Gat Heat

by Richard S. Prather

  “I assume, in addition to the rest, you’re dripping big gobs of blood onto Mr. Violet’s expensive carpet.”

  “Blood? No, no, Sam. I didn’t get a scratch.”

  There was a pause. Then he said faintly, “There ain’t no justice any more. No, there just ain’t no justice.” Another pause. “Did you chance upon any physical evidence out there? Physical evidence? Anything that won’t instantly be tossed out of court?”

  “Tons of it, Sam. There’s so much I wouldn’t be surprised if it falls under seventeen different sections of the penal code. But on the case of immediate interest, the murder of George Halstead and the blackmail operation, not only is there now proof it was worked almost exactly as I described it to you earlier, but the album is here. The photos of the Sporks, Halsteads, Bersudians, and so on—the blackmail album.”

  “Well …” He paused. Then, grudgingly, “That should help a little.”

  “There’s more. And this part I personally found highly interesting. Not only was Jimmy tossing the album of our immediate interest into his concealed vault when I got here, but in the vault were two other albums. Not one, but three in all. Three of them, identical in conception and execution.”

  “Oh?” It had a somewhat different sound this time.

  “Yep. In one of them there were fourteen photos depicting twenty-eight different individuals, none of whom I recognized. But the third one might be primarily a political group. It’s a smaller album, only six photos, twelve people, but two of them had faces familiar to me. And you. One is a member of the California Legislature. And one, by golly, is a Superior Court judge.”

  He whistled. No words, just a soft whistle. But I found its note encouraging.

  “Jimmy has told me,” I went on, “that these two albums, also, were supplied to him by Kermit Vanda and his wife—they’ve been married, by the way, something like four years—in return for a staggeringly substantial payment of Jimmy’s cash. The blackmail con with sexy frosting has been going on for two years and a bit now. We just happened to get into this one when the first pitch in the operation was tossed.” I paused. “No wonder Stub clobbered Halstead last night. These creeps had a big operation to protect. If we can believe Jimmy, they’ve already hauled in over half a million bucks. And I think we can believe Jimmy.”

  Sam asked me what else I’d found in the safe, or elsewhere on the premises, and I covered some of it briefly. Then I turned again to the Halstead case and said, “Vanda and Dilly were building up one group while getting ready to drop out of another, which helps explain all their addresses. It’s eight to five they’ve right now got another con going we don’t know about—maybe based at the Hidden Valley Lodge, for all I know. Plenty money and bigshots there.” I paused. “Sam, about those two, have you any lead to where they might be?”

  “Not yet. We’ve got a local and an APB out and word to every informant available. Something should come in soon.”

  “I hope so. That babe still has my gun. If she didn’t throw it away. Or melt it.”

  “By the way,” he said sweetly. “What did you use to shoot all those citizens with?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you say one of your victims has a couple … what was it? Little rockets in him?”

  “What? Speak up, man. Don’t mumble—”

  “DIDN’T YOU SAY LITTLE ROCKETS—”

  “Sam, ouch, hey, oh, my ear. Well … rockets?”

  He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known for a long time. He just hadn’t known I was launching the little rockets. At least, he hadn’t been sure.

  So, finally—with the phone on my other ear—I said, “I did borrow that zippy little pistol. I did, all right. Yes, I did. It’s a great little weapon, Sam, the only way to let fly, a regular Fun-Jet. I have, you might say, field-tested it, and can certainly recommend that it be adopted without delay—”

  “You’ve gone too far,” he said quietly. Not venomously, not angrily. Sort of sadly, I thought. “Too far,” he murmured again.

  I didn’t say anything. I had a hunch I’d said enough.

  After a pause Sam went on, “I have already sent a car to Mr. Violet’s for you, Shell. In the car is Bill Rawlins and his partner. You wouldn’t shoot an old friend like Bill Rawlins, would you?”

  I thought of Bill sitting on his behind in the Homicide squad room, pounding the floor with his hands. And holding my wrist in a viselike grip. “Well, I’m not sure,” I said.

  “They have been instructed to bring you in. Please offer no resistance, and come along quietly.”

  “Why, of course. I’m a peace-loving man. Besides, I’ve got no resistance left in me. Hell, you didn’t have to send a car out for me.”

  “I thought it best. Sheldon, don’t you realize, don’t you realize, that we, the police, were preparing to visit Jimmy Violet? Later tonight? Armed with legal documents and proper authority, based on evidence we have developed, and even that movie film of yours … are you listening, Sheldon?”

