I read the telegram again, then a third time, wondering what this meant, if anything. It was more than I'd bargained for, so I picked up the phone and called Samson.
When he came on I said, "Hi, Sam. This is Shell. Thanks for the assist with Hawkins a while ago."
"Get lost," he growled, and I knew by the sound of his voice that he was trying to keep the inevitable cigar out of the mouthpiece. He said, "I told him you escaped from the bughouse. Must have scared him."
"Yeah. Say, I got your wire. What's with Ellis? Can you fill me in some more? What was the caper? And I see he pulled the minimum, so it was his first fall, huh?"
"First time he got caught," Sam growled. "But that's not why he got out after only nine months."
"O.K. Give, Sam."
"The Burglary boys had an idea about four other big jobs with pretty much the same m. o. as the one Ellis got caught on. Somebody picked up a pile of cash and some negotiable paper. All in about six months before this Ellis caper, and they thought there was a chance he was the one pulled them."
"Well?"
"Still just an idea. Ellis said they were nuts, this was the first time he tried anything like that."
"Uh-huh. He'd hardly say anything else."
"Yeah. Burglary wasn't too convinced, either. That's part of the reason for the nine months, Shell. If he had the stuff stashed away somewhere, they thought he might head for it when he got out. It's probably a pipe dream. Ellis just settled down and got a job."
"Uh-huh. These four big ones, Sam. How big?"
"Plenty. All told, close to a quarter million."
"Jesus H. Christ," I said. "I'm in the wrong racket."
"You're not in jail, either. But you can see why the boys were willing to take the long chance it was Ellis. A quarter of a million bucks is quite a pile."
"Buy a lot of bourbon," I said. "How'd they get him?"
"You know the old Springer mansion off Figueroa?" I told him I did and he said, "That was the place. Daylight job again, nobody home, and no gun, so it was second degree. The old boy's supposed to keep heavy sugar in the house but Ellis didn't get any."
"Stop bragging for Burglary, Sam; you're a Homicide man. I know you're hot stuff."
He chuckled. "This time the hot stuff was very old stuff. Anonymous phone call to Burglary. Some babe spotted him busting in the back way and spent a nickel."
"Such efficiency," I said. "Such—hey! Sam, I just thought of something. You said a woman called."
"No!" he interrupted me. "Don't say it."
"But, Sam, Ellis' wife is a woman. Don't you—"
"Well whaddayaknow," he growled. "His wife is a woman. I know, I know," he went on, "she's nowhere around and that's who you're looking for—and it was even hinted by some of the boys that it could have been his wife. You and your feeble brain are gonna be the death of me. It could also have been any one of about two million people." He paused. "Well, that's it."
I laughed. "O.K., Sam. Good enough. I'll call you."
"Hey," he yelled. "What about my cigars?"
He'd get his Coronas, but just for hell I asked him, "What did you say?" and hung up. I wondered some more, then dug into my bag and got out the photostats and some of my scribbled notes and went over them. Isabel had used her maiden name, of course, and Isabel Mary Bing and Harvey Colin Ellis had applied for a marriage license in L.A. on January 14, 1939, and been married by Horace Mansfield, Minister of the Gospel, on January 18, 1939. Isabel had been only seventeen to Harvey's thirty-seven, which checked with the birth dates I'd noted: Harvey, February 2, 1901; Isabel, October 14, 1921. Both were natives of Los Angeles. Her mother, who was dead, was Mary Elizabeth Green before she'd married Isabel's father, Jonathan Harrison Bing. There was more stuff, name and address of witness, address of the minister, and signatures of both Isabel and Harvey.
Then I remembered something and picked up the telegram from Sam again. Isabel had sold her house on December 6; and J. Harrison Bing had told me he hadn't received any letters all this year, which would seem to put the last letters back in December. And I'd just learned from Sam that Harvey Ellis had been released on parole in January. It was something else to add to the little things that were accumulating.
