Dead Heat (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Mr. Matthew Wyndham?” He was looking with disapproval at my plain old black two-hundred-dollar threads. “He is with Mrs. Wyndham, at a table overlooking the fountain.” He indicated with a gentle glance the general area in which were the tables that overlooked the fountain.

  Then he just stood there, eying me dreamily, as if I was supposed to give him a C-note or something. So I smiled at him, in friendly fashion, and said, “Real tasty-looking little chickens you’ve got there.”

  He sneered at me. “These,” he said loftily, “are Malayan hens, stuffed with wild rice.”

  I let myself be suitably impressed. “Real wild rice, huh?”

  His expression went clunk, and I left him there and walked to the tables overlooking the fountain. Since I am a detective, I found the table in something under five minutes. First I had to find the fountain, which was outside in the yard and consisted of three sprays of water shooting up into the air a foot. Near the window were a dozen tables from which this exciting display could be admired, and there were stern-faced women at many of them, and at one a woman sitting alone. I deduced that the woman alone was Mrs. Wyndham, because she looked like an English butler suffering from acute indigestion, and also — if you want the truth — because I asked another waiter.

  Then I approached the table.

  “Mrs. Wyndham?” I said.

  She lifted her head and looked at me from little, frosty eyes. Then, having gotten a good look at me, she lifted her head some more and examined me with her nostrils.

  “I am she,” she said, and that told me almost more than I desired to know about Mrs. Wyndham.

  “Well,” I said, “you may never have heard of Sheldon Scott, but I am he. And he is very desirous of conversing with Mr. Wyndham.”

  I thought I’d carried that off rather well, but she said, “Who?”

  “Mr. Wyndham. Is he anywhere about?”

  “My word,” she said.

  I waited. Something had to happen. If nothing else, I’d just stand here and wear her down. The band finished “Laura,” and swung into “Tease Me.”

  “My husband is at the bar,” she said finally, in the manner of a woman saying “He has gone to hell.” She moved her nostrils. “With that tall gentleman in the outrageous clothing.”

  I spotted Wyndham at the far end of the bar, talking to a tall, slim guy about thirty-five years old. The outrageous clothing consisted of a black suit and a silver-white tie. I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Wyndham. Who is the chap in the sports outfit?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I have never seen him before.” She paused. “If you intend to speak with Mr. Wyndham, tell him to return to this table immediately.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and walked toward the bar.

  Wyndham and the tall, thin guy were in earnest conversation as I approached them. Wyndham’s back was toward me, but the other man saw me coming and I heard him say, “Cool it, Matt.” Wyndham swiveled around on his stool, spotted me, and said, “Ock.”

  “Hello, Mr. Wyndham,” I said.

  “Ah — who — how did you get in here?”

  “Well, it only costs forty-five-hundred dollars — ”

  “Are you a member?”

  “Not really. Actually, I sneaked in. Security is lax. Which is one of the things I want to talk to you about.” I looked at the other man and said deliberately, “How do you do?”

  His eyes shifted to Wyndham’s pink-cheeked face and he said softly, “See you later, Matt.”

  I grabbed his right hand and pumped it while smiling and saying, “How do you do, sir? Any friend of Matt’s . . . ” I just let it trail off. So did he.

  He had a pale, thin face, not unhandsome but a bit weak, I thought, with widely spaced blue eyes, a hairline mustache splitting his upper lip, and something like axle grease holding his black hair in tortured waves. He did not smile back at me, and it was clear he wasn’t about to introduce himself.

  But Wyndham, a bit flustered, said, “Oh, pardon me. Mr. Scott, this is Dr. Noble, Dr. Fleming Noble. Doctor, this is Mr. Sheldon Scott.”

  “A doctor, hey?” I said. I let go of his hand. “Well, I can’t know too many doctors. Any day now I may call on you to have a bullet removed from my head.”

  Stiffly he said, “I wouldn’t be of much help, in that case, Mr. Scott.” He hesitated, glanced at Wyndham, then said easily, “I am a gynecologist. So we probably won’t see each other again.”

  “Maybe not. Well, nice meeting you, doctor.”