  I listened a moment. “I hear sirens now,” I said.

  “Probably the fire engines. But Lieutenant Rawlins will not be far behind. Wait there for him.”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t think we’ll need the fire engines. Fire’s practically all over now.”

  “The fire,” he said gently, “has only begun.”

  Then he hung up.

  I wonder what he meant by that? I thought.

  What he meant was, he was going to clap me in jail.

  That’s the impression I got from Rawlins and his partner, a young sergeant, when they arrived. At least, Bill placed me under arrest.

  The formality was taken care of after they—followed by at least half a dozen other police cars—arrived at Jimmy Violet’s home and surveyed the carnage. And after the police work, photos, gathering and disposition of evidence—and hoods—was consummated.

  Bill told me, smiling, that I was under arrest, then took out his little card and read, “Mr. Scott, I must advise you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law—” and on through the whole bit.

  When he finished I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He smiled.

  “O.K.,” I said, snarling for his amusement, “so I take a fall. But I’ll beat this phoney rap, you dirty rat Hell, I’ll confess quick before you can get to an attorney, you dirty—”

  I stopped, and smiled. Then, not snarling, I said, “Bill, I’ve already beaten it. I’m home free. You can’t do a thing to me, not a thing.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s beautiful. I’ve already confessed! Not to a mere lieutenant, either, but to the Captain of Homicide himself. The brute. And he led me on, entrapped me, illegally coerced me. He didn’t tell me a single one of my rights—in fact, all he told me about was my wrongs. He’s clearly unconstitutional. So, take these cuffs off and I’ll go.”

  I went. But with Bill and the sergeant.

  His partner drove the car, and Rawlins sat in back with me. He’d taken the handcuffs off—actually, that had been his own warped idea of jolly fun. He had a very warped sense of humor. As I already knew. But he wsn’t all bad, not by a long shot. Because when we were on Sunset, heading toward the Hollywood Freeway, he imparted to me a cheering bit of news.

  He had phoned Samson two or three times from Jimmy Violet’s house, and the last time, Bill said, was less than a minute after Sam had received certain information. Information on a matter which turned out to be the last major development in the case.

  One of the informants had turned the trick. Kermit Vanda and Mrs. Vanda had been located.

  Rawlins went on, “I asked Sam if we could take them into custody on the way in. It’s a small motel farther down Sunset, past the Freeway.” He paused, looking at me. “We’ve got enough to hold them on now. You want to come along when we pick them up?”

  “Do I? I hope to shout I want to.”

  “As an observer. Nothing more. You are under
arrest, you know.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be good. But I’d hate to miss it, Bill. That babe may still have my gun. If she does, I want it back.”

  “O.K. But be on your best behavior.”

  “It’s all I’ve got left.”

  The motel was a small one on Sunset, set back from the street. Not plush, a far cry from the expensive home, the Beverly Hills Hotel, the Norvue—or the Hidden Valley Lodge. How the mighty have fallen, I thought. And these two were going to take a big fall very soon.

  I should have felt more exhilarated about it, I suppose. Maybe I was just tired from all the activity during the day. Especially that long-distance run, after I’d seen Dilly for the last time. Disappearing around a curve in the path. Maybe that was it.

  The last major development was almost a mess.

  When we walked into the motel’s small lobby a man was getting cigarettes from a machine against the right wall, and the man was Kermit Vanda.

  But when he saw us he merely got rigid for a moment, a second or so, then relaxed and stepped toward us, smiling.

  “Anybody got a match?” he said agreeably. “I seem to have left my lighter in the room.”

  Rawlins put the cuffs on him, anyway. And left them on.

  Room 22.

  That’s where Mrs. Vanda, or Dilly Pickle, born Dale Jill Piquelle, and possessor of probably a dozen aliases besides Marcelle Whist and Burma O’Hare, was now preparing for a good night’s sleep. Which she was not going to get.

  The sergeant was in the car with Vanda. Rawlins and I walked to Room 22. He had Vanda’s key, but the door wasn’t locked.

  At the last moment, I said softly, “Bill, I’m on my best behavior. But you must have—despite the chuckles—an idea of what this conscienceless tomato did to me. Aside from helping to ruin my life, I mean.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d sort of like to be the one who lets her know. Besides, I want to get my Colt Special back from the fiend, if possible. I guess, too, I just want to be the one to let her know that, even though she played me for a mark, I’m the last man she’ll con for a while. And, I suppose, that although maybe she conned me once she could never do it again. Something like that, anyway.”

