Dig That Crazy Grave (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  I started talking to neighbors. A short man about forty years old answered the door at the house next to McCune’s. He knew McCune and his wife by sight, but had only spoken to them a few times; they weren’t very sociable.

  Not neighborly, he explained. He wished they were, he said, especially Mrs. McCune, adding, If I wasn’t a very happily married man —

  You see Mr. McCune around here during the last few days?

  No. Guess he’s on a trip or something. Wife’s home, though.

  You mean now?

  Don’t know about now. During the last week or so, I mean.

  What kind of a gal is she? Young, fat, bony —

  Younger than he is, in her twenties I’d say. Real tall, and a real looker, that one. The neighbor was only about five-four, so I figured real tall to him might be anything from five-three up. He went on, A real looker. If I wasn’t a happily married man — all this sun; she lies out in back soaking it up. Man, the legs!

  He was a leg-watcher. He dwelt on them for a while, repeating, If I wasn’t a married man — Not even happily married this time, and after only a minute’s talk about legs.

  I said, Remember how long it’s been since you saw Mr. McCune?

  He frowned. Been a good week, I guess. More, probably.

  Just to be sure I showed him McCune’s picture. It was McCune, all right. He didn’t recognize the pictures of Jake and Pot.

  A bachelor, about thirty, in a big two-story redwood house on the opposite side of McCune’s home, corroborated what the first man had told me, especially the part about Mrs. McCune. Good-looking blonde girl with hot blue eyes and a stunning pair of — and so on. He wasn’t a leg-watcher. There was a fence between his house and the McCune place, and I wondered how he managed to see the lady sunning. But a casual glance showed me that his second-story windows overlooked the McCune’s backyard.

  He noticed my glance and grinned. So it’s been outlawed? Can’t hang a man for looking. He paused. But if she wasn’t a married woman —

  Somewhere between, If I wasn’t a married man, and, If she wasn’t a married woman, I began getting quite intrigued with Mrs. McCune. But the bachelor had little else to tell me; he didn’t recognize my mug shots, either, and said he hadn’t, seen McCune for close to two weeks.

  A few more calls on neighbors got me approximately the same information, so I went back to my Cad. It was a little before four, a beautiful May afternoon, bright and balmy, a good day to be alive — which thought made me recall my trip to the cemetery last night. The grave of Mr. Graves, I thought. And an idea wiggled. The people who run cemeteries do not just lower customers into the ground and then forget the whole thing. As in any other business, there are records which must be kept — names, dates, expenses, taxes.

  So, if there really was a Mr. Graves buried out there, it wasn’t necessary to prowl the grounds in order to find him. A check of the records could give me the information I wanted. The problem, then, was how to get a look at those records — quietly, surreptitiously, even sneakily. I sure didn’t want anybody to know I was looking for Mr. Graves, if that cat had anything to do with Frank Eiverson’s disappearance — disappearance, or death. I had a hunch that both Danny and Frank were dead by now, and maybe Jim McCune, too.

  Right then a thought stopped me. Ever since my call to the Orange Coast Motel, I had been assuming that Jake and Pot must have forced McCune to accompany them. It had been a natural assumption, knowing what I did about Jake and Pot. But maybe — the thought fluttered in my mind — McCune hadn’t been forced after all. Maybe he had asked Jake and Pot to come to the motel.

  I checked the scribbling in my notebook. Earlier I had listed those two phone calls I’d checked on. Both had been placed Sunday, May twenty-first. One, a call from the motel to McCune’s home at eleven-fifty-six a.m. Then one from that Zenith number — not McCune’s — to the motel at 12:05 p.m., only nine minutes after the first call. Approximately an hour later, Jake and Pot had arrived at the motel, and had left a few minutes later with McCune. He’d left with reasonable quietness, too. Not, at least, whooping and all covered with blood — the saucy redhead had told me clearly she would have noticed anything like that.

  Interesting. Screwy, but interesting. I let it simmer a bit. McCune disappears. On Sunday, a week after his disappearance, he calls his wife and tells her to get in touch with Jake and Pot. Wife does, the boys call the motel — presumbly from that other Zenith number — and are told to come on down to Newport. An hour on the Freeway and they’re at the motel.

