The Sure Thing (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Silence during which I felt a queer deep prickling all over my body, as if chill goosebumps were growing on the inside of my skin.

  Then I turned toward Sheikh Faisuli and spoke slowly, staring at him. “Do you know what you're telling me?” I said. “My God, you're telling me Dev Morraigne's got a doodlebug that works."

  “Precisely so,” he said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was nearly four o'clock when I stood up, began walking carefully back and forth over my living-room carpet, trying to ease some of the ache and stiffness from my left ankle.

  The Sheikh had been telling me that, because I was now in possession of the full story, the “incredible facts,” I should not have difficulty comprehending the sense of urgency that seized him, his almost feverish desire to conclude a “binding agreement” with Devin Morraigne.

  However, he continued, there was the matter of, “...my traveling hareem. To them, these succulents, I possess an obligation most binding. Aside from this sultan-like necessity, it must not become known that the—this segment of my—hareem has been strayed or abducted, whatever it has done. The repercussions from this knowledge becoming wide could produce—I cannot explain fully—agonies unmentionable both to me here, and in my country there.” He made one hand into a hard brown fist. “Secrecy is of the utmost! If you intend to act, you must act with blinding speed, not to mention absolute guardedness."

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “You've really got me convinced it's entirely impossible for me to do what you want done, if we include the fine print, Sheikh. However, I'll hack at it—very soon. But one other thing, I assume Devin Morraigne has been anticipating your arrival—I know he was expecting a call from someone important, and I assume you're that someone."

  “He, Morraigne, knows I am here, or about to be presently. One week ago I phoned on the long-distance operator from Azdrak to his home, and told him then that I would today arrive at the Los Angeles International. Also, once ensconced, with my six sensuousnesses, in the topmost floors of the Casacasbah. I would make communication with him for discussions of the most serious nature."

  “I assume you haven't been in touch with Morraigne since your arrival this morning—assume with some logic, since he just got back from a trip. In fact—"

  I was going to mention being with Morraigne, and those several shots at us, having no doubt the Sheikh would be much interested in these items, but he interrupted me, his bronzed face darkening in a scowl for some reason.

  “Yes, back from the land of Texas!” he almost shouted.

  Then he calmed himself, lowered his voice, and continued quite normally. “In this conversation one week ago, he, Morraigne, mentioned his soon departure, even mentioning—deliberately, I now conclude, to play with my fears—this Texas. But he assured me he would make strenuous efforts to return by this day, since it would be unfortunate—not to mention unwise, which he didn't mention—to keep this Sheikh of Kardizazan waiting around like anyone else."

  I sat on the divan near him again, saying, “Let's pin it down a little more. Did you tell him you'd brought in all those marvelous wells at the locations he'd selected, and, therefore, were prepared to make him a billionaire in return for his services and the doodlebug that works?"

  “Not ... precisely."

  “What then, imprecisely?"

  “He does not know the wells have been completed with vast satisfaction. No one knows of this—or if they do, heads will...."

  “Roll?"

  “You comprehend, surely. We have made sincerely great efforts to keep these things concealed. No explanation of this why should be required for anybody, including you. It is possible, Mr. Scott, to drill wells and keep secret all matters of depth and production and even that anything has been done whatever, but only if one controls all who were involved in the entire matter. We have done this sufficiently, it is our belief, yet when there are so many with some knowledge it is not possible to be certain. Therefore, with this thing of such unprecedented importance, to me—and to my country, Kardizazan, of which me, I am the ruler—I have fears. Fears that others may know now what and how we have done in our drilling, and how we knew how to do how we have done."

  “What? Let me pry a word in here, Sheikh. In sum, so far as you're aware, Morraigne doesn't know what's happened with those wells he located or analyzed for you, or about anything else that's happened in Kardizazan since he left your palace and came home—except that you're here probably by now and want to see him."

  “Precisely so. One of my fears is that others may awaken to the light I have seen, become aware that the instrument of this Morraigne is of incalculated value—and power, to him who holds it—and capture this Morraigne before I can demonstrate to him the wisdom of remaining uncaptured, except by me."

