The Trojan Hearse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)
Page 19
The pink haze lilted, but I was still groaning aloud. But all I could do was sit in my cell, sit and think and sweat and shiver. So I sat there. And thought. And sweated. And shivered.
It was late at night when Samson and Rawlins came in again. Sam was grinning. He put a beefy paw on my shoulder and said, “Well, Sebastian cracked. Didn't think it would happen so soon, but it did. He cracked as soon as he heard—Well, the important thing is he confessed to killing Charley White."
“The hell."
“He did. White was going to spill the beans, fed up with Boyle getting all the glory, love, attention, when it was his voice. You know."
“I know."
“After killing White, Sebastian bad Rice handle everything else that came up."
“Like me."
“White didn't know that nut doctor—"
“Mordecai Withers?"
“Yeah, him. Didn't know he and Sebastian were like peas in a pod. White was mixed up, this thing eating at him. Started going to Withers, seriously, for help, but couldn't swallow the guff—"
“Understandably. I've heard the guff."
“But the main thing is he spilled the whole story to Withers. His voice, he should be getting the credit, and so forth. Withers naturally passed it on to Sebastian, who visited Charley that Thursday night. Charley told him to go to hell, he'd had it, was going to tell the world. Figured Sebastian couldn't afford to kill him because he was Johnny Troy's voice. Figured wrong. Sebastian helped him over the balcony."
“I had a hunch that was it. Sebastian had bigger birds in hand than Johnny Troy, and much bigger plans. I just didn't have any proof of it for a while."
“Well, we've got proof now. Can't do anything to Withers himself. He didn't commit any crime—"
“Not much, he didn't—"
“That, we can prosecute him for. Maybe spilling to Sebastian was a breach of professional ethics, but we can't slap him in jail for that. Oh, another thing. We found that check you mentioned, in Bonchak's pants pocket. He still had the note Rice sent him, saying for him to bug your apartment."
“I thought he still had on that same black suit."
“Note wasn't signed, but the check had Rice's name and address printed on it.” Samson had gotten out a kitchen match and fired up his cigar. The stench was already nauseating.
“Damn you,” I said. “That's OK in your office. But you know I can't get out of here."
He blinked the sharp brown eyes at me. “Forgot to tell you. You're sprung."
“Sprung?"
“Oh, we've got plenty to talk to you about still, so come in tomorrow. There's the damage to the Sebastian Building—but they're tearing it down next week anyway, so that's not too serious. And you ruined Robert Dalton's ‘Life and Death.’”
I whistled. “Fifty-two thousand clams. Fine."
“Oh, Sebastian told us about that, too. No money changed hands. That was just a story to build up Dalton."
“Somehow it doesn't surprise me. Man, I must live right."
Sam looked at Rawlins, and Rawlins looked at Sam, and they shook their heads.
Then Samson said to me, “One of the reasons Sebastian put that monstrosity there was to conceal a wall safe behind it. You knocked that loose when you came through. Plenty in it about Humble, Rice, Kapper, and so on. Some of it's coded, but we're working on that. Incidentally, that Dalton cube thing there is one reason you weren't killed. Putting it in weakened the wall, took out some of the bricks and reinforcing. By the way, what in the name of hell possessed you to—Never mind. I don't want to hear about it."
I said, “There must be other charges. Like being a nuisance—and I know I've got to pay for repairing a fairway. Maybe even a plane. And probably cover some golfers’ bets—"
“Nothing we have to keep you in for tonight. Want you down here tomorrow, though. I told you, you're sprung."
“Whoever did it, he must swing a lot of weight."
“The President usually does."
“Pres—You mean, the old..."
“President-elect, I meant."
My voice shook as I asked, “Hu—Humble?"
Samson grinned. “Emerson."
* * * *
After that, of course, it was a breeze.
They let me out. I was free again—and you don't know how good it feels unless you've lost your freedom temporarily. Even the smog smelled sweet.
They took me in a police car; I wasn't out of danger from confused citizens, among others. But we went straight to the Emerson-for-President Headquarters, which was a scene of joy and wild celebration. Emerson was there, naturally; Humble had conceded within the hour, when it was obvious California was in the Emerson column.