  Which would mean that Jake and Pot were indeed working for somebody else — no surprise to me. But the somebody was beginning to look like James Randall McCune. Which would explain, among other things, why Pot had spoken of Jim as Mac, and why he hadn’t seemed pleased by my asking questions concerning Jim at all. It would also mean that Mrs. McCune knew her husband was not missing, knew about his association with Jake and Pot — knew a great deal more than I did. Including the fact, undoubtedly, that Shell Scott was causing her James no end of annoyance and might have to be taken on a one-way trip to the cemetery. In which case, my earlier phone call to Mrs. McCune had not been the most clever act in my life.

  Maybe — and maybe not. Just bits and pieces, so far, conjecture, nothing solid enough to hang onto. I thought some more about the possibility of getting a look at the Rand Brothers records, while making sure, at the same time, that I didn’t become a part of them. The job would be easy enough if I could get everybody, inside the mortuary, outside the mortuary.

  The angle hit me all of a sudden.

  It was about forty days till the Fourth of July. Wholesalers had their firecracker stocks ready by this time — and I knew a wholesaler. He sold the little ones, and the big ones, and the enormous ones.

  Whether it worked or not, the idea appealed to me. Even if I got killed, the plan had a virtue: I would go out with a bang.

  I smiled. About six enormous ones would do it —

  Chapter Eight

  Well, those six enormous ones had sure as hell done it. And a fat lot of good it was going to do me now.

  The tape chafed my wrists, cramped behind my back. Pot’s big vise-fingered hands rested loosely on the steering wheel of my Cadillac, and Jake held the gun on his thin thigh. Not pointed at me, but handy enough to use suddenly in case I should do something threatening, like wiggling my ears at him.

  For a moment I thought back over the last hour. After leaving McCune’s I’d picked up my Whiz-Bang-Pows, then gone directly to Rand Brothers. I didn’t think there’d been a tail on me then, but it was a remote possibility. Then I’d planted the bangers, gone into the mortuary, checked the files and left. All fine, till that point, like clockwork; but I’d let my guard down then, thinking the hard part was over. The hard part, obviously, had been just beginning.

  Well, at least I’d found Mr. Graves. That card in the Fe-Ho file had been headed: Graves, H. M. — Memorial Tomb, with an address on Greenfield Avenue, and the notation that survivors were his wife Loris, daughter Pamela, son Douglas. Just that and a string of numbers and figures, that looked like the record of payments.

  So I knew where he was — if I could find the Graves Memorial Tomb. That is, if I lived long enough to find it. And it still didn’t mean a thing to me. Oh, this is grand, I thought. I am a grand detective. A grand, dead detective.

  We’d gone up to the Strip and swung out toward Beverly Hills, when Pot turned onto a macadam drive on our right. It led between the sturdy cement posts of an openwork metal gate, slightly uphill, curving out of sight to the left. Trees lined the drive and formed a shadowed tunnel. We continued along the road for half a mile and I started wondering if these bums were heading for a nice isolated spot in which to shoot me.

  If so, I was going to kick, literally. My hands were still taped, but my legs weren’t. Most likely, they could shoot me, even if they had to start
by wounding my feet; but I was sure going to try kicking in a few teeth and other items before they did. I was about to perch on the back of the seat and start kicking in two directions at once when the road ended.

  It didn’t actually end, it just curved around in a graceful oval through a half-acre of green grass. The velvety lawn fronted a beautiful, sprawling, ranch-style home, low and solid, built with dark lava rock and stained redwood. It was startling to see here, far off the highway, isolated and alone.

  Who lives in the —

  Shut up.

  That was all these mush-heads had said to me since we’d climbed into the car, and it was beginning to irritate me, more than mildly.

  I said, Listen, you mush-brained lumps —

  Shut up.

  The sensation that shuddered through me is difficult to put into words: it was like a series of cerebral hemorrhages erupting in my brain like small hot fountains, with the barely audible sound of little firecrackers popping. I was going to have a go at it, even if I managed only to bite off an ear.

