Johnny stared at me, then nodded slowly. "See what you mean. You think maybe there'll be one person jittery as hell after last night, huh?"
"That's about it. Can you get it for me?"
"Think so, Shell. I can get it myself. Tomorrow too late?"
"I'd rather have it today."
He looked at his watch. "It's already after three. I gotta stay on the gate a couple hours, but I can check after that. I know where to go and who to see about this, Shell."
"Have to do, I guess. When?"
"Call me here in the morning. Or come by."
"O.K., Johnny, and thanks. It's just an idea."
"Sure, Shell. So long."
He didn't look at me quite so fishily when I took off, but there was enough left so it still smelled. I got into my yellow Cad and drove up toward Sunset with the top down and the sun warm on my head.
The sun was the only thing about my head that was hot. My brains were like cold gravy and ideas limped through the mush like sluggish cripples. So far it looked like I was going nowhere, and making lousy time.
Chapter Eight
MY THINKING didn't pick up any speed, but I tromped on the hundred and fifty horses under the Caddy's hood and headed for the Sunset Strip and the studio of Roger Brane, artist-blackmailer, deceased.
I parked at the curb and looked the place over. You know the Strip—curving, dotted with small but high-priced palaces like the Mocambo and Ciro's, and a lot more expensive than they look. Places like Jacques's, where they don't put any signs on the Men's Room or the Ladies' Room or any place else so that the habitués of the place can enjoy that intime feeling that they're part of the club that knows its way around. At least around Jacques's. That's really something, isn't it? They know how to find the can.
Ah, the Sunset Strip. You can get a baked potato for a buck if you're lucky, but if you're hungry or thirsty you head in the opposite direction unless you belong to a strong union. Same for everything else out there. You don't get charged for your steaks and highballs; you get penalized.
And that's where Roger Brane had his studio. Or had had it. It was flush with the sidewalk next to Patti's Parlour, about a block from the Sirocco Room. There was a small sign over the door, "brane," with no capital letter and in a fancy, flowing script. Big window on the right with one oil painting inside, and a smaller window on the left with one photograph placed slightly off center behind the glass.
I walked up and took a look at the photo first. It was a glossy eight-by-ten of somebody sitting at a bar; a girl with her back to the camera and her head twisted slightly so you could barely catch her profile. Her legs were bent awkwardly against the rungs of the bar stool and her stockings were a little wrinkled, the seams wavering like worms. Not pretty, of course, but nothing to get excited about. I supposed this was an example of Brane's peculiar hobby of catching people off guard. Somebody else might have recognized the gal, but not me.
The picture itself wasn't important, but I could see how Brane might have used the small window display to pique people's curiosity so they'd stop and look, then gravitate to the other window, where Brane displayed his serious paintings. Not a bad idea, at that, but it would take a pretty callous guy to dream up that kind of publicity stunt—and maybe it was also a cover for more damaging photographs that Brane sold for black money. I didn't know.
But I did know I liked the painting in the other window. It was a portrait of an old woman, white-haired, wrinkled, a black shawl loose around her narrow shoulders. It wasn't just gobs and daubs in oil, a reasonable facsimile of a woman; it was a woman.
That's why I liked it. If I look at a picture of a house, I like to see a house, not a bolt of polka-dotted lightning and a horse's north end titled, "House of My Pater." O.K., so I'm simple, but it's like that. And I liked the old woman in the painting. The shadows on her lined face were luminous, with flesh underneath them, not just blobs of darkness on painted canvas, and the wrinkles on her brown cheeks looked like they'd smooth out momentarily if you pressed them with your hand, then slip back to the worn path they'd rested in for years. I may not have liked Roger Brane, himself, but I liked what he did with a brush.
There was a tall, heavy-jowled police sergeant inside, so I made a little noise and he came out.
I said, "I'm Shell Scott. Did Captain Samson get in touch with you?"
He looked me over good. I'd never seen this one before, or he me, apparently. Then he grunted. "He got in touch. You want in, huh?"
