Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  The road here twisted and curved so Flem was doing only twenty miles an hour or so, and I remembered that where the sparking spot was ahead, the road turned sharply to the left.

  I sighed. Well, I thought, here goes nothing some more. If you're gonna get shot, Scott, it doesn't make much difference whether it's behind the ear or in the middle of your back.

  I couldn't help the weak feeling that came over me, though, when I made up my mind. Or the perspiration that started getting clammy on my forehead. My lips were dry when I tried to lick them, but I went through the motions.

  "Dutch," I said. "Light me a cigarette."

  "You’re giving orders?"

  "I’m asking."

  "Gettin’ scared, huh? Don’t worry about it, Scott. Not much farther to go."

  He wasn