The Sure Thing (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  So, at first, I wasn't sure I'd heard a thing.

  Then, again, tap-tap-tap.

  Someone was tapping, or breathing heavily, against the glass of my office door. Oddly I thought of Poe, and The Raven.

  “Well,” I called—still sourly, I'm sorry to say, but I didn't know anything about Audrey then—"if you're a tiny bird, either fly in here or go sit on an egg."

  Nothing at all after that, for what seemed the longest time.

  Finally the knob turned, the door moved inward two or three inches, with a little jerk ... a pause ... then it was suddenly wide open ... and in she came.

  Not far, a few feet, two steps, quick-quick, and then she stopped, stood stiffly, hands clasped tightly at the pit of her stomach as if she were holding something in—maybe a little sharp pendulum, I thought, still thinking of Poe—and looking at me, or almost but not quite at me. Tall, lean, elbows jutting out from her body, wearing dark shoes, dark skirt and blouse, and old gray button-up-the-front sweater, she seemed like a woman made of angles, and grayness.

  Well, I am not Mr. Sweetsie-Pooh by the longest of longshots, and nobody had better even think it, but for a moment there I wanted to get up and walk over to her and put my arms around her and hug her, saying, “Now, now. It's all right. Now, now."

  I don't know why I experienced that sudden pull, or push, or gush of sadness or sympathy or whatever it was—and, fortunately, the peculiarly ghastly feeling passed quickly. But I suppose if a man, any man, saw another guy drowning, going down for the proverbial third time, as they say, he'd automatically grab the guy by his hair and yank him out if he could. And this gaunt and tragic homely babe looked, if anyone ever looked, like a woman forever drowning, going down and down and down in despair.

  I had just one more flash of empathy, or telepathy, or imbecility, which was when I briefly wondered what had been going on in this one's mind for that longest time after I had suggested she go sit on an egg.

  “Well, hi,” I said cheerfully, or rather with forced and crippled cheerfulness, feeling a dumb, wholly irrational necessity to put this poor drowning creature at ease before she sank out of sight entirely and forever, leaving behind only bubbles. “Come on in, come in, miss—ma'am—or whatever ... ah. Everybody brings their troubles here, and I'll bet you've got plen ... ty...."

  Wrongo. But somehow I couldn't stop—she was gazing right at me now, clenched fingers or thin-bony double fist still holding that something in or together, probably not a pendulum but an inoperable hernia or detached navel judging by the look of her, moving her mouth as if trying to speak or else make her jaws pop.

  “Please sit down,” I said, standing up.

  I indicated the leather chair in front of my desk, adding, “I'll bet you wondered what I was cackling—chirping—yelling out about when I said that about.... I was thinking of a broad—of a raven ... of Edgar Allan....” Then I just stood there and, for no sane reason whatever, said, “I'm sorry."

  “Mr. Scott?” It was a very small, soft voice. Particularly from such a tall, angular woman.

  I nodded, smiling, encouraged.

  Nothing.

  I'd thought she was starting to say something, possibly something significant. But after another sticky moment I got it.

  “That's who I am, yes, ma'am,” I said with at least enough heartiness. “That's me, Shell Scott, private investigator. A good one, too, if I say so myself. And ... cheap."

  Wrongo. Did it again.

  “That's nice,” she said in the small voice. “I have ... only have—I have thirty dollars. Here with me. Could you, is that enough for you to find my husband? How much do you charge?"

  “Well, I charge ... it varies."

  I scowled at her. She bugged me.

  I charge a hundred dollars a day, minimum, plus expenses, and she had a nerve. I wouldn't look for a painted turtle lost in the pet store for a lousy thirty bucks. She could at least ask me my fees before coming in here looking like flotsam from the wreck of the Hesperus. “As for finding your husband,” I said sharply, “thirty bucks is plenty, if he's in the next room ... ah. Forget it. Little joke. He's lost, is he?"

  “He went raging out to see Mr. Trappman last night, and didn't come home at all, not all night. So he must be hurt, or in jail, or maybe dead."

