Gat Heat

by Richard S. Prather

  But I shrugged and said, “You’re right about Whist. I dug up your real name—well, just legwork. For example, I know you had a suite at the Norvue under the name Whist. And one at the Beverly Hills Hotel in the name of Walles.” I swallowed some of my drink, looking at him. “I hope you’d like to satisfy my curiosity about all these names and suites—in addition to your home here.”

  “Sure, be glad to. If …” He stopped for a moment, starting to frown. “Wait a minute. I’m not under some kind of suspicion, am I? If so, suspicion of what?”

  I shook my head. “Suspicion of nothing, Mr. Walles. I’m simply talking to all the people I can find who knew the Halsteads, either in business or socially, and who might know something which could help explain why Mr. Halstead was killed.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I won’t be much help to you, I’m afraid. Ever since I read the papers this morning I’ve been wondering about that myself. Why anybody would kill him, I mean. You never met a more easy-going, pleasant guy.”

  “I’m still curious. Of course, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

  He put his drink down on the table and lit a cigarette. “No sweat,” he said. “I don’t mind. But …” He picked up his drink again, had a swallow. “Well, I will say this, when Marcelle and I—Marcelle’s my wife—met the Halsteads, it was in a nightclub. We were all having fun, and it was just Ed and Marcelle, George and Ann. You know, buying each other drinks, yacking it up. They didn’t know our last names—we didn’t know theirs, for that matter. Not then.”

  He got up, sipped at his drink again and began pacing slowly back and forth. “Well, we had a ball. Great couple. Traded phone numbers, and a few days later they called us. We went out to dinner and during the evening we all had quite a lot to drink. They invited us to, well, a party they were having. Party, booze, meet some of their friends.” He paused. “Well, uh, the way it sounded, we—Marcelle and I—just weren’t sure we wanted them to know our real name.”

  “Could you make that a little clearer?”

  He grinned and came back, sat down on the divan. “I could, but I’m not going to. Hope you don’t mind, but that’s the way it is. Anyhow, we saw them a few times, met some of the people they knew, palled around a bit you might say. Even had them up to see us a few times—that was at the Norvue. But, after a while, we just decided we’d had it. Frankly, we simply decided to drop them, the Halsteads and the whole bunch, not see them any more.”

  “Was there an argument? Trouble—”

  “No, no. Nothing like that at all. On the contrary, there never was any trouble, no friction. It’s just Marcelle and I agreed we’d be better off … ah, in with a different crowd. I suppose you’d have to know a little more about them.”

  I had a slug of the bourbon and water. It was good bourbon. “Maybe I do,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

  So far this Ed Walles had impressed me very favorably. He seemed straightforward, candid enough, and he was certainly convincing. Especially since I thought maybe I knew part of his reason for leaving some gaps in his story.

  But I said, “It would help if you told me some more about them.”

  “Nope. That’s all I’ve got to say, Mr. Scott. Hell, you’ll probably dig around and come up with—with the rest of it.” He grinned. “But you’re not going to get it from me.”

  “You sure live in a lot of places.”

  He laughed. “Oh, that. No mystery there. We live here—obviously. You know this is our home. We took a suite at the Norvue to have a place where we could entertain the Halsteads and some of their friends from time to time. It was … expected of us. They still thought our name was Whist, and we wanted to keep it that way for the time being. Besides, by then it would have been a little sticky explaining why we’d given them another name in the first place. It gets a bit complicated.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  It also made a weird kind of sense. A few pieces were falling into the pattern; and I thought I was beginning to understand why Walles might have acted as he had. Yes, it made pretty good sense; and I was still wondering where the hook was.

  He went on, without urging from me. “I’m in product development. That is, I deal rather extensively in new products—with housewife appeal, mostly—sometimes financing the inventor or patent-holder, sometimes buying outright. Also I’m in the market substantially. I kept a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel for some months. Place to meet and entertain possible associates, investors, other developers. It’s not everybody you want in your home—Marcelle hates the hostess bit anyway. Besides the front’s damned important, you know.” He smiled.

