Maybe that was much of it, but there was an icy hollowness in my chest and entrails, as if I were dying a little. As if I were as good as dead right now, just hanging on by luck and my teeth. It takes a lot to get me down, maybe; but I was down. I felt as if I needed a cordon of cops around me, a bullet-proof house or a tank. I needed help. And where in hell was I going to get it?
That was the low point. The lowest. And when there's no place to go but up, that's where you go. I started getting mad. It was as if the ice in my blood melted and then started to boil, and I sat there and swore at the lousy, stinking, murdering bastards. I swore at them all even if I didn't know their names and even threw in some names I knew. I swore out loud, quite loud in fact, and I imagine people heard me on the far side of the street and spun around in circles with their hands clapped over their ears. The really surprising thing was that no men in white coats came dancing out of the hospital to wind me up like a mummy in surgical tape.
It was quite an explosion. But when it was over, I was myself again. Not that all by itself that was so marvelous, but I wasn't feeling creepy any longer; I was mad. I was hot. I was two hundred and six pounds of steam, getting ready to pop the safety valve. I started the Cad and roared down the street, headed for the Hollywood Freeway and swung into it, not yet sure where I was going. All I knew was that I was in no condition to sit still, and for now it was enough to be on my way.
For a moment I wondered how the guy had managed to find me—and have that bomb so handy. Guys just don't drive around with dynamite in their laps. At least, not usually. And if what I suspected of Dr. Fischer were true, how had it been set up so fast? It was sure too fast for me to figure, too much for me; there had to be an explanation, but at the moment I couldn't figure out what it was.
I relived the episode when I'd smacked Goss in his beefy kisser and wished I were doing it again. There seemed not the slightest doubt that he was behind much of the hell thrown at me. But I couldn't get Silverman out of my mind. I could still see him tearing that manuscript. To make an “impression.” He'd made an impression, all right, and maybe I'd beat him to death with a book.
It was clear, however, that I couldn't just go around smacking people, unless it was with a warrant. For that, you need evidence, proof. And that made me think of Ralph. Arline's Ralph—Ralph Mitchell, she'd said—who'd been leaving Silverman's last night as I'd arrived. Silverman's lawyer—or at least one of them, and maybe the one. For crooked operations on a big scale, involving phony fronts and corporations and complicated legal maneuvers, you've got to have a man who knows about such things. And Ralph, Arline had told me, was a corporation lawyer; his most important client was Silverman. Could be. Could also be that I was clear out in left field and the game hadn't even started yet. Could be Silverman was an angel in disguise. I didn't think so. And now I knew where I was going.
Arline had also told me to call her, but she'd not had time last night to tell me where to call. At the Sunset Boulevard turnoff I left the Freeway, used a gas station's phone book to look up the name Mitchell, a sense of urgency growing in me. I had the feeling that there wasn't time to spare, that I had to wrap this mess up now, fast, or I wouldn't be alive tomorrow.
A Ralph Mitchell was listed on Maplewood Way, and I called the number at that address. The phone rang several times and I was almost ready to hang up when it was answered.
The voice was a woman's, but it sounded slurred, thick. “Arline?” I said.
“Yess. Who's it?”
“Shell Scott.”
“Ooh, Scotty. Whee.” She sounded loaded to her eyelids.
“Ralph there?”
“Ralph? No, the skunk. The stinking bum.”
“What? What's the matter? You have a falling out?”
“Yeah, a falling. And I'm out. The hell with it. I'm getting drunk. C'mon over and get drunk with me.”
“I'll be right out, Arline. But try not to get plastered, huh? I want to talk to you.”
“'I'm already plastered.”
“Then sober up.”
“Ho, boy. Are you serious, Scott—Scotty?”
“Yes. Really. I'm very serious.”
“Well...” There was a long pause, while she was thinking. Or drinking. “I could steam a little, I s'pose. Don't think it'll do any good, though.”
“You can what?”
