The Sweet Ride (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  He turned and walked to the far corner of the room, where a phone sat on the small desk, picked up the receiver, and dialed. He drummed briefly on the table top with the fingers of his free hand, then said, pausing after each query, “Who is this? Officer West, is it? Has Samuels returned to the police station? Of course. Sergeant. Sergeant Samuels ... yes.” I saw the brows come down and in, then Fowler said slowly and distinctly, “This is the mayor.” After a short pause, “Yes. Please have the sergeant come to the phone.”

  Half a minute went by. Then, “Sergeant? Yes, Sergeant Samuels, this is Mayor Fowler. When you and Officer Jonah were here earlier, you did not mention that you had been following a man who was briefly at my home this morning. He has just informed me personally of your surveillance, and I am concerned.... Yes.”

  He drummed on the table top, listening, then said crisply, “The gentleman of whom I speak is Mr. Sheldon Scott, a pri—”—apparently he decided not to mention that I was a private detective—”a friend of mine. He is, indeed, in Newton at my request. He will be here for a few more days, and his movements are not to be interfered with in any way.”

  Some more listening, punctuated only by the mayor’s “Yes,” “No,” and “That’s right” a couple of times. Then he said, “Excellent, excellent. I shall assure Mr. Scott that he can expect complete cooperation, not only from you and Officer Jonah, but from the entire police department. He is to be considered as my personal guest.” Fowler nodded a few times, then said, “See that you do, Sergeant. And thank you.”

  He hung up, walked back, and sat down on the divan. “I think, since you heard my conversation with the sergeant, I need not assure you that you will experience no further difficulties with the police.”

  I nodded. “And thanks. I guess it helps to have the mayor on your side.”

  He smiled, but without putting a lot of effort into it. “It does.”

  I stood up. “Well—”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Scott.”

  I shook my head, feeling that events were repeating themselves, but resumed my seat as Fowler continued. “My first concern was to make sure that you would be able to move about in Newton freely from now on. But I do have some questions.”

  “O.K. Fire away.”

  “You commented briefly on the fact that you visited Mr. Dibler. My prized informant. I realize I had assured you his allegations were completely without value, but perhaps you came to a different conclusion? Since you are a trained investigator?”

  “Not at all. You had him pegged perfectly. I really dropped in on the guy, primarily, in the hope of earning maybe ten percent of the three hundred you paid me. I’ll admit I thought I might pick up something you could have missed, but I didn’t. I merely got corroboration of what you’d already told me. Plus a slight attack of nausea.”

  After he’d asked me to expand on a couple of other comments I’d made in my brief rundown earlier, I said to him, “We both know this Yoogy Dibler is a washout, and he’s tried to sell baloney to the police before. But that doesn’t change the probability that his basic information was correct, even if he was trying to sell you a bill of goods. I mean, the info that Grimson committed the murder.”

  “I am, myself, convinced that Hugh Grimson, personally and with purposeful deliberation, murdered Mr. Ramirez. My associates agree. Indeed, that is why I placed so much hope in the informant’s allegations—before I realized who the informant was. I overreacted, undoubtedly, because that kind of genuine evidence, eyewitness testimony, would have been of such great value.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I’ve been thinking. And I was wondering about an idea that kind of brushed my mind a couple of times. Are you sure the man who phoned you was Yoogy Dibler?”

  Fowler looked at me, blinking. He seemed puzzled. “Am I sure ... I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Well, you told me about the call from your informant—which charged you up enough that you phoned me in L.A. You also told me you assumed your caller must have been disguising his voice, and you later decided—assumed—he was, instead, merely drunk when he first spoke to you. Further, he wouldn’t give you his name then. It’s also my impression you have no idea where he was when he called you, whether he was alone or not, whether there was any possibility of his having been overheard.”

  “That is quite correct. But I fail to—”

  “What I’m trying to get at is this, Mr. Mayor. Judging from the information I’ve got, I’d guess you’ve no way of being completely certain the man who phoned you, and the man who later showed up here were the same guy. Sure, Yoogy’s the boy who called on you early this a.m. loaded with booze; but maybe he’s not the man who phoned you last night.”

