As I started after him a gun cracked. Bright blooms of flame darted toward me. The bullets were wide by several feet. I dropped to one knee, snapped a shot toward the place where Grey had been; waited, listening. Then I heard the engine of his car roar, the crunch of tires on earth.
His headlights were out, but the taillights flared red in the night. As he swung around in a tight half circle I aimed ahead of the red lights, fired three times. The car gained speed, then the headlights leaped down the dirt road and the Imperial raced after them.
I let him go. I found a lighter in my pocket, snapped it on and looked at my watch. It was eighteen minutes after midnight. In twenty-seven minutes a plane would be leaving Las Vegas for L.A.; I meant to be on that plane, if I could make it. Very soon a large portion of the hoods in Vegas would be looking for me. And would know where to look. Getting my hands on Grey wasn’t, at the moment, the important thing. The important thing was done.
I found the shovel, walked to the spot where Grey had been standing. In a few seconds I’d scraped away the last inch or two of earth. In another half minute I’d bared part of the arm. What had once been an arm. Now it was purple-blotched, dark and discolored. Once it had been smooth and firm and warm, and she had been beautiful.
It was pretty bad. I tried not to breathe, but I had to look. Holding the burning lighter so its flame illumined her arm, I bent close. On the puffy, bloated hand, nearly buried in the swollen finger, almost as if it were alive and tightening upon her dead flesh, the metal serpent coiled. Its diamond eyes glittered brightly in the flame.
Seventeen
I got up late the next afternoon in my apartment, showered and shaved and looked with a dim eye upon my numerous bruises and cuts and bumps. It was truly a splendid array.
But none of it really bothered me except the almost constant ache in my head. It felt as if either my brain was growing or my skull was shrinking. For a moment I amused myself with the thought of a brain growing, and growing, popping out of its skull and slithering over the landscape, striking down evil citizens with rays of pure noodles, growing and growing. . . .
But then the thought of Shell Scott, Giant Brain, struck me as perhaps a bit unlikely, especially since I now had much less than I’d started out with. So I dressed and forced myself to eat a hearty breakfast, then went into the living room.
I’d made it in time to the plane at McCarran Field the night before and there’d been no trouble with gunmen there or on landing at L.A. International. I had rented a Chrysler, driven home. Now, despite the bruises and aches, I was rested and refreshed, ready for the final act tonight. Because tonight was Saturday night, the Anniversary Party, the wrap-up, the unveiling.
I grinned to myself, thinking that it would be an unveiling in more ways than one. And just in case I got killed, I figured I might as well go out in style. With a flair, so to speak. And the Anniversary Party, from what I knew of it, sure seemed like the place where anything might happen.
But I needed information, help. I had to trust somebody. I dug up all my notes and went over them again. One Blackie, the notes told me, was Sue Mayfair, and after her name was a Hollywood telephone number. The notes told me, too, that Blackie was a doll, a delight. Just how good a friend she might be the notes didn’t quite say, but it seemed reasonably sure that she was, if nothing else, not included among my enemies. That was good; I didn’t want an enemy helping me.
So I called Sue Mayfair. She seemed pleased to hear from me and said, yes, shed been in the Whittaker house, where the party was to be held, once before at a small cocktail party. And she would be glad to help me any way she could. It was a rather odd conversation. Once she asked, sort of giggling, if she should wear her costume, but I didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about. However, she said, sure, shed be happy if I came over to see her in half an hour.
I hung up, found a bottle of glue in a drawer and dropped it into my coat pocket. Then I made sure I had the .45 automatic, went through the first twelve issues of Wow! and tore out the featured gatefolds, and was on my way.
I stopped at Eagle Photo. Harold had the enlargement already framed and wired for me. It was four feet by five feet, ready to hang on a wall. And was in a word: splendid.
The lovely lines of the womans nude body were soft and flowing, the flesh almost melting against the harsher outlines of the carved-wood Pan beyond her. The hands of Pan reached out as if about to enclose the wonderfully shapely form, draw it to him, upon him. One hairy leg was raised, the goat foot gleaming, and on Pans dark face was an expression of complete and delighted lechery, the eyes wide and knowing, the thick lips twisted in a lascivious smile.
