Take a Murder, Darling (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I turned on the set, found the right channel. As the set warmed up I got the fuzzy picture of a man's face, and then the sound came in as I noted that the man wasn't Randolph. The guy was saying, “...who is usually heard at this time.” He looked pretty well shaken up about something.

  The man went on, “In Mr. Randolph's absence, the news and commentary will be presented to you by Arthur Hampton.” He smiled a tortured smile. “And now, Mr. Hampton.”

  The picture of a fortyish, keen-eyed man flashed on the screen. He said “Good evening” in a booming voice and launched into a discussion of recent events in Washington. After thirty seconds or so he paused for a message from the sponsor, and I turned the set down low, wondering what had kept John Randolph from appearing before the TV cameras tonight.

  As far as I knew, he had never in more than two years in this time spot missed a minute. It must have been something pretty drastic to keep him from being on time. I pushed the questions out of my mind and hunted through my pockets for a match, but I'd used the last one. Where in hell was Lita?

  I roamed around looking for a light. I figured I could use the range in the kitchen to light a cigarette, and walked back toward it. But from there I happened to glance into the bedroom again, from a different angle, and a framed portrait in there caught my eye. It jarred me enough so that I walked into the bedroom and picked the picture up.

  After that there wasn't any doubt. And I just blinked at the face in the portrait, wondering what it was doing here, in Lita Korrel's bedroom of all places, wondering what it meant, how I could fit this into all the rest that had happened. And I couldn't make sense of it at all.

  Because looking back at me from the portrait were the sharp, hard features of Daniel Bryce.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Something was ringing in my ears. I was so surprised to find Bryce's picture here, that at first I didn't understand what the sound was. Then I realized it was a phone ringing.

  I took a last look at the portrait. There was no inscription on it, but the face was Bryce's, sure enough. I put the portrait back on the table, walked into the dining room where a blue phone sat on a small stand. The ringing was strident, nerve-jangling. As I grabbed the phone, cutting off the shrill sound, the picture was still in my thoughts.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello. Is this Shell Scott?”

  “Yeah, I'm Scott.” I frowned. How could anybody know I was here at Lita's apartment? I hadn't told anybody I was coming here—except Lita herself. But this was a man's voice.

  “This is Hank Rogers, Shell.”

  Hank was a policeman working out of the Hollywood Division. Out of Homicide. “What's up, Hank?”

  “You better get down here, Shell. I don't think it's hit the news broadcasts yet, but it's bound to before the night's over. Somebody murdered John Randolph. Not much doubt it was a gang killing —”

  I interrupted, “Randolph? He's dead?”

  “They don't come deader. The biggest slug I ever saw damn near cut him in two.”

  “What's it got to do with me? And how'd you know where to reach me?”

  “The woman told us to call you. Lita Korrel. We've got her here.”

  “In jail?”

  “Yeah. She was with Randolph when he got it.”

  “With Randolph?” I was still mentally muddled. “Is she all right? Is she hurt?”

  “No. She was lucky. But she's kind of hysterical. Anyway, she said you'd help her. That you were already working for her. You'd better get right down here, Shell.”

  “I'm on my way....”

  They know me at the Hollywood jail, and I went in saying hello to the desk sergeant and another policeman both of whom had been expecting me. The sergeant took me down to one of the interrogation rooms and told me Lita and two officers were inside.

  When I went in, Hank looked around and said, “You got here in a hurry, Shell.”

  But I didn't have time to answer him. He and an officer named Riley had been sitting at a table with Lita, and as soon as I came in she got up and half ran the few steps toward me. Then she threw her arms around me and clung to me, almost sobbing, “Oh, Shell, Shell, I'm so glad you're here. It's been awful!”

  I put my hands easily on her shoulders and said, “Whoa, honey. Slow down. I don't even know what this is all about yet.”

