Dance with the Dead (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Okay, Webb. I sighed. You’ve got my word.

  At the door he put a band on my shoulder and said gently, Ignore anything I might have said . . . if I barked at you.

  I grinned at him. Absolutely not. Somehow Ill get even.

  He smiled. I had to bark at someone. But then his features grew slack again. This was supposed to be . . . He hesitated, went on, . . . my wedding night.

  I didn’t hear from Webb during the next day. I went downtown to my office, but couldn’t concentrate, kept thinking of what had happened the night before. After I reached the apartment I showered and ate, fussed around, swore at the damned Neon Tetras — the bourbon hadn’t helped a bit. Probably should have used gin. Be a great laugh if I had two males in there. If so, one of them was the fattest male neon in captivity.

  I kept thinking about Webb. And his wife. I wondered if she was alive. I hadn’t wanted to mention it to Webb last night, but I knew of kidnap cases in which the victim was murdered immediately after the snatch. And the ransom, if paid, was thus paid for a corpse.

  Whatever had happened in the last day or so to the girl who was now Mrs. Alden, she must have been a lively live one before. Because Webb had told me she was one of the Women With Wow featured in his magazine. And they were all live, lithe, lissome and lovely. And, in a way, they were all famous.

  Little more than a month after that first issue had hit the stands, an agreement had been made whereby the girls featured in the magazine would appear in Las Vegas at the Algiers, the big hotel-nightclub there run by a hard-boiled hoodlum type named Ed Grey. They were featured in the show, as in the magazine. . . .

  My own phrase whispered through my mind again. Hard-boiled hoodlum type?

  Grey was that, for sure. I wasn’t certain that he held the controlling interest in the Algiers; most of the Vegas clubs are owned by syndicates. But I did know he owned outright another club called the Pele — in Hawaii. But maybe I was reaching for answers now, straining for them because of my unease, my jitteriness. I was jittery enough.

  I grabbed the phone and called Webb.

  He answered immediately, after the first ring.

  Shell here, Webb, I said. I finally had to give you a call and —

  He interrupted. Its all right, Shell. His voice was brisk and bubbling. Shes back. Everythings fine. Well have you over for dinner in a few days.

  Wonderful! Webb, that’s marvelous news. But, look, my friend. Now that shes . . . Webb? Webb?

  He’d hung up.

  It puzzled me. But then I realized Webb would hardly have much enthusiasm for lengthy phone conversations if his bride had just been carried wiggling over the threshold. I hung up, mixed a drink. But there was a little bubble of worry in me. No matter what Webb was doing, it wasn’t like him merely to say a word or two and hang up without even saying goodbye. It was almost as though somebody else had broken the connection.

  It wasn’t like Webb at all. If he hadn’t wanted to talk, he probably wouldnt have answered the phone in the first place. That bubble swelled in me. Maybe his wife wasn’t really back, and he’d just said that to keep me from thinking there was anything to worry about, or check on. Maybe I was nuts, too.

  But I used the phone, called again. The line was busy. I waited five minutes, tried again. Still busy.

  That bubble of worry broke and a cold unease settled in my belly and loins. I put on my gun harness, shoved the Colt Special into its clip. Maybe I was nuts; but I was going to find out, one way or the other.

  Lights burned brightly in Webb’s house. I parked on Poinsettia, at the foot of the stone steps, got out and stood next to the car. Now that I was here, I was almost ready to think that only my overactive imagination had sent me on the wild drive from my apartment. Webb would really appreciate me, I was thinking, if I barged brightly up to his front door when all he wanted was to be completely incommunicado for a week.

  And then I heard the sharp, nerve-slapping sound. It came from above me, from somewhere inside Webb’s house. Unmistakably clear in the quiet night, hard and flat and ugly. A gunshot.

  Three

  I leaped forward, my legs driving me up the stone steps as a second flat slap of sound followed like an echo almost immediately after the first.

  Webb! I shouted.

