The Meandering Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  Or, rather, several things. That one guy with a gun in his hand had stopped and was taking aim, leveling the gun at me. A few feet behind him was Phil Samson, lunging toward him, hands outstretched. And all those lunatics, running awkwardly, were still yanking at their zippers.

  One man quite near me had yanked his zipper down, dived in, and grabbed—hold it—a compact blued-steel pistol, which he then nipped up till it pointed at me. Another scratched around and came up with a snub-nosed revolver.

  I got it. I'd figured it out. It was clear.

  I wasn't dead.

  I had at least a quarter of a second to live.

  I almost wished I was dead. Ah, life was sweet. It's never sweeter than when you've got a quarter of a second to live. But it only took me about a sixteenth of a second to realize what had happened.

  Yes, it was clear. Several things were clear. At least a dozen and maybe more of these hoods had come to the funeral armed: armed to repel the suspected invasion or attack by the Domino gang. Knowing the minions of the law would shake them down and not only appropriate any artillery found but fling the artillerymen in the can, they had with at least minimal cleverness secreted their cannons, not in shoulder holsters, not in belt holsters, but in shorts holsters. And they had obviously assumed—correctly, as it had turned out—that not even the fuzz would shake down their shorts.

  Something else was clear.

  Flies were open all over this segment of the graveyard, and in consequence at least half a dozen guns were aimed at me already, and there were more heaters flashing up from the secret places, and right away I was going to get shot not less than fourteen or fifteen times.

  Even if I'd had time to run I couldn't run back toward Geezer. That was out. I couldn't run closer to those hoods, either. That was out. And it was beginning to dawn on me that it made very little more sense, if any, for me simply to stand here making a honking noise.

  Ah! There was one thing. I could flip out my .38 Colt Special and ... No. This time I remembered. The Colt was empty. Ye Gods, everything was out.

  I've been in pickles before. Yes, I have. But I couldn't remember a pickle more pregnant with the prospect of nothing than this one.

  This was the moment of truth.

  And the truth was that, whatever happened, it was just going to happen. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it. It happened.

  It was even louder than the lion, much louder than the lion, and also much sweeter to my ears. Even though it practically killed my ears.

  I didn't care if my ears died in agony—if the rest of me lived. And there was a chance the rest of me would.

  Because that sweet noise was a crashing, booming, thunderous, enormous, air-shredding and earth-shaking CHRROOM! Or bang, or boom, or crack, or crraack-whoom. No matter, it was loud. Geezer exploded.

  Slowly the earth and the day and the scene came back together.

  To say Geezer exploded is like saying Vesuvius leaked. He disintegrated. Bits of Geezer soared like gnats through the graveyard. Geezer filled the air. Geezer covered the ground. Geezer—but enough.

  He saved my life. At least for the moment. No guns were going off. Not only were no guns going off, but it was eight to five it would be a while before some of the people here even remembered they'd had guns in their hands.

  With the booming crash, the earth literally jerked beneath my feet, and a blast of air like a wall of water slammed against my back. I went down, ears ringing, numbness in my body. Then I was on my knees, shaking my head.

  About half the men a few yards from me were flat on the ground; a couple of others were struggling to their feet. Blood trickled from a few noses. Some of the thugs still held their guns, but I saw other pistols resting on the grass.

  I got slowly to my feet. Aching weariness pulled at every muscle. I think I was as tired as I've ever been in my life. And I didn't mind a bit. It might be a long time before I kicked about anything. Because anything was better than going from Geezer to hoods to Geezer....

  Perhaps fifteen yards away, a little to the left of the group of men, Samson stood rigid, looking left and then right, left and then right again. Three more guys got to their feet, wobbling a little, and in a few more seconds all those hoods were standing, looking at me and all around—but mostly at me.

  They were, quite naturally, in a state of shock. My initial appearance must have been something of a jar, especially since they'd been in a somber mood, listening to the Reverend saying, “We are here not to praise Geezer, but to bury him,” or something like that. But also they couldn't have expected their old buddy to pop. So I knew they were for the moment confused, hesitant, indecisive.

  But I knew, too, what their last thought had been. Kill! And when they snapped out of shock, the last might become first again. So I walked, as briskly as I could, toward Samson.

