Hold it.
He swung his head toward me. Whats the matter?
Not this instant, pal. I’ve got a few things to do before we start parting my head.
He started to reply, then stopped, frowning. After a long silence he said, I know you too well to argue if you’ve made up your mind to do some damn fool thing. But, Shell, I must strongly advise you to get medical attention right away. There might be arteries or veins blocked, pinched — cells not fed die, you know. And theres the possibility that another blow on the head could really ruin you.
Ha! Another blow on the head. Its been tried already, by experts. And it didn’t kill me. Not quite.
Paul started to speak again but I held up a hand. Really, my friend. I couldn’t let the skull-sawing and whatnot get started just now. I’d be laid up for days, probably weeks or more. And numerous guys who desire to kill me would most likely find me. No, after I get through the next day or two, then you may wheel me straight into Dr. Frankensteins if you want — which is what I think you have in mind. Anyway, forget it for now.
I was serious. And for the reasons I’d given him. But I was also thinking of all those crazy things he’d said. If ever I had considered checking into a hospital before my job was done, I considered it no longer.
Paul opened his mouth, shut it. Well, its your funeral. But I recall saying the same thing to you before this. He sighed. What next, then?
I started telling him what I planned to do, and when I mentioned the films referred to in the four pages of notes I’d so recently read, Paul said, Films? Shell, before you left for Hawaii you asked me to hang onto two reels of film for you. They, the projector and screen, are in my closet.
I gawked at him, then grinned. What, I asked, are we waiting for?
With the projector and screen set up, Paul switched out the lights and I started running the films. The last reel showed scenes after the wedding in Hawaii. Paul pointed out Webley Alden and I thought that he looked very happy. His brides face was never visible. But, looking at the faces which were visible in the pictures, I saw one I recognized.
Recognized?
It jarred me. Either one of those cell groups Paul had talked about was sparking normally, or the face belonged to somebody I had met since the Banyan Tree.
Another look gave me the answer; cells were not sparking. The man who’d caught my eye was in a black suit, and obviously had officiated at the ceremony; the Bible in his hand was a prop. Tall and thin, with black hair and brows, with a large beak on him. A kind of spread-out, fleshy nose.
I’d seen him twice, very recently. The first time had been in the darkness of Monsarrat in Waikiki. And again in the Pele when I’d slugged him for the second time. Then he’d had a mashed mouth and a couple of other lumps on his chops. But it was, unquestionably, the same guy.
Before leaving I asked Paul if he knew anything about the photograph Webley Alden had taken the night he was killed. It was referred to in my notes, and the goons at L.A. International had asked me about it, but I had no idea where it was now.
Neither did Paul, but he did know I had most of my photographic work done by a man named Harold at Eagle Photo Supply a few blocks up Rossmore. I called Harold, got him at the camera shop, and asked him about it. The way he reacted, the picture stood out in his mind like a beacon. He still had the transparency and I told him to make a big enlargement from it, at least life size, larger if he could manage it. Harold said he would have the job done by morning.
It was as simple as that.
If only, I thought, the rest of it could be that simple.
But next on the agenda was Las Vegas. The Algiers. And Ed Grey.
The Western Airlines DC-6B I’d boarded less than an hour and a half earlier at L.A. International landed at McCarran Field, Las Vegas, at nine-eighteen p.m. that Friday night. The next flight back to L.A. was scheduled for twelve-forty-five a.m. With luck I might be on it.
I took a cab down U. S. Highway 91 to a small cocktail lounge called Cosmos, just past the Algiers and on the opposite side of the Strip. In the lounge I found a pay phone and called the Algiers, asked for Dutch. My notes had mentioned my getting helpful information from Dutch, and from Charlie, one of the Wow girls.
Dutch was voluble and pleasant on the phone. I asked him to meet me here, without broadcasting news of my presence, and he said he had a break soon. I had a highball and waited. After he arrived and found me at the bar it took me another five minutes to explain my situation and convince him I was serious.
