Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries)
Page 17
I wobbled my head. "He had some blackmail pictures and films—got them from cutting-room stuff. Supposed to be burned but he gave them to Brane. Brane had his hooks into Clark, too, and made Clark give him the pix. I thought for a while Brane took the blackmail shots with his Leica, but the candid stuff was mainly a cover for the blackmail—keep people from catching on to the cutting-room angle. It was good publicity for his Strip studio, too, but mainly it was a red herring. The actual cutting-room stuff—I burned them, Sam."
"You burned them?" His bushy eyebrows raised.
"Yeah, Sam. If anything went wrong, I didn't want Clark to get away with those things. They weren't good. You know."
"Yeah. I see, Shell. He damn near got away with all of it. But he didn't."
"You know he killed Brane the night of the party," I said. "Hit him with the statuette, then cut his throat. They had a beef upstairs. Clark isn't Clark. I mean that's not his real name."
"Relax. You called all that in on the phone before you got shot up."
My head was foggy. I couldn't remember how much I'd reported on the phone.
He said, "We rolled prints off Clark's body and sent them to the F.B.I. He was wanted in Missouri, all right. Name was really Harold Walker. Not that it makes any difference. Closes another file is all."
I lay on the pillow and rolled my head over toward him as a white-uniformed nurse came in and whispered to Sam. He got up and said he'd see me again and went out.
I was glad Clark hadn't got away, but I knew there was something else. Even if I still couldn't remember what it was, I went to sleep knowing that Clark wasn't what I'd wanted to ask Sam about.
There was a hazy time after that and an hour or a day or so later I was awake again and I knew what had been worrying me. Because there she was.
She spoke to me and her mouth opened and her perfect lips twisted in a soft, sweet smile. She came over by the bed and she leaned over and kissed me easily and gently. But nice.
I grabbed her hand and I said, "Hallie. Hallie, honey. Christ, I thought maybe you were dead."
She looked around to make sure nobody else was in the room, then she pulled at the bottom of the white blouse and lifted it free of the gray skirt she wore. She pulled the blouse high up on her body and pointed to her right side, just under the bulge of the pink brassiere, where she'd been wounded slightly by one of Clark's hastily fired bullets.
I looked where she pointed, and I looked at the pink bra, and I said, "Stop it, honey. Let me get my strength back."
She laughed and said, "I've talked to Captain Samson, so I know it was Clark took the shot at me. I was scared more than I was hurt, but I ran out of the car and behind your apartment house."
"Where did you go from there? The cops checked the hospitals—"
She broke in, "I stayed in back quite a while, then I went to your place. Not your room—I was a little afraid to—but your hotel. You'd told me that a Dr. Paul Anson lived a couple of doors down the hall from you, so I knocked on his door and he was home and he fixed me up. I wasn't hurt very bad."
That made sense, but I thought of Dr. Paul Anson and his clutching hands on that lovely white flesh and I growled through my teeth, "Did Paul—"
"Shut up, silly. He didn't do anything but bandage me and let me stay there for a while. I told him I was to wait for you and he didn't call the police right away. But finally he said he couldn't wait any longer and called them. They were sure surprised."
"I'll bet."
She said, "You're almost well. That's what they said. And today you can have visitors for a whole hour. How do you feel?"
I grinned at her. "Stronger." Actually I did feel about as good as new. A few orders of prime ribs and some rare steaks and I'd be ready to get shot again.
We were talking in low tones about things that are none of your damn business, when the door opened again and who should come in but Wandra Price and Garvey Mace. Hallie said softly to me, "Damn. This hour you get visitors, I suppose they'll fill up the place."
Mace looked like a landslide coming in the door and I thought, Oh, Christ! If he knocked me out when I was healthy, what'll he do to me now?
But he was all smiles. He pulled his lips apart in a grin and the bristles of his mustache stood out like brown spikes.
"Hello, champ," he boomed, and grabbed my limp hand and wiggled it.
"Champ?" I piped.
"Meet the missus," he boomed some more.
The missus turned out to be Wandra Price. So they'd gone and done it. She came forward smiling. Everybody kept smiling at me. I felt my face to see if there was anything funny about it. Anything funnier than usual, that is. It felt normal.
Wandra said, "Thanks, Shell."
"For what?"
