The Sure Thing (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  This was going to be tough; I would have to force myself.

  As I came in, the old horror kept on, just—looking. But then she glanced sharply at me, and one would almost have thought that in her gaze was some small hint of alarm, as I stalked directly toward her, saying, “My name is Shell Scott, and I was born right here in Los Angeles early in the morn, on—"

  I stopped, because she seemed to be trying, unsuccessfully, to get all her stuff out of her overstuffed chair. But then she kind of collapsed back into it, letting out a little sigh.

  So I went on, giving her the month, day, and year of my birth, which it was impossible to make poetic, adding, “About sunrise it was, if I recall, and who should know better than I? Pa said our last old rooster, who was blind in one eye, run off after a peacock only the day afore, so at the moment when I was bore there was no cock-a-doodle.... Are you all right, Miss Lane?"

  “Who?” she said.

  I was close to getting it then, but not close enough.

  “What do you mean, who?” I said. “It's doo. Cock-a-doodle-doo—"

  She screamed. She sure did.

  Then she yelled, in a hoarse voice much like an old terrified man's, “Miss Lane, Miss LANE.” And screamed some more.

  I got it then, you can bet.

  Chapter Eight

  Yes, I'd got it.

  Of course, getting it isn't much help when you don't know what to do with it.

  There was quite a bit of commotion, in the corridor outside, then here inside. First Cynara Lane, improbably gorgeous astrologer, then a couple of other gals, and a small boy with his hand in his pocket, asking where was the bathroom, and a tall thin egg with a bristly narrow mustache who kept saying, “I say—I say,” but not anything else of much interest.

  I just stood there in the middle of the room. Well, I did snort, or growl, once, and once flapped my arms, lifted them up and smacked them down hard, in frustration, against my thighs. That, too, was a mistake, of course.

  “He thinks he's a rooster!” the fat old hag yelled. “And he said something about cock-a-doodle-doing me."

  “Not if you were the last old buzzard on earth—” I began.

  “I say—I say—” the tall guy said.

  "Please, where is the bathroom?"

  It was Cynara who brought order quickly into the chaos of her office. Soon the other employees—or editors, astrologers, plumbers, whatever—of Starguide were gone, and only she, and the lady I had almost attacked with beak and wings, and I remained.

  No, I hadn't gone anywhere. Just stood there. Feeling—bugged. And, once more, greatly frustrated, lifted my arms and smacked them against my thighs.

  Then, for a brief moment on the edge of being panicked myself, I pointed a rigid index finger at the bulging old hag and said grimly, “Don't you say another bulging word, see? If you even once more suggest such a ... ugh ... that I would even think of cock-a—"

  “See?” the dumb broad said, looking up at Cynara. “Did you hear him? He's doing it again, Miss Lane. Now you believe me, don't you?"

  “Of course I believe you, Mrs. Gernbutts,” Cynara said sympathetically. “He does it all the time.” Then she ushered the old gal out saying, among other things, “And thank you very much, again, for your donation to Starguide, Mrs. Gernbutts. We all appreciate it greatly. And I'm so sorry that this—he—had to happen."

  Then she closed the door, walked past me to her desk, right past me without either word or glance, sat down and picked up a pad, gazed with apparent huge interest at the top sheet.

  “OK,” I said. “So you're mad. You're entitled. I have not been experiencing the most wonderful moments of my life, either, would you believe it? However, Miss Lane, even though grievously injured myself, I apologize. I'm sorry, I apologize—that makes twice. OK?"

  Nothing.

  “I humbly apologize.” I lifted one foot off the floor, bent my leg. “See? Observe the bended knee. This is as humble as I can get."

  Nothing.

  I walked over next to her desk, peered down at the sheet she continued to gaze upon, observing that it had three concentric circles printed on it, the largest filling most of the page, with another smaller circle within it and the smallest circle in the middle. Half a dozen black lines bisected all the rings, meeting in the page's center and cutting each of the three rings into a dozen equal-sized pieces of what looked to me like paper pie. In no apparent order, a large number of odd little symbols had been handprinted, in three different colors of ink, all over the several paper-pie segments.