  She pressed her warm, soft body against me for a few more seconds, then leaned back and looked up into my face. “I saw him killed,” she said in a flat voice. “Not more than a few feet from me. It threw him clear across the room. It really threw him, as if he'd been hit by a car or something. It even sounded like that.” Her voice was dull and her eyes stared too fixedly. She seemed still shocked, near hysteria.

  I didn't know what she was talking about. I did remember that Hank had said something about Randolph's getting hit with the biggest slug he'd ever seen. That would have to be pretty big, because Hank had been on the force for nearly twenty years.

  As Lita stepped back from me, I looked at Hank and said, “Maybe you'd better fill me in on this.”

  He nodded at officer Riley, then went out into the corridor with me and closed the door behind us.

  “Here's the picture, Shell,” he said. “Miss Korrel is in a pretty nervous condition. Understandably. We've gone over her story with her a couple of times, and it checks out pretty well. But I'd like to leave you alone with her in the interrogation room, and have you get the story from her, too. All right?”

  “Sure.” I paused. There could easily be a bug, or microphone, in the room so that Hank and Riley could listen to our conversation. Which was O.K. with me. But I thought about that for a moment and said, “Just a second, Hank. You aren't holding Lita, are you? I mean, she isn't under suspicion, is she?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “Can't say that she is, Shell. But use your head. This is a big mess and it's gonna get plenty of attention. We've got to be real careful about every step we take.”

  “That figures. But you're not holding Lita, are you?”

  “Just till we get the story straight. So far, it's all we got to go on. That and the gun. But you better hear her story yourself. Maybe you'll figure she ought to stay here where it's safe.”

  “Maybe. What can you give me first.”

  He said, “Riley and me were cruising down Loma Drive when the call came in. Citizen had heard a shot, he thought. Hotshot call reached us just as we hit German Street—that's where Randolph lives, you know—and we took it down Gorman, Code Three, for maybe half a mile. We were the first car there. Must've got there not more'n two minutes after the shot. Maybe less. First thing we saw was this dame—Miss Korrel, only we didn't know who it was then—sprawled on the grass in front of Randolph's place. You know that lawn there, don't you?”

  “Yeah.” It was like a putting green extending on a slight rise up from the street about fifty feet to Randolph's two-story house.

  Hank went on, “I thought at first maybe she was the one that got shot. But it seems she just keeled over, fainted. Well, when she come to she started yelling that Randolph was dead, that he'd been shot and so on. We went in and found him.” He shook his head. “He was dead all right. Blood was still oozin’ out of the hole in him. Well, that'll give you the picture, Shell. Get the rest from her.”

  He opened the door and called the other officer out, and I went on into the interrogation room. Lita was sitting at the table again. She looked up and said, “Can we go home, Shell?”

  I sat in a chair next to her. “Not yet, honey. They want you to give me the story on what happened.”

  “I told them two or three times already.”

  “I know. And you'll probably have to tell them again. How come you were at Randolph's, anyway?” I grinned at her. “I thought we had a date.”

  She smiled slightly. “I was looking forward to keeping it, too, Shell.” She sighed. “A while before you were to arrive, I got a phone call from Randolph. It was only an hour or two before his air
time—he had a broadcast tonight, you know. At least ... he was supposed to.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, he said he'd gotten information damaging to Mamzel's—Shell, I don't know if it's Toby or not, but somebody's trying to ruin us, put us out of business. I'm sure of it.”

  “What was the info?”

  She hesitated, pressing her full red lips together, then went on in a rush, as if she wanted to get it out all at once. “Randolph said he'd been informed that somebody at Mamzel's was sneaking pictures of the clients. In the nude. You know, in some of the machines, in the showers and so on. And that they'd been used for blackmail. And even that some of the pictures were supposed to have shown up here in Hollywood.”

  “Did he have any of the photos?”

  “Of course not. It's all a lie, Shell.” She bit her lip, frowning. “At least, I think it must be a lie. I don't see how anybody could...” She let it trail off.

  “But he didn't show you any of the pictures, huh?”