I looked at the eight-by-ten of Isabel. In the picture she was smiling prettily, looking quite a lovely and mature woman with well-shaped lips and big eyes. Regular features, and dark hair worn in an upsweep. She'd have been a pleasant fixture at the Pelican—and that reminded me that I wanted to see Lorraine again. I'd seen quite a bit of her last night, true, but I hadn't learned any more from her—not about the case.
I put in a call to the Inferno, did not say who was calling, and asked if Lorraine—the floor-show Lorraine—was staying at the hotel. All I learned was that she had a room, wasn't in it, and couldn't be reached. I hung up thinking I could try again later.
So I tucked my eight-by-ten photo under my arm and went down to the lobby. I didn't have to wonder about Carter's disappearance any more; now I could concentrate better on Isabel. And I realized then that I'd been guilty of a cardinal fault in any kind of investigation: jumping to conclusions. I hadn't really been thinking about looking for Isabel, but for Isabel's body.
I stopped at the desk and showed the picture to the clerk and asked the right questions. This was as good a place to start as any.
He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm new here, sir. I don't know many of the people yet."
I thanked him and went to the bar. I ordered a drink and went through the picture routine before I realized this was a new guy too. He'd replaced Freddy. When a man dies he leaves only a very small vacuum where he was, and that fills up quickly.
I played with my drink and looked around. The casino was getting a good play. There were already half a dozen smartly groomed women around the near table.
I noticed one in particular, in tailored brown slacks, low-heeled shoes, and a black sweater. I noticed her because she was leaning with her left arm on the wide leaning rail, her right side toward me and her face turned toward the action on the green felt, and she stood out.
She was only an inch or so over five feet tall, but she was trim and firm and looked compact, with a little extra spilling out fore and aft. Maybe part of it was her position, and another part the angle from which I was looking at her, but that couldn't have accounted for more than 10 per cent of the beautiful picture I got. Standing like that, she reminded me of what Hogarth called the "Line of Beauty," which is a serpentine or S curve, and standing there at the table, she had it. It started high in front and looped out and then in at her waist, and then reversed itself and flowed down in an eye-straining curve and neatly tucked itself in. Honest to God, she must have had the most delightful bottom in all of Las Vegas.
I had work to do, and duty never called more faintly, but I pulled my eyes away from those curves and finished my drink. I got up and walked down the bar toward another bartender. I looked back over my shoulder once, though, and I couldn't help thinking of Hogarth again. That sure was a cute little S.
I climbed onto a stool and the bartender came up. I showed him the photo. "Ever see her around?" I asked him.
He glanced down at the portrait and shook his head. "Don't think so. Why?" Then he bent closer to the photo and picked it up. "Well," he said, "how about that?"
I sat up. That's what I wanted to know. "You know her?"
"Well, I'm not sure," he said. He squinted. "Does look a little like her, though, doesn't it?"
This guy was driving me nuts. "Like who? Whom? Who? Looks like what?"
He blinked at me. "Oh, I thought you knew. You were falling off your stool leering at her." He grinned as if that were the funniest remark of the day.
He must have noticed something peculiar happen to my face, but he beamed at me and kept chattering away. "She comes in most every day. Always drinks stingers and leaves me a buck. Not bad, huh? Wish I was Dante."
"What!"
He blinked some more. "What's the m
atter? Didn't you know she was Mrs. Dante?"
I didn't say anything for a full ten seconds. I couldn't. Then I said, "Bartender, give me a drink."
He shook his head, but started mixing a water-high for me. I swung my poor dazed head around for another look, and for one panicky moment I thought she'd gone, but then I saw her moving away from the dice table, turning away from me, walking to the far end of the bar. Even as rattled as I was, I couldn't help thinking that a walk like hers couldn't have been an accident: It had to have been planned, practiced, and perfected.
She slid up on the stool and ordered a drink, and the other bartender fixed her a stinger.