  “Well, there goes the party,” I said. “Even I can see the hors d'ouevres have been ruined by microbes. Fortunately, we've got plenty to drink. Unfortunately, it's all peanut wine."

  After a moment, I said, “Miss Lane, for the last time, what was I saying to you just before Armageddon?"

  Finally she looked up at me and asked, “What in the world did you say to Mrs. Gernbutts?"

  “Not what she thinks. I wish I hadn't said anything.” I pulled my lips away from my teeth, shaking my head. “I wish I'd never heard of her."

  “She said you talked so strangely—"

  “Let it go, will you? Look, it's your damned fault, you assassin—or, Miss Lane—may I call you Cynara? Uh, well, you put that dumb culture idea into my fat head, and I got on a kind of half-rhyme kick mainly because when you walked away I was watching your gorgeous fann ... y. Forget it, strike that. I was giving Mrs. Gernbutts the time of day.... That's funny, isn't it? If ever there was a babe I wouldn't give the time of day—"

  “I'm really very busy, Mr. Scott. If you'd like to make an appointment—"

  “Are you out of your mind? Make an appointment to go through what I've—besides, I have only a few questions, Miss Lane. May I call you—?"

  She interrupted again, saying she did have much to do, and it was already after five p.m., and she'd have to take two charts home to work on as it was, and finally I interrupted her.

  “Give me one last chance. You'd give even a dog one last chance, wouldn't you? So just think of me as a dog. You sit there and be Mrs. Gernbutts.” I flipped my hands into the air. “At least try. Also, at least try to work up a little sympathy for me, while I reenact the crime. Ready? OK, we are now five minutes back in time. I have just been staring with openmouthed wonder at your retreating.... I have been watching you walk away, and a song is singing in my heart. Got it?"

  “I don't believe...."

  She let it trail off, perhaps because I was halfway to the door. Then through it and in the corridor. Closed the door, tapped gently upon it, opened it and stepped inside, smiling, smiling, walking toward her, toward menacing Mrs. Gernbutts.

  "Hi, there, you rare beauty, you,” I said. “My, isn't it hot, my name is Shell Scott. Well, here I am, having been sent in here to ask you where the stars are at by a stripteaser with all her clothes on, who is now preparing, if I'm any judge—and I'm not bad—to go into her dance right there on the runway in the hallway. Ah, but what you want to know is when I was born, right? Well, I'll tell you—"

  And so on, through the month and day and so forth of my birth, pretty much as I'd laid it on Mrs. Gernbutts, but even lousier, though some it must have seemed gently humorous to Cynara Lane, for toward the end she was laughing, at least gently.

  When she subsided, she glanced at a small pad on which she'd made a few notes as I talked, then looked at me, still smiling. “I knew Mrs. Gernbutts would react to you, even the sight of you, with something less than pure joy—"

  “Why do you say that?"

  “—but I had no idea she would....” And Cynara was off again, laughing and even snorting a little—delicately, though, very nice little snorts. Then, a big sigh, and, “All right, Mr. Scott. We both apologize—you more than me, though."

  “Sure. Call me—"

  “Is this correct?” She indicated the small notepad. “Your birth data, I mean?"

  “Yeah—would I lie?"

  “I think you should explain,
Mr. Scott, what you meant by saying this dizzy astrologer touted a client of yours into something—"

  “Oh, that. It was—nothing. Think nothing of it. I thought you were an old hen then."

  “It's what brought you here to see me, isn't it?"

  I shrugged. “Yeah, it is. Well, I might have phrased it a little differently, but it is my impression you advised my client that the time was splendid for a big risky investment, which turned out to be plenty risky but not so splendid."

  She was frowning. “That doesn't sound like something I'd.... What is this client's name, Mr. Scott?"

  “Call me Shell, will you? Now that we're friends? Client's name is Mr. Willifer."

  She was shaking her head, but then her face brightened, the velvet-brown eyes opened wide. “Gippy,” she cried. “Gippy Willifer."

  “Right."

  “I remember him—haven't seen him or even looked at his chart for, oh, it must be a year or more. But he was such a sweet little man, a good man. I think he'd been having a very difficult time, though, for several years...."