  He walked away without even saying it was nice meeting me too. Wyndham reached for a highball on the bar and lowered its level by a couple of fingers. Then he looked at me, showed me his neat white teeth in a neat white smile, and said, “Well, ah, I’m rather surprised to see you here, Mr. Scott.”

  “I thought maybe you would be.” The two stools next to us were empty, so we could talk quietly without being overheard.

  “Are you a guest, or — ”

  “No, I came here to see you,” I said. “First, though, to fulfill an obligation, I have a message from your wife. She wants you to return to the table immediately. Now, let’s talk about a guy named Foster.”

  “Foster?” He blinked, moistened his lips, glanced at his wife’s table, sighed, and said again, “Foster?”

  “You know who I mean, don’t you?”

  “Well, I’m not . . . there was a gentleman in my office this afternoon, before you came in . . .”

  “That’s the cat. I just killed him.”

  His fleshy pink face didn’t look quite so pink. I wouldn’t say he paled, just got less pink. “My goodness,” he said. He didn’t seem greatly surprised at the news, but it was clear he wasn’t enjoying this moment. I didn’t want him to enjoy it.

  “Here’s a little background,” I said, “so you can get the picture. Before I called on you I went to see a man named Eddy Sly. When I saw Eddy again, later, this Foster and another guy were with him. In fact, they were beating hell out of him. Now, the fact that they knew I’d seen Eddy means — unless they were watching Eddy’s place, which isn’t at all likely — that they had bees tailing me.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “I’ll get to that now, Mr. Wyndham. After seeing Eddy Sly, I went to Universal Electronics, and your office. Out of your office, in a great rush, came Foster. He swallowed his gum when he saw me, then zipped out. A little bit later I saw him in a nearby bar, and the next time I saw him, I shot him. Because he was about to shoot me, Mr. Wyndham. When guys try to knock me off and I am forced to kill them, I get interested in their backgrounds and previous movements. His previous movements included a visit to you in your office. Did he tell you I was a detective? I didn’t, you know.” I paused, let him consider that, and went on pleasantly, “I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask what his business was with you, Mr. Wyndham.”

  “Why . . . this is all most astonishing. He represents — or said he represented — the Victor-Cony Company, which makes transistorized radios and compact television receivers. The company is interested in a miniaturized power pack we’ve developed, and was considering the purchase of several thousand units. At least that is what he told me.”

  “If he said that, I’ll bet he lied. Earlier today you told me you didn’t know a man named Axel Scalzo. You want to tell me again that you don’t know him?”

  “Scalzo? I do not know anyone of that name, as I did indeed tell you before, Mr. Scott.” A bit of indignation edged into his deep, rich voice. “Are you suggesting — ”

  “I’m not suggesting anything yet, Mr. Wyndham. I merely proffer facts for your consideration. The next of which is that when Poster yanked out a gun and pointed it at me, the other chap I mentioned was blazing at me with a large pistol. We both missed each other, in a remarkable display of poor marksmanship, so he got away. But he is alleged to be an associate or intimate of Axel Scalzo. And he was certainly thick as thieves with Foster, your alleged representative of Victor-Cony Company.�
��

  “So?” Wyndham stared at me. “This fact is perhaps remarkable, but it can, and does, have no significance to me. I’ve told you what my knowledge of Mr. Foster is. I have no knowledge whatever of this other person or your Mr. Scalzo.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I confess to a growing curiosity. Why are you telling me all this?”

  “I’m merely seeking to learn more about the late Mr. Foster, and his friends. Incidentally, this Dr. Noble — does he have an office in town?”

  “Yes, in the Western Insurance Building.”

  “And he’s a gynecologist.” I grinned. “Then he can hardly be your personal physician, can he?”

  “No, he . . . was of assistance to my wife a year or two ago. But that is truly no concern of yours, Mr. Scott.”

  “Certainly not. Except that your wife told me she’d never seen the man before.”

  He blinked, and slowly moistened his lips again. “How very strange,” he said. “She must have forgotten. She . . . hasn’t been well.”

  She looked strong as an ox to me, but I didn’t mention that to Mr. Wyndham.

  He stood up. “I really must return to my wi — my table, Mr. Scott. If you have no further questions . . .”

  “That’s it, I guess. Thanks for the time.”

