Strip for Murder

by Richard S. Prather

  Her face didn't change expression and she didn't pause at all as she talked, but for a couple of sentences her voice went flat, with practically no inflection. “He spent what he could, finally drank himself to death. That was fifteen years ago. I didn't want anything like that to happen to Vera. I still don't want it to happen. I've been ... disgustingly wealthy all my life, so accustomed to a great deal of money that I sometimes forget what men will do for it. For a million dollars. Or fifteen million. Sydney and Vera have all the money they need now, but they'll inherit the entire estate when I'm gone. Naturally I'm anxious to know that no—no fortune hunter— Well, you understand.” She was silent for a moment; then she said, “Earlier today I came across this in the newspaper.”

  She picked a clipping from the arm of her chair and handed it to me. It was only about a dozen lines saying that a local detective, Paul Yates, had been found early that morning face-down on Traverse Road, north of Los Angeles. He'd been shot in the chest and been dead about six hours when found.

  Mrs. Redstone said, “This probably has nothing whatever to do with me, with my hiring Mr. Yates. But I couldn't get it off my mind all day. It was the same man I'd recently employed, and there was the coincidence of the location, too. When I phoned, the captain told me, essentially, that the police had nothing to go on yet. And he seemed not to have a very good opinion of Mr. Yates. So I began thinking that perhaps Mr. Yates hadn't been quite honest with me in his report.”

  “It's possible,” I said. “I didn't know Yates personally, but I know a little about him. Pretty thorough man, I've heard, but not above making a fast buck. He might have sold you a bill of goods. Maybe, maybe not.”

  We talked a few more minutes. What Mrs. Redstone wanted me to do was, first, investigate any possibility that Yates might have been killed because of his work for her; and, secondly, do the job she'd hired Yates for in the first place: go over Poupelle like a vacuum cleaner. She was willing to pay, under the circumstances, much more than the job was worth; my retainer alone was a thousand bucks. I took the case—and the thousand.

  “Incidentally,” she said, “you may as well have Mr. Yates's report. I just can't make myself believe that Andon is quite the jewel described here. There's something about that man.”

  “There is, indeed. By the way, he said to me, and I quote, that I smelled like cop. Did he know you meant to hire a detective, or that you had hired Yates?”

  She shook her head. “No, and I would prefer that no one know you're involved in this. Nobody learned about the other detective from me. The only source, I suppose, would have been Mr. Yates himself. But that doesn't seem likely, does it?”

  “Depends. Clients have been sold out before.” I glanced through the papers and put them into my coat pocket. We got up and headed for the other room.

  Just before I went out she said, “Actually, there is no great hurry about this. After all, they're married now. But please report to me if you learn anything important.”

  “Will do.”

  We grinned at each other and I left her there in the doorway.

  In the big room, I looked around to see if I could spot Garlic, but he wasn't in sight. The big man who'd been talking to Garlic earlier was still in the same place. Poupelle stood near him and the movie juvenile; all three of them were watching the ex-Miss America, who was tap-dancing. Vera sat alone on the gold divan. None of them looked my way.

  I went to the front door and through it and headed down the drive to my car. The Cad was parked almost out in the street behind a long row of other Cadillacs, Buicks, Jaguars, and money sports cars. I reached my buggy, opened the door, and climbed inside. I was putting the key in the ignition when I smelled him. I froze for a moment, then shoved the key in and started the car. I knew Garlic was crouched in the back of my coupé, and if he had a gun he had me cold.

  A black Packard was parked about four feet ahead of me. I put the Cad in gear, stepped on the gas, and suddenly let out the clutch, using my foot on the accelerator as leverage to shove myself to the right as the car jumped forward. My Cad slammed into the Packard with a hell of a crash, but my right foot against the floor boards held me braced against the impact and I was twisting around in the seat as Garlic's right hand, full of .45 automatic, plunged forward, followed by Garlic's surprised face.

  The engine died. Garlic jerked his head toward me just as I got set. I swung my body around, drove my own right forward, and bounced my fist off his chin. His head snapped to the side and his gun fell to the seat beside me. I grabbed it, swung it up and around like a discus, and caught Garlic with it squarely on the forehead. He slumped clear out of sight.