  I had tensed my legs and started straightening up when Pot spun the steering wheel, we veered left and stopped. During the past few seconds, I’d paid no attention to where we were going, but now I realized he’d swung alongside the house and then behind it. The boil in me slowly started diminishing to a simmer. This didn’t look like a place in which to shoot people.

  There was more lawn in back, a roofed patio at the rear of the house, and a free-form swimming pool. And in and near the pool was a whole flock of free-form women. Perhaps that isn’t the right way to describe the women, since free form sounds spread out and shapeless, and that, these gals were not.

  I thought: What’s this? Maybe they were going to shoot me, but grant me a last request, first. Actually, there wasn’t a whole flock of girls, even if girls could be flocks. There were only three, though these three could never be described accurately as only. We were parked about ten yards from the pool’’ edge. One of the girls had just pulled herself onto the cement, the other two stood between that girl and us.

  Three luscious tomatoes, in bikinis which fit like tomato skins. One tall and very shapely blonde, one medium-sized and very shapely blonde, and one short and very shapely blonde. I didn’t know any of them, but I wouldn’t have minded knowing them. I liked them a lot better than Jake and Pot.

  Blondes, blondes, I mentally grumbled, everywhere, I run into blondes. And that shows you into what weird mental shape these last hours had twisted me — grumbling about blondes. I had thought more than once that some day blondes might be the death of me, and now it looked as if this might be that day. Though not quite the way I’d planned it.

  Jake put his gun away and climbed from the car. Pot wrapped a hand around my left arm, in case I decided to try running somewhere.

  Beat it, Jake said to the girls.

  One of them said, But we’ve only been here —

  Beat it.

  There was no more argument. They walked past the car and around the corner of the house.

  Out, Jake said to me.

  Jake had his gun in hand again, now that the girls were out of sight, and he pointed with it toward the house, then toward me. I walked to the house. Pot still holding my arm, gently.

  We went inside, a few feet ahead to a hallway, then right and along it for what seemed a city block. The house was huge. As we walked, I wondered what the score was. Outside the McCune home in Hollywood, and also after Jake and Pot had got the drop on me, I’d been getting a new slant on the source of all my troubles. The more I thought about it, the bigger James Randall McCune loomed in the picture.

  If these mugs worked for him, then he was the man responsible for Pot’s bracing me, for the working over given me last night. It even seemed probable that while I’d been ringing James McCune’s bell, his wife had been inside the joint. The way I figured it, she almost must have dropped her jaw when I gave her my name on the phone. And naturally she had declined to see me. The story about a cab waiting outside was surely a stall, simply to cut conversation short.

  It was goofy, but starting to make a little sense. I was not going to be surprised if we walked into a room with the missing James Randall McCune sitting there.

  We stopped before a heavy door of carved dark wood and Jake knocked twice, then turned the knob. Pot pushed me inside, shut the door behind us.

  And there he sat, in a big, black leather chair, smoking a short cigar. Not James McCune.

  Joe Cherry.

  It rocked me, sent my slowly stacked blocks of logic tumbling into a heap. I felt my jaw sag, brows pull down; but I clicked my mouth shut.

  Well, I said slowly, how are things with Charlie Lucky, Cherry?

  That stung him, but he tried not to let it show, pulled his features back into an almost amiable expression. It looked as if he meant to play it pleasant, friendly. Somehow that didn’t seem good.

  He ignored my question. Ignored me. Jake walked to the desk, put my gun, wallet, keys, change — everything he’d taken from me — in front of Cherry.

  Here’s all he had on him, Jake said.

  Cherry looked it over, examined papers in my wallet while I began to burn. I strained my wrists against the tape, but it was wasted effort. Finally, I relaxed, glanced at Jake and Pot, then looked at Cherry.

