I ground out my cigarette in a glass tray. "Anything else you can tell me?"
"That's about it. The guy didn't lead a very exciting life."
I thanked him and got out.
I stopped at the desk and checked with the room clerk.
He told me Ellis had come in sometime during the afternoon and gone straight to his room. That was that.
In the phone booth in the lobby I checked Massy's. The only phone listed under that name was for the business downtown and nobody answered there. Nobody answered either at the number listed for Fillson's Studio or at his home. Blanks. I decided to check Fillson's place of business anyway.
At the office I grabbed a pocket flash and a ring of keys I'd collected in the course of my meanderings. Not exactly legal, maybe, but better than breaking doors. And quieter.
I left the Cad parked behind the Hamilton Building and walked up Broadway. The address I wanted was just on the other side of Sixth. I walked between a loan office and a real estate agency and up one flight of stairs and found the door labelled in simple bold letters, "S. A. Fillson."
The third key worked. I eased quietly inside, made sure the blinds were drawn, and poked around with my pocket flash. The place was really designed for comfort: one huge room that would have seemed more like Mrs. Loring's living room than a studio if it hadn't been for the strong, heavy odor of oil paints and turpentine that clung to my nostrils. There were stacks of half-finished canvases along the walls, and propped on half a dozen wooden easels, plus four or five surrealist blobs of crazy squares and circles hanging on the walls.
I took a peek at the canvases. Mostly nudes, all lousy, and a scattering of landscapes and still-lifes. The furniture, except for a few straight-backed chairs and three leather hassocks, was lush overstuffed divans and chairs done in deep reds and grays. A thick shag carpet stretched from wall to wall and I half expected to see a brace of Irish setters curled up before a nonexistent fireplace. No desk, no cabinets, no nothing to prowl through, though I hadn't the remotest idea what I expected to find if there were any.
Half a dozen big potted plants loomed in the shadows like miniature trees. I darted my flash around them one by one and caught a flash of white in the leaves of one of them. I walked over and picked up a little triangular piece of cloth that meant nothing. It looked a little like half of one of the toy parachutes I used to make as a kid out of an old handkerchief, four pieces of thread and a rock. Only it looked like three threads, half a handkerchief, and no rock. I stuck it in my pocket.
Fifteen minutes later I'd been over the whole place and found nothing more except a padlocked door in back that none of my keys would open. I started to turn away and get the hell out when light glimmered momentarily on something stuck in the back crack of the heavy door. I bent down and looked. It was a torn celluloid strip like the negatives you get back from the drug store, only much smaller.
I wormed it out and flashed my light through it and a shapely lass with her hands high over her head in the attitude of a top-heavy Balinese dancer peeped back at me. The image was too small for me to see much, but what I could see was pleasant. It looked as if she was wearing nothing except skin — altogether a delightful morsel. I dropped her into my shirt pocket, patted her gently, locked the front door behind me and left.
At the Owl Drug Store on the corner, I gave S. A. Fillson's residence another ring. I let the little buzzing noises snap out of the receiver till it was obvious nobody was going to answer, then hung up.
Outside, I lit a cigarette, ankled back to the Cadillac, and swung north into Broadway. I took a left at Second Street, followed it till it became Beverly beyond Lucas Avenue, and rolled on out Beverly Boulevard.
The Sabre Club is on Beverly Boulevard about a mile beyond the Wilshire Country Club. It's one of those small, intimate spots where you know everybody or nobody. There was a bar along one wall. Behind it, a mural of delicate fawns chasing equally delicate females over a grassy green field. Two white-coated bartenders were expertly mixing pink ladies and extra-dry martinis. Tables surrounded by dinner jackets and broad, padded shoulders, low-cut evening gowns and obvious white breasts.
The too smooth, faultlessly tailored headwaiter approached me and looked at my sport coat and slacks as if they were a red-and-white bathrobe. I looked over his shoulder to the small dance floor where a blonde with outside and inside curves was batting 1.000 into a microphone hanging down from the gloom of the ceiling.
I told the headwaiter, "I'm expected; I'm joining a friend."
