Double in Trouble (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “You have a phone book?”

  She did, but there was no listing for Rex Marker in it. I looked up the L.A. Local of the Brotherhood of Truckers, and dialed the number. There was no answer.

  “They wouldn’t have given you Marker’s phone number anyway,” Cora said. “Guys like him don’t like to be bothered—by anyone.”

  “Your husband’s bothering him.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  After a while I asked, “Does the name Shell Scott mean anything to you?”

  “Scott? No-o. Should it?”

  “Search me.” I picked up the phone book again. Except for the union and the missing Dr. Frost, Scott’s was the only name I had out here, and Moody had told Senator Hartsell that Scott seemed up to his ears in the Braun Thorn killing.

  There was a listing for Sheldon Scott, Investigations, in Los Angeles, and another at the Spartan Apartment Hotel in Hollywood. I tried the first number and got an answering service operator. Scott was gone for the day. I tried the Spartan Apartment Hotel. Eight rings and no answer. I hung up.

  Showing Cora Moody the address, I asked, “How far is it?”

  “No more than half an hour by car. Are you going there?”

  “It’s just about the only lead I’ve got.”

  Cora Moody said, “Then you must be worried about Dan.”

  “No, I want to get a line on Scott anyway. Can I use your car?”

  While she got her car keys for me, I brought my bag inside, unzipped the central section and took out my shoulder holster. With my Magnum .44 in Lindzey’s keeping in Front Royal, I was back to the .357. While I was strapping it on, Cora Moody came in with the car keys.

  “No,” she said with bleak sarcasm, “you’re not worried.”

  “This is just a habit. Dan will be all right, believe me.”

  She walked me to the door and told me how to reach the Spartan Apartments in Hollywood.

  “Take it easy,” I said as I climbed into the Ford. “I’ll call you.”

  It wasn’t cold, but she stood with her arms crossed over her breasts, shivering a little, as I backed the car out of the carport.

  Half an hour later I was talking to the desk clerk of the Spartan Apartment Hotel. He was a small roly-poly man with a twinkle in his eye that got brighter as I mentioned Scott’s name.

  “Now there’s a real nice tenant,” he said, rolling those twinkling eyes. “And brother, does he have a way with the ladies.”

  “I’d like to take a look at his apartment.”

  The twinkle was gone. “You can’t do that,” he protested.

  “This says I can,” I told him, and showed him my Hartsell Committee ID card. “I’m a special investigator for the Senate.”

  “Don’t tell me Mr. Scott’s in trouble with the government.”

  “All right, I won’t tell you anything. Just let me have the passkey.”

  He wasn’t happy about it, but he gave it to me. I took the elevator up, found Scott’s door and unlocked it. I found a light switch and put the light on.

  The first thing I saw was a nude in oil ogling me from the far wall. I ogled her back. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it was a damned interesting bachelor apartment, what with the nude and the modern furniture and the tanks of tropical fish that shared it with Scott. I poked around for a while, not knowing what I was looking for. There was a large closet in the bedroom, and Scott’s clothes were neatly hung in there. The only thing they told me was that he was a moderate clotheshorse. But then, I wasn’t above buying a new tweed or a summer wash-and-wear when the seasons rolled around.

  One jacket wasn’t in the closet. It hung on a clothes-tree near the bed, a camel’s hair job with diagonal slash pockets and narrow lapels. Scott would be about my size, I thought. A big bastard. I looked at the label. I was right: forty-four long. I poked around in the pockets. My fingers touched a paper napkin, and I withdrew it.

  The napkin was white, bore the words: garden terrace room, garden of allah—hotel—restaurant, and was stamped with a blue and red minaret and a gray Arab. Beneath the blue minaret, and not part of the napkin design, was the lipsticked imprint of a woman’s lips. The lipstick hadn’t begun to flake off. It was still moist. The Garden of Allah, I thought. Why not?

  I used Scott’s phone to call Cora Moody. Dan wasn’t home yet, and she was still worried. I said I would call again.

  The Garden of Allah was a big sprawling heap of Spanish-style buildings with red tile roofs on Sunset Boulevard. It surrounded a courtyard of palm trees and the palm trees surrounded a pool, and there was music out there.

