Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  The gun I'd taken from Dutch was no longer part of the furniture. Neither, for that matter, was the furniture.

  Dear old Dutch, you son of a bitch, you got your gun back, didn't you? Well, friend, you're not going to like being a cripple.

  The burn was starting to bust out now, bust out good. Then I turned around and saw what I should have looked for in the first place. It stopped me, and for a minute I wasn't even mad. Just a little jumpy in the bottom of my stomach.

  The bookcase was tipped over, its sides kicked in, and the Britannica, Who's Who, and Frank Harris were ripped and torn, the pages scattered.

  And the dead guppies lay on the floor in the broken glass of the aquarium. They were already stiff and dried, and they looked a little like toy fish that had been given a protective coat of thin lacquer. Well, I could count them now.

  I didn't flip my lid like I might have, but I could feel the hot core of the burn down inside me ready to pop out. I looked around the office once more and walked over to the phone and dialed Samson's number. I wanted an address, and I wanted it fast.

  Dialing was a laugh, too. I should have know the phone would be dead. I could see where the cord had been pulled loose from the wall or cut. I didn't look to see which. I was standing by the busted desk with the phone in my hands, trying to mash it together, when Hazel stepped up in front of the doorway.

  "Good God!" she gasped. "What happened, Shell?"

  I didn't trust myself to open my mouth right away; I was afraid I'd yell at her.

  She said, "Who did it? Do you know?"

  I nodded.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah," I said. "Hazel, you better go down to your office. I'm not a fit person to talk to right now."

  She turned around and beat it.

  In a few seconds I dropped the phone, followed Hazel down the hall, and had her put a call through the PBX switchboard to Samson at Homicide.

  "Sam. Shell. One big favor, Sam."

  "Trouble?"

  "Just a personal thing. I want you to get me Garvey Mace's home address if you've got it. It's not in the phone book and I don't want to waste time."

  "We got plenty on him, including the address, I think. What's the hurry?"

  "I just want to see him."

  "Before nine o'clock in the morning?"

  "Right now."

  I could hear him sigh heavily. "O.K., Shell. You'll give me more gray hairs."

  "Sam, something else. You know a guy named Dutch or one called Flem? Two of Mace's hired helpers?"

  "Not offhand."

  "O.K. Mace'll do."

  He went off and came back in a few minutes with the address: 2038 1/2 Whitley Terrace, a swank section just a few blocks from downtown Hollywood. I thanked Sam, turned the PBX back to Hazel, and headed for the Cad. I'd wanted to see Mace, anyway, but now I could combine business with pleasure.

  It was a big brown house on Whitley Terrace near Grace Avenue, set back from the curving road almost at the top of the hill. The steeply slanted roof of the house reared up from behind a lot of lawn that had a big kidney-shaped swimming pool planted in the middle of it. The front door looked the size of a hotel entrance.

  And of all the damn times for a party to be going on, this was it. Not that nine or so in the morning is such a bad time for a party, but it didn't fit in with my plans. It didn't look like the brawl was just beginning; it looked like it was midway or staggering to a close.

  There were half a dozen tables on the lawn, loaded down with bottles and plates of food, and I could see maybe twenty people tottering around dressed in sports clothes or swim suits. I got out of the car and started walking across the lawn. I almost stepped on a cute little brunette lying curled up on her side on the grass. Her skirt was up over her knees and she snoozed quietly. Probably gathering her strength. I stepped over her and walked up to a couple of droopy-eyed redheads grabbing sandwiches off one of the tables. I looked around, but didn't see Mace, so I stepped in front of the two gals, which was an excellent place to stop no matter what my reasons.

  It was a balmy morning and the sun was already warm, and both girls were in bathing suits, almost. The farthest one was wearing a one-piece strapless black suit, but the one near me had on the more interesting outfit. It was a red-and-white striped two-piece thing that would probably have been called a French bathing suit, and it would have been brief on the Riviera. If she bought it in a store she probably asked for the Amour, or the Oui-Oui, but my guess was she'd made it herself. A little metal ring like the kind you grab on merry-go-rounds joined the two halves of the bra in front, and the bottom part, what there was of it, was joined on each hip by a large metal ring to which the cloth was tied. It didn't leave much to the imagination, and you could see she had an even tan all over.

