The Meandering Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “I didn't see nothin'. Except that crack. Thought it was bigger'n it looked."

  “Come on, Alexander. One reason I came out here was in the hope I'd get a little coöperation from you. Though I'll admit, coöperation between you and me would be something new in the world."

  He laughed. “You can say that over again."

  “If you know who shot Geezer, even if you've just got an idea, you'd be smart to tell me. If the police pin the job on one or more of the Domino slobs, there'll be one or more of them out of your hair. That would suit you, wouldn't it?"

  “Suit me fine. It's just I don't know nothin', Scott."

  That was enough for me. I wasn't going to get any real help from him. Or his crew of plug-uglies. They all seemed uncomfortable, as if they didn't like being this close to me unless they could hit me. I'd learned enough to make this visit worthwhile, though; and at least there was a kind of temporary truce arranged. Nobody knew better than I how temporary, but it was better than worrying about two gangs, with me in the middle.

  The boys were getting restless, anyway. Cork had pulled his eyebrows down so far they were almost level; Luddy was picking his nose again; the others had started moving around a little, shifting their weight. The only one who seemed at ease was Matthew Omar. He leaned back in his chair with his short legs crossed, fingering the deep cleft in his chin, smiling slightly as if at a secret joke. Omar undoubtedly saw the irony in the situation and, alone of the group, was amused by it.

  When Clara Alexander had brought the drinks, I'd noticed Zazu—at least, I guessed it had been Zazu—walking away from the house wearing a beach robe. I'd have thought she was going for a swim, except that I couldn't see a pool anywhere. But in the direction she'd been heading there was a large area enclosed by a red-stained fence about six feet high, maybe fifty yards from the two cottages I'd passed on the way in. Probably a pool there; and Zazu in the pool.

  So I stood up and said, “I'll tell Captain Samson what you had to say, Alexander."

  “Yeah, you tell him."

  “When's Geezer's funeral?"

  “Two-thirty ... Why?"

  “Just wondered. It's at Eternal Peace, isn't it?"

  “How in hell did you know that?"

  “Morning paper. I just forgot the time of tomorrow's services."

  “Paper? Why in hell they put it in the paper?"

  “They do it Memorial services for local businessman Harry Dyke—that sort of thing."

  “I didn't think they'd put it in the paper,” he said.

  Alexander looked worried. And I had a hunch I knew why. If Nickie Domano and his buddies really wanted to find Alexander's gang assembled at some place other than this fenced and well-guarded estate, they'd know where the gang would be at two-thirty p.m. tomorrow.

  Alexander, these creeps, plus another forty or fifty of Geezer's “family and business associates and close friends.” Which added up to half the thieves and gunmen in Los Angeles.

  Well, just in case there should be a gang war, a cemetery seemed the place for it.

  I said, “Nice place you've got here, Alexander. Mind if I glance around a little?"

  He hesitated, then said, “You mean—on your way out?"

  “Yeah, on my way out."

  “Sure, glance. On your way out."

  I parked my Cad—for the second time—at the side of the crushed-rock driveway. The first time I'd just gotten out and looked idly around, and had seen the seven men leave the awning's shade and walk up to the house. This time I parked near a flagstone path which slanted through the grass toward that red-stained fence. I walked over to the path and down it to the fence, found a wide gate in it The gate wasn't locked, so I pushed it open and stepped inside.

  It wasn't a very large swimming pool. Probably it had been put in when the two cottages were built. I knew Alexander had bought them and the whole area, then built his pink house in approximately the middle of the acreage.

  I could see the beach robe Zazu had been wearing, crumpled on a foam rubber mat, but I couldn't see her. The surface of the water swirled where somebody had just dived in, though. A few feet ahead of me were the curved metal bars at the top of a ladder extending down into the pool, so I walked over the cement toward it.

  Just before I reached the ladder I saw Zazu swimming under water toward it. The pool's surface rippled and tossed darts of sunlight at my eyes, but the water was clear, and I could see Zazu quite well. At least I guessed it was Zazu. Whoever the swimmer was, she—there was no doubt about the she part—was wearing either the latest thing in jazzy swimsuits or nothing at all.

