Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  "Kerrigan, huh? Dear old stinking Kerrigan. My bosom pal. Is he on it?"

  Sam nodded and scratched his gray hair. "Yep. I think I'd have put him on it even if he hadn't asked. Everybody in Homicide knows we're friends, Shell. No sense my trying to pull anybody here off your back."

  "Wouldn't look good, I guess. Besides, that's the way I want it. I wanted the pleasure of meeting Brane again last night, but not like I found him. Only trouble is, Kerrigan'll concentrate on me, and the sooner the right person's found, the sooner I'll feel better."

  I wasn't kidding. This wasn't the worst news Sam could have given me, but it certainly wasn't good. I know a lot of the L.A. cops and I get along all right with all of them except Kerrigan. He's the only one on the force that I positively dislike, and he hates my guts. Just one of those things; we'd rubbed each other the wrong way every time we got within ten feet of each other. To begin with, Kerrigan doesn't like me simply because I'm a private detective and that's synonymous with jerk in his limited language. Then, too, when I'd first opened an office in L.A. after the war, it seemed like every time I turned around Kerrigan was in my hair or I was giving him trouble. Finally he'd learned to dislike me with a passion. He was a good cop, conscientious, but he had a cyanide personality and he'd have given his eyeteeth and maybe his badge if he could put me out of circulation.

  Sam said, "Sergeant Haynes is on it too. You know him. He's a good boy, honest, knows his job. So's Kerrigan, for that matter, even if you two don't get along. You'll be all right."

  "Yeah. What's new on the thing?"

  "Not much. Brane was slugged with that statuette of Mercury before he was killed. He was killed with his own knife. No prints anywhere; just smudges. Had a little bruise on his chin that he probably got falling."

  "I'll bet he had a bruise on his stomach, too," I said. "About the size of my fist."

  Sam grunted. "You should brag."

  "Who's bragging? The guy knocked me down."

  "I heard." Sam wiggled his big chin. "Man, you sure dealt yourself in on this one. What do you do now?"

  "You got me, Sam. Anything else you can give me on Brane? Who might not like him and so forth?"

  "I never heard of him till last night. Wish I'd never heard of him. But it looks like he wouldn't win any popularity polls. One thing, Shell, he had about twenty grand stashed away that didn't go on his income-tax forms. You know."

  "I know. Same old story. But where'd he get twenty thousand?" Even as I asked it I was thinking about Hallie Wilson and the story she'd given me about Brane and his passion for somewhat erotic photography.

  Sam shook his head and I got out a cigarette and lit up. "Anything else?"

  "Yeah," Sam said. "Somebody busted into Brane's studio last night."

  "Out on the Strip? When was this?"

  "Dunno for sure, Shell. Boys got out there around two a.m. Just a routine check. Seems he lived out there behind his studio. Window was busted in back and a desk in his room was jimmied open."

  "What'd they get?"

  "Don't know. We're still checking, but it seems like Brane was the only person who knew what he had out there. No way to know what's gone. Mess of pictures still around the place, though."

  "Pictures? You mean paintings or photographs?"

  "Paintings. He was an artist, you know." Sam squinted at me, dug out a cigar, and started peeling the cellophane from it. "Why you ask about photographs, Shell?"

  I almost told Sam about the photo—or alleged photo—Hallie had talked about, but I didn't. I figured that would keep a little longer till I had an idea what was going on. I said, "No particular reason. You said pictures; you didn't say what kind. Besides, Sam, you probably know Brane was a candid-camera nut. He even had a Leica strung around his neck at the party."

  "Yeah, I know about that."

  "You develop the film?"

  "Sure we did. Nothing on it of any importance, though. A few drunks is all. Nothing important, though, believe me."

  I took a drag on my cigarette and said, "I've, uh, nosed around a little, and it looks like Brane might have been squeezing some people. Just a thought. He might have been a little too cute with that Leica. Maybe he got some shots, sort of compromising shots, of people who might pay him off."

  Sam fixed his brown eyes on me. "You nosed around a little, huh? You wouldn't maybe be knowing more than you're telling, would you, Shell?"

  "Not much. Let me nose around some more. But that's something to think about; might explain that extra dough Brane had. Oh, yeah—how about a list of the party guests last night?"

