A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  Janet broke in, looking at me. “That was when Dad thought about having the transaction investigated. He talked to me about it and decided to see you, have you look into it. You see, he thought the sale was still secret, and you could check on it before the ads came out in the papers. And—he just couldn’t believe it. He intended originally to invest only about ten thousand above what we’d get out of our store, but, well, it seemed like such a wonderful chance for him, for us. We were both a little suspicious, though.”

  “Uh-huh.” I could see why Elmlund might want the deal checked, and I could even understand why he’d decided to see me instead of somebody else. The last six months I’d been mixed up in a couple cases that got splashed all over the newspapers, and my name was familiar to most of Los Angeles. But another bit puzzled me.

  I said, “Janet, this morning in Pete’s”—she made a face—“who was the man who charged in and yelled at you? Just as you were leaving.”

  “Man? I didn’t see any man. I—lost my head.” She smiled slightly. “I guess you know. And after—afterwards, I got scared and ran, just wanted to get away. I thought maybe I’d killed somebody.”

  “I thought maybe you had, myself.”

  She said. “I was almost crazy. Dad had just told me what had happened, and I was furious. And you’d told Dad everything was fine, that the transaction was on the level—I mean he had, the other Shell Scott—you know.”

  “Yeah. What about that?” I turned to Mr. Elmlund. “When did you see this egg in my office?” I already knew, but I wanted to be sure.

  “At nine-thirty on Monday morning, this last Monday. I went in right at nine-thirty, there in the Hamilton Building, and talked to him. He said he’d investigate it for me. Then yesterday morning he came out to the store here and said it was all right. It cost me fifty dollars.”

  “Sure. That made the con more realistic. You’d have thought it was funny if you weren’t soaked a little for the job.”

  He shrugged and said, “Then right after I talked yesterday to the detective—that one—he drove me and Janet from here to the real estate office, the Angelus Realty. Said he was going by there. Well, I stopped at the bank—those ads were supposed to come out in the papers today, you know—and got the money. Then at that office I gave him the money and signed all the papers and things and—that was all. I wasn’t supposed to go to the store till tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait.”

  Janet told me where the “real estate office” was, on Twelfth Street, but I knew that info was no help now. She said that this morning, before she’d come charging in at me, she’d first gone to the Angelus Realtors—probably planning to shoot holes in Harrison, though she didn’t say so. But the place had been locked and she’d then come to the Hamilton Building. She remembered the sign. “Angelus Realtors” had still been painted on the door, but I knew, sign or no sign, that office would be empty.

  I looked at Janet. “This guy I was talking about, the one in Pete’s bar this A.M., was about five-ten, stocky; I suppose you’d say he was damned good looking. Black hair, even features.”

  “That sounds like Bob Foster. Cleft chin and brown eyes?”

  “That’s him. Did you meet him before or after this deal came up?”

  “Bob? Why, you can’t think he—”

  “I can and do. I’m just wondering which way it was; did he set up the con, or did he come in afterwards.”

  “Why, I met Bob a month before the realtor showed up. Bob and I went out several times.”

  “Then dear Bob told him to come around, I imagine. I suppose Bob knew your father was thinking about a new store.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And after you and your father talked about hiring me to make sure the deal was square, did Bob happen to learn about it?”

  “Why—he was here when we discussed it. He—” She stopped, eyes widening. “I’d forgotten it until now, but Bob suggested that Dad engage an investigator. When we told him we couldn’t believe it, that there just had to be something wrong or dishonest about the sale for the price to be so low, he suggested we hire a detective to investigate the man and all the rest of it.” She paused again. “He even suggested your name, asked us if we’d heard of you or met you. We hadn’t met you, but of course we’d read about you in the papers, and told Bob so. He said he knew you, that you were capable and thoroughly honest—and he—made the appointment with you for nine-thirty Monday.”

  “Good old Bob,” I said. “That made it perfect. That would get rid of the last of your doubts. Janet, Bob Foster is probably no more his right name than Harrison is a real estate dealer. The guy I know as Harrison, you know as Klein; his girl friend calls him John, and his real name is probably Willie Zilch. And I’m not getting these answers by voodoo. Harrison, Foster, and the guy who said he was Shell Scott all stay at the same hotel. They’re a team, with so many fake names they sound like a community.”

  “But Bob—I thought he was interested in me. He was always nice.”

  “Yeah, pleasant. So you saw him a few times, and then he learned your dad was ripe for a swindle. He tipped Harrison, the inside-man, and they set up the play. The detective angle just tied it tighter. It was easy enough. A phone call to me to get me out of the office, another guy bleaches his hair, walks in, and waits for your dad to show, then kills a couple days and reports all’s well.”

  It was quiet for a minute, then I said, “The thing I don’t get is how he happened to show up at Pete’s right after you did?”

  Mr. Elmlund answered that one. “He and Jan were going on a picnic today. When I told her about—about losing my money she ran to the car and drove away. Right after, Bob come in and asked for Janet. I told him what happened. Said she mentioned going to see that Klein and you. Now I think of it, he got a funny look and run off to his car.”