I gave Harold a check with my thanks, put the big enlargement in the back of my rented Chrysler, and drove to a sporting goods store where I bought a box of .45-caliber cartridges. I filled the automatics magazine, dropped the gun in my coat pocket, then drove on, with some anticipation, to see Blackie.
It was six-thirty p.m. Blackie, wearing a bright print dress with narrow cloth straps over her smooth shoulders, sat at one end of a blue divan in her apartment. I sat at the other end. Both of us had highballs, the second for each of us so far. I had explained the current situation to Blackie. She was over her first surprise and had filled me in on all that shed told me before. Or, perhaps, not quite all, since shed mentioned nothing about a costume or even hinted at anything which would explain the enthusiasm I’d expressed about Sue Mayfair in my notes.
Now she had another sip of her drink and said, Well, you look and talk the same, Shell. Ill bet you havent changed a bit. She grinned. I hope. So whats next?
I mean to be an uninvited guest at the Anniversary Party tonight. But several characters present there will want to shoot me on sight.
Shoot you? With bullets?
Bullets, bows and arrows, blowguns, anything they can get their hands on. I paused. So, as I mentioned a bit earlier, anybody who helps me in any way could buy a large hunk of trouble if it got noised around.
I told you to forget that. Where do I come in?
Well, these characters will probably have a hunch I might try to show up at the party. A couple of the boys could even be on guard outside, that sort of thing. And I imagine once the party starts all the doors will be locked.
You can bet on that. She grinned again. I know you don’t remember all I told you before, but do you know whats supposed to happen at the party tonight? The pictures and all?
Yes. That is, I wrote down the salient points and have . . . mulled it over mentally. I know theres to be a photo or two taken of all the girls featured in the first twelve issues of Wow! Ah, like the individual shots, but . . . all at once.
She laughed. Yes. In high-heeled shoes and turtleneck sweaters. And nothing else. Did you write that down?
No . . . I merely indicated that . . . ah . . . hoo! That’s how theyll do it, huh?
Yes. That’s the costume well all wear. Her eyes were merry.
Costume? Didn’t you ask me . . . hoo! I finished my drink. My mind was wandering down paths which led into freeways which could make a shambles of an already half-shot mind like mine.
Blackie slid close on the couch, took the empty glass from my hand and said, Ill fix us another drink, all right?
Yeah, fine. But I have to have a dear head tonight . . . hah. Clear head. Sure, fix another drink.
She walked toward the bar and I said, One other item, Blackie. Theres a big photograph, twenty square feet of it, that I’d like to have on the wall when the party gets going. But I have to fix it a little first. Okay if I bring it up?
It was all right with Blackie, so I went down to the car and got the enlargement, my gatefolds from Wow!, and the glue. Blackie had fresh drinks ready when I got back.
I showed her the big framed photo.
Boy! she said. That’s a good one. Who is it, do you know yet?
That’s what Ill tell you, and everybody else, tonight. I explained that my idea was to paste — on the reverse side of the framed enlargement — the twelve gatefolds from Wow! Since the magazine itself, and the Wow girls, were what the party was all about in the first place, the collection of twelve photos hanging on the wall should not strike a jarring note, but instead should seem a natural part of the surroundings.
A sort of homey touch, hey? said Blackie.
That’s the idea. Assuming I can sneak this big thing into the house — and assuming nobody turns the thing over and peeks at the enlargement on the other side.
Very good, she said. Theres a madness to your method.
Yes, theres . . . Well, I’d better start pasting.
Lets both paste.
It didn’t take long, but it was sure fun. You just never know how much fun your work can be unless you plunge right into it. Blackie and I both got down on the floor, and snipped and arranged and pasted, and I decided it would have been great fun to be on the floor with Blackie even if wed had nothing to paste. A couple of times she nudged me in the ribs with her elbow and said something wild. That’s the way it went.