  On my way I passed near big, strong, dumb Luddy. His chin was hanging down, so loose a mild breeze would have wiggled it. “Hey,” he said to me in a dull voice, “What wazzat? Wazzat ... Geezer?"

  “Was is right,” I said. “Geezer is no more. And you can guess who loaded him with the boom, can't you? To blow all you guys to hell? Domino, of course. Nickie Domano. Think about that, Luddy—and maybe you'll want to thank me."

  I didn't give a hang if they thanked me, or even thought about it, but I spoke loud enough so the rest could hear me, because I wanted them thinking about Nickie Domano. Let them concentrate on killing him for a change.

  Samson looked at me as I walked up, and several times he started to say something but never quite got it out, just moved his mouth after the fashion of a cow chewing its cud.

  “Sam,” I said, “you been in touch with your office lately? Within the last half-hour or so, I mean?"

  He scowled at me and kind of bit his teeth, then said, “Of course I have.” His eyes wandered around the landscape again, flicking from tombstone to tombstone. “I called in to tell them things were still...” He lifted his arms up, let them flop down. “Quiet."

  Two plain-clothes officers came trotting up, looking slightly dazed. Sam spoke to them rapidly and softly, and they ran back toward the funeral parlor—for reinforcements.

  Then Sam glanced around again at the gang of men, flipped his coat back, and pulled out his gun.

  I asked him, “What's new from the lab? And how'd Omar check out?"

  He gave me the technical answers, but it boiled down to the basic facts that Omar's blood was type 0, Rh positive, and matched the bloodstain in Omar's house; both type 0 stains in the Madeleine were Rh negative, and identical as far as the lab had been able to determine. Sam finished it up. “So Werme did the bleeding in the Madeleine, Omar in his house. The bullets in Omar matched the four...” He stopped, let it trail off. “How come you made such a big point of having them checked with the slugs we dug out of Harry Dyke?"

  “It was Geezer, then?"

  He nodded. “Identical markings, no doubt about it.” He glanced around again, brows pulled down and that cast-iron jaw of his jutting out. “I heard you say Domano was responsible for what just happened to Dyke. That right?"

  “Yeah, crammed him with dynamite, made a time bomb out of him—idea being to wipe out the whole Alexander gang at once."

  “That miserable sonofa—” He cut it off, looking at me oddly. “It's just getting to me you took a hell of a chance busting in here and hauling that—that bomb out, to save a gang of hoodlums.” He sank his front teeth into his lip. “You weren't thinking maybe I—"

  I interrupted him, grinning. “Even hoodlums deserve their turn in the gas chamber. Besides, there were some women and kids down in front, boy and his sister, I guess—little bit of a tomato.” I paused. “Them, too, Sam."

  He raised a hand and started to put it on my shoulder, then let it drop suddenly, as if embarrassed. Then he coughed, stuck his big chin out, and growled, “Well, you sure made a mess."

  “That's gratitude for you. Which reminds me, that's something these characte
rs don't have loads of. They're going to be stirring into life pretty quick. Or something else."

  I wasn't kidding.

  I could count the men now, and there were twenty-eight of them, every one a known hoodlum. The bunch included the entire Alexander gang—or what was left of it. I ticked them off mentally: Geezer and Omar dead, Cork, Stacey, Brill, and Dope already in cells downtown. Six gone. And the rest of them were going, too. The other mugs here were all very mean looking, for a very good reason—they were mean.

  Consequently a lot of the men now starting to shift uneasily from foot to foot must have been aware they would soon be on their way to the local slammer, if not the state pen, depending on their records. Some of them still had guns in their hands, too. It was highly unlikely they'd simply stand around much longer—unless I could somehow keep them standing and listening, keep them interested. There was a chance I could.

  So I said to Sam, “I'm going to talk to these guys."

  “You'd better talk to me first. I want to know—"

  “No point in telling it twice, Sam. Besides, these creeps are getting restless, understandably. Until about two dozen cops get here, we're outnumbered."

  He shrugged.

  “So cover me, huh? This might get a bit ticklish in spots."

  “What the hell are you up to now?” he growled. “What the hell else?"

  “With your permission, old buddy, I'm going to make an arrest."