"That's right. Just to look around a little."
His lips twitched slightly. He must have heard all about the party. "Come on, then," he said coolly. "You know the captain better than I do. So you're Scott, eh?" There wasn't any awe in his voice.
"Yeah. Any objections?" I wasn't awed either.
His face got a little grimmer. "Would it make any difference, Scott?"
"Mr. Scott," I said. "And it wouldn't." I went on in past him.
Inside, the sharp turpentine smell and the heavy odor of moist oils filled my nostrils. The front room was a neatly furnished office or waiting room with chairs, a couch, and magazines on two small tables. The smells came from a room beyond. I went in through the adjoining door and found myself in the studio itself. Overhead skylights let light fall into the middle of the room and onto an unframed canvas resting on a large easel near the center of the room. The canvas was the half-finished portrait of a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. There was one job Brane wouldn't finish.
There were a couple of other canvases, unframed, resting against one wall, and a thick stack of them in a corner. A table stood at the left of the easel, covered with partly filled tubes of pigment. A palette, colorful with oil paints, lay on the table as if Brane had temporarily tossed it aside. I glanced around, noticed another room beyond this one, and went in. It was the third room in a row extending back from the street. First the office, then the studio, then the third and final room, which turned out to be living quarters. It wasn't a large room to begin with, and it was made smaller by the inclusion of a heavy desk, shower, one chair, and an unmade double bed. But that was all; no pictures, no photographs, no nothing.
I was getting a little better picture of Brane now: a strange, twisted character; illegitimate, if what he'd said the night of the party wasn't just a gag; antisocial and solitary; mad at the world and pouring out his emotions onto brilliant canvases; working in a fairly spacious studio on Hollywood's upper-bracket mile, and living in a cramped single room in back; a candid-camera sadist and probably a blackmailer. Not much use analyzing the guy now; he was none of those things any more.
I took a look at the desk and could see where the thing had been pried open, so I rummaged around inside but didn't find anything. There was a busted window in the wall over the bed and I looked out briefly. Not much to see, just a narrow passageway between buildings leading out to the street. I walked back to the sergeant.
"Say, Sergeant," I asked him, "what time was it when the police got out here after Brane was found?"
He pursed his lips as if he were considering whether or not to answer. Then he must have thought of Samson's request again and said, "About two a.m. It makes a difference?"
"It might. Just curious."
"That fast enough for you, Scott?"
I hesitated, then said pleasantly enough, "Sure. It suits me."
"Maybe you've got suggestions? Maybe every time we get a dead body we should send a squad to their house, their office, their favorite bars? You like that?"
"Love it," I said. "You're sweet."
I turned around and went back into the studio. I looked around the studio like a detective for a while, which means I just looked around, then I went through the paintings. I didn't expect to find anything important there, but I remembered Hallie's saying she'd posed for a nude and sometimes I'm kind of lecherous.
For a minute I thought I'd found it and I took a deep breath and blew hot air out between my lips. Then I saw it wasn't Hallie after all.
But it was a nude.
If I'd liked the old woman in the front window, I forgot all about her now. You would have too. Anybody under eighty would have. Make it ninety. It was half life-size and damn near three-dimensional, with flesh that was flesh, and skin that was warm and soft and alive. I didn't get to the face right away. The breasts were full and swollen, the waist slim and strong, the hips swelling, and the legs long and gracefully curving. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow, with her head turned looking at you, and long black hair dangled against her shoulders.
The face was beautiful, too, and it seemed vaguely familiar, but it was no one I could place. And it could have been wishful thinking. Whoever she was, I knew I'd like to meet her. I've got that bright nude in my apartment in Hollywood—Amelia. I've always liked Amelia, but it looked like we'd come to the parting of the ways. I'd never feel the same about Amelia again.
I sighed, glanced at the rest of the studies, still lives, and portraits, and sighed again. In the corner of the studio, taking up a space about six feet by eight feet along the wall, was another little room that was locked. I thought I knew what it was; but I wanted to look. So I got the key from the sergeant and went in.
