The Wailing Frail (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I knocked gently.

  I heard a splash. Then soft laughter. “Who is it?”

  “A—a friend.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I'm—I have something for you.”

  “Slip it under the door.”

  “Baby, this isn't a telegram.”

  “It won't go under the door?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  “You mean you want to bring it to me?”

  “Now you got it. Exactly. Now you're cooking. And how—”

  “Well, the door's not locked.”

  It wasn't. I opened it and walked in. After all, it was my bathroom.

  Satin said, “Now, what is it you have for me?”

  I spread my arms wide: “Me!”

  She was lying back in the tub, an inch or two of water moving gently over the surface of her skin, or rather some of her skin. The water was clear. Very clear. I had thought, when I'd danced with Satin in her apartment and she was wearing that clinging, form-fitting, satin outfit, that there really wasn't an awful lot more to see. That had been a foolish thought. Carried away, I put one idiotic foot into the tub—complete with shoe, sock, and trouser leg.

  She wasn't impressed. “You know what?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “This warm water kind of sobered me up.”

  “The water did, huh? Well, no sense me staying plastered.”

  “Wait a minute.” She sat up in the tub and scooted clear to the back, all scrunched up. “There. Now there's room.” She smiled up at me, happy as could be. Then she got a sort of surprised look. “Shell, you're not coming in here with your clothes on!”

  Cling, clong.

  Faintly I heard it. It had sounded like the door chimes. I shook my head. Couldn't be, I thought. Ignore it and maybe it'll go away.

  Cling, clong.

  “It's somebody at the door,” Satin said. Cling-clong, cling-clong. “Oh, make them stop," she said. “It bothers me. You know how I am about telephones. And this—” Cling-clong, cling-clong, cling-clong. “Hurry, Shell,” she said. “Make them go away.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And hurry back. Get rid of them and hurry back. I'll put in some more hot water.”

  “That'll be nice,” I said, and I went out of the bathroom and across the living room to the door.

  I wasn't a bit happy, and I grabbed the doorknob and twisted it viciously, flung the door open and said, “What's the big—Oh, murder! Oh, Paula! You—darling, you. You came anyway. Well, I'm busy, Paula, busy, busy...”

  She swept by me and into the living room, then wheeled about to face me. A big smile was on her face. The dark eyes smouldered. “I got off anyway, Shell. Senator Wise was working late, too, and he told me to go. Isn't that grand?”

  “Yes. Grand.” My voice was lifeless, leaden. It had none of its old fire. And I didn't know what to tell Paula.

  Paula went into the bedroom and came back without her coat, then sat down on the divan and looked at the Martinis. She blinked and then looked at me. Her eyes were still smouldering. But differently. I have mentioned, though I have not dwelt on it, that Paula had a temper. In fact, it is such a temper that that is the reason I have not dwelt on it. For one so soft and dark and nice, it was the temper of a longshoreman who'd been given an acetylene hotfoot. I didn't mention it; I don't even like to think about it.

  In the voice of a longshoreman with a hotfoot, Paula said, “What's this?” She pointed at the two filled Martini glasses.

  “This? That? Them? Oh, they's Martinis.” I paused, my mind getting all gooey. Then, inspiration: “One of them's yours.” It was true; I'd just decided to give her one.

  The old light came back into her eyes; the smile grew on her lips. Slowly she sipped at the Martini. Slowly—I groaned.

  I had meant to get rid of her, quickly, by feigning dizziness or something—Lord knows, I was dizzy enough—but now I realized I'd have to let her drink the Martini. I thought, now I've put my foot in it.

  And that reminded me. My foot. Only one leg, fortunately, had got in the tub—and it is a tribute to my undying optimism that I considered this fortunate—and I was dripping. I was dripping on the yellow-gold carpet. A damp, dark trail of huge right-foot prints led from the bathroom door to me, as if some monster had hopped out of the drain and across the room, which perhaps wasn't completely opposed to the truth.

  Paula followed my gaze. “What in the world?” she said.