He stared at me stonily.
Over his shoulder I watched the curvy blonde. It was easy to recognize her from the blowups outside the club. Velma Vail. And singing away like mad in a low, hot voice to a tall, thin guy at a ringside table.
I stopped at the ringside table and looked at the tall, thin guy. He had a triangular face wider at the top than at the bottom, arched eyebrows, and no chin. There were maybe ten whiskers in the wisp of a mustache on his narrow upper lip.
I sat down.
"Fillson?" I asked.
He unhooked his eyes from Velma and looked at me.
"I beg your pardon."
"Fillson?"
"That's my name, yes."
"I'm Shell Scott."
He didn't bat an eyelash. "So?"
"I'd like to talk to you."
He turned his head and looked at Velma Vail, then back at me, slightly annoyed. "Certainly. In a few minutes." He swiveled his head around and gave his undivided attention to the floor show.
You couldn't blame him.
I took a look myself and understood his desire to avoid conversation at the moment. Velma had stopped singing and was gliding over the floor in the dim blue light of a baby spot. She moved with the slow, easy grace of a jungle beast and there was something of the jungle's savagery in the controlled, sensual swaying of her body. She was dressed in a low-cut silver gown that clung to the voluptuous curves of her body like a second coat of varnish. She was tall, with wide hips, a narrow waist, and breasts that were almost too big.
Almost, I said.
She moved with a fluid undulation to the husky moan of saxophones carrying a weird melody over the heavy, rhythmic beat of the orchestra.
Ellis had said, "Velma Vail, strip queen of the Sabre Club." This was Velma Vail; this was the strip and she was good. She was out of this world.
It was over suddenly and Velma was gone and the brighter lights that flooded the room seemed brazen after the fragile dimness of the blue spot.
"Highball?" It was Fillson.
"Sure. Bourbon and water."
He signaled the waiter and ordered the drinks, a dry martini for himself.
"Now — Mr. Scott, was it? What did you want to talk about?"
"I'm a private investigator. I'm checking on the murder of John Loring."
"Loring! Good God! Murdered?" He did have a chin; it dropped about an inch.
"Murdered."
"Why, I knew him. He was a student of mine."
"I know. That's why I'm here."
He shook his head back and forth for a moment. "But why come to me? I knew nothing about the man."
"Nothing?"
"Except that he admired fine paintings and had absolutely no talent for drawing." His voice was pleasant, surprisingly deep for so thin a man. He continued to wag his head vaguely.
The waiter brought our drinks and I sipped at the bourbon. "How long had Loring attended your classes?"
"Why, I'm not sure. Two months or more. I don't see what bearing —"
"Just curious."
He grunted and lifted the olive out of his martini and twirled it on the little orange stick.
I said, "I'd like to see some of his work. Okay?"
"Certainly. Of course he was a beginner. Not very good."
"When?"
"When what?"
"When may I see them?"
"Tomorrow. Say three or four in the afternoon."
"Say four." He nodded a
nd I said, "About Loring. Did he ever talk about any trouble he might have been in? Anything bothering him?"
Fillson shook his head. "The only things Mr. Loring and I ever discussed were in connection with his painting. His personal life was entirely his own affair." He said abruptly, "I'm sorry I can't help you, Mr. Scott," and the conversation seemed to be ended. I thanked him and stood up and walked over to the bar.
I tossed down another highball to join the first and examined the room. A few feet beyond the end of the bar was a curtained doorway through which the girls in the floor show danced in and out. On the walls, more murals.
The lights dimmed and a spotlight cut through the smoke and fell on the master of ceremonies, who was announcing the end of the show and exhorting one and all to drink rapidly for the next hour, ha-ha. There'd be another show at midnight. I walked casually past the end of the bar and through the curtained doorway. Nobody stopped me.
Girls in various stages of dress — or undress — stood chatting and smoking, or scurrying about looking very nice indeed. I watched them chatting, smoking and scurrying — especially scurrying — for a moment, then stopped a cute little brunette in a G-string and a lacy brassiere that looked as if it was made out of imagination.
