“That's enough. I'm in it, so don't mention it again.” I grinned. “You name it, I'll try to do it. Besides—” I glanced at the mugs—“It seems very likely your problems are also my problems. And, honey, I like it that way.”
I don't know what it was that turned her on. She must have been holding back the tears for a long time, must have been hanging onto her emotions, forcing herself to drive, to come here, to tell me the story. And maybe now that she had a moment in which to relax even a little, she let go.
The tears started to well from those big dark eyes, as if squeezed out painfully, drop by drop, and then they came in a torrent, a flood. She put her hands on my chest, sobbing, her body shaking, leaned her head on my shoulder, rubbing her face against my coat.
I put my arms around her, pulled her gently against me. It was just the normal, natural thing to do. But she felt good to me, even then. Even while she was racked with sobs, only minutes from looking at her dead brother, and while two guys still lay breathing heavily on my floor, she felt good. Maybe I should have been thinking only of her troubles, and my own. But mixed with those thoughts was a kind of wonder at how firm and fine her flesh felt against my hands, her body against mine.
Her face moved against my shoulder, her big soft breasts moved on my chest, and under the white dress her flesh slid smoothly beneath my hands. Her hair brushed my chin, and I could smell the sweet perfume of her.
I'd felt it a little, earlier, at the Srinagar's rail, felt the warmth, the subdued fire, the magnetic attraction of her. But not as I did now. And I couldn't help wondering what it would be like to hold Elaine close, like this, when there were no troubles, no pains and worries, nothing but the two of us close together.
After a while the sobs stopped. Elaine sighed deeply, looked up at me. “Thanks.”
One word, soft, husky in her throat.
I didn't say anything. I held her close for a moment longer, then started to let her go.
She said, “Hold me tight, Shell. Please hold me tight. Hold me and hold me and—”
I guess I would have forgotten where the hell I was, forgotten what had happened, the unconscious slobs, even that I was on earth, I suppose. If what happened next hadn't happened next. Maybe it was just as well—but right then I sure didn't believe it.
Because there was a great crashing sound, and a volley of volubility, and then I was being pounded on the head. There was so much pounding and in so many places that for a wild moment I thought both those hoods had sprung upon my back and were banging and scratching and biting me and had been joined by company.
But then, as I reeled around, everything came into focus.
The crashing sound had been the door slammed open—by Bunny.
The volubility had been Bunny, mouthing imprecations.
The pounding had been—you guessed it—Bunny.
And there Bunny stood now, about a yard away. She stamped one little foot hard on the floor and waggled a finger at me. “You!” she yelled.
She stamped the floor again and shouted, “You—you bigamist!”
Chapter Seven
Bigamist, she'd called me.
She had me so confused that for a couple of seconds there, that's what I actually thought I was.
“Hey, hold it!” I said. “Now, Bunny. Now, Bunny.” I backed way from her, and she took a step forward, chewing on her teeth, getting ready to say some other wild thing.
Elaine was staring wide-eyed at the latest arrival, her lips forming a circle of surprise. Bunny flashed a glance at her, then burned it into me, into Elaine again, then—head turning slowly this time—speared me with it.
“So. That's it. Just like last time. Got to rush. Bunny. Business, Bunny. Wait for me. Bunny. Stay in the car, Bunny!" She was vibrating all over.
“You don't understand—”
"Don't I?”
Elaine said softly, “What in the world...”
Thoughts were racing around in my skull. There's plenty of room up there for races. Finally I said, “Look at that, Bunny,” and pointed at the two guys, still quiet on the floor.
She looked, frowned, and calmed down a bit. Just a little. “Who are they?” she snorted. “Her previous escorts?”
“They are a couple of guys who tried to kill me a few minutes ago. Believe me, when people are killing me, I forget everything else.”
She frowned some more. “How were they going to kill you?”
“With a knife.” I pointed to it on the coffee table.
“And if that didn't work, with those big guns there, I suppose.”