  “I hate to say it, Janet,” I said, “but Bob was probably less interested in the picnic—under the circumstances—than in finding out if everything was still under control.”

  I thought a minute. The white-haired egg had probably been planted outside waiting for me to leave; when I did, he went up to the office. Bob must have showed up and checked with Hazel, reached Pete’s just as Janet started spraying bullets around, chased her but couldn’t find her or else knew he’d better tip Whitey fast. So he’d charged to the office just in time to sap me. Something jarred my thoughts there. It bothered me but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  I said, “Have you been to the police yet?”

  Janet said, “No. We’ve been so—upset. We haven’t done anything since I got back home.”

  “I’ll take care of it, then.” I got up. “That’s about it, I guess. I’ll try running the men down, but it’s not likely they’ll be easily found. I’ll do what I can.”

  Janet had been sitting quietly, looking at me. Now she got up, took my hand, and pulled me after her into the front room of the house. Inside, she put a hand on my arm and said softly, “You know how sorry I am about this morning. I was a little crazy for a while there. But I want to thank you for coming out, saying you’ll help.”

  “I’ll be helping myself, too, Janet.”

  “I get sick when I think I might actually have shot you.” She looked at the raw spot on my chin. “Did I—shoot you there?”

  I grinned at her. “It might have been a piece of glass. I landed in some.”

  “Just a minute.” She went away and came back with a bit of gauze and a piece of tape. She pressed it gently against the “wound,” as she called it, her fingers cool and soft against my cheek. Her touch sent a tingle over my skin, a slight shiver between my shoulder blades. Then she stretched up and gently pressed her lips against my cheek.

  “That better?”

  It’s funny; some women can leap into your lap, practically strangle you, mash their mouth all over you, kiss you with their lips and tongues and bodies, and leave you cold—I’m talking about you of course. But just the gentle touch of this gal’s lips on my cheek tur
ned my spine to spaghetti. That was the fastest fever I ever got; a thermometer in my mouth would have popped open and spouted mercury every which way.

  I said, “Get your .22. I’m about to shoot myself full of holes.”

  She laughed softly, her arms going around my neck, then she started to pull herself up but my head was already on its way down, and when her lips met mine it was a new kind of shock. The blonde back there in the hotel room had been fairly enjoyable, but Janet had more sex and fire and hunger in just her lips than the blonde had in her entire stark body. When Jan’s hands slid from my neck and she stepped back I automatically moved toward her, but she put a hand on my chest, smiling, glanced toward the porch, then took my arm and led me outside again.

  When my breathing was reasonably normal I said, “Mr. Elmlund, I’m leaving now but if I get any news at all, I’ll hurry back—I mean, ha, come back.”

  Janet chuckled. “Hurry’s all right,” she said.

  Mr. Elmlund said, “Mr. Scott, if you can get our money again I’ll pay you anything—half of it—”

  “Forget that part. I don’t want any money. If I should miraculously get it back, it’s all yours.”

  He looked puzzled. “Why? Why should you help me?”

  I said, “Actually, Mr. Elmlund, this is just as important to me. I don’t like guys using my name to swindle people; I could get a very nasty reputation that way. Not to mention my dislike for being conned myself and getting hit over the head. For all I know there are guys named Shell Scott all over town, conning people, maybe shooting people. The con worked so well for these guys once, they’ll probably try the same angles again—or would have if I hadn’t walked in—on—” I stopped. That same idea jarred my thoughts as it had before when I’d been thinking about the guy in my office. It was so simple I should have had it long ago. But now a chill ran down my spine and I leaned toward Mr. Elmlund.

  “You weren’t supposed to see me—the detective—this morning, were you?”

  “Why, no. Everything was finished, he already give me his report.”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. I was wondering why the hell Harrison had called me again, why Whitey had needed my office again, if not for Mr. Elmlund.

  I swung toward Janet. “Where’s your phone? Quick.”

  She blinked at me, then turned and went into the house. I followed, right on her heels.

  “Show me. Hurry.”

  She pointed out the phone on a table and I grabbed it, dialed the Hamilton Building. There was just a chance—but it was already after noon.

  Hazel came on. “This is Shell. Anyone looking for me?”

  “Hi, Shell. How’s your hangover—”

  “This is important, hell with the hangover. Anybody there right after I took off?”

  Her voice got brisk. “One man, about fifty, named Carl Strossmin. Said he had an appointment for nine-thirty.”

  “He say what about?”

  “No. I took his name and address. Thirty-six, twenty-two Gramercy. Said he’d phone back; he hasn’t called.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up. I said aloud, “I’ll be damned. They’ve got another mark.”

  Jan said, “What?” but I was running for the door. I leaped into the Cad, gunned the motor, and swung around in a U-turn. It was clear enough. Somewhere the boys had landed another sucker, and the “investigation” by Shell Scott had worked so well once that they must have used the gimmick again. They would still be around, but if they made this score they’d almost surely be off for Chicago, or Buenos Aires, or no telling where.