  He took a couple steps toward his table and I said, “There is one thing. Can you tell me anything about Ardis Ames?”

  His knees actually buckled. He stumbled, caught his balance. I hadn’t expected much of a reaction; I’d just tossed the name at him because Foster and friend had quizzed Eddy Sly about a woman of that name.

  But Wyndham stood stiffly a yard from me for long moments. “What?” he said.

  Then he turned to face me. “Who?”

  “Ardis Ames.”

  “Who is Ardis Ames?”

  “Search me,” I said. “Don’t you know?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Then he turned and walked to his table and joined Mrs. Wyndham. She started giving him hell. He didn’t appear to be listening. Maybe it was just his way when Mrs. Wyndham was giving him hell. But his face was hardly pink at all now; in fact, he was definitely pale.

  Well, I thought, for a shot in the dark I’d sure hit a nerve that time. But what had I hit it with? Who was this Ardis Ames? Who — or what?

  I didn’t know. But this I knew: Matthew Wyndham was a liar.

  As I walked out of the Beverly Club I kept my eyes peeled and spotted Dr. Fleming Noble having a beer at the other end of the long bar. I nodded to him as I passed, but he seemed not to see me.

  I got my Cad from the attendant, then drove back into the lot, thirty yards or so from the entrance, parked and waited. Ten minutes later Dr. Noble came out. The attendant trotted into the lot and drove a new Buick Electra up to the entrance. The doctor climbed into it and drove toward Beverly Boulevard.

  I let him get a block ahead before I swung in after him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I had no difficulty trailing the Electra down Beverly to the Angeles-Sands Hotel, half a mile away. Dr. Noble left his car in front of the hotel, spoke to the doorman, then went on inside.

  By the time I’d parked and trotted into the hotel lobby, Noble was out of sight. I took a step toward the desk — then stopped. Noble had just appeared on my right, coming through an arched doorway above which red letters spelled out the name Unicorn Lounge, apparently the bar. He was with a blonde gal, who, fortunately, was occupying all his attention — fortunately, because I didn’t want the guy to see me at the moment. Considering the gal, it was understandable that he didn’t look my way.

  She was almost enough to stop traffic on the Freeway, and for one nerve-twanging moment I thought it was Doody, but that was mainly because of the traffic-stopping figure — that and the blond hair. It jarred me until I noted that her face, though quite pretty, was older and harder than Doody’s, the hair lighter, and she was at least two or three inches taller.

  I didn’t spend much time examining all that, however, because I was moving back toward the hotel entrance, edging behind an ersatz-marble pillar at the left of the door. Noble walked the blonde to the elevator and stood there a moment talking to her, caressing his hairline mustache with a dashing knuckle, then laughed at something and patted her generous fanny — generous to him, anyway — as she stepped into the elevator.

  He walked to the newsstand and bought a pack of cigarettes. Squinting, I saw the elevator needle move up to “3” and stop. Noble turned and came straight toward the hotel entrance. Toward the entrance — and me. If he spotted me I was going to have to do some very speedy thinking to explain why I was hiding here behind a pillar, but he walked on past and out the door without a glance in my direction. I waited until he’d climbed into his Buick and pulled away from the curb before I hurried out after him.

  Noble not only got a good head start on me, but drove faster than the law allows, and I almost lost him. But I kept getting glimpses of the Electra as he wove in and out of traffic, heading toward downtown Hollywood. He wasn’t far ahead of me when we reached Sunset, but I missed the light. When it changed I gunned the Cad and narrowed the distance between us again, then suddenly he pulled over to the curb. I kept on going, slowing slightly. He was parked in front of a small apartment building, and I heard his horn blast a couple of times. As I drove past I caught a quick glimpse of a woman running down the cement walk toward his car. So he’d been sitting there honking for his date, huh? The clod.

  She was another blonde, a blur of white — white dress or coat topped by light hair. As I turned right at the next corner she was slipping into the car. Probably had to open the door herself, I thought, since he not only sat there and honked, but was one of those guys with a hairline mustache. I turned around in a driveway and was headed back toward Sunset as the Electra turned left off the Boulevard.