  It took Fowler a while to respond this time. Finally he said, nodding, “I understand. That had not, I confess, occurred to me. I must admit the possibility. However, considering both of my conversations with the man, I must also say that, even now, I believe both were with Mr. Dibler.”

  He was silent briefly, then looked at me with what almost appeared to be approval. “Even so, I commend you for deducing the possibility, which we must now at least consider. I am impressed, Mr. Scott.”

  “It’s just an idea. Having spent a few minutes inhaling the atmosphere surrounding Yoogy, I can’t quite see him trying to con Newton’s mayor with a story so full of holes. I can understand your reaction to the call, and to the disappointment of realizing the call was from Yoogy. But I can’t quite buy it from Yoogy’s point of view.”

  “It becomes complex. Well”—Mayor Fowler glanced at his watch—”I shall be in my office by ... 2:30 p.m. I would appreciate your keeping me informed of any progress.” He got to his feet.

  “Of course.”

  I stood up. I was beginning to get the idea. While the mayor was seated, you were entitled to his full attention. But when he stood up the interview was over, and the sooner the better.

  He shook my hand and, for the second time today, escorted me to the front door. As I walked down toward my rented Cad, I glanced one last time at the swimming pool. Its surface was rippled, as if a warm body might have been cavorting in it no longer than a minute or two ago, but there was no body in sight. Either Melinda had gone into the house, or she had stopped bubbling.

  I started the Cad, swung in a circle, and rolled down the private drive toward Mulberry. Half a dozen thoughts rolled slowly in my mind, bumping occasionally, but not giving off any sparks.

  I couldn’t get rid of the idea that, despite the apparent innocuousness of most things that had occurred to me today, at least one of those things was far removed from innocuous. I was more than halfway convinced I was missing something. Something important. But I didn’t have the faintest idea what it might be.

  Thus preoccupied with my thoughts, and with a sense of only mild unease, I swung left into Mulberry Drive and headed back toward town....

  9

  I rose, creaking slightly, to my feet and glanced over my shoulder at the nearly unrecognizable mass of crumpled metal that only minutes ago had been my rented Cadillac.

  Then I started walking toward Mulberry Drive.

  I was unhappy. Not merely because I’d been clobbered, the Cad was a wreck, there were unpleasant aches at numerous places in my anatomy, but also because I’d just thought back over all that had happened to me in this case without finding the thing I’d been looking for—whatever it was.

  I stopped trying to pluck it from memory. Maybe it would come to me in due time, but until it did there were plenty of things to do. Another visit with Yoogy Dibler, for one. A little talk with Officer Jonah and Sergeant Samuels for a couple more. And a chat with Hugh Grimson, as soon as I located the presumably slippery Mr. G. And, for what now struck me as a doubly logical reason, a trip to Silvano’s Garage.

  Lugging my suitcase, I scrambled up the last ten yards of earth rising to Mulberry and reached the edge of the road. A car was approaching on my left, going in toward Newton. I waved and the car slowed. Bu
t it slowed only briefly, then veered past the center line and clear over into the wrong lane—bringing briefly to mind the vivid and unpleasant memory of that erratically weaving diesel rig—and sped past, picking up speed.

  Hanging onto the wheel with both hands and staring at me from wide eyes was a middle-aged, gray-haired, and undoubtedly apprehensive lady, her mouth forming an “O.”

  I couldn’t really blame her. I hadn’t gotten a look at my face yet, but I knew my suit coat was torn and there was a streak of blood on my white shirt. I’d felt a couple of lumps on my skull and forehead, and a crust of blood had dried on one side of my face.

  Since it has been suggested that, even at my most magnificent, I am not an unqualified blessing to behold, there was no way I could now be considered a reassuring sight, I supposed. So I decided that unless a brave man came along I might have to leg it into town, and started walking. But not for long.