  “I suppose.”

  “Before the Hills; we had a suite in the Hollywood-Roosevelt. Earlier, at the Ambassador. Wherever the action is.”

  “Kind of an expensive way to live?”

  He tossed that off with the flick of an eyebrow. “That, fortunately, isn’t one of my problems. You have to spend money to make money. It’s a business expense, anyhow. Costs next to nothing when it’s deductible.”

  “The Norvue deductible?”

  “Nope, not that. And I’ll not list it as a deduction when I bare my financial soul for Uncle—you’re not a spy for the Internal Revenue Service, are you?”

  “Ye gods, no.”

  “I knew there was something about you I liked.” He finished his drink. “Have another?”

  I shook my head. “One’s about it for now, thanks.”

  “Well, maybe we can have the second one on another occasion. I’d like for you to meet my wife. Bring three or four of your girls.” He grinned.

  His comment had sounded like a casual dismissal, but I didn’t get up and say thanks for a charming time and leave. Not just then. Instead I said, “One other thing, Mr. Walles. When I checked at the Norvue I learned you had a little fire there—just before you checked out. That why you left?”

  “No, we’d planned to leave that night—we didn’t check out, by the way. Just let the lease expire. About the fire …” He twirled his glass on the table top. “Ah, can I tell you something in confidence? I mean, with the assurance that you won’t repeat it?”

  “If you’re leveling with me. And—” I smiled—“not covering up evidence of any crime, anything I’d be interested in as an investigator.”

  “Well … good enough. No crime, not really. Thing is, that fire wasn’t an accident. Not entirely.”

  “Come again? You deliberately set fire to the bed?”

  He laughed—he seemed a happy fellow. “Not the bed. That was accidental. Of course, if you ever see Marcelle, you might think …” He let it trail off, but I figured I got the idea. “The thing is, we burned something up in the wastebasket. Deliberately. Got a little out of hand and the damn bedclothes caught fire, and we had to yell for help. That was the accident; but the original burning was done on purpose, which is what I wouldn’t want the Halsteads—Ann, that is—or the others, to know. I told them the fire was accidental.”

  “What did you burn up?”

  He shook his head, but didn’t answer.

  I had the feeling there were some other things I should ask him; but I couldn’t think of any really vital queries. I was there another ten minutes, but during most of that time Walles was asking me about my job, the work of a private detective. His interest, which seemed genuine, was flattering—show me the man who doesn’t like talking about himself and his work—but it wasn’t getting the job done.

  So I stood up, thanked him for his time, and prepared to leave.

  He shook my hand and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t be more help. But, if it’s necessary, I’ll be here in case you’ve got to know more.”

  “I’ll see how it goes. Thanks again.”

  He showed me to the door and I went out. Went out, still mildly bemused. All during our conversation I’d kept looking for the hook. But I had not found any hook.

  I took Beverly Drive down to Olympic and swung le
ft, heading for Robertson Boulevard. I’d already checked by phone with the Hollywood Division, on the way to the Walleses’, so I knew Jimmy Violet’s three musclemen were out of the clink, probably now back at Jimmy’s expensive dump, which I’d recently left. I had also phoned Hazel to sing her praises for so speedily getting word to the police that I was in some kind of trouble.

  So this time when I phoned in it was merely to ask if anything new had come up.

  “Can you be in your office at two o’clock, Shell?”

  “I guess so. Why?”

  “I made a tentative appointment at that time for you. It’s supposed to be very important.”

  “Somebody come in?”

  “Appointment was made by phone. About twenty minutes ago.”

  I suppose because I still had the thought of Bingo and Stub and Little Phil in my mind I smiled and said, “I don’t suppose the caller said his name was Jimmy Violet, did he?”

  “Nobody’s named Jimmy Violet. Besides, it was a woman. Very sexy voice, by the way.”

  “Indeed. Who?”

  “She wouldn’t give me her name.”

