The Trojan Hearse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  He stopped, glanced over his shoulder. “No. It gives me the creeps. We'll go back.” He started walking again.

  “Look,” I said. “Some of the things I have to ask should be asked without those other guys bending an ear. If you don't mind—"

  “I do mind.” He kept walking.

  Well, what the hell. I followed him. He seemed kind of wound up, a bit tense. As we went into Troy's living room, the people there gazed at us with undisguised interest. One weedy chap I didn't recognize pointed at me and said something to a man near him, and both laughed.

  One thing about all these people, they looked clean. Except for the sculptor, they were all neatly dressed, bandboxy. There was the scent of several lotions, after-shave, and maybe heady perfumes mingling in the air. I didn't even smell of pine needles.

  Moreover, I was becoming acutely aware of the fact that in my desire not to be even later getting here, I hadn't stopped to change clothes at my apartment. The slug which zipped by me had sliced two neat holes in my coat; there was a small rip in one knee of my trousers; and both coat and trousers were a bit soiled from flopping about on earth and asphalt.

  Troy mixed himself another drink, looked at me. I shook my head. Then he led me to the divan and, addressing the author of Lie Down and Die, said, “Flop on the floor, Ronnie. Give Mr. Scott room to sit down."

  Ronnie obediently flopped on the floor.

  Troy and I sat side by side on the divan, Gary Baron on my right. I didn't like conducting a serious interview in this kind of gathering, but it was either this or no conversation at all. So I went ahead.

  I asked him essentially what I'd asked Ulysses Sebastian earlier: if Charley had seemed depressed, if he'd given any indication that he might have been disturbed enough that, perhaps, his death hadn't been an accident. It was sticky—particularly with about a dozen other people hanging on every word. Most of them had by now moved nearer us, and we formed a jolly little group.

  Troy simply threw back his head and laughed. “Charley didn't jump over, if that's what you're wondering,” he said. “No, he didn't kill himself. Hell, he wasn't sick—you should be so healthy."

  “I understand he had a session or two with Dr. Withers. Something must have been bothering him."

  Troy nodded, not surprised. “Yes, he did start analysis. I knew about it, but there wasn't anything in his manner to indicate he was seriously troubled about anything. Most of us”—he waved his hand around the room—“have undergone at least a few months of treatment, simply to release the inner potential, the concealed dynamic."

  He sounded as if he were quoting someone else. Or the literature of Withering. I said, “You've gone through—"

  “No, no,” he interrupted. “Not me. Most of the others here, though. Ronnie, Paul, Dayne—"

  Ronald Langor interrupted, “It was the greatest experience of my life, if you want to know.” I didn't, but he went on, anyway. “Without the dynamic release of my libidinal consciousness and the semantic detraumatization evolving from my personal Duerfianalysis, it would have been impossible for me to write Lie Down and Die."

  Ah-ha, I thought, thinking of Libida and Roric. I was also thinking, “And wouldn't that have been a catastrophe?” but I didn't say it. Typical author; first thing he'd said and he'd got the title of his book into it.

  I ignored Ronald, not purposely, but simply because I wanted to get the job with Troy done and climb out of here. But apparently it piqued Ronnie. He was even trying to say something else—I think it was Lie Down and Die—as I turned to Troy and said, “I've talked to the police. Their information is that Mr. White was alone in his suite when he fell to his death. Is there any possibility somebody might have been in the suite with him at the time?"

  “I don't know,” Troy said quietly. “I doubt it, but I guess it's possible. I was here, alone, when it happened. I was called on the phone almost immediately, of course."

  “That's a bit much, isn't it?"

  It was Gary Baron, speaking from my right.

  I swiveled my head around and looked at him. He was half smiling, but the eyes looked cold and hard. Like painted ball bearings.

  “Much?” I said.

  “A bit brutal, what? You've as much as said little Charley was murdered.” His tone was thick as molasses.

  “One of your famous false conclusions, Mr. Baron,” I said. “I'm investigating Mr. White's death. Apparently his death was indeed an accident, but there is at least the possibility of suicide, even homicide—"

  “Homicide is murder, isn't it?"