  “She stuck you pretty deep, didn’t she?”

  “I bled, friend. But I have stopped bleeding. And I’m just mean enough to want this babe to know that.”

  He nodded, amused. “O.K., go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I turned the knob and stepped inside.

  The lights were on in the room. The bed covers were turned down.

  Dilly—somehow I would always think of her as Dilly—apparently slept in the nude. At least, that’s what she was wearing. She was standing by the bed, and as we came in she turned toward us.

  There was just a flicker of surprise, and perhaps shock, when she saw it was not her husband coming gayly to join her in the sack. Then her expression smoothed. She sank gracefully down onto the edge of the bed.

  Dilly didn’t make any effort to hide her nude body, to cover any part of herself with fluttering hands. She just placed her palms flat on the bed at the sides of those sonnet-worthy hips, leaned forward an inch or two, breasts swinging slightly, and looked at us from the melting, hazel eyes.

  And, for a moment, I stood still, looking at her.

  Even after the time I’d spent gazing at that body in the thin white jersey swimsuit, at the lovely face and eyes and brows and lips and smoothness of her, the sight of her was something which entered the nerves and loins and heart more than the eyes. Even aside from the nakedness of her flesh, seeing her once again had a newness, and might always have something of that newness. Maybe there’s a better word. But it was the kind of newness Adam might have felt on discovering that Eve was not a boy.

  O.K., I told myself. She’s still beautiful, gorgeous woweewow, with a body not real, that can’t truly be real, with a warmth and vital glow and an almost-sweet heat a man could feel from clear across the street on a drizzly day.

  O.K. And so what? You know the real Dilly, I told myself. You know what’s inside her, the dark pools, the emptiness, the—call it evil, to sum it up in a word. And you sure enough know what she did to you. Not once, but twice.

  But fool me once, fool me twice, and so on—I was cured. I’d bleed no more. With all that in my mind, I knew she’d never be able to turn me on again, never be able to dazzle my eyes and brain with mere beauty and artful wile.

  She smiled. “Hello, Shell,” she said. “Believe it or not, I’m glad you got away.” Then she looked past my shoulder and went on, “And who’s your handsome friend?”

  Well, that did it. Cool as a cucumber, wasn’t she? Well, so was I. If I’d needed any additional little bit more just to be sure, that was it. I was cured, all right.

  I took three long steps toward her, cool, calm, fully rational at last. Savoring my triumph, I stopped before her, looked down at her.

  “Dilly Gun,” I said, “I have come to get my pickle.”

  Hours later, I smoked a last cigarette, and decided to get some sleep. Try to get some, anyway.

  The case was wrapped up, over entirely. Except, of course, for the attorneys, the D.A., courts, testimony, the legal denouement. Just the frosting on the cake, but the cake was cooked. I’d been running it all through my mind.

  I was glad it was over, pleased with the way it had worked out. With most of it. Not all.

  Ordinarily I might have tried to forget the bad parts and unwind a bit more by going out on the town with a gorgeous tomato. Some food, a few drinks, a bit of this and a bit of that.

  But not tonight—I didn’t have anybody in mind, anyhow, nobody in particular. Certainly nobody available. Most of the pretty girls I’d met lately had been married, for one thing. Too, I was a little tired. In fact, I was damn tired.

  No, not tonight. It was common sense to relax a bit, conserve the old energies, build up the élan vital.

  And I’d spring back soon, I knew. Things would work out for me. They always had; they would this time, too, no doubt. No doubt about it.

  Yes, I would stay in tonight and get a good rest. For all the common-sense reasons I’d been thinking of.

  And, of course, for one other reason.

  But a man—especially one who knows all will work out well—can get used to anything, I figured.

  Even jail.

  So I lay back on my cot and—in about another hour—fell asleep.

  About the Author

  Richard S. Prather (1921–2007) was the author of the world-famous Shell Scott detective series, which has over forty million copies in print in the United States and many millions more in foreign-language editions abroad. There are forty-one volumes in the series, including four collections of short stories and novelettes. In 1986, Prather was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Private Eye Writers of America. He and his wife, Tina, lived in Sedona, Arizona.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1967 by Richard S. Prather

  Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-5055-8

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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