She had turned around by this time and was stepping back into her cottage. I followed her and she closed the door, then said. “Sit down. Would you like a drink? Who are you? My, I'm glad you dropped by. Aren't you?"
“Well...” I said, and gave up.
She didn't care. She was walking through the living room to another room—kitchen. I could see the stove and all. “Come on in,” she called. “The drinks are in here. So am I."
She made a lot of sense. I went in. “Isn't it funny? I was just making myself a martini. I made two. Or you can have some of this stuff.” She indicated two bottles, one a fair scotch and the other a perfectly foul bourbon.
“Martini's fine,” I said. “If you're sure there's enough."
“Oh, there's gallons. Here, you pour it—them—in here—these—and we'll go in and drink them, and then you can ask me."
“Huh? I mean, ask you? What?"
“I don't know. What was it?"
“I don't remember."
She was leaning back against the sink, and if you don't think kitchens can be exciting as hell, you were never in Miss Plonk's kitchen. That living bra was really alive, moving, breathing, beckoning, doing more than you would guess. And in Dr. Withers’ office I'd had only a couple of heady glances at her face, and now realized I'd been unable to appreciate her finer points.
That sherry-colored hair did fall like heat past her left eye, and it was an eye green, hot, deep, wide, long-lashed, gorgeous, cool. And hot. Both of them were. She had a truly lovely face, straight nose, smoothly arched brows over those big green eyes. And the lips—they should run a big foldout picture of them in a girlie mag. Plump, parted, gleaming moistly, smoothly, recklessly. Moving a little. Like wild antennae.
Suddenly I wondered: What am I doing here by the sink in Miss Plonk's kitchen, pouring martinis and thinking of her antennae? I'm supposed to be working. I'm dedicated to my job. I work hard. I'm dependable. I like my work. Why am I playing about? What did I come here for?
Yeah. I remembered. But first, there was work to do.
“Miss Plonk,” I said, “what about Mordecai Withers?"
“I don't know. What about him?"
“Listen, we'd better ... have a moment of silence."
We went back into the front room. It was very nice. Nice furniture, nice drapes, nice chairs and couch. We sat on the couch. I sipped at my martini, then I said, “Miss Plonk—"
“Call me Polly. Say, I'm curious about something."
“Yeah, what?"
“Who are you?"
“My name's Shell Scott,” I said. “Here.” I showed her my identification, license, Diner's card. Don't know what I was trying to prove, but she was impressed.
“I knew you were somebody,” she said.
“Ah, fine. Now, remember when we met? I mean, when I walked into Dr. Withers’ office and you ... ah..."
“Yes, I was going into the next room to get dressed. I didn't have any clothes on. But I guess you noticed that."
“I guess."
We sat there for a while, wrapped in our separate thoughts. I had got a hunch, even in this short time, that if I hoped to get to the bottom of this case I would have to phrase my questions with care. Because I would have bet that Miss Polly Plonk didn't have an IQ of more than 160. I would have bet a million dollars on it. So if I hoped to crack this caper, with her help, I couldn't ask anything that might send her off on a mental tangent.
So I thought about it, sipping my empty martini, then said, “Miss—I mean, Polly—"
“Yes, and I'll call you Shell. All rightie?"
“Fine. When—"
“You're empty. I'll mix us another. No, you mix them."
“In a minute. Listen. When you were in that next room putting your clothes on, Dr. Mordecai Withers went in there for a minute. Only about a minute. Now...” It was a little delicate, by golly. But I took a deep breath and went on, “What did he do?"
“He made a phone call."
“Ah-ha.” It figured. But something else puzzled me. “Right in front of you?” I asked.
“I was behind the screen. Sometimes you go into that office instead, and there's a screen so you can go behind it. And take your clothes off."
“Don't keep saying that.” I remembered the screen, though. I'd seen it and a chair, part of a desk, through the open door. “You mean maybe he didn't know you were there? Or had forgotten?"