Then we sat on the couch and talked. Blackie told me the party would be at a big home in Medina owned by Mr. Whittaker, he having a chunk of money in Wow! The giddiness was to begin at eight p.m. in what old Whittaker, with remarkable bluntness, called his Booze Room, and from there would progress on into the living room for talking, drinking, smoking, and no telling. Including taking the pix for Wow! And just possibly some private collections.
Blackie described the fat old mansion for me. She would unlock a side door if she-could, so I could sneak in and skulk about, and with luck hang my picture in the living room. She told me the library was next to the living room, where tonight I wagered there would be lots of living, and if all went well I could get in there before the gang showed up. It sort of amused me to think that I might get killed in — a library. Not that I don’t read; I read many things. Besides Wow!
I looked at my watch. It was almost seven-thirty p.m. Time I left, I said.
Gee, I wish it wasn’t so late, Shell.
I wish it was about three in the afternoon — tomorrow.
If we had time . . . Ill bet we could kill a couple more hours here.
Ill bet we could slaughter them.
Shell, you don’t remember anything at all about being up here before, do you?
No. Worse luck. Nothing . . . at all.
She had put her hand on my leg, an inch or two above the knee. Its funny about hands. They can do all sorts of things, such as slap you on the back, or sock you on the jaw, or wave goodbye. Blackie was sort of waving, but it was not goodbye. The sensation of her gently waggling fingers was not quite like that of a functional soldering iron, but there was pretty near enough heat being generated to fuse pants and leg together.
She said, Maybe after the party we could get together again up here. We can figure out something to do, Ill bet.
Ill bet.
That’s what well do then. She grinned. You’re fun, Shell. You havent changed. You’re more fun than a barrel of monkeyers.
Well, I . . . Would you say that again a little more —
So don’t get yourself shot or bow-and-arrowed or anything.
Don’t you worry. I paused. For Petes sake, don’t mention me to anybody at Whittakers. That would get me boiled in oil.
I wont.
We made it to her front door. Blackie was going to the ball in her own car, and as I went out she said, Remember now. Don’t you get shot and spoil our little party.
It occurred to me that if I got shot, it would spoil much more than our little party. Depending, of course, on where I got shot.
But I grinned at her and said, Blackie, I wouldnt think of it, and left.
I had been waiting for half an hour in the bushes outside the two-story Whittaker house in Medina. Now I took the Colt .45 from my pocket, worked a cartridge into the barrel chamber, pushed up the safety lock and dropped the cocked gun into my pocket again. The big enlargement lay flat on grass a few feet from me. A rectangular swimming pool was at this side of the house, about thirty feet from where I crouched.
Blackie had been one of the first girls to arrive. But in the last half hour I’d heard numerous other cars drive up and even managed to see some of the arriving guests. The only women to be present were the Wow girls; all the other guests would be men.
Among them I had spotted a face which, though I’d gotten only a quick glance at it last night in the beam of my flash, I easily recognized. Ed Grey. With him had been another guy easily recognizable, big Slobbers OBrien. Close on their heels had come two other men I didn’t know, but who had the hard dark look of unpleasant people.
By now all the guests were probably inside. All but the uninvited guest: me. It was night, eight-thirty p.m., and time for me to get started.
Carrying the big picture I walked to the pool, past it, reached the door. Blackie had done her Job and the door opened noiselessly. I shut it behind me, waited. From another part of the house I could hear faint conversation and occasional laughter. Unless there’d been a change in plans, the whole gang would now be in the Booze Room, which I understood to be a luxurious room complete with two bars, hi-fi, comfortable furniture — everything needed for serious, or light, drinking.
From the Booze Room the guests, suitably lubricated, would ooze to the huge living room. The girls would change, in one of the adjacent bedrooms, into their costumes and then the fun — that is, the photographic session, would begin. And probably everybody would sing, Happy Birthday to Wow! or do something equally exciting.
I walked forward. Sounds of merriment got a little louder but I didn’t see anybody. After a minute or so I found the living room. Cameras, lights and reflectors were already there against one wall, but the room was empty of people.
