Which awareness didn’t make me feel wonderful all over. Any more than did the sight of Werzen’s corpse, with four bullets from my Colt inside him. Nor, needless to say, awareness of the next little thing I had to do.
I lit a cigarette, had a couple of drags, watched smoke float in the air.
Then I sighed, found a phone in the front room, and dialed the LAPD.
When I hung up I smoked another cigarette, thinking, with some sourness, about Captain Phil Samson. At least I had been able to convey my report to a lieutenant of my close acquaintance in the Homicide Division, Bill Rawlins, rather than to the good captain himself as would have been my usual custom.
I snubbed out my cigarette, got up, prowled around a little. In the closet were one suit, a couple of sport jackets, two pairs of slacks, and some shirts. Not much clothing, but it all appeared to be Werzen’s size. On the floor was a suitcase containing shorts and socks, a dirty T-shirt, and a nearly full box of .45 caliber cartridges.
I walked to the other bedroom I’d glanced into, checked it. Plenty of clothing in the closet, pants much bigger around the middle, half a dozen pairs of shoes. In a dresser drawer were letters addressed to Jamesand J. M.Collett, plus a checkbook printed with Collett’s name. On top of the dresser was a glossy slick-paper magazine. Frolic, with a very fetching unclad lady on the cover. She was facing the camera with one hand before her face, hiding her eyes but not anything else.
I picked up the magazine and it opened to one of the middle pages without any encouragement from me, the way magazines will when they’ve been folded back or left open, facedown, for some time. But once it was open, I kept it that way. Because there could not have been, in magazines anywhere, many pages more cleverly designed to catch and hang on to a red-blooded man’s full and fascinated attention for some time.
The left-hand page was merely printed text, but on the right were displayed photos of three more lovelies, with a line or two of print beneath each of the three pictures. The half-page photo at the top was of a stupendously shapely gal clutching a shiny silver vase or cup, and below that were a pair of quarter-page pix, each of another young lady equally, which is to say totally, unclad.
Midway up the page were a few red marks — a word or two circled there, and some numbers written in the margin — but that merely tickled my eyes as they lingered on the astonishing bare curves of the luscious lass above them and then slid for a few moments over to the text on the left.
Even the text was of more than passing interest. At the top of that left-hand page was the heading, Winner in Miss Naked California Contest Chosen,and beneath that in smaller type, Last of Fabulous Fifty Selected for Miss Naked USA Finals September 29.
News of the contest itself wasn’t any surprise to me, but I hadn’t realized the national wrap-up, or maybe more accurately unwrap, was so close. This was Friday, September 21, so September 29 was only eight days away. I had known for several months not only that the national finals of this most beauteous of all beauty contests was in the works, but that its climax would be reached right here in California, only a few miles outside the L.A. city limits, at the Doubless Ranch owned by Doubless Productions, these being the less-than-marvelous names of, respectively, two hundred and forty acres on which still stood part of a movie set, and an independent movie production company — formed by two men each of whom had the initials S.S.— which owned the acreage.
In fact, I had been looking forward to attending those festivities, and an even more imminent booze-and-barbecue bash, also sponsored by Doubless at the Doubless Ranch, if at all possible, because of my sincere interest in such cultural activities.
Culture, in this broad sense, had come a long way since the day when Mack Sennett’s bathing beauties made three-fourths of a nation reel with righteous shock and the other fourth shamefully horny. Progress was somewhat inhibited from the first Miss America contests through the Miss Universe and Miss World extravaganzas, and the first Miss Nakedcontests of the late sixties and early seventies were therefore events cogently described, by some, as a great leap forward.
True, it had taken fifty years to eliminate the zither playing and Casey-at-the-Batrecitations from beautycontests, but it had — as none who witnessed any of the results would deny — been worth the wait.