  Sam grunted and bit off the end of his cigar. He pulled some thin sheets of paper from his pocket and slid them across the top of his desk. "Here," he growled. "All ready for you. What the hell would you do if I hated your guts?"

  "Dunno, Sam." I stuffed the list in my pocket, grinned at him, and got up. "Thanks. Something else. Why would Garvey Mace be hanging around outside Feldspen's when Brane got it?"

  Sam frowned, shaggy gray brows drawing together. "Mace? What about Mace? First I've heard about him in this."

  "I picked it up. I suppose the source is reliable. Anyway, it goes he was outside right about the time Brane got his throat opened. Not inside, but out front."

  "So? This reliable source. What's this source?"

  I grinned at him.

  He didn't grin. "O.K., Shell. Play games. But it's your neck, my fine private dick. Don't stick it out too far. It wouldn't look pretty with stitches."

  I ran a finger under my collar. "Guess not, Sam. I'll see you around."

  Sam chewed viciously on his cigar and I went to the door. Then I remembered something and stopped.

  "Almost forgot," I said. "I suppose you've got a man out at Brane's studio?"

  "Yeah. So?"

  "I'd like to look around out there if it's O.K. Can you fix it so I can get in?"

  He sighed wearily. "I suppose so, Shell. I suppose."

  I was going to answer him when right in my ear the whine started up high and then slid down to about a soprano.

  It was a voice I knew. "Well, well," it said. "If it isn't the killer right in our midst. He confess?"

  I turned and stared into the surprisingly mild blue eyes of Lieutenant Kerrigan. His thin lips curled as he looked at me and said, "You give yourself up, Scott?"

  "For what?" I asked him as calmly as I could.

  "Cutting Brane's throat, naturally. I'm sure glad you did that, Scott. I'm sure glad. Now I won't be bothered with you no more."

  I ignored him and turned to Samson. "Thanks, Sam. I'll see you later."

  I turned to go and Kerrigan grabbed my arm. He knew better than that, but he was probably just too happy to care. He was fat and about five inches shorter than I, so I had to look down into his eyes when I turned. I hate like hell to have anybody grab me. Any male, that is.

  I looked down at Kerrigan's pale blue eyes and I said, "Let go my arm, Kerrigan, and right now. Or so help me, cop or no cop, I'll step on you."

  He grinned happily, but he let go. "Boy," he said. "You got a temper." He shrugged his shoulders. "But I guess I shoulda known—after last night."

  I think in another second I'd have slugged him, even though I knew damn well that would have pleased Kerrigan almost as much as proving a murder rap on me. Any excuse to toss me in the poky.

  But Samson said flatly from behind me, and there was no arguing with the tone in his voice, "That's enough of that, you two. And lay off that stuff, Kerrigan; what'd you want? And, Shell," he said to me, "take off."

  I said over my shoulder, "O.K., Sam. Just one thing, first." Then I turned to Kerrigan and said, "Look, Jason Peter Kerrigan. Let's get something straight. I don't like you worth a damn, and if you fell out the window I'd laugh. But lay off until you've got something on me. I popped off to Brane last night, but I didn't kill him. I didn't even see him after our trouble."

  He butted in. "Which trouble?"

  "You know goddam well which trouble. But
I didn't cut the guy's throat." I looked down at him a minute and added, "Funny, I've got no use for you, but I didn't think you'd go after a guy who isn't guilty."

  He looked right back up at me and said loudly, "Scott, you know damn well I wouldn't. And what you bet I get you back here before you can spit?" He turned and waddled on bandy legs toward Sam's desk like a penguin on a hot sidewalk.

  The louse actually thought I'd done it. I glared at him and left, still burning, and with the funny feeling that I'd come out second best in our little exchange.

  Chapter Seven

  MAGNA STUDIOS covers two or three hundred acres off San Vicente Boulevard on the outskirts of Hollywood. It's big and bustling, and in order to get inside you have to pass three guards at three different gates. The first two aren't so tough, but the last one is a dilly if you don't have an appointment. I didn't have any appointment, but luckily I'd known the third guard, an ex-cop, for almost five years. His name was Johnny Brown, he was short and thin and about fifty years old, and he looked at me funny when I walked up.

  "Hi, Johnny," I said. "How you been?"

  "O.K., Shell. You hear about—uh, last night?"

  "Yeah. You heard about it?"

  "Who hasn't? I—uh, I've wanted to poke the guy myself. Hear he clubbed you one." He licked his thin lips.

  I leaned on his little counter and said slowly and pleasantly, "That's right, Johnny. And I poked him. But that's all I did. So get rid of the fisheye."

  "Sure, Shell, sure. Hell, I know that. Don't get excited, man."

  "How about letting me inside?"

  "Well, I guess. You—I don't suppose you got an appointment with someone?"

  "No. I want to see Irv Seeley and Paul Clark. That's a start, anyway. Maybe Feldspen. How about it?" I didn't want to see Feldspen, but it was the biggest name I could think of, so I used it. Johnny hadn't seemed happy to see me like he always had before.

  Johnny licked his lips again and scribbled on a sheaf of green papers. He handed me a slip. "Here's a pass, Shell. How long you be in?"

  "Half an hour or so. Maybe an hour. Thanks."

  I went on inside. Johnny still looked at me funny and I didn't like it. I didn't like it worth a damn.

  I found Irv Seeley putting pancake make-up on a black-haired man and I waited for ten minutes till he finished. Irv had a little room all to himself in Building Four, which houses the make-up department, and there were little brushes and boxes of color and powders on a long, well-lighted table beside him. The smell in the room was a little sweet, as if fine granules of powder you couldn't see were hanging in the air.

  Seeley worked swiftly, and when he finished, the black-haired guy leaned toward the mirror, wiggled his eyebrows, and moistened his lips. Then he gave me a big smile as if he were practicing, and went out.

  When we were alone I said to Seeley, "You got a minute or two, Irv?"

  "Sure. What brings you out? As if I didn't know."

  "Yeah. The Brane mess. I never saw the guy before last night. What can you give me on him?"

  "You mean who might have wanted to kill him besides you?" He laughed gleefully, his potbelly jiggling.

  "Can it," I said. "That gag wears thin fast."

  "Right, Shell. Well, nobody I know of liked the guy. And there were probably a lot of them glad he got killed—include me. But I don't know who might have done it."

  "I hear he was real cute with a camera," I said. "What about that?"

  "Right again. You know his studio out on the Strip?" I nodded vaguely and he went on, "Big windows in front. Every once in a while he'd stick a glossy print in the window—some star or director or wheel. Turned out embarrassing lots of times. Made him enemies, but he didn't seem to mind. It got him a lot of publicity."

  I batted that around a little. "Irv," I said, "how about this? Could the guy have snapped people off guard—you know, people fairly well known around town—then given them the choice of buying the thing from him at a fat price, or else seeing the thing in his display window?"

  Seeley frowned. "Could be," he agreed finally. "Could be. I'm just guessing, but I wouldn't put it past the louse. You mean a kind of minor-league blackmail, right?"

  "Not necessarily minor-league. If he worked a deal like that, there'd probably be some pictures he got paid for."

  Seeley grinned at me. "Them's the ones I'd like to see."

  "I'll bet," I said. "Got any other angles on him?"

  He shook his head. "Nope. He was just a louse; a leper, they called him."

  "Irv. Why were you so hot at him last night?"

  "Me hot?" He grinned some more. "No hotter than usual. Like I said, I just didn't like the guy."

  "Just general principles?"

  "Sure. Oh, hell, he stuck a shot of me in that window of his once. That didn't make me like him any better."

  "What kind of shot?"

  "I got plastered. Man, I was drunk as a lord. Sitting on the curb right at the corner of Hollywood and Vine with a bottle of beer in my hand. Nothing so terrible, but not my best profile."

  "He try to get any money out of you?"

  "Nary a red cent. I just heard it was there at his shop and took a look. Called him a name or two, but he just laughed at me. I sure wasn't going to poke him. Sticks and stones is more my line."

  "Sure. Well, thanks, Irv. I'll take off."

  "Right." He reached over and tapped me on the shoulder. "And, Shell," he said. "Just for the record, I didn't kill him. Thought I'd better mention it."