Mrs. Dante, Mrs. Dante, Mrs. Dante; it went ricocheting around in my skull. But the bartender had said, "Looks a little like her." There was no point in continuing to leap at conclusions. But if she were Mrs. Dante, maybe others of the Dante clan might be around. But how the hell. . . I stopped thinking about it for a moment and looked at every face I could see in the crowd. And, still at the dice table where I hadn't seen him before because I'd been looking at something much prettier than his stupid face, was Dante's right-hand man with the long dry hair swelling out over his temples, and the deep bronze skin, and the frightened eye. He hadn't seen me, apparently, and I didn't want him to see me. I asked the bartender, "Who's that mug?" and pointed him out.
"Guy from the Inferno. Lloyd something or other. Don't know just what he does down there."
"I know what he does. Thanks."
I took my drink and photo with me, walked along the bar, and sat down right next to Isabel Ellis or Mrs. Victor Dante or Julie-Belle Smutch or whoever the hell she was. She barely glanced at me, but I looked at her good.
I didn't know. Could be, though. The girl in the picture was a brunette with lots of hair, and this one had a feather cut that was blonde, almost platinum, but that could have been peroxide and scissors. And the girl at the bar was a few years older, apparently, than the one in the photo, but she was still a year or two either way from thirty as near as I could tell. The features seemed much the same; there was a difference, but it might have been accounted for by make-up. That trim figure looked as if she were careful about keeping it in shape: like a gal who played tennis, or took a lot of exercise, or visited masseurs regularly. But I didn't have a picture of her figure for comparison. Wish I had.
But just looking was telling me nothing, so I sat my drink on the bar, said, "Pardon me," and when she turned to me I handed her the photograph.
She had a pleasant look on her face, half-smiling as she took the photo, and I said bluntly, "Is that you?"
She looked at the picture in her hand, laid it slowly on top of the bar, and the pleasant look faded, washed right off her face, and she didn't make a sound. She just fainted dead away and slid off the stool to the floor.
Chapter Eleven
SOMEBODY YELLED.
I grabbed the picture in one hand and bent over the woman. People crowded up around me and I didn't know what the hell was happening. All I could think of was that pretty face getting blank, and her toppling, and me watching her, too startled even to grab her as she fell.
I backed away as somebody picked her up and carried her over to one of the flat leather seats beyond the tables. She was starting to come around. And then I saw that the guy carrying her was goon-boy Lloyd. I didn't know if he'd noticed me in the excitement or not, but if he hadn't, he was likely to in a minute. I also realized that it hadn't been my job in the first place to barge up to the gal even if she was my client's daughter. When I'd been hired, Bing said if I found her and she was O.K. he didn't want her bothered; he merely wanted to be sure she was all right. But there was something I could do right now. I could call that guy and give him a piece of my mind before I got a hole in it.
I went across the lobby and up to my room without looking back. Inside, I grabbed the phone, fished in my pocket for the card Bing had given me, and gave the number he'd written on it to the operator.
He was in. After he said hello, I lit into him. "Listen, you old—" I busted it off and started over. "Listen, Mr. Bing, what the hell did you get me into up here?"
"What? Who is this?"
"This is Scott, Shell Scott, remember? Have you heard from your daughter?"
"Isabel? Why, no. What's the matter? You sound excited."
"Excited! You damn bet I'm excited. People keep trying to kill me, and I think I might have just seen your daughter."
He busted in right there. He practically swooned.
"You did? Then she's all right? Where was she, Mr. Scott? Is she all right? You didn't talk to her, did you?"
"Slow down a minute." I slowed down, myself, thinking. Then I said, "Actually, Mr. Bing, I'm not a damn bit sure of anything yet. You might say I'm confused. I may have seen Isabel and I may not. I simply don't know. Can you give me a better description of her? And how about this: Do you know of any reason why she might change her appearance? Dye her hair, things like that?"
He was silent for a few seconds, then he said, "Change her appearance? No, Mr. Scott. I don't understand. Is she—is she in trouble?"
"Frankly, you've got me. But listen to this, and listen good. If you know of any reason why she might be, you damned well better not hold out on me if you want me to stay on the case, and you know what I mean. I don't care if it makes you so uncomfortable or embarrassed you can't stand it. Now, why the hell didn't you tell me that Isabel's husband was an ex-con?"
