Honey West: A Kiss for a Killer

by G. G. Fickling

  “Are you kidding, Honey? Is it all right if I call you Honey? It sounds so—so intimate.”

  “Hardly more intimate than you’ve been in the past hour,” I said, taking a cigarette from a box on the desk. “Why don’t you fill me in on Rip Spensor.”

  “All right.” My skirt sailed over the screen, landing on the floor. “I played ball with Rip at Notre Dame. He was a great guy. Terrific ball hawk. Good passer.”

  “He was that,” I said, recalling some of our dates.

  “Rip went professional,” Adam continued. “I didn’t. When I got out of college I wanted something more substantial. A goal. You know what I mean?”

  “Is that how you met Tunny?”

  “Sort of. Hey, your dad must be a pretty big guy.”

  “He was,” I said, “until somebody put a bullet in his back.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Five years,” I said, exhaling smoke through my nostrils. “It was raining that night. Somebody ambushed him in an alley behind the Paramount Theatre in L.A.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “He was a fine man. This was his office before he died.”

  “You mean you took up where he left off?”

  “Sort of,” I said, staring at the fog and neon across the alley. “I’ve tried for years to find who murdered him. I haven’t been successful yet.”

  “You’ve got a lot of guts, Honey.”

  I smiled faintly. “So the officer said downstairs.”

  Adam came from behind the screen. Wearing his clothes, he looked a lot like my dad, tall, rangy, full-shouldered. I couldn’t help saying it.

  “I like you, Adam.”

  “Does that mean you’ll take the case?”

  “I guess that’s what it means,” I said, rubbing my bandaged hand. “Sometimes I wonder why I keep this office. I seem to get into more trouble than I get people out of.”

  “I hope you can help me, Honey.”

  “Spell it out for me, Adam.”

  He hitched up his pants and shot a forlorn look at his awkwardly big hands. “I got into a fight with Rip last week. Up at the camp.”

  “Who started it?”

  “He did,” Adam said dismally. “He came up to collect some money Mr. Tunny owed him for helping with the summer athletic program. Rip said it wasn’t enough and started pushing Mr. Tunny around. So I grabbed him and he swung on me.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Rip, Adam.”

  “I’ll go along with that. He flattened me twice. The third time around, he got it back in spades. I gave him a hard right uppercut and he dropped like a bomb. He said he’d kill me if he ever got the chance. I was really burning. I told him he wouldn’t kill me if I got him first.”

  “No doubt several people overheard these remarks.”

  “Several?” he blurted, shoulders sagging dismally. “Practically the entire congregation. When the police find out we had a fight and I threatened Rip’s life, they’re going to have me by the seat of my pants.”

  “What pants?”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “You’re clean unless you were driving that steam roller.”

  “I had nothing to do with that!”

  I tore the bandage from my hand and crossed into the bathroom. “Have you ever met a gal named Angela Scali?”

  “The movie actress?”

  “Yes. The Italian Angel.”

  He rubbed at his nose thoughtfully. “I’ve seen her in pictures. Never met her personally.”

  “Why’d you hesitate before answering, Adam?”

  “Just tired I guess.”

  I ran cold water over the swelling and rebandaged my hand, using a small triangle of gauze this time to cover the area. When I was finished, I came back into the room and examined Adam cautiously. He was wearing thick-soled shoes. The kind that make a lot of noise when they slam against asphalt.

  After a moment, I asked, “How long would it take us to get to Meadow Falls?”

  “Little over two hours.” His eyebrows lifted. “You’re not thinking about going now, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  In my desk was a file on Thor Tunny’s nude health cult. I knew more about the organization than Adam realized. A woman had hired me several weeks earlier to find her daughter. Twelve hours later the young girl had turned up at home, whitefaced and trembling. She had gone up to Lake Arrowhead for a weekend with some of her sorority sisters. While at the mountain resort she’d met Tunny and he’d talked her into joining his group. Being over twenty-one, she signed a legal agreement stating she’d work for the organization in return for the cost of any monthly dues. Then they stripped off her clothes and initiated her into the cult. She escaped that same night. She was too frightened and ashamed to tell the entire story. But it added up to sexual abuse carried out in a subterranean room accompanied by the weird howl of music and flickering orange lights.