“Steam. Ralph's got a big fat steam room. Sauna or some crazy thing he calls it. You go in it and turn on the steam. Isn't that wonderful?”
“Yeah, that's great. You steam, Arline. Get nice and sober. I'll be out in a few minutes.”
“Oke-kay.”
“You're sure Ralph isn't there?”
“If he was here, would I be telling you to come on over and get drunk with me?”
“That makes sense. Uh, have some black coffee.”
“Sure.” She told me how to reach the house, then said, “'By, ‘by, ‘by, Scotty. ‘By.”
“'By,” I said.
I could have made it sooner, but I didn't hurry, because I hoped the few extra minutes would give Arline time to get a clear head. She did pretty well, though at first I was afraid she'd gone downhill from where she'd been.
The address was a long way out in an area I wasn't familiar with, Arline had told me it was on Maplewood Way a couple of blocks this side of Martin's Memorial Hospital, a private hospital I couldn't miss, but that the house itself was half hidden by trees and plantings. Even so, I missed Mitchell's place and passed Martin's, a squat stone building, then turned around and went back two blocks, U-turned in front of a lush green estate.
There was no street number out front, which was probably why I'd missed it, but this looked like the place. It was two stories, of brick and stone, and looked bigger than the hospital. Much of it was hidden by trees and shrubs, but I guessed it must have forty rooms or more inside it, and was surrounded by a good acre of landscaped grounds.
Mitchell's was the only house on the north side of the block, three big jobs facing it across the street on the south. An iron gate was closed before the cement driveway, so I parked and walked to it, found a buzzer and pushed it. In about a minute there was a click and the gate sprang an inch ajar. I went in, pushed the gate shut behind me and walked on up to the house.
Arline was waiting in the doorway for me, wearing either a bulky white robe or wrapped in a voluminous Turkish towel, I wasn't sure.
“Hi,” she said cheerily. “There you are.”
“Here I am.”
“Didn't expect you so soon. I mean, not since you called but so soon after last night. You know what I mean.”
“I think so.” She stood aside and I walked into a huge living room, furnished with heavy, colorful divans and chairs and massive wooden tables. Then I got a good look at Arline. It was a big towel she was wearing, holding it clasped in front of her and looped over her arm, somewhat like a toga. Her skin was shiny with perspiration.
“I did what you said,” she remarked, blinking those big green eyes at me. Her yellow hair was matted on her head. “And I'm sure a mess.”
“You look delightful.” She did. Her skin was pink and glowing, and she was smiling very prettily. She looked about like a gal who'd stepped out of a shower, and you know how dandy gals look stepping out of showers.
She appeared to be more sober now, but even so her eyes seemed to have difficulty focusing. They sort of wandered around in the air in the vicinity of my face. “I'm not there, yet,” she said.
“Not there?”
“Not sober. But I'm working on it. Was in the steam room, steaming. There must be Martinis all through the air in there. S'pose I should change the air, or something. Go back in there, and I'll get looped just breathing.” She paused, waggled her head a bit, and focused on my face. “What brings you here, Scotty?”
“Hell, you invited me, didn't you?”
“I mean, why else?”
I gave it to her straight. “I came here hoping you could tell me a lot about Ralph. And in wh
at way he's connected with Silverman. Frankly, some people are making a great effort to kill me. And maybe you can tell me enough to help me figure out who it is.”
“Kill ... you?” That seemed to sober her up a little more.
“Yeah. In all sorts of ways.”
“But Ralph—he can't be mixed up in it, can he?”
“I don't know. Probably not directly. Indirectly maybe. If he's mixed up with Silverman.”
“Who's Silverman?”
That was right. She'd told me last night that she didn't know who lived in the house on Strada Vecchia Road, just that it was “a client.” I said, “The guy Ralph was visiting when we talked last night.”