It was a darkroom, and well equipped. I turned on the overhead light and went over the place pretty carefully. There were developing trays and brown glass bottles of developer and hypo and other chemicals. There was a thirty-five-millimeter film tank and an enlarger on the little table by the sink, which was fixed up with running water. There were a lot of other things a guy who did his own work would use: trimmer, shears, printer, white rags, and towels. The place was small, but neat and compact. He'd had a nice setup.
There were a couple of exposed rolls of thirty-five-millimeter miniature-camera film, but they were a disappointment. I looked the developed negatives over, but there was nothing to get excited about. No more nudes; nothing that could possibly be construed as blackmail stuff. And you could tell Brane had developed the negatives himself; they weren't too sharp and clear, and in a couple of spots I could see where he must have accidentally splashed hypo on the film and little spots hadn't developed. But the negatives themselves weren't of any importance to me whatsoever.
I doused the overhead light and turned on the safe-light over the sink, then went through all the packs of printing and enlarging paper. They were all blank. No prints or enlargements around.
Finally I gave up after learning nothing, went out, and locked the door again. I grinned at the sergeant as I gave him back his keys. He glowered, and I went outside, jumped into the Cad, and headed toward downtown L.A.
At the PBX, Hazel was just getting ready to go home. She told me there'd been nobody in for me since I'd left and was I in Pete's all that time? I told her to stand on her head, and went down to the office. I stood and watched the guppies cavorting in their ten-gallon tank on top of the bookcase while I thought about Brane and who might have killed him and what the hell I was going to do about it.
I usually keep about a dozen guppies in the office aquarium, but right now there were thirty-three, as near as I could count. I couldn't be sure of the number because one of the females had brought forth a flock of babies, alive and wiggling, about three days before, and the little things were already too full of life and energy for me to count them right. I didn't get any bright ideas watching them, so I climbed behind my desk and sat down for a little futile meditation. While I was at it I checked the drawer where I'd stuck Dutch's pretty pearl-handled gun earlier. It was still there. I wondered just how soon I'd be meeting Dutch and Flem again. And Garvey Mace.
I put my Cordovans very carefully on the desk and pulled the French phone over into my lap. I say "very carefully" because the desk is still gleaming mahogany, just as good as new, and I'm proud of it.
I'm proud of the whole office, for that matter. I got a five-grand fee a while back, and the office, which had been a bit plain before that, suddenly blossomed. I put in a dark blue wall-to-wall carpet, stuck the desk with its swivel chair and two other deep leather chairs on top of the carpet, and added two filing cases against the wall. The guppies sit in their tank on top of the bookcase, which contains Who's Who, the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and three volumes of a four-volume set of Frank Harris' My Life and Loves. Behind the big mahogany desk, at my back, is a wide window from which I can watch the citizens bustling up and down Broadway. It's a pleasant place for relaxing or for working.
I looked up the number of the Georgian Hotel and put in a call for Amelia Banner. I heard the phone ring, then the sound of the receiver going up slowly on the other end.
"Amelia, my sweet Amelia," I said. "This is Shell Scott."
"Oh, hello." Her voice was sleepy. "Hello, Shell. How're you?" She yawned into the mouthpiece.
"You bored already?" I asked her.
"Don't be silly, silly. You woke me up."
"You get some sleep?"
"Guess so. What time is it?"
I looked at my watch. "After five. Is everything all right?"
"Oh. Oh, yes. I just remembered, Shell." Her voice was sharper now, more wide awake. "You find out anything?"
"Nothing important. There are a few things cooking. I should know more tomorrow."
"Shell."
"Yeah?"
"You coming up?"
"I—I don't think so, Hal—Amelia. You go back to sleep. You've only had four or five hours, and you looked a little worn. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right."
She said softly, "I've got my strength back."
I didn't have a ready answer for that.
"Shell? You hear me?"
"I heard you."
"Well?"