  “Adam, I’ve heard some very bad things about Tunny and his health cult.”

  His jaws tightened. “Whatever you’ve heard, Honey, it’s nothing but vicious scandal. All lies.”

  “I doubt that,” I said, “but I’m willing to see for myself.” I drew the screen back and indicated a couch in the corner. “You can curl up here.”

  “Where are you going to sleep?”

  “I’ve an apartment near Alamitos Bay. I’ll call you about ten, okay?”

  He nodded. “Do I have to sleep with these clothes on?”

  “I don’t care how you sleep,” I said. “Just be dressed when I come to pick you up, understand. Another runin like we had a few minutes ago and you’ll wind up skinned. And that’s no joke.”

  “Okay.” He yawned, stretched and flicked a broad smile at me. “Thanks, Honey. You won’t regret this.”

  “I hope not,” I said, crossing to the office door.

  I switched off the light, checked the lock and listened to it click as I closed the glass-paneled door. Halfway down the corridor, I got the feeling I was being watched. I glanced back at my office, but the door remained closed. On the back stairway I felt the chill of the fog and noticed the building’s rear door was open. Had I forgotten to close it earlier in my haste? The door banged gently, pushed by a pre-dawn breeze which had lifted off the ocean. I stopped on the bottom step and watched it swing erratically back and forth. From where I stood I could see the parking lot across the alley.

  Suddenly something poked me in the back. It felt hard, like the muzzle of a gun.

  “Anyone for tarantulas?” a voice demanded.

  I whirled. On the step above me stood a gaunt, slightly bent figure, clutching a cane. His steel-grey eyes looked down at me, the whites glinting in the dim light.

  “Fred Sims,” I said angrily. “You’re lucky I’m not carrying a gun.”

  He laughed sourly, lowering his cane. “You’re darn right I am. I wouldn’t have tried that if I weren’t certain. Here!”

  He tossed me my pearl-handled .22. “Lieutenant Storm sends it with his compliments.”

  Fred Sims was a reporter for the Long Beach Press-Telegram. For a man with a crippled leg he got around faster than the seven-year-itch. Our friendship spanned the same number of years with about as many complications. He was a hard-hearted guy with more guts and gumption than a Missouri mule. Which is what he acted like at Bastogne during World War II. He had half a leg to prove it. Also a Congressional Medal of Honor. And a face that never smiled unless it was watching an execution.

  “How’d you get in here?” I asked, putting the gun into my garter holster.

  “How do you think?” he said. “I blew the door open with dynamite. Now what’s the story on you and Thor Tunny?”

  “He and I go steady,” I said, adjusting the garter on my thigh. “Give it a four-column spread on the society page and I’ll guarantee a raise.”

  “Where, on the back of my skull? Get smart, Honey, you’re the one who’s playing with dynamite.”

 
; “Sure,” I retorted. “I’ve got a stick of it up in my office right now. You want to light him?”

  “He’s already lit,” Fred countered. “So’s the rest of that Tunny gang. Adam Jason’s the prime minister in charge of colonic baths, or didn’t he try you for size?”

  “Fred, I don’t appreciate your brand of humor,” I said tartly.

  “And I don’t appreciate your caliber of clients. I heard all that jazz in there.”

  “You’re a good man with keyholes. It’s a wonder your ears aren’t shaped like a couple. You’d make a good second-story man on the ground floor.”

  He scowled. “Is that supposed to mean you weren’t giving him the straight stuff in there?”

  “You figure it out.”

  “All right,” he said, his cane bracing him on the steps. “A guy winds up on a dirty asphalt road. A lady private eye bites some asphalt herself. The question is: Who’s deadlier, the hairy men or the hairy spiders?”

  I smiled thinly. “Hairy reporters with long canes are in a special category all their own. What do you know about Rip Spensor that’s so deadly?”