  “Murder is a possibility whenever—"

  He interrupted. “Murder,” he said melodramatically, throwing an arm stagily over his head. “Mr. Scott is on the trail of fiends most foul."

  “Knock it off, Mr. Baron,” I said. All I needed was a bit more of this to light my fuse, anyway. During the few minutes I'd been sitting here, there had been half a dozen remarks which I couldn't fail to catch, and which perhaps I wasn't supposed to miss. The weedy chap who'd pointed at me earlier had said something, of which I caught the louder part, “...absolutely animal, isn't he?” followed by gentle laughter from two or three other comics. Somebody else had said, “A real detective. I'll bet he's even got a gun.” I did, and what he didn't know was that I'd reloaded it. Not that I go around shooting poets. Never shot a poet in my life. Not so far.

  At any rate, I had ignored the little digs—at least I'd tried to—but they had lowered my boiling point by perhaps a hundred and fifty degrees. So when Baron continued as if I hadn't spoken at all, “Fiends and bloody murderers, but we have here a dedicated Javert—” I leaned close to him. Very close. Not quite touching his nose with my nose. And I said, with feeling, “Knock ... it ... off."

  He knocked it off.

  But little Ronnie Langor chose that moment to chime in. Maybe he knew I couldn't, or at least wouldn't, lay a hand on him—which is sometimes the defense of smart-mouthed little guys. And sometimes it doesn't work. Anyway, he reached out and touched the torn spot on the knee of my trousers and said sweetly, “What's that, Scott? A hole in your pants?"

  It was the kind of hilarious line his book was filled with. But it got a laugh from the assembled audience. Encouraged, he said, “And a moth has eaten a bitty hole in your jacket,” speaking with exaggerated emphasis as if translating a po-em from a for-eign language.

  “Keep your dimpled paw off my knee, friend,” I said as sweetly as I could. It sounded sour.

  He yanked back his paw, but said, “What in the world happened to your raiment?” and had a difficult time to keep from being overcome with joy at his wit.

  I kept my voice level, even pleasant, and tried to smooth things over. Tried, unsuccessfully. “I had a little scuffle,” I said, “and tore the raiment. And it was a copper-jacketed moth which chewed the bitty holes in the jacket. Now can we forget it?"

  I wondered why in hell I was trying to explain to these creeps, and that didn't soothe me. Sometimes you can lean over too far backward trying to be nice, and get nicey-nice.

  Langor was frowning. “Copper...” he said. “You don't mean a bullet.” He was looking at the holes. “A bullet?"

  “A bullet.” I left it there and turned back toward Troy.

  I guess the flat statement jarred Langor a bit, but he wasn't through. “A bullet,” he said. “He was shot at with a bul-let. Friends of mine, we are in the presence of a hero.” There was a scattering of applause. I felt my ears getting warm. If Ronald had known me better and if he had been looking at my ears, he would have shut up. But he was looking at his admiring friends.

  “Speech, speech,” he said gaily. “A speech from Hero—or, no, it must be Leander!"

  Well, that was the kind of joke that really appealed to these people. Ponderously literary, and with a not-quite-nasty sexual allusion which broke them up. You wouldn't think we'd just been talking about the death of Charley White. They laughed with real amusement this time.

  And that did it.


  I leaned forward and got Langor's shoulder between my fingers and squeezed just a little. At least I thought it was just a little, but he let out a yelp. “Friend,” I said, “can the wise chatter. You may not know it, but you're out of your league."

  “Well, you don't have to get brutal,” he said. “I dare say I am ... out of my league, if you're going to get brutal."

  Oddly, I just happened to glance at Gary Baron then. He was all ears, intent on the words and the scene, smiling. His eyes even seemed to have warmed up a little. I didn't like the smile, but I was too hot—and cold at the same time—to wonder about it.

  Ronald Langor, encouraged by mumbles, had gone on to develop the theme that he wasn't physical; he was mental, and he really had no use for physical people. Nothing was ever solved by violence, he said; that was the trouble with the world today, and what we needed was nonviolence.

  Then he said, “Words are my forte, my life. My friends are books, and those who love books. So, Mr. Hero, we cannot do battle. I don't suppose you read books."