“He could have. He acted like it. Didn't even look to see if I was behind the screen. I'll bet you would have."
“I'll bet—Polly, this phone call. What was it about?"
“I don't know, Shell. He just called somebody and said somebody—What was the name? He said somebody was there asking about Charley White. The name's on the tip of my—Shell Scott. That was it."
“That's me."
“You're right. That's right. It was you he was talking about.” She paused. “But that makes sense, doesn't it? Since you were the one talking to him."
“It makes a lot of sense. Did you hear him mention anybody's name? Anybody else's, I mean. The name of the guy on the phone?"
“No. Only Shell—you were the only one he said. That was all he did. Just said you were there asking about this Charley White, then hung up and went out."
Uh-huh. And that was what I'd thought might have happened. It was the only way I'd been able to explain those hoods picking me up on Benedict. So whom had he phoned? If the hoods were Joe Rice's boys, he might have called Rice. Which puzzled me more than a little.
“Mind if I use your phone?” I asked.
“Go ahead.” She pointed it out and I looked up Withers’ number and dialed it. The phone rang several times, unanswered, and I hung up.
“He's not there,” I said.
“Who?"
“Dr. Withers."
“Of course not. He told me he won't be at the office until after the elections."
That was right. This was Saturday. The elections were Tuesday. He must have decided to leave the office closed on Monday as well. “He say where he'd be?"
She shook her head, the light putting glints of red in her hair. I spent a while trying to run down another address or phone number for Dr. Withers, even checking with a newspaper friend and the L.A.P.D., but without any luck; no telling where he might be. But I was going to find him.
I was still sitting by the phone when I heard the stirring. Polly came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of martinis.
“You pour,” she said.
“I really shouldn't. I've got to try to find a guy. Though I don't know where the devil he'd be."
“You can't find him tonight, can you? At least, not this minute."
“No, not this minute. In fact, probably not till tomorrow. If then. I've a hunch he knows by now I'm looking for him, so it's eight to five he'll be pretty well hidden."
“Who do you want to find?"
“Dr. Mordecai Withers."
“Are you sick?"
“Sick? I'm healthy as a bull—as a ... a doctor."
“I don't know whether I'm sick or not. But I don't think I'll go to Withers any more. He's no good. All he does is tell me to take off my clothes—"
“Don't keep—"
“And then talks crazy."
“Yeah, I've heard him. But that's the big thing these days."
“Maybe nothing's wrong with me at all. I don't know. It's just that I'm so passionate."
“Well, old Mordecai isn't much good for any—You're so what?"
“Passionate."
“I thought that was—"
“I'm always, well, I mean I go around all the time thinking ... I mean ... Shell, pour just one martini, will you?"
“OK. Just one. Go on."
Zoop, zop, I had both of them poured. We clinked glasses and she said, “Well, I'm very passionate. Sexy, you know."
“I know. I mean, I had a hunch—"
“That's why I went to Withers. But he wasn't any help at all. Maybe I don't need to be helpe
d. Maybe it's all right."
“I don't see anything wrong with it. In fact, if that's sickness, I've probably had a touch of it myself. But that kind of sickness is ... well, it's healthy. That's what I always say."
“I think about it a lot. And I just love kissing."
“You sound sane as hell to me."
“I'm glad you think so, Shell. But I think I'm ... oh, abnormal. Like when I saw you today. When I was standing there in the room with no clothes on."
“Say it again."
“No clothes on. And the way you were looking at me, I could feel that old feeling again. I don't know how to describe it, but I just thought, I don't know, kind of ooeeoo."
There it was! I'd tracked the clue to its lair! I'd solved the case. “Ooeeoo” was—Woweewow!
“Baby,” I said.
“Ooeeoo!"
“Woweewow!"
“Shell, kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me!"
Well, you don't have to tell me four times.
I did it.
