Too Many Crooks

by Richard S. Prather

  "It was, if I remember right, about forty-nine."

  "Forty-nine. Maybe that's it. Dane was roaming around the world that year. Started out in Australia and kept on going."

  She nodded. "I remember. Since then she's been less brazen. But I've seen her around town a lot."

  I thought a minute. "You know, except for Baron and maybe the rest of the crooks, you and I are the only people alive who know that Dorothy Craig passed herself off to Dane as Lilith Manning. We're the only people opposed to them who know what they're up to. With us out of the way they'd be in." I got up and started pacing the floor while I talked. "And there's not a chance we could just walk in cold and talk to the mayor of the city council or anybody else. We don't know for sure who Baron's got in his pocket, and nobody would believe us anyway."

  I paused for a moment. "What it boils down to is that it's my word against Baron's and Craig's and the cops' and Norris's and God knows how many others. If they can kill me, they can stop worrying. And they know it. They won't have any more worries, they can go right ahead on schedule, just as soon as I'm dead. And my word's not worth a damn at the moment."

  Betty said, "Uh-huh. I imagine you would have a hard time making anybody believe you now."

  I sat down again. "Now that you mention it, how come you believe me?"

  And there was that soft smile again. "I honestly don't know, Shell. But I do. Maybe I've got faith in you."

  I grinned at her. "Thanks. I like having you on my side, honey."

  She was quiet for a while, looking up at me. Then she said, "What are you going to do?"

  "Well, we've got so little actual ammunition to shoot at these guys that we'll need every single thing we can get. So I'm starting with Em's will, I guess. Go up and take a look at it."

  She seemed startled. "You mean steal it?"

  "Huh-uh. There'd be more hell to pay if it turned up missing. And that wouldn't stop Baron and the rest. Assuming the will is in the lawyer's safe."

  "What good will it do you to look at it?"

  "Well, if it's there, and I can get to it, I'll take along a camera and flashbulbs and get some photos of it. Then I'll have the will signature compared with Dane's real signature by an honest handwriting expert, and try to get that info sprung in probate court. Baron probably plans on some perjured testimony to make the will stand up. Incidentally, when should the will be admitted to probate?"

  "It was offered for probate today. They must be pushing it through as fast as they can. They might get it actually admitted to probate in another ten days."

  "Unless we stop them somehow."

  "How would you get to Gordon's office, Shell? And into the safe, if you got there alive?"

  "When I first hit town I saw an ex-con I know, a safecracker named James Peterson. He might help out—for money. I've got a miniature camera and flash setup in the back of my Cad, so I'm all set. All I need is eight angels to light my way."

  I wasn't exactly kidding. Assuming I could find Petey, I didn't relish the idea of flitting around town, and certainly not in that well-lighted parking lot where my buggy was. I had no way of knowing whether or not the cops had already spotted the Cad.

  The paper-wrapped package was inside the door where I'd dropped it. I picked it up and dropped it on the bed. "What all have you got in there, honey? False beard and a raccoon coat?"

  "It's kind of bulky because I brought some other clothes for you. Some of those blue jeans everybody wears down here. I thought they might make you less conspicuous. Not that anything would make you inconspicuous. At least you'll look beautiful when you get shot."

  I grinned at her. "Betty, I enjoy you like this. We should get gunmen after us more often. You're more relaxed, looser—more fun. We who are about to die salute you."

  For just a moment, she had tensed up again, while her face got that congealed look. But then she relaxed and smiled oddly. "Shell, do you know that this is the first time I've been alone in a room with a man for years? And you're the first man I've"—she stopped for a moment, her face flushing, then went on—"I've kissed in almost two years." She bit her lower lip gently, looking up at me. "And the funny thing is, I am relaxed." She swallowed and the smile went away. She said slowly, "Maybe because there's a chance I'll die, I want to live."

  For quite a while I couldn't think of anything to say, and she was silent. Finally I said, "Well, let's see what the well-dressed corpse will wear."

  In the package were jeans and jacket, plus a very silly blue-billed cap that went with them, a dark blue T-shirt, black hair dye, a safety razor, and some blades.

