"We're clean. But leave us alone now."
"You worried about the painting, Mace? I haven't got it; I don't want it. It's where I said it was, under police guard with a flock of other canvases." I thought for a minute. "How's this? I know Brane was a blackmailer. He's got a painting of Wandra she wouldn't want public. Neither would you like it. But he could have used the threat of that painting as—"
Mace butted in, squinting at me, "Be careful, pal."
I knew I was sticking my neck out, but try getting information while you're home in bed. It doesn't work that way. Sometimes you've got to get out amongst 'em, and sometimes you've got to say foolish things.
I said a foolish thing.
I said, "If Brane tried to blackmail Wandra Price—a big star just getting on a solid foundation in the movies—with a nude painting of her, you'd start to burn, wouldn't you, Mace? No telling what you might do."
Mace said softly, "You know, Scott, I don't want any trouble about that picture. I don't want any more trouble about this Brane business. And I don't want any more trouble with you." He spoke quietly, but it was as if he were shoving the words through a block of granite.
We were still standing a few feet inside the door, facing each other. He had his feet spread wide and was glaring at me while he talked. And he reached for my coat lapels again.
I slapped his hand aside as he said, "Just to make sure you don't give us more trouble—" and he looked down at his hand as if he was surprised I'd dared to touch him.
He grinned and leaned forward on the balls of his feet and whispered, "Any more in my hair, Scott—any more trouble from you—and you're dead. Follow? Comprehend?"
Then he balled up the hand I'd slapped away, made a fist the size of a small boulder out of it, and cocked it like he had all the time in the world. Maybe he did.
As he lifted his big arm I said, "You can go to hell."
Then he launched the fist at me like a runaway express and I ducked and jerked my head to the side just in time. His knuckles caught my ear and started a fire in it, but while he was still a little twisted around from the blow, I whirled back up at him and swung my left fist into his side. He jerked his big head around and I shoved my left foot forward, pivoted, and jammed my right fist into the middle of his mouth. He staggered back one step, blood welling on his lips, then rocked back toward me, his beefy left arm swinging.
I stepped inside the roundhouse swing, brought up my left, and caught him on the side of the chin with my fist. It hurt him, and his face showed it as he grunted, and I felt real good about it until everything went black.
Where it came from, I don't know. It wasn't Wandra swinging a sap; I could hear her yelping and squealing halfway across the room. It was Mace, all right, and it was one of the outsize hams he used for fists, but where the hell it came from I'll never know for sure.
It just came up from limbo and kissed me, and with it came the darkness.
I was supposed to be the captain of this damn rocket ship, and I was sure going to clobber the guy that tied me out on the nose of the thing. Here we were going through space a million miles an hour and we were pointed right at the moon and we were going to crash for sure and my head wasn't that hard. I had a pretty good idea what would happen when the moon and I met head on.
I scrunched back against the nose of the ship and I gnashed my teeth and I opened my eyes and I was trying to crawl backward through the door of the San Fernando Valley home of Wandra Price.
Son of a bitch. When am I going to finish a fight?
I wiggled my head gently, then my jaw, then me. I was all of a piece, but somewhat tender in spots, particularly along the side of my head. I could navigate, though, and I got up off my fanny and looked at my watch. It was running better than I was and it told me it was a few minutes after four in the afternoon. As far as I knew, it was still Thursday.
I thought of myself being hauled by the armpits and propped up against the front door and I damn near exploded. I didn't really see much future in it, but I reached over and leaned on the doorbell. Maybe it's like taking another plane up right after you crash. Anyway, Mace and I still had some unfinished business.
I rang the bell for a while, then banged on the door, but there wasn't any response. Obviously Mace and Wandra had gone for a ride somewhere. I could hear her saying, "Oh, my big strong man!"
I looked out in back, but if Mace had parked his car there, it wasn't there now. On a thought I grabbed under my left arm and felt for my .38 Colt. No Colt.
