The Kubla Khan Caper (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “We got a, well, a report you were there—”

  “Sergeant Torgesen, if I have to tell you again—”

  For the first time the sergeant backtracked a little. Not much. “That you were in the vicinity,” he said. “You do admit you were there, or near there.”

  “Perhaps I did drive by the Sardis estate. What difference does it make? I fail to understand why, when a young girl has just been brutally killed, you insist on talking to me about Ephrim.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “He’s dead. Somebody shot him.”

  Torgesen’s eyes were on Monaco’s face. His lids drooped, and he looked sleepy, but he wasn’t sleepy. He looked to me like a guy who wasn’t ever sleepy.

  Monaco gasped. “Dead? My God! Ephrim? But that’s impossible. How? You say somebody shot him?”

  “You didn’t know he’d been killed?”

  “Of course not. My God, Ephrim.”

  Again he overdid it. It was so bad I wondered for a moment if he was deliberately making himself look like a ham trying out at the community playhouse. But maybe he simply couldn’t pull off the act and pretend to something he didn’t believe. It’s like that sometimes, with men who ordinarily are honest. That I didn’t know about Monaco. But one thing I did know: he was lying.

  “Under the circumstances, then, you won’t mind coming downtown?”

  “Certainly not. I’ll be glad to. I didn’t understand before, Sergeant.” He dragged on his cigarette, then dropped it and ground it beneath a rubber-soled gray shoe.

  He took a while grinding the cigarette out, and when he looked up at Torgesen again he said, “I presume it is all right if I speak to Mr. Scott first.”

  “OK.”

  Monaco strode across the street to his white sedan. When I stopped near him he looked at me and said, “This is a sonofabitch.”

  I didn’t say anything. He wasn’t exactly asking me, anyway.

  “Damn it,” he said. “Why—” But he cut it off, and that was the last extraneous remark he made. He took a long, slow breath and started talking, his words crisp and to the point, nothing wasted. And Monaco was practically at the opposite pole now from the man I’d seen fumbling with those cigarettes.

  He puzzled me, but intrigued me as well. I could almost feel the power in the man, as if beneath the thin and angular frame were millions of ingeniously constructed little motors whirring, sending out pulses of energy that made the air thicker and heavier where he stood.

  Yeah, I was thinking, Ormand Monaco struck me as the kind of man who could build a hotel or a corporation. Or bore a hole through a mountain, or maybe through people if it came to that.

  He said, “You know why I phoned you. Forget that. It is now more important that you determine who murdered Jeanne Jax. And Ephrim Sardis. And why. If you agree, go at once to the Kubla Khan and tell Jerry Vail what has happened. He is my assistant, and in my absence will be in charge there. Do not speak of this to anyone else. I’ll pay double your usual fee, and a handsome bonus for results. All right?”

  “Easy,” I said. “Hell, I just got here, and bang, all of a sudden—”

  “Make up your mind, Mr. Scott.”

  He was all charged up for sure. I wondered if he was going to float in the air. “A couple things first, Mr. Monaco. And a question or two. Sergeant Torgesen didn’t actually say this Sardis was murdered.”

  “He said he was dead. That he was shot. He did not intimate that Ephrim shot himself.”

  “OK. How did you know the dead girl was Jeanne Jax?”

  He frowned, as if wondering what I meant. Then his face cleared. “I see. Yes, she was disfigured. At first I really wasn’t sure. But I could see her face, her profile and a little more. It was she. Jeanne had a small mole beneath her left ear—which is visible now. There is a large topaz ring on the little finger of the dead girl’s left hand, and I saw a similar—the same ring on Jeanne Jax’s hand. There is no question, that is Jeanne Jax in the car.”

  “OK. Who in blazes is Ephrim Sardis?”

  “He is—was—one of the wealthiest men in the country. Certainly one of the half-dozen richest men in California. He avoided publicity and notoriety, but was active in a great many endeavors of much value to the state’s economy. He contributed to political campaigns, to at least a hundred charities, and—”

  He stopped and the taut flesh of his face seemed to sag a little. “He was a fine man,” Monaco went on more slowly. “A few attacked him, claimed he was unscrupulous, charged him falsely with certain illegalities. But that was inevitable, in view of his great wealth. He was a fine man, and he was my friend.”