  “Or, you want to sign him up before somebody else gets his John Henry on the dotted line."

  “John—?"

  “Let's not get into it. You fear others may achieve a ‘binding agreement’ with him before you do, right?"

  “Yes. Indeed, Mr. Scott, since the long-distance I have caused inquiries to be made. It is alleged openly that Morraigne has been in the land of Texas—as he himself told me—there making maps of areas to drill in for rich Texas oil men, of whom I am apprised there are many. But not so. This is alleged only for covering up. It is a falseness."

  “Does that mean Dev wasn't locating drill sites?"

  “You better not believe it. This was a subterfuge designed as a ruse, to conceal the piercing news that he was discussing his instrument, his services—everything—with these Texas-land oil men of huge richness."

  “Ah...."

  “Yes. Worse than Ah. It is now not as it was when he enjoyed the languors and splendors of my palace, and all that. Now he may escape. I must proceed with outstanding wiliness and in unmistakableness altogether, I must whelm him over by dangling before this Morraigne such marvelousness and richnesses and desirings that he will be whelmed over uncontrollably, and tell the oil men of rich Texas to go jump.” He paused. “This go jump it is another one that pleased my ear from the tongue of Morraigne."

  “Uh-huh. I get a clearer picture now, Sheikh. And I'll bet, if there's anybody who can whelm him over, you're the guy who can dangle it."

  “I do not comprehend your language."

  “OK. Well, I guess this is a pretty interesting time for Dev Morraigne, since he knows you must be here by now, or damned close, and that call he mentioned expecting might be from the Texas interests, besides which there's another guy I know who conceivably—"

  “Another? More than Texas?” The Sheikh was showing very evident concern. “I feared this, of course. What else has more naturalness than that evil men from all over would attempt to counterploy me in my pursuit of this Morraigne? But how could this even commence unless they know what, or even part of what, I know—"

  “Relax, Sheikh. I don't know anything about the Texas oil men, but the other guy I referred to hasn't got a chance in this league. He doesn't even have his first billion. But, after all, if there's Texas interest, there could also be Oklahoma interest, Louisiana, Calif—"

  “Stop! I have enough to worry about from Texas, without adding Oklahoma and Louisiana. Not to mention—"

  “Sorry. It was mere conjecture. But even more important to me than ten thousand barrels of gold a day is the certainty that somebody's trying to kill me. And Morraigne."

  "Morraigne? Someone is trying to kill—Morraigne?"

  I looked up at Sheikh Faisuli—up, because he had shot erect, as though flipped by giant springs, was now standing—and if I had thought he was evidencing some concern a moment before, that had been as nothing compared to the apparent seizures of sudden agonies he was experiencing now.

  “Don't get so excited,” I said. “I'm not really certain...."

  I stopped, did a little private wondering before going on.

  Almost surely, it seemed to me, whoever had thrown those rifle slugs at Dev and/or me ea
rlier, was also the son of a bitch who'd plinked me twice and screeched away in his speeding car—which car, unfortunately, I had not even glimpsed.

  But that s.o.b., having seen me go down, probably thought he'd wiped me out, put me down for good. At least, it wasn't likely he could know I was alive and reasonably ambulatory. So....

  I got up, stood briefly next to the Sheikh, then walked toward the door.

  “What is this?” Faisuli said. “You are departing?"

  “A little more than an hour ago, somebody took four shots at me, or Dev Morraigne, or maybe both of us. But at least one or two of those slugs were meant for me, because that somebody wasted no time in trying again to kill me. As you know, Sheikh, you observed. He probably thinks I'm done for, which means there is a very good chance he's getting ready to kill Dev Morraigne, right about now...."

  I opened the door, started out, but said over my shoulder as I left, “If, that is, he hasn't already done it."

  I don't really know why I went into the bedroom.

  Well, I do know, of course. I was looking for Dev, alive or dead, and all the other rooms in his house were empty. So, considered as a logical exercise, going into the bedroom was the only thing left to do.

