“Ha-ha,” I said, laughing mirthlessly. “Young man, you should wash out your mouth with a strong detergent.”
Mrs. Madison mumbled something nice, then took her son’s pale hand and led him from the room. Not to paddle him, I’ll bet. There was a little more silence.
Then I sighed, squared my shoulders, turned to Mr. Madison and said, “Well, it looks like we started out miserable, then lost our rapport. Am I fired?”
His eyes were squeezed shut and for a second I thought it was a symptom of the furious-Dad bit. But he was laughing, trying to keep the sound muffled. In a few moments he said, “By God, he should wash out his mouth with hydrochloric acid, if the truth be told.”
He sighed. “I’m afraid we’ve been a bit lenient with George, in some ways. But—well, I didn’t want him to turn into a spoiled rich-man’s son, ruined by money before he understood its value, that it represents work and brains and sweat. I’ve kept him on a rigid allowance, tried to teach him the value of a dollar, but I think we’ve both been too lenient with him in—other ways. I don’t know. Young people these days…” He let it drop, then went on, “Ah, Mr. Scott, that was refreshing. You’ve given me my first moment of jollity for a long time.”
“You mean I’m not fired?”
“Certainly not. On the contrary, would you care to have a talk with George in regard —”
“Sir, I realize he’s your son, but I would nonetheless prefer to stay fifty miles —”
Madison interrupted, “George is like my own son. He is my son. But he’s adopted, you know. When he was a year old—but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
“No, sir. I did think he seemed, ah, cast from a different mold, so to speak.” He had looked very moldy, I thought.
“We’ve much in common, to be sure. But in some ways I’ve never been able to understand him.”
We chatted a while longer, and he chuckled a little more; then Mr. Madison grinned at me and said, “Would you like some more sherry?”
I grinned back at him. “I guess you know what you can do with your sherry.”
He laughed again, and I left. At least the case was starting out fun.
But as I walked through darkness toward my Cad, one phrase still lingered in my mind, from the bit G. Raney Madison had read. It was: “…requite thee with death.”
That and, mingling with it, the memory of Mr. Madison’s long-suppressed laughter.
Next to my gun, the most valuable part of my investigator’s equipment is a list of names, some in a little book, and some in my head. Informants, tipsters, men and women both inside and outside the rackets, all of whom have given me—or some day may give me—the “information” which breaks ninety percent of the cases investigated by anybody, whether policeman or private citizen.
On most burglaries, stickups or crimes of violence, I would have gotten in touch with anywhere from half a dozen to a dozen of those on my list. But for a caper like this one there were only two men I wanted to see. If any word at all was floating around, word about an art heist, a big score last night, they were the two most likely to have heard about it.
I found Lupo first. He was where I expected to find him, in Dolly’s, a small bar well out the Sunset Strip. Dolly’s was not the kind of club I usually frequented, because one rarely saw lovely tomatoes in low-cut gowns in the place. There were generally lots of handsome fellows, but I don’t give a hang about looking at lots of handsome fellows.
Not many customers were present this early in the evening, and I spotted Lupo right away. He and a heavy-set, soft-looking old duck were seated alone at the end of the bar, jawing and having a drink. I glanced around, to pick out an empty booth, and when I looked back at Lupo he’d spotted me and was walking my way.
He was a tall, slim, good-looking man, about my age, thirty, with a brilliant smile and exceptionally long black lashes over dark eyes. He himself had been in the art-heisting dodge several years back, which was why I’d hunted him down. He’d found the racket too rich for his blood, however—especially after one jolt on the county—and now put his knowledge of the old and new masters to use from the other side of the law, and the other side of the counter, in Fancinni’s, Fine Arts, on Wilshire Boulevard. But he still knew most of his old cronies, kept his ears open, and didn’t object to a sawbuck or even a C-note from me on occasion.
“Hello, Scott,” he said—a bit nervously, I thought. A lot of guys get nervous around an investigator, public or private; but it could have been that we were both aware I wasn’t exactly in my element, not in Dolly’s.
“I need a little help, Lupo. OK if we grab a booth while I tell you about it?”
“Sure.”
He weaved through tables to an empty booth against the wall as I said, “Didn’t mean to break up a conversation, but this won’t take long.”
I glanced around, but the guy Lupo had been talking to wasn’t at the bar now. Maybe he’d recognized me and thought I was here to put the arm on the joint.
But Lupo said, “Conversation? Oh, that was just some chap … don’t even know his name. Just in for a drink.” He grinned. “Wanted to know if there was a topless act.”
That was a laugh. I wondered what Lupo had told him. We ordered drinks, and after making sure nobody was bending an ear nearby I said, “You hear anything about an art heist last night?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Like what?”
“A big one. Must’ve run to two hundred and fifty G’s. Place they hit was in Bel Air.”
That was all I told him, and all I meant to tell him, at least for the moment. When you’re looking for a specific item and describe it to informants, occasionally one of them will come back with a fascinating tale about that item, making it sound very authentic—by including the identical details you earlier told him. Besides, I wasn’t quite sure about Lupo yet.
We’d been acquainted for over a year, and he’d passed on a few tips to me in that time. But none of them had panned out; something was always missing. That’s not particularly unusual in my business—the unusual tips are the ones right on the button. Once in a while you nurse an informant along for months, even years, and then one short sentence from him saves you a week of legwork, or breaks a case, or maybe even keeps you from getting sapped—or shot—in the head.
Besides, I liked Lupo, enjoyed talking to him. He was a kick, quick-spoken and witty, undeniably brilliant, an upbeat kind of guy.
He shook his head. “Have you got a lead to anybody, Scott?”
“Not yet. My guess is it was one of four guys. Luigi, Bonicef, Spaniel … make it three.”
I’d just remembered the fourth man I’d had in mind could be eliminated. He was doing five to life at Folsom. So, unless somebody new was operating locally, those were the three who fitted the job in my book: Alston Spaniel, a tall, slim satyr with an insatiable appetite for other people’s art objects, including women; goateed Guy Bonicef, ex-artist, ex-art teacher, and ex-inmate of San Quentin; and an old, but still slick, three-time loser named Luigi.
While not averse to picking up a poke of cash or the family jewels if opportunity knocked, each of them specialized in works of or objets d’art: valuable paintings, ancient Chinese jade, Ming dynasty vases and such.
Lupo ran the tip of an index finger over his right eyebrow. “I haven’t heard anything,” he said slowly. “At least not anything definite.” He was silent for a while. “Not about a job, I mean. Nothing about Bel Air.”
“You sound like you’ve got something.”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s nothing. It’s just I know Al Spaniel’s down on his uppers. No score for a long, long time for Al.”
That checked with what I knew. Spaniel had, so the story went, been living off the last of his ill-gotten gains for several months, and the living was getting lean. Moreover, Spaniel was a man who liked to live high, and usually spent more on busty babes than most men spend on home, job, family, and life insurance.
“That’s no
news, Lupo,” I said. “And it doesn’t mean he’d get reckless, unless he’s really broke.”
“Worse than broke, the way it reached me. I hear he’s into Joe Pappa for five thousand. Which is now about seven thousand. Is that news, Scott?”
“Yeah. He was that broke, huh?”
“Broke for him. They say Al met one of those fat redheads he goes for. You know Al.”
I did know Al. There was no secret about Al. And Lupo’s describing whomever Al had met as a “fat redhead” was merely Lupo expressing his opinion. It was almost a certainty that, if I could see her, I would not even think of describing her as a fat redhead. Nor would Al.
“Five G’s, huh?” I said. “Not exactly small change.” Joe Pappa was an unofficial bank. He’d lend a guy money at ten percent. Ten percent a week. You didn’t have to pay it all back at once. He’d settle for ten percent interest and then the principal, or a hundred percent of your blood. People should never borrow from the Joe Pappas. But they do. And a guy like Spaniel, if he saw a really “fat” redhead, and needed loot for the conquest, would not only borrow from a Joe Pappa but promise to pay off in transfusions.
He was, indisputably, possessed of a gargantuan sexual appetite; satyr, freak, or man with a genital tapeworm, whatever the cause of his elephantine libido, it was said he had the virility of a stone statue and the perseverance in pursuit of an aphrodisiacal Javert. Or, in the language of his cohorts and those in illegal cahoots, Alston Spaniel was remarked as the horniest citizen in at least one and possibly several counties.
“Where would I find this gal?” I said. “I mean, Alston and his new amour.”
“That I don’t know, Scott.”
“Think you could find out?”
“I could try.”
“Try.”
“What was the score?”
“Art, from Bel Air.” I grinned at him.
He grinned back. “Yeah. So, OK.”
“OK.”
It took me an hour to run down my second informant, an ex-con named Zeke, and the dialogue was about the same as it had been with Lupo—except that my second man didn’t know anything, not even about Alston’s recent indebtedness. Didn’t know, but would go amongst ‘em and look and listen, and maybe ask a question from time to time. That was good enough for me, because Zeke was, among my informants, a kind of lieutenant, with a number of privates who reported to him.
That done, I headed for North Rossmore and the Spartan Apartment Hotel. The night was far from over; in fact, it was only beginning for me. But I wanted to grab a sandwich at the apartment while I used the phone. There were still a few more lines to put out.
I left the car in front of the Spartan, trotted in and got my key at the desk, then walked slowly up to 212, thinking. I was jabbing the key at the lock when I noticed the little metal flag over the keyhole. It looked like part of the design, only I knew it shouldn’t have been in evidence unless somebody, while I was out, had let himself in.
Or, of course, herself.
Actually, the only previous time my little alarm system had tipped me to somebody’s presence inside, I had sprung in with my .38 Colt Special ready and cocked and had come within an inch of shooting a gorgeous belle named Lucretia, an acrobatic dancer who, in the moment of my bursting-in, became more acrobatic than even she in her dizziest dreams had dreamed she could become.
The desk clerk had let her in, gasp, she’d said. He must have, gasp, forgotten to tell me. I was still thinking about that when I went in this time, so I was smiling. Oh, I did it right. Key in the lock silently, door open and me bent low and inside in a hurry. But the basically amusing episode was still in my thoughts, so I guess I was still smiling when I shot the guy.
He was standing near the wall on my right, gun in his hand. In his hand, but not pointed at me. He’d been waiting for a sound, probably the key in the lock, knob turning, and hadn’t heard it. Not in time.
He was a big man, with the pale face that comes from avoiding sunlight—or from a stretch in stir—and he moved suddenly, whipping the gun toward me like a man starting to throw a ball. I pumped two into him before he could get the gun aimed at me and I saw him bend forward as his eyes closed.
He didn’t go down, but his gun arm kept moving, toward me and past, sinking toward the floor. But the heat was still in his hand and I fired one more slug into his chest. Then he dropped the gun.
He staggered back, hit the wall. His eyes opened. Slowly he slid down until his seat hit the floor. His arms hung limp at his sides, backs of his hands on my yellow-gold carpet, palms up and fingers curling. Blood gushed up into his throat and slid over his lower lip.
I jumped to him, kicked his gun away, and said, “Was this your own idea, or did somebody send you?”
He blinked at me, licked his wet lips. “Where’d you come from?” he said. The words were quite clear.
He didn’t know how bad he was hit. Sometimes it’s like that, the shock dulls pain, dulls comprehension. He didn’t know; but I thought I did. I gave him a minute, or seconds. These were the last sweet moments of his life.
“Hurry up, you bastard,” I said.
I raised the gun toward his face, thumbed back the hammer again.
He coughed. “Wasn’t my idea,” he said. “It was a job. A G now, and…” His head went back suddenly, then rolled a little to the side. In a couple of seconds he was looking at me again, but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Spill,” I said. “Or do you want one in the teeth? Who sent you here? Who hired you?”