  Then Monaco pulled his brows down and looked at me. “I haven’t time for a lengthy discussion of Ephrim. Get Jerry Vail—and his wife—to give you what information you need.” He paused, then said, “Well?”

  He wasn’t giving me much time to weigh all the pros and cons of the situation, fiddle with the delicate nuances of the problem, and maybe back out. So, after a split second, I took a deep breath and said, “Done.”

  “Mr. Scott, please. What is your usual fee?”

  “Hundred a day, and I’ll pay my own expenses. Unless there’s something unusual—”

  “Unusual?”

  “Well, like if I sink a submarine or something—”

  “How could you sink—”

  “It was merely a figure of speech. But I do remember once when—”

  “I’ll pay double your usual fee.” Monaco stopped suddenly, thought a moment. “No. Your usual fee. But I will pay you ten thousand dollars on one condition.”

  “Well, that sounds pretty. What condition?”

  “That you have clarified this entire situation, removed any ridiculous suspicion from me personally determined who killed Ephrim and Miss Jax—essentially that you have settled and solved everything by noon tomorrow.”

  “By noon tomorrow, huh? By—Are you nuts?”

  “Twelve noon, tomorrow, Saturday. For ten thousand dollars.”

  “Yeah, you’re nuts.”

  “Yes or no, Mr. Scott.”

  “I’ve got about as much chance—”

  “Mr. Scott!”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not? You’ve hired a detective. For ten thousand bucks. If I don’t wrap this up before, say, 11 a.m., maybe I can stretch the case out for a hundred days or so—”

  “Be sure to tell Jerry Vail to contact our attorneys immediately. I’m well known here and doubt I’ll be held for any length of time, but even ten minutes would be too much. It is important that I be at the Khan before eight tonight. Jerry is not nearly as competent as I would like, but—” He cut it off, shaking his head.

  “I’ll tell him.” I pulled out a cigarette, remembering the way Monaco had sprayed his around, and said, “But why noon tomorrow?”

  “Several reasons, Mr. Scott, most of which should be obvious to you if you are, as you allege, a detective. I do not enjoy having the Sergeant Torgesens of the world speak to me with sneers in their voices. I cannot afford—I simply cannot allow—any scandal to become associated with me. It will, moreover, be calamitous if, with dozens of reporters and television people even now present at the Khan, they should turn their energies and typewriters and- cameras toward the ugliness of murder and foul deeds rather than the beauty and desirability of my hotel.”

  “Understood. But one of the lovelies in your tomato contest just got knocked off, and that isn’t the kind of tidbit reporters overlook. Not to mention whatever happened to Sardis—”

  “I have indicated that I am not without some influence, Mr. Scott. There is a very good chance I will be able to arrange that there be no public awareness of these occurrences at least overnight. Possibly until noon tomorrow. But I doubt that even I can expect more than that. Which is why you must mention this—these deaths to no one except Jerry Vail.”

  “I see.”

  “There is another important factor. The official ceremonies announcing the o
pening of the Kubla Khan will be held at noon tomorrow, Saturday. In addition to the usual hotel guests, to contestants who will later take part in the talent-search finals and judges of those finals, and to the newsmen and others I have mentioned, there will be present many very important personages whom I personally invited to attend. I should like to be in attendance, at my own hotel, for those ceremonies, myself.” He paused. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  He opened the door of his Continental, climbed behind the wheel and waved a hand toward Sergeant Tor-gesen, indicating he was ready any time the sergeant wanted to come along.

  I leaned on the door and looked in at Monaco. “Something bothers me,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. You were lying to Torgesen.”

  He was silent for a few seconds, eyes on my face. “Was I?”

  “You sure weren’t telling him all you know.”

  “I never tell all I know.”

  Then there was more silence. Finally I sighed. “OK.

  I’ll give it a hundred percent, Mr. Monaco. Now that I’m in it. But don’t expect miracles.”