"Where would I find Velma Vail?"
She pointed at a door directly opposite me. "In there."
"Thanks, beautiful." I looked her over. I enjoyed looking her over. On the street she'd have looked good. She'd just finished her act, which consisted of dancing around in about half an ounce of clothing. So now she looked better than good.
I told her so.
She wrinkled her nose at me, but spun on her heel and walked off, jiggling. I let my eyes follow her; they followed easy. She opened a door and turned and looked at me before she went inside. Pleasure, pleasure — but duty called.
I walked over and knocked on Velma's door. Something was nagging at my brain while I waited, but I couldn't pin it down. No answer. I knocked again. Finally, I got smart and opened the door. Nothing. The silver gown with the low neck was there looking drastically different on a hanger, a lot of odds and ends, but no Velma. I'd dawdled over my highball too long.
I walked out front and climbed back on my stool at the bar. Over a double bourbon-and-water I squeezed my brains a little and wondered what had been nagging me. All I got was a headache so I called the highball a nightcap, downed it, and took off. It was eleven-thirty on the nose.
On my way out I glanced over at Fillson's table. No Fillson. Just a waiter mopping up with practiced swipes of a white cloth.
The lovebirds had done flew. . . .
I live in the Spartan Apartment Hotel on North Rossmore, just a long chip shot from the Wilshire Country Club's golf course. I parked the Cad around the corner, walked up to the second floor and down to room 212. I was just putting my key in the lock when somebody behind me said, "Shell Scott?"
I turned around. "Yeah?"
There were two guys standing at the side of the hall a few feet from me. One of them was a big, blunt-faced man with little pig eyes and two funny bumps on the bridge of his twisted nose, like the humps on the back of a camel. He looked tough as a four-bit steak. The other was a pint-sized character with wispy blond hair and a red face. His ears stuck out at almost right angles from the side of his head. Both of them had their right hands buried in their pockets. A couple of fine citizens, no doubt.
"What do you want?" I asked conversationally.
Camel-nose said, "You, Scott," not conversationally. He lifted his hand out of his pocket as if it was heavy. The reason it was heavy was the .45 automatic that nestled in his big fist. He shoved the gun back in his pocket. "Don't make any sudden motions," he said.
I didn't make any sudden motions.
The little guy walked up beside me, but didn't get between me and Camel-nose. He reached out and jerked my .38 from its holster and flashed a twisted grin at me.
"Just take it easy, pal," he said in a grating voice that rubbed my nerves like a file on my teeth. "We're goin' for a little walk."
"Oh?" I said brightly.
Camel-nose came alongside and wrapped thick fingers around my right wrist, casual-like. The little one walked a couple steps behind and to my left. Three guys out for a stroll. So far they were pretty smart.
Like that we walked downstairs, out onto North Rossmore, and left to Rosewood Avenue. Nobody said anything. Rosewood was even darker than Rossmore; that I didn't like. A few yards ahead of us I could see a long Buick sedan parked parallel to the curb. It looked as if three were going to ride out and two were going to ride back. One of those deals, I had the feeling.
Just as if I didn't know, I said, "What is this? Anything personal?"
"Patience, brother," the big man said. He talked as if he had an impediment in his head.
"Looks like I've been chosen," I said. "Why? It can't hurt to tell me, can it?"
Camel-nose laughed deep in his muscled throat as if I'd just told him the one about the lumberjack and the water barrel. But he didn't relax his hold on my wrist.
"No," he gurgled. "It can't hurt to tell you. But we ain't."
The little guy with the right-angle ears said, "Scott."
"Yeah?"
"How old are you?"
"What the hell's it to you?"
"Curious."
"Thirty."
"Hell, Scott, that's old enough." He laughed as if he'd said something funny. I didn't think so.
We were at the car. Camel-nose let go my wrist and lifted his right hand out of his pocket. I caught the dull gleam of light on his automatic. My insides felt like cold jelly: I licked my lips with the wad of cotton in my mouth.
I asked, "Here?"
