The husky guy with snail eyes looked me up and down and said in a gritty, flat voice, "Excuse me. You'll have to excuse me."
"Sure," I said pleasantly. "Sure thing."
That puzzled him. Not much, but a little. He was all ready to be tough and probably looking forward to it.
"Gonna take the girl," he said. "Got to."
"I know," I told him. "Fine."
He didn't seem to think that was the right answer. He squinted and said, "Huh?"
"Fine," I said. "Fine and dandy."
"Huh?"
"Well, so long," I said. I turned and winked down at the frightened girl in the booth. Her eyes looked stricken, but the lines eased a little when I winked. Now she probably felt better than I did.
Neither of the boys had any artillery in sight. This was Broadway, downtown L.A., and even if we were inside a bar, it was only five blocks from City Hall and police headquarters. The boys weren't bright, obviously, but they weren't that dull. You could bet, though, that they had artillery just in case.
Maybe Pete, the bartender, had a sawed-off under the counter, but I'd never know. He was the peaceable type. He stood at the middle of the bar with both his hands on top of it in plain sight, and gazed with great interest at a spot on the ceiling.
Me? I own a gun. A nice one. A .38 Colt Special with a two-inch barrel and a one-pound trigger pull. I've done work on it myself, given it loving care, and spent a lot of time on the police pistol range. I can draw it with real speed, if I do say so, and I'm a pretty good shot. And right then the gun was in the top left drawer of a beautiful mahogany desk in my office.
The blank-faced guy was still staring at me after his last "Huh?" so I said, "Sure thing, pal. You sure got here in a hurry."
He said, "Guess we did." He chuckled halfheartedly. "Didn't have far to come."
"Plenty fast, though," I congratulated him. "That's what I like to see. Captain Samson send you?"
"Captain who?"
"Samson. Detective Captain—Hey!" I got real suspicious. "Aren't you the cops I called?"
All of a sudden he was happy; he was going to make the smartest play of his life. He'd talk about this caper for the next twenty years.
"Cops?" he said gaily. "But of course we is cops."
I was still suspicious. "You act funny," I said. "How do I know you're cops? You got a badge? You carry a gun?"
He frowned, then he brightened. "What else? All us cops carry guns." He proved it. He peeled back his single-breasted plain-clothes suit and showed it to me.
He turned his head a little and called, "Hey, Sarjint, show—"
Then I popped him. I grabbed at the gun with my left hand and swung my right fist from my hip and then I had the gun awkwardly in my fingers and he was sliding on his fanny, looking glazed at me like I was Judas.
He lay back all the way and rolled his head a little, then shook it and sat up. The guy at the door had his hand under his coat, but he was too slow. I grunted at him, "Uh-uh," and he froze like that with the gun in my fist pointed at him.
"Out empty," I said, and he brought out five fingers with nothing in them.
The guy on the floor looked toward the door and snarled, "Get 'im, Flem. Shoot him. Shoot the bastard."
Flem didn't move. He said slowly, "Not me, Dutch. Think I'm stupid?"
Dutch sat on the floor and swore at me, using a lot of words the girl behind me shouldn't have listened to, then he climbed to his feet and started toward me.
I waved the gun at him. It felt heavy and cool in my hand—a big .45 automatic with, of all things, mother-of-pearl inlaid on the grip. I said, "Slow down. Now beat it. Both of you."
I waved the gun again. Like a wand. It worked like a wand.
Flem went through the door and Dutch stared at the pretty gun in my hand for a couple of seconds, then walked to the door, too. He said, "Gimme my gun."
"You nuts?"
"Gimme my gun!" His voice was gritty and harsh.
"Sure. So you can use it on me. Get lost."
"You bastard!" he yelled. "I'll get it. I'll get it back." He stood with the door behind him, his vapid face red and twisted as he spoke. Spittle was wet at the corners of his mouth.
I grinned at him and said, "Sure, Dutch. Over my dead body."
He grinned then. Like he'd just discovered you could pull the wings off flies. He said, "What'd you think I meant?" and went out.