  I gulped a few huge mouthfuls of air, then got out of the car and hauled Garlic onto the drive. I huffed and puffed and blew him onto the lawn, where I dumped him. I meant to slap him awake and find out if this were his idea or somebody else's—but just then light flashed from the front door of Mrs. Redstone's house.

  I looked up as three or four men and women stepped outside and peered my way. That had been a hellish crash.

  I hesitated a moment as a couple of middle-aged guys started to walk hesitantly toward me. Then I swore, leaped into the Cad, and started it again. I backed up and twisted the wheel. One of the guys yelled, “You! I say there!” I slid the Cad around on gravel and took off.

  In the morning I yawned out of bed and staggered around in my usual early-A.M. daze until I'd gulped coffee and toyed with toast. Then I sprawled on the front-room couch and planted the phone on my chest. I called L.A. Homicide and spent a few minutes talking to Samson.

  After the amenities, I told him that Mrs. Redstone, overwhelmed by his recommendations, had hired me, and asked if there were anything new on the Yates kill. He was rushed this morning, so he filled me in fast, saying a detective named Carlos Renata, whom I knew pretty well, was on the case and might give me more.

  “We got a big nothing,” Sam growled, undoubtedly around a black cigar. “Motive's a blank. Probably some hoodlum he slapped around. Shot once in the chest; thirty-thirty slug put a leak in his ticker. Died fast, about two A.M., as near as the coroner could fix it. Looks like he got it there, wasn't shot somewhere else and dumped.”

  “Rifle, huh?” Sam mumbled something that sounded like “Yeah,” and I asked, “What does that mean?”

  “Christ knows. It means he wasn't shot with a revolver. We got the slug, a silvertip, good enough to match up with the rifle. If we had the rifle.”

  “Sam, one other thing and I'll let you get back to your crossword puzzle. I need all I can get—and fast—on one Andon Poupelle and a stinker called Garlic.”

  “Poupelle doesn't ring any bell,” he said. “This Garlic's a low type, does odd jobs like putting the arm on delinquent accounts. Mean boy, goes around tearing down spider webs. Drew bits at Folsom and Q. What's with him?”

  I sketched in the business with Garlic and said, “He might have wanted to patch his wounded pride. Could be, though, that he was just earning somebody's fee. I've got his gun, anyway. When I get in to see you later, I'll drop it off. Maybe it'll fit some unsolved jobbies you've got down there. Trade you that for anything I can use. Especially who Garlic's been working for lately.”

  I told him Poupelle was the former Vera Redstone's new husband, and then he put Carlos on the line. Carlos didn't have much of anything yet, but he did supply me with one interesting item of information.

  “This Yates hung around the Afrodite off and on, Afro-Cuban place,” Carlos said. “Real wild. Or cool, I guess they'd say out there. Man, the music—they got gourds and things that go clank. And the babe! Man, this gal's named Juanita, see? Sings a little and shakes the maracas. Wait'll you see them maracas.”

  “Carlos, I thought you were on a murder case.”

  “She's murder. But, hell, I been working like a dog. I was there on business. This Yates, he hung around there a lot. Was there Saturday night, the night he got hit. Last place we've got him pinned down to; next spot was the dirt road�
�Traverse. But this Juanita didn't know anything else that did me any good. Man, nothing she did did me any good. Wait'll you—”

  “Yates hung out at the—what did you call it?”

  “Afrodite, downstairs on Sixth. Poor man's Mocambo—birds behind glass, tropical. Jungle atmosphere. Bunch of hard boys hang out there, too, which makes me wonder. Maybe Yates was on a job, huh? And he got somebody piqued at him. You going out there?”

  “Maybe. Depends on what I run into.”

  “You'll go out there. I know you, Shell. You get anything, let me know.” He laughed like crazy.

  I hung up. I'd finished dressing and was strapping on my gun harness when the phone rang. I grabbed it and said hello.

  “Mr. Scott?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is Miss Redstone. I need some help, right away. Can you come to see me?”