  I headed for the office and showed my ID card to the narrow-shouldered, bespectacled guy behind the desk.

  “Sheldon Scott,” I said. “He here?”

  “No, sir. He was here yesterday. He took one of our poolside units. Took it for a lady. She’s here. I trust a man in your position, sir, to be discreet.”

  I told him discretion was my middle name. He told me the unit number.

  “Yes? Who’s there?”

  “The name is Drum, miss. I’m an investigator for the Hartsell Committee in Washington.”

  She said a surprising thing. “I’ve heard of you. I know who you claim to be working for.”

  There was enough space under the door to slip my ID card through. It had been having a busy time.

  “Really, Mr. Drum, there isn’t anything I can tell you.”

  “How do you know until I ask?”

  “I’m sorry.” She sounded nervous, but she had the lilt of Ireland in her voice too.

  “I just flew in from Washington,” I said. “I spoke to Scott on the phone last night, and he said he’d like to see me.” That was true enough in a way. What I didn’t tell the girl was what he’d like to do when he saw me.

  “I...”

  “You expect him soon? I can wait.”

  She laughed, but she still sounded nervous. “Sure, and I’ll show you Shell’s etchings. I think you’d better go away, Mr. Drum. I wouldn’t be about to let you in.”

  “I’ve got all night,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere until I talk to you.”

  She made an exasperated sound.

  I waited a few seconds. She hadn’t moved away from the other side of the door. I knocked again. “Steel knuckles,” I said. “I can keep it up all night.”

  She moved. At first I thought she was going away from the door but then I heard the latch turn, and the door opened. “Maybe I ought to have my head examined,” the girl said.

  She was young, with a mane of red hair tied back in a ponytail with a white ribbon. Her long hair was as vividly red as any I’d ever seen. She also wore a snug green jersey dress that fit her like skin fits a ripe peach. She had a saddle of freckles across the bridge of her nose which the face-powder she wore didn’t quite hide. As to sex appeal, she was an interesting contrast to Hope Derleth, though surprisingly the end result was the same.

  Hope hid her voltage behind thick-bowed glasses and severely cut suits like a don’t-touch-the-merchandise sign. This one displayed her lush figure ingenuously, like a teenager who had matured overnight and didn’t know quite what to do with all the equipment.

  But I’ve said the end result was the same, and it was. Because the snug green dress worn so ingenuously, covering what it covered or tried to cover with such frank happy awareness, gave the same message as Hope’s cheaters and severely tailored suits. The message was: I dare you to keep hands off.

  She shut the door behind me and waved a hand airily. “All of a sudden private detectives are crowding into my life. The line forms on the right, men.” But that was like her clothing too: as a defense mechanism it was as effective as Hope’s get-up and the way Hope could cut you down with a few icy words.

  “Is one of them Dan Moody?” I said.

  “Moody? I never heard of him.”

  “Umm-hmm. Pardon me while I go out of character for a minute, but the first thing I have to do is use your pho
ne.”

  I used it to call Cora Moody. Dan still hadn’t come home. I gave Cora the number and extension of the phone I was using and told her to call as soon as he did.

  “So you never heard of Dan Moody?”

  “No. I already told you. Who is he?”

  “Another private dick. A Hartsell Committee op. Where’s Scott?”

  Her slim shoulders shrugged under the green dress. “Shell is out of town.”

  “Out of town where?”

  “Just out of town, Mr. Drum.”

  We both smiled. I said, “I’m supposed to have a pretty good cross-questioning technique. But it looks like you won’t tell me the time of day. Can you at least tell me your name?”

  “It’s Kelly.”

  “Miss Kelly?”

  “Just Kelly. That’s my first name.” Kelly’s eyes were friendly, but she seemed poised and ready for trouble. “Do you want some fruit or a drink or something? I could call room service.”

  I shook my head, then said quickly, trying to get her off balance, “Do you and Scott spend much time calling room service?”

  She didn’t bat an eyelash. “Shell’s a good friend of mine.”

  “Good for Shell. He’s looking for Gideon Frost, isn’t he?”