  Carl Strossmin—I remembered hearing about him. He’d made a lot of money, most of it in deals barely this side of the law; he’d be the perfect mark because he was always looking for the best of it. Where Elmlund had thought he was merely getting an amazing piece of good fortune, Strossmin might well think he was throwing the blocks to somebody else. I didn’t much like what I’d heard about Strossmin, but I liked not at all what I knew of Foster and Whitey and Harrison.

  When I spotted the number I wanted on Gramercy I slammed on the brakes, jumped out, and ran up to the front door of 3622. I rang the bell and banged on the door until a middle-aged woman looked out at me, frowning.

  “Say,” she said. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Mrs. Strossmin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your husband here?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No. Why? What do you want him for?”

  I groaned. “He isn’t closing any business deal, is he?”

  Her eyes were slits now. “What are you interested for?” She looked me up and down. “They told us there were other people interested. You—”

  “Lady, listen. He isn’t buying a store, or an old locomotive or anything, is he?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I don’t think I’d better say anything till he gets back.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “That’s great. Because the nice businessmen are crooks. They’re confidence men, thieves, they’re wanted by police of seventy counties. Kiss your cabbage good-bye, lady—or else start telling me about it fast.”

  Her lips weren’t pressed together anymore. They peeled apart like a couple of liver chunks. “Crooks?” she groaned. “Crooks?”

  “Crooks, gyps, robbers, murderers. Lady, they’re dishonest.”

  She let out a wavering scream and threw her hands in the air. “Crooks!” she wailed. “I told him they were crooks. Oh, I told the old fool, you can bet—!” She fainted.

  I swore nastily, jerked the screen door open, and picked her up, then carried her to a couch. Finally she came out of it and blinked at me. She opened her mouth.

  I said, “If you say ‘crooks’ once again I’ll bat you. Now where the hell did your husband go?”

  She started babbling, not one word understandable. But finally she got to her feet and started tottering around. “I wrote it down,” she said. “I wrote it down. I wrote—”

  “What did you write down?”

  “Where he was going. The address.” She threw up her hands. “Forty-one thousand dollars! Crooks! Forty-one—”

  “Listen,” I said. “He have that much money on him?”

  “No. He had to go to the bank.”

  “What bank?” By the time she answered I’d already spotted the phone and was dialing. A bank clerk told me that Carl Strossmin had drawn $41,000 out of his account only half an hour ago. He’d been very excited, but he’d made no mention of what he wanted the money for. I hung up. I knew why Carl hadn’t mentioned anything about it: it was a secret.

  Mrs. Strossmin was still puttering around, pulling out drawers, and occasionally throwing her hands up into the air and screeching. Gradually I got her story and, with what I already knew, put the pieces together. Her husband’s appointment with “Shell Scott” had been made two days ago by real estate dealer “Harrison” himself, here in Strossmin’s home. After suggesting that since Strossmin seemed a bit undecided he might feel safer if he engaged a “completely honest” detective, Harrison had dialed a number, chatted a bit, and handed Strossmin the phone. Finally an appointment had been made for nine-thirty this A.M. Strossmin had been talking, of course, to Whitey who most likely was in a phone booth or bar.

  Harrison probably wouldn’t have suggested me by name to Strossmin, expecting the mark to accept his, the realtor’s suggestion, except for one thing, which was itself important to the con: my reputation in L.A. A lot of people here believe I’m crazy, others think I’m stupid, and many, particularly old maids, are sure I’m a fiendish lecher; but there’s never been any question about my being honest. This phase of the con was based on making Strossmin—and Elmlund before him—think he was really talking to me when he met Whitey, the Shell Scott of the con, in my office. However, when I popped back into the office and messed up that play this morning, the boys had to change their plans fast.

  At eleven-thirty, abou
t the time I was driving to Elmlund’s, Whitey had come here to Strossmin’s home, apologized for not being in his office when Strossmin had arrived this A.M., and said he’d come here to spare Strossmin another trip downtown. After learning what Strossmin wanted investigated, Whitey had pretended surprise and declared solemnly that this was a strange coincidence indeed, because Strossmin was the second man to ask for the identical investigation. Oh, yes, he’d already investigated—for this other eager buyer—and told him that the deal was on the level. No doubt about it, this was the opportunity of the century—and time, sad to say, was terribly short. Apparently, said Whitey, negotiations were going on with dozens of other people—and so on, until Strossmin had been in a frenzy of impatience.

  Finally Mrs. Strossmin found her slip of paper and thrust it at me. An address was scribbled on it: Apex Realtors, 4870 Normandie Avenue. I grabbed the paper and ran to the Cad.

  Apex Realtors was, logically enough, no more than an ordinary house with a sign in the window: Apex Realtors. When I reached it and parked, a small, well-dressed man with a thick mustache was just climbing into a new Buick at the curb. I ran from the Cad to his Buick and stopped him just as he started the engine.

  “Mr. Strossmin?”

  He was just like his wife. His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  I took a deep breath and blurted it out, “Did you just buy Folsom’s Market?”

  He grinned. “Beat you, didn’t I? You’re too late—”

  “Shut up. You bought nothing but a headache. How many men inside there?”

  About ready to flip, I yanked out my gun and pointed it at him. “How many men in there?”