  I asked the interesting one where Mace was.

  She pivoted around, steadied herself against the table, and batted her eyes at me.

  "Woo-hoo," she piped. "Where has you been at?" A little-girl voice went with the big-girl body, and she was well on her way to being plastered.

  I said, "Where's Mace?"

  "You is a cutey. Who is you?"

  "Where the hell is Mace?"

  "Gimme a big kiss."

  "Lady, I'm looking for a man. Name of Garvey Mace."

  "Little kiss? Jus' a little one?"

  Under other circumstances I could have enjoyed this party fine, but I had more strenuous activity in mind. Well, I had other activity in mind.

  I walked away from the osculatory redhead just as she started toward me like an octopus. I almost went back, but I kept on going toward the pool. And then I spied him.

  He was sitting at the edge of the water, dangling his big feet, and if I'd thought he was a large man before, I upped my estimate now.

  He was wearing nothing but a brief pair of Hawaiian bathing trunks, and honest to God, he looked like a shaved ape. That is, except for his chest, where masses of hair sprouted like clumps of brownish steel wool. He wasn't fat and flabby as he might possibly have been under his tailor-made suits. He had knotted muscles like cold-rolled steel, and he looked like he was strong enough to pick himself up.

  I walked over behind him and said, "Mace, I want to talk to you."

  He looked up at me from the edge of the pool and splashed his feet a little in the water like a playful elephant. An expression of quiet rapture spread over his face and his thick brown mustache wiggled a little bit.

  He was drunk as a man going down for the third time in bourbon.

  He smiled loosely and said, "Good. Glad you could come. Water's fine."

  "Mace. Damn it. I want to talk to you. Now."

  He frowned a little but kept smiling, then climbed up to his feet and smiled at me some more. "Glad you could come," he repeated.

  He stuck out a great big horny hand like the rear end of a dynamited stump and I grabbed it and started pumping it up and down. The hell I did.

  I just grabbed it and hung on. He did all the leading. He'd always do all the leading. It was shaking hands with five soldering irons.

  Finally I got loose and growled at him, "For Christ's sake, Mace, will you sober up a little? I'm Scott. Shell Scott. You don't like me. I wasn't invited."

  He frowned a little more this time and stopped grabbing at my hand. A little recognition grew in his blue eyes and they got less friendly. "Scott? The dick?"

  "The same. And what the hell happened to my office?"

  "Office?" He shook his head roughly, then looked back at me. "Just a minute."

  He turned and hit the water in a flat racing dive, then went under and came up close to the near edge of the pool. He snorted and ducked under the water again, shaking his big head. Finally he pulled himself easily from the pool, bunched muscles rippling, and stalked over to a table with a shining coffee urn on it. He started swilling black coffee.

  I waited, standing by the pool, and ten minutes later he came back. He wasn't sober yet, but he was O.K. He could carry on an intelli
gent conversation or break my arms.

  He stopped in front of me. "All right now," he rumbled in his booming bass. "What the hell is this?"

  "That's what I want to know. What the goddam hell's the idea of telling your goons to mess up my office? Either you or your boys better make it good, Mace. Somebody's going to pay for it."

  He stared at me. "What office?"

  "My office. What do you think I said?"

  He answered quietly, "I don't know a thing about your office."

  "Mace, don't give me any guff. I'm not kidding."

  A quick flash of anger raced across his face, then went away. "Mister, you want me to throw you in the pool? I told you I don't know what the hell you're talking about. You think if I did know I'd tell you I didn't, then run and hide?"

  I was still so griped I didn't worry about the pool business, but he made sense. I said, "O.K., Mace. No reason you should lie about it. But I know it was your boys."

  "What boys?"

  "Dutch and Flem."

  "I don't know any Dutch and Flem."

  Some people had started to wander over toward us, intrigued by the possibility of watching me drown. Mace looked around at them and roared, "Beat it! Go on, get lost. Party's over."