  “Paula,” I said, “I think you'll have to go after all.”

  “What do you mean, after all?”

  “Just—after all.”

  “Why, Shell. I believe you're trying to be funny.”

  Talk about hollow laughs. It echoed in the room like a man coming to in his casket.

  Finally she said, “What did you do to your foot? And your pants leg? It's all wet.”

  I exclaimed, “Why! So it is!” After a moment of shock, I said, “I stepped into something. Excuse me a moment, Paula.”

  I walked to the bathroom. The difficult part is that the bathroom door is in view of the living room, this being a small apartment. I couldn't afford to go inside, for if Paula should happen to look at the right moment—I refused to think about it.

  I tapped gently on the bathroom door.

  Satin cried out raucously.

  “Heigh, hi, ho,” I shouted, and burst into “The Halls of Montezuma.” Then I said to Satin, “Shhh! Don't make any noise. Don't even make any waves.”

  “Shell! Shell, what are you doing?” That was Paula.

  I tried to hush Satin, explain, keep her quiet, but she merely invited me to come in and tell her. I knew I couldn't go in there. I couldn't even talk any longer. I'd never been in such a mess. Paula called me again and I went into the living room. “Did you get it fixed?” she asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “This is nice. I like your place. It's got just about everything.”

  “What do you mean, just about?”

  She looked at me for a moment, then said, “You don't act the same, Shell. I thought when I came up you'd throw your arms around me. Give me a big kiss. Do something crazy.”

  I didn't even answer her. Finally I said, “Let's go, huh?”

  “Go?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don't understand. You've been practically pleading with me to come up here. Now, I'm here.”

  “Let's go, huh?”

  “Just let me finish my Martini.”

  She got up and went into the bedroom. If she asked me where the bathroom was, I was going to shove her out the window. I felt as if I were coming apart.

  Paula came back with her coat over her arm. She said, “Shell?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where's the bathroom?”

  “Out you go!”

  “What?”

  “No—I'm sorry, I mean my mind was somewhere else. You—What do you want a bathroom for?”

  “Oh, Shell!”

  “Bathrooms are ... are passe. Outmoded. I...” I stopped.

  No, I just wasn't going to let her go to the bathroom. I realize that I was taking a lot on my shoulders, but that's the way it was. I could just see, as if it were happening before my eyes, what would happen once Paula stepped in through that door. I realized that I was groaning aloud.

  Cling-clong.

  I slumped into a chair and buried my face in my hands. I felt shattered, useless, all used up.

  Cling-clong.

  I ground my teeth together, took a deep breath, got to my feet and stomped to the door. Thinking I had very little more to lose, I threw the door open.

  My nerves peeled open like old telephone wires. I staggered back into the room. I was groaning aloud again.

  Toddy stood in the doorway. She took a step forward, staring at me curiously.

  Well, I thought, I'm dreaming. It must be about three or four a.m. That's when I have my nightmares. I figured that soon the sun would come up over the horizon and
creep into my bedroom. It would fall on my fat head, illuminating the big smile on my face, because soon everything would work out the way it does in dreams. Boy, I thought, this should be a good one. There's even cold Martinis in it. Wonder how I'll get out of this?

  Toddy said, “Aren't you going to invite me in? I tried to—”

  And then I noticed that she was looking past me at Paula. This wasn't a dream. It was life. Real, earnest life. Life that was almost death.

  The silence thickened. Then there was a horrible gurgling sound. For a moment I thought I was making it, like the involuntary groans. But no. That sound as of water gurgling out of a bathtub was, in fact, water gurgling out of a bathtub. Everybody knew I didn't do it. We all looked toward the bathroom door.

  Then I saw the two girls looking across the floor, following a dark, stained path of huge footprints that led across the carpet from the bathroom door to—my huge right foot. They looked at my bloodless face. And then they swung their heads around with simultaneous snaps to stare again toward the bathroom door.

  The door opened and a cloud of steam came out. Then Satin came out. She was smiling. A towel was wrapped loosely around her. “Shell,” she was calling; “Shell?”

