Joker in the Deck (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Things were coming at me too fast. I said, "R and I? Paradise didn't have a record, did he?"

  "Yeah, he fell from here, Shell. Did a bit in San Quentin, fifty-nine to sixty. Went to Q in January of fifty-nine."

  "What'd he fall for?"

  "Larceny, grand theft. Specific count was selling phony oil stocks — the only oil was in the ink on the paper. But he also sold goldless gold mines, underwater real estate, and one radio-unactive Alaskan uranium mine."

  "The con," I said slowly. "The big con."

  "Including boiler rooms, phony paper, the whole bit." He paused, then said, "What's the matter?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing." I hoped it was nothing. I had been thinking about all that razzle-dazzle at Laguna Paradise . . . the P.A. system and jazz, the big map, the luscious gals, the come-on . . . the arc lights and booze and speculative frenzy in the air. I felt sure Jim wouldn't be party to anything crooked — to a con — but even though the property was damned good property in one of the most desirable locations on the coast, and being sold at an honest price, there was still a kind of something-for-nothing pitch in the way the development was being promoted. And something-for-nothing is the rock-solid basis of every con game ever played on a mark.

  I remembered Jim's telling me most of those ideas had been Adam's — or, rather, Aaron's. But I pushed those angles out of my mind for now and said, "What makes you think he was having a party?"

  "Looks like some gal had been here. Glasses for drinks, little smear of lipstick on one, a couple short blonde hairs on the pillow. Another thing — try this one, Shell."

  "O.K."

  "Well, he was very neat. Clothes all on shaped hangers, shoe trees in the shoes, everything — even socks — folded real neat in the drawers, you know. Well, he's in bed, nude like I said, and the clothes he was wearing are just tossed on a chair — or at it. All in a mess, one trouser leg inside out and so on. Guy like that, he hangs up his clothes, unless — "

  I nodded. "O.K., so he wasn't worried about hangers right then, or shoe trees. I'll buy the party."

  "You get a ci — "

  "What about the girl? Anyone see her?"

  "No. All we know about her is she must be a hot-pants blonde. Account of the blonde hairs on the pillow." He made a sour face. "Unless they were left over from the night before?"

  "Maybe the whole party was from the night before?"

  "Doesn't figure that way, not along with all the rest of it."

  He was right. And, too, I remembered Aaron's asking Jim to close up at Laguna, saying he had a date. I asked Wes, "What time did it happen?"

  "Just after midnight." He consulted his notebook, flipped a couple of pages. "Call came in to the complaint board at twelve-ten a.m. Man reported he'd just heard a shot and gave the address."

  "How come he could pin the location down so close?"

  "Claimed he was a neighbor. Wasn't sure of the address, but thought it came from here or the next house. Officers in the car answering the call checked both houses and found the victim here. He was still warm, blood still wet on him."

  "Who was the guy that called in?"

  Wes flipped his notebook shut. "Didn't give his name. Same old story, another good citizen who didn't want to get involved."

  "Yeah."

  Jim came back, slumped in a chair and pressed his face into his hands. Wes asked me if I wanted to look at the scene of the crime and I nodded. He led me into the bedroom.

  One last photographic bulb flashed as we went inside. Everything was as Wes had described it for me, so there wasn't much to see — except the ugliness of violent death. Aaron lay on his back in bed, his big strong body nude, head far to one side. The clothes Wes had mentioned were more neatly stacked now, since the police had probably gone through the pockets, then placed the garments on the chair. Two partly filled highball glasses sat on the bed's wooden headboard.

  "Brandy and soda," Wes said. "Not that it means anything. No prints on the glasses, either, so that's no help. They've been wiped clean, along with the front doorknob, outside and inside. No prints here except the victim's."

  I took a last look at the victim, the late Aaron Paradise, lately Adam Preston. The lethal bullet had entered his left side and smashed the heart, but his heart must have pumped spasmodically once or twice before it stopped. There was a large stain of red on the white sheet beneath him, a suprisingly large stain.

  I told Wes I'd be in touch, thanked him for filling me in, and walked out.