The knife and guns were in plain view, with the leather sap, and it must have been a rather convincing display. But Bunny was not quite convinced.
She looked at Elaine and, eyes on her, spoke to me. “And what was she killing you with? What ... what big guns was she using?”
And there she had me. In all honesty, with those big guns trained on me I had been about to surrender. And I could hardly tell Bunny that we had been dancing to distant music.
There was a sticky silence. But then Elaine stepped into the breach. “My brother was killed a little while ago. I came to Mr. Scott for help. And I ... went to pieces, I guess.”
Bunny's expression changed, her face sobered. “Your brother—oh, you poor dear. I'm ... sorry.”
It seemed like the moment for me to wrap all this up if I could, and get it over with. Those two mugs would be coming to before much longer, and I couldn't keep tapping their head like gongs. No, there was work for me to do, and it was time I began doing it. There would be no sleep for me, this night—in fact it was morning. The sun's first rays would soon be slanting through my bedroom window.
I said, “Elaine, this is Bernice Wade. Bunny, Elaine Emerson. Another time, maybe we could all sit around the apartment and...” My mind went blank. The prospect of the three of us sitting around the apartment, gabbing, was a foul one. I could hear Bunny saying, “Yes, Elaine, darling. I was swimming around in the water naked—you know, nude—and Shell was a dear, he threw me a ladder and...” My mind went blanker.
“You've got to go,” I blurted. “Leave. I mean, before the police get here. I have to call the law.”
Elaine said to me, “What should I do?”
“Nothing. Stay home—and don't tell anybody what you told me. You understand, if, uh, they found out ... it could be very dangerous for you. They'd start looking for you.'”
“Yes. I hadn't considered that part of it, but I understand. All right. And ... thank you, Shell. When will I hear from you?”
“As soon as I've got anything worth passing on.” From our original phone conversation I already had her home address and phone number, and I added, “I'll want to talk with you later today, anyway.”
I did. There were still things I wanted to ask her—and ask Bunny, too, for that matter. But this was not the time for it. I said to Bunny, “I'll—that is, I'd like to meet you later, too. Among other things, I'm curious to know how your partner acts when you see him.”
“What other things?” But then she smiled slightly. “Sure. Why don't you come to the Red Rooster tonight? We'll both be there.”
“I'll see you at the club then, unless something delays me.”
Bunny looked at Elaine. Elaine looked at Bunny. Neither spoke, but they seemed to be eying each other warily. Then Elaine said, “Bernice, I have my car here. Do you have a way to get home?”
Bunny smiled. “No. Shell was going to drive me home.”
I started getting a kind of haunted feeling. Elaine said to me, “You'll take her then?”
“I'll be talking to the police for a while. It—but I can call a cab.”
Bunny said, “I'd appreciate it if you'd drop me off, Elaine.”
“Of course, dear.”
“That won't be necessary,” I said. “I can call a cab—”
Bunny smiled sweetly at me. “No, Shell, I wouldn't think of it. Besides, Elaine and I have so many things to talk about.”
Inside, I was groaning again. This night was a ruin. So was I. There were a few more words, none of which I remember, as the three of us went to the door. As she left, Bunny said to me, “Save that vase for me, will you, Shell? The one you were going to mix that big drink in?”
“Yeah.”
Elaine said, “Do phone, Shell. You have my number, don't you?”
“Yeah.”
And they, it seemed, had my number. I waved good-by to them both, then closed the door, went to the phone and called the police.
The two mugs, handcuffed and achingly conscious, were in the back seat of a black and white radio car, not talking. They had said a little, shortly after regaining consciousness and being interrogated by the police. Their story, boiled down, went about like this: “It was just a business call. We wanted to hire this Shell Scott. The door was open, so we went in and waited. Then this ape comes in. We don't know what Scott looks like, so when he jumps us we naturally defended ourselves. Honest, officer, we thought he was a bandit.”
And then they clammed. It was highly probable that they'd keep clammed until the kind of lawyer who is always eager to be hired in advance of the crime, and act immediately afterwards in the event of trouble, got them sprung from jail.
