Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  "Fire," she said.

  "What?"

  "Fire. Ask me something. What you want? I figure I might as well get with this over."

  "Sure. Well, Miss Carmocha—"

  "Constanza."

  "O.K., Constanza." So far, so good. Now if I just knew what questions to ask her. "Well, I'm interested in finding out who killed Roger Brane."

  "Who isn't?"

  I went on, "I'm sort of playing a hunch. Actually it's a little more than that, but I'll need your co-operation."

  "Maybe I co-operate. We're gonna see."

  "Good. Here it is. Brane was murdered Tuesday night. Yesterday, Wednesday, four stars or starlets either didn't show up at Magna for work or walked off the sets. You were one of them. Could be, as far as you're personally concerned, there's no connection between Brane's being killed and your leaving the lot yesterday. If there is a connection, that's what I'm curious about."

  It was a hell of a thing to say, but the way I had it figured, I might get an answer from someone who wasn't too scared.

  She got up and started pacing back and forth in front of me; I almost forgot what I'd come for. Then she said, "That's all you wanna know?"

  "Absolutely all."

  "You don't want money?"

  "Not a cent."

  "Maybe you even help me a little? If I tell you?"

  "I will if I can."

  She made up her mind. "Bueno. You got it. Brane was squeezing me."

  "Which?"

  "You know, putting on the squeeze. He was giving me an extort."

  "Blackmail, huh?"

  "That's the one. Blackmailing."

  "Can you tell me how he managed it?"

  "He had a picture of me. It was pretty or not, depending how you look at it, but I wouldn't like it all over the town. Hot stuff."

  "Hot stuff?"

  "Baby," she said, "you said it."

  "Did you pay him?"

  "Close to seven thousand dollars. The dirty extorter!"

  The dirty extorter was right. Hallie, and now Constanza, and a lot more, I had the feeling. And here was the explanation for at least seven thousand of the twenty grand or so that Samson told me Brane had stashed away. I'll bet he had fun in that little dark room of his.

  Constanza went on, "And he still had a copy or copies of the picture."

  "Probably the negative, too."

  "Maybe. But he hadn't bothered me lately and I figure maybe he'd lay off me for a while. Now he gets killed. Maybe somebody else starts it all over again. Or worse. See why I'm worried?"

  I saw. "Yes, I do. Look, Miss—Constanza. If I can get to the bottom of this, you'll have no more trouble. I can't promise but I'll do the best I can."

  "I hope you fix it. I been very worried. You wanna see?"

  "See what?"

  "See the picture. I got a copy."

  "Well. . . " I hesitated, but I sure wasn't kidding anybody.

  "You wait," she said.

  I waited while she went out of the room and got whatever she was after. Then she came back with a large photograph in her hand.

  Before I peeked at the photograph, I took another look at Constanza. She was about five-six or five-seven, and black hair hung loose down her back. I guess she'd been out in the sun before I called, because she was wearing a pair of abbreviated white shorts and a halter affair that looked like a bright silk bandanna looped over one, then brought around her neck and looped over the other one and tied somewhere in back. You get the idea? I got the idea too. I got a lot of ideas. It left just enough to the imagination.

  I was starting to imagine more when she said, "You gonna bite me?"

  "Huh? Oh, sorry, I—"

  "Don't be sorry." She looked at me with her full lips doing that kind of nervous wiggle, then she handed me the picture.

  It was a glossy eight-by-ten the same size as the one I'd seen in Brane's window, but not at all like it. I didn't think he'd ever have stuck this one in the window, but if he had, there'd have been crowds all day. I won't attempt to describe it, but it left less to the imagination than her present costume, and it was undoubtedly Miss Constanza Carmocha.

  When I looked up again she was smiling down at me. I squirmed a little in the chair and said, "My."

  "Pretty?" she asked, her lips doing a rumba.

  "Indeed," I said. "Sure is." I coughed politely.

  She giggled. "Wanna drink?"

  A drink sounded delightful. "Thanks," I said. "Drink would be fine."

  "Bourbon?"