  Then she saw the rigid tableau before her. She stopped suddenly and gasped, dropping the towel. The towel crumpled up at her feet. Everybody looked at everybody. Heads were aimed at me; six cold eyes were riveted on me. There was one of the longest stunned silences on record.

  And, believe me, for every second of it my mind was blank. Nothing stirred up there, not a cell, not a nerve, nothing. Just blank.

  And then, like the death rattle of my undying optimism, one last tattered thought sort of limped into view. “Wait a minute, girls,” I said stupidly. “I can explain everything.”

  Chapter Nine

  A lot happened then, all at once, undoubtedly more than I'll ever recall, but several of the things were pretty obvious. And I was, of course, practically sober by now anyway.

  Satin cried, “Shell, you promised!” and ran back into the bathroom. As she slammed the door a Martini glass sailed by my nose and shattered on the wall. Paula made a noise like a wounded animal and ran into the bedroom.

  Toddy said, “I tried to phone you, but the line was busy.” She paused. “But I didn't realize you were this busy.”

  I looked at the phone. Yep, off the hook. “Satin,” I shouted. “We're through!”

  I looked around me, too, at the footprinted carpet, the towel still on the floor, the pieces of Martini glass—at what seemed the shambles of my apartment and of my life. For a man who had, moments before, had so much. This, I figured, must be a little like the crash of Twenty-nine. Guys had even jumped out windows then, and all they'd lost was money.

  But here I was, still on my feet, still taking it on the chin. I felt proud, I told myself. Actually, I felt sick.

  I looked at Toddy—and the first little trickle of something completely apart from the Martinis-and-women-in-bathtubs routine, touched my thoughts. In the space of perhaps five seconds while we stood looking at each other, my feelings changed completely. All but the very last wisps of liquor fog left my brain. Something was wrong.

  I said, “What—how come you're here, Toddy?”

  “I tried to call you, but I said that, didn't I? I was phoned at my hotel. You're to call the police.”

  The tone of her voice, or maybe the way she looked, made me suddenly feel cold. Or maybe it was even the thought in her mind, brushing my brain. But I felt a shiver go over my neck and my skin seemed just a little cooler. “Police?” I asked her. “Why?”

  “It's something about a man named Joe Rule. That's why they called me—my number was on a paper in his pocket. I thought I remembered your mentioning his name this afternoon.”

  “I did.”

  “And I thought you'd want to know.”

  “What about Joe?”

  “He's dead.”

  I don't know how long I looked at her, not speaking, my mind trying to close around the fact of Joe Rule's death. I didn't really believe it yet. And the bald statement was too suddenly shocking after what had just happened here. I'd been expecting Joe to call any minute, half waiting to hear the phone ring. I could see in my mind his white grin, the way he ran one hand through that wavy black hair. A lot of things about him.

  I shook my head. All I'd asked him to do was go out to Ravenswood, check up on Todhunter—on Toddy's father. I looked at her just as she started to turn away.

  “Toddy. About Joe. Joe Rule. Did they say anything else? Who called?”

  “It was a Lieutenant. Rawlings or something.” That would be Lieutenant Rawlins. Toddy went on, “He said the man had been murdered. He was shot.”

  She turned silently and left. I looked after her until she was out of sight. Then I went to the phone and called Homicide. The police had tried to phone me, but my line had been busy. Rawlins was still out at the scene, I was told. The body hadn't yet been moved. The call had come in half an hour or so ago. I got the address where Joe's body had been found. It was off the road between here and Ravenswood, not far from Ravenswood at all.

  I walked toward the bedroom to get my coat and gun. Paula came out and went past me. She said something, but when I didn't answer she went on out. I put on my gun harness, then my coat over it, made sure the gun was fully loaded and dropped a few extra cartridges into my pocket. Then I shoved the gun into the spring clip and went out.

