“It’s only a scratch, you idiot,” she slammed harshly. “Why don’t you keep your nose where it belongs?”
“I was,” I said, “until two of your sweaty friends decided it needed powdering. Where’s your Luger, Miss Tunny? You look positively naked without it.”
She brushed at her rounded hips, shifting her gaze at the crumpled, bleeding bongo player. “Sol, this is the dame I was telling you about. The female shamus.”
Sol groaned. “The—the party’s over everybody. Go home,” he stammered. “Go home.”
They dispersed slowly, shaking their heads, growling under their breaths. I looked around for Ray Spensor, but still couldn’t see him. Toy Tunny picked up a towel from a nearby lounge chair and wrapped it around her abundant doll-shaped frame. Then she bent over the still-gasping bongo player.
“You all right, baby?” she asked.
“Yes, yes,” he groaned. “Just get her out of here.”
“That won’t be so easy, Sol,” Toy said, helping him to his feet. “She’s here about Angela. You’d better talk to her.”
So this was Sol Wetzel, the Italian Angel’s illustrious agent. I began to get a picture. One with a fancy frame around it, gold-leafed with a wide border. I yanked up my zipper and gestured toward the French doors.
“After you,” I said.
Helping Sol Wetzel was no easy task for Toy Tunny. Sol was a tall man, sturdily built, and strong. He leaned on the chunky shoulders of the towel-covered woman as they staggered inside. They crossed to the bar.
“Okay, Miss West,” Toy said, pouring Sol a drink. “Let’s have it.”
“Where are my clothes—and gun?”
She cocked her thumb toward a door. “In Sol’s bedroom. You’re welcome to them. They don’t fit worth a darn. And that pink pearl-handled job is a little too fancy for me.”
Wetzel moaned, mopping his nose with a handkerchief. “What else do you want?”
I surveyed the drink-and-ash-tray-littered living room. “Your version of Angela Scali’s disappearance.”
“The newspapers carried my story seven months ago. Don’t you read?”
“I read what you said. Now I’d like the truth.”
“That was the truth.”
I noticed an Academy Award Oscar on the fireplace mantel. “Come on, Mr. Wetzel, you’re not playing the bongo drums now. You’re way off-key. You knew Angela Scali was at Meadow Falls.”
“I did not!”
“You’re a bald-faced liar.”
“Prove it, Miss West. Do you think I’d let ten percent of a million dollars slip through my fingers just like that?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“No maybes about it,” he growled. “The Angel was my meal ticket. I had a six-picture deal cooking for her when she disappeared.”
I crossed to the mantel and removed the statuette. “What happened to all the money she made from her last movie, Mr. Wetzel?”
“How the hell should I know?” He glanced at Toy nervously.
“Didn’t I read somewhere that Angela Scali made close to a half million off The Big Pebble?”
“That—that’s right.”
“Didn’t I also read where her money mysteriously vanished at the same time she did?”
He swallowed some of his drink and choked. “Yes. Yes, the police conjectured at the time that she took it with her.”
“Did she?”
“How should I know?” he hurled, snatching the Oscar from my hands.
“What about that, Miss Tunny?” I asked. “Did the Angel show up at Meadow Falls carting a bag full of money in her lily-white hands?”
Toy laughed. “She had some money, sure. You’re chasing a rainbow, Honey. The cult’s a non-profit organization. You can check our books. We haven’t received a donation over a thousand dollars since we opened.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” I said. “But what you’ve taken is a different story.”
“I resent that,” Toy cried, shoulders tensing.
“And I resent the hanky-panky you two are playing,” I said. “This afternoon you waylayed me in a cabin above Meadow Falls, Miss Tunny. At the time you accused Mr. Wetzel here of murdering Rip Spensor—and Angela Scali.”
Wetzel whirled toward the pudgy brunette. “What?”
“She’s lying, Sol,” Toy said, face reddening. “Why would I accuse you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you playing me for a sucker, Toy?”
“Shut up, Sol!”
“I always thought you were. You didn’t come here to conjure any spirits. You purposely led her here, didn’t you?”
“Don’t be a sap, Sol!”
I jumped at the opportunity, moving between them. “No, don’t be a sap, Sol. Toy said you were in love with Angela. That you hated any rivals. Especially Rip Spensor.”
His mouth cinched tightly. “She knows I didn’t love Angela. But she knows somebody who did.”
“Who?” I demanded.
“Let me show you something, Miss West,” Wetzel said, moving toward his bedroom door. “This’ll probably surprise hell out of you.”
He disappeared, leaving Toy alone with me in the living room. The towel-clad doll scowled, poured herself a drink and gulped it quickly.
“What’s happened to your friend Ray Spensor?” I asked, watching her carefully.
“Drop dead!”
“He came up here with me, then pulled one of his vanishing acts. He seems famous for that.”
“Ray is famous for a lot of things,” she said tartly. “You’ll learn that in time. Especially if you belong to the female sex.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“In a word, Miss Private Eye, Ray’s a lover. He makes more yardage in a boudoir than he does on a gridiron, if you get what I mean.”
“How did he do with Angela Scali?”
“Are you kidding?” she snickered. “The Angel wouldn’t have anything to do with Ray Spensor. Nor with Fred Sims, either.”
“What?”
“Fred Sims,” she said flatly. “You know him, don’t you? The crippled newspaperman.”
I tried to keep from reacting at the mention of Fred’s name, but I couldn’t help the shock in my face and eyes.
“Yes, I know him,” I said. “How did Fred fit with Angela Scali?”
She shrugged. “He met her once on an assignment from his paper. That’s the story I got. I guess the poor guy fell pretty hard.”
“How do you mean, fell?”
“Goggle-eyed, short-of-breath. You know the bit. He was panting on her heels for months.”
“You mean while she was at the camp?”
“Before and after,” Toy said. “He’s a creep with that gimpy leg. I don’t know how Angela stood him.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said. “If Fred knew Angela Scali was at Meadow Falls why didn’t he break the story?”
Her smile was edged with sarcasm. “Miss West, you really surprise me. You still have the mistaken idea the Angel was spirited to Meadow Falls, don’t you? She wasn’t. She came of her own accord. And for a very good reason.”
“And what was that?”
“She was sick of the life she was leading,” Toy said. “It was as phony as a nine-dollar bill and she knew it. She hated the people and the pace and the front she had to maintain. Can you blame her?”
“I can’t if it’s true,” I answered. “But why didn’t Fred Sims break the story?”
“Because she asked him not to. Fred would do anything Angela said. He was that far gone.”
I nodded. The noose was tightening around Fred’s scrawny neck. In a way I still couldn’t believe it. The whole thing seemed too fantastic. I hoped that what Sol Wetzel had to show me would throw some light on the situation. I turned toward the closed door.
“What’s keeping him?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Sol’s another one who needs a psychiatrist’s couch. He’s an abominable liar.”
&nbs
p; “You mean he was in love with Angela?”
“Like a puppy dog. Listen, what I told you this afternoon sticks. I still think Sol is guilty. Did you see him with that knife? He’s ready for the nut house.”
I thought of the weird machines back at Meadow Falls. If those were Toy’s inventions she was calling the kettle black.
“You begged him to cut you,” I said.
“Of course I did,” she argued. “I saw you come in with Ray. I wanted to prove how crazy he was.”
“If that’s true you took quite a risk.”
She snickered again. “He wouldn’t have hurt me in front of that crowd.”
“Toy?” Wetzel’s voice floated up from behind his bedroom door. “Come here a minute.”
She stiffened. “I’d better see what’s the matter.”
Toy Tunny gathered the towel around herself and crossed to the door, disappearing inside. After an instant, the lock clicked. I was tempted to eavesdrop, then discarded the idea. They were both too clever to say anything when the two of them were alone. I snapped on a portable radio near the bar and tried to pick up a midnight newscast. The speaker shuddered with rock and roll and the day’s most popular ballad, “Mack, The Knife.” I shook my head. A fiendish killer was No. 1 on the Hit Parade. Switchblade knives had taken the place of hearts and flowers. No longer were there songs about love and marriage. This season it was mayhem and masochism.
Toy came out of Wetzel’s bedroom, finally, closing the door behind her. She switched off the radio, took a cigarette from a pack on the bar and lit it casually. Then, “Sol can’t find what he’s looking for. He’s mad as hell. Even talking to himself.”
Suddenly Wetzel’s voice lifted inside the room. “You fool!” he cried.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Like I said. He’s talking to himself. He’s as mad as a hatter.”
Wetzel’s voice continued, “You think you’re smart, don’t you? Well you’re not. You’re a fool!”
“He’s speaking to somebody,” I said.
“There’s nobody in there,” Toy countered, puffing at her cigarette. “He’s had too much to drink.”
“I’ll kill you!” the agent’s voice rose defiantly. “If you come closer, I’ll kill you!”
I started toward the door, but Toy stopped me.
“He’s just flipping his lid,” she said. “I told you he was ready for the wraparound coat.”
“No!” Wetzel cried. “No! No! No!”
I brushed Toy out of the way and bolted through the door. Sol Wetzel was lying across a bed in the corner, his legs twisted under him. A door to the rear of the room stood open, swinging in the wind. I bent over the agent. His eyes stared at me glassily. The switchblade knife protruded from his chest.
ELEVEN
Wind blew the outside door, banging it against the wall, blowing papers from a desk and scattering them over the dead man. I bent over him. There was no pulse and his eyes were wide, full of horror. Blood flowed from the wound, running down his chest, staining the bed.
Toy Tunny came into the room and screamed, hand crushing to her mouth. The wind blew again, toppling books from a shelf, crashing them down on a tape recording machine and knocking one of its reels spinning across the floor.
“Where’s my gun?” I demanded.
She gestured at a chair in the corner. I crossed quickly, removing the revolver from under the sweater Toy had taken from me, and then stepped through the door into a narrow walkway behind the house. A half moon gleamed faintly through fleecy clouds, bathing an embankment above the walkway with a purplish smear of light. I glanced to my left. A cement-block wall about ten feet high circled a small patio that still held puddles from the day’s downpour. A Chinese lantern swung idly in the wind, casting shadows across the wet squares.
To the right was a narrow passage swinging around toward the garage and driveway where my convertible stood, grimly silent in the windy night. I moved slowly down the walkway, hand gripping my revolver, legs taut. At the edge of the garage, I whirled at the sight of something along the bank above my head. A big brown object sprang down at me, spinning weirdly in the light, bouncing on the cement, caroming off a post directly into my path.
I kicked wildly, darting back into the garage, then caught my breath. It was a tumbleweed! The crazily-turning, gnarled growth blew against my convertible, bounding over the hood and across Sol Wetzel’s garden, vanishing down the hillside.
I felt around for a light switch. Trees swayed across the driveway, their branches thrashing loudly. Far below the ridge, I could see the lights of other houses, fanning out in the canyon.
Sol Wetzel’s killer couldn’t be far, unless he’d had a car waiting. I had a hunch he was nearby. I could almost feel his presence in the pitch-black garage. My gun hand trembled as I moved out onto the driveway, heels clicking on the asphalt. Wind whipped at my hair, blowing it across my face and eyes. I started toward my convertible. The door was open on the driver’s side. I moved around the car cautiously, gaze shifting from the house to the road behind me. A dog howled across the canyon, a lonely cry in the night. I stopped, listening intently. A tree branch snapped, shuddered, spraying leaves across the driveway.
I froze, staring up toward the embankment again. Nothing moved, except weeds high on the cliff above the house. Then something rattled on the asphalt behind me. I whirled. A piece of paper blew up in my face, darting skyward, turning eerily in the cloud-etched sky above my head.
I thought about fairy tales I’d read when I was a child. About monsters and dragons lurking in the grassy hills when night descended over the land. Somewhere a murderer lurked, woven into the darkness like an evil creature from Grimm’s. I knew I had to find him before he found me. But where? My legs turned me in a full circle, then back again. A tree branch grazed against my face, its chill wet fingers brushing ominously. I darted around the car, stopping by the open door, and inhaled deeply.
This was one person I didn’t want to meet in a dark alley, or a night-pitched driveway. He’d already killed as violently as anyone could. A metal machine weighing three tons had crushed the life out of Rip Spensor. A knife and a rope were the tools of violence exercised on Angela Scali. Now Sol Wetzel. Stabbed in the heart.
I reached inside and lifted my auto phone, mechanically placing a call to my office. Wind blew new rain on my forehead and my eyes searched the driveway again as the number rang.
Charley April intercepted quickly, “Honey West, private—”
“Charley,” I interrupted, “have you ever been alone and felt like the last person alive in the whole wide world?”
“Constantly, Springtime. Where are you?”
“On the side of a mountain. It’s raining and I’m scared, Charley.”
“You need help?”
“In the worst way,” I said. “Charley, I like you when you smile.”
“Honey, for God’s sake, I’m not smiling. Where are you?”
“Box Canyon,” I said, brushing drops from my nose. “High up on the Hollywood side. A man’s just been murdered.”
“Who?”
“Nobody you know, Charley.”
“I know a lot of people, Springtime. Don’t be elusive.”
“A guy named Sol Wetzel. Hollywood agent up until five minutes ago.”
Charley grunted. “Sure, I know him. Wetzel was one of my best clients. He blew more than twenty grand on the ponies at Hollywood Park this past summer.”
“You serious?”
“You know I am with you, Springtime. He was a light spender season before last. A grand at the most. This year he busted wide open. At horse-playing, he was a dud. I told him so, but he wouldn’t quit.”
“Charley, you’re an angel,” I said, my gaze shifting toward the garage. “What would I do without you?”
“Maybe you’d talk sense,” he blared. “Gimme the address and I’ll phone the Sheriff’s office.”
A figure suddenly moved out of the shadows near the
garage.
“Too late,” I said numbly and hung up.
Ray Spensor walked toward the car, hand shielding his eyes against the new drizzle.
“Honey?”
“Hold it where you are, Ray!”
He stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“Where’d you go?”
“For a walk,” he said. “That smoke in there was too much for me.”
“Have you seen anyone?”
“Sure, I saw a whole bunch of people come out of the house and drive away.”
“I mean in the last few minutes.”
“No. Why?”
“Wetzel’s dead.”
Ray’s head jerked. “When did this happen?”
“You tell me!”
They put Ray Spensor under a lamp at the Sheriff’s station and kept him there for nearly an hour. When it was over, Mark Storm came out of the interrogation room with a perplexed look on his face, hands stuffed in his pants pockets.
“That guy is either too smart or too dumb,” the deputy muttered. “I don’t know which.”
“Wouldn’t he cooperate?” I asked.
“Sure. We couldn’t shut him up. He told us everything. How he walked outside for some fresh air, how he bedded down in your back seat for a nap, how the sounds of people leaving woke him. He swears he never went near the house after he left.”
“What was he doing in the garage?”
“He claims he was looking for a powder room.”
“In the dark?”
Mark shrugged. “He says he couldn’t find the light switch.”
“I can believe that. It was pitch black.” I lowered into a chair near Mark’s desk and pursed my lips. “What I can’t understand is why he didn’t see or hear someone running down that walkway.
“He heard you,” the deputy said, pushing a cigarette in his mouth.
“That’s what I mean, Mark. I was trying to be as quiet as possible and yet he heard me. Why wouldn’t he hear someone who was obviously in a big hurry?”
“Maybe our knife-wielding intruder went up over that embankment at the rear of the house.”
“Too high. The wall’s at least ten feet. He’d had to have gone out the walkway. That’s what makes me wonder about Spensor.”
Honey West: A Kiss for a Killer Page 10