I wound it up, Anyway, that’s it. So it would help if you’d tell me what you told me when I was here before.
He looked at me curiously, brows pulled down, shaking his head. But then he started in. When he’d finished I said, Ed Grey was kind of hot for Pagan, huh?
Hell, hes hot for women — which is why that dressing rooms next to his office, Ill give odds. But Ed even gave Pagan a ring. I mentioned the trinkets and such last time.
Engagement ring?
No, just a ring. Ornamental thing. Snake chewing on its tail — expensive enough. Big diamonds for eyes.
Did Pagan wear the thing?
Sure, after he gave it to her she was never without it. Real proud of it, said it cost sixteen hundred bucks. He laughed. She actually went down to Masons here, where Ed bought the thing, and checked up. No glass for Pagan.
You don’t have any idea where she is?
He shook his head. Nope. Like I said, havent seen her since two nights before Charlie took over the act.
We finished our drinks and Dutch left briefly, returned with Charlie. She had a lot of thick red hair, and there was a lot of Charlie, but it was in the places where a lot was enough. She sat between Dutch and me and ordered a dry martini, told me her story, in the meantime ordering another martini.
I asked her, Ed phoned you to replace Pagan on the night of the fourteenth? You’re sure?
Sure. Friday night. Next day I started, and that was Saturday, the fifteenth.
What time of night did he call?
Around eight p.m. Maybe a few minutes after. I’d just turned in. Early for a change.
And the last show always starts at midnight? Seven nights a week? She nodded. Friday the fourteenth was the night Webley Alden had been killed. There wasn’t much else Charlie could tell me, and in a few minutes she went back to the Algiers.
I told Dutch I wanted to talk to the switchboard operator in the Algiers, find out if any long-distance calls had come in on the night of the fourteenth for Ed Grey. He said he’d get them for me.
When I protested that it could get him in trouble if Grey found out, he said, Its okay. I know the lass on the switchboard. Dutch grinned. Quite well. Besides, nuts to em. I can always go back to the farm. He slid off the stool. Ill give you a call here with the info.
Okay, Dutch. But tell the lass to describe a big white-haired guy — me — if Grey asks her who got nosy. One other thing. When Grey leaves the Algiers, does he drive his own car?
Yeah, new tan Imperial sedan.
Where does he park it?
In front of the club. Just past the loading strip outside the entrance.
He left. A few minutes later his call came for me. Two long-distance calls to Ed that night, Shell, he said. One from Chicago at six-forty p.m. The other from Medina, California at seven-fifty-two p.m.
Medina, huh?
Right. No others, though.
One of those was enough. Thanks, Dutch.
I hung up with a very satisfied feeling, looked in the phone books yellow pages, found Masons Jewelers, and phoned. There was no answer at the store, but I got David Mason, the owner, at his home. I described the ring Ed Grey had bought for Pagan Page, explained it had been purchased sometime during the early part of August, and that I wanted one just like it.
Would you describe the ring again?
/> Serpent with its tail in its mouth, diamonds for eyes. I think it cost sixteen hundred dollars.
Oh, yes. I’ve one identical with it. Perhaps two. I can check tomorrow.
It has to be tonight. And all I want is the setting.
The setting? Tonight? Do you really expect me to drive all the way downtown at this hour, and open the store, merely to sell you the setting?
I hope you will. Its important.
He didn’t say anything, just sort of grumbled.
I said, Whats the ring worth — without the stones?
Very little. Perhaps a hundred dollars at most.
I didn’t have sixteen hundred, but this I could handle. Ill pay two hundred for the setting, I said.
He grumbled some more, but finally said he’d do it.
At eleven-forty-five p.m. — in a Ford I’d rented from a U-Drive lot — I drove up in front of the Algiers. In the Fords glove compartment were a flashlight and the loaded .45 automatic I’d taken from Biff.
Dutch had told me Ed Grey was usually in his office at this hour, and when the doorman stepped up to my car I said, Ed in his office now? Ed Grey?
I guess so. Probably.
