Lita was wearing only what she apparently had slept in, but it was so smooth and unwrinkled, and clung so passionately to her form, that it appeared never to have been slept in. The garment was white, semitransparent, covering her from her shoulders down to her ankles. Lita was leaning toward me, one hand on my shoulder shaking me, and the motion made her breasts ripple and shudder underneath the thin cloth. The gown was so thin that I could see the outlines of those swollen-appearing breasts, their darker tips, and the line of her hip and thigh in the dim light.
I put my arm around her waist, pulled her down next to me on the divan, caught her mouth with mine and held her close. For seconds she was still, then she squirmed against me, slowly, pushing away from me with her hands and breasts and thighs, but easily, not violently.
Then she pulled her mouth from mine and looked at me, her lips slack. “No, Shell. You've got to get up.”
I rested my hand on her thigh, moved it upward in a long, slow caress, brushing the rounded curve of her hip, the in-curving waist, and then her full warm breast. Her eyes looked hot, drugged. With my hand on her breast I could feel its tip taut against my palm, feel the too-rapid beating of her heart.
She moistened her lips, then shook her head, pulled away from me. “Please, Shell. It's twelve-thirty. I overslept.”
Twelve-thirty? It didn't mean anything to me for a while. I didn't care if it was after noon or after midnight. In fact, I didn't even care what day it was.
She stood up. “We've less than half an hour.”
Then I remembered. The party, the TV cameras, people would be arriving at Horatio Adair's estate. Lita stood before me in that filmy white gown, and she looked almost like that statue which Felicca had made, draped with gauze and given life.
I told her so and she said, “The statue's already up at the pool—the plastic one, anyway. Not in gauze but in a pink bikini. And people will be gathering there by now. We've got to hurry.”
She was just out of reach. Of my hands, not my eyes. I caught her with my eyes and stored her away in my brain as she smiled and backed away from me, then turned and walked into the bedroom. I just sat there and vibrated. There was no doubt about it; from any angle Lita looked sensational. She was back in practically no time, looking fresh as a new rose, and she said, “Off we go.”
We had settled it last night that I would stick with her every minute, since she had refused to move to another hotel. She'd said there wasn't much chance any further attack would be made on her, now that Ark was dead, and had shrugged off my reminder that the driver of the car she'd seen at Randolph's was still alive.
I was thinking about that on the way to Horatio's, trying to get my thoughts in order.
“Why so quiet, Shell?”
“Just thinking, honey. About Randolph and Ark, and where Toby fits into this. And Dan Bryce, too. I thought I had him figured...” I stopped suddenly. Not until now had I thought again about that photograph of Bryce in Lita's bedroom.
But now I looked at Lita and said, “I just remembered something I wanted to ask you. What's a photo of Dan Bryce doing in your bedroom?”
She frowned slightly, her eyes puzzled. “Who?”
“Dan Bryce.”
“I don't know anybody by that name.” She smiled. “Why are you worrying about pictures in my bedroom, anyway?”
“I'm serious, Lita.”
Her frown came back and deepened. “I don't understand, Shell. What's the matter with you?”
“Last night when I was waiting for you—just before the call came from the police—I happened to see a portrait by your bed. It was Dan Bryce. I took a good look at it. Since he is one of the biggest crooks this side of prison, explanations are in order.”
“You're the one who'd better explain,” she said. She sounded a little angry. “There's a picture in my bedroom yes, but not of anybody named Bryce.”
“Who is it, then?”
“Tom Westland. He's a very good ... well, friend of mine. And really, Shell, grateful as I am for what you've done, it's still none of your business what pictures I have. Or what friends, for that matter.”
“No matter what you call him, that's Dan Bryce, and he's a hoodlum from way back. In fact I'm pretty well convinced, and so are the police, that he killed Zoe Avila.”
Shock spread over her lovely face. “Tom? You mean Tom could have —”
“Dan. Dan Bryce. I don't know what he told you his racket was, but —”
“Well, if you can call the federal income tax a racket, than he's a racketeer.” Lita seemed shaken.