  He reached automatically for the cigar that was almost always clamped between his strong teeth, realized he had no cigar and made a very menacing face instead. “Arrgh,” he said. “You're going to drive me ... Oh, go ahead. Arrest all the bastards. Take them to jail. Take them on a picnic. I don't really care—"

  “Not all of them, Sam,” I said. “Just one."

  Then I walked toward the bunch of crooks and stopped in front of Cyril Alexander.

  I raised my gun, my empty gun, and aimed it at one of the pale gray bags beneath Cyril's big muddy brown eyes. I thumbed back the Colt's hammer.

  Then I said, “You're under arrest, Mr. Ames. For cohabiting out of hammerlock—I mean wedlock—for carrying a concealed weapon, for indecent exposure, for conspiracy to conceal evidence of a felony, for bugging my phone, for bugging hell out of me, and for the murder of Matthew Omar. Now, stand there easy or I'll blow your head off."

  15

  Cyril's Hand Twitched.

  I considered it a significant twitch, because Cyril was one of those hoods still holding guns. His was a large Colt .45 automatic pistol, and when his hand twitched, the .45 twitched. If you want the truth, I twitched a little myself. It was a pretty twitchy moment.

  But it could have been grand, nonetheless. He could have shot me, or turned and run, or said smoothly, “Preposterous, my good man!” Something like that.

  He gawked at me and said, “Huh?"

  Hoods. No class. But then his shoulders slumped. He lifted them up, then let them drop with an air of resignation. “I guess the jig's up."

  “Not so fast.” The bastard. I hadn't even explained it yet. He'd been practically ready to confess, and I wasn't even started yet. “You just hold your horses,” I said.

  Then I looked around at all the hoods standing here in the graveyard. “Men,” I said, “let me have your attention."

  That was a pretty silly thing to say. I had their attention. But I went on, “Men, I guess we all know that Nickie Domano's triggerman, Jay Werme, shot Geezer there.” I pointed. “And there ... and there. But Cyril told you Domino's boys pooped Matthew Omar. Well, Cyril lied. Because the cat who pumped three into Cyril Alexander's dear old friend was Cyril Alexander."

  I waited. As I've hinted, I guess there's a little ham in all of us. Actually, I almost wished I'd had time to call Jim Nelson again and have him send “Chopper 14” over. But you can't have everything. I waited some more.

  Finally Luddy, who was standing four or five feet away on my right, gave his nose a little pick and said, “How about that?"

  “Well ... isn't it exciting? Doesn't it—rock you?"

  “Why'd he poop him?"

  “Because Omar had tipped Jay Werme that both Cyril and Lilli Lorraine would be in the penthouse at the Madeleine. Omar sent Jay there to kill Cyril—and probably Lilli, too. But from Cyril's point of view the important thing was that Omar had tried to knock him off. So, naturally, once he got past Jay, Cyril blasted Omar."

  Alexander sighed and stuck his .45 into the top of his pants. “Yeah, the jig's up,” he said, his nasal voice even more lifeless than usual. “I knew it as soon as you—"

  “Cyril, please," I said stiffly.

  I'd never seen a guy so eager to confess. But, hell, I figure a confession's no real good unless you already know what it has to be. Unless you outwit the hoods, where is the triumph of good over evil? Where's the joy in your work? Where's the satisfaction of a job well done, and all that inspirational gunk? Gee whiz, I thought.

  And then—briefly—I thought something else. Could it be that the strain of these last hours had strained something in me past its springing-back point? You can stretch a noodle only so far, and then it becomes spaghetti. Was it possible I had spaghetti in my noodle? But the doubts lasted for only a moment. Then my usual keen grasp of everything returned.

  “I don't get it,” Luddy said.

  Most of the other mugs, I noticed, had slowly edged forward and now were bunched in a ragged half circle around Alexander, Luddy, and me. Under other circumstances I might have considered their slow, creeping edging forward a little menacing, but now I realized they were hanging on my words. This was more like it.

  Tamale Willie brushed his black mustache with a thumbnail, looking at me with eyes glittering like knives. Big Horse glanced toward Samson, then rolled his big head around on his thick neck till he was staring at me again, hairy, gun-weighted hand hanging at his side. Stiff moved up to stand beside Luddy, giving me a spooky look.

  “Well,” I said, “first we have to agree that Cyril and Lilli Lorraine had a thing going, a not unlikely assumption even if we were guessing, which we're not. To begin with, there is Clara—strike that. It has been rumored that Lilli Lorraine more than occasionally gets heat for hoodlums ... ah, for gentlemen of the turf, gentlemen of the turf. And Cyril has been, until now, L.A.'s Mister Big. Thus they were a natural combination, especially since for quite a while most of you headquartered informally at the Jazz Pad, where Lilli holds forth with acres of libido in evidence nightly. Enough acres to burn the blood of a brass monkey, and certainly a Cyril Alexander, even if he didn't eat breakfast confronted by the appalling visage of—strike that."

  “They was millions of times I wanted to,” Alexander said, sorrowfully. “Millions. Every morning I wanted to strike it, right in the middle—"

  I hurried on. “But about two months ago, when Cyril, for reasons of his own—which perhaps you are beginning to guess—transferred your boozing headquarters from the Jazz Pad, Lilli Lorraine moved from the Wilmington Hotel to a luxury suite. I give this to Cyril. When he does a thing he does it right—His and Her penthouses at the Madeleine."

  “Two G's a month, and it was worth—"

  “So that's where we start,” I said. “Then the Domino gang moves into town. Here's the chronology, the bare bones. Sunday Domino sent his number one trigger on a hit. Jay missed the big boy, Cyril, but hit the fat one, Geezer. Monday night he tried for the top man again. Werme showed up at the Madeleine, and since Werme was not a jewel thief but a killer, it follows that he was there for lolling. Clearly, for lolling Mr. Ames, or Lilli—or both. So we must assume he knew Mr. Ames was Cyril Alexander. But Cyril either got lucky or knew somebody was coming up to the suite and plugged—"

  “No luck to it. When the elevator goes past twelve there's a buzzer goes off in the bed—"

  “—And plugged him with one shot from the .38 S&W that lolled him. Probably Cyril fixed up some kind of signal, so when the elevator went past the twelfth floor a buzzer went off in t
he bed. Ah, in the bedroom. Anyhow, after plugging Werme, Cyril left in a hurry—to kill the man who'd fingered him, who'd tipped Werme and sent him to the Madeleine."

  Stiff spoke for the first time. The first time, come to think of it, in my memory. “Domino?” he said.

  “Omar. There would never in his lifetime be a more made-to-order time for Omar to get rid of Cyril, if he wanted to. Anyway, in order to kill the finger man, Alexander required a gun. Not an hour or so later, but right then. Before the finger man got the wind up an blew—which, by the way, Omar was about to do. I fact, he phoned me and practically told me so, only didn't get it then. So, Cyril needed a gun right away, and obviously he couldn't take his own gun, the .38 S&W with which he'd just shot Werme. Which explains why Werme's gun was never found."

  They seemed interested. Sad Mick McGannon had moved up alongside Big Horse and was whispering something to him, and Big Horse was nodding. Stiff looked almost alive. But Luddy appeared nearly as intent on my words as anybody else, so I spoke directly to him.

  “Clear so far, Luddy?” If he got it, I figured they all would.

  He stuck out his tongue and bit it, concentrating. “Why coulden he of took his own gun?"

  “Because Lilli Lorraine was going to lie a little—a lot, actually—and say she'd shot Werme. And if that tale was to have a chance in a hundred of holding up, the bullets in the gun she said she'd shot Werme with had to match the bullets in Werme. She could hardly plug him with a .45, say, and then stand there weeping with a .22 pistol in her hand, could she?"

  “Ah,” Luddy said. “Ah. Ah ... yeah, like when they put it under the microscope and look at it. Ah."

  “Good for you, Luddy. That's it. The test bullet from the heat and the lethal bullet from Werme had to match under the comparison microscope. O.K. Werme left his own gun with Lilli. So what gun did he take with him when he left to blast Omar?"

  “Beats me."

  I suddenly had an unaccustomed and warm feeling for dedicated, underpaid teachers, striving to pound knowledge into little heads. “Look at it this way,” I said. “Werme brought a piece to the Madeleine, but didn't get to use it for the hit on Cyril. Instead Cyril used his own heat to chill Werme. Cyril left his gun with Lilli and took ... "