  Jim and I sat in my car, parked in front of his brother's home. The police had gone. Jim was still shaken, but he was in better shape, more in control, now. He asked me to do what I could, try to find out who had killed Aaron — and why — and insisted that it be handled as investigator and client, for my usual fee plus quite a bit more, win or lose. He knew I'd go all out because we were close friends, if he merely asked me; but he wanted it his way, and I told him all right.

  We were long-time friends, but he'd never mentioned having a brother. I remembered that earlier I'd felt he was holding something back. Now I knew what it had been. I'd been uneasy . . . but the uneasiness had started sticking me right after — or during — Jim's running of that film. And that prickly unease was still with me, still . . .

  I caught the thought, held it.

  In a moment I said, "Jim, I want to see that time-lapse film again."

  He blinked at me. "You what?"

  I started the car. "I want you to run that film for me again, the one we watched tonight."

  "But why?"

  "The damn thing is bugging me. Something I saw, maybe. Or thought I saw. Anyway, I want to check it."

  I'd seen something, all right. But it hadn't impressed me then.

  Jim and I were in the darkened living room of his home, film clicking through the projector, nearing its end. And in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, clear at the bottom — which meant it was on the street directly below Jim's home — a car was parked, and the figure of a man could be seen inside the car. Only one frame of the film had been exposed each fifteen seconds, I knew, but the man remained in the car while several frames clicked past the lens. He'd been parked there for at least twenty or thirty minutes, his face turned up toward Jim's house most of the time. Then there was a quick blur of him standing next to the car, looking up, one frame in which he was in the street walking toward the wooden steps below, and another in which just his lowered head and shoulders were visible.

  I had Jim reverse the film a couple of times, running it forward again as slowly as he could past the frame in which the man stood next to his car looking up at the house.

  It was unmistakable when run slowly. The man had been watching Jim's house, then walked to the wooden steps. After that point he was out of sight, but he had almost surely been heading for the steps which led up to Jim's front door, and presumably had gone up those steps to the house. The figure was so small on the screen I couldn't be positive of the man's identity; but the car was a blue Ford Galaxie, and I was sure enough: Mickey M. A busy little bastard, Mickey M.

  I said to Jim, "When did you make this film?"

  "Started it Tuesday morning, let it run three full days, till Friday morning. Took it in for special processing Friday on the way to Laguna, and it was delivered yesterday before I got home."

  "Then this creep was watching your place Thursday night — and probably came up to the house. He could have been here Friday night, too, for that matter. And eight to five he's the guy I chased out of here a few hours ago."

  Jim said, "But why in hell would anybody be watching my place?"

  "Why in bell would anybody kill Aaron?" I didn't intend for it to sound so brutal, but I went on. "The little creep doing the watching, incidentally, the guy in your film, was Mickey M."

  He frowned. "The one you mentioned? Talking to Aaron?"

  "The same. Jim, it's possible both you and Aaron were supposed to be killed tonight."

  "That doesn't make sense."


  "None of it makes sense. Not yet. When we know why your brother was killed, a lot of things might make sense — including why that guy was hanging around here earlier. Until then . . ." I paused. "Have you got a gun handy?"

  "Couple hunting rifles. No revolver."

  "I've got an old .32 Smith & Wesson in the back of the Cad. That is, if you don't mind having an ex-safecracker's gun in the house."

  He shrugged. "Not that I'll need it."

  "Well, the safecracker doesn't need it any more." I got to my feet. "I'll bring it up."

  I found the little gun in the Cad's trunk, under a walkie-talkie and next to a spring-loaded sap, checked it to make sure it was loaded. It was. I closed the trunk, went back up the wooden steps.

  I was thinking about that time-lapse film, and for a moment I had the weird feeling that time had slipped backwards, that I was reliving something that had happened before. There was this difference — the figure I saw was not on my left, but at the top of the ramp this time, standing before Jim's door. For the time it took me to move two steps forward, the sight was merely a warped moment — but then I snapped out of it, as Jim's door opened and light fell on the little man, and I saw the gleam of metal in his hand.