  This did not necessarily follow, it seemed to me, no matter who this Mr. Trappman was, but I kept my silence while she went on. “I hope he didn't ... kill anyone. He was awfully upset when he left. It's all on account of our oil well. I wish I'd never heard of it. That's what ruined everything, you know."

  “No,” I said numbly. “I didn't know. Oil well, eh? And you hope he didn't kill anyone, eh?"

  After a pause, I continued. “Perhaps it would be helpful if you outlined for me the essential factors, or facts, in chronological order. How the problem, whatever it is, commenced, this oil well that ruined everything and all, right up to your husband's departure last night. And we might begin with your name."

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled a little for the first time. “I forgot that, too."

  The “too” bothered me a little, but I listened attentively as she told me her name was Audrey Willifer, and her missing husband's name was Gippy, and she was awfully worried about him because he'd never stayed out all night before, not ever, and something terrible might have happened or he'd have been back by now, something terrible must have happened, and maybe he was even dead, that was probably it, he was dead, and other things she never got out of Norman Vincent Peale or even Dale Carnegie, and finally she said, “If he wasn't dead, like I know he must be, he'd have come home last night, because it was our anniversary, our wedding anniversary, our very first. We were married exactly a year ago yesterday."

  Then, silence.

  Audrey looked absolutely wretched, which probably was not an unusual circumstance, but also forlorn, hurt, sort of crumpled together by a variety of anguishes. At least she wasn't wailing and bawling and screeching, which was some comfort to me, since I am absolutely at a loss with wailing babes of any sort.

  “That does sound ... uh, worth investigating,” I said. “You were married just a year ago, then?"

  “Yes. And what's so awful is, the very same day he asked me to marry him is when he invested all his money in that awful oil well."

  “All his money? Lots?"

  “Practically all he had—more than he ever had before in his whole life. I was going to be an Oil Queen, he told me.” She gave me a bleak look. “Oil Queen."

  “Umh-huh. And there wasn't any oil, huh?"

  “Oh, no, the well came in just a month or so later, but then there were all these delays, like Mr. Trappman couldn't put that pipe in and all, but finally, we—my husband and I—got our first check. Just last week. That's when my husband started getting so upset, and vowing vengeance and things like that."

  I looked at some dead cigarette butts in my ashtray.

  Then I lit another cigarette, took a drag, and started asking questions, listening, asking another question from time to time. It took about half an hour longer, but by then I'd put the whole thing together. I thought.

  They'd met, she and Gippy, on Sixth Street near Hope, or really it was almost on Hope, she said, or just the same, almost, they liked to say it was on Hope. They'd bumped into each other, then had a drink in a cocktail lounge just a half-block away on Sixth Street, and only three days later he'd asked her to marry him, and she said yes right away. She didn't think he was serious, but she said yes even before he told her about his investment in an oil well that was, so Gippy solemnly promised her, “a sure thing,” and they'd have a lot of money, big checks every month. At least, they would after the well came in.

  Gippy and two other investors had formed a small syndicate that invested “an awful lot of money”—and she hadn't been more precise yet—in one of the wells being drilled by an Arnold Trappman, who was “a big oil and gas man.” There was, naturally, some suspense while the well was being drilled, and much rejoicing
when it came in—though nobody was sure at first how much production could be expected.

  Then, there were the interminable delays. Audrey wasn't sure about it, but the main thing seemed to be Mr. Trappman's inability to get legal permission—“a right-of-way”—so he could lay pipe from the well to a large oil company's own pipeline, or point of purchase. So the well had to be closed off for a while, until the “right-of-way” problem could be worked out.

  That, and the other problems, were finally overcome, but it all took nearly a year, and finally checks were mailed to the investors for their portion of income from production—"Percent of the Working Interest, I think they call it,” Audrey said. That first check was the one Audrey told me had arrived last week.

  I was curious about that, among many other things, but she had at several points in her somewhat disconnected recital mentioned her husband's belief that the well had to come in, that it would be a big one, his certainty that it “couldn't miss."