  Once there, I didn't say “Hello” or anything, figuring Dev must have heard me clumping inside and banging the door and all. Besides, I didn't have to say anything to attract his attention, since his head was already turning, slowly, cranking around almost a full hundred and eighty degrees, and about then his eyes fell on me.

  “I don't believe it,” he said in a strange, high, almost squeaky voice that wasn't like his real voice at all. “I've wondered if, some day, this would happen to me. But I really never thought it would. I really never thought it would. I—"

  “Hi,” she said brightly.

  “Hi. Nice Petrushka."

  Then there was on of those embarrassing silences you hear about. Which are much stickier to experience than to hear about.

  After a spell I said to Petrushka—I was leery of saying anything right then to Dev, because of the strange way he was gazing at me, besides, I was afraid he was going to injure his neck—"Well, how's it going? I mean, how are things ... what's up—what's new, what do you say, how have you bee—?"

  “Fine,” she said. “Just fine.” Then, after a brief pause, “What do you want?"

  “Oh...."

  That was all I said. Probably it was enough, under the circumstances. Sometimes there's no easy answer to a simple question.

  Then there was another of those embarrassing silences.

  “Well, I guess I'll run along,” I said.

  Dev Morraigne spoke then, with his voice lower, about an octave and a half lower. “Yeah."

  “Dev, I think—as long as I'm here already—I should tell you why I'm here, right? I mean, why I'm here, in the house. You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"

  “I can wait."

  “Well—"

  I decided not to pursue the matter.

  “See you,” I said, and went out into the living room. Why they call that one the living room is a mystery to me. But there I waited, not so very long as it turned out, until Dev Morraigne joined me. Petrushka wasn't with him, and I didn't ask what he'd done with her.

  “OK,” he said. “I'll bet this is going to be good."

  I guess it was good enough. After I explained what had happened—to me, for abiding by Sheikh Faisuli's instructions I did not even mention Sheikh Faisuli—and showed him the bandages on my arm and ankle, Dev leaned back in his chair and whistled. I could tell; I was forgiven.

  So my next problem would be to convince Dev he should move, get out of this house, and, as I already knew, his was a tough mind to change when it was even halfway made up. More, if he was as determined to stay as he was to avoid calling the law, I had to convince him I was right and he was wrong without using any of the info I'd gotten from Faisuli.

  During part of our conversation at the Spartan, Faisuli had made it clear I was not to mention his presence in Los Angeles, certainly not the reason for his presence, to anybody, and that included even Devin Morraigne. The Sheikh felt that, although probably no harm would ensue if I told Morraigne Faisuli was here and I'd talked at length with him, “probably” was not good enough for Sheikh Faisuli.

  He feared that Morraigne might wonder why the Sheikh had approached me even before contacting him, that Morraigne might become unwarrantedly suspicious of the Sheikh's motives, might correctly guess that those locations he'd selected in Kardizazan had produced the quantities he'd predicted and that, therefore, he, Morraigne, was “holding aces back to back."

  So said the Sheikh, employing American poker terms, presumably for my benefit. In the same vein he said that this was, in a very real sense, “international poker” with the stakes—he used the marvelous word again—"a trillion,” only this time his phrase was “a trillion or two.” He concluded this gentle but unmistakable warning to me by saying that, in a matter of such “perilous delicacy,” every single act and word bearing in any way upon its progress and outcome was pregnant with possible consequences, either for good or ill, and—not meaning to belittle me or my undoubted fantastic abilities, none of which I'd used yet—I might, without meaning to do so, put my foot in it. Which was another phrase he'd picked up somewhere along the way.

  In sum, concerning any and all matters hinging upon Sheikh Faisuli or his harem or his oil wells or his presence or his business in the City of the Angels, I was to keep my mouth shut.

