and ravisher, con-man and foul fiend I’d pictured him all along.

  It was a disturbing thought. I didn’t really believe it. But it disturbed me. If I was wrong about Drum, I might be wrong about a lot of other things. And that was, you can believe me, an empty thought.

  We
drove down New Jersey Avenue toward the center of D.C. through the falling snow, falling more heavily now, while I considered that emptiness....

  I stepped out of the hot shower and rubbed down with a thick, rough towel until my skin glowed with warmth. It was eleven p.m., and I’d taken a room at the Statler for the night. Since leaving Hope Derleth I had checked a newspaper morgue, found a picture of Chet Drum. So finally I knew for sure what the guy looked like.

  He wasn’t the Dorian Gray after-picture I’d built up in my mind. It kind of disappointed me.

  It was nine a.m., Friday, the eighteenth of December, and I was standing outside Mrs. Mike Sand’s suite in the Statler with the same larcenous bellhop at my side, and a different twenty-dollar bill in my hand. I had phoned the suite, but there’d been no answer. The bellhop inserted his key in the lock, turned it, and took off. I went in.

  Two minutes later I’d covered the place quickly and was in the bedroom looking at a piece of luggage which I’d found under the bed. When I’d first met the tall blonde Alexis at my apartment, I had thought she must wear brief and gauzy underthings. In the suitcase were underthings, and they were wonderfully brief. And gauzy. Also in the suitcase was a small leather-bound book. I picked it up, and saw beneath it the corner of a black ledger of some kind. I grabbed it, opened the cover and smiled. It was a checkbook, one of the big flat kinds with three rows of checks to a page, the stubs in a vertical column down the left side. About half the blank checks had been used, black-ink notations on the stubs. The stubs looked interesting, especially since this obviously belonged to Alexis—to the wife of Mike Sand, President of the National Brotherhood of Truckers.

  I glanced at the leather-bound book, noting pen-and-ink writing on the pages, and that it was apparently some kind of record or journal, then turned back to the checkbook. I was starting to give the stubs a closer look when a key rattled in the lock of the front door.

  I straightened up suddenly as I heard the door swing open, then jammed the two items in my hands back where I’d found them, shoved lacy items over them. Somebody was walking across the living room floor—toward the bedroom and me.

  I closed the suitcase, snapped it shut and kicked it under the bed, then rolled onto the bed in almost the same movement. As my head touched the pillow I saw her, saw Alexis. She stepped into the open bedroom doorway and stopped, eyes on me.