  "Look out! Jim, look — "

  That was as far as I got. The gun in the man's hand blasted and Jim jumped — or fell — back, and in almost the same instant the little guy spun around. His gun cracked and I heard the solid chunk of metal split the air near my head.

  I heard the sharp crack of my own gun and felt my hand jump as the gun in it kicked before I realized I was firing. The S & W .32 had been in my hand from the time I'd left the Cad until this moment, and now it was leveled at the man and I was squeezing the trigger, squeezing it again.

  The other guy didn't get off a second shot at me. He bent forward, collapsing in the middle, then started straightening up, then his body jerked twice more as slugs from the .32 slammed into him. The hammer fell on an empty cylinder and I dropped the revolver, grabbed under my coat for my own Colt Special. But it wasn't needed.

  The man toppled forward, got one foot out in front of him, but the leg wouldn't hold his weight; it buckled and he fell toward me, sprawling spread-eagled on the ramp, head lower down than his feet. Light spilled from the open doorway and covered him with a faintly rosy glow.

  I ran forward, leaped up the ramp and grabbed the man, yanked him over. He was alive. But not for long. He had maybe ten seconds left. His eyes wobbled, rolled, and his lips stretched apart over teeth that were tight together. Bloody froth spilled from his mouth. I could hear the little hissing sound as the fluid squeezed through his teeth and past his lips. His head jerked crazily.

  Then his body straightened convulsively, arched, and his entire frame trembled, trembled horribly. A convulsive shudder ran through him and he began vibrating with an awful spasm that shook every bit of his body.

  It was a frightening thing to watch. That terrible spasm couldn't have lasted long; it seemed very long to me. Then it ended. Ended suddenly, and that was all. The man lay still. He was dead.

  And only then did the weird emotion, the near paralysis which had held me, loosen, let me think. I looked at him, wondering what it meant.

  Even in death the features were still pinched. The eyes were still cold, but even colder and more uncommunicative now. It was the same guy. Mickey M.

  Chapter Six

  Since the gunshots there had been no sound. I hadn't seen Jim after that moment when he'd been in the doorway. I ran my tongue over dry lips, got to my feet.

  There was a noise from inside the house. I saw Jim standing in the doorway, one hand pressed to the back of his head. Some of the tension drained out of me; he was alive.

  As I walked toward him he said, "What happened? What — who was that?" He looked past me to the dead man.

  I said, "Did he hit you?"

  "No. You yelled, and I guess I saw the guy there at the same moment or just afterward." He felt his chest and stomach. "He didn't hit me. I don't feel anything. But I fell in there, slammed my head on something." His chest heaved. "I heard the gunshots."

  We stepped inside, shut the door. I told him who the dead man was and added, "So that settles it. He was the guy watching your place, undoubtedly the man who ran out of here tonight."

  Jim shook his head. "It doesn't make any, sense. It doesn't make a damn bit of sense."

  "Maybe it will. At least we're not guessing now, Jim. This little sonofabitch came here to kill you. Let that sink into your head. He came here to murder you, just as your brother was murdered tonight, and there's a damned good chance he's the same bastard who did me job on Aaron."

  "But why — "

  "Dammit, don't ask me why." I walked toward the phone. "It could be he came here to get you, had to run when I spotted him, and because of that took care of Aaron then instead. Anyway, he came back here, waited, and — when he thought I'd left — came up here to kill you." I paused, thinking. "We know he was waiting out there just now, no telling for how long. And it couldn't have been coincidence that he showed up only a few minutes after I left. No, he waited till he thought you were alone. The same way he — or somebody — waited for Aaron to be alone after midnight."

  I grabbed the phone, dialed, was put through to the L.A. Police Building, reported the shooting and gave this address. Then I hung up, turned around and said, "Why didn't you tell me your brother was an ex-con?"

  "Well, Shell — "

  I interrupted, "And while you're at it give me the rest of it, Jim. The con games and phony stocks, the dry holes, the uranium mines. The whole pretty picture."