She must have thought about it a lot. All the time. She'd thought of some new inventions. Man, talk about intoxicating kisses! Those were hundred-proof lips doing that same old proving in a new improved way. It was like getting stung gently on the mouth by a hive of friendly bees. Oh, better than that. It was as if she had four lips—and it sure seemed the right number. Even so, you'd have thought she had help of some kind, like two or three other lively tomatoes spelling out “wowee-ooeewow” in labial braille.
Whatever she was doing, it sent a new kind of current through my sympathetic nervous system—which was sympathetic as hell, if you want the truth—a sort of A.C.D.C. mashed together by osculatory lightning. Well, with all those lips of hers going like crazy, and with me doing my best to hold up my end, in that cubic inch or so of frenzied puckering there was a whole roomful of oral orgy; it was a smacking macrocosm in microcosm which if carefully studied might have given scientists clues to new formulas for undiscovered forces—like gravity, or vodka, or space travel. My mind went into orbit; all became clear.
This shouldn't be allowed to escape. Scientists should capture this and slow it down and examine it with microscopes, telescopes, gyroscopes, yanking their beards. I could hear a new Einstein saying, “Hey, boy, men, we've got it! We can use this thing to power lunar capsules. We'll just put one of these things under the rocket, and—pow! Chop-chop to the moon! Puckering through space! All aboard, contact, light the kissers!"
Right in the middle of my scientific deductions something happened. My lips suddenly felt loose, they had been abandoned on the launching pad. My fellow scientist had gone away somewhere. There she was, three or four inches off in the distance.
“Shell?” she said.
“Polly!"
“What's the matter? Why are you staring so?"
“I was just on the verge—"
“What?"
“Of a real breakthrough. I was defying gravity. I was discovering a whole new science. I was—Polly, let's do that again."
“Oh, let's do something else."
“Else? There's something else?"
“Let's play a game."
“Game? Are you nuts?"
“Let's play roly-poly."
“Yeah, you're nuts."
“I'm serious, Shell. It'll be fun. Let's play roly-poly."
“OK. You be roly, and I'll be poly."
“Oh, silly, it's a game."
“Who said anything different?"
“It's a party game, a game you play at parties."
“Who said anything—"
“You start with one couple, a man and a woman—"
“Now you're talking. That's my kind of couple."
“And you do it with a beach ball—"
“You what?"
“A big beach ball. You and the girl face each other and put the ball between your tummies—"
“I don't get this at all."
“And then you hop across the room."
“Oh, my God."
“The object is to see which couple can go all the way the fastest. Across the room—without dropping the ball, of course."
“Of course. That'd ruin everything."
“And the couple that does it fastest wins."
“Wins what?"
“Nothing."
“Nothing. Well, isn't that something. Huh. You don't win anything?"
“No, it's just a game."
“Like checkers?"
“Yes."
“Hell, then why don't we play checkers?"
“You want to try it?"
“No. No, I don't. I'm damned if I will."
“Somehow I didn't think you would. I don't know why I mentioned it."
“Neither do I."
“I guess I was just ... nervous. You make me nervous, Shell."
“Me? Why?"
“Well, you're so big, and strong, and virile—"
“You noticed, huh?"
“And sort of wild. And kind of nice, too. And, well, exciting."
“Exciting?"
“And there's that crazy white hair, and those steely blue eyes—"
“Gray. They're gray."
“Gray? I thought they were blue. Maybe I'm color blind. I know when I was a little girl—"
“OK. Blue. Go on."
“And you're sort of rough-looking. But nice, too. And, well, exciting."
“Exciting?"
“Uh-huh."
Silence. I looked at her. She looked at me. This went on for a while.
“Hey,” I said. “I know a game."
“Tell me. Oh, tell me."
I told her. Hell, you don't need beach balls.
* * * *
By the time I'd driven back downtown, the extras were on the streets.
Big black headlines told the story. johnny troy dead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I read the story sitting in my car.
The subhead was: “Golden Voiced Singer Kills Self."