Those initial bare-pulchritude competitions could by no means have been described as national in scope, or even truly representative of the talent available in an entire county of the land, much less any one — and certainly not all — of the fifty states. Even so, those first almost casually planned and produced contests in which lovely young creatures posed and paraded publicly wearing nothing except, in more than a few instances, distinctly apprehensive expressions, were described by nine out of ten of those in attendance as lots of fun.
Baleful comments issuing from individuals in the ten-percent minority — ranging from doleful assertions that such flagrant exhibitionism couldn’t last and the whole thing would peter out within a year, to dire predictions that even the losers were in danger of being carried off into the woods by monsters — all proved to be without any foundation in fact, or at least not much. This also proved, as it has been often and wisely said: There is nothing so powerful as an idea whose time has come.
The time for a real Miss Naked USA had unquestionably come. For, though to date there had been little coverage of the uncoverage by the news media, only a year earlier there had been real organization plus financial backing and know-how added to enthusiasm, and well-run competitions had been held in forty-two states, with the forty-two winners gathering for the runoff, or playoff, or showoff — it was called many things — in Miami, Florida.
This year, for the first time, the event could accurately be referred to as a truly national competition, with a winner from every one of the fifty states. At the finals there would be ceremonies, speeches, personal appearances by movie actors and producers, newspaper and wire-service reporters — but no television reporters, at least not with their cameras, not yet — and politicians. A fifty-piece all-girl orchestra would signal commencement of the event by playing The Star-Spangled Banner,and its conclusion by God Bless Americasung by the winner herself.
I was, actually, kind of excited about it all. Which was why I happened to know a little something about the contest. A little something. Not quite enough — as I was about to discover.
I merely glanced over the page of text — a Frolic staff writer’s rhapsodizing about the dawning of a new heydayin America and promising that there would be in the next issue full-page pix of all fifty contestants plus a suitable-for-framing centerfold of Miss Naked USA herself!— then looked again at the naked lovely atop the right-hand page, who, I had by now deduced, was the very recent winner of the California contest.
Deservedly so, was my offhand opinion, as I again admired the full-color reproduction of those sweeping, thrusting, swooping, and sensational curves, and for the first time eyed the lady’s face with some care.
The silver vase — actually, the wingéd cup awarded to the current Miss Naked California — that she held aslant in both hands concealed quite a lot of one breast, of which there was quite a lot to conceal, and part of her smiling face. Even so, it struck me that there was about that face — about the marvelous body, in fact — something . . .
I squinted, started shaking my head rapidly in little twitches.
My gaze fell to the word circled in red ink below the picture. One word, half of the name printed there. I shook my head some more, quite a lot more, opened my eyes wide, blinked.
Aralia Fields,is what it said, and Araliawas the red-circled name.
I looked at that lovely, partly hidden face again, and said to myself:
Aralia?
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT was Aralia, all right. My Aralia.
The figures written at the margin of the page, in the same red ink used to circle the name, were 555-4489. It looked like a phone number; but because there wasn’t a 55prefix on any phones in
the Spartan I knew it couldn’t be Aralia’s even though I didn’t know what her number was.
But I did, for sure, want to call Aralia now.
So, carrying the copy of Frolic, I walked back into the living room, picked up the phone receiver, and started dialing Information — then stopped, looked at those figures again.
If that was a phone number, it was a reasonable assumption it had been written down by Werzen, or perhaps Collett, probably right here in this apartment. There would have been no need to make a note of the number if it was in the book, so it figured that Werzen or Collett had gotten the number from Information, or perhaps from a friend and jotted it down before making the call. A call very likely made — to continue the reasonable assumptions — immediately after lamping the living-color display of Aralia’s delectable charms, or her name.
I went ahead and dialed Information, got the number listed for Aralia Fields, gave her a call. A minute later, with the ringing phone still unanswered, I hung up, feeling only a slight sense of unease.