  She reached the ladder and started to climb up it and out of the pool, nonchalant as a bird in the air. A jay-bird.

  I'd been right about two things. No suit. And it was Zazu.

  5

  Zazu tossed her head, whipping back her wet blonde hair, and then from the corner of her eye caught sight of something. Me.

  She made a high, squeaky, eeky sound and snapped her head back toward me, crying, “You know you aren't supposed to come in here. You know it!"

  Zazu hadn't recognized me yet. She was blinking water out of her eyes, apparently thinking I was one of Alexander's hoods. No wonder they weren't supposed to come in here.

  She'd got halfway up the ladder. Starting back down, she went on, “When Daddy finds out, he'll—oh-oh."

  She'd recognized me.

  “Hi,” I said brightly.

  She'd got part of the way down the ladder, and seemed stuck there, with the water midway up to her waist.

  “You can see I'm working,” I said. “But we forgot part of your end last night, Zazu. Uh, your end of the deal. Who shot Geezer?"

  Her mouth was round, and her brown eyes were wide. She blinked them a couple of times, silently. I noticed she had lipstick on this morning. Somehow I noticed. Looked good on her. She was quite the young lady.

  “Come on," I said. “Who plugged Geezer?"

  She took a deep breath, let it out suddenly. The eyes blinked again. Then she said, “A man named Werme. Jay Werme. He's a tall—"

  “I know who he is. We met last night, just before I attacked you."

  “Oh. Well ... Oh."

  “How do you know it was Werme?"

  She got unstuck, slid down till the water came not quite into her mouth. Eyes rolled up toward me, she said, “Daddy saw him. He's sure it was Werme. I can't prove it, but that's what he said."

  “Good enough for me, Zazu.” I noticed that her last few sentences had been delivered in an even more breathless little-girl tone than the first ones. She was trying to slip back into character. And a fat chance she had of making it. Even if I'd still thought she was seventeen, pushing eighteen, I'd have figured she was sure using adult pushers.

  “Well,” I said sorrowfully, “I guess we've no more to talk about."

  Her eyes rolled downward, then back up toward me.

  “Do you always swim in the nude, dear?” I said.

  “Yes. I'm the only one who uses the pool in the morn...” It trailed off. She was thinking. And she was a pretty good thinker. “It feels good. Probably I won't do it when I'm older."

  “I thought that's when girls did it."

  “It just ... feels good."

  “Gee, I'd like to jump in there, Zazu. Hell, there's plenty of room for two. I'd like to just jump in there and ... and feel good."

  “Oh, dear. Oh, no.” She wasn't doing so well. She hadn't had time to prepare for this.

  “I'd stay way down at the other end,” I said. “I think."

  Her eyes rolled down, up, sideways, all over.

  “Zazu,” I said gently, “climb up the ladder."

  “What?"

  “Climb up the ladder. Oh, not all the way. Just a little bit. Maybe one rung."

  “Why?"

  “I'll tell you. When you get up here close enough. I want to whisper."

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and pushed her lips out a little, as if the strain of thinking
was becoming a drag. “You don't have to tell me. I ... mmm ... don't want to know."

  I believe she was beginning to get it.

  “Up the ladder,” I said. “Upsy-daisy."

  “I don't..."

  “Oh, heck, I think I'll come in with you instead."

  She started up the ladder.

  “Ooops,” I said. “That's far enough. Don't want to overdo this, do we?"

  Water swirled around the top of her hips, ran down from her big white breasts. I cocked my head on one side, then the other. “That's what I thought,” I said. “Looks to me like...” I lowered my voice and whispered, “Like thirty-eight, twenty-one, thirty-six, twenty-two."

  The brown eyes rested on my lips. She whispered back, “Thirty-eight, twenty-one, thirty-six ... twenty-two? What's twenty-two?"

  “You,” I whispered, "know what's twenty-two."

  Driving back toward L.A., with the top down on the Cad and the wind cool on my face, I had to smile once in a while. She'd had the grace to blush, had Zazu. Even the big white breasts had become pink. Like her daddy's house. No, I'll take that back. Not at all like her daddy's house.

  I had lunch on the Strip and used a pay phone to call Samson and report on Werme and the rest of it. I didn't want to go down there, to the Police Building, unless I had to.

  Sam asked me how Alexander had reacted, and I said, “Sweetness and light. He carries no grudges toward whoever put four big ones into Geezer. Live and let live. Not a thing to worry about."

  “That's bad."

  “You're telling me. If he'd stormed and growled a little more I'd feel better about the situation."

  “We got word something's sure as hell building up. Shell, anything you get, pass it on, will you? Even if it doesn't seem important."

  “Sure, Sam. And all you have to do is put a clamp on Bill Rawlins before he opens his big yap—"

  “It's too late."

  “Too late?"

  “Too late."

  “I was afraid of that."

  “I don't mind telling you, I'm worried. Shell."

  “I'm worried, too. Damn that Bill. Couldn't you put him in jail—"

  “Oh, shut up. We've had word from a couple of our sources that Domano and his hoods are going to pull something today or tomorrow, damn soon. And it's not going to make Alexander any happier than the Harry Dyke hit did. If we knew what, we could probably stop it. But we don't know what it is."

  “You pull in any of Domano's boys?"

  “Can't find them. That's another thing bothers me. They're not in any of the usual joints where they hang out."

  “Funny. I asked Alexander where I could find them, and he said he didn't know. Moreover, I believe him. Something else, Sam. Yesterday Alexander made arrangements for Geezer's funeral, and I saw the write-up in this a.m.'s paper. When I mentioned it to Alexander he started getting worried, I thought. Apparently he hadn't figured on the info being in the obits so soon. It's possible—even if not probable—that some of Nickie's gang plan to show up there."

  “We thought of that, naturally. I doubt it, but there'll be two or three radio cars, in the area just in case. Besides that, I'm personally passing the word to Alexander that police will be present, even if not inside for the services, and any hood carrying a gun is going to get the book thrown at him. And not one out of ten of those mugs has a permit to carry a concealed weapon."

  “Make that one out of twenty. Well, I've got some lines out, Sam. If I hook anything I'll call you back."

  “Come on in if you've got time. Some of your friends want to talk to you."

  I hung up on him.

  By ten o'clock that night I was bushed. Not from the legwork, but mainly because nothing had happened. It was frustrating—and puzzling. I'd driven fifty miles and probably walked ten, talking to informants, trying to get a line on where Nickie Domano was and/or where members of his gang were. Nothing. This was Monday night, and the Jazz Pad was dark Mondays.

  At ten p.m. I was relaxing with a drink in my apartment and wondering what the hell the score was. And what the next development would be. The only thing I was convinced of was that something was going to happen soon, and it wouldn't be good.

  The phone rang.

  I scooted over on the divan, grabbed the phone, and said hello.

  “Scott?"

  “Yes."

  “This is Matt Omar."

  I sat up a little straighter. This was the first time any of Alexander's men had ever called me. “What's up?” I said.

  He beat around the bush for half a minute, talking about my visit to Alexander's this morning, and finally I said, “Chop it. You called me for some reason, Omar. So tell me what it is."

  He sighed gustily into the mouthpiece. “Yeah. O.K.” He didn't sound like his usual self, not the normal cool and collected Matthew Omar. His voice was higher, strained, as if he was all wound up, nervous or something.

  “It's about Alex,” he said, “Cyril. I'm expecting him here at the house any minute, and I'm getting the hell out as soon as—"

  I couldn't even hear his breathing in the phone. “What about Cyril?"

  There was more silence, then I heard him swearing softly. Well, he was still there, and breathing again, at least. I wondered what he was trying to pull. And then I heard the phone go click in my ear.

  I hung up, waited. Nothing happened.

  I didn't know where Omar had phoned from, but I did know he lived with Cork in a small house in Hollywood, on Pinehurst Road. I had the address and his phone number in my book, in the bedroom. I stood up—and the phone rang again.

  I grabbed it. “Omar?"

  “Who? That you. Shell?"

  “Yeah, who's this?"

  “Bill. Bill Rawlins."

  “You still up?"

  “They called me when I was driving home to hit the sack. That is, Sam did—he's still downtown."

  “Something happen?"

  “You might say so. We found Jay Werme. He just got himself shot."

  “I'll be damned. Bad?"

  “Didn't do him any good. Killed him."

  “Where'd it happen?"

  “Madeleine. Up in one of the penthouse suites."

  The Madeleine was a swank apartment house in North Hollywood. Not the land of place where Werme would live, I imagined.

  Rawlins was going on. “I called in when I got here, and Sam told me to give you the story; you might want to come up and look around. Since you know both of them, Werme and the gal who says she shot him."

  “Gal?"

  “Yeah, this Lilli Lorraine."

  “I'm on my way."

  The lab men were still busy when I got there. Rawlins and a detective named Goss, both in plain clothes, were standing together near a dark wood and black leather bar, talking. Beyond them the million lights of Hollywood at night sparkled through a wall of glass. The room's colors were subdued, pale gray walls, lighter gray carpet, heavy dark furniture, teal blue divan against the wall on my right. On the divan sat Lilli, sobbing every once in a while. A third plain-clothes man was seated next to her, saying something.

  Jay Werme's body lay about two yards inside the entrance to the penthouse suite, relaxed in death, a small stain of blood on the gray carpet beneath him. Fifteen feet farther into the living room, near an open door through which I could see a bed covered with a quilted, multicolored spread, was another pool of blood sinking into the carpet's gray nap.

  Werme lay on his stomach with his right arm flopped limply behind him, pulling his body up a little. The side of his face rested against the carpet, jaw hanging slightly ajar, eyes staring—those eyes cold as space, cold as hell; they looked just about as I remembered them.

  Rawlins saw me as I came in and skirted Werme's body, bending to peer down at him briefly. Bill jerked his head, and I walked across the room to where he and Goss were standing.

  “This is a sweet one,” Rawlins said quietly, as I stopped next to him.

  “What happened?"

&n
bsp; “It stinks.” He looked at Lilli, then at Werme. “She gave us the story, with a lot of boo-hoos in it, and it might make sense—if it wasn't Werme."

  “She shot him?"

  “Says she did. Came home—” He glanced at Goss. “Get that gun, will you?” Then he went on, “Let herself in, started toward the bedroom, thought she heard something, took out her gun, turned the light on. Werme was there—” he pointed toward the open bedroom door—"coming toward her, and root-te-toot-toot. Or rather, root. Shot him once."

  “Where in hell was Lilli carrying a gun? And why?"

  “In her handbag. Says she always carries a gun. Seems she knows some low evolutionary types who won't take no for an answer. Some of them won't even take yes for an answer. And she's got some valuable jewelry."

  “Jewelry?"

  “I'll get to that. Werme fell, there by the bedroom door. Got up. Fell again, where he is now. Didn't get up."

  Near that first bloodstain, half a dozen small objects glittered against the carpet's gray nap. I'd missed them on my first glance around. “Those the pretties?” I asked.

  “Right. She says the thief had them in his hand, must have been leaving with them when she came in. Dropped them when she hit him with the slug. Here's the gun."

  Goss had come back with a snub-nosed, lethal-looking S&W .38 revolver. Of course, they're all lethal-looking. It was the regular businessman's heat, no chrome or mother-of-pearl or pretty pictures.

  “Where'd she get the gun? She got a permit for it?"

  “Hell, no. ‘You mean, you have to have a permit?' she says. Like, ‘You mean, you can't just go around shooting people?’ One of her men friends gave her the gun. As a present. A long time ago, she can't remember when. Or who, naturally.” Bill's lids drooped over his eyes. He looked sleepy. And I knew he must be tired.

  “It stinks, all right,” I said. “The way I get it, Werme was Domano's number one pistol, and that's all. Bodyguard and killer. He sure as hell isn't a jewel thief. Not unless he just turned jewel ... Hey, not unless the Werme turn—Skip it. If he came up here, you ask me, he came to kill somebody."

  “Sure. Who?"

  I opened my mouth, shut it. “Bill, I was talking to Lilli last night just before Domino and Chunk—and that one over there—walked in on us. I know they heard some of what she'd been telling me, and she'd been telling me plenty. I wasn't concentrating on her verbal revelations as much as I should have, maybe, but as I recall it was not a bit helpful to Nickie Domano."