  “No. He didn't have any. He just said that he'd been told about it, but he didn't have any positive proof. That's why he called me—to get my side of the story. Well, I was just horrified.” Lita closed her eyes and pressed a hand against her forehead. She looked pale, tired and drawn. But still beautiful.

  I said, “He asked you to come over, then?”

  “No. That was my idea.” She opened her eyes, took a deep breath. “At first I was so angry that I could hardly think. But I told him I was coming over, and for him to wait. I drove over right then and he was still there.” She paused, took my hand in hers, squeezed my palm with her warm fingers. “I don't even like to think about it.”

  Her hand was soft in mine. We sat so close that her knee touched mine and I could feel the warmth of it burning into my skin. Even under these circumstances, sitting in an interrogation room of a police station and with horror still reflected dimly in Lita's big, soft, eyes, I wanted to put my arms around her and hold her to me, feel her body yielding against me.

  She went on, “We talked for just a few minutes. I bawled him out for believing such an awful story about me and Mamzel's. I think I had him convinced that he'd been given false information.”

  “Did he tell you who gave him the tip?”

  “No. I asked him several times but he wouldn't say. Oh.” She seemed to remember something. “I even told him that the information probably came from Mr. Toby. But he wouldn't say yes or no. He was getting ready to leave for the studio. I was over near the door. He'd promised me he wouldn't say anything about Mamzel's on the broadcast tonight.” She paused and her lips twitched a little as she thought ahead of her words. Then she went on more slowly, looking not at me, but past me, as if seeing the whole thing again.

  “I ... don't really remember just how it happened. There was a window across the room. Maybe two windows. Anyway, Mr. Randolph was standing at his desk and then there was this crash. It seemed terribly loud, but maybe that was because it was so unexpected. We both looked over there, and this—I thought it was a pipe at first. I don't know. This gun came through. It was a big rifle, and he fired. He pulled the trigger and...” She stopped. Her face was whiter, and she swallowed rapidly.

  She was quiet for several seconds, then she went on, “It was a great, loud sound, and I heard something hit Mr. Randolph. The bullet. I heard it. I looked around at him and he was just ... it was like he was flying through the air away from me. I remember his hands just flopped around.”

  She paused again. I could almost see the man myself. And I could understand better than most why Lita looked ill, why she was having a hard time telling me the story. To see a man killed violently is one of the most bone-chilling sights in the world. I've seen men shot by .45 automatics, and the way they die is not the way you see them die in movies. It isn't the way they die on John Randolph's channel, either, or any other channel. A .45 slug hits with the impact and sound of a meat cleaver being slammed into a side of beef. Blood spurts and gushes. Sometimes men scream like tortured women. And when a man dies his muscles and organs relax completely. Violent death is a brutal, ugly, stinking, horrible thing. Especially for a woman like Lita to see. And apparently Randolph had been hit with something even bigger than a .45-caliber slug.

  She moistened her lips and went on slowly, “He hit the wall and let out a funny, soft little cry. I ... he didn't even seem alive then. He fell just...” She hunted for words, her hands making motions in front of her. “All limp. Like rags.”

  “What about the man at the window? Did you get a look at him?”

  “Not then. When I looked at the window, he wasn't there. The gun was gone, but the window was broken. Naturally. I guess he just didn't see me.”

  “Uh-huh. What happened then?”

  “I—it's all pretty confused from there on, Shell. I guess I sort of lost my head. I know I ran out of the house and down toward the street. All I could think of was getting to my car and driving away.” She paused. “I suppose my car's still out there.”

  “What happened after you ran? I understand the officers found you on the lawn.”

  “I ... well, I ran down to the street. There was a street lamp near there somewhere, and I saw a man running, too. Running away from me.”

  “You get a look at him?”

  “Just for a second. He must have heard me—oh, there was a car there. It came up just as he got out to the street. I was running on the lawn and saw it, and right then the big man turned and I could see his face in the light. I think he was the ugliest man I ever saw. Oh, right then I could hear a siren, too. I ... he was still carrying that gun. I think he raised it and pointed it at me, but I'm not sure. I ... then I must have fainted.”