I wondered why Mace had taken my gun. Bullets probably wouldn't go through that damn skin of his. I felt a little naked without the gun; all I had left now was my fists. Stop laughing.
Someday I'm going to buy another gun. I only own the one because that's usually all I need, being right-handed and not able to draw two guns at the same time. I'm pretty fair, but I'm no Billy the Kid.
I walked over to the Cadillac, which Mace had left for me, sweet fellow, climbed in, and looked around.
The sun was bright and beaming, there wasn't any smog out here, and white, puffy clouds drifted lazily in the blue sky.
It was one lousy, stinking day.
Chapter Fourteen
I DROVE BACK to Constanza Carmocha's. I could handle her even if I was unarmed.
She was glad to see me. "Oh, you man, you," she gurgled. "You miss me?"
"I've been asleep," I said truthfully. "Will you do me a favor?"
She grinned, her lips wiggling. "Sure thing, pops. Come on in."
"Don't misunderstand me," I told her. "Do you know Barbara Faun?"
Connie's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"
"You know her?"
"I know her. What's the trouble?"
"No trouble, Connie. I'd like you to call her if you know her number."
"I know her number. I don't know if I call her. What do you—"
I butted in, "I just want to ask her some questions, but I'm afraid she might shoot me."
Her eyes widened. "What the hell you gonna ask her?"
I grinned. "You got it wrong. How about calling and asking her if I can see her for five minutes? That's all I want. Tell her I'm a nice guy who won't hurt her. I went by her place earlier and she popped out with a gun and waved it at me. Call her so she doesn't do that again. She seems to be all unstrung."
"Sure, pops," Connie snorted. "And you want to string her."
I reached out and patted her under the chin. "Nope," I said. "I want to help her if I can. While I'm helping myself."
She laughed. "Hey, you kill me. Damn if I won't. Come on in." She took everything I said wrong, but I went in anyway.
I sat down while she used the phone and got put through to Miss Faun's place. After a little female chatter she told her why she'd called, then argued a little.
Finally she looked up at me. "How soon you see her, Shell?"
"Right away. Five minutes."
She said into the mouthpiece, "He'll be over in about an hour, he says."
"Hey!" I yelled. "None of that. I'm in a hurry."
"You sure."
"Honest."
"Stupid." But she turned to the phone and told the gal I'd be right by. When she hung up I got to my feet.
"Thanks, Connie," I said. "I'll do something for you sometime."
"Sometime, hell. You can do something for me right now." Her dark eyes sparkled.
"Connie, relax. I tell you I'm in a hurry. Really. There's been a murder, you know."
"There's maybe gonna be another."
"Cool down, chicken. I'll see you later." I went to the door and started to open it.
"Hey!" she yelled. "Wait a minute."
I turned around and she was just a couple of steps away, her lips wiggling, her hips wiggling, everything wiggling.
"Baby," she said, "I'm gonna cremate you."
I'd heard that before, and I'd seen the dance she started to do, snapping her fingers.
I got the hell out of the place.
Barbara peeked out the door and I said, "I'm Shell Scott, Miss Faun, a private investigator. Constanza just called you. You tried to shoot me this morning, remember?"
She smiled wanly and opened the door wider. "Come on in. I was pretty jumpy, but I really wouldn't have shot you, Mr. Scott. I didn't want anyone bothering me, that's all."
"I'll remember that next time," I said, and walked in. She guided me to the couch and sat down beside me. She appeared tired, but she was a sweet-looking thing. About five-two, slim, with a pretty and fragile face. She played demure and innocent types, usually, and she averaged at least one proposal in the mail each week, I'd heard. She'd been married twice and divorced twice and right now she wasn't interested in proposals.
"I won't take much of your time," I told her. "Just listen to what I've got to say and tell me yes or no. Or simply kick me out if you want to. I'm checking the death of Roger Brane."
