Over Her Dear Body

by Richard S. Prather

  With it? I thought. What's with it? I knew very well I should be shooting hoods, or dodging bullets or some such thing. Veering between doubt and uncertainty, I made one last try. “Couldn't we open the safe now, Arline?”

  “No!” This time she really seemed angry. “I tole you I got to sober us up. I'm not going to go opening safes when I don't know if I'm going to do it or not, am I? Besides, I really truly want to think soberly about it. Maybe I'll do it.” She paused. “But if you think I'm going to sit there in all that crazy steam again all alone, you have lost your fat mind. If I do, when I come out, if you're still here when I come out, I'll chase you out. And never open any safes.”

  She meant it, too, that seemed certain. “Well, Okay,” I said, and started to take off my coat.

  “What're you doing?” she asked me.

  “Taking off my coat.”

  “Ho. You keep it on, boy. You take your coat off, and I know what'll happen. Next thing, you'll take off your pants. Ha! I know what'll happen, all right.”

  “Me too, all right. But, after all—”

  “No!” It had the same sound as the last no. “You keep your clothes on and I'll keep my towel on. We can sober up just as well that way. The other way, we might as well take in the bottle.”

  “Now, Arline, this is preposterous. Who ever heard of anybody taking a steam bath in a gabardine suit?”

  “What's that got to do with it? Besides, suppose Ralph should come home?”

  That was suddenly the most depressing thought I'd had for a year. “I guess I know what he'd do,” I said. “Especially with me unarmed and pretty defenseless. Maybe you're right.”

  “I know I'm right. And you want into that safe, don't you?”

  “I ... guess so.” At that point, I didn't really know whether I wanted into that safe or not. But while I was thinking about it, Arline opened the door and went inside calling, “Hurry. Don't let all the steam out.”

  So acting on impulse, as I sometimes do, I followed her into the steam room. Closing the door quickly behind me, I didn't let all the steam out. But that crazy Arline had meant exactly what she'd said about my keeping my clothes on and her keeping the towel on—and she sure let all the steam out of me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I shall not even dwell upon the miserable hour or so during which Arline and I sat in that steam room, chatting. You have no idea how easy it is to run out of light conversation under such circumstances. When, finally, I was reduced to such comments as, “Hell, my pants are shrinking,” and, a little bit later, “If my gun is rusted, I'll bat you with it,” we decided that, completely sober or not, it was time to get out of there.

  So it was almost an anticlimax as two bedraggled and wilted and thoroughly steamed-out people staggered into Ralph Mitchell's bedroom and opened the big safe there. Anticlimactic, even though in the mass of papers and other material I found what I'd been looking for. At that point, just about anything would have been anticlimactic, even finding Ralph in there with a double-barreled shotgun.

  I didn't find Ralph, of course; what I did find was a lot of stuff that didn't make sense at first, and some other items that did. I found copies of two of the grant deeds I had earlier seen in Belden's office. Both were for large areas of land in a nearby county. Held with them, by a rubber band, was a California map. On it was penciled a heavy red line—passing into and through the land represented by the deeds. The red line connected two distant freeways, already in use, and in several places followed the fainter map lines which indicated that only graded or improved roads were now in use there. It didn't take any stretch of imagination to assume that before long a new multi-million-dollar freeway would probably be constructed on the route indicated by that penciled red line. A continuation of the red line went on to another county seat, but I couldn't find any papers showing ownership of, or payment on, land in that area. Maybe there was something to that effect in Belden's papers, but I doubted it

  Actually there was nothing yet to prove Silverman or Goss owned the land; most of the deeds showed the name of “Atlas Development Company” as owner which could be anything or anybody. It would take a staff of C.P.A.'s to trace all the fronts and companies involved, probably, but I had no doubt that at the end of the trail would be one, or probably both, of the two Bobs.