  So at length I said, “Mrs. Willifer, I'm sure you're aware that money invested in drilling programs is usually risky capital, often money that otherwise would be lost through taxation. In other words, it's a very high-risk speculation. But a couple of times you've indicated that your husband looked upon this as a sure thing, something that almost couldn't miss. I'm afraid I don't understand why he'd have been so confident."

  “Well, you see, Mr. Scott, there's this friend of my husband—they went to school together—and he's sort of a genius, I guess. And he has this ... oh, this instrument that tells you if there's oil or gas, or not."

  “Oh? He does, huh?"

  I kept my features composed, but mentally I was waggling them wildly, and flinging my arms about. I was pretty sure she was talking about a “doodlebug,” and if so I smelled “con-game,” since the two almost invariably went together like ham and eggs. Only make the eggs rotten, or at least the kind that never hatch.

  Some years earlier I'd been involved in a case that brought me into contact with an old wildcatter named Ed Klein, who regaled me with many fascinating stories about the early days, and latter days, of the oil business. Not a few of those tales concerned various other geniuses and their instruments for finding oil—or “doodlebugs,” as they came to be called in the business. There had been, over the years, thousands of them, I guess, not one of which ever worked. Not, at least, for the people who hoped to find oil with them, or make lots of money. Many of those who operated the doodlebugs, however, made lots of money; and some of them were assuredly geniuses of a sort, but not at finding oil.

  “This friend of your husband,” I went on, “I suppose his instrument has dials or lights or intricate things on it, and when there's oil about some needles wiggle, or lights go on, or it buzzes? Right? Maybe it even tells you how far down the oil is in the ground. Right?"

  She nodded, appearing excited. “That's exactly right, Mr. Scott. You've seen it? You've seen Mr. Morraigne's instrument yourself?"

  “No,” I said sadly. “Afraid not. Morraigne, is that the friend's name?"

  “Yes, Devin Morraigne.” She paused. “If you haven't seen it, how did you know all about it? I haven't even seen it myself."

  This was getting painful for me. “Well, let's skip that for the moment. Anyhow, it was because of Mr. Morraigne, and his instrument, that your husband was sure this well was ... a good investment?"

  “Well, it wasn't just that. Not all by itself."

  “There's more?"

  “Gippy, Mr. Willifer, went to see Miss Cynara Lane before he invested a penny of all that money. And he told me she said it was a wonderful time for an investment."

  “Cynara Lane? That has to be a woman. Is she somebody in the oil business?"

  “She's an astrologer."

  “A wha — ?"

  “A famous astrologer. She's just wonderful, Mr. Scott."

  “I'll bet she's a darling,” I said.

  And, try as I might, this time I could not keep my features composed, so I bent down beneath my desk and opened a drawer and squeezed my teeth together and pulled my lips way out, and shook my head rapidly before coming up into view again.

  “Well, Mrs. Willifer,” I said, “I think we have a few clues to work with already."

  It bugged me that, every time I even half-hinted I might be able to help her in some way only private investigators could expect to know about, her homely face brightened, actually got less homely, and her eyes seemed to sparkle, almost.

  “Then you think everything will be all ri—?"

  I interrupted. “I just had a funny thought here,” I said. “Maybe it's nothing. But would this wonderful astrologer happen to know the chap with the doodle ... this Mr. Morraigne?"

  “Why, yes. Mr. Scott, I don't understand how you—"

  “They know each other, huh?"

  “Why, they're wonderful friends. Have been for years. Almost as good friends as my Gippy and Mr. Morraigne."

  It was right there, I guess, that I decided to take the case and give it my best shot, even if for only thirty bucks. Not that I'm inclined to go charging about, at least not on a white charger, righting the wrongs of the world, but this caper struck me as so obvious, and perhaps even brutal, that I was willing to give it an hour or two, perhaps even a whole afternoon.

  Still, the thought of being paid thirty dollars by a client who'd just received a check for production from an oil well struck me as a bit of an incongruity. So I said, “Mrs. Willifer, you mentioned receiving your first royalty check from this well. Might I ask how much it was?"

  “Eighty-two dollars,” she said.