  They just sort of dissolved and Mace and I were all alone by the pool. Nobody was going to get to watch me drown.

  I said, "You know them. They're the same boys you had with you yesterday morning."

  Mace glanced around and made sure nobody was listening, then he shrugged his shoulders. It was gruesome.

  He said, "You could get to be a bother, Scott. O.K., so they're my boys. Let me get this straight. They're supposed to have messed up your office?"

  "Not only supposed, they did. I want those boys, Mace."

  He ignored that. "Why would they get so smart?"

  "I took a gun away from Dutch. He said he'd get it back. He did. Just for kicks he ripped up my stuff."

  Mace said quietly, "Dutch generally does what he says he will. He's sort of stupid, though; one-track mind. Not a good boy to have mad at you."

  I suddenly remembered vaguely some remarks Dutch had made about my dead body. Looked like he was still mad at me.

  Mace went on, "You shouldn't have taken his gun. He's mighty attached to it."

  "He won't be for long."

  "Look here, Scott," he said. "I like a man with some backbone, but I don't like anybody in my hair. Not anybody. Now you leave me in peace."

  I shook my head. "This is something between me and Dutch and Flem. You just better decide to lose two boys."

  He ground his teeth together a little. Then he surprised me. "Where's the girl?"

  "What girl?"

  "What girl! Hallie Wilson. Where you got her?"

  "Uh-uh. I don't know where she is, Mace." It was true enough; all I knew was where I'd left her.

  He let it go. "I'll catch up with her."

  I asked him, "Why are you so interested in her?"

  "That's my business."

  "It's also mine. She's my client." It struck me a little funny as I said it. I was interested in the case mainly on account of my own skin, but also because of Hallie, though there'd been no talk of money or a fee. It looked like I'd been retained by a pair of frightened eyes and two beautiful red lips. Among other things.

  Mace and I had been standing face to face, glaring at each other. Now he motioned to a couple of chairs at the side of the pool. "Sit down, Scott. You and me better talk a little more."

  I wondered what was coming, but I grabbed a chair. He sat down facing me, then got up and came back with cigarettes. He lit one and tossed me the pack and matches.

  While I lit up he asked me, "So she's really your client? I heard all about that costume brawl and you and Brane. Seems like you'd want to get the person that fixed Brane, just so you'd look pretty again. Right?"

  "Naturally I want to get him."

  "Him? Why a him?"

  "Why not?"

  He blew smoke out through his nose. "Hallie's your gal," he said. "She fixed Brane up."

  I stared at him, blinking. "I don't believe it."

  He grinned. "She's real cute, isn't she?"

  "That's got nothing to do with it."

  "No?"

  "No. You got any proof?"

  "Nothing cops could use. Enough for me. But I don't give a damn if she fixed Brane. Good riddance. But she's also playing around with blackmail."

  I didn't say anything for a minute; things were coming too fast for me. And I not only didn't believe what he was saying, I didn't want to believe him. Fine private detective, huh? Sometimes it's like that.

  I said, "Maybe you've got your reasons, Mace, but it doesn't spell for me. Give me something definite and I'll think about it." I breathed on my cigarette while he shook his head.

  "That's all," he said. "All you get from me. I got my reasons, though."

  "You could be covering up. I understand you were out at Feldspen's when Brane got killed."

  "I was." Just like that. No details, no nothing.

  "You're big enough to have cut his throat," I said.

  He grinned. "So're you, Scott. And I'm not the only one that's said that. But I don't think it was you. Another thing, you don't have to be very big to cut a throat. A midget could do it if he had a knife and could get high enough."

  He tossed his cigarette in the pool and it went out with a little hiss. "Besides," he continued, "I was never inside the place. Like you said, I'm big. Don't you think I'd have been seen by somebody?"

  He had something there. Even among some of the big-chested, broad-shouldered guys strutting around Feldspen's that night, Mace would have stood out like a man among the boys. I asked him, "What were you doing out-side, then?"

  "Frankly, Scott, that's none of your business." He hesitated, then continued, "But I'm going to tell you because we might do some business. You know Wandra Price?"