  She paused, frowning again, then went on, “Yes, I do recall now. He'd had Saturn squaring his progressed Moon for years, and I remember how pleased I was to see that the aspect would be out of orb in another few months, maybe a year or so. That's a rough aspect to live with. Are things getting better for him now, Mr. Scott?"

  “Not exactly. What's this Saturn squaring who? Not that I'd know, if you told me."

  She stood up suddenly, walked to a row of gray steel filing cabinets against the wall and opened a drawer, thumbed quickly through manila folders, selected one and brought it back to her desk. “Here's Mr. Willifer's chart,” she said briskly, “and the forecast I did for him. Let's answer your question—and see what I did tell him."

  The whole operation, walking to and from the files and finding a year-old folder—that is, if she really hadn't looked at it in a year—took no more than fifteen seconds. I had to admit this gal seemed efficient, even if she was hung up on beams from Full Moons and such wonders.

  “Scoot your chair over here, Mr. Scott,” she said, patting the corner of her desk. “We can look at this together."

  “I will if you'll call me Shell. Scott sounds too much like scoot. And Mr. Scott sounds like a husband."

  Her full lips twitched slightly, then she said, “All right. Scoot over here—Shell."

  I scooted.

  Cynara flipped through a few pages of what looked like thirty or forty sheets of white bond paper, apparently each of them typed double-spaced. “Here,” she said, “this page covers nearly all I wrote for Gippy regarding his financial prospects, which he had not specifically asked me about. You'll see I certainly didn't advise him to invest in an oil well—or in any specific thing. Ordinarily I wouldn't show you a client's forecast, but in this case...."

  The page didn't look criminal. There was a comment that Gippy was beginning a two-year period when money should be made with much greater ease for him, at its maximum for good about a year and more from the forecast's date, at which time another very good financial aspect would begin. But the rest of it was stuff like, “...progressed Sun in your eighth house trine you second-house ruler, which is really splendid...” and “...Jupiter transiting your Ascendant and then moving into your second or money house."

  The only negative comment seemed to be concerned with “...natal Neptune at the cusp of the seventh house,” indicating that Gippy should guard against possible fraud and deception, and be very careful of the character and intentions of anyone he went into partnership with.

  “Great,” I said. “So you didn't tell him to invest in an oil well. You didn't tell him to get kicked by a horse, either, but he managed to do it. The rest of this stuff is ... well, just stuff. Who could know what you told him?"

  She looked at me for some moments, scowling, but making her lips very pretty, then sighed and removed a paper clip holding the pages together, so she could pull from the back of the stack one of those forms with three circles and many buggy little symbols.

  She placed it near the corner of the desk, where we could both look at it, saying, “This is Gippy Willifer's chart, or horoscope. Do you understand what a horoscope is, Shell?"

  “Well, it's something about the moon and planets ... no, I guess I don't."

  She opened a drawer, took out another printed form, this with only one large circle on it, six equidistant lines slicing the circle into a dozen equal-sized segments. “There,” she said. “A horoscope, or any circle, contains three hundred and sixty degrees, right?"

  “You bet."

  “This is a blank horoscope wheel, divided into twelve segments that we call houses. Each of which represents a separate area, actually several areas or elements, of the individual's life—personality, money, partnerships and marriage, and so on. The same twelve houses are in everybody's horoscope, though different signs may be on the cusps of—or, influencing, coloring, molding the affairs of—those houses. But we'll skip the signs for now, or it might confuse you."

  “That's what I was going to say."

  “Clear on the twelve horoscope houses, now?"

  “Sure, there they are.” I tapped several in succession with a finger. “There's a house, a house, a house. Twelve horoscope houses, twelve rooms in my mansion, twelve little pieces of paper pie."

  Cynara gave me an odd, bleak look. “Twelve rooms in your mansion, that's good, that's very close to a perfect description of what the horoscope's houses really are. But—paper pie?” She moved her head slowly from side to side. “Shell, you're—I don't know, I just don't know about you."

  “So do a number on my horoscope, I'm all there. So they—you—tell me."

  She smiled. “Don't think I won't. You may even be sorry you suggested it."