  “Eighty-two ... huh. Doesn't seem a hell of a lot, does it? How much did Mr. Willifer invest in this thing to begin with? A couple of—"

  “Thirty thousand dollars."

  I blinked, several times, then said slowly, “Where in the world did he get thirty thou?"

  It wasn't quite the thing to say, I suppose, but during our conversation Audrey had more than once indicated that her husband hadn't ever made much money, they were practically broke when the oil-royalty check came, and so on. Thus the amount she'd mentioned shook me somewhat.

  “He won some, and he got some insurance money and—but that's not important now, is it? It's ... gone. And I don't care about that, anyway,” she said quietly. “All I care about is Gippy."

  “Sure. Well, if you'll give me a little list, say, of places he could possibly be, people he knows, maybe even bars where he might go for a drink, I've a hunch I can run him down without a great deal of trouble."

  “Oh, that's wonderful, that's wonderful—"

  I managed to shut her up without physically abusing her, and for a minute or so she mentioned people and places, addresses I jotted down. Then she said suddenly, “Oh! I forgot the most important part. About when he went raging off to see Mr. Trappman."

  For no reason I could think of, I got a little chill right then, up and down my spine. And my spine got no warmer as she continued.

  “You see, when there were all these delays, Gippy told me it shouldn't be like this, because he knew there was a lot of oil down there, and it was very fishy in Denmark—that's one of the things he says all the time—"

  “I'll bet he does."

  “—then when we got the check for only eighty-two dollars he yelled about how Mr. Trappman had to be a big crook and all. And—I forgot this, too—just yesterday, a couple of hours before Gippy left, we got this letter from Mr. Trappman offering to buy us out, out of the well, for only five thousand dollars. Gippy yelled, just kept yelling, that Mr. Trappman was trying to rob us."

  She stopped.

  I did a little quick mental arithmetic, and managed to get myself screwed up. Five thousand bucks amounted to one-sixth of the Willifers’ original investment; that was easy. But if eighty-two singles represented a month's income from the well, five G's would approximately equal their income for a good five years—more, actually, since oil and gas wells decline in production as the years go by—which
didn't strike me as quite like robbery. Something had to be missing here. Besides Mr. Willifer.

  However, I didn't mention this to Audrey, just waited until she spoke again. “But what I wanted to mention is, Gippy was so upset, you know, and he's always had this big awful gun around the house."

  “Gun?"

  “And when he rushed out, so ... upset, you know, he took the gun with him."

  After a moment, I said, “He took the gun. And he was all fired up at the time about seeing this Mr. Trappman?"

  “Yes, and I'm afraid maybe he—he ki-ki—oh, maybe he killed—oh—"

  “Stop it! Hold it, hey just watch it there, lady!"

  She looked like she was going to start bawling, and maybe screeching, and that would make this a day of splendor for sure, so as she sort of silently mumbled or munched on her thin lips and twitched delicately, I yelled at her, “No problem, no problem, I'll fix it!"

  Just in time.

  Her bony chest rose and fell a bit longer, and she said, “You will? But what if—?"

  I shoved my teeth together and stretched my lips out, right in front of her, then said, “This Gippy, Mr. Willifer, your departed hus—strike that, your temporarily dislocated husband—hasn't shot anybody in the first place. I'll give you eight to five he's not the type, wouldn't shoot a bug, much less a.... Anyway, it's the simplest thing in the world to find out if this Trappman's OK. I'll just give him a call and ask if he's been shot lately. See how easy?"

  “Oh, would you? I wanted to—but I was afraid."

  “Our fears make cowards of—skip it. What say I call him now? You'll be all right, won't you? For the next minute or so?"

  “Oh, I'm fine. Please call him."

  I did. Nothing to it.

  Looked up the number for Trappman, Arnold, in the phone book, dialed, got a sweet-voiced secretary, and asked if I could speak to Mr. Trappman.

  “He isn't in the office yet, sir. But he phoned about half an hour ago, and I expect him at any time now."

  “Well, if he phoned you, I guess he must be all right."

  “I'm sure he is, sir. Who is this calling?"