  "Not personally. She's a new Magna star. I know that much."

  "I know her. Personally. As a matter of fact, I've got what you might call a protective attitude about her. See what I mean?"

  I nodded. "I see. Mustn't touch. But, Mace, Miss Price was at the party, too."

  "That's what I'm getting at. I was out there waiting for her to take her home when the storm blew up. I had to wait around a while longer for her to get out, but I finally saw her. Thing is, she was a little jittery. Not pleasant in there, you know."

  "Uh-huh, I know."

  "Well, like I said, I'm sort of protective about Wandra. Wouldn't want her to have any more trouble. Now, Scott, seeing how you're a little mixed up in this yourself, I figure you'll be working pretty hard to clean up the murder. Right?"

  "Right. What're you getting at?"

  "Well, I got a little money. From various investments of mine."

  I grinned.

  He grinned too and went on, "I'd like to see you clean this up fast and that way have no more trouble for Wandra."

  "Any reason why she might be in for more trouble?"

  He looked surprised. "Of course not. I just like sure things. It's worth five thousand to me."

  "What, exactly, is worth five thousand dollars?"

  "You clear up this kill and see Wandra stays real clean and you get the five G's."

  I shook my head. "Sorry. I won't cover for anybody."

  "Hell," he growled, "I don't want you to cover for anyone. Wandra's clean. I want it to stay that way."

  I thought about what he'd said, wondering where this new angle fitted in. And I wondered just how serious Mace was. As I've said before, he not only had muscles, he had a brain. And why all this sudden harping on Wandra Price?

  I said, "Mace, I remember something about the night of the party. I was just leaving when one of the gals in line up and fainted. Guess who?"

  "I know who."

  "Uh-huh. Miss Price. She must have had something on her mind to make her pass out. Funny she'd faint a little while after Brane's body was discovered."


  "What's so funny about it, Scott? She's a delicate little doll. Murders don't happen that close every day. It upset her, that's all. Don't worry about it—it's an extra five G's for you."

  Maybe he was giving me straight dope, and maybe he wasn't. But I was getting more and more sure of one thing: Wandra Price was one woman I was going to have to have a long talk with.

  Mace said, "And I don't want anybody bothering her. Particularly, I don't want you bothering her."

  "You what?"

  "Just stay away from Wandra, Scott."

  This could lead to complications. I'd make a big splash in the middle of the swimming pool.

  "I can't promise anything like that," I said. "How am I supposed to clear this thing up if I don't talk to the people concerned?"

  "Wandra isn't concerned."

  "Your proposition says different."

  That quick flash of anger ran across his face again. He said grimly, "If I say she isn't, Scott, she isn't."

  I shrugged. "Where will I find Dutch and Flem?"

  He shook his head. "Where will I find Hallie Wilson?"

  It looked like we were at an impasse. Even if I didn't have Dutch, though, I had plenty to think about. I said, "Guess I'll have to find them myself, Mace. I'll see you around."

  "You probably will. Remember what I said, Scott—and think about my offer. It's still open. Have you got a pencil?"

  I fumbled one out of my pocket and tossed it to him. He scribbled on the inside of a match book and passed it over to me.

  "Here's my phone number. Call me if you change your mind."

  I walked back toward my Cad. I walked across the wide lawn and past the cute little brunette, still snoozing. She was sure going to be surprised when she woke up all alone.

  At the car I glanced over my shoulder at the pool. It was smooth and glistening in the bright morning sun. Not a single ripple marred its surface.

  It sure looked good that way.

  Chapter Ten

  THE SHAMBLES of my office and the chat with Mace hadn't left me a bit sleepy. I stopped at the French Café on Hollywood Boulevard and ordered a rare sirloin steak.

  Somebody had left a morning paper on the counter, so while I started digesting the sirloin I caught up on the late news and read the story about Brane's murder, which occupied a prominent position on page one. It had made a big splash because so many prominent people from the movie industry had been around at the time of the murder. The story hinted at a lot of things, but was careful to say nothing damaging to any movie moguls. It went on to say that the murderer was at large, but that the police expected to have the killer in custody within twenty-four hours.