I sank down into the booth opposite the girl where I could keep an eye on the door. I heaved a big sigh, and I took a long, long look at her. Here, right across the little table from me, was the excitingly curved lady I'd gone to sleep wondering about. Even tired and worn she looked better than I'd imagined she would without the silver mask covering up her face, but it seemed to me she was living a little too dangerously. Maybe she liked it, but there was plenty she'd have to let me in on before I'd be up to date. I didn't even know who she was.
I said, "You'd better do some explaining. Those weren't very nice boys."
She smiled a little at me and blinked those violent violet eyes. She said, "Thanks, Shell. Thanks an awful lot. Maybe I shouldn't have asked you, but I was scared. I'm still scared."
"Why? And why the runout at the party last night? What about Brane? And these goons?"
Just then Pete came up to the table and slid his foul concoction under my nose as if nothing had happened. I paid him, tossed the awful stuff down, offered the girl a drink, which she refused, then said to her, "Who are you? What's your name?"
"Hallie. Hallie Wilson. I'm an actress at Magna."
"O.K., Hallie. Let's climb up to my office. I want some answers out of you."
She got up and I went ahead of her and looked outside. Everything seemed to be quiet, so we took off and got to the office with no trouble. Nobody there, either.
Inside, I pulled a chair up by the desk for her, then locked the office door and climbed into the swivel chair behind my desk. I got my .38 out of the desk drawer and strapped on the spring shoulder holster. I'd been on a kind of vacation from business for a week or so and hadn't needed the gun. I figured I might need it now. I locked the fancy pearl-handled gun I'd taken from Dutch in the top left drawer, leaned back, and waited for Hallie Wilson to start explaining.
She shook her head and said, "Where'll I start?"
"Last night."
She swallowed and started in. "I. . . I found him."
"Brane?"
"Yes. Dead. He was—" She shuddered. I knew what she meant. It made me shudder, too. "Go on," I said.
"Well, I don't know if anyone saw him before I did or not. I'd won one of the prizes for costumes, and I went up to put it in Miss Feldspen's room."
"You know Feldspen's daughter?"
"Not personally, but her room was set aside as a sort of lounge. You know, you could rest there or leave your wrap or coat. But I never did get there. Brane was just a little way from the top of the stairs, on his back. I almost stumbled on him. It scared me and I knew I had to get out of there."
"Why didn't you just tell someone about it?"
"I thought of that, but I was afraid. I was afraid they'd think I did it."
I looked at her, puzzled. "Why the devil would anyone think you killed him?"
She frowned and mashed those beautiful lips together. "I. . . He had a picture of me. He wanted money, but I didn't have enough to—to pay him for it."
"This picture. What's so cute about this picture?"
"It's a photograph of me, and I—well, I don't have anything on. I'm—naked."
I almost whistled, but caught myself in time and hardly puckered. That picture must have been a work of art, I was thinking. I stopped thinking like that and asked Hallie, "Where's the picture now?"
"I have it. At least I have one print of it; Brane probably kept the negative. He mailed me a big glossy print, then phoned and asked me for money. I gave him what I could."
I pulled out cigarettes, gave her one, lit both hers and mine, and squinted at her. "You sa
id something a minute ago about not having enough money. How about that?"
She sighed deeply and I sighed, watching her sigh. It was a sigh for sore eyes. She ended the beautiful thing and said, "I didn't have all the money he asked for, so he made me pose for him."
"Pose? For another photograph?"
"No. A painting."
I raised an eyebrow and looked sideways at her.
She nodded. "Uh-huh. It was also a nude."
"He was a funny duck," I said. "Why the painting?"
"I don't know. But you can see why I was scared, can't you, Shell? I'm not a big star at Magna, but I've done several bits and a couple of supporting roles. Things are starting to break for me, but if Brane had circulated that photograph of me—well, there probably wouldn't have been much left in Hollywood for me. I might as well start looking at want ads."
"Yeah," I said. "Not good. The police would think you had a pretty good motive for killing Brane. I could even think so myself."