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Stinker."
"That's what I am. A stinker."
"Or don't you want to tuck in a murderess?" Her voice was a bit thinner.
"Stow that. And don't you be silly. I'll see you tomorrow." Hell, she knew better than that. I guessed she did.
"All right, Shell. 'By."
"Good night, Amelia. Get a good night's sleep. I'll call again."
"Drop dead." She hung up in my ear.
I hung up and leafed through the phone book looking for Garvey Mace or Wandra Price and found just what I expected. Nothing. The operator couldn't give me any help, either, so I called Homicide. Who should come on with the inevitable nasal whine but Kerrigan, my dear friend.
"Yeah?" he asked, sliding down the scale.
"I want Captain Samson."
"Sorry, he's gone for the night. Well!" His voice changed and lost any semblance of a courteous reply. "Seems like I recognize that virile voice," he said. "If it isn't Shell Scott, the bloodthirsty detective, I'll cut my throat."
I could have answered that, but I didn't. "Give me someone else," I told him.
"No good, Scott. Talk to me if you want something."
"I'm surprised you're at Homicide. I figured you'd be hanging around so you could tail me—as if you could tail anyone but a small child."
"All right, what the hell you want?"
I was damned if I'd ask him for anything.
I said, "Hold the phone," hung up quietly, and headed for home. A double order of prime ribs and a good night's sleep might make tomorrow more productive. I didn't know of what it might be more productive, but I had the feeling it wouldn't be dull.
Back at my hotel I had a drink with Dr. Paul Anson, who has an apartment two doors from mine and keeps a supply of good bourbon on hand, then walked down to my own apartment.
Inside, I glanced at Amelia with something approaching distaste. Up till now she'd dominated the living room of my three rooms and bath, but remembering the lush job at Brane's studio, Amelia seemed just a little too garish now. She's on the right wall as you come in, over the fake fireplace, and her bold eyes look slyly down at the huge chocolate divan that sits on the thick shag nap of my yellow-gold wall-to-wall carpet. The things she's seen, it's time I got rid of her, anyway.
In
the bedroom I hung up my suit, stuck shoe trees in my Cordovans, and tossed everything else in the laundry bag. In a hot tub I relaxed and soaked and thought about Kerrigan on my tail, convinced—or nearly convinced—that I'd killed Brane. I thought of the fisheye Johnny Brown had given me, and a few other fisheyes I'd caught turned my way. I thought of Dutch swearing at me, and Garvey Mace growling at me.
It looked like no matter how many baths I took, how much deodorant I used, how carefully I brushed my teeth and shined my shoes, it was going to take some doing to make me a popular boy.
Chapter Nine
I HIT THE OFFICE about eight-thirty in the morning, ready for a big day. I barged right in and stopped and stared and swore.
It was a big day already.
I swore softly at first, then louder, till I was yelling at the walls. You know that beautiful office of mine? The one I'm so proud of? It was wrecked; it was really wrecked.
Whoever went over the place had done a good job. It looked like three or four of L.A.'s juvenile moron gangs, sometimes called rat packs, had taken turns going over the place. It was thorough. I didn't have an office any more; I just had the walls and the floor and the ceiling.
The filing cabinets were tipped over and banged up, and papers were all over the floor. My beautiful mahogany desk was on its side with the legs busted and the top slashed and scarred, and the swivel chair was in two pieces beside it. The two leather chairs that had looked so good yesterday had been slashed with a knife and the cushions' stuffing tossed on the carpet. Or, rather, on the rugs. It wasn't a carpet any more; it was just strips of dark blue cloth.
It didn't look like there'd been a search for anything in particular. It looked more like vandalism; sheer wanton destruction.
I was mad, sure. But I was more surprised and shocked than anything else. Anger was just licking at the edges of my mind. While it was licking, I got over a little of the shock and started thinking. I walked over to the desk and looked at the busted drawers on the left side. The drawers on the right side were still locked, but the left ones yawned open, empty.
Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 6