  I grinned at him. "I didn't think you did, Irv. Thanks for the dope." He was washing make-up off his hands when I left.

  I didn't get into the cutting room where Paul Clark was now head cutter, but I got word in to him and he came out.

  He shook hands warmly, scratched his Bob Hope nose, and said, "You catch him yet?"

  "Catch who?"

  "The killer. Guy that finally paid Brane off. That's what you're up to, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Thanks. You mean you don't think maybe I did it? That's a relief."

  "You seem smarter than that," he said. "I'd hardly left-hook a guy I meant to knock off later."

  "Wouldn't make much sense," I admitted. "Which reminds me—you didn't poke the guy."

  "Certainly not," he agreed cheerfully. "And I'm glad I didn't. So I crawled a little and what difference does it make now?"

  "None, I guess. Say, Clark, you got a little spare time?"

  "Few minutes. Why?"

  My stomach was rumbling like there was something alive in it and I remembered there was almost nothing inside. I said, "I'm starved. Can we grab something at the cafeteria while we talk?"

  "Sure." He led the way to the studio's Velvet Room, a plush spot where I was able to get a hot beef sandwich. Clark got coffee, and when the stuff arrived and I'd dug into it I said, "Look, Clark, I'm real interested in finding out who did the job on Brane's throat. Anything you can give me? Anything at all?"

  He shook his head. "Not any reasons why somebody would actually kill the guy. You don't just up and kill a guy because you don't like him."

  "You ever hear of Brane blackmailing anybody?"

  "Blackmail? Uh-uh. Was he?"

  "Could have been; I'm guessing mostly. How about those candid shots he stuck out at his studio?"

  "I've seen those," he said. "Not many of them looked like blackmail stuff. He had one of a director once, though, with another man's wife. Quite a stink, but I never heard of anybody paying Brane off." He smiled broadly, his teeth white against his red face, and added, "Until last night."

  "One other thing," I said. "What was your big gripe at Brane? You seemed to think he was poison last night."

  He frowned at me. "This a private eye's third degree?" Then he shrugged. "Look, you need to ask? You saw him last night, didn't you? He griped you enough in two minutes so you took a poke at him. I've known the guy a lot longer than you, and he was on his good behavior last night. He was—what's the word?—insufferable. All the time anti
social. Seemed like he didn't like people. How you suppose people got to calling him the leper?"

  "I see what you mean," I told him. "Nothing else you could give me?"

  "Sorry. Can't think of a thing that would help on this."

  I was grasping at straws, so I asked, "How about this director? What was his name?"

  "Sorenton. But it's no good. He died six months ago of a heart attack." He grinned. "It wasn't Sorenton."

  Straws was right. I told Clark, "Apparently not," swallowed the last of my hot beef, thanked him, and left.

  On my way back out to the gate I was letting a few ideas drag around in my mind. How the hell was I going to narrow the field down? Almost anybody at the party could have killed Brane; everybody was milling around, almost all of them masked. There was opportunity all over the place. It looked like maybe I should concentrate on motive. If Brane had a blackmail photo of Hallie, there were probably others. Hallie. . . I wondered if she could possibly have cut a man's throat. And what was Mace doing outside Feldspen's while Brane was being murdered? That is, if Mace was outside. There was always a chance I could get a little information out of Mace's sweetie, Wandra Price, and that was a call I filed for later. Nuts. All I had was a jumble of odds and ends.

  By the time I reached the gate where Johnny Brown was, I'd got to the point where there was the faint glimmer of an idea. The party at which Brane had been murdered had been attended almost solely by personnel of Magna Studios. There were maybe three or four outsiders like Brane and me, but the rest were all from Magna. It followed logically that, a hundred to one, somebody from Magna had killed him. And that somebody must have had motive. Add motive to extortion to high-income brackets to an artist with a Strip studio and a candid camera and you get what? I didn't know, except it ended with a red throat on a dead man, but I worked on it anyway.

  I asked Johnny when I got to the gate, "One more favor, O.K.?"

  "If I can, Shell."

  "Here it is. Can you find out for me—or have somebody find out—if anybody didn't show up today? Or if anybody flipped on the sets? You know, like if some leading man suddenly lost his dinner when people started talking about Brane."