  My voice, feet slapping on the steps, made a lot of noise; but I wanted to be heard. I shouted Webb’s name again, jumped the last few feet to the front door and slammed into it. The door was locked. There had been no sound except the two rapid shots. I kicked at the door, and the lock gave with a sharp crack. My momentum carried me past the door, into the cluttered front room. Lights blazed in Webb’s studio.

  I staggered, caught my balance without slowing, kept racing forward. The light came from photographic bulbs in their reflectors on my left in the studio. Something sprawled on the floor — a body, one arm outflung. Movement wavered on my right as I jumped into the studio, feet sliding, pulling the .38 from under my coat. A man was just going through a door there, slamming it hard. As it crashed shut, motion danced in the corner of my eye, something moving on my left.

  I jerked my head toward that blur of movement. She was almost out of sight, passing through the side studio door into the adjacent bedroom. I got barely a glimpse of her, but I saw her for a split second. It was a woman, nude, something trailing from one hand — a length of cloth, maybe a robe.

  Before that had time to register, the window in the right wall, next to the door through which the man had gone, shattered with a splintering crash. Simultaneously there was the sound of a gunshot. Something plucked at my sleeve.

  I let my legs drop from under me, hit the floor, snapping an unaimed shot at the window. I hit hard, rolling, crashed into a reflector, felt bunched electrical cord against my leg and foot. A length of cord pulled against my ankle and the lights went out. In the sudden blackness I saw a spurt of flame from the window as the man fired again. Prone on the floor, I pointed my Colt at the spot where the fire had blossomed, squeezed the trigger once, and again.

  I heard the thud of feet pounding alongside the house, started toward the side door. My leg hit something in the dark and I fell. When I got up there was no sound outside — then a cars engine caught, roared. I made it to the door and through it as the engine whined, accelerating. When I reached the rear of Webb’s property the sound was faint. Below me on Azalea and a hundred yards to my left, headlights flashed as the car swerved around a bend in the road and out of sight. The shriek of tires skidding on asphalt floated back to me through the still air.

  A minute later I was back inside the house. I felt my way through the studio, found the electrical cord I’d kicked loose, fumbled along the wall for the outlet. As my fingers touched it, I heard a noise behind me. It was a scuttling sound, as if a great crab were crawling over the bare floor, claws clacking softly on the wood. Then a sibilant hiss. Hair stirred at the back of my neck and a moist coldness touched my spine as I realized what it was.

  It was the man there, not dead, his fingers digging at the wood, clawing, clutching. I pressed the plug into its socket. Lights blazed again. I turned to look at the man. Light came from two portable lamps in their conical reflectors, one still erect on its adjustable steel-tube stand. The other had fallen, lay still burning on the floor. Its beam slanted weirdly over the mans face.

  The man was Webb.

  He lay flat, chest pressed against the floor, left arm extended straight above his head, right bent back so that his hand almost touched his shoulder. His face was toward me, stark in the white light, and his eyes were open. Both his hands, the one over his head and the other brushing his right shoulder, moved mechanically, the fingers arching like white spurs, clawlike, scraping against the floor. There was no other motion, no other sound, only the hands and fingers scuttling, as if they possessed a separate life, were independent of the dying body holding them, pulling them with it towa
rd death. Once, twice, once more they scraped against the floor, digging tiny lighter furrows in the dark wood.

  Then they stopped, and died.

  Webb, I said.

  I spoke to him, but I knew it was useless. I knew he couldn’t hear me, knew he was dead. But I said, as if he were sitting across from me in his living room, Webb, old friend. Come on. You’re not going to die. Come on, Webb.

  I touched him, felt for the pulse in his wrist, in his throat, but it was gone. Blood stained the back of his white shirt. Two amoebic rings of red. One for each of the sounds I’d heard, one for each of the shots that had sent bullets into Webb’s back.

  I left him where he was, stood up. The one lamp still standing on its base poured bright light over the corner where Webb had taken so many of his pictures. It fell on the carved-wood statue of Pan I’d seen in the front room last night, on the fleshy, grinning lips, the knowing, heavy-lidded eyes.