It took me several minutes more to run down the name of the man with the phone number 555-4489, which is what the figures turned out to be. It was listed, but not an L.A.-Hollywood number. The man’s name was Vincent Ragan, of 1411 Hollyhock Lane. I’d never been on Hollyhock, but I knew where it was, a dozen miles north of Hollywood in largely undeveloped land that was mostly low hills and a lot of trees.
Because it was a toll call, I was able to determine that a call had been made to 555-4489, from the same phone I was using, on Wednesday night, September 19, at eleven p.m. And that was only two nights, less than forty-eight hours, ago.
I heard a car slowing for a stop at the curb, checked to make sure it was a police car, left the front door open. When the team of officers came inside I had just finished checking the L.A. phone directory for Ragan, Vincent. There was a listing, but only one. No home address in the book, or home phone. Just his business address. He was a patent attorney. His business address was on Wilshire Boulevard, a suite composed of rooms 38, 40, 42.
Yeah, on Wilshire Boulevard. In the Weir Building.
I knew both of the officers who’d arrived in the radio car, but the first man inside was Bill Rawlins.
Bill was a tall, slim, well-muscled guy a couple of years younger than my thirty, with wavy black hair, a dark handsome face and quick go-to-hell grin that had made a lot of ladies desire to go to hell with him. And very rarely, indeed almost never, had he denied any one of them fulfillment of her desire.
As Bill came inside he said, Hi, Shell. You didn’t make a mistake and just wound him, did you?
No such luck.
You’re sure it’s Werzen?
Yeah. He’s in there.I jerked a thumb at the open door.
Both officers went into the bedroom. I waited until Rawlins came out, alone, then took him over near the front door. Look, pal,I said, I know Sam’s going to have a hemorrhage, but there was no way out of this one.
Rawlins rubbed his chin with a faint scraping sound. He was still in his office when I left the squad room. About to take off on his vacation, though.
I nodded.
Wants everything cleaned up pretty well by midnight tonight — not planning to come in tomorrow. I managed to leave without conversing with the captain, but I’ll have to fill him in about this when I get back. And, of course, so will you, you know.
Yeah, I do know. And, ah, that’s what I would like to . . . converse with you about, my friend. My dear old friend.
Wait a shake, Shell. I don’t like the way —
Bill, just listen for a minute, will you?
I told him most of what had happened since my arrival here, and that I fully intended to visit the LAPD to dictate my statement, among other things, which other things included explaining all to the captain, and possibly throwing myself on his mercy, in case he had any. But, I added, I intended to do all that after some slight delay, if Bill could refrain a little longer from handcuffing me, because I had reason to believe I should make one quick trip first.
All Rawlins did during my spiel was shake his head and say, twice, Can’t do it.And when I’d finished he said, Quick trip where?
See a guy out on Hollyhock Lane. Which is at least sixteen or seventeen miles from where we’re at. If I have to go in the opposite direction first, clear the hell into downtown L.A. —
Why is it so important you see this guy?
Well, I’m not sure if it is. That’s why I want to brace him, drop in without advance notice.
Rawlins glanced back toward the bedroom door, then said, What’s it got to do with this?
Man, that would take a little explaining.
You could explain it downtown, old buddy.
You’re kidding. No, you aren’t, are you?
I told him the rest of what had occurred since my arrival at the duplex, plus much of what had happened before I decided to come here. Then I added, Hell, I’m not going to leave the country. It’s just, well, maybe an hour’s delay. Naturally, I know you can’t tell me to split, but if you’ll just go to the can or something —
I dunno . . .He paused. This gal you mentioned — the one lives in the Spartan — I was off last night. But I heard about her from some of the boys. Yeah, did I hear about her. It turns out she’s really honest-to-God Miss Naked California?
That’s right, you haven’t met her — haven’t even seen her, have you?I paused. Well, old friend, it just happens I have been carrying around a picture of my new friend, Aralia. And she is a dear, sweet girl, she really is.