  “A miracle would be worth ten thousand dollars to you.”

  “Hell, a real miracle should be worth at least—”

  He started the car.

  I said, “Well, I’ll get to work. But all bets, of course, are off if you managed to kill Jeanne somehow. Or Ephrim Sardis.”

  He craned his head around and glared at me. “Don’t be an ass,” he snapped.

  I shrugged, turned and walked across the street.

  Sergeant Torgesen said, “You all through?”

  “Yeah. OK if I take off?”

  “You’ll have to come down and sign a statement.”

  “Now?” I was starting to realize how few hours, even minutes, remained between now and tomorrow noon. I don’t know why I kept thinking about noon, really. Monaco was nuts.

  “Should be now,” Torgesen said.

  “Look, I’ve got eighteen things to do in the next hour.

  I’ve told you everything I know. Can’t the formal bit wait?’

  He thought about it. “OK, for a while. But don’t forget about it, Scott. I wouldn’t like it if you forgot.”

  I thanked him and said, “About this Ephrim Sardis.

  How’d you learn he was dead?”

  “Call came in, caller reported hearing a gunshot at the Sardis place. Car checked it and found him.”

  “Call anonymous?”

  He nodded.

  “From a woman?”

  “No.”

  “You mind telling me what time the call came in?”

  He pursed his heavy lips, glanced up the hill near us and then back at me. After a few seconds he said, “Not very long before we got out here, if it interests you. Call was logged at 4:28 p.m.”

  “Could Sardis have knocked himself off?”

  “Not a chance. He was drilled dead center in the forehead, no powder marks. Somebody just stood across the desk from him and let him have it.”

  “Any suspects?”

  He smiled without joy. “Just one. So far.”

  “Anything you can tell me about him? Sardis, I mean.”

  “Not much. Big shot. Very big, loaded, millionaire several times over. Lots of VIP friends. There’ll be plenty of pressure on this one.” Torgesen paused. “Anything else you’d like to know, Scott? Like how much I make a month? Or—”

  I grinned. “That’s good enough. For now. And thanks.”

  It was good enough. There was more I wanted to ask Torgesen, but I felt lucky he’d told me as much as he had. I started for my Cad and Torgesen said, “You’ve got a flat tire.”

  “The hell.”

  He smiled again. With more joy this time. “I looked over your car while you were jawing with Mr. Monaco. Somebody shot at you, all right. Hit your right front.”

  I looked, swore, then headed for the trunk and my spare.

  A few minutes later, sweating, with a sore left hand and two newly skinned knuckles, I leaned against the Cad’s fender, gripping a lug wrench and thinking.

  I had a new client, and was on a new case, and so far everything was simply dandy. The gal I’d originally been hired to find was dead, killed virtually in front of my eyes; I’d been shot at; I didn’t have any idea who’d shot at me; some guy named Sardis, whom I’d never heard of before, had been murdered; I’d just had the fun of changing a tire; and my client was headed for the can.

  And that was good, I told myself. Because things would have to improve pretty soon.

  5

  I’d put the tools and ruined tire into the trunk and was about to get behind the Cad’s wheel when I saw Mike sliding down the side of Moss Mountain, holding something in one hand. Monaco was still waiting in his car, but he’d turned the engine off.

  Mike walked up to Torgesen, who was standing next to the Buick, so I sauntered over as he said, “Found these on the hillside, Torg. One almost at the top, other two down near here. Nothing else. No cartridge cases or nothing.”

  He gave the sergeant three crisp, new-looking hundred-dollar bills.

  Torgesen looked at them. “Maybe that’s why her bag was yanked open. Doesn’t smell like a robbery to me, though.”

  I said, “Any money left in her bag, Sergeant?”

  He looked around. “You still here?” He seemed to be considering whether to answer or not, but finally said, “No, just loose silver. No identification, either. Way you told it, there were two shots, then a third. How much time till that third shot, would you say?”

  “Oh, I’d guess a minute, maybe.” I thought I knew what was going through his mind, so I said, “Time enough for the guy to run up, dig inside the bag—and put that third big one into her head.”