"Not here. Get in."
The little guy walked over and opened the back door of the car and held it politely. Camel-nose jabbed me with his gun.
Up to now they'd been smart. They slipped a little.
Maybe it was enough, maybe not. I could wait and get it in the back on a lonely road, or I could take a chance and get it now. Maybe.
The three of us were standing at the right side of the car next to the sidewalk. I took it slow and stepped up into the rear of the Buick. Camel-nose started in after me. I squatted on the edge of the seat — still slow and easy — and let my left hand fall on the inside handle of the door. Camel-nose flopped his fanny heavily on the seat.
The slow motion stopped.
I twisted the handle and lunged sideways in the same motion. I flopped out the door like a drunk sprinter tumbling off his blocks, and the crack of the automatic sounded over the roar of the blood pounding in my ears. Something slapped at my hip, but I clung to the handle of the door and it flipped me around with a jerk that should have snapped my arm at the elbow.
I slammed the door backward and dropped flat on my back and pulled my legs up against my belly as Camel-nose crashed out the door. He was looking out toward the middle of the street, but he caught a glimpse of me on the ground and angled his gun down. Flame licked out of the muzzle and the hot breath of the slug screamed past my cheek as I uncoiled my legs.
I lashed out as if it was fourth down and I had to boot him twenty yards to save the game. He was so close I didn't have to aim; I just let go, and both heels hit him where he lived. He started wishing he didn't live there any more.
The fight went out of him quicker than a crease out of three-dollar pants and he dropped on top of me like half the Chicago Bears. The breath whooshed out of my lungs as his automatic clattered to the street.
I strained against the weight on top of me and pawed for the gun. The little guy was around the back of the car now and cracking down as I felt the butt of the automatic. He fired twice and I felt the sock and jar of the slugs before the gun was rocking and roaring in my fist.
He sagged to one knee and I kept pulling the trigger till the hammer clicked on an empty chamber and the little guy pitched forward on his face with his behind up over his head. I threw the empty gun at
him.
The silence was thick and heavy except for the blood pounding and beating like a drum in my head. The little guy slowly unfolded and toppled over onto the street with a soft thud and lay very still and quiet.
I started wondering how I was.
Camel-nose was still lying half across me so I grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him off. My hand came away wet and sticky. The warm, sticky stuff was blood. I ran my other hand over my stomach and chest. Okay. Camel-nose had picked up the slugs meant for me.
At least I was alive; but neither of these guys was going to tell me who sent them after me. This was the third time that was supposed to be the charm.
I was beginning to get irritated.
I got up shakily and felt a twinge of pain. The first shot that clipped me had plowed a groove in one cheek. It wasn't going to bother my shaving. I dug my .38 out of the little guy's coat pocket and got out of there fast.
I was four blocks away and working all hundred and fifty horses under the Caddie's hood when I heard the shrill crescendo of police sirens and remembered my fingerprints were all over the .45 automatic I'd left behind. The hell with it. I couldn't afford to have any cops grilling me now. I was starting to get mad even if I didn't know who I was mad at.
I pulled into the parking lot at the Lanai Club on Wilshire. Inside, over a highball, I thought about Velma and Fillson and Ellis and Mrs. Loring and Nancy and the cute little gal in the nothing-brassiere. About Nancy's wide, chaste, innocent eyes — pure, "No, no, a thousand times, no!" eyes. And the provocative, inviting, sullen lips. Nice. I spent a nickel and called her.
"Hello." Her voice was musical.
"Nancy?"
"Uh-huh. Who is this? The big blond man?"
"Yeah. Shell. Said I might call, remember?"
"Sure. I hoped you would."
"Look," I said, "I'd like to talk to you some more. Too late?"
"Never too late, Shell. Where are you?"
"Lanai Club on Wilshire. I'll pick you up in a few minutes."
"Never mind, Shell. It's just a few blocks. I'll meet you there. Order me a shot with a beer chaser."
"Huh?"
She laughed merrily. "I was only kidding. You can order me a sidecar, though."
Have Gat—Will Travel Page 13