  Behind the figure, hiding the intersection of the walls, was draped a heavy red velvet curtain. Facing the curtain was Webb’s four-by-five Speed Graphic, cable release dangling from its shutter. The cut-film holder was in place at the cameras back, and on a chair nearby lay one of the holders two dark slides. I picked up the plastic slide, slid it back into place and then removed the film holder, held it in my hand as I walked toward the bedroom into which the girl had run.

  Just inside the studio, to the right of the bedroom door, was a small table piled high with books, several boxes of Ektachrome cut film, and a stack of four-by-five film holders. I placed the holder I’d taken from the Graphic across those already on the table as I walked into the bedroom. The door leading to a garden in back stood open. On the bed, loosely bunched, were a womans clothes. White brassiere and step-ins, a green sarong-type dress. On the carpeted floor beneath them were green high-heeled pumps and a pair of nylon hose. I looked at the dress. The label at its neckline bore the name Kapiolani Fashions.

  I went into the living room and walked to the phone, intending to call the police. But then I hesitated. This was Medina. Of all the cities in California, it had to be Medina. Two years ago I’d broken a case here, exposed a burglary ring. My local client had lost fifty thousand dollars worth of jewelry and furs, and after two months of work I’d wrapped it up. The ring had been composed of two ex-cons who’d done big time for burglary — and three police officers. Three of Medinas local law. One of the policemen — since convicted and sent to San Quentin — was a young officer named George Farley. He had a brother on the local force, a detective sergeant named Bill Farley. The sergeant had been cleared of any complicity in the crimes himself, but hadn’t had a pleasant time of it.

  He had sworn that I’d framed his brother. Maybe he even believed it, unable to accept the fact that his brother was a thief. Two years ago Sergeant Bill Farley had been a homicide cop; I wondered if he still was. One thing I did know: he hated my guts.

  I picked up the phone, dialed Operator. But then I heard a siren. The sound increased, nearing Webb’s home. Somebody must have reported hearing gunshots. I hung up, walked to the door as a police radio car stopped in front of the house. As two officers started up the steps another car parked behind the first one.

  The two policemen had revolvers in their hands. I stepped back into the room, told them that a man had been killed and his body was in the next room. One of them asked me who I was and what I was doing here. He kept his gun on me.

  I said, Im Shell Scott. Im a friend — But that was as far as I got.

  Scott, someone said from the doorway. Just the one word, but it was delivered like one of the least pleasant four-letter words. Two men in plain clothes stood in the doorway now. The man in front was Bill Farley. Five-ten or -eleven, wide, solid, with a thick rubbery face. He stepped into the room, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from a belt holster.

  Scott, he said again, with a kind of satisfaction.

  The officer I’d spoken to told Farley what I’d said and Farley strode heavily into the studio, came back and sent the other plainclothesman in there. Then he waved his revolver at me and said, Get those hands up, Scott. Over against the wall.

  Not so fast, Farley —

  Up with them. His small eyes looked hot.

  I bit back the words that started out, slowly raised my hands. Following Farleys barked instructions I stood away from the wall, leaned against it while he shook me down. He took my .38 from its shoulder clip, stepped back.

  Empty your pockets, he said.

  I dropped my arms to my sides and looked at him. Don’t push this too far, Sergeant.

  Lieutenant. Empty the pockets.

  You’re wasting a lot of time. About five minutes ago a man shot Webley Alden. I didn’t get a look at his face, but he took off in a car down Azalea. And there was a girl here —

  You going to do what I told you, Scott?

  Farley, you damn fool. I got here right after —

  He grinned, took a step toward me, raising his left hand.

  I balled my right hand into a fist.

  Shell. The other plainclothes officer spoke softly from the studio doorway.

  I hadn’t taken a look at him after spotting Farleys face, but now I recognized him. He was another of the men I’d met during that case two years ago, but he and I had hit it off well. He was a pleasant young guy named Dugan, not at all like Farley. I pulled my fist open again. Farley had wanted me to hit him. It was all over his face; he could have had a lot of fun with me then.