  “She say what’s so urgent?”

  “It’s something to do with George Halstead. She said you’d know what she meant.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I had so far today talked to Angelica Bersudian and Mrs. Riley. Maybe one of them had thought of something she’d “overlooked.” Or it could be Mrs. Halstead, Mrs. Pryer, Mrs. Warren … who could say? Maybe even sizzling Sybil Spork.

  “O.K., Hazel. I’ll come in. You supposed to call her back and confirm?”

  “No, she said she’d call in again. But it has to be two o’clock. That would be the only time she could get away, she said. Whatever she meant by that.”

  I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes before one p.m. “I’m on my way out to see a woman named Agatha Smellow, in Culver City. I should make it back to the office by two.”

  “Don’t pick up any more little men with big guns, Shell.”

  “I’ll try not, Sweetie. But if I should, I know who’ll fix his wagon. And as a reward, I’ll never again doubt anything you say.”

  “Well, it’s all right if you … doubt a little.”

  I smiled, and hung up the phone.

  I’d checked on Agatha Smellow’s address and was looking forward to calling on her. So far, I’d met a number of exceptionally good-looking gals connected with the case—Halstead seemed to have had a propensity or knack for surrounding himself with lasses ranging from adequate to stupendous in appearance and not visibly overburdened with inhibitions.

  I do confess that I enjoy talking to good-looking tomatoes not overburdened with inhibitions, and Agatha, Halstead’s former wife, might turn out to be the choicest of the lot, the jackpot.

  So I idly mused, not having the least idea what was in store for me.

  9

  Agatha Smellow was not the jackpot.

  She was three lemons, and you get arrested for putting a lead nickel in the machine.

  Moments after I rang the bell at the front door of the middle-bracket-nice house on a tree-shaded street, curtains fluttered behind a window on my left. Peeking out at me, I thought. Probably this gorgeous babe is in there alone, I thought; nude, dancing around the room to flutey music, trailing a couple of veils maybe. She’ll wrap a towel around her wild, naked body and come to the door and peek out, and say in a sexy voice—sexy voice! Maybe she was the one who’d phoned Hazel—“I don’t know who you are, but … I’ve been waiting for you.”

  It has happened before. Gal in a towel, I mean. More than once. Neither of them said “I’ve been waiting for you,” and like that—but it could happen. One of these days it will happen. I’m a very optimistic fellow.

  The curtains had stopped fluttering.

  The door opened a crack, and—yes—she was peeking out at me. Just as I’d had it pictured.

  I smiled. “Hello,” I said.

  “Go away.”

  “What?”

  “Go away. I don’t want any.”

  “Well, I … you don’t?” I paused, got my thoughts lined up again, tinged with a bit less imagination.

  To be certain, however, I said, “Don’t want any what?”

  “Whatever you’ve got.”

  “Well, erum, that should cover it. Ah, are you Mrs. Smellow? Mrs. Agatha Smellow?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Shell Scott, Mrs. Smellow. I’m a detective, a private investigator. I have been employed by Mrs. George Halstead—”

  “Her! Hah. Hoo. Her!” she said.

  It came out “Herhahhooher!” like one word. I got the impression she didn’t like Mrs. Halstead.

  “Fooey to her,” she said. “She probably killed the old goat.”

  Yes, it was a very definite impression. Maybe I should go by my impressions instead of my imagination, I began to think. Barely in time, for if I’d still been dreaming of gals dancing to flutey music the next few seconds might have sent me a bit off base.

  Because I said, “Well, that’s what I’m trying to find out, Mrs. Smellow. Who killed George Halstead, and why. I’d very much appreciate a few minutes of your time.…”

  And she opened the door.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Boy, truer words might not have been spoken since the Gettysburg Address.

  If this gal danced around naked twirling veils the world would undoubtedly tip off its axis. She wasn’t what I would call a tomato. Not even one of those little green, bumpy tomatoes. She was more like a cucumber.