  “No comment, as the man on the TV interview said.”

  “Why fifth-amendment me, Kelly? I’m trying to find Frost too.”

  “Sure, and you’ve got a whole hatful of questions and I’ll just give you the same no comment to all of them.” Her laughter was soft and low, like her voice. “I’m as hard to get an answer out of as a leprechaun, when I want to be.”

  “Why do you want to be?”

  “No comment. There, you see? I told you.”

  “It’s easy to get an answer out of a leprechaun. But he tricks you into taking your eyes off him, and then he disappears. I’m not going to do that.”

  “What? Disappear?” But she knew what I meant, if the smile in her eyes meant anything.

  “No. Take my eyes off you.”

  I took a step closer to her, and she got the wrong idea. “Then look but don’t touch, Mr. Drum. Just because Shell took this room for me, don’t make any mistakes. I said we were old friends.”

  “Good for Shell,” I said again, and meant it. If being Kelly’s old friend meant she’d share a room with you, I was all for it.

  I offered Kelly a cigarette and lit it for her and one for myself. Then I said, “I flew out here to meet Dan Moody. That was his wife I called on the phone. He should have been home by now. He’s not. He’s been gathering information on the Brotherhood of Truckers, and he may be in trouble. That’s why I’m asking you to answer my questions. That’s why I don’t want you to hold out on me.”

  “Listen, mister,” Kelly said, her voice throaty with anger, “don’t think I’d hold anything back for the sake of the union. Not that I know who your Mr. Moody is or where he is. I don’t lose any love on the Brotherhood.”

  “Why not?”

  “My full name is Kelly Thorn. My brother was Braun Thorn. The brotherhood had him ... shot to death.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All right. All right.” Her green eyes had misted over suddenly. She was inhaling smoke as if her life depended on it, or at least as if it could keep her from crying.

  “Miss Thorn ... Kelly ... Dan Moody said Shell Scott was up to his ears in the Braun Thorn killing.”

  Her laughter was harsh and bitter now, a startling contrast to her pretty, guileless face. “Oh did he? Did he say that now? Well, your Mr. Moody has been gumshoeing on the wrong block. Of course Shell is up to his...” her lip trembled and she smiled all at once and went on, “shell-like ears in it. He and Braun were friends. He wants to find Braun’s killers. I hope you and Mr. Moody have no objections. Because if you do, I’m liable to forget I’m a lady.”

  Just then the telephone rang. Kelly answered it. “Yes? Hello? Why, yes, he’s here.” She held the receiver out to me.

  “Cora?” I said into the mouthpiece.

  “No, Mr. Drum. This is Judy Jaffe. The baby-sitter, remember? I ... I found your name and phone number written down on the phone pad. Something terrible has happened...” Her voice broke. I thought I heard a sob.

  “What’s the matter, Judy? What happened?”

  “It ... it’s Mr. Moody. Mrs. Moody got a call from the police. She went down there.”

  “Where?”

  “Mr. Moody is at the Loma Drive Receiving Hospital. He’s hurt bad, Mr. Drum. Maybe he’s dying. I don’t know.”

  “Sit tight, Judy. Take it easy. There’s nothing you can do. I’ll go down there.”

  I hung up. “Trouble?” Kelly asked me.

  “Dan Moody’s been hurt. Where’s the Loma Drive Receiving Hospital?”

  She told me. “Those vermin,” she said. “Won’t there ever be an end to their maiming and killing?” The tears stood out in her eyes now, as Dan Moody’s injury and possible death brought her own loss home to her. I wondered how a nice kid like her had got mixed up with a bad apple like Scott.

  “Good-by,” I said, opening the door. “And thanks.”

  “What for? I didn’t help you any. I ... good luck, Mr. Drum. If you’re on the side I hope you’re on.”

  I went downstairs to Cora Moody’s car and drove off into the neon-glowing night, toward where a man was hurt and maybe dying.

  BROAD-MINDED SCOTT

  Washington, D.C., 2:55 P.M., Thursday, December 17

  I barely had time for the thought that, since reaching Truckers Headquarters here in D.C., several strange things had happened, and this was perhaps the strangest. Then Rover moved to his right so that Glasses wouldn’t get between us when he reached for my gun.