  "With water, thanks."

  She went off and mixed a couple. She didn't take the picture. She should have taken the picture. When she came back and handed me my drink, I handed her the photo.

  "You'd better take this," I said.

  She smiled. "Now you know what to look for, Mr. Scott."

  "Shell."

  "Shell."

  I said, "I sure do. I mean, yes, I will."

  She laughed lightly. "Now, don't misunderstand me, Shell."

  I shook my head. "Oh, no. I mean I'll try to take care of it for you—get the pictures back. The negative." I laughed dismally.

  She shook her head vigorously. That made her shoulders wiggle. Her lips weren't the only things doing a rumba. She said again, huskily, "Mmmm, don't misunderstand me."

  I looked up at her. I felt crowded again. Well, I never minded crowds.

  She leaned forward a little. "You help me, Shell," she said. "I'm very grateful. You are strong-looking. That I like. I think I like you very much."

  "Fine. Good. Well, I'd better be going."

  She pushed gently against my shoulder as I half-heartedly started to get up. "Don't go," she said. "I like you. Shell, I been alone all day."

  "All day?"

  "All day. Is terrible. Talk to me a while."

  "Well, O.K. How'd Brane get in touch with you for the bite?"

  "The bite." She sat down on my lap.

  I swallowed. "I mean the blackmail. You know, the extort."

  "Oh, that. He sent me the picture, then called me up for some money. Don't talk about that; it's not what I meant."

  "What did you mean?"

  "Talk about you and me. I think you are beautiful."

  She thought I was beautiful. That was news. I've never been called beautiful before. I said quickly, "Miss Carmocha—"

  "Constanza."

  "Constanza. Uh, you were born in Cuernavaca, huh?"

  "Baloney. All baloney. That's the studio stuff. I was born in the Virgin Islands. My father was a Roshon general and my mother was the best damn red-hot singer in the whole damn Virgin Islands—where there ain't no virgins. Not after twelve, anyway."

  "Not after twelve? Years?"

  "Midnight." She giggled again and shifted a little on my lap. She started playing with the hair on the back of my neck.

  "Well," I said, "I've gotta run. You'll—"

  "Shhh," she said. "I like you very much. I'm not gonna let you get away. Not yet. Don't you think I'm hot stuff?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Don't ma'am me. Put around your arms."

  "Oh, well, now. Look—"

  "Shell."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm gonna do something."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm gonna * * * * you."

  I said, "Whaaat?"

  "I'm gonna * * * * you."

  There. She'd said it again. She was going to asterisk me. This was a new experience. I'd met a lot of women, but none of them had ever been quite like this.

  I said, "You serious?"

  "I'm serious. Stop arguing."

  "Who's arguing?"

  I kept telling myself I had work to do. Murders to solve. See Wandra Price. Lots of things. Suddenly all that seemed like last week.

  But I'm strong. I got up.

  I planted Constanza on the floor in front of me and looked down at her. "Baby," I said, "I didn't know what I was getting into."

  "Oooh!" she cooed. "What you're saying!"

&nb
sp; "No, no," I said.

  "Yes, yes," she said.

  Boy, oh, boy. This tamale had personality. She exuded personality. I was exuding nothing but perspiration. Even my eyeballs must have been sweating.

  I blinked at her. "Gotta go," I said. "Gotta run. Ha-ha. Well—"

  She said, "You're simple. Mr. Scott, you are very simple."

  "No," I said. "Complex. I'm a mass of complexes."

  "Watch."

  "Watch?"

  "Watch. You watch me, Shell. I show you something."

  She wasn't kidding. She showed me something. You ever watch one of those oriental snake charmers? Where the snake wiggles and glides and the charmer blows on a little flute and has the situation well in hand?

  That's what she was like. No, stupid, like the snake.

  She went back a few feet, then started toward me, putting one foot in front of another like she was doing a jig; sort of a double jig.

  Man! It was something. You could almost hear the jungle drums bonging around inside her. Bum, diddle-dedum and then whomp. Bum, diddle-de-dum, then another whomp. There was a little roaring in my head.