  The next car stopped, though it was touch and go for a while. This one was in the far lane, coming from Newton, and as it neared me I waved my arms and yelled, “Hey!”

  As before, the car slowed, then picked up speed. But this time the driver hit her brakes—it was another woman—and the buggy, an off-white two-door Mercury, skidded past me and came to a stop twenty feet away.

  An unforgettable face topped by a swirl of beige-blonde hair popped out of the window, and the girl cried, “Mr. Scott? My God! Is that you?”

  It was Canada Southern.

  I didn’t even stop to question my good fortune, just assumed my bad luck must be behind me and started hobbling across the street.

  “Yeah! It’s me. Hi, Miss Southern—Canada. Don’t get ... scared, and go away.”

  “What happened to you?”

  I thumped up against the car’s side, just behind the driver’s door, my left knee tricking me a little when I tried to stop hobbling too suddenly. I grunted a couple of times, then pulled my tongue back into my mouth and said, “It’s O.K. I always look like this. Can you give me a lift?”

  “Of course. Get in. I’ll drive you straight to the hospital.”

  I started to reply, but by then I was moving behind the car and around to its right. As I opened the door and slid inside I said, “Just drive me downtown, will you? To where I can get a cab—”

  “I’ll take you to the hospital!”

  “Canada, if I was hurt bad enough to require hospitalization, I’d probably be dead, right? Haven’t you ever wondered why so many people die in hospitals? Why, it’s because those places are dangerous—”

  “But, Mr. Scott, you look ... ugh.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  She had already started the car and was making a speedy U-turn, so with her permission I swiveled the rearview mirror around until I could get a look at myself. Canada had come close to using the word of choice. I did look quite ugly, but it was mainly because of the dried blood. There was somewhat more of it than I had expected to see.

  It hadn’t come from the lump I’d found on my forehead, but from the other one, higher and partly hidden in the hair on the left side of my skull. Probably because of the way I’d been hanging for a while in the car, from the spot where my scalp had been split blood had trickled across the top of my head, continuing on down the right side of my forehead and ending near, or maybe slightly inside of, my ear. Where the blood had thus oozed it had turned an inch-wide strip of my white hair an unattractive strawberry blond, and that wide reddish mark arching across the top of my head did make it appear that I might have been standing straight up under a guillotine when somebody goofed.

  “It’s not really as bad as it looks,” I said. “My skull isn’t really laid wide open. Mostly it’s just blood—”

  “Ugh,” she said softly.

  “Sorry. I forget you girls are ... by the way, since you’re saving my life, couldn’t you call me Shell?”

  “Anything you want, Mr.—Shell.”

  “All right. Then if you’ll pull over there, Canada?” I pointed to a Standard station on our right.

  She glanced quickly at me. “The gas station?”

  “Yes. Not the pumps, ah, near the men’s room? I thought I’d freshen up a bit.”

  She pulled to a stop and cut the ignition, looking straight ahead. I went into the men’s room. After ten minutes I’d done all it was possible for me to do in there, and I gave myself a last check in the mirror before stepping outside. Getting the blood off my face had helped a lot, and even though there was still a yellowish tint to that inch-wide strip of hair it did not now appear that my face might fall off.

  Probably in part because of that, and in part because just sitting without me decomposing near her must have helped. Canada appeared to have regained much of the sparkle and sizzle I’d first noted about her.

  When I slid onto the seat next to her again she eyed me coolly from the tawny tigerish eyes, then smiled slightly and said, “Why, it is you.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Canada, there’s a phone here, so this is where I’ll get off. But a thousand thanks for the lift.” She smiled again and I said, “I’m lucky you came along when you did. Where were you going?”

  “Home. I live in an apartment at the Gladwyn. It’s about a mile past the airport on Wisteria Drive.”

  “Good, good.”

  “I thought I’d nap for an hour or two. You know, before the opening tonight.”

  “Good, the—ah! Yes, now I remember. It all comes back—well, I’ll see you there then, right?”