  So I decided that, if Morraigne wouldn't take my advice for his own benefit, perhaps he'd be more amenable if I asked him to do it simply as a favor to me. That was good, I thought, that was probably the way to influence a guy like Morraigne, maybe the only way. So, having considered, I assumed, all the essential factors involved, I leaned toward him and said earnestly:

  “Dev—"

  “Maybe it's a good thing I'm getting out of this joint."

  “—I'd consider it a personal.... What was that again?"

  “I've already packed the little stuff I want to take along. I'll be sending Petrushka back home to the farm—joke—so I thought, before leaving. I'd, ah, say good-bye to her."

  “That's what you were doing, huh? That's nice. Leaving what?"

  “Leaving the house. Maybe only for a day or two, but I'm sure not going to stay here."

  “Seems like a good idea. Now you mention it. But ... isn't this kind of sudden? I thought you had to stay here in case you received an important call.... You already get it?"

  If he had, I was thinking, it could hardly have been from Faisuli.

  “No,” he said. “And I don't want it, either, not on this phone—it's tapped."

  I blinked. “I'll be damned. But ... it makes sense. How'd you find out, Dev? And when? You didn't say anything about a tap or bug when I was here before."

  “Didn't know about it then.” He scratched his cheek, where a little dark stubble was beginning to show. “First thing, somebody broke into the joint while I was gone. Then there was that shooting. It all got me to thinking about ... several things. So I went through the house more carefully than I had the first time, checked around the house, outside and inside, for a bug or tap—I've got the equipment to do it—and finally found the goddamn little crystals and cuteness in the phone."

  He pointed at the phone I'd started to use earlier, when he'd stopped me. “That one right there,” he said. “It's the only one in the house."

  “Is the wire tap still in? If so, somebody could be listening to what we're saying right now, Dev. Depends on what the thing is, but it's possible—"

  “I know. But it's not in the phone any longer, don't worry. Besides, I played around with the little bastard for a few minutes after I found it, and there was no activation—so far as my instruments could determine, and they're sensitive—until the phone was in use. I'm not sure, because I'm not positive of what I've got, but I imagine this thing also actuated a switch to start and stop a ta
pe recorder, no telling where in or out of these Hollywood Hills, which is the most likely setup."

  Dev got to his feet. “This one may surprise even you.” He walked to the beautiful green bust of Polynesian Meluma, tipped the jade, stuck a finger under its base, and pulled out what looked like a square of metallic foil. “Secret pocket,” he said, smiling.

  When he stopped before me I reached for the foil but he pulled it away, shaking his head, then carefully opened it and slid something into the palm of his hand. “Don't sneeze,” he said, “or we may never find it again."

  Dev wasn't exaggerating much. I'd seen microminiaturized mikes, transmitters, amplifiers, you name it, but I'd never seen an outfit quite like this one before. It looked like a pair of grayish salt crystals, one slightly larger than the other, connected by a thin flat “bridge” of shiny white material about a thirty-second of an inch long. “Ah-choo,” I said, “and there goes CBS and—is the little one NBC?"

  “May come close to that even before nineteen eighty-four, Shell,” he said. “Soon afterwards, spies will be busily mounting audio-TV units on motes of dust and blowing millions of ‘em acrost the oceans wide.” He pointed. “There's the business, for pickup and transmission of the signal, or voice, and the smaller beauty is a high-gain amplifier."

  “You can't kid me, that's sugar from Mrs. Willifer's bowl.” I tried to keep it light, while I asked him my next couple of questions. “How do you know the tap isn't effective except when you're talking unless you made a phone call? Or did you?"

  “Matter of fact, I did. But it wasn't necessary for checking this outfit.” He put the little grains back into the heavy foil, folded it again as he walked to Meluma. “It's actuated when the phone's lifted off the hook, inert when the phone's replaced.” He hid the square of foil in his secret pocket again, came back and sat down, saying, “As soon as I took the tap off, I buzzed the head operator and arranged that any calls to this number be intercepted and transferred to the mobile phone in my GMC bus, so I won't miss any calls....” He stopped, looked up toward the ceiling, frowning. “Which is a hint to me, maybe I'd better check out that phone, too."