  She didn't stop, but she said huskily, "I'm gonna cremate you."

  She wasn't kidding. It was hot. Even my eardrums must have been expanding in that heat. But you looked at her in those brief shorts and the thin bandanna and you stopped thinking about heat and began wondering about fever.

  She got up to me and she grabbed me and she latched on.

  I said, "Slow down, sister, don't you blow your top," and those were the last sensible words she got out of me.

  She lunged at me and got me by the mouth and mashed her lips down like hot jelly. Her lips felt like they were a yard wide and she acted like she was trying to swallow me.

  After ten seconds I didn't care. I didn't care if I got digested.

  Later I told her good-by, but I don't think she heard me. I couldn't hear very well, myself. I think my eardrums were ruined. She was sure some tomato, that Connie.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ON THE WAY OUT to Wandra Price's house in the Valley I tried to figure out where she fitted into the murder picture. She'd been present at the studio party, with Garvey Mace waiting for her outside, and she was among those missing from the Magna lot after Brane's death. Tough boy Mace was keeping a protective wing around her and had offered me five grand to keep her clean—and had also told me to stay the hell away from her. But there was too much tying her into this thing; I had to see her.

  She'd made a spectacular rise in Hollywood, I knew that much. Magna had picked her out of a department store or somewhere similar, tested her, liked what she had, and started training her, grooming her for the top. She'd made only one picture, Shadow of Love, but already she was drawing down a fat salary with automatic boosts if the studio picked up her options. It looked as if she were all set, barring trouble.

  I wondered if Brane had somehow got his hooks into her, too, and it suddenly occurred to me that so far the only people that I knew Brane had blackmailed had been women. If that meant anything, you could have fooled me.

  Wandra lived in a house that was modest for the district, and I parked in the middle of a graveled drive that swept around in back of the house. I went up and pushed the button that set off the chimes inside. Nobody used plain old doorbells any more, apparently.

  I glanced at my watch as I heard the click of what sounded like high heels inside the house. It was three-thirty in the afternoon.

  The door opened about two feet and someone looked out at me. I couldn't tell who it was for sure, as her face was in shadows, but she wasn't dressed for me.

  She wore a thin robe that hadn't been designed to keep her warm, and I could see open-toed sandals like slippers with heels under the hem of the robe. The outline of the legs was eye-catching, and the hips and waist were wonderful, but I lost interest when I came to breasts like potato pancakes, and remembered I was a sleuth. If this was the gal who'd tossed the faint night before last, no wonder they hadn't jiggled.

  "Well?" she asked in a pleasant low voice.

  "Good afternoon. You're Miss Price?"

  "What do you want?"

  "I'm Shell Scott. I'd like very much to talk to you, if you don't mind."

  "I don't believe we have anything to talk about, Mr. Scott."

  "It's about Roger Brane."

  "So?"

  "You are Miss Price, aren't you? The movie star?"

  "Yes. What has that to do with you? Please state your business, Mr. Scott." She edged back farther behind the door, but I didn't mind as long as she didn't close it altogether.

  I said, "The day after Roger Brane was murdered, some of the Magna employees didn't show up, or else went home early. I think there could be a connection."

  "You're very impertinent, Mr. Scott."

  "I don't mean to be. If it sounds like that, I'm sorry. I'm simply trying to get to the bottom of the murder. It might be of help to both of us if you'd let me come in. We can't talk very well like this."

  "I'm sorry. I have nothing to discuss with you." Her voice was like a cold wind. "I was feeling ill, so I left the studio. That's all there was to it. Now, if you'll excuse me. . . " She started to shut the door.

  I didn't like it a bit. I wanted to talk to this gal and I felt sure she was more worried than ill, but the door was closing in my kisser and I couldn't just bust in.

  "Miss Price," I said sharply. "There's something else."

  The door slowed just before it slammed shut, then widened a few inches.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  Remembering Hallie's talk of blackmail, and the picture of Constanza Carmocha, I said, "It's about a picture, Miss Price. May I come in?"