By then I had opened the copy of Frolic, which was still clutched in my hand — or, rather, held the magazine before Rawlins and let it slowly, as though by magic, open itself again — saying, Bill, I want you to meet a dear, sweet girl, my pal, Aralia.
Oh, brother,he said, automatically flashing a go-to-hell grin at the picture. I mean, sister. That’s her, huh? That’s really her?
See the name circled in red, Bill? Observe the name?
Yeah. You do know her?
Would I kid you?
Yeah. But, O.K., Shell old buddy, you’ll introduce me to the lady, of course?
Are you out of your cotton . . . ah. Of course. Bill,I said sourly. What are old buddies for?
You’re a brick,he said. Well, you wait right here, you understand? That’s an official police order. I’ve got to go to the can.
I almost missed Hollyhock Lane.
It was a narrow drive, black-topped with asphalt, perhaps wide enough for two cars to pass easily if they were both Volkswagens. It rose slightly away from me, a straight dark line going uphill for a hundred yards and then disappearing among closely planted orange trees. Another hundred yards or so farther on, the road passed out of the cultivated grove into land only slightly more open, with oaks, pepper trees, eucalyptus, and enough other trees and shrubs to qualify the area as Southern California jungle.
The trees cut off some of the sunlight, and there wasn’t much of it left. The air was beginning to feel cooler, softer; it would be dark in another half hour or so.
I didn’t expect to find much of a house out here in an area so sparsely populated, even though it was only a few miles from Hollywood. But I found a dandy. After passing two small places, much like mountain cabins, Hollyhock Lane curved left past a private drive rising to a beautiful ranch-style home at the top of a small hill. The house number was on a large metal mailbox at the beginning of the drive — the name Raganwas there, too, for that matter, in small cemented-on metal letters. This one wasn’t a little cabin, but more like two hundred and fifty thousand bucks worth of stained wood and native stone. Whoever John Ragan was, he was doing pretty well.
I drove on up to an open area covered with pink gravel in front of the house, parked behind another car already there. It was a five- or six-year-old Chevrolet sedan, its once green paint job dulled by time and weather. The Chevy didn’t look like a car the owner of this place would drive. I got o
ut, carrying the copy of Frolic rolled up in my hand.
The sun hit only the top of the house, not the land or trees below. But there was plenty of light for me to see that Ragan — if he was the husky-looking man with his back to the front door — had company. A woman and a young longhaired individual were standing there talking to him. As I approached they both turned and walked toward me, obviously heading for the Chevy.
Before they reached me, the man called after them, I’ll phone you about it tonight, Mrs. Green.
Mrs. Greenwas middle-aged, maybe twenty or thirty pounds overweight, with a puffy face, wearing rimless glasses, shiny green dress, black shoes. The long-haired individualturned out to be male, a young guy in his middle twenties I guessed. Greasy-looking hair, pale eyes like pools of phlegm, heavy brows, thin nose, a small family of colorful pimples on his left cheek. He looked so unappetizing, I’d have given odds that only a starving cannibal would consider cooking him. As they passed, the woman gave me an artificial and joyless smile. The moldy-looking youth didn’t glance my way, just trudged by.
After a few more steps I was standing on a pink-stained cement deck stretching across the front of the house, where the husky man had waited while I approached.
He was a nice-looking guy, around forty years old, wearing dark horn-rimmed glasses and a curious expression. He was five feet eight or nine inches tall, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds, with a lot of brown hair, obviously professionally styled — full over the ears and at the back of his head, long thick curly sideburns. He wore orange-and-white patterned slacks with an orange belt, crepe-soled white shoes, and a snugly fitting short-sleeved white T-shirt that revealed a muscular chest and flat stomach. He looked like a man who played a lot of tennis, or jogged every morning, or maybe worked out with weights.
Hello,I said. Are you Mr. Ragan?
He nodded, one eyebrow raised above the curve of his horn-rims. Yes, I am.
The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 6