“Don't tell me he's a tax man.”
“He certainly is. That's how I met him. He came out from the local office of the Internal Revenue Service, to check up on my last year's return.”
And right then it hit me.
I almost started admiring Bryce. I was remembering Samson's telling me that Bryce had served time for extortion. A careful blackmailer always does his best to find out how big a bite the victim can suffer without bleeding to death. Was there a more clever way for a crook to find out the exact worth of an individual or an organization he expected to blackmail?
Lita told me that she'd known Tom—Dan Bryce—for two or three months and after that initial meeting there had been no talk of business, but only of pleasure; they'd had several dates. I told Lita that Bryce was a liar and a fraud, and if she heard anything from him to tell me or the police. She said she would, but seemed still not convinced.
I said, “Honey, he is just not a safe playmate. If he got an inkling that you were on to him, he might do almost anything. Even to you.”
We left it there. And the conversation turned to lighter subjects then. Driving past that gate at the entrance to Horatio Adair's estate, it was difficult for me to realize that it had been less than twenty-four hours since I'd been involved in the shooting here. It seemed a month ago, and I felt as if I'd been awake all that time. My eyes were grainy from lack of sleep, and irritated by the sunlight.
I mentioned the fact that I was a mess to Lita.
She said, “Oh, you're not so bad.”
“I mean, I'm haggard and red-eyed and my clothes look as if I slept in them. Of course, I did sleep in them —”
“Oh, that.” She grinned. “It just gives you an even more rugged look, Shell. Like a crumbling mountain.”
“What a happy thought.”
“Anybody would be afraid to attack us. All you'd have to do would be to look at them and sort of sneer. It makes you the perfect bodyguard.”
“Appropriate, since you have the perfect body. How's this?” I sneered for her.
She shrieked and threw a hand across her eyes. “I know,” she cried. “You're a secret weapon.”
“Super-Shell!” I cried back. “I sound like a new gasoline. Actually, I'm not a new gasoline. I'm not even a secret weapon. I'm just crumbling Shell Scott.”
“Good. That's all I want.”
“I'm yours. Take me.”
She laughed but didn't take me. “Wow, look at all the cars,” she said.
There were a lot of them. We had to park a hundred feet from the front of the big house. Other cars arrived even as we walked around the side of the house and behind it where all the activity was.
We walked through a crowd of gibbering people and past tables groaning under the weight of dozens of different kinds of food—lobster, crab, whitefish, shrimp, ham, prime ribs, bread and buns and potato salad and green salad and what looked like fifty other dishes. And then we were out at the pool where the real dishes were.
Lita turned to me and said, “I probably won't be able to be with you for a while. It's going to be hectic.” She glanced at the pool, the people around it and in it, the TV cameras and lines of electrical cord that seemed to be everywhere. There must have been at least forty technicians in sight, too, in addition to many of the approximately two hundred guests. Then she turned back and went on, “I've got to change now, Shell. After this, well, maybe we can relax a little.”
“I'll hold you to that. Got your bikini?”
She held up her handbag. “In here.”
“I'm supposed to keep an eye on you every minute.”
“Keeping an eye on me doesn't mean an eye in actual contact. But come on. You can stand outside the door.”
I did. At the ladies’ section of the pool showers, she slipped inside, and in no more than two minutes came out in a pink bikini which was almost as pretty as her skin. We went back to the pool, where she left me. I felt sure she was safe here, among all these people, but I kept an eye on her most of the time just the same.
A lot of other guests were keeping eyes on her, too. There were several Hollywood people, including stars and starlets present. Near me, in fact, in one large group, were Zargreef Dakoulian, elderly white-haired ingenue, with Tab, Touch, Tick, Sock, Grab, Pow, Smack, and Feel, all those young male stars. Sitting on the edge of the pool with Tom Fong, the Chinese character actor sometimes called Peiping Tom, was Magna's top female star, Lovey Passionella. They were watching Kip Massive, star of scores of child Westerns, who was in the water strumming his inevitable guitar and singing twangily, “...We lived so low upon the hawg ... our profit was a loss ... I lost my wife and maw and dawg ... and wust of all my hoss...”