“Oh. I don't know. Ralph keeps a million papers and things in his safe here. If he's up to anything, it'd prob'ly be inside that monster. It's like a vault.” She frowned. “But—I dunno.”
“You say he's got stuff in a safe? In this house?”
She blinked and nodded. Then she said, “What're we standing here for like dummies? C'mon.” She took my hand and started to lead me into the living room. In order to take my hand she had to let go of the towel, and momentarily it swooped away from her body. There was just a flash before she caught the towel again, but it was a flash of the real Arline. Actually, it was more than a flash; it was a kind of a blinding glare of glowing pink skin and marvelous projections and delicious undulations.
She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her and yelled, “Whee! Boy, almost lost the old towel that time.”
“Yes, you—almost lost the—old towel that time.”
I had gone through too many emotional situations lately, as if I had been stretched on a nervous rack, and those beat-up synapses of mine started sparking almost audibly. I had seen Arline dance, I had danced with her, I had traded conversation with her, all of it enjoyable; but it had not, even when totalled, been as overwhelmingly enjoyable as that blinding flash. Fortunately it hadn't really blinded me. I could see with all twenty-twenty, and at that moment I was using all forty. But she had the towel securely around her again.
We got seated on the divan. At its end was a table on which were an ice bucket, pitcher and several bottles. As Arline sat down the towel slipped, not as much as before, but enough to bare one leg and thigh clear up to enough.
And there went that old flaw of mine. I knew I was smiling sort of foolishly, almost fondly at that long gleaming thigh. But, hell, I am fond of thighs. Arline didn't cover up this time. Maybe she thought it wasn't worth the trouble for just a leg. It wasn't really just a leg, though. It was a hell of a leg.
“Ah ... Arline,” I said. “I came here to ... I came here to ... Say, what did I come here—yeah, Ralph.” I looked off into space, sort of scrunching my thoughts together. This is important, Scott, I told myself. Watch it—or, rather, don't watch it. You don't want to get killed, do you?
Arline nudged me and held out a glass. While I'd been off somewhere she'd mixed me a drink from fixings on the table near her.
“It's bourbon,” she said. “I remembered you drink bourbon. You look like you might enjoy a drink.”
“Yeah. Yeah. That's it.” The drink was quite brown. “I drink it with water,” I said primly. “I'm not a slob who—”
“It's with water.”
So I had some. It seemed to go down like cold lava and soothe my nerves. I had another glug and turned to Arline, recharged. “Honey, if Ralph—”
She smiled. “You never called me honey before.”
“Well, we ... weren't such chummy friends then. Look. Honey. Listen. If Ralph has a safe here, I'd give my eye-teeth to take a look at it. In it. Can we blow it open or something? Maybe I could pour this drink on the dial and melt—”
“I know the combination. But I wouldn't dare open it.”
“You know—"
“I peeked a couple times when I wasn't supposed to be looking. I know it, all right. But I wouldn't dare—”
“Honey. Honey, you look plenty daring to me.” I unscrambled my thinking processes again. “What's the matter between you and Ralph? You didn't sound lovey-dovey when you mentioned his name on the phone.”
“We had a fight. A real brawl. Started about you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“He asked me who you were last night. I told him. He wanted to know where I met you and so on and I told him about dancing on the yacht, and all. He went through his roof. Pow! We went on from there, and I called him a fat old lard—well, I gave it to him. So there's going to be a ... a new caretaker of Mitchell Manor.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't have any—”
“Don't get soggy. We were already kaput. How d'you say it? Pfft? Pfft, we were. This was just a handy time for it.”
“I'd sure like to get into that safe.”
She smiled, a bit fiercely. “That would get even with him for me, hey?” She seemed somehow to be going downhill again. “Hey?” she repeated. “If you found—whatever it is you're after, would that fix Ralph's old wagon?”
“That would make his wagon a shambles from which it would never recover.”
She thought a moment, shook her head. “I'm scared to. This I have to consider.” She reached to the little table at the divan's end, on which were the ingredients for drinks, and picked up a half-full Martini glass. “Cheers,” she said, and gulped it down before I could stop her.