I talked five minutes with the new President. We shook hands, and he thanked me for my help, and I told him I'd just been doing a job for a client. He said that was good. He mentioned that when he got settled in “the new job” he might want to talk to me again. In Washington. I told him any time, any place; I'd be there. At any rate, he seemed quite pleased with what I'd done, even though it was, perhaps, a bit unorthodox. But, hell, any red-blooded American boy would have done the same, I figured.
I was particularly glad that David Emerson was pleased; because, due to circumstances beyond my control, I hadn't been able to vote for him.
Then it was all over but the shouting—of which there was, and was to be, more than plenty. And I was free, really free. Time now to get back to normal, pick up the threads, start looking ahead. I took a deep breath, breathed in freedom.
Of course, basically it wasn't really over. There would be times when I would wake up suddenly, fragments of nightmare clinging to my brain. There would be times when I would hear the tinkle of a voice like Chinese bells. I would remember Johnny Troy, too, with a kind of sad affection. Him, and Charley White—among others—and what they might have been.
But in still another way it wasn't over. Duerfism wasn't dead; it wasn't even dying. Lunacy, and “the madness of crowds,” seems to spring eternal from the human noodle. And, too, judging from newspaper stories, radio and TV telecasts, pronouncements from numerous well-known assayers of the contemporary scene, the reaction was just getting under way. A lot of people, one hell of a lot, were on my side; but some damned powerful people hated my “conservative” guts—and they were still at bat. Batting me around. Discussing my actions, which, just maybe, had had something to do with swinging a lot of votes away from their hero. Humble.
Predictably, it was called “a despicable last-minute smear by subversive agents of the radical right.” How about that? Sebastian and Rice, among others—even Humble himself—were guilty; but somehow I had become the whole “radical right” and by implication all the right that wasn't radical, and was thus the guilty group smearing those poor innocent individuals. But it figured. These big-name duerfs have a slick way of shifting guilt from the guilty to the innocent so neatly that even when you expect it you don't see it happen. Take a fact; draw from it false conclusions; then wrap those warped conclusions around whomever you're after—and pretend he's a whole group of villains. That's the way to get ‘em.
It's part of a technique as slick as TV soap, and proceeds to conclusions so divorced from truth as to batter normal brains into total insensibility. It's divorced from logic, sure; but the hell with logic—it's that old emotional appeal that gets results. Every hypnotist knows that.
So it wasn't going to be smooth sailing ahead for me. But I'd never asked for smooth sailing in the first place. And best of all, the ship wasn't sunk—make that a yacht. I like good old capitalistic yachts; what's good enough for the President is good enough for me. I'd have one of the things myself if I could afford it. Or if—but, no. Emerson had been elected. There'd be no yachtcare now.
But, one day at a time. Life goes on in the midst of battle. Tonight there was—tonight. So I planned my evening. Eat. That's what I'd do. I'd eat, and eat, and eat. My hunger still hadn't really returned, but it was lurking down
there. Lurking and making growling noises. I'd start with a big hunk of prime ribs, rare and tender. Maybe I could find a quiet spot where nobody would recognize me.
But there was no sense eating alone. Not when the world's full of beautiful, hungry women.
So at the apartment, after I'd fed the fish and waved to Amelia, while I showered and shaved off a nearly three-day growth of beard, and said “Ouch” a lot, and dressed in my most resplendent duds, I ran over the possibilities in my mind.
There was Lydia.... Carmen, Natasha, Lulu.... And Polly Plonk. Yeah, Polly, woweewow. And Evelyn, Kyra, Moira. And there was —
Sure, that one. Yes, indeed, that one. But maybe she wouldn't go out with me, especially after all the fuss. But maybe I could talk her into it. Who knows? A man never knows what he can do till he tries.
I grabbed the phone, dialed.
The sweet-hot sultry voice came on. “Hello-o?"
“Hi,” I said. “This is Shell...."
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1964 by Richard S. Prather
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4804-9826-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia