The Shell Scott Sampler

by Richard S. Prather

  This gal ate like a couple of longshoremen. Not indelicately, no; merely with absorption, determination, gusto, persistence. And, of course, appetite. It is a fact that she could put away more goose liver and steak and potatoes and salad and vegetables and crepes suzette and café diablo than anybody of her size—and especially shape—that I’d ever seen. I could understand how Jazz got that dandy shape, but not how she kept it.

  She sighed passionately once more. “Oh, my!” she said. “That was good. That was good, Shell.”

  We had just finished dinner at a restaurant called the Hideout. Though not far from downtown Hollywood, it was secluded, resting alone atop a hill overlooking the several million lights of Hollywood and its suburbs, like L.A. It was somewhat more expensive than a beanery, but considering the artistry of the chef not unduly so. An ordinary meal, complete with oddments à la carte, would run about fifteen bucks; Miss Jasmine Porter’s snack came to forty-two sixty, which I had a faint feeling was impossible.

  Fortunately, I could afford a little Jazz this week. I had recently concluded a profitable job for a wealthy client—“Shell” is from the Sheldon in Sheldon Scott, Investigations—and could thus even have bought myself a forty-two sixty meal if I were nuts, and if it had been possible for me to cram that much food into my six feet, two inches, and two hundred and six pounds, which it wasn’t.

  I said, “You want another?”

  “Another what?”

  “Another meal.”

  “Of course not. That was plenty.”

  I smiled. “Well, then, what would you like to do now, Jazz? Take a nap for a few hours? Drive up into the hills and snooze on Lover’s Lane? Go watch birds at the aviary —”

  “Goodness, no. Shell. I told you tonight was going to be different, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I thought maybe you’d like another dinner. That would be diff —”

  “That’s not … quite … what I meant.”

  Boy, when she turned it all on like that—the hot-whispery voice and steamy eyes and conflagration of lips—it was a kind of Sortilège ravishment of all the known senses, and I smiled very widely and said, “Then follow me, dear. Out there”—I pointed toward a tall, wide window and the brilliant lights beyond—“is romance, adventure, danger, even booze. I refer, of course, to my apartment.”

  “Wonderful!”

  I got up, dropped approximately a pound and a half of money onto the waiter’s tray and the check, slid the chair out from under Jazz’s inimitable 36, let her drape a hand on my arm, and we started out.

  We almost made it.

  Just inside the front door and at one end of the long view window filling the front wall of the dining room, a man and woman were seated at a table for two, drinking some kind of liqueur from thimble-sized glasses.

  I knew the guy, a local attorney named Vincent Blaik, but since he was merely an acquaintance I nodded and was going to walk right on by.

  But Jasmine recognized the girl. “Lynn!” she cried in the tone of approaching ecstasy women generally use when greeting any other female who isn’t a total stranger. “How nice!”

  The lovely called Lynn—and she was a lovely—looked up and smiled. But the smile appeared to begin and end on her lips. “How nice,” she echoed. “Jasmine! It’s so good to see you.” She sounded as happy as a sore loser halfway through hara-kiri.

  Then they went into the How’ve-you-been? and It’s-been-too-long bit. I sighed.

  “Hi,” I said to Blaik.

  “’Lo, Scott. Sit down, join us.”

  “Thanks, but we were on our way out.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, glanced at the two girls and back at me. “Were is right.”

  “And then Suki—you remember Suki, don’t you?” Jazz was saying. “Well she and Jim went out onto the patio and —” She leaned over and mumbled something which, try as I might, I couldn’t catch.

  “No!” said Lynn.

  “Yes!” cried Jazz.

  “Hey!” said I. “Jazz. The romance, and adventure, and danger, remember? And —”

  She rested the brown eyes on me. “What’s the hurry?”

  “— booze. Out there in the wilds…. What do you mean, what’s the hurry?”

  “It’ll still be there. Shell.”

  “Yeah. But maybe we won’t.”

  She wasn’t listening. I lifted my hands up and let them flop.

  Blaik grinned, and repeated his offer. “Care to join us for a drink, Scott?”

  “Why not?” I said glumly. “At least, I will. Jazz may join us after a while, OK?”

  “Fine. What are you drinking?”

  I told him, pulled over a couple of chairs, and sat down. Blaik gave a nearby waiter the order.

  When the drinks came Jazz was seated, leaning forward a bit and saying, “It was Suki, all right. But you know Jim.”

  “Just don’t I?” Lynn said, rolling her eyes.

  They were very pretty eyes. Large, wide-set, green. A moist, dark green, the color of bruised mint leaves. She was leaning back in her chair, not saying much, apparently content to let Jazz do most of the talking. The quiet type, I supposed, though she didn’t look like the quiet type. I guessed she was no more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, but she looked pretty flamboyant to me.

  Part of it had to be those eyes and the sensual, crushed-looking lips. But another part was the dress she wore, a soft, shimmering cloth as black as her short-cut and casually tousled hair; the cloth lay so close and smoothly against her skin it might almost have been black dye spilled over her full-curved body.

  It took about five minutes, but by then the girls had covered the essential trivia and we’d even had time for introductions.

  The quiet but flamboyantly dressed lovely was Lynn Duncan. I already knew, from listening to Jazz’s volubility and Lynn’s monosyllabic comments, that until six months ago Lynn had lived in Miami, Florida, and since moving to Hollywood had been working at some place called the Skylight, was single, drank Kahlua after dinner and straight bourbon the rest of the time, liked the new hip-length dresses but hadn’t dared to wear one yet, and was wild about the latest boy-singer singing rage, Weenie Latour.

  When Jazz informed her that I was a private detective Lynn looked at me long enough and intently enough to know I have stick-up-in-the-air hair that is white, as springy as thin quills, and just about as long as the equally white hair in my peaked eyebrows; that my eyes are gray, my chops deeply tanned, my chin at least resolute if not ponderous; that my nose has been broken no less than twice and amusingly set once; that there’s a small scar over my right eye and a piece cut or bitten or sliced or shot—shot’s the one—from the tip of my left ear; and that the total gorgeousness of my features often gives rise to suspicion that they may have been caught in an avalanche, or been struck with determination by lots of knuckles.

  I looked out at the view. For almost half a mile there were only scattered lights, but then the real sparkle and brilliance of the city below began, white and frosty and red and blue and green, individual dots blending into an abstract mass of color farther away.

  There was only one road up to the top of the hill where the Hideout sat, and the view had been selected so diners could not only get the full impact of the city at night but also see arriving cars come up the two-lane asphalt road to the circle before the restaurant’s entrance. The circle where, with military snap and dispatch, two attendants magnificently attired in dove-gray dinner jackets opened doors, whisked cars away to the large parking lot on the right.

  It was said that many ladies, and even some of their escorts, enjoyed knowing that numerous curious—and, hopefully, envious—eyes could note their arrivals. On a good night, at least. But this was Tuesday, only a little after seven thirty p.m., early on a slow evening in September, and there weren’t more than a dozen eyes in the joint.

  Another car was coming up the road. Its headlights silvered the black asphalt, but at the top swung left toward the darkened lot
rather than into the brilliance and uniformed-attendant splendor before the entrance. This one apparently preferred parking his car himself, rather than leaving it with an attendant and later buying it back.

  A miser, forced to bring his wife to the Hideout? I wondered. A guy with a gal wearing one of the old-style dresses, with its hem almost down to her kneecaps? A gay with somebody else’s wife? Or quite possibly, I thought more generously, a high-school kid with his sweetie, doing optimistic addition and subtraction in his head.

  Jazz appeared unaware that I was still only about six inches from her ear. I could smell the Sortilège again.

  Suddenly the gals stood up simultaneously and murmured they’d be back “in a jiffy.” Neither of them had mentioned it. Just click, and they were on their way. I presume it’s telepathy. Or perhaps a certain strained expression undetectable by males.

  Blaik said, “Gorgeous little gal, Jasmine.”

  “Yeah. So’s your Miss Duncan.”

  “Not my Miss Duncan. She’s just … well, call it combining business with pleasure.”

  I grinned. He could call it business if he wanted to, but it looked more like pleasure to me.

  Vincent Blaik was a bachelor, like me, only he was five or six years over my thirty. He was a solid five-ten, a bit chunky at a hundred and ninety pounds or so, with a square face, muscular cheeks, brown hair several inches longer than mine and wavy, combed straight back from the slightly-off-center widow’s peak like a little comma punctuating his hairline.

  For several years I’d been hearing about Blaik and reading of his brilliant courtroom strategy and techniques—he was a much-sought-after attorney for the defense, with his own offices and staff. But this was the first time we’d actually sat down and talked. He struck me as a much nicer chap than I’d assumed he would be, because among the things I’d heard were rumors that his ethics and morality were not exactly above reproach.

  He had a long string of courtroom successes, and a few flops, behind him; but I’d heard that some of those successes might have been achieved with the aid of such illicit techniques as jury tampering, bribing, and even—perhaps—intimidation of hostile witnesses. He was also alleged to have an abundance of political pull which he was not averse to using, too-close connections with a couple of Superior Court judges, and intimate acquaintance with a number of the kings and princes of hoodlumland.

  But every defense attorney takes on clients accused of, or even previously convicted of, crime; that’s his job, his purpose and function. And rumors are spread about many of them, rumors very often completely groundless. I didn’t know whether any of the rumors about Blaik were true or not; and until I did I meant to assume they were baloney.

  So, instead of shop-talk, I said, “You have dinner here, Blaik? Or just those dinky drinks?”

  “Hell of a dinner. Didn’t have any idea the food was so good.”

  “First time here?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, Lynn suggested the place. I’m glad she did—we had the tournedos. Man, on artichoke bottoms and with that béarnaise sauce —” He smacked his lips.

  “We had the Chateaubriand,” I said. “And the prime ribs.”

  He blinked. “And? I thought a Chateaubriand was for two people.”

  “Yeah. Prime ribs were mine. Jazz had the Chateaubriand.”

  He was silent for a few seconds.

  “No kidding!” someone said behind me.

  I looked around. The gals were already on their way back from the powder room. After maybe two minutes. Remarkable. Must have run out of powder. Usually they’re in there at least three quarters of an hour.

  Blaik had paid his check after getting the last drinks, and as the girls arrived I stood up, saying we had to hit the road.

  Blaik said, “Time for us to take off, too. Glad we got to chat, Scott.”

  Lynn sat down. “I’d like another drink, Vince,” she said. “Let’s stay a while longer.”

  But Jazz, I was pleased to note, remained standing and grabbed my arm.

  Blaik was arguing mildly with Lynn. She said she truly would prefer to stay a while longer, that she didn’t feel well. She did look pale to me. Maybe she needed oxygen; couldn’t afford to breathe very deeply wearing that black outfit. But finally Blaik grabbed Lynn’s hand and hauled her to her feet.

  We all walked out together, Jazz squeezing my arm.

  “That didn’t take long, did it?” she said brightly. “Now we can go out into the wildness, or whatever you called it. And I’ve already got part of my dinner digested.”

  “I’ll bet it’s all digested. You have a unique metabolism —”

  That was the last word for a while. From any of us.

  We’d gone down the steps, Blaik and Lynn ahead of us, and he’d walked forward to give one of the attendants his parking check. As the gray-tuxedoed youngster turned and started to trot toward the darkened lot I heard a car engine start over there.

  The sound stuck oddly in my brain. At first I thought the other attendant must be in the lot, but both were here, the one kid moving away now. Another thought was forming, too; but it had time only to wiggle.

  I’d taken a step toward Blaik, who was still a few feet ahead of me. Jazz was behind me on my right, Lynn standing back and to my left, waiting. As I took another step, with the hand holding the square cardboard check I half-consciously tapped my coat over the Colt .38 Special always in the clamshell holster. It’s always there because whenever I’m out in the city I know that more than one other guy who would like to see me dead is there, too.