  "Betty," I said, "this is perfect." I gathered everything up. "When I come back you won't know me." I headed for the bathroom door.

  She said, "I hope not. You don't look like anyone I'd care to know. You look awful."

  I shut the bathroom door and took a squint in the mirror. I looked awful. My eyes were somewhat red-rimmed, but the worst was my face. It has always been a bit of a mess, but now I had several days' growth of beard, and my beard is peculiar. It grows rapidly, but it isn't white, like my hair, and it isn't black. It's sort of spotted, like a molting leopard. I shuddered and shaved. Just in time, I decided to leave on the mustache.

  A half hour later, after a sloppy hair-dye and a shower, dressed in my blue jeans and jockey cap, I emerged.

  "Why, Shell," she said. "You look darling. But what happened to your lip?"

  "My lip? Oh, I sort of dyed my mustache. To match my hair. And, uh, to match my lip, which I believe I also dyed. How do I look?"

  "Well . . . sinister."

  "Hell, I thought I looked sexy."

  She shook her head, pressing her lips together and smiling at the same time. Suddenly she started laughing, threw her head back, and closed her eyes. I went to the bathroom mirror and took another look. It wasn't that funny.

  In the room again, I walked to the phone alongside the bed and flipped open the book as Betty's laughter subsided to gurgles. I found the number of the Beachcomber's Lodge and dialed it.

  "Who are you calling?" Betty asked.

  "Norris's club. Beachcomber's. Just plunge blindly ahead, that's me." I stopped. "Maybe not so blindly. Do me a favor?"

  "Sure. What?"

  "Take the phone. Ask for Petey. If they want to know Petey who, say James Peterson." She nodded and I handed her the phone.

  She said into the phone, "Is Petey there?" then put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Looking for him," she said. "What now?"

  "If you get Petey, say you once met him in L.A. at— at the Sunrise Bar and Grill. He used to hang out there. You just heard he was in town and want to see him. Tell him to stay there at the club, you'll meet him."

  "Will he believe me?"

  "Sure. If a woman says she'll meet him, he'll wait."

  She listened to the phone a moment, said, "Thank you," and hung up. "Not there."

  I looked up the Gorgon Room and gave her the number, and she dialed. "Same deal," I said. "If he isn't there, I don't know where he'll be. If I were to talk to him, he might blow, or even spill the beans to someone else. We'll try it this way."

  She went through the same routine, and this time she got him. Betty not only got him, she hooked him. She was marvelous, and there was a new note in her voice, a husky whispering softness I'd never heard before. She wound it up with "All righty, Petey. I'm ashamed of you for not remembering me. You will, though, I'll bet, when you see me." Then she laughed. I frowned. What the hell was he saying? I knew Petey. She said, "What? Oh, I'll be wearing a red dress with a lunging neckline . . . What? . . . Yes, plunging, too. Oh! You wouldn't! . . . You would? 'By, Petey. Wait for me." She hung up.

  Looking at me mischievously, one dark eyebrow arched and a very roguish look on her tanned face, she said, "Maybe I should meet him."

  "Oh, no, you don't. I'll meet him, and by God—"

  "What are you so excited about?"

  "Why, I— I'm not excited. I— I dunno."

  She was smilin
g at me. And this time it was a woman's smile; the sly and attractive grin of a woman possessed of all her faculties and facilities, and well aware of that possession. Probably not for years, if ever, had she talked to a man the way she'd talked to Peterson. She seemed to have enjoyed it. It was as though the events of the last few days, and especially of tonight, had worn away at the dam of restraint she'd built inside her, until that dam, even if it hadn't actually burst, was weakening.

  "Shell," she said, "are you leaving right away?"

  "Practically this minute."

  She shrugged. "Well, I might as well go to bed."

  "Might as well."