There was another of his silences, then he said, "I'm sorry you found that out, Mr. Scott. I don't see how that could be important. The fact that my son-in-law is a criminal is hardly the type of thing I'd care to—"
I broke in on him again, trying to keep my voice level. "Mr. Bing, please listen carefully. Anything, believe me, anything at all might be important. If you'll let me decide what is and isn't, I might stay alive longer."
"I'm sorry, but there's nothing else you don't already know. Nothing. Tell me, is she up there? Is she all right?"
There we were again. I said, "I honestly don't know. Can you tell me any way of positively identifying her? You know, defects, scars, habits?"
He said hesitantly, "No-o. You have her picture."
"Yeah, I know. That's not good enough. I mean something else. Something positive."
"Well. . . I'm afraid the only scar she has wouldn't do you much good. When she was a little girl part of a tin can hit her—you know how children play with firecrackers, putting them under cans. Well, the can blew apart and cut about a four-inch gash on her cheek. But that's all I can think of."
"What's the scar look like?"
"Just a straight scar with a sort of sharp hook at the end, a bit like an arrowhead. But I'm sure that can't help you."
"That takes care of that, anyway. The gal I was thinking about didn't have any scar. Smooth complexion, for that matter."
"Ah, that's not exactly what I meant. The scar is on her. . . posterior."
I blinked. "You mean her fanny?"
"Well, yes, you might say that."
This time I was quiet for a while. There might be a scar on that superior posterior, but I didn't know what good that did me. Finally I said, "Nothing else, huh?"
"No. Just what is the situation up there, Mr. Scott?"
"I'm going out to do some more checking right now, Mr. Bing. I don't have much, but I can tell you one thing: William Carter, my predecessor on this case, is dead."
"Dead? What? Not—"
"Yeah. Dead, killed, murdered. Shot in the back. Does that help you think of anything else you could tell me about this mess?"
"Shot! Good Lord!" Then silence for a few seconds. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Scott. There's nothing else." Then, "Shot. . . " he said again.
"O.K., then. O.K., Mr. Bing, I'll keep in touch with you. I'm afraid I don't have anything else definite, but I'll call you as soon as I do. I'll try to phone tomorrow, anyhow, one way or another."
"Well," he hesitated, "all right. You know my instruction
s."
"Sure."
"Please phone as soon as you can, Mr. Scott."
"I will." I hung up.
I sat thinking for about a minute, then stopped thinking about that and called another cab and had it sent to the Desert Inn. I was still going around in circles, and this one led right back to the courthouse.
This time I went clear up to the top and into the county clerk's office. I walked up to the wide counter and while I waited for the middle-aged lady with a well-fed and jovial appearance to finish making entries on a form at one of several desks behind the counter, two young couples came in behind me.
The lady finished scribbling and walked up to me. I nodded toward the four others and said, "I can wait. I'm just looking for information."
She smiled at the young people and said to them, "Just fill out one of these forms."
One of the men, a young, dark-haired fellow about twenty-two, grinned stiffly and reached convulsively for a pen in his coat pocket. He picked up one of the printed forms, "Information for Marriage License," which were spread along the counter.
I showed the lady my investigator's license, explained that I was from Los Angeles, and said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd check, when you have time, and see if there's an application for the marriage of Victor Dante and Isabel Ellis, or Isabel Bing, on file here."
She nodded. Apparently only two of the young people were getting married and the other two were witnesses. The nervous, dark-haired fellow swallowed and said, "Uh," and pushed the form across the counter. The tall blonde with him presented another form. My pleasant lady nodded to me, took the papers, and went to a typewriter. Soon she was back before the four young people and had the bride and groom sign some larger forms.
"That will be five dollars," she said.
The dark-haired one moved convulsively again and managed to come up with five dollars. "Let's get this over with," he mumbled. The blonde squeezed his arm hard. "Raise your right hands," the lady said. They did so and she asked them if they swore that all statements were true and so on.
Find This Woman Page 9