Would you deliver a package to him for me? I held up the small ring box. In it was the setting I’d bought from Mr. Mason. Around it was a five-dollar bill.
The guy looked at the five. Sure thing, he said.
I gave him the five. One condition. Deliver it at exactly twelve oclock. Exactly. OK?
I guess so. Sure. Just so it aint a bomb or something.
I grinned. That’s what I hoped it was. I took a last look at it myself. On the way here I’d stopped and rubbed the setting in soft earth alongside the road, then put it back into the ring box. The band was about an eighth of an inch thick, intricately worked with scales over the snakes body, narrow tail disappearing into the open mouth. The diamond eyes, of course, were gone; and I had made sure no dirt remained in the spaces where they had been. The scales and snakes mouth had retained a lot of dirt, though.
I closed the box, handed it to the man. The tan Imperial was parked a few yards ahead of me. I drove past it, and back to Cosmos. From there I called the Algiers at three minutes before midnight. When he answered I said, Hang onto something, Ed.
What?
I’ve got bad news for you.
You what? Who is this?
Shell Scott. But that’s only part of the bad news.
Scott? He was silent, digesting it. Then he said, as if it wasn’t digested, What in hell do you want?
You, Ed. You in a sweat. You on a slab.
Why, you bastard. I’ve had enough —
Guess what, Ed? I found Pagans body.
He didn’t say anything. For quite a while he didn’t say anything. When he spoke, though, his voice was hard and level. I always thought you were nuts, Scott. Now I know it. Make some sense or get off the line.
Try it like this, then. I got a hunch Pagan might be dead when I began wondering why you threw so much weight at me even before we met. From right after Webley Alden was killed, in fact, until now.
You’re full of horse manure.
Keep listening. Webb was killed around seven-thirty on the night of the fourteenth. Twenty minutes or so later you got a call from Medina. Pagan disappeared that night, too — odd coincidence. Nobodys seen her since — another odd coincidence. You knew an hour before she was due to go on at nine p.m. that she wouldnt be going on at all. Now how did you know that, Ed? Suddenly theres no more coincidence. And that’s the odd part.
She just didn’t show. She wasn’t around.
She could have shown at nine. Nine-thirty. Even midnight for the last show — she wasn’t the first act on. You knew she wasn’t going to show, Ed.
He told me again what I was full of, and he’d gone beyond horse manure. But he sounded a little shaky. And he was still listening.
I looked at my watch. It was a minute till midnight. I said, There was plenty of reason for me to start checking, talking to people, looking for Pagan. And finally I found her. Im not really sure why you killed her —
Scott, you’re clear out of —
But I can make an educated guess. A couple of your boys let it slip that she was riding the earie while you talked on the phone. So, while she wasn’t in on the Medina business, I’d guess she found out about it — probably listening from her adjoining dressing room while you talked to Medina by phone on the night Webb was killed. Even if she didn’t get it all right then, she could easily have put it together when the news of Webb’s murder hit the papers next day.
Pagans as alive as you are, jerk. More alive, probably. He laughed. And shes sure as hell going to live longer.
I told you I found her body. It wasn’t easy, but I made sure it was Pagan Page. Tell me, Ed. Did she try a little blackmail? Or were you just playing it safe?
He laughed shortly. Scott, I have to hand it to you. You might even be making a little sense if Pagan was dead. But shes not — at least not so far as I know. We had a little . . . argument, and she took off in a huff. Messed up the show for one night, but that’s all.
He sounded fairly convincing; maybe I’d overplayed my hand. But he hadn’t denied getting the call from Medina. And he was still listening. It was twelve p.m. on the nose.
So I said, Ed, knock it off. I told you I found her body. It wasn’t pleasant — not after all this time. But I brought back a souvenir for you. Took it off her finger.
You — what? He sounded shocked.
Faintly in the receiver I could hear somebody rap on Grey’s door. I said, That should be it. Little present from Pagan and me to you.
He didn’t say anything, but the phone clattered as it went down on his desktop. There were soft sounds in my ear, the mumble of voices, then Grey was back on the phone.