  Besides, that thought was just starting to wiggle.

  Nobody had left the restaurant before us. And I was remembering that nobody had come into the Hideout since I’d seen that car come up the asphalt road. Why would anybody drive up and just sit out there? Those high-school kids, maybe? Or maybe —

  That was it.

  The sound, even out in the open without walls and ceiling to bounce from, was hellishly loud.

  Gunshots—five, maybe six of them, fast—one isolated shot, followed by a second, then three or four more, one after the other and almost blending into one. Before the second shot sounded I’d started bending forward into a low crouch, left shoulder swinging in toward my right hand as the hand came up fast to slap the Colt’s butt, my brain tagging the sound as the heavy, full-bodied boom of a .45.

  As I rolled my shoulder back and slid the Colt from its holster I saw Blaik flop, heard screams from the girls behind me. A gray blur was the second attendant spinning around and starting to run. The car’s engine was racing and over its ascending whine was the screech of tires spinning. I saw the car jerk forward, sliding, heading down the road. It was a shiny sedan, dark, its headlights still off.

  With my feet planted wide apart, knees bent, I punched the revolver toward the already fast-moving sedan and squeezed off a shot, followed it with two more. I heard at least one slug hit something. But the car leaped forward and down the hill, picking up speed fast.

  I straightened up. It seemed to take a long time; a long time in nearly complete silence. There were no more screams, almost no sound. I crammed the Colt back into its holster, turned toward the restaurant steps. The back of my left hand was stinging and there was a red streak across it. One of those flying slugs had nicked the skin.

  Jazz was straightening up, rubbing one knee. Her eyes were almost closed, lids drooping. She’d been holding both arms before her but now let them fall to her sides, breathing through her open mouth. Her face was chalk-white.

  Lynn lay on her back, one leg flopped awkwardly over the other. Light glistened from the small fat finger of blood near her head. There was a cough from behind me, a cough and a soft groan.

  I turned around. BIaik was on his knees, weight on the backs of his heels, but bending forward, both arms pressed against his midsection.

  I jumped to his side, squatted next to him. “Blaik,” I said, “are you all right? You get hit?”

  He pulled his head up, looked
at me. Blood was on his mouth. His lips stretched as he tried to smile.

  “It’s … nothing,” he said, and died.

  A waiter had already phoned for the police and an ambulance by the time I got inside. As he hung up the phone I grabbed it, dialed the L.A. Police Department, got Phil Samson, captain of Central Homicide.

  “Sam,” I said, “this is Shell. Shooting here at the Hideout just now, Vincent Blaik killed—somebody else already called in so cars should be on the way from Hollywood Division.”

  “You see it?”

  “I was in the middle of it.”

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah. Scratch on my hand, but Blaik’s dead and a girl named Lynn Duncan got one along the side of her head. She’s still breathing, but that’s all I know.”

  “Scratch on your hand? Stray bullet? Or was the guy aiming at you?”

  “Beats me, but I’d sure like to find out—main reason I called, Sam. Dig up whatever you or the Intelligence Division have on Blaik, will you? If you’ve got anything that says some gun might have been after him, it would help my peace of mind.”

  “Anything else we can use?”

  “I saw the car, but I can’t tell you the make. Dark sedan, new one—didn’t get a glimpse at the guy. But I took three shots at the car and hit it at least once. Left side somewhere.”

  “That might help. You coming downtown?”

  “Soon as I can, Sam.”

  I hung up and went out front again.

  Immediately after the shooting, four or five people had come charging out to view the excitement, screaming and yelling and pointing—the usual gathering, brilliant as lemmings heading for the sea. So I’d left one of the attendants near Lynn’s unconscious body, with instructions to keep people away from her; she lay just as she’d been before, still breathing.

  Jazz was sitting on one of the steps, arms crossed and hands squeezing her shoulders. She was shivering a little. I draped my coat over her shoulders, asked if she’d seen anything that might help identify the killer. She hadn’t. Neither had the gray-uniformed attendants.