  They were just putting Joe's body into the dead wagon when I got there. The crime lab boys had taken all their pictures, done all the work requiring the body's presence. But I got one last look at him. At his white face, the bullet hole in the back of his head. It was Joe Rule, all right.

  He'd been beaten before being shot. His lower lip was split. There was blood on his face. Dirt almost filled one of his eyes.

  I didn't feel any anger, not yet. It would come. But looking at him I just felt sorry. The car pulled away, carrying his body.

  Lieutenant Rawlins stood beside me. He was wearing a plain gray suit and smoking a cigarette. He gave me one, lit it, and said, “Got anything for us, Shell?”

  I hadn't had a chance yet to talk to him. I'd just arrived, spotted him and asked about Joe. Now I said, “Yeah. I sent him out to Ravenswood to check up on a man named Todhunter.” I told Rawlins about my talk with Rule earlier, and what he'd planned to do.

  “What time would he have gone out there?”

  “Late in the afternoon, probably. He had some checking to do first, he said.”

  “Uh-huh. You think maybe he was killed because of something happened out there?”

  “I'm sure of it.”

  Rawlins pursed his lips. “Maybe. Be kind of hard to prove anything by now, I imagine—assuming that you know what you're talking about.” He asked me for more of my reasons, and I gave him practically the whole story about Todhunter—the letters, Toddy, the note under the envelope's flap, my visits to Ravenswood, the works.

  Rawlins looked at me. “Shell, you're way out on this one. Way off the beam.”

  I shook my head.

  He said, “Look, man, we've known each other a long time. You've pulled some pretty nutty ones. But you say yourself this Todhunter was all the way gone. Why, you don't even know that Rule ever went out to Ravenswood.”

  “He did. Anyway, you can check.”

  “We will. Could be the reason he never phoned you is because be was dead. Might've been shot before he even started for that hospital—you private boys get hoods mad at you once in a while, you know.”

  “True, but—”

  “He could've been killed for any of a dozen reasons. And, Shell, if you'll use your head a little, the most likely angle is that somebody about to get hurt by this committee investigating lobbying pulled this job.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You guys do a lot more than check out crackpot letters, don't you?”

  “Of course. Matter of fact, Rule had come up with quite a b
it of info some of the boys around town won't like. So have I, for that matter. We've got documentary proof that Sam Britton, for example, poured twelve thousand into Sacramento this year, to influence legislation. Names, dates, amounts over and under the table.”

  “Britton's a tough mug turned respectable, Shell. You know that. There's where you ought to be looking for a motive here.”

  “There's a chance you're right. I just don't believe it.”

  Rawlins looked at me for a moment. Then he said, “Shell, there's a woman in this, isn't there?”

  “Woman? What the hell's that got to do with it?”

  He laughed. “So there is a woman. No wonder you're in a spin.”

  That was the way it went. Rawlins just didn't believe my theory. And I had to admit it was weak and full of holes. But even so I had an almost unshakable conviction that Rule had been killed for one reason only: because he'd gone into Ravenswood to see Todhunter. Besides my other reasons, it would simply have been too coincidental if Rule had been killed, just by chance, on the same day that I'd talked him into going to the hospital.

  It started hitting me then, getting to me, that I had sent Joe to Ravenswood, sent him to meet that bullet in his brain. If I hadn't called him today, had let him go on about his business, I thought, he'd be alive now.

  There'd been a little commotion several yards from us. Two uniformed officers were talking to a man in overalls and a faded gray shirt. Rawlins walked to them, then waved me over. It turned out that the civilian was the man who'd called the police.

  We were on an unlighted stretch of Valley Road, about four miles out of Los Angeles. A couple more miles, maybe three, in the opposite direction, was the turnoff for Ravenswood, the dirt road up which I'd traveled twice. And, I thought, up which Joe Rule had traveled once.

  Rule's body had been found in the woods about twenty yards off the road. He hadn't been covered up or put into a shallow grave; he'd just been dumped there. The over-alled man said that he had a little “ranch” near here—a ranch in California being anything over a half-acre of ground with a house on it. His name was Tom Hill, he said.