  “Well, hi. Sure, I wanted to talk to you this morning anyway. What's the trouble?”

  “I'll have to explain when you get here. But somebody's tried twice to kill me. I'm sure of it. You are a detective, aren't you?”

  “Yeah, but how did you know? And I thought you were mad at me. Last night—”

  “Mother told me; she just phoned me. Look, you'll have to hurry. And I only have a minute. Do you know anything about calisthenics?”

  “About what?”

  “Calisthenics. Exercises, jump up and down. Mother said you were full of muscles, and that you were an ex-Marine. And I thought surely you'd know some exercises.”

  “Baby, I know lots of exercises. It depends—”

  “I've got to run. I'm at Fairview. You know where that is, don't you?”

  “Uh...”

  “You go out Figueroa and swing off at Maple, then turn left when you hit Traverse Road. About half a mile down there's a fence along the road and a wooden sign over the gate. You can't miss it. Can you get here in half an hour?”

  “I could, but wait a minute. What do you mean, somebody tried to kill you?”

  “They tried to gas me, and they tried to roll a rock on me. I'll have to explain it all when you get here. You will come, won't you?”

  Something was buzzing around in my head, but I couldn't figure out what if was. One of the things she'd said had set off a little bell; which thing, though, I couldn't recall. She'd said so many odd things. “I suppose so,” I told her. “Incidentally, I repeat, you don't seem to be angry with me this morning.”

  “Why should I be angry with you, Mr. Scott?”

  “I just thought you would be. And I don't get this calisthenics business. What's that got to do with helping you?”

  “We can't let anybody know you're a detective. What's your first name? Shell?”

  “Yeah. From Sheldon, if that—”

  “Good. We'll call you Don. Don Scott. I'll have to introduce you as the health director. So they won't be suspicious. See you here, then. I've got to hurry.”

  “Yeah. Health director, huh? Don Scott, huh? You know, you don't make a damn bit of sense.” But I was talking to myself. She'd hung up.

  I put the phone back in the cradle and sat down while I fumbled through my thoughts. That had been a strange conversation, and one of the strangest things was that the gal hadn't sounded much like Vera. Come to think of it, she hadn't sounded much like Vera at all. And then I got what had been buzzing in my skull. She'd said to turn left off Maple at Traverse Road. I got out the clipping Mrs. Redstone had given me. Yeah, Traverse Road was where Paul Yates had got it. Where he'd wound up face-down in the dirt.

  I sat another minute, wondering, then got up, stuck my .38 Special in its holster, climbed into my coat, and left the apartment.

  The intersection of Maple and Traverse Road was little more than a bump in Maple. I swung right on the rutted, dusty dirt road and drove a quarter of a mile slowly, then parked. From Samson's description, I knew this was about the place where Yates's body had been found, and I got out of the Cad and stood in approximately the same place where Yates had been standing a couple of mornings ago at about two A.M. It gave me a creepy feeling for a moment, but then I concentrated on the countryside. And countryside it was; I was only about five miles from the Civic Center, but it could have been fifty. A split-rail fence bordered the dirt road; beyond it, grass sloped gently uphill to massed trees. It was green and cool, and there wasn't even any smog out there.

  I figured Yates must have been standing just about as I was, looking toward those trees. Somebody by the fence or even a couple of hundred yards away might have drawn a bead on him and squeezed the trigger. It seemed like a funny place for a guy to stand at two in the morning. Of course, he wouldn't have known he was going to be shot. But there wasn't anything out here except dust, grass, and trees, and I wondered what Yates had been waiting for. I got that creepy feeling again, a little tightening of my chest muscles. I trotted back to the Cad, climbed in, turned around, and drove back down Traverse Road.

  My speedometer showed I'd gone six tenths of a mile beyond the Maple intersection when I saw the sagging gate. A weathered, faded sign arching over it said, “Fairview.” I parked next to it, got out, and stood before the gate, but I didn't see anybody. I couldn't get rid of that sensation of tightness, a crawling of hairs on the nape of my neck.