She winced a little, but that was all. I kept on, "He was blackmailing some people. Usually people, from what I've gathered, who had quite a bit of money. There's a chance he was putting the bite on you, Miss Faun, and if he was, I imagine he used a picture of you to make you fork over the dough. If he was, and if that's the only thing you're worried about"—I paused a moment, thinking how silly this was if she'd cut the guy's throat—"I won't let it get any farther than me. And maybe I can help. Now, am I on the right track at all?"
She sat quietly for a moment, then sighed wearily and nodded. "Yes, he had a picture. He was getting money from me. It wasn't too much and I didn't miss it so much it hurt, but it counted up—a little like withholding tax." She gave me a dim smile. "When he was. . . murdered, I—well, I got worried about the picture he had of me. I've been so worried about it ever since that happened I haven't been able to sleep." She glanced up at me. "Sorry I was so nasty this morning, but I've been jumpy as can be. And I never know when that picture might turn up—or somebody come out and ask me for money and start it all over again." She stopped talking and was evidently all finished.
I got up. "Thanks very much, Miss Faun. If I find out anything important, I'll let you know."
She sat listlessly on the couch. I let myself out, closed the door quietly, and walked out to the Caddy. I sat there a minute with all sorts of ideas flitting about my skull. This bum Brane had really been a busy little man, and a first-grade louse, from all reports. I was getting together a lot of information, but there were still three hundred and some people who'd been at the costume ball, and any one of them could have killed Brane. Or I could have talked pleasantly with the killer in the last couple of days. Possibly even the last few minutes. I was still getting nowhere, but there were glimmers.
I started the car and headed back toward Hollywood, squinting through the cracked windshield and keeping a sharp eye on the rear-view mirror. I didn't like running around without a gun when somebody within the last few hours had tried to put a bullet through me.
I stopped at the Vine Street Brown Derby and had a beer and some chow, then used a pay phone to call the Georgian Hotel. I asked for Amelia Banner again.
This time there wasn't any answer.
I had the clerk keep ringing for a while, but there was still no answer, so I hung up and headed for my car in a hurry. I was just about to climb in when I noticed the newsboy on the sidewalk, and the papers he had under his arm.
I gawked at them, and for a minute I couldn't believe it. I had a loose dollar bill in my pocket, so I tossed it to the kid and grabbed one of the papers and took it back to the car.
I sat in the car, stared at the front page, and said damn it to hell. I wasn't looking at headlines, but a cold wind trickled along my spine and I automatically tapped my empty clam-shell holster.
Some enterprising photographer must have got a flash camera into Brane's studio and sneaked a shot that was going to sell more papers than the death of Stalin. There on the front page, for all the lusting world to see, and naked as an undressed oyster, was Wandra Price.
Chapter Fifteen
SUDDENLY I wished I hadn't given the newsboy that extra ninety-three cents. Could be I was going to need it. There on the front page of the newspaper was good-by to a possible $5,000 that Garvey Mace had once talked about. Thinking of Mace a little longer, though, made that dollar seem relatively unimportant; it was my blood I ought to be worrying about. I hadn't had anything to do with the damn picture on the front page, but I had an idea Mace would be hard to convince.
The reproduction of the painting had been censored a little so that the societies composed of old maids and frustrated fairies wouldn't scream quite as loudly as they might have otherwise—and also, perhaps, so the little newsboys wouldn't take off, screaming, down the streets. But there was still plenty there, and the societies would still give out with some high-pitched yelps.
And even in half-tone, it was Magna's Wandra Price. I didn't take time to read the accompanying article, but just glanced at the front-page photo, jammed the car into gear, and headed for Hoover Street, burning up the road.
At the Georgian Hotel I sprinted inside, up the steps to the second floor, and down to Room 225. I banged on the door with a sick feeling inside me, wondering where the devil Hallie was. I heard footsteps inside, then the lovely, warm voice of Hallie Wilson, and I stopped feeling sick.
"It's Shell, Hallie. I mean Amelia. Let me inside."
She opened the door right away and turned on the voltage in those violent violet eyes. "Shell," she asked, "where have you been?"