  “You aren’t going to the Club Rogue opening, are you?”

  “Why not? I know it’s an exclusive joint, but I’m to be the guest of a member. A Rogue Fellow, in fact. They’re the charter members, or big spenders, or something.”

  “No. I mean the way you must feel.”

  “Oh, that. The little aches and pains and things?”

  I was struck then by Canada’s expression, which was deliciously tender, concerned, almost maternal. The maternal emotion is not one a man would set out deliberately to induce in a stupendously vital tomato, particularly one so marvelously constructed as to appear engaged in sexual isometrics even when yawning. Still, the maternal emotion is closely allied to other emotions without which there would be no maternal emotions; and Canada was bending upon me the kind of sweet-soft gaze one might bend upon a babe getting gored by its diaper pin; and, like most other men, I have a bit of the Old Adam in me, and even a bit of the New Adam; so, with barely a pause, I sped on:

  “Yes, that—those. All the aches and pains and anguish, and like that?” I shrugged, and winced, peeling my lips back.

  “You’re overdoing it,” she said.

  “I was afraid I might be. But don’t stop me now I’m going good. I may not—we both know, don’t we?—have long to live, as any fool can plainly see. But isn’t that all the more reason for savoring to the full these last fleeting moments?”

  “You’re really—”

  “Canada, if you’ll promise to personally serve me a drink tonight, I’ll hire male nurses to carry me in on a stretcher. Hell, I’ll hire pallbearers.”

  “I’ll do anything you want—within reason—if you’re really going to be there.”

  “I have been trying to tell you I’ll be there, and why I’ll be there. If I didn’t give you a hint, how would you know I like you?”

  She threw back her head and laughed softly, then looked at me, those flame-thrower lips curving deliciously, and said, “I’d know. You can’t keep any secrets from me.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Shell,” she said, more seriously. “You do look less—dismembered now. But it really frightened me when I first saw you. What did happen?”

  I didn’t go into detail, merely said, “Had an accident, driving into town. Clipped by a hit-and-runner and went off the road.”

  “Yes ... I saw the wrecked car out there. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  I opened the car door and said, “Thanks again, Canada.” />
  She looked at me silently for a few seconds, then leaned closer. Not much, no more than an inch. But, as in so many other situations, that inch made a foot of difference.

  “Shell,” she said, “we don’t really know each other at all. But I’d feel awful if you did get killed. I really would.”

  “Never fear,” I said. “Shell Scott lives. I haven’t mentioned this to many people, but I won’t die until I’m a hundred and fifty years old. It’s all arranged.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I got it from an old woman who reads coffee grounds. That’s why I haven’t mentioned it much.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful,” Canada said with mock seriousness. “How do you finally die?”

  “I fall off a trampoline. However, the point I am clarifying, Canada, is that despite a little twinge here and there”—I pulled my lips back from my teeth again and groaned—”nothing can prevent me from renewing our acquaintance at the Club Rogue tonight. But, in case something should, all I ask is that you remember me as I was.”

  “Keep it up. Maybe I won’t feel so awful after all.”

  I smiled at her and got out of the car.

  I was in the phone booth, looking up the number I wanted, when Canada pulled back onto Mulberry and headed out of town again. Watching her go, it occurred to me that some of my most enjoyable moments in this case had been while sitting in a gas station.

  But that was because I’d been talking to Canada Southern. Which was a lot different from getting my tank filled with ethyl. Or ... maybe it wasn’t.

  I found a dime, dropped it into the slot, and dialed.

  10

  Dave Bannister swung his big Lincoln Continental limousine into the brand-new black drive curving in a wide arc before the Sherwood Hotel. As he slipped the stick-shift into “Park” and glanced past me toward the gaudily garbed attendant trotting forward, he asked, “How’s the head now, Shell?”

  “If I am not mistaken. Ban, it is still in one place. But”—I grunted as I leaned forward to get out of the car—”I could be mistaken.”