Then I spotted Lawrance. At about the same moment his eyes fell on me and he came racing over. He looked as if he'd been awake since I'd called him from the Hollywood jail, awake and tearing his hair.
“Scott,” he said, “what the hell are the cops doing! What's the latest? What about Arkajanian?”
“Take it easy, Lawrance.” I brought him up to date. “From here on in, your guess is as good as mine.”
He looked sick. “Have you seen the papers? Nothing but Randolph. And the newscasts...” he groaned. “Where's Horatio? Have you seen him?”
“No. I just got here.”
“He was supposed to be down here at one and it's —” he looked at his watch—“nearly a quarter after. The cameras will be on us in less than twenty minutes.”
“Horatio's part of the show?”
“Yes. He's supposed to put in an appearance, at least.” Lawrance rubbed a hand over his perspiring forehead. “The little phony's probably planning an entrance.”
“I expect him to come dancing in wearing cerise tights,” I said. “I'll look around for the little man.”
Lawrance rubbed his hands together nervously. “I wonder if this thing will go over—the telecast, I mean. With all this bad publicity, we've got to get some good space.” He rubbed his hands some more, looking worried. “I've got a million things to do. Is Lita all right? Where is she?”
“Yeah, she's O.K.” I pointed to where she was standing, at the far end of the pool. Lawrance spun around and headed in her direction without another word to me.
At one corner of the house, upstairs and above the end of the pool, was a circular room which bulged out from the rest of the building, much like turrets on old-time castles. That, I assumed, was the Tower Room which had been mentioned in my presence a time or two. I went around to the front of the building and rang the bell. Willis opened the door.
I said. “Is Mr. Adair handy?”
“No, Mr.—Scott, isn't it?” I nodded and he went on, “I haven't seen Horatio since early this morning. I suppose he's still in the Tower Room, creating. He's spent quite a bit of time there since the Mamzel replica was delivered.”
“You mean one of those plastic statues?”
“Yes. He hoped that it would inspire him to create a new style especially for Miss Korrel.”
I remembered that Lita had made herself unavailable to the grabby Horatio, so it seemed logical that he would have substituted one of those plastic Mamzels for her, as the next best thing. It would certainly have been inspiring enough, I thought. I said, “Some of the people out at the pool are getting worried about Mr. Adair, since he's supposed to take part in the festivities. Do you think you might pop up to the Tower Room and see if he's available to the masses?”
“Oh, I couldn't. Mr. Adair left word earlier this morning that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. So he must not be disturbed. He would be furious.”
“O.K. if I use the phone?”
“Certainly.” I stepped inside, and Willis went into the big room where I'd first seen Horatio Adair.
The phone was under the stairs, but I decided to use it after I went up those stairs. Maybe Horatio would be furious, but he couldn't do more than swat me with a hunk of tulle or satin. So I went on up. There was a hallway at the head of the stairs. I walked to the end of the hall and knocked at the door on its left. The door was unlocked and slightly ajar. It slowly swung open, creaking on its hinges. I saw the pink-plastic Mamzel statue first, nude and shocking. And then as the door swung open wider I saw him.
I stepped inside, but there was no point in feeling for his pulse. It was the late Horatio Adair, and he looked like Horatio after the bridge.
I looked at him, at his small body crumpled almost at the feet of the plastic Mamzel, and from down below sounds of gayety floated up from the pool and into the Tower Room. Somewhere a woman with a high, happy voice was saying, “Stop it, Charlie. Stop it....”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Now, as I walked along the side of the pool toward Lita Korrel, I was once more impressed with the unique and superbly impressive variety of curves that nature and her own efforts had crammed into one female body, and which had virtually stunned me the first time I'd seen her, yesterday morning. Pictures of faces and scenes I'd met within the hours since then formed a flickering montage in my memory, ending with the image of Horatio, dead, at the feet of the plastic Mamzel.