  I turned away from him, jamming my teeth together, pulled everything from my pockets and slammed the stuff in a pile on a table. One of the other officers was talking on the phone. Farley took his time looking through my belongings.

  I tried once more. Farley —

  Lieutenant Farley.

  Lieutenant — Farley. While you’re giving this marvelous imitation of an idiot, whoever killed Webb is getting clear the hell out of Medina. I paused, breathing heavily. Though if hes got any sense hell stay here in town. Where hes safe.

  Farley grinned, hefted my Colt in one big hand, snapped open the cylinder. He knew better than to throw the cylinder out hard like that. He weighed about two hundred pounds, and he was solid. He looked thick and slow, but very strong. The grin bunched thick buttons of muscle at each side of his mouth, adding to the rubbery, muscular look of his face.

  Just fired, he said with oily satisfaction. Three times. He snapped the cylinder back in with a vicious twist of his wrist.

  The palms of my hands were moist. You want to hear what happened, Farley?

  Ill hear it downtown.

  You’re not taking me in.

  Im not?

  Why, you club-brained, miserable . . . Farley, your skull must grow in solid clear to the middle. If you —

  Keep that yap shut. His face was tanned, but it seemed to get darker, as if black blood were gathering under the rubbery skin. Open your mouth again and Ill shut it myself.

  So that’s the way it was going to be. I looked at Farley. I guess youll have it your way, friend. For a while. I’d better use the phone.

  What for?

  To call my lawyer.

  Youll need one. You can call him from downtown.

  Sure, I thought. One of these days. Before we left I looked back once at Webb’s body. Men were in the room, drawing chalk lines, taking flash pictures, making diagrams and notes. It seemed obscene, somehow. And as we went out and down the stone steps I thought of Webb’s last words to me on the night before this.

  It was to have been his wedding night, he’d said. Tonight was more like it, I thought. Tonight his wedding night. And death his bride.

  Farley shoved me in the back with the flat of his hand. We went down the steps, into the police car, and drove toward the Medina jail.

  From eight-thirty Friday night until nearly nine a.m. Saturday morning they had me in an in
terrogation room, while teams of officers took turns hammering questions at me. The same questions, over and over. With the wooden chair starting to feel like needles under me and the light like a small sun in my eyes. After a while I stopped saying anything in reply except: I’ve already answered that nineteen times, you miserable imbeciles.

  They didn’t learn to love me. But at nine oclock Saturday morning they let me go. I had the help of a smart and influential attorney, but mainly they just didn’t have anything on me. My story held up, and the bullets in Webb’s back were from another gun than mine. One of the slugs I’d fired at the window had dug into its wooden frame and checked with a test bullet fired from my revolver.

  At nine oclock I had my belongings back, even my .38 Colt Special, and was ready to leave. Farley escorted me to the door. He seemed wide awake, full of energy. He’d enjoyed his turns with me in the back room.

  He said, Advice, Scott. Stay a long way from Medina.

  You go to hell.

  It bounced off him. Don’t mess around in this case. Its a police matter now. I don’t want you fouling it up.

  Farley never swore at me, and it wasn’t even so much what he said; it was the way he said it. As if the words got slimy in his mouth. I said, Hasnt it seeped into that solid-bone brain of yours yet that maybe I don’t give a damn what you want?

  Just stay clear out of this town, Scott. Don’t argue about it. Do it. Keep your nose out. Stick it in, and Ill slap you in a cell so fast —

  On what charge? Doing my job?

  Ill find a charge. He grinned, flesh buttons bunching around his mouth. Ill find a couple.

  And, undoubtedly, he was the guy to do it. He made me feel as if I’d eaten some underdone vulture, feathers included. I looked at him, at the thick rubbery face and small eyes, and said, Farley, you really get the prize. All my working life I’ve worked with the police. With guys who get too little money and too much guff, do a big job with little credit. I’ve met hundreds of cops, known dozens well, and liked them all. My best friend in L.A. is the Captain of Homicide. I like cops. I’ve known maybe half a dozen all told that turned my stomach. But, friend, you are the end. I paused. And Ill bet even you know which end I have in mind.