  “He worked for Tunny.”

  “Sure, and fought his way out. He was a decent guy, Fred.”

  “You’ll have to prove it to me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going up to Meadow Falls tomorrow with Adam. You want to tag along?”

  “Not if I have to remove my clothes.” He managed a half-grin.

  “I can’t guarantee anything. You’ll have to stand up for yourself.”

  “I’m not much of a stand-up guy any more,” he admitted.

  “You make yourself sound like a coward, not a Medal of Honor winner.”

  He grimaced. “That hurt, Honey.”

  “I meant it to hurt,” I said.

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “I’ll go to Meadow Falls with you.”

  “Good,” I said. “Meet me here in the alley at eleven. Adam has his own car. We’ll follow.”

  He cocked his hat back with his cane. “I’ll be here. Don’t take any wooden tarantulas between now and then.”

  “This time I locked my car,” I said. “Goodnight, Fred.”

  “Goodnight, Honey.” He disappeared in the alley. I closed the back stairway door and moved toward my convertible. The fog had lifted now and stars gleamed in a cloudless dark sky. It would be dawn soon. I unlocked my car and stepped inside, eyes grazing over the seats and floor. There were no tarantulas.

  But that was the least of my worries. Before I could close the door a figure moved into the opening and pressed a gun against my head. The figure was nude, dark-haired and voluptuous.

  “This is where I came in,” I said.

  “This is where you go out,” she corrected. “Start praying!”

  FOUR

  My arm lifted in the shallow light, chopping down hard on the slim, sun-tanned hand that clutched the gun. The heavy-handled instrument spun out of her grasp, thudding on the pavement. She bent to pick it up, but my other arm went around her throat. A scream twisted up in her throat, choked, and died as I threw her onto the seat beside me. She fell sideways against the steering wheel.

  I flicked on my dash light and peered at her face.

  “Angela Scali!” I said, as the glow illuminated her sensuous features.

  “You filthy woman,” the actress managed, with a trace of accent. “You killed my man.”

  “If you’re talking about Rip Spensor,” I said, “I don’t own a steam roller.”

  She sat up, running slim fingers through long dark hair, teeth clenched. “You could have operated one,” she said viciously. “I’ve heard about you. You’re deadly.”

  “And you’re naked. So what does that make you?”

  “I’m a Sun Soul,” she snapped. “We are the saviors of mankind.”

  I laughed. “The only thing you’re saving, sister, is a fat clothing bill.” I pushed her against the seat as she tried to squirm loose. “Now wise up or I’m going to have you clapped in a cell.”

  She had startling features. Deep brown eyes and a cleft in her chin. High cheekbones framed a delicately chiseled nose. Her lips were soft and full, like petals on a dew moistened rose.

  “All right. I could be wrong,” she said, rubbing her throat. “I—I’m sorry.”

  “You ought to be sorry,” I said. “You’ve been living in rotten company. Do you realize that?”

  Her eyes flashed. “No! Mr. Tunny and his directors are fine people. Not like those insane men in Hollywood. First you must sleep with them. Then you play the part. Italy was not like that.”

  I got out of the car and scooped up her gun. It was a German Luger. “Did you pick this up in Italy?”

  “No. It belongs to Mr. Tunny’s daughter, Toy. I stole it from her room.”

  I grinned. “She must be a cute Toy to fool around with this sort of plaything. I suppose that’s all part of the religion.”

  Angela climbed from the car and stood beside me. She was a tall, graceful woman, and well-built. Obviously Italy’s plentiful post-war years had been good to her.

  “Mr. Tunny teaches peace,” she said.

  “I’ll bet he does.” I shoved her back inside the car. “Come on, we’re going to my apartment. I’m outfitting you in some clothes.”

  “No!” Her eyes flickered angrily.

  “Don’t argue with me,” I said, sliding in beside her. “I’m trying to solve Rip Spensor’s murder, but I can’t do it with you running around like Lady Godiva without a horse.”