I'd finished being questioned by the cops, and was standing alongside my Cad talking to Lieutenant Rawlins, who worked out of Central Homicide, downtown.
The radio car was from the Hollywood Division, and ordinarily Rawlins wouldn't have come out from Central. But when I'd phoned the police there'd been no great rush, since the two hoods were sleeping, so instead of putting my call through the complaint board I'd called Homicide direct, filled Rawlins in on the situation and asked him if he could come out himself.
I had told my story a couple of times, and by asking what else was doing in the wicked city, managed to start Rawlins talking about L.A.'s latest murder. We had been friends for a long time, and he spoke freely with me.
“Guy named Belden,” he said. “Craig Belden. Three slugs in him, looks like a pro job. Robbery maybe. Safe was empty.”
“Anything on Belden?”
He shook his head. “Nothing yet, be seems clean.”
“Any leads?”
“Couple.” He squinted at me a moment, as if curious about my interest, but went on. “Some of the neighbors heard the shots and peeked out windows. Saw two men run from the house immediately after the shooting. Into a car and away.”
He lit a cigarette, dragged deeply, then said, “One guy saw something else. Interesting. Probably our best lead.”
An uneasy feeling rippled through me. “What was that?”
“One guy claims he saw a woman run from the scene right after the two men. Get that. After they left.” I fumbled for a cigarette, lit it. “Interesting,” I said. “I imagine it would be wise to keep that from the news hounds, huh? Otherwise—”
He interrupted. “The press already got it somewhere. Anyway, we want to turn this gal up—she might be an eye-witness.”
My throat was suddenly dry. By the time that news hit the papers and broadcasts—probably had by now, I guessed—the killers would know they hadn't been alone when they'd knocked off Belden. They'd start spending sixty minutes an hour, twenty-four hours a day, hunting for that witness, that woman. For Elaine. She'd live—until they found her.
I almost told Rawlins the whole story, who she was and the rest of it. But I held back. So far, only she and I knew exactly what had happened. Her identity was still secret, and it might stay that way. But, if I told Rawlins, he'd have to report the info; a lot of people would learn her identity—and that kind of news has an almost magical way of reaching reporters. There's no magic about it—somebody always spills. It makes a good story. So good that there might even be another murder to write about. I kept my mouth shut.
“Any description?” I said instead.
“Not much. Guy said it looked like a woman in a white dress. Couldn't see much. She rushed to a car and took off.” He paused. “Why're you so interested, Shell?”
I grinned at him. “I'm always interested in your fascinating occupation, Rawlins. Besides, the timing's so close, I was wondering if by any chance those two hoods—” I pointed toward the men in the radio car—“might have done the Belden job and then called on me. Why, I wouldn't know. But maybe it's a possibility.”
“I don't think so. The call on the Belden thing came in at three-ten a.m. According to your story, these boys must've been here at that time. Probably before then if they meant to catch you when you walked in.”
Rawlins said they'd book the two suspects downtown and asked me to follow them in. When they drove off and around the corner, I ran back into the Spartan and upstairs, grabbed my phone. I called Elaine's number, an apartment on Santa Monica Boulevard. There wasn't any answer. Well, she and Bunny were probably still talking. Or maybe even pulling each other's hair. At least, that's what I told myself.
Central Homicide and Detective Headquarters are on the third floor of the Police Building in downtown L.A. I got there shortly after Rawlins, dictated my story and signed the crime report, then went with Rawlins down the back stairway to Felony Booking. After processing, my two mugs were put into one of the felony tanks on the second floor, with half a dozen other suspects, and while a felony tank is not the most joyous spot in the world, both of them acted as if they were going to a party, complete with cake. Obviously, neither of them was worried a bit.