“Arline!” I cried, suddenly realizing why she was going downhill. That much booze will ruin you—especially Martinis, which are like falling off cliffs.
She sort of coughed silently and said, “I think I swallowed the olive that time. Hey-ha-ho, boy.”
“Arline.” I was starting to feel desperate. If this tomato reached the point of no return, or even passed out on me, that “monster” safe and I would never get together.
In my agitation I finished my own drink, then took Arline's hands in mine. “Honey, lovely Arline, I am serious as hell. I've got to get into that safe. And if you don't open the damn thing, there's very little chance that I'll do it.”
To me, that seemed logically to sum up the situation, and Arline agreed, bobbing her head like a pendulum. “Yeah, boy. You said a mouthful that time.”
She pulled her hands free and reached for the drinks. I started to grab her, but she merely picked up the bourbon, poured me a glassful and handed it to me.
I said, “You didn't put any water in it that time, honey.”
She looked at me with an intent expression, if a wavering and dizzyingly wobbly gaze can be called intent, and said, “The water is ... in the bottle. Already. Didn't you know that?”
“Frankly, no. I had no idea—”
“Well, it is.”
I thought that was a clever way to manage things, pouring water right in there on the bourbon in the bottle. I had some of the stuff, and it sure tasted like straight bourbon. But I guessed Arline knew what she was talking about. She was a pretty smart kid, this Arline, a regular dear. “Hey-ho,” I said. “Pretty tricky.”
She was still thinking. “That would sure shambles his wagon,” she said. “But I couldn't do it. Couldn't...”
We sat there and thought about it a while. Then I said, “Maybe there isn't anything even in there. We could look and see.”
“There's plenny in there. Papers and papers and all sorts of slop. Gun, pictures, books. It's a monster.”
“Let me in there.”
She peeked sideways at me. “You're a monster.”
“No, I just look that way. Underneath I'm Shell Scotty. Hey, Arline?”
“I'll bet. An’ underneath, I'm Arline.”
Without another word of warning, she threw her arms wide and pulled the towel from her body. For a few seconds she lay there, leaning back on the cushions behind her, the lovely, sweeping voluptuous curves of her really astounding body bare. Her breasts quivered with the sudden movement, and then became still.
I was reeling around inside. Mentally staggering about the room and letting out little yips.
But then, “What am I doing?” she said in a high voice. In a flurry of movement she pulled the towel around her again, sort of loosely, and blinked at me. “I've got to sober up. Again.”
“I'm not so sure.”
“Yes, I do. I don't like to get this looped. I like to do things on purpose. And that was accidental. I'll bet you were surprised.”
“Yeah, and there are a couple of words even more—”
“C'mon.”
“Come on? Where?”
“I've got to steam me some more. You look pretty looped yourself. Hey, Scotty.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “That bourbon I gave you had water in it all right—in the bourbon. I mean, like all bourbon. See? It was the truth. Obviously bourbon has to have water in it, or it'd jus’ be all like sand. Wouldn't it?”
“I'll be hanged if I know. What you mean is, you didn't add any more water to the bourbon.”
She nodded. “That's what I didn't.”
“I suspected it.” This Arline was really drunk. She was almost going out of focus.
She said, “So now we've both got to sober up. You ‘n me both. In to the steam with us.”
“What?”
“Going to sober you. Going to steam you up.”
“I'm pretty well steamed up already.”
“C'mon.” She led me across the living room and into the room adjacent to it. In one wall there was a closed door and on a bench next to it were draped some feminine garments which must have been the clothes Arline had been wearing when she'd decided to have her first steam bath. She stopped at the door and swung around to look at me, towel flying about like crazy. “Don't just stand there,” she said.
“I'm not just standing here.”
“Well, come on. Let's get with it.”
Over Her Dear Body Page 16