  He should at least have called me Leander. I said quietly, “I read a book."

  “Indeed? A comic book?"

  “Yes, a comic book."

  “Oh, my. Tell us about it."

  “It was called Lie Down and Die."

  He actually paled. His lips thinned and for a moment he wavered. But then he snorted and said, “I know very well you did not read it."

  “Oh, but I did."

  He smiled. He'd seen the way out. “Fine,” he said. “Then tell us what you thought of it.” He looked around at his grinning friends. “Tell us your opinion of its subtleties, its nuances, its symbolism."

  “You really want my opinion?"

  “Yes."

  “My honest opinion?"

  “Of course!"

  “All right,” I said. “It was one of those books you hate to see start. I could hardly pick it up. I was bored by the first line and lost interest steadily thereafter. As for your plot, it built to a climactic nadir and then petered out. Your characters had all the warmth of Nome, Alaska, and the charm of death by strangulation. I found it totally barren of subtleties, nuances, and recognizable symbolism, but pregnant with dullness. As for—"

  “Why, you utter beast,” he cried, wounded to the quick.

  “Hell, you asked me to utter it,” I said. “I wanted to know what all the critical conniptions were about. Now that I know, I may not read another book as long as I live."

  “Which we can hope won't be too long,” he said limply.

  Just like an author. They don't want honest opinions; they want fun opinions. He went on fuming, trying to tell the assemblage that obviously I hadn't read a line of his book. But I think they all knew—especially Ronald Langor.

  It got very quiet. So quiet I could hear the soft sound of the record I'd heard when I came in, still playing over and over, needle catching a crack on every revolution, “...no other thought than to love and be loved by me...."

  I turned to Johnny Troy, remembering what I'd told Sebastian I'd do, and said, “Well, that's about it. There seems to be a wet blanket on the party. Incidentally, that's one of your records I hadn't heard before, Mr. Troy. What are your plans now? I mean, TV shots, albums—"

  I hadn't been watching him while the byplay with Langor was going on. Maybe something had been building up in him. Maybe I'd stabbed his little friend too deeply. But he was holding his highball glass by its top and suddenly it shattered. The fragments cut into his palm, the bottom of the glass fell with a soft thump to the carpet. His face was set, grim. Then, as if surprised, he opened his hand and let the curved bits of glass fall to the floor. One of them hit the broken base there with a little ting.

  Johnny Troy looked at the blood welling from two deep cuts in his palm. A drop of red fell to stain his cream-colored trousers.

  “I'll be damned,” he said. “Guess I don't know my own st—” He cut it off, then grinned at me, relaxing. “Guess I know my own weakness."

  He got up, wrapped a handkerchief around his hand, then mixed another drink. When he returned I stood up and said, “That does it. Thanks very much for giving me this time, Mr. Troy."

  “Forget it."

  He walked with me toward the door. The people were conversing softly again but it was still fairly quiet, and as I walked past the poet in stretch pants and the clod-hoppered sculptor, I was forced to conclude that they were talking about somebody they didn't like at all. At least, the poet was saying, “...oh, pooh to him, anyway. He's a ninny....” It was all I heard, fortunately.

  At the door I said to Troy, “Thanks again. I can't honestly say I'm sorry I popped off to Langor, but I don't like to come into a man's home and chew up his guests."

  He grinned. “You chewed Ronnie pretty good.” Then he surprised me by saying, “Maybe it'll do the little bastard some good. Everybody's been telling him he wrote a masterpiece for so long he believes it."

  “You don't think it's a masterpiece?"

  He chuckled. “It stinks, as someone once said of someone, like a mackerel decaying in the moonlight.” He paused. “We're a pretty sad bunch, aren't we?"

  “I do not include you, Mr. Troy. I mean that. But I'm not exactly overcome by admiration for your friends."

  “Hell, they're not my friends.” He chewed on his lip. “And I'm just as screwed up as they are. Without Charley, I ... can't go on. It's a fact."