She looked at me and worried her lower lip a little with white teeth. "You don't, though, do you, Shell? You don't think I killed him?"
"No. I guess not." And I didn't No good reason; it's just easy to believe a beautiful woman. But there were some more things I wanted to know.
I said, "That skirt you wore. And the mask. They were found close to the body. What was the idea of that?"
She took a deep breath and said rapidly, "When I saw Brane, all I wanted to do was run, get out of there. I turned around and started to go down the stairs, and there were some people coming up. I was pretty sure nobody at the party knew who I was, but if they found me by the body, then—well, everything would've come out. They were standing on the stairs for a moment, talking, but they looked up and saw me. They couldn't see my face, but they saw my mask and costume. I didn't know what to do. I knew they'd remember seeing me if they walked up and found the body right away. I'd noticed Brane's cloak was near him, but not on him. Like it'd been pulled off."
"Some kind of struggle? A fight, maybe?"
"Could have been. Anyway, I figured if I could get home, nobody would know I'd been at the party. At least if I left the costume, nobody could prove it was me there. I live alone and I don't think anyone saw me leave the house dressed up." She sighed and shook her head. "Well, I jumped out of the skirt, wrapped Brane's long cape around me to cover myself up, and left. I didn't think about the mask till I was right at the door. I dropped it there."
I thought about it. "Kind of a risky deal," I said.
"I was scared, Shell, panicky. I just acted on impulse when I saw those people coming up. I just ran. The whole thing didn't take more than a few seconds."
"O.K. What then?"
"My car was parked a couple of blocks away and I thought if I could get to it I'd be all right. That's not the way it worked out."
"Somebody saw you?"
"Yes."
I had a pretty good idea by now what was coming next, but I asked it anyway. "Who?"
"Mace. Garvey Mace, of all people to see."
"Where? I mean where did he see you? Just leaving or what?"
She shook her head. "No. I was clear out of the house and on the sidewalk. I was walking fast and someone in a big black car parked at the curb called me."
"By name?"
"Yes. Just 'Hallie.' It startled me and I turned my head and saw Mace standing by the car. Then I kept on going. I didn't say anything to him and he didn't follow me."
"You think that's why this business down in Pete's? In the bar downstairs?"
"It must be, Shell. I went home right away last night, but I didn't get any sleep. I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing Brane."
That I could understand. I asked Hallie, "How'd this deal start this morning?"
She leaned over and ground out her cigarette in the tray on my desk. "I was wide awake and dressed about noon or so when I saw that big car parked in front. Mace got out and started up the steps of the porch. I didn't want to see him; I didn't want him asking me about last night. So I ran. I went out the back way and started my car and remembered you. They followed me, but I got here before they did. You know the rest."
"Yeah. Guess that brings me up to date. What'd you do with Brane's cape?"
"I threw it away while I was driving home. It can't be connected with me."
Something had been puzzling me and I asked her about it. "Why the devil is Mace so interested—if last night's what he wants to talk to you about?"
She frowned, puzzled. "Golly, Shell, I don't know. I hadn't stopped to think about it."
"Another thing. What was Mace doing conveniently out in front of Feldspen's place last night?"
Still frowning, she said, "I don't know that, either. Maybe he was waiting for Wandra—Wandra Price. She was at the party and it's no secret they've been seeing a lot of each other."
"Uh-huh, I know." The whole thing wasn't making a lot of sense yet, but there didn't seem to be much else I could get from Hallie. She looked about ready to drop.
I said, "Hallie, you'd better get some sleep. We'll go over this again later, when you're rested. Maybe you'll think of something else."
"I doubt it; I think that's about all. But I am tired. Awfully tired."
I knocked it around a minute. "If you don't want to run into Mace again, you'd better not go back to your place. We can find a hotel room for you somewhere. O.K.?"
She nodded. "Good. Someplace where I can relax and sleep. I'm supposed to go to Magna today, but I wouldn't be worth a darn. They're just going to have to get along without me." She managed a trace of a smile. Just a trace was terrific.
I got up, patted my .38 for luck, and unlocked the office door. "Let's go," I said.