Before reading on, I lit a cigarette and dragged on it, wondering what the hell. Killed himself? He had acted a little strangely. A kind of tension in his manner, a bit too much to drink, that broken glass, the rather odd way he'd spoken to me as I'd left. But he hadn't struck me as a man on the verge of suicide.
It was goofy. Here I'd been investigating an apparently accidental death, wondering if it had been suicide—or murder—and now the dead man's closest friend had, at least apparently, committed suicide.
I read the rest of the front-page story. Troy had been found in his suite by Ulysses Sebastian. He had phoned Troy—to find out how the interview with me had gone—but couldn't reach him; knowing the singer should be in his apartment, and thus mildly worried, he'd gone to call on him. The door was locked and he couldn't get an answer to his knock. The manager let him in. Troy was in his bedroom; on a table near him was a picture of him and Charley White together; and a bullet was in his heart.
His body was lying back on the bed, one leg dangling to the carpet. Another, superficial gunshot wound was high on his left side. The gun, a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver—registered not in his name but in Charley White's—was a few feet from him on the floor. The coroner said he'd been dead perhaps half an hour to an hour when found; call it less than an hour. There was no note.
That was it, except for odds and ends. Sebastian had made a statement, and was in a state of near shock. There were reports that Troy had been brooding ever since the death of his closest friend only two days ago. The story mentioned some of the people who'd been with Troy shortly before he'd killed himself—including me, of course.
Well, in any suicide—particularly in a case like this and considering what had happened to me today—you wonder about murder. There wasn't any motive, as far as I could tell; on the contrary, everybody I could think of who was associated with Troy would have wanted that multimillion-dollar “property” very much alive. Perhaps even more important, it sure looked like suicide.
The “odd” det
ails—the other, superficial wound, gun several feet from him—instead of making it look like murder, made me fairly certain he actually had killed himself. A man shot in the heart doesn't necessarily die right away; some have been known to run for blocks before dying—and a few haven't died at all. And either in pain or in convulsive reaction a man could throw a gun clear out of the room, a lot farther than half a dozen feet or so.
More, suicide naturally isn't something you practice, and when a suicide stabs himself to death, for example, there are often at least one and sometimes several marks of “false tries,” cuts and slashes that aren't fatal. They've got to work up to the fatal moment. No matter how distressed, how tortured a man may be, there's always that something inside that tries to keep him alive. It looked as if Troy must have pulled the trigger but jerked the gun away at the last moment—the first time. The second time, he'd held it steady.
Another thing suicides often do, for some reason, is bare the spot where they shoot or stab themselves. The story didn't mention that angle, but they could fill me in on that at the Police Building. So there's where I was going.
I started the car, drove to the Hollywood Freeway and down it toward the Civic Center. And only then did it really sink in. Johnny Troy. The greatest, most popular singer in the country. Dead. He'd sing no more. Almost as tragic as the thought of that handsome, vital, powerful man lying dead was the thought that his magnificent voice was gone from the people, too.
I'd been very impressed by the guy: even more, I suppose, than I'd realized at the time. Well, it was done. I headed for the Police Building.
It was after midnight when I walked into room 314 again. Captain Samson was still there. He usually is when there's a special case on the fire. And this one was really special. All hell was breaking loose. Phones ringing, newspaper reporters, TV men, photographers in the hall. I'd seen more down below in the lobby.
Lieutenant Rawlins was sitting behind a wooden table, writing something. He looked up and waved at me when I came in. “Hi, Shell. You looking for Sam?"
I nodded and he pointed to the closed door of Samson's office. I knocked on it and went in. Sam was alone, talking on the phone, his teeth halfway through his black cigar.
He jerked his head toward a wooden chair and I straddled it while he finished his conversation. He looked a little tired, but that pink face of his was clean-shaven—it always is, somehow. That's another thing about Sam. Sometimes I think he carries one of those little battery-operated electrics around in his pocket and sneaks it out when nobody's looking. Zip-zip, back into the pocket.
The Trojan Hearse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 8