  It made me a little uncomfortable. But I said, “Look, I know about the trouble you've had singing, when Charley wasn't around. Who doesn't? But, hell, there's all kinds of therapy, maybe even hypnosis—"

  “It's not that simple. I may tell you about it. But not now. Charley was a friend. A real friend—not like these.” He jerked his head. “Up until the last few months, anyway."

  It dug me a little. “What does that mean?” I asked him. “Until the last few months?"

  “Skip it. Interview's over, Scott. For today, anyway.” He chewed on his lip again. “You know, I think we could get along pretty well. If...” He didn't finish it.

  “I think we could,” I said, and meant it. He was so unlike these creeps he'd surrounded himself with that I couldn't begin to understand why he put up with them. He stuck out his hand, but his right was cut and bandaged, so we shook lefts.

  “Back to the fun,” he said, grinning. “They're really going to cut you into slices."

  “No doubt. And nobody to say a word in my defense."

  “I will,” he said. “I'll say a word."

  I figured he would, at that.

  I went out and down the hall to the elevator. The last thing I heard, faintly, was the scratchy record: “...but we loved with a love that was more than love—I and my Annabel Lee...."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After cleaning up and changing clothes, I sat in my apartment and thought about a lot of things, including the bunch I'd just left, then pushed them out of my mind and concentrated on three other creeps. The three who'd tried to kill me.

  If the murder attempt was not connected with this, the Charley White case, I could sit here and think like a fiend all night and probably not pin down the who and why of it. But if it was ... Well, that led to a flock of other questions. Who, why, motive, and opportunity, the rest of it. But also, how had those creeps known I was going to come rolling down Benedict Canyon Drive?

  It was possible, I suppose, that they'd tailed me all the way from Hollywood, or up from Beverly Hills—Joe Rice lived in Beverly Hills. I hadn't been expecting trouble—not while engaged in an almost casual check of an apparently accidental death. But that I doubted, even so. There was that maybe-funny business about the phones while I'd been with Sebastian. Yeah, he'd known I was going to see Dr. Withers.... No, I hadn't actually told him where I was going. Merely that I had “something else to do."

  But Mordecai Withers himself ... I started remembering things. His reaction when he'd finally realized I was Shell Scott. His further reaction when that lively tomato had come out of
the next room, fully clothed.

  Suddenly I wanted to see—what was her name? Ah, yes, Plonk. Miss Plonk. I'd look her up in the phone book, that's what. Shouldn't be difficult. Probably there weren't more than thirty or forty Plonks in all of Los Angeles.

  Believe it or not, there was only one. Polly Plonk. I jotted down the address, but didn't phone. I wanted to surprise her. The way she wandered around, sort of abandoned, perhaps—but never mind.

  The address was the Baghdad on Beverly Boulevard, one of those spread-out hybrid hotel-motel affairs with separate little cottages scattered around a swimming pool and elsewhere in grounds landscaped with palm and banana trees. It looked as much like Baghdad as vegetable soup resembles the Pacific Ocean. But the cottages were nice, quite large and freshly painted in pale blue and white.

  Miss Plonk's apartment was number six. I found it between five and seven. Everything was working out fine so far. Thus encouraged, I knocked.

  Footsteps. Not bare; high-heeled, my keen ear told me. The door opened. And standing there was—yes!—Miss Plonk.

  “Hello, Miss Plonk,” I said.

  “Well, hello! I remember you. From the doctor's office."

  “Well, I wasn't there because...” I didn't finish it. Maybe she liked sick people. Come to think of it, I did. I wondered what she was suffering from. Last time I'd seen her she hadn't seemed to be suffering very hard. I think I'd suffered more than she.

  But I couldn't just stand here suffering like this. I said, “I'd like to ask you a question."

  “Yes. I mean, what's the question?"

  I rolled that one around for a moment. “All right if I come in? This may take more than one question."

  “Oh, sure. I don't mind how many. Come on in."

  She was kind of hard to figure out. She sure looked great, though. She was clothed, wearing the high-heeled shoes I'd heard, plus a blue sweater much like a large fuzzy living bra, and tight blue stretch pants. I could have kissed her. After that poet, I'd thought maybe I would never like stretch pants again. But I was cured. Miss Plonk had cured me. On her they looked so—so at home.