The Georgian Hotel was clean and out of town a bit, on Hoover Street near Venice Boulevard. I'd made sure we weren't followed, and Hallie registered as Miss Amelia Banner. The Amelia was my idea. I went up with Hallie, got a leer from the pimply bellboy that cost him a quarter, and plopped into a chair for a minute after he left.
Hallie sprawled on the bed and stretched full-length. "Oooh," she sighed, "this feels good."
"Stop it," I said. "I'll be gone in a minute."
She rolled over on her side and blinked violet eyes at me sleepily. "No hurry, Shell," she said softly. "I—I appreciate your helping me."
"I'm helping myself, too, Hallie. My neck was out already. We're just in the same mess together, sort of."
"I'm kind of glad. I feel better already." She blinked her eyes slowly at me some more. "You're a good man, Shell."
"Uh-huh. I know. They're hard to find." Then, like a damn fool, I changed the subject. I guess I changed the subject. "You ought to be safe here," I said. "I'll start checking and let you know what I find out. Anything you want me to bring you?"
She chuckled throatily, but didn't say anything.
I got up. "You get a good sleep, Hallie." I grinned down at her. "Get your strength back."
"I'm no weakling, Shell. Come here." She held out her left hand and wiggled the fingers.
I swallowed, debated, stopped debating, and walked over.
She took my hand in hers and squeezed. "See? See how strong I am?" She smiled and my spine tangoed, or tangled, or something.
"Sure," I said. "Strong."
She got serious then. "Honest, Shell, you're a good egg. Thanks for helping."
"Get," I gulped, "your strength back. 'By."
It was like pulling five teeth with no anesthetic, but I untangled my hand.
She let my fingers go, but in the same movement she wriggled over on her back and stuck out both arms toward me. She breathed deeply a couple times, her mouth open, red lips glistening.
I was watching her like I was paralyzed. Hell, I was paralyzed.
She wiggled her fingers again. Both hands. That's not all she wiggled. She said, "'By, Shell. Kiss me."
"Huh?"
"Kiss me. Kiss me good-by, for luck."
I should argue? I bent over and her arms went a
round my neck and she either pulled herself up or me down. I can't remember. I'll never remember. But my arms went around her and my lips mashed hers and the conversation died a sudden death.
I kissed her, all right. And I got out of there. I did what she said: I kissed her good-by. But I damn near made a mistake.
Another five seconds and I'd have kissed her hello.
Chapter Six
I SAT IN my Cadillac and breathed for a couple of minutes, then wheeled the buggy around and headed back downtown. We'd stuck her car in a parking lot; I didn't want to be explaining away a ticket on a car registered to Hallie Wilson and parked in front of my office.
On the way back to City Hall I tried to unfuzz my brain and get a peek at what was in there. I could still feel Hallie's kiss on my lips and it felt good, but I wondered if I was doing the right thing in hiding her from Garvey Mace and his thugs. I could also be hiding her from the cops, and I've always played square with Samson, just as he's always been on the square with me. I've held out a few things from him in my time, but never murderer. Or murderess. I didn't think I was now, but Sam wouldn't much like it if my personal feelings about a lovely, lovely doll put him on the fire. But what the hell; this was the first time I'd been a first-class suspect in a murder case, myself. Maybe none of my close friends would think I'd slugged Brane and then casually slit his jugular, but I know a lot of people who aren't my close friends. And some of them were on the force.
I used another nickel in a lousy parking meter and went up to Homicide for the second time that day. Samson was there, and he leaned back in his chair when I came in.
"How's the divorce business, killer?"
We had a running gag about divorce cases, which I don't handle, but this was the first time he'd ended his remarks with "killer."
"Knock it off, Sam."
"Sure. But it's all over the force that you had a rhubarb with Brane just before he got his throat cut."
"Christ. Don't I know? I spent two hours with some doubting characters this a.m. I hope nobody's fool enough to think I actually did it."
Samson frowned. "Probably not," he said vaguely. "Shell, Lieutenant Kerrigan requested assignment to the case."
Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 4