  His appearance was impressive. Big and broad, solid. About my height, six-two, maybe five or ten pounds heavier than I. And almost good looking. Almost. He was thirty-seven years old, but he looked older. His skin was dark. Thick hair, black and oily as old crankcase drainings, grew too low on his forehead. The blue sheen from a beard that would ruin two blades per shave darkened his face. Black brows were straight thick lines over his dark eyes. He wore a beautifully tailored suit of iridescent gray material that looked as if it had been woven from fine metallic threads, a soft-collared white shirt and a pearl-colored tie — neat, expensive, but like camouflage or protective coloration. The face was feral, coarse, almost animal.

  Finally he reached into his trousers pocket and took out a small gold key on a chain, unlocked the middle drawer of his desk and swept my gun, wallet, and the rest of my things into the drawer, closed and locked it again. Then he stopped ignoring me.

  Hello, Scott. Sorry I had to get you here this way. I didn’t think you’d come otherwise.

  You were right.

  He smiled. Well, it’s done. Might as well let bygones be bygones — and have our little talk in a friendly atmosphere.

  Sure. You have these slobs sap me, kick me around, haul me here like a side of beef. I stopped, made my voice sound more normal. We can talk. Don’t expect it to be friendly.

  Cherry said, Now, that’s no way to be, Scott. Make the best of it. I’d rather have Jake untie your hands and let you relax, calm down, while we chew the fat a little. If you’ll be good.

  I’ll be bad. If Jake takes this tape off my wrists, I’ll hit him right in the mouth.

  Cherry laughed. It wasn’t forced; he seemed quite amused by my joke.

  Jake smiled a little, too.

  Cherry said, What’s your drink, Scott?

  Bourbon. When I’m drinking.

  Fix him up, Pot. Jake, get his hands loose. Scott’s a smart boy; he’ll be sensible.

  Pot walked to a walnut cabinet against the wall, raised its top, a compact bar rose into view. Jake yanked roughly at my wrists, and the tape came off with a ripping sound, burning the skin. I rubbed my right wrist, drawing the arm back, turning. Jake was wadding the black tape between his palms. I hit him right in the mouth.

  He sailed backwards, head going much faster than his feet, and behind me I heard Cherry’s voice again, No, Pot! Hold it!

  By then I’d spun around. Pot was near me, a big .45 automatic over his head. Cherry had stopped him from swatting my skull with it — barely in time. The effort showed in Pot’s thick, mu
scular face; but he stopped the blow, took a step away from me, bringing down the gun and snapping the slide back. His eyes weren’t on my face, but on my stomach, at which vulnerable area he was aiming the gun.

  Easy, Cherry said to him.

  Cherry’s mouth was pulled down a little, and he’d hunched forward, toward the desk. But that was all. He barely seemed to have moved; his expression was sober, not angry. Cherry was hard to budge, rigid, self-controlled. The veneer wrinkled slightly, but didn’t crack.

  He spoke conversationally, only with a rasp in his voice, Why in hell did you do a dumb thing like that?

  You know why. If you’ve forgotten, ask Jake. I looked at Jake. He was flat on his back on the floor, but he wasn’t unconscious. Not completely. It looked as if he was trying to get up, but hadn’t discovered which way was up. His feet moved in little inch-long journeys of exploration, pressing air, heels rubbing the carpet. Blood was splashed on his coat and white shirt, and his mouth looked like an abstract painting of an ear

  I’ll tell you something else, Cherry, I said softly. If I get half a chance, I’ll kill you. With more than mild pleasure. And dump you in the same grave with these two pus-brained psychos you sent to work me over last night. You guys with muscles for brains give me a sharp shooting pain right in the —

  I stopped, because this time I had cracked the veneer. I had finally run off at the mouth enough to weaken Cherry’s admirable self-control, if not collapse it entirely. I didn’t know whether it was the accumulation of all I’d said, or the fact that I had finally threatened the big man himself, but the veneer not only cracked, it shattered. It was as though fury, shock, and even fright were visible stains, slapped onto his face. His face slowly turned from white to red and then achieved a singularly bilious lividity, awesome to behold. It would have been interesting as part of a sunset, but on a face it was unprecedented in my memory. He sputtered and then spoke and sputtered some more, finally got out a few words, like small bombs.