"Where have I been? Where the devil have you been? I called a few minutes ago and there wasn't any answer."
She frowned, then flashed her white teeth in a smile. "Were you worried, Shell? About me?" She led me over to a chair, then curled up on the bed, her legs tucked up underneath her.
"You're darn right I was worried. Mace's goons might have found you here." I hesitated and added, "Or you could have taken a powder."
She fashioned those perfect lips in another smile. "That's what I did: I took a powder. I also took a bath. You know, this isn't the swankiest hotel in Los Angeles, Shell. The bath's down at the end of the hall. I just got out of the tub." Her smile widened. "And I did take a powder—all over."
Then I noticed for the first time that she wasn't dressed. Not in clothes. She was wearing a skimpy blue robe made out of thin cloth and the thing didn't fit right. That is, it fitted right on Hallie, although it was way too small. The way it hugged the lush, full curves of her magnificent body, I wouldn't have had it any other way. I asked her, "Where'd you get that robe? You go out?"
"No. I had the bellboy get it for me—same one who brings me my food. That's why it doesn't fit."
I grinned. "It fits just right, Hallie."
She pursed her lips and stared at me for a moment, then she asked, "What brings you here? You want to see how strong I am?"
"Uh-uh. I've been checking on the Brane thing and there are a lot of loose ideas floating around. Thought maybe you could help me pin some of them down."
"If I can. You know how anxious I am to see the thing settled."
"Sure. Hallie, you told me that when you left the party Tuesday night, Mace recognized you and called to you. I know you had Brane's cape around you and you'd left your mask inside. So your face was visible. But how did Mace recognize you? You didn't say anything about knowing him before."
"I did know him, though."
"That's rough company."
"It wasn't like that. He wasn't a friend of mine. I just happened to meet him at Brane's studio."
"At Brane's?"
I hoped Hallie had been giving me a straight story from the beginning. I wanted her out of it, completely out. She was as beautiful as they come—and I could still almost feel her lips moving on mine. But at the same time, there were a lot of funny angles. And I remembered, too, the cracks Mace had made about her being a murderess and blackmailer. Not that I was paying too much attention to the things Mace had spouted.
While we talked, Hallie was
curled up on the bed. With one hand she held the thin robe together in front of her, but like I said, it was just too small for that much luscious woman. I was having a hard time keeping all my mind on the conversation.
I said, "What about Brane's studio? How'd that happen?"
She lifted a little on the bed, lost her grip on the front of the robe, grabbed at it, missed, then grabbed it and pulled it together. I almost said the hell with these stupid questions.
But she pulled the robe tight and said, "You remember I told you Brane made me pose for a nude."
I nodded, my eyes a little glassy.
"Well, one day Mace came in. Just walked in—you know what he's like."
"Yeah. He wouldn't knock; he'd just walk in or bust the door down."
"Anyway, he came in. I grabbed my coat and got into it and Brane introduced us."
"Brane knew Mace?"
"Only slightly, I think. Through Wandra."
"Wandra Price?"
Brane's studio looked like the gathering of the clan. I said, "Where the dickens does Wandra fit in?"
"She was posing for Brane, too. He was a louse, Shell, but he could paint. One of the best in California, I imagine."
"Agreed. What was Wandra posing for? Another nude?"
She shook her head. "It was a picture she was going to give her sweetie, Mace. They're pretty thick, you know. It was a portrait. That's why Mace had come to the studio—looking for Wandra."
I sighed, settled back in my chair, uncrossed my legs, and crossed them again. "So? She was posing for Brane right about then? For a portrait?"
"That's right."
I sighed some more and cussed at myself. I guess I'd just been hit on the head too many times in the last couple of days. I sent a message to my brain saying, Where you at? Then I said, "Hallie, do me a favor. Take off your robe."
She gasped a little, but she didn't seem angry. She said, "What? Take it off?"
She was lying stretched out on her side, right elbow propping her up and her left hand holding the robe together. She looked wonderful.
Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 10