It was ironic. Horatio Adair had done more, perhaps, than any other single man to hide the loveliness of woman. And he had died at the feet of what might have been called an inflated statue of Sex. There, forever out of reach of his sightless eyes, had been all the things that in his life Horatio had tried so desperately to hide—the breasts and thighs, the flesh, the beauty and temptation and sex of woman.
The original of all that plastic beauty and temptation and sex stood next to the white-draped statue scheduled for unveiling in the next few minutes, and smiled at me as I stopped in front of her.
“Stand by me when the cameras go into action,” Lita said. “It'll make me look better.”
“Beauty and the beast, huh?” I looked around. There was a relatively empty spot near the back of the house, several yards from the pool. I pointed it out to Lita and said, “Better join me over there for a minute, honey. Something I want to tell you, and I wouldn't like it overheard.”
She looked puzzled. “But the television ... what time is it? Have we time —”
“I've got a hunch there won't be any telecast.”
Her frown deepened, but she followed me to the spot out of earshot of the others. “What is it?” she asked me. “You're acting so funny.”
“Horatio Adair is dead.”
“Dead? What do you mean? How can he be dead?”
“He was murdered.”
She just looked blank. Her eyes stayed on my face but they didn't seem to be seeing me. “Dead?” she said again. It was as if she had already suffered so many emotional shocks that this one just didn't register.
I said, “I've already called the police and talked to Samson in Homicide downtown. He's a friend of mine, and knows the whole story of what's happened till now, and I explained to him that I could vouch for you and me, but not the two or three hundred others.”
She said dully, “Murdered. But ... Horatio. Little Horatio. Why would anybody want to kill him?”
“I don't know.” Why would anybody want to kill him?
My thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of activity around the far end of the pool. Plainclothes men and uniformed officers had quietly put in an appearance. A large number of Hollywood citizens leap straight up in the air when they hear sirens, and then take off in whatever direction they're heade
d when they land. So the officers had acted wisely in coming out with as little fuss as possible.
There were a lot of heads turning toward the activity, and many of the guests began babbling at each other as several more uniformed men showed up. The hubbub of startled conversation swelled like a wave.
I walked with Lita toward the officers, looking around until I spotted Lieutenants Carter and Flaherty. After we'd answered all their initial questions and I had filled them in on the major points of the situation, Carter said to me, “Let's take a look at him.” He was a tall, hook-nosed man about forty, with straight black hair and a bristly mustache.
I left Lita with a sergeant I knew, and went with Carter and Flaherty, up to the Tower Room. They blinked in sudden surprise at what they saw, even though they had been partly prepared for the sight before coming out here. Both of them ogled the plastic Mamzel; and then the dead man, and then Mamzel once more.
Carter said, “What the hell is that thing doing up here?” He pointed at the statue.
I said, “Horatio was doing some designs for Mamzel's. This was for measurements, or inspiration, or something.”
“Yeah, or something,” Carter said. “Well, let's get on with it.”
The Crime Lab crew came up and got busy checking for prints, taking photographs and making drawings and measurements; specimens were taken for later analysis downtown. Nobody told me to leave, so I stuck around to learn what I could. On a small table near Horatio's desk were two glasses which had apparently contained highballs. In the bottom of one glass were a few grains of white sediment. Considering the froth on Horatio's lips, and the fact that be was dead, it wasn't difficult to deduce that he had drunk from that glass. A .22 caliber pistol, almost surely the one which had been used to shoot him in the forehead, was found on the floor.
After it was dusted unsuccessfully for prints. Carter held it in his hand and looked at it. He said to me, “The way it shapes up, this is his gun, the scissors in his back were his own, and the cord used to strangle him probably came from the junk up here in the room.” He paused. “This morning he told his employees here that he wanted to be left alone in the Tower Room until further notice, that they were all to stay in the back of the house so that he wouldn't be disturbed by the slightest noise while he created. What do you make of it, Scott?”
Take a Murder, Darling (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 12