"It was in the papers about your—well, taking care of Paul Clark—showing that he was the murderer. And your burning the—you know." She looked at Hallie sitting on the end of the bed. Apparently she still didn't know Hallie was mixed up in this blackmail caper, too. That was a laugh. Obviously she didn't know the gal in the painting she'd been so upset about was Hallie. That reminded me.
I said, "I thought you'd be griped." I looked from Wandra to Mace. "About the painting, the newspaper, I mean."
Wandra gurgled, "Oh, it's just wonderful. There's simply a mad rush on to see Shadow of Love. Simply everybody wants to see it. I'm famous." She grinned gleefully.
Famous, hell, I thought. Baby, it ain't your body that's famous. I glanced at Hallie.
She gave me a deadpan and dropped one eye in a wink. I almost laughed out loud.
Mace said to me gruffly, "Guess I had me some wrong ideas about that, uh, business."
"Forget it," I said. "How'd you people know about me burning that stuff?" I glanced at Hallie. "When was Captain Samson in here?"
"Yesterday."
"My," I said, "how time flies." But that explained it. Sam must have given the sketchy story to the papers. Thinking of papers made me think of the painting that had been on the front page of one and that reminded me again that I wanted the original painting to replace Amelia. Uh-huh. I'm casting Amelia aside like an old shoe.
I opened my mouth to ask where the hell my painting was when Mace said, "By the way, Shell." Shell it was, not Scott any more. "That five grand is yours. Everything worked out fine."
I should refuse five grand? "Great," I said. "Fine. Thanks. About the painting. I'd like—"
"Another thing, Shell. Seeing as it was my boys that ruined your office, I had it put back like it was. All except the Frank Harris. Couldn't get Harris. But I got you some Henry Miller."
"The office?" Things were really coming at me. "Well, Mace, that's real fine. Miller, huh? That's even better than Harris. But about the painting—"
"Oh," Mace continued. "About the boys. Dutch isn't with us any more. He, uh, had a fatal accident. Flem's in the hospital. They shouldn't have tried to think for themselves."
"Guess not. Mace, let's get it straight about that painting. There's—"
The door opened and I didn't see who came in, but I heard, and hearing, I knew.
"Hallo, pops," she yelled. "How's my baby?" She walked across the room, hips swaying, her nervous lips moving constantly in and out. Barbara Faun was right behind her, not quite so full of hell, but smiling.
God! I felt like I did have a harem.
Connie had an armful of roses and she tossed them into a chair, helter-skelter, ignored everybody else in the room, and marched over to the bed. She leaned over the bed and clamped down on me and started trying to digest me again. Finally she raised her head and said, "Baby, I love you to pieces."
I guessed she'd been reading the papers, too, but I didn't ask her. I was looking smack into a pair of violet ice cubes under Hallie's frowning brows.
Barbara Faun gave me a little peck that felt like nothing after Constanza's massage, and I heard Hallie snort as Barbara said a few words about how grateful she was, and how grateful she could be, and I didn't even stop to fig
ure that one out.
Confusion was the order of the day for a few minutes, then Connie and Barbara took off and Wandra and Mace prepared to go.
Hallie hadn't budged.
I was damned if Wandra and Mace were going to get out till I'd got it settled about the painting that was going on my living-room wall.
I said, "Hey, what about the painting?"
"What painting?" Mace asked.
"Uh, the one that was in the newspaper."
He grinned while Wandra blinked at the window. "We got it," Mace said. "We're gonna put it on the wall. Not right out front, but in our. . . bedroom."
Son of a bitch. They could have the head, maybe, but the rest of it was mine.
They turned to go and I said, "Hey! Wait a minute."
They paused at the door and turned. I started to tell them what the score was and then I looked at Hallie.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed and the way she was glaring I had an idea she was still thinking about Constanza Carmocha. Her breath came rapidly and her white blouse rose and fell over that thirty-six inches that wasn't muscle. One small fist rested on each side of her slim waist, and her skirt was tight against her legs, hiked up just to her knees. She looked mad, but she also looked beautiful, wonderful, and immensely appealing.
I glanced at Mace and said, "Skip it. See you," and they went out.
I looked back at Hallie and had to grin. I couldn't help it.
After all, what the hell could I do with a painting?
THE END
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Copyright © 2000 by Richard S. Prather
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