  This time he was easy to follow; left again to Vine, right to Beverly, left again and past the Beverly Club. When we were a block from the Angeles-Sands I began wondering if that was where we were all going. Maybe he was collecting blondes. But no, we went by the hotel and on to Third Street. And then, with a queer hair-prickling premonition, I knew where we were going. And I was right. The Electra pulled into the lot behind the South Seas.

  Until this moment I’d had no overwhelmingly logical reason for following Dr. Noble, but the chase had been based on more than merely a whim since he’d been talking to Matthew Wyndham, and I was becoming increasingly curious about people chummy with Wyndham.

  Now, though, I could feel the beginning of mild tension in my body. Maybe Noble and his gal were simply thirsty, and had stopped at a handy booze parlor for a drink. But maybe some previously loose threads were tightening into a knot.

  I parked the Cadillac, smoked a cigarette, then took a few slow deep breaths to recharge my corpuscles, and went into the South Seas.

  Even before I went through the front doors I could hear the bounce and belt of jazzy music from inside the club. Or maybe jazzy wasn’t the word. It was pulsing, solid, with a heavy beat, almost like the music you hear . . . Yeah.

  This, after all, was Amateur Strip Night at the South Seas. And the music was charged with the hot-and-heavy bounce, the draggy suggestive beat, of that music to which tomatoes peel, to which bountiful ladies move about while undressing in public. You may as well know the truth — I have very little objection to bountiful ladies undressing in public. In fact, I have even less objection to their undressing in private. Of course, this is frowned on in some quarters, I know; but hell, even drinking goat’s milk is frowned on in some quarters, and when it comes to sex . . .

  Well, sex. It’s a funny thing: here in the U. S. of A. s-e-x is like the purloined letter in reverse — we know it’s right there in plain sight, but pretend not to see it. Everywhere you look: boing — something sexy. Movies, books, magazines, Madison Avenue, billboards, television commercials — wow, television. In two hours of twisting the dial you can see more nude and seminude
tomatoes, and even potatoes, showering, tubbing, rubbing, shampooing, wiggling, smelling, smoking, puckering, and doing practically every ring-a-ding “ing” you can think of, and for what purpose? What else? To get raped, of course. That is the only possible conclusion a balanced mind could draw from all this feverish preparation. A spot of this, two dabs of that, a spray or squirt or splash of the other and — go to black: we can’t show it on television.

  And remember, for Pete’s sake, don’t do anything sexy. Look sexy, feel sexy, smell sexy, act sexy, but don’t sex sexy. That’s the way it is in the U. S. of A., like a “how to” manual that says on the last page, “Now that you know how to do it, don’t.”

  I took some more deep breaths, for my sexy corpuscles, and charged eagerly ahead.

  The place was jammed. Every stool at the long bar on my left was being sat upon, every table I could see was occupied by at least two people. Beneath the music was a constant bubble and hum of conversation and laughter. There were guys in suits and sports outfits, women in cocktail gowns and print dresses and even a few wearing slacks or skin-tight Capris. The smells of liquor, perfumes, smoke mingled in my nostrils. A woman wearing a mink stole squeezed past me, the soft fur tickling my hand.

  At first I didn’t think I was going to find a seat. I walked toward the dance floor in the rear, keeping an eye peeled for Dr. Noble while hunting for a chair or stool. I hadn’t seen Noble yet, but as I approached the piano bar a middle-aged man seated there glanced at his watch and let out a small squawk of surprise, then speedily left his stool and headed toward the door. He was in for it when he got home, I guessed.

  I grabbed his seat at the piano bar and turned toward the action he’d been watching. I didn’t know how long the show had been on, but the current performer had obviously been performing for more than a few seconds, and I could understand why the middle-aged guy might have stayed out longer than he’d intended.

  At center stage, her body bathed by the glow from a rosy spotlight, a little black-haired gal was in a conniption of activity. She wore, from the floor up, high-heeled black shoes, black pants fringed with lace, a low-cut black brassiere, and an expression of huge satisfaction, and she was gyrating in what appeared to be a blend of old-time Charleston and any-old-time abandon. From her smiling lips came a high keening sound, as of large hinges squeaking, and just when it appeared the black brassiere was going to be propelled into orbit, the band hit a loud chord and held it.