  I brought my clothes out of the bathroom and she went inside it and shut the door. I heard the shower running as I emptied the pockets of my suit and transferred everything to my jeans. When I put on my watch, I noticed it was midnight on the nose. There were a couple of things more I wanted to tell Betty, so I sat on the chair and waited for her. While I waited, I looked at the postcard I'd found in the pocket of my suit coat. I'd forgotten putting it in my pocket when I'd left Los Angeles. I was still looking at the card and Emmett's scrawled signature, thinking back over the good, good times we'd had, when Betty called, "Shell?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm coming out."

  "Well, come on."

  "I just took a shower. I don't have anything on."

  "Well, come on."

  "Close your eyes. Don't look."

  "One eye is closed." I waited. Nothing. "OK," I said. "Both eyes are closed. Firmly. Sort of."

  They were, and I kept them closed. I heard the door open, heard her feet pad on the carpet, the faint whisper of her passage, then the rustle of sheets as she pulled the covers down. The bedsprings creaked and I knew the next whisper that I heard was Betty sliding down into bed, under the covers, her skin brushing against the cool sheets. I thought: I am going to retire from the detective business. No sense getting involved in situations like this. This will kill a man just as quickly as a hole in the head.

  "All right. You can open your eyes."

  I opened them. Betty lay in bed, the pillows still under her and both arms behind her head, dark hair fanned out over them. The covers were pulled up under her chin. She was smiling. "I feel so alive," she said.

  "That's great. I feel half dead already. Listen, Betty—or what did you tell Peterson your name was? Coochie Williams? Listen, Coochie, I wanted to fill you in on my schedule. Just in case."

  Her face sobered. "I understand."

  "OK. From here I'm going to a parking lot on Twelfth and Pepper, where my Cad is. I'll get the camera out of the back, then pick up Petey. We'll bust into Gordon's office, beat the safe, and if the will's there, I'll take some shots of it. You sit tight here, because I won't be back for a while. I'll phone, but I won't come here again till I'm finished."

  "Just pictures of the will won't be much help, will they?"

  "No, but it's a good start. Honey, the way these guys are lined up against us, we'll need a lot of little things. I'm hoping I can get the big things from Baron himself. He may be the only man who knows all there is to know about this Seacliff operation. Maybe we can convict him out of his own mouth."

  She frowned. "I don't see—"

  "I've got a couple of ideas. You're a smart cookie, Coochie, so lend an ear. Tell me what you think."

  When I called her Coochie again, she chuckled, and naturally that caused some commotion under the covers.

  I talked for two or three minutes, explaining my plan in detail, and every once in a while she would take a deep breath. The covers, which had been so firmly beneath her chin, were drooping a little. I, too, was drooping a little.

  Finally, I said, "So there it is. It's the only thing I can think of. Considering how deeply we're in this."

  Her face was furrowed in thought. Obviously, she was concentrating on what I'd said, and she rolled a little to one side and put an elbow under her, leaning on it. The covers started to slip and automatically she grabbed for them with her other hand, but apparently she was concentrating so completely that she didn't realize she'd grabbed only the sheet. She still was completely covered, but there is one whale of a difference between being covered with a sheet, a blanket, and a bedspread and being covered with only a sheet.

  "I'll be darned," she said. "Will it work?"

  She held the sheet at her throat and it lay smoothly against her, following the curves. I cleared my throat. "Should. Assuming, of course, that I manage this tonight, get to the Cad, find Petey, miss all the cops and crooks, then manage to reach Baron and make him talk."

  She was quiet for a moment. "You'll need help with Baron, won't you?"

  Now I frowned. "I suppose. But I'll manage that."

  "Just a minute, Shell." She sounded slightly angry. "You know as well as I do that—in your own words—I'm in this now as deeply as you. I can't even show up for work until this is over. I'm just as interested in seeing Baron and the rest caught as you are. So I'll help you. Why don't you stop treating me as if I were a child? I'm not, you know."

  "Yes, um, I know. Well, maybe you're right. I'll call you later today, anyway. Let's worry about it when the time comes."

  All the time I'd been sitting here, I'd been holding Dane's postcard in my hand. She glanced at it and said, "What's that?"

  I handed it to her. "The last card I got from Em. Typical of him. That's what started me on this."