  In a neat package were copies of the prison record of one Thomas Cain Morrison, who had been arrested twice in Georgia for assault with a deadly weapon, without conviction, and subsequently done a year at Atlanta for manslaughter. A faded newspaper clipping told the story of Morrison's illegal flight to avoid prosecution on a murder charge. There were a few other odds and ends in the package, but the most interesting item was the photograph which accompanied the clipping.

  He'd changed in the years since the photo had been run in the paper, but not enough so I couldn't recognize him. It was the man I knew as Robert Goss.

  Even more interesting, though not so obviously damaging, was a mass of material I found all together in a blue manila folder, neatly packaged. There were canceled checks and crude photographs of checks, photostats of records, copies of deeds, escrow deposit receipts, ledger sheets, other papers I didn't understand. But several of the photographic prints were of checks signed by R. C. Silverman, and eight of them—each for more than a hundred thousand dollars—had been made payable to Robert Goss. Other checks had been endorsed by Robert Goss, acting for the Atlas Development Company. Still others were endorsed by a man I'd never heard of, also for Atlas Development. There were checks and other papers concerned with several companies unknown to me.

  I felt more than pleased about all of it.

  But I wondered how it happened that such incriminating material was so conveniently arranged here in the blue manila folder in Mitchell's safe. There was at least one logical answer. A lawyer involved with crooks and party to crooked deals would naturally have to know all about those deals in order to take steps necessary to cover them up. That knowledge could make him dangerous to the men on whose behalf he acted, and it seemed certain to me that, involved with such men, Mitchell would have wanted some kind of guarantee that he wouldn't be dumped overboard, tossed to the wolves or even killed, in case of trouble. The blue manila package looked like very good insurance, a kind of paper club with which he could protect himself.

  But, for me, it was a different kind of club.

  Into the manila folder I jammed all the other papers which looked like help to me and trouble for the two Bobs. I left a lot of other info, including a pile of money and securities, in the safe; there was a lot more than I could carry, and I was sure I had enough anyway. Then I locked the safe, stood up and turned to Arline.

  She had been watching me, saying a word or two once in a while, but keeping silent most of the time. Now she said, “You act like you found the tomb of King Tut in there.”

  “Something much more valuable to me right now, Arline. When I hand this over to the police, Ralph's going to be in a lot of trouble. Along with some other people. I felt I should tell you.”

  “Thanks. It doesn't surprise me. Or bother me much, if you were wondering.” She frowned slightly. “Good thing I was leaving anyway, I guess.”

  “Yeah. And you'd better get out fast now. Things are going to pop very soon, and you'd better be nowhere around. The best thing would be for you to leave with me.”

  “Uh-huh.” She bit her lip gently, then said, “I'm ready. I've some bags already packed. You want to bring your car up to the front door? I'll open the gate from inside.”

  “Okay.” I had parked in front of the house, and it occurred to me that maybe it hadn't been wise to leave it there in plain view. But it was done, so I put the thought out of my mind.

  Then I picked up my blue manila folder, feeling very pleased with myself, and walked out of the house. And into the street. And got shot.

  I was clear into the street before I saw them in the dim illumination from widely spaced street lamps, but they saw me at the same time, o
r probably a few seconds sooner.

  What had brought the men here was, apparently, Ralph Mitchell himself. There were three of them, and I spotted them after they'd climbed out of a black Fleetwood parked ahead of my buggy. Mitchell was just getting out of the car, stepping onto the sidewalk, but the other two were already standing in the street on the opposite side of the car from him.

  Mitchell yelled, “It's Scott, Shell Scott!” but he didn't have to tell the tough boys; they already knew it. One of them, nearest the car, had a gun in his hand, swinging it toward me, and the other was bending forward, hand at his hip.

  The folder was in my right hand. I dropped it and grabbed for the Colt, but I was a little too slow. The man next to the car, with his gun already out, snapped a shot at me and I felt it fly hotly past my face. Then my .38 was in my fist and I pulled the trigger. All I hit was a tree, but the man ducked and jumped backward.

  I heard the other guy's gun crack. And that one got me.