  Jim didn't speak for a moment, and when he did his voice was a little hard. "Hold on a minute, pal. I didn't intend to tell you about Aaron before he was killed. I had no intention of telling a damn soul. That, I figured, was Aaron's business and mine, and nobody else's, not even yours. Since that phone call, well, I haven't been thinking about much else. Except Aaron with his blood . . ." He stopped. Then he went on, "But I was going to tell you, tell you the whole bit. You didn't think I wasn't going to, did you?"

  I sighed. "I'm sorry, Jim. But this has been a helluva night. I know it's been rougher for you. But it kind of jangled my nerves, too. Not to mention damn near getting myself killed out there."

  Jim's eyebrows went up a bit. "He shot at you?"

  "At, yeah. Just missed my ear." I grinned, tried to keep it light. "Damn near got a piece of the right one, too. Wouldn't that have tickled Laurie?"

  He smiled slightly.

  "How about filling in any gaps you can?" I said. "The police will be here any minute."

  "Yeah. It's about time, I guess." He lit a cigarette. "Well, here's the tale — I might as well go clear back." He dragged on the cigarette. "Mix us a couple drinks, will you?"

  He talked while I poured bourbon and water over ice cubes, brought the drinks back and sat down. Jim's father, Oakley "Oak" Paradise, had been an Oklahoma oilman, a wildcatter who'd brought in a few wells while still a young man. He'd made nearly two million dollars in the big strike at Cushing near Tulsa, Oklahoma, lost most of it in dry holes scattered over Kansas and Texas, made a few hundred thousand buying and selling leases in 1926 during the boom at Seminole, Oklahoma. When he died he'd left an estate which, even after estate and inheritance taxes, provided that each of his sons would receive $150,000 on reaching twenty-one.

  "Aaron was nine years older than me," Jim went on. "Forty-one to my thirty-two now. So he knew Dad longer, and better, than I did. Dad was pretty wild, he lived high, made and spent a lot of money — and I guess he drank and brawled and wenched with the best of them. Anyway, Aaron took after him, more of the wild blood in him than me, I guess. He idolized Dad — Old Oak, he always called him — so he followed in his footsteps. For a while. In college he studied geology, petroleum engineering, and girls. He flunked everything but girls — graduated magna cum laude in that subject.

  "Anyway, out of college, and with his hundre
d and fifty thousand, he set out to be another Oak. He bought leases in Texas, drilled for oil and got a lot of dirt. Oh, he brought in a few wells that pumped maybe a hundred barrels a day, but the dry holes took all that and more. He went bust in three years." Jim swallowed at his drink, let half of it run down his throat. "So he said to hell with that noise. Aaron never liked hard work, anyway. He liked money, and soft women, but not hard work. O.K., he never drilled for oil again, but he could — later — pose as a wildcatter, a big Texas oilman, an expert, when he was . . . conning a mark. Isn't that the phrase?"

  "Yeah. One of them."

  "First he sold all his remaining leases, where he'd drilled dry holes. Not really illegal, he just misrepresented the situation a little. He did a lot of things, sold cars, dabbled in real estate, tried politics — ran for office and lost. Along in there, the early fifties, he got married. Cute little redhead. Very cute." He grinned. "I know; I was going with her when Aaron met her."

  "Where's she now, Jim?"

  "Back east someplace. It doesn't matter — the marriage only lasted a year. Darlene, that's her name, went next door one day to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor. Seems Aaron was there. He'd, uh, already borrowed some sugar. Right after the divorce, he printed some fancy stock certificates and sold shares in — believe it or not — the Mountain of Gold Mine. There was a mountain, and some fool Indians or somebody had actually named it 'Mountain of Gold,' maybe because it looked yellow in the sunset twice a year. And there was actually a mine in it. A salt mine.

  "So, I suppose you could say he was only three-fourths crooked then. He claimed he never actually told anybody it was a gold mine. But from that point on he made it four-fourths — uranium, tungsten, diamonds, complicated stock swindles. He never used a gun, that was all. Eventually he slipped. Right into prison. When he got out he changed his name. Kept the same initials, and took the name Adam — to symbolize a new beginning, he told me. Because it was a new beginning, on the level. The 'square' life, he said."