  She read the card. "Golly."

  A thought struck me. "I almost forgot something important. The cops know by now that you and I took off from Lanny's together. If I should wind up with Carver, say, in the clink, and I don't have a bullet in me, he'll . . . he might start asking me where you are." I swallowed. "I don't think I'd tell him, but maybe I would. So if I don't get in touch with you by daylight, you blow. Get the hell out fast. Understand?"

  She frowned. "If I do leave, and you're all right, how will I find you? How will I know where you are?"

  "Well, if everything's OK, I should get back here before sunup. But if not, we could meet somewhere—the Red Cross stand, say. We can't gad about much, but I'll check there every four hours starting at 8 a.m. if I can. Eight, twelve, four, and so on. OK?"

  She nodded.

  I grinned. "So the Red Cross stand is our base of operations. Who knows, I might even be hiding under the damn thing waiting for you. Anyway, no matter what, you blow when the sun comes up. That settled?"

  She moistened her lips. "Yes."

  "Well, so long, honey," I said. "I've got to see Petey before the bars close." I turned toward the door.

  "Shell." It was just a whisper. I barely heard her speak.

  I turned and she said, "Shell, kiss me good-by. Just once. Really kiss me, just once."

  She rested on her elbow, left hand holding the sheet loosely at her breast. Her head was lowered slightly and she wasn't smiling.

  I saw her moisten her lips as I walked toward her. I eased my weight gently to the side of the bed alongside her and slid my hands beneath her shoulders. Both of her arms went around my neck as I leaned toward her, and I saw her eyes close a moment before my own eyes closed and her lips pressed against mine.

  A shudder passed through her, then her arms tightened around me, tightened even more. The skin of her shoulders and back was warm and soft against my fingers.

  I kissed her, just as she'd said, really kissed her just once, but I should have known that I wouldn't stop with one kiss. Maybe I should have known that she wouldn't.

  I stood up, turned off the light, and walked back to the bed. After all, I was thinking, the bars don't close till two o'clock.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I barely made it to the Gorgon Room.

  Getting the camera equipment from my Cad had been easier than I'd expected; I'd just walked in, got the keys, and opened the trunk, then left. It was certain that the cops hadn't located my buggy yet, or I wouldn't now be at the Gorgon Room.

  It was a few minutes after two, but t
hat was all to the good because the bar had cleared out except for Petey and one young couple, who soon left. Not Petey, though. It appeared that Petey, by God, was never going to leave.

  I stood outside the bar looking in through the front window, and I could see good old die-hard Petey looking sadly around him at all that emptiness.

  Finally, Petey got up and walked toward the door. As he came outside I said, "Petey. Hey, Petey."

  He whirled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I asked Coochie to call you. I had to get in touch with you."

  "Where is she? Where is she?"

  "She isn't coming, Petey. I'm sorry. I wanted to have you meet me, but I didn't want to phone, myself, or give my name. There's a little heat on me in this town."

  He just stared at me for half a minute. At last he spoke. "Why, you sonofabitch, you."

  We dwelt upon my ancestry, pro and con, for a couple of minutes then I was able to explain the general idea of what I wanted, and finally he came back to normal. "What's the caper?" he asked. He squinted at me. "What the hell you do to your ugly chops? And what kind of outfit is that thing?"

  I came right out with it. "I'm disguised."

  "Yeah, sure." He flapped his arms and yakked loudly.

  "Here's the play, Petey. You can take it or leave it. All the cash I've got on me is four hundred and twenty dollars. The four hundred's yours to take a keister for me. Any cash you find in the box is yours."

  "Four hundred, huh? Don't seem like much. Think there'd be anything in the keister?"

  "I don't have any idea."

  He frowned. "Where is this? You case it?"

  "Haven't cased the spot. I don't even know what kind of box it is. I know where it is, that's all. Absolutely all."

  His expression told me plainly that this was no way for a man to go about his business. In a few minutes, though, he said, "Well, maybe. If I wasn't havin' the shorts, horrible, I wouldn't even listen."