  I brought my hands slowly up in front of me, leg muscles tensed. Glasses stopped a couple of feet from me and said, “Uh, Rover. I got an idea.”

  “An idea?” Rover seemed startled.

  Glasses went on, “Make this slob lean up on the wall. Then I’ll get his gun. While he’s leanin’ on the wall.”

  Well, I suppose if they’d kept at it they might actually have gotten the gun away from me. It was a sure thing I wasn’t going to cooperate, but they were now heading in the right direction. Fortunately, there was an interruption. The door to Abbamonte’s office opened and he came into the hall. I didn’t see him; my eyes were on Glasses and Rover.

  But I heard him let out a harsh bellow. “You lousy jerks! What the hell you tryin’ to pull?”

  Both men winced a little. Rover said, “But—”

  “Put that heater away, you stupid jerk.”

  Rover reluctantly put his gun away and I looked at Abbamonte. His face was dark, teeth jammed together. He didn’t look like a man you’d want to meet in an alley. Or even out of an alley. Slowly he pried his jaws apart and, narrowed eyes flicking from the big man to the little one, said, “I already told you jerks. Just do what I tell you. Don’t never try to do none of the thinking.”

  He looked at me then and tried to compose his face. “Sorry about this, Scott. The boys don’t like ... strangers wandering around up here. Natural mistake. This is supposed to be real private up here around the offices.”

  I said casually, “Sure. I can understand that. They probably mistook me for somebody else they wanted to shoot.” I looked at Glasses and went on conversationally, “Why, you probably thought I was Shell Scott.”

  He blinked. “Ain’t you?”

  I grinned at him. “Of course I’m Shell Scott.”

  His face stayed blank momentarily, then started looking unhappy. Abbamonte spoke, barely controlled fury in his voice. “Get in my office. You—” He cut it off.

  The two men walked past me, through the open door. Abbamonte said to me, his voice more calm, “That what brought you in from the Coast, Scott? Check up on Drum?”

  “No. Maybe that was part of it.”

  “Maybe?”

  I didn’t say anything. He glared at me for a moment, then tur
ned ponderously, stepped into his office and slammed the door shut in my face. I walked on down to the end of the hall, stopped before a door which told me this was the office of Mike Sand, President.

  I knocked. Immediately a man inside said, “Come in.”

  I went in, closing the door behind me. There was one man in the room.

  The man was Mike Sand.

  Good old Abbamonte, I thought. Honest Abb. Something very queer was going on in this joint. Sand sat behind a heavy black desk, arms folded over his thick chest. The boss. The leader. The hoodlum. He stared at me silently, waiting for me to speak, and I got the impression he’d been sitting there just like that before I’d come in. He sat very still, but it seemed as though pumps and dynamos and churning machinery worked and whirred away inside him, as if the quiet were only on the outside and underneath was a continual boiling and bubbling like the witches’ cauldron. Muscles rested in almost quivering repose all over him. His neck was a size or two larger than mine and his wrists looked like carved mangrove roots sticking out from his coat sleeves.

  It was the same face I’d seen in the newspaper photograph, but with everything more pronounced. The face was hard but strong. The features were harder, more uncompromising, perhaps more brutal. The heavy-lidded eyes darker, smouldering, the short hair seeming blacker and more wiry. I noticed that scar tissue was lumpy over his eyebrows.

  But there was another difference. Something new had been added. A discolored welt marked the left side of his jaw now. It didn’t make him any prettier. Or, apparently, any happier.

  I stopped inside the door and looked at him, then walked closer to his desk. There were a couple of big leather chairs in front of it, but he didn’t invite me to use one. I used one.

  As I looked at him, in his big building in his big office, behind his big desk, I was thinking that it’s muggs like Mike Sand who get men like Braun Thorn killed. Ragen was the man who’d set up Braun’s murder. I felt sure, but without Sand and the men who kissed Sand’s behind, there wouldn’t have been a Ragen in L.A. to begin with.

  Even so I said, pleasantly enough, “I’m Shell Scott, Mr. Sand, a private investigator from Los Angeles.”