  “You say he was ugly. How do you mean?”

  “Just big and ugly. I do know he was awfully big.”

  A little bell started ringing in my head. “Was he as big as I am?” I grinned at her. “And as ugly?”

  “Why, you're not ugly.” she smiled. “You're rather nice-looking, Shell. This man was ugly. And he was even bigger than you, I'm pretty sure.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  She nodded. “I'm sure of it.”

  “Think you could identify him from a mugg shot?”

  “What's a mugg shot?”

  “A police picture of him.”

  “I suppose so. I got a pretty good look at him.”

  “How about the driver of the car.”

  “It was dark. I really don't remember him. Maybe.”

  That was about all of it. After fainting, she'd come to and found the policemen bending over her, she said.

  Hank and Riley came back into the interrogation room I stepped outside with Hank and said, “You show her any mugg shots?”

  “Not yet. Going to, though.”

  “You know Hyath Arkajanian?”

  “Sure.” He squinted at me. “What about Ark?”

  “When you show her a mugg book, show her the book with Ark in it.”

  “What makes you think he's the one?”

  I told him about Roy Toby's relation to Mamzel's—and to me. I wound it up, “Captain Samson downtown already knows about my run-in with Toby's boys earlier today, including the party with Ark. It just could be that Ark handled another job for Toby tonight.”

  Hank's forehead was wrinkled in thought. He nodded. “Could be. And there's something else, Shell. The gun fits a big mugg like Ark.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I'll show you the gun and you'll see what I mean.” He left for a moment and came back carrying a double-barreled shotgun which he handed me. “What do you think of it?”

  “Shotgun, huh? Lita said it was a rifle, she thought. But she can hardly be considered a connoisseur of lethal weapons.”

  “She named it better than she knew.” Hank held a hand toward me. In the open palm was a shotgun shell—but with a rounded slug in its end instead of merely wadding. Hank went on, “One empty in the left barrel, an
d that thing in the right. Somebody loaded their own. That slug in there weighs just about an ounce.”

  Now I knew what Hank had meant earlier when he'd said that Randolph had been almost cut in two by the biggest slug he'd ever seen. I had never before come across an item like this; it was the most lethal bullet I'd ever had in my hand. Someone had taken an ordinary shotgun shell and loaded it with a hand-cast lead bullet, just as a man might hand load his own revolver ammunition. But any revolver big enough to hold this monster would have been too heavy for both hands. The metal slug looked almost like a lead ping pong ball.

  I handed the reloaded shotgun shell back to Hank and said, “If I ever in my life saw a professional killer's weapon, this is it. I'm surprised there was anything left of Randolph after this cannonball hit him.”

  “We found the gun, still loaded with this one slug, up on the grass away from the street. He either dropped it in his hurry or tossed it away as we got near him.”

  “You must have just missed him.”

  He nodded. “It was close. We got the call very soon after the first shot was fired—it reached us while the man was still talking to Communications on the phone—and we started the siren immediately. Didn't spot their car, but you can bet they heard our siren.” He paused. “And a good thing, too.”

  “Miss Korrel, you mean?”

  “Yeah. If he'd had more time, he might have left that other slug in her.”

  I shivered, thinking what that hunk of metal could have done to Lita.

  I asked Hank, “Anything else?”

  He shook his head, walked away and came back in a moment carrying a pair of white cotton gloves. “Found these a few yards from the window he busted in. But that's it. No prints on the shotgun.”

  I placed one of the gloves along the palm of my hand. It would just about have fit me. Or Ark. “How about those mugg books?” I said.

  He nodded. A few minutes later he and Riley and I were in the interrogation room with Lita and she was slowly turning the pages of one of the big mugg books, looking at the columns of photographs. I stood behind Lita, and the two officers sat on the opposite side of the table from her.