Directly ahead of me was a bare wall of highly polished dark wood. At its left and right ends were heavy doors, both closed. The rooms right wall was almost entirely glass, the big windows affording a view of the swimming pool outside. In the middle of the opposite wall, on my left, sliding doors were open before the library. I could see in their shelves hundreds of books that nobody was going to read tonight.
Several feet beyond those sliding doors, about half the distance to that bare wall, hung a large painting. It was almost the same size as the collection I carried, but not nearly as interesting, since it was an old oil painting of some dead fish and stuffed ducks. I replaced the fish and ducks with my framed collection. When I stepped back, the sight of all those Women With Wow at once, was almost overpowering. I left the oil painting on the floor beneath it, went into the library, closed the sliding doors and looked around.
The shelves held at least four or five thousand books, the furniture was deep and comfortable in appearance. A cool breeze came in through two open windows overlooking a group of glossy-leaved philodendrons. There was the faint scent of tobacco smoke in the library. But the room was empty now, quiet. I went back to the sliding doors, opened them a half inch, and waited.
About ten minutes after I got into position, the first of the guests started coming in. Soon there were twenty or so milling about, others arriving, all of them with highballs or cocktails. I saw Ed Grey clearly through my half-inch crack in the door. Somebody had obviously given him a beautiful shiner, not quite concealed now by makeup. It pleased me. Slobbers showed up, plus the two guys I’d seen follow him inside the house. There were several other men present, some of them undoubtedly from the Wow! staff, a professional photographer or two and several amateurs.
A man with a notebook in his hand, probably a reporter, waved across the room and called, Hey, Desmond. Couple questions?
A tall, broad-shouldered guy, good-looking and with a bunch of wavy brown hair, walked to the man who’d called. That would be Or
lando Desmond, Raven McKennas husband. I recognized him; it figured. The two men spoke. Orlando threw back his head and laughed, rolling his eyes around the room, possibly to note the effect on the lovelies of his big white beautiful teeth.
It looked as if everybody was present now, and it was quite a crowd. Tall men, short men, thick and thin men, reporters, photographers, hoodlums. All of those, plus.
Plus: ten of the most gorgeous gals a man could hope to see in a long and energetic life. Ten Women With Wow, ten lusty, busty, beautiful, almost outrageously shapely tomatoes, young and juicy, vibrant and healthy, exquisitely gowned, exquisitely fashioned. Blondes and brunettes, redheads, and gals with jet-black hair. All were in cocktail dresses, and the dresses all looked like the kind which are never thrown on but are sometimes thrown off. Several black ones, an electric blue, one in vivid orange, a purple and a green and a beige, one white and one lavender.
Cigarettes came away red-stained from red-stained lips, ripe mouths caressed the rims of crystal glasses, white teeth flashed in laughter. It was beautiful, wonderful. I was miserable. I wanted to be out there, flitting like a bee from flower to flower, like a wasp, like a hawk, like crazy. Like me. But here I stood — in the library. Here I stood, peeking out at it all.
The room buzzed, conversation rose and fell, white breasts flirted with the necklines of colorful dresses, flesh rippled smoothly under silk, nylon, jersey, as the lovelies walked in the room. Hors doeuvres were passed around on silver trays. More drinks arrived. I perspired.
Man, I thought, none of those babes had better waltz in here. No, sirree. Even if it was worth it, that could ruin everything. But nobody came near the library, except passing by to get a drink or an hors doeuvre or a woman.
Ten lovelies — out of twelve Women With Wow. Which meant that two were missing. One of those missing, of course, was Pagan Page.
A short, globular man I assumed was Mr. Whittaker called for attention and said a few words of welcome to the assemblage, then introduced Orlando Desmond. Desmond made a short speech in which he spoke of the tragic death of Webley Alden and said many flowery things about Webb as the real heart of Wow! He went on to compliment the girls who had so successfully raised the circulation of the magazine and the male population of the USA., and stopped just short of singing a song.
Dance with the Dead (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 19