  “Oh, come on, Cynara. Fun's fun, but you don't really expect me to believe you can figure a guy out by looking at those houses and whatsits and cockeyed doodles, do you? There I go, like a rooster again—"

  “A scientific astrologer, and that's what I am, Shell, can almost invariably learn much more about a man from studying his horoscope than from studying the man himself. Things he hides from friends, enemies, the world, perhaps even himself, are there in his horoscope, and a competent astrologer is able to see most, or at least much, of those things. It's not easy, and it's not absolute, but it can be done, is being done, all the time."

  “Well.... I'll reserve judgment, and thus withhold any immediate comment that would make you peevish and fretful, Cynara. I know you don't mind my calling you Cynara, right? Since I'm allowing you to call me—”

  “All right. You don't have to believe in me, or astrology, just now, Shell. But I should explain enough so you can understand some things I want to tell you about Mr. Willifer, about Gippy and his horoscope, and the forecast I did for him, I deeply resent your assuming I could be guilty of defrauding a client, misleading him or lying to him."

  She sounded quite serious, almost grim. I said lightly, “Dear, that was when you were Mrs. Gernbutts. Which explains everything, doesn't it?"

  “Not quite everything."

  “Yeah, only astrology tells you not merely how high is up but where down went. You know, if an astrologer could do all you say, or hint, can or even might be done, I ought to hire you to help me catch the criminals, or guys with little burglars in half their houses, and solve many unsolvable crimes. Why, I could make a fortune—"

  “I'd be glad to help you, Shell. As a business arrangement, of course, for my usual fifty dollars an hour."

  “Look, dear, I was pulling your lovely.... Fifty bucks an hour? Keerist, you make more than I do."

  “So? What's wrong with that?"

  “But, well, it's—keerist, you're a girl."

  “You'll forgive me for that, won't you, Shell?"

  “Hmm, yes, I suppose, one of these days."

  “Shall I go on with this?"

  “Sure, just keep it simple. And irresistibly fascinating, of course.
"

  “Of course,” she said. She pointed to Gippy's “chart” between us, then ran a coral-tipped finger around the inner circle of the three on the sheet. “Ignore the rest for a moment, just look at the inner circle. That's Gippy's natal chart, the horoscope of his birth. Now, in addition to the Sun and Moon, the planets in our solar system, including the one we're on and starting with the little fellow closest to the Sun, are Mercury, Venus, the Earth, then Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto."

  “Now I remember. I learned that in high-school geology—geometry. In the twelfth grade, it was."

  “A horoscope is a map of the heavens—the positions of the Sun, Moon, and planets relative to the earth—at the moment of an individual's birth. It's essentially a two-dimensional representation of the actual three-dimensional planetary pattern in space at that moment. And it's a constantly changing pattern, which is why you're unique."

  “It's sweet of you to notice—"

  “Why everybody is unique. The little—microbes I've drawn on this chart are symbols for the planets, astrological shorthand for Venus, Jupiter, and so forth."

  Cynara indicated with her long coral-pink fingernail some of the little figures, explaining that this one was Saturn, this one like a pitchfork or trident was Neptune, and that there were ten of those symbols and, in addition to them, twelve other symbols for the dozen “signs of the zodiac."

  She went on for a while, until I said, “I think this is getting beyond me. It's so bloody complicated...."

  “Not really, Shell. A little confusing at first, maybe, but what's complicated about a mere ten planets and twelve zodiacal signs? You already know what the planets are—from your high-school algebra—and you also know the twelve signs of the zodiac."

  “I do?"

  “Uh-huh. You say, he's an Aries, she's a Taurus, his wife's a Gemini.... Right?"

  “Yeah. And you're a what?"

  “I'm a girl."

  “Hey-boy—"

  “You merely refer to the fact that his Sun was transiting—moving—in, say, the zodiacal sign of Cancer when he was born, only the Sun, without consideration of any other bodies. Or, she's a lordly Leo, meaning her natal Sun is in the sign Leo. The rest of the signs in order are Virgo, Libra, Scorpio—I'll bet you've got a lot of Scorpio in you. Shell—"