  Agatha Smellow was five-nine or so, with a figure approximately the contour of her bones, all that charm covered by a simple plain gray dress reaching well below where her knees might have been, which was probably fortunate; for, if the rest of her was the shade of her face, you could plant her and be reasonably sure she’d sprout in a fortnight.

  “Do come in,” she said.

  I sighed, and went in.

  It was a nice house. That was the word which sprang automatically to mind. Nice. A little drab for me, but then I’m a guy who likes a bit of color. We went into the living room—from which she’d been fluttering the curtains—and sat in comfortable overstuffed chairs covered in a rough brown fabric, and on the chair arms were crocheted white doilies, or whatever they call those things which keep falling off chair arms.

  There was a beige carpet on the floor, quite thick and with a good long nap. A large color-television set stared like blinded Cyclops from a corner. On the wall was a framed piece of cloth with green yarn spelling out, “Home, Sweet Home.” I read it twice to be sure.

  “I gather you know of Mr. Halstead’s death,” I began.

  “Yes. I prayed for him, but it didn’t do any good. I knew this would happen.”

  “You knew he’d be killed?”

  “Not that, not in so many words. I knew he’d come to no good end. I told him. Oh, you can bet I told him.”

  I’ll bet you did, I thought. We chatted inconsequentially for a minute or two. She said, yes, they had been married for several years. Fourteen and a half years. Divorced four years ago. Yes, she’d filed for divorce, and had been awarded the judgment. She had seen the signs long, long before then, long, long ago. She’d seen the signs. Satan was creeping up on him.

  “Who?” I said.

  “Satan.”

  “Satan, huh? You mean, the old … the old Adam? No, not that one—the devil, you mean?”

  “Yes, him, the Evil One.”

  It seemed cooler in the house than when I’d first come inside. The curtains were drawn over the windows—not a lot of light in the room—and Mrs. Smellow gazed at me, gazed her glassy gaze at me.

  “I knew,” she said. “I knew what was happening. I warned him. I did, you can bet I did.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She fell silent. But she kept gazing her glassy gaze at me. I made some mild comment about the divorce, without specifically
asking her what the grounds had been, but even without real encouragement she told me. It was as though she wanted to tell me about it, all about it.

  “He committed the most heinous, the most awful, the most sinful thing a man can do.”

  “He did? I suppose you …” I stopped. That covered a lot of territory. What did she mean?

  She told me. “I mean he broke his sacred vows.”

  “How?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t. Not precisely. There’s lots of ways. I suppose. I’m not an expert, of course. How would I know?”

  “You’re a man!”

  “Well, thank you, ma’am. That’s nice of you … Wait. You mean—”

  “Of course.”

  I thought I had it. Or at least a piece of it. But I wasn’t sure how to pin it down, how to get it clear as could be. “Ah, perhaps you mean that Mr. Halstead, during the course of your marriage, committed that most … um … heinous sin of …” It was pretty tough.

  “He broke his marriage vows.”

  “Yeah. I had it figured.”

  “I caught him with her.”

  “Her? Might as well come right out with it. Another woman, you mean.”

  “What else would I have caught him with?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Under my own roof. Actually in the bedroom!”

  “Oh. Well, that is foul. In your own bedroom—”

  “Not mine. His. There they were—in his bedroom.” She made some mumbling sounds. It looked like she was going to get sicker than a dog, just remembering.

  But she didn’t get sick. Oddly, she appeared almost to get healthier there for a while, as she dwelled on it.

  In fact, she dwelled audibly on it a bit more than I really cared to have her dwelling. So about a minute later I said, “I see. Then he had his bedroom, and you had your bedroom.”

  Her eyes were quite wide, and I would have sworn her chest bones were rising and falling more rapidly than at any time since I’d entered the house. Her face had a bit more color in it, too, sort of a brighter green.

  “Yes,” she said, the consonant drawn out in a soft hiss. “Yes—we had to have separate bedrooms. He was always wanting to … It was the only way I could keep him from …”