  The slug slammed into my chest, its impact like a spike being driven into my flesh. There wasn't any pain then, just the hammer-like blow of the slug and a sudden sensation of dull numbness all through me.

  The impact spun me a little, but at almost the same moment when it hit I'd flipped my gun toward the man firing at me from the street and squeezed the trigger twice. I saw him jerk, but then I staggered, ankle banging into the curb. My leg buckled at the knee and I fell hard on my side. I could already feel warm blood on my chest. The gun was still in my hand, and I rolled, or tried to, and at first didn't even know if I was moving.

  But then I was on my back, gun arm at my side. From the corner of my eye I saw Mitchell bending over in the street, grabbing for the blue folder—even with the bullets flying he knew what it was. That folder had his life in it, and he knew it.

  A bullet hit the grass near me and plowed into dirt. I saw a man on his knees in the street and got my gun arm up, the Colt pointed at him. But then another shot cracked from somewhere nearer the car. That one came from the gunman who'd sent that first slug at me, and now he'd fired from a spot where he was half hidden by the Fleetwood's side and fender.

  I pulled my gun around, fired at what I could see of him, heard the bullet smack into the back of the car. It was hard to see clearly. I didn't know how bad I was hit, but the impact and shock were dulling my senses. My eyes wouldn't focus. There was a roaring in my ears, as if it came from inside my head. I triggered the gun again, trying to aim at the man, saw him move. He wasn't hit. He was a blur, like something seen through a film of oil, but it looked as if he jumped into the car on the driver's side. Another man was just getting into the front seat, on the opposite side from the driver.

  I'd gotten to a sitting position, but my left arm didn't work right. I leaned forward, elbow on my knee, and tried to steady my wavering gun. The car began moving, and I aimed toward the driver. But that was as far as I got. The gun swung from the car, and then my elbow slipped from my knee, the gun dipping sharply.

  The Fleetwood raced down the street, and I saw hazy movement on my left. There was a lot of fuzziness before my eyes. Out there in the street the guy I'd hit toppled forward and lay still. It took most of my strength, but I rolled over, got on my knees to move toward him.

  My left arm buckled and grass slapped my face. I made it up again, using my right hand, started crawling toward the man in the street. It seemed as if blood were all over the front of me, clear down to my stomach. I got to the man, but he wasn't moving. His gun, the gun with which he'd shot me, lay a foot from his hand. It was a Colt Agent, a .38 caliber revolver with a two-inch barrel.

  Too much excitement, I thought groggily. Too many bangs on the head. That's it. And that damned steam room, and whatnot. Steamed all the juice out of me. I'm not shot, I'm just pooped. But by that time the landscape was swinging around crazily, and I couldn't quite believe it. I could see my car swinging around over there somewhere, and I tried to get to it. I made it, too; I got the door open and had the car keys in my hand, but that was all of it.

  My thought was that if I could get the buggy started, I might make it to that little hospital I'd seen. And for about five seconds I felt maybe I'd make the grade. But then the keys dropped from my hand onto the floorboards and when I reached for them my knees gave way. I fell back into the street, and when I tried to get up again I couldn't do it. I couldn't move. And in a little while I didn't much care whether I moved or not.

  Somewhere a woman was screaming. I could feel everything slipping away from me. That would be Arline, I thought, and I wondered why she was screaming. The scream became a faint sound, a high, thin, thready wail that got softer and softer, became a faint sound in blackness, and then faded away completely.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I guess the first thing was the smell. Before sight, before movement, there was a thick, almost sweet odor in my nostrils. Then I could hear sounds, but at first I couldn't tell if they were near or far away; it was a soft pattern of muffled noises. Pain came then, dull and throbbing, somewhere high in my chest.

  I tried to move, and the pain became a burning knife near the joint of my shoulder. I opened my eyes. My head was clear enough, and I seemed almost normal except for the pain and the weakness. I lay quietly a moment, then moved my head, looked around me.