  The door opened wide, but Wandra wasn't there.

  Garvey Mace was, though. He looked bigger than I remembered. He always looked bigger than I remembered him, but now I think he was holding his breath. I know I was.

  "Yeah, Scott," he growled deep in his silly chest. "You may come in."

  Maybe I shouldn't have asked. I went inside, though, and Mace slammed the door and leaned back against it. He went on in his rumbling voice, "Scott, I told you I didn't like guys in my hair—and that's not all I told you. Looks like you don't hear good."

  I asked just like I felt brave, "You Jesus?"

  He covered five feet, I think, in one stride, and glared up at me. "Before we get into personalities, what was that crack about a picture?"

  I remembered then that when Mace had barged into Pete's after Hallie, he'd said something about a picture. "Oh, that," I said.

  "That. What about it?" He grabbed the front of my double-breasted coat in his hand and started to pull me toward him.

  One thing I can't stand is for anybody to grab me and start trying to waltz me around. Mace could probably do it, but I didn't give a damn right then.

  I slammed my open hand against his chest and shoved. I braced my legs for trouble and said quietly, "Mace, don't do that. So help me, you'd better let go."

  He let go. He wasn't scared; he just wanted some answers and I guess he figured I couldn't talk unconscious. He untangled his fingers and asked me again, "What was the picture crack?"

  "Picture of Wandra," I said, guessing.

  "Where is it, Scott?"

  "I don't know."

  "The hell you don't know. Stay healthy, Scott."

  I shook my head. "I don't know, Mace. That's straight."

  He frowned, his forehead ridging like a washboard. "What's it like, this picture?"

  I wished to hell I knew, but I could keep on guessing.

  I held my hands eight or ten inches apart and waved them around a little so it wouldn't be too definite and said, "Oh, it was so big, glossy—"

  "Beat it."

  That was a surprise. "What?"

  "You heard me. Beat it."

  This I didn't get. One minute he's banging questions at me; the next I'm supposed to scram. I glanced over my shoulder at Wandra standing
a few feet way.

  I didn't expect her to tell me anything, but she did.

  She didn't say anything, but her face was in the light and it was puzzled. But even wearing a frown, I knew where I'd seen that face before, and I finally tumbled. Here, at last, was the naked gal from Brane's studio—the nude I'd decided would replace Amelia.

  I shook my head, bewildered. Seemed like everybody I ran into in this Hollywood madhouse, from the time of Brane's murder till now, got undressed sooner or later. There were sure a lot of bodies in this bedlam, and it seemed like all of them but the corpse were naked.

  I was still staring at the face of Wandra Price when Mace grabbed my arm and pulled me around. I think my ulna fractured, but I didn't even object.

  "Scott—" Mace began grimly.

  "Wait," I said. "I remembered something."

  He grinned. "Now you remember."

  I shook my head. "It's not what you think, Mace. I know where that picture is. I didn't when you asked me, but I do now."

  "Don't pull my leg."

  "I'm not. I was thinking about photographs. I didn't even think of a painting. I saw the thing, but I didn't recognize Wandra. Not till I saw her just now. And let the hell go of my arm."

  He grimaced. He didn't like me any better because I'd lamped the picture. That was all right; I had a feeling he wasn't wild about me before.

  He unclamped his fingers. "Where is it?" he asked.

  "Brane's studio. But it's guarded."

  He didn't say anything, just glanced over at Wandra, then back at me.

  I said, "O.K., Mace. I've told you something you wanted to know. Now what's it all about?"

  "Here's what it's about, Scott. You just go home and go to bed and forget all about it."

  "Uh-uh."

  "You like living?"

  "Sure. But there's a murder I've got to find out about. Brane's murder. I'm not clean on that one, myself, and I intend to be before I get through."

  "There's a thing about dead guys. It's not a nice thing to be, Scott. You agree?"

  I agreed, but I didn't say so. He was probably just showing off in front of his girl.

  Mace said, "Wandra and me got nothing to do with Brane. Don't even try to change it."

  "If you're clean, you'll stay clean."