  A length of chain was looped a couple of times around the end of the gate and the fence post, an enormous padlock securing it. Beyond the gate a path was worn, faintly yellow in green grass, going straight ahead for ten or fifteen yards and then curving left behind thick shrubbery and trees. Nobody was in sight.

  I looked around for a doorbell—a real city boy, that's me. A tarnished cowbell hung on a frayed rope near the chain and padlock, so I grabbed it and gave it a couple of yanks. Sound clanked over the hills. Nothing happened. A minute passed, and then I heard a whisper of noise, like somebody running.

  Then, with startling, almost overwhelming suddenness, a naked tomato swished out from the trees and loped around that curve in the path, straight toward me. Yeah, naked, stark staring nude.

  Well, you should have heard me. I let out one hell of a noise.

  Chapter Three

  She was a little dark-haired doll and nobody I knew, but you can bet it was somebody I wanted to know.

  She wasn't in any terrific hurry; nobody was chasing her. Not, I thought dazedly, yet. She ran right up to the gate and stopped. At least she stopped running, but it was quite a spell before she stopped moving completely.

  “Hi,” she said.

  I still had some of that tightness in my chest, but that seemed to be the least of my worries. I said, “Hello there!”

  She smiled, and it seemed to me that she smiled all over. “You're Mr. Scott?”

  “Yes. Sh—er, Don Scott. You call me Don.”

  “Fine. We were expecting you.”

  Wow, I thought. Maybe my reputation had preceded me. If this was what happened when I was expected, I was never going anyplace again without letting people know well in advance. Hell, I'd flood the States with posters: scott is on his way! I said, “Great. Good. I'm ... We? Who's we?”

  “Miss Redstone told me to meet you and let you in.” She stuck a huge key into the padlock, unlocked the gate, and swung it open. It was a monstrous key, and she must have been holding it in her hand all the time, but I'd missed it. “Come on in,” she said.

  I sprang inside like a gazelle. This gal was about five feet tall, in her early twenties, and cute enough to have looked delectable in red wool BVDs. But in all that sunlight, she was sensational. Maybe she was small, but she had more curves than the Long Beach Fun Zone, and she looked like more fun, too.

  She smiled at me again, looked me up and down, and said impishly, “My, you're bigger than the last one. You'll do.”

  “Do?” I said hoarsely. “Do ... what?”

  “You're the new health director, aren't you? The last one got hurt. He's in the hospital.”

  “What ... How was he hurt? Where was he hurt?”

  She blinked.
“A rock fell on him. Didn't you know?”

  I pulled myself together a little, remembering that phone conversation this morning. “Oh, yes. That rock. Well...”

  Man, I was really at a loss. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I did know, though, that what I was preparing to do was almost surely not what I was supposed to do. The little gal fixed that for me. She damn near fixed everything for both of us.

  She turned her back to me and locked the gate. I guess that's what she was doing to it. Then she turned to face me again and said, “You go ahead, Mr. Scott. There isn't much time. Just follow the path, and after about a hundred yards you'll see the buildings. On the left, the long low green room is where you change. You can take off your clothes in there, then go to the main building. It's brown. You can't miss it.”

  “OK, thanks. Incidentally, I don't think I caught your name.”

  She smiled again. She smiled a lot. But, then, I had been smiling quite a lot myself. “I'm Peggy.”

  “Swell. Hope I ... see you again soon, Peggy.”

  “Of course. We'll get together later.”

  I let out another sound, much softer than the first one, but of the same species, then I whirled around and started running up the path, trying to remember where she'd said to go. Most of what she'd said had been just words; listening to her had been like watching TV with the sound off. She'd said to go to some kind of green room up yonder and ... No!

  I spun around and raced back to the gate. “Let me out!” I shouted.

  Peggy stood a few yards away, eyeing me curiously. “What?”

  “I've been stabbed,” I said.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, woman. I mean there's been—is—some confusion. What do you mean by telling me to go up there and take off my clothes?”

  She laughed. “Don't be silly. You didn't expect to keep them on, did you?”

  “Lady. Miss. Peggy. Are there people up there?”