  A uniformed nurse was doing something at a small table across the room. She turned toward me as I moved, a plain but pleasant looking gal somewhere under thirty. I was in a bed, apparently in a hospital. That odor was hospital smell.

  The nurse said, “Awake now, are we?”

  I swallowed. “I don't know about you, but I'm—”

  I'd started to sit up and she interrupted. “Lie still, Mr. Scott. I'll get you anything you want.”

  “How'd I get to the hospital? This is a hospital, isn't it?”

  “Yes, Martin's Memorial. Fortunately we're only two blocks from where it happened. A call came in, and our ambulance went right out. You were unconscious in the street. I guess you know you've been shot.”

  “I know it. So was the other guy. How is he?”

  “He's been taken to ... the morgue.”

  I moved my shoulders a little, wiggled my fingers. Everything worked. “How bad is it?”

  She smiled. “Not bad. You'll be all right, but the bullet is still in your chest. Nothing is seriously damaged, no bones broken. In a few days you'll be good as new.”

  She was almost annoyingly cheerful about it. My bullet wound didn't hurt her a bit. But my case, I guessed, was in the festering hangnail class compared to many of the others here. I didn't mind her cheerfulness; but something else puzzled me. How had she known my name?

  Before leaving the Spartan with Elaine, and heading for the Red Rooster, I'd cashed a check at the desk—but there hadn't been any kind of identification in my pockets. My private investigator's card, driver's license, the works, were at the bottom of Newport Harbor.

  I asked the nurse, “How did you know who I was?”

  “We reported the gunshot wound, naturally, and two officers came here to see you. One of them recognized you. They wanted to talk to you, but you were unconscious.”

  That figured. The police investigate all gunshot cases; well, this was one I sure wanted them to investigate—and fast. “Good,” I said. “I want to talk to them, too. Right away.”

  “They left a few minutes ago.” She looked at her watch. “They'll be back in an hour. By then you'll be out of surgery.”

  Something nagged at me; there was something odd about what she'd just said. But the nurse was going on. “Perhaps I shouldn't even mention it, but there's another visitor waiting to see you, a young lady. The doctor will be ready for you in a few minutes, but she insisted on waiting.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She wouldn't give her name. But she said it was dreadfully important. She's beautiful.”

  “Then it's important. Show her in, please.” I grinned at her. “Don't you want me to get well?”

  It
took some argument, but the nurse finally agreed. She went outside, and half a minute later my visitor came in.

  It was Elaine.

  She closed the door behind her and came to the bed. Her face was drawn, worried.

  I said, “What in the name of sanity are you doing here? I told you to stay—”

  “Don't, Shell. I heard a news broadcast that you were shot, and I didn't know how bad it was. For all I knew, you were dying. I had to come.”

  “Anybody see you?”

  “I ... don't know. I saw two policemen leaving when I arrived, but they didn't notice me.” She bit her lip. “Are you all right? The nurse told me what she could, but how do you really feel?”

  “Like getting out of here. But first they have to separate me from this slug.”

  I stopped. For the first time since the shooting I'd remembered that blue manila folder, remembered all I had learned there at Mitchell's place. Well, I didn't have that info any longer, but at least I remembered most of what I'd seen. Even if that file was by now destroyed, I knew where to look for the proof I was after.

  It was going to be difficult to accomplish in the hospital, though. But maybe the police could do the job for me. Maybe, I thought, I could get in touch with Samson, try to convince him that now I really knew what I was talking about. Without the proof I'd had for a little while in my hands, I might have a tough job doing it; but I knew Sam would listen.

  It did not, however, seem a good idea to have any law piling into the room here—not while Elaine was in it with me. Not only would she be in a pile of trouble, but I wouldn't be the fair-haired boy myself, under the circumstances. I could still clearly hear Samson saying, like rivets, “Five thousand dollars ... or five years!”

  On the other hand, there was no telling what Mitchell—and Goss and Silverman—would be up to by this time. Time. That was the most important thing now.

  I asked Elaine, “How long have I been here? What time is it?”

  She looked at her watch. “A little after ten.”