Scott . . . we got to talk. Scott, you there?
Im here. So lets talk.
Ill meet you someplace. I . . . He stopped. When he spoke again, his voice was stronger. What kind of con is this? It had shaken him, obviously, but he was already pulling himself together. He said angrily, This is some kind of jerky trick. I gave this ring to Pagan, sure. Or . . . one like it. This probably isnt even the one she had.
I took the eyes out, Ed. No point in giving them back to you. And Pagan doesnt need them now.
He laughed again. What are you trying to pull, Scott?
Gently, I hung up.
Then I went out of Cosmos, started the Ford, pulled into U. S. 91, and drove slowly toward the Algiers, heading for desert beyond the hotel. Well, I thought, maybe Ed would buy it. And maybe I hadn’t had anything to sell.
I drove slowly up the highway. The Algiers was on my left, set back about fifty feet from the street, and as I passed opposite the entrance doors a man came through them in a hurry. He stopped, spoke briefly to the doorman, then ran to the tan Imperial and jumped in. The car started with a shriek of rubber, leaped forward in the curving drive.
I stepped on the gas, grinning. I had hoped to get Ed Grey wondering; but he wasn’t just wondering, he was coming unglued. Relief poured into me like plasma. I was a block south of the club when Grey’s tan sedan skidded into Highway 91 behind me.
I kept a block or two ahead of the Imperial, watching it in my rearview mirror. I raced by the Sands, Flamingo, Dunes, Tropicana and Hacienda, then past some gas stations and into darkness of the desert beyond. By then I was going over seventy miles an hour, but once out of the Strips traffic Grey’s car gained rapidly on me. I let him pass.
Only four or five miles from the Algiers, Grey swung skidding off the highway into a narrow dirt road. I slowed, gave him plenty of time, then doused the Fords lights and turned after him. Far ahead I could see the flare of his taillights as he braked suddenly, then the car swung left and out of sight.
There was a q
uarter-moon, barely enough illumination for me to see the road ahead, a lighter path on the earth. In the darkness I took the .45 and flashlight from the glove compartment, put the flashlight on the seat alongside me, cocked the gun and placed it next to the flashlight. I could feel the slow build-up of tension in my muscles, a not unpleasant tightness starting to pull at the back of my neck.
I made the left turn in the road, soon saw light gleam dully on something ahead. Then the shadowy outline of the sedan was visible, and I stopped, got out of the Ford and walked the rest of the way to the other car. It was the Imperial. Clearly in the night came sounds from somewhere on my right.
I walked toward them, gun in my right hand, flashlight in my left. My foot hit a small stone, sent it scuttling over the ground. I stopped. Grey wasn’t far from me now. I could hear the grating sound of something driven into earth, the sharp click of one stone striking another. And then the smell hit me.
The smell of death is acrid, sweetly sickening. It has an unmistakable fetid sweetness, cloying, like nothing else. As if scented air were decaying, turning into corruption. It hangs over battlefields in war, lies trapped within graves in peace. And it was here around Ed Grey and me, filling the space between us. I walked forward through the pungent stench, moving slowly, placing my feet carefully. Then I saw him, hunched over, close to the ground, pawing.
I lifted the gun, aimed it at him, finger barely touching the trigger. I held the flashlight before me but out from my body, then flicked it on. The brilliant beam washed over him, seeming to hold him transfixed for a moment. He was bent, a small collapsible shovel gripped in his hands, its blade half buried in loose earth turned at his feet.
Then his shocked white face snapped toward me. His mouth formed a taut grimace. He lifted the small shovel quickly, started to straighten up.
Hold it, Grey! I said.
He took one step nearer, hurled the shovel with all his strength. It pinwheeled toward me, blade catching the light. I ducked, jumped to the side. Almost in time. The shovels handle slammed against my left forearm, numbing the muscles momentarily, and the flashlight fell against a rock, winked out. I heard the sound of Grey’s running feet.
Dance with the Dead (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 18