I told Rawlins I wanted to check the dead man, Craig Belden, in the morgue. He lifted an eyebrow, but I took off before the questions got around to Elaine Emerson. After leaving the Police Building I phoned Elaine again, but there was still no reply. I didn't know Bunny's phone number or even if she had one, and there was no listing in the book or directory for Bernice Wade. Maybe she had an unlisted phone; or it could be that Wade was a stage name. I didn't know, but I did know I was getting increasingly worried about Elaine.
I drove to the Hall of Justice and went downstairs, walked along the corridor, past the Viewing Room. Emil, the attendant on duty, let me into the morgue itself. In a few seconds I was looking at Craig Belden.
They were already working on him, and he was on one of the high four-wheeled tables with its top set on a slant. They were draining the blood from him, which is about as pretty as it sounds. Two slugs had caught him in the chest, one in the face, but his features were still recognizable. He had thin sandy-colored hair, pale blue eyes, and a wide, pointed chin.
I'd seen him before. Only that time he'd been in the company of Joe Navarro, the heavy hairy egg, and the shiny white-haired man in that stateroom on the Srinagar.
An hour later I had visited Elaine's still empty apartment and driven to Bunny's place on Clinton. It was a small duplex. I rang, and in half a minute a sleepy voice on the other side of the door said, “Who's it?” “Shell, Bunny. Can I see you for a minute?” She opened the door and I stepped inside. She was wearing pajama tops, which came down barely far enough, but I was by now so worried about Elaine that I couldn't pay much attention to the pretty sight.
“What's the matter?” she asked. “Did she stand you up?”
“Knock it off, Bunny. I'll just be a minute. Do you have any idea where Elaine is?”
She looked at me coolly. “No.”
“This is important. Look, her brother was murdered last night; there's just a chance—never mind why—that the same guys who did the job on him might be after her, too. So have you any idea where she'd be? She isn't at her apartment, by the way. I checked.”
That woke her up. “No, Shell. I haven't. She drove straight here, dropped me off, and left. Maybe she stopped to eat or something.”
“Maybe. Don't mention this to anybody. Especially Joe Navarro.”
She moistened her lips, eyes serious. “I won't.” She paused and went on, “Why did you mention Joe?”
“He's mixed up in this. Bunny. Some way, I don't know how, or how much, but he's in it. You be careful of that boy. D
on't tell him you went home with me, or even mention me—in fact, you probably should stay clear away from him, and from work.”
“No, I'm going to work tonight. But I'll be careful.”
I told her I'd see her later at the club if I could and started down the steps. She said, “Shell.”
I turned. “Yeah?”
“I hope you find her.”
By noon, I'd still found no trace of Elaine. She hadn't been to her apartment. I'd checked on the men I'd seen aboard the Srinagar but succeeded in identifying only one of the two others who'd been present with Belden and Navarro. The big egg with the loose-fleshed face and hairy hands was, it turned out, Robert Goss himself, owner of the Srinagar. Mine host last night. The fact of his presence aboard the yacht, plus the description I was able to provide, enabled me to identify him. But nobody could tell me much about him other than that he was rich—rich enough, at least, to own a 160-foot yacht and declare a gross of from half a million to a million dollars a year from “investments” and profits on various “enterprises.” What those “investments and enterprises” were, nobody I talked to was able to tell me. In fact, not much seemed to be known officially about Robert Goss.
And nobody I talked to, including the police, could tell me who the tall thin white-haired man might have been. It's difficult to identify anybody from the general kind of description I was able to give, without knowing anything about him, what he did for a living, where he lived, or any of his habits. And there seemed to be, at least so far, no evidence that any man answering his description had even been seen aboard the Srinagar. Seen by anybody but me, that is.
Friends in the police department agreed to check further—carefully, of course, because of the “eminence” of Goss—and see if they could turn up anybody else who'd seen the guy. Up to now, my efforts in that direction had drawn a blank, and I had a hunch identifying that egg might be extremely important—to me.
There was one place where I might find out. I didn't like the idea much; in fact, I didn't like it at all. But if I went back aboard that yacht again, in broad daylight this time, I might get some of the info I wanted.
Over Her Dear Body Page 6