“Spaniel. He told me his name was Al Spaniel. Give me the G and said —” He stopped.
Now we both knew.
Nothing more was said. Even if he could have spoken, I imagine he was too busy thinking to speak. Too much to think about, and too little time. Well, they should think about that before they start dying.
His eyes didn’t close. He just slumped back a little more and slid sideways down the wall, head turning on a rubbery neck. His dark hair left a faint smear of oil behind him.
I looked him over, checked his pulse, his pupils. He wasn’t out; he was dead.
I was on the phone and dialing before it hit me.
I hung up as racket sounded in the hallway. Thumping feet, shouts. It took me a minute to calm the startled tenants, shoo most of them away and shut the door on the few remaining. Then I went back and stood by the phone again. But I didn’t dial.
Al Spaniel, huh? Well, it made sense, if he’d pulled off a quarter-million score and knew I was looking for him—but how could he have known? Who could have tipped him? Madison? Hardly. Surely not Zeke. I’d done business with him a long time; his tips had usually been good ones and I’d paid him plenty.
I would call the police, yes. But I’d have to take a chance that could wait for a while. There was something else that couldn’t wait.
I started looking for Lupo.
Lupo’s face rested on the table in our booth at the Happy Time; his breath rippled the spilled liquid shining on the tabletop and sopping into his left eyebrow. In a moment his eyelids fluttered. He sighed.
When he finally got his head up and looked at me I thought he was going to faint again. But he didn’t. Not quite.
“I’ll tell you how it was, Lupo,” I said sweetly. “Then you fill me in on the details. That all right with you, friend?”
He swallowed. His lips looked chapped.
I said, “You’ve never yet given me a tip that paid off. I figured it would take time, that’s all. What I didn’t figure was that when I asked you about a guy, instead of trying to help me you might be tipping the guy I asked about. Like tonight, huh, Lupo?”
He finally said something. “That’s nuts.”
I grinned. “A hood just tried to shoot me, and died trying. But he lived long enough to spill that Al Spaniel sent him to hit me. Guess what else that tells me, Lupo?”
“I … couldn’t guess.”
“One of the men I tal
ked to tonight, about the heist and my suspicions of Spaniel among others, must have got that word to Spaniel. Who could have told him, Lupo?”
He shook his head.
“Maybe I only talked to you, friend. Maybe you’re the only one who could have told him. You think of that?”
He hadn’t. But he was thinking about it now. Suddenly he said, “All right, Scott. I’ll tell you about it. Just take it easy.”
“What did you do, Lupo? Call all three of them? Spaniel and Bonicef and Luigi, to be sure you tipped the right one?”
He opened his mouth, shut it. Then he said, “I was pretty sure it must have been Spaniel. I would have called the other two, sure, but there wasn’t any need to. I phoned Spaniel first thing, talked to him. The way he reacted, it had to be him.”
“I’d kind of figured that out, Lupo. The hard way.”
“Scott, I swear it never entered my mind he might try to have you killed. I thought he’d probably blow town. Who’d think he’d send anybody to…” He let it trail off.
“OK, where is he?”
“I wouldn’t know —”
“Knock it off. You knew where to find him when you wanted to tip him. So you know where to find him now.”
He was silent for a few seconds, then shrugged. “That does make sense, doesn’t it? He was at the Westmoreland Hotel.”
“That’s where you phoned him?”
“Phoned, then went there to see him. He was with one of those obscenely fat women he’s always got hanging around.”
I grinned. At my request he described the woman in more detail, and by sort of listening between the lines she shaped up as a wow. Five-five or six, a lot of red hair, green eyes, and “obscenely” shapely.
“They’re at the Westmoreland now?” I asked him.
Lupo hesitated and I said, “If you hold anything out, pal, anything at all —”
“Well, it’s just … that’s where they were. But when I talked to Alston I got the impression he was going to leave for Laguna Beach.”
The Shell Scott Sampler Page 5