  Fortunately the fog deepened again out near Alamitos Bay. Several big trucks passed us on our way out of town and their drivers nearly went off the road after snatching a glimpse of Angela in their headlights.

  I parked at the end of the street, below my second-story apartment, and got a blanket for the Italian Angel. She wrapped her abundant shape into the folds and followed me up the steps. I was careful not to forget her gun. It was a powerful weapon for a woman to be carrying.

  I fixed us both a cup of coffee, lit the gas logs in my fireplace and joined her on the couch. She seemed dazed now, as if she’d been in some sort of shock and was just coming out of it. She peered about the living room stolidly, shaking her head.

  “You seem confused,” I offered.

  “I—I am.”

  “How’d you travel from Meadow Falls to Long Beach?”

  She brushed at her eyes. “What?”

  “Now let’s not play games, Miss Scali. This gun is no joke.”

  Her head jerked awkwardly. “What gun?”

  I held up the Luger. “You said you stole this from Tunny’s daughter, isn’t that correct?”

  Her tongue flicked wetly at the pale corners of her mouth. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I snapped my fingers several times in her face. She blinked and threw up her hands.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I demanded.

  “I—I don’t want any interviews now.”

  I straightened. “I’m no reporter.”

  “But—I just won an Academy Award.”

  “What?”

  “An Academy Award,” she said dazedly. “For the Best Actress of the Year.”

  “That was seven months ago, Miss Scali.”

  She got up, spilling her coffee. “You—you’re lying.”

  “I wish I were. Sit down!”

  “I can’t!” she protested. “My agent, Sol Wetzel, he—he’s waiting for me. We’re going to a big celebration in honor of my Oscar.”

  I remembered reading about Angela Scali’s disappearance. The night of the awards at the Pantages Theatre, she had accepted her Oscar, stepped out a side door to avoid photographers, and literally vanished into thin air.

  “Miss Scali, either somebody has been drugging you or you’ve had amnesia. One way or the other, you seem to have dropped seven months out of your life.”

  She stared down at the blanket around her, then opened the folds and examined her bronzed naked b
ody. “What’s happened to my clothes?”

  “Ask a guy named Thor Tunny,” I said. “The saviour of mankind. He’s apparently had you under lock and key for some time.”

  Tears sprang into her dark eyes. “But, I don’t understand. I was at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. How—how did I get here?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “Are you acquainted with a football player named Rip Spensor?”

  “Yes. Rip and I date frequently. I plan to marry him.”

  “He’s dead, Miss Scali!”

  Her face crumpled. “No!”

  “You accused me of murdering him,” I said. “You came after me with this gun.”

  “I—I couldn’t have. Why would I do that?”

  I studied her carefully. It was possible she was lying. This could be a pretense. Another Academy Award performance. It was her eyes that made me think differently. But, then, I’d seen some of her pictures. She was a dedicated actress. Her eyes had a way of telling all sorts of lies.

  “Adam Jason and Thor Tunny,” I said. “Do they mean anything to you, Miss Scali?”

  “The—the names do sound familiar.”

  “Meadow Falls?”

  She shook her head dismally, rubbing her forehead. “Some—somehow,” she stammered brokenly, her Italian accent suddenly more predominant than it had been before. “But—I can’t imagine—”

  I crossed to the telephone and dialed my office. It was time for a showdown. Adam had said he wasn’t acquainted with Angela Scali. One of them was lying, and I had a hunch which one. The bell grated several times, then Charley April cut in. He was so tired he could hardly talk.

  “Let the phone ring, Charley,” I said. “There should be somebody in my office.”

  “Whatta you got,” he blurted, “a party going on, Springtime?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What happened to you out by the Anaheim bridge?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  The phone rang ten more times, then Charley said, “They’ve taken off, Honey.”

  “You don’t know how right you are, Charley.”

  I hung up and stared at the Italian Angel. She stood before the fireplace, hands clutching the blanket, eyes wide.

  “I’ve got a hunch we’re in trouble,” I said. “Real trouble. Do you know how to use this gun?”