  He nodded.

  I looked inside the Buick, at the bare post of the steering wheel. While waiting for the police, I’d noticed there was no registration slip on the post. I said to Torgesen, “No sign of the registration anyplace?”

  He shook his head. “We’ll check out the plates with DMV. Probably her car. I thought you were in a hurry, Scott.”

  I grinned. “That I am,” I said, and left.

  I parked at the end of the smooth black drive, before the entrance to the Kubla Khan, and a young guy in red trousers and a blue jacket took my bags, gave them to another young guy in white trousers and a gold coat, and drove on with the Cad. I followed the gold-coated bellhop inside.

  A dark carpet with a dizzying Oriental design woven into it covered the floor to a depth of what felt like about a foot, and the chairs and divans in the lobby were massive, heavy, made of ornate carved dark wood. Soft music whispered from hidden speakers. On the walls were oil paintings with lots of reds and blues and greens, splashes of plum purple and swirls of lavender. Far across the lobby on my right were huge windows through which I could see the blue sparkle of a swimming pool outside. On my left was a wide doorway with its top curving up to a pointed peak like an Indian temple, and intricately graceful letters which spelled out something very pretty but unintelligible.

  In English, below the pretty letters, it said Seraglio.

  I knew what that meant. It meant a harem. I’m not so dumb. Not when it comes to harems. But the place looked like a bar, and that struck me as a brilliant idea, combining a bar with a harem.

  The refrigerated air in the lobby had helped, but racing over the sands, climbing mountains, and changing a tire in the desert heat had wrung me out a little. I not only wanted a drink, or whatever was available in there, but it was also about time I sat quietly, moving very little, and for a while tried to add two and two. I wanted to pull my thoughts together and try to untie some of the knots in them.

  Which was as good an excuse for having a drink as I could think of at the moment.

  At the desk I asked for Jerry Vail, but the prince—or possibly Emperor of Asia—behind the counter didn’t know where Mr. Vail was. He would, however, page him, or have a b
oy scurry about and find him, with all possible speed. I said my name was Shell Scott and I would be in the bar, gave the bellhop a couple bucks and asked him to leave the bags in my room, then walked toward the Seraglio, looking briefly back over my shoulder at the desk man.

  He wore a shimmering jacket, approximately the color of electricity, buckled around his neck and buttoned down the front with gold nuggets; his loose trousers were purple; around them was a gold-mesh belt; and on his head was a dinky purple cap. He was absolutely livid.

  He wasn’t the only one. Thirty or forty people sat or moved about in the lobby, several of them already in costume, and it was enough to bring sight to the blind. Gals in Persian bloomers, gals in Indian saris, gals with bare midriffs—I counted three navels—and gals in things like wispy pajama bottoms below, and clever thimble-size bras, obviously designed merely for nipples, above. There were several dashingly clad guys, too—but about those women.

  The ones present were certainly only a fraction of the total who were now, or soon would be, in attendance for the gaieties here tonight and tomorrow. Nonetheless, I could not recall ever seeing at one time and in one place so many gorgeous tomatoes. Clearly many of them must have been the cream of the crop of the country-wide contests, culminating with the finals tomorrow here at the Kubla Khan.

  They were tall and short and medium-rare, all of them smooth as silks and satins, dark-eyed, bright-eyed, red-lipped and pink-lipped, with hair in fluffs and buns and puffs, and hair in ropes and ringlets. They came in all three primary colors, blonde, brunette and redhead, but each and every lovable one came equipped with all the vital equipment, all and a little bit more.

  If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought I’d been shot and killed, hit in the head and dead. Because this was Heaven. Or Hell. Or wherever I’d gone. If this was death and I’d gone to Heaven, it sure as hell was the way to live. Death, I thought, where is thy stinger? Death, you fraud, you—oof.

  Wrapped in thoughts of appetizing deadliness, and eye-balling navels and thimble-size bras and all the rest of that orgy of gorgeousness, I had not been watching where I was going. I’d been headed toward the Seraglio—at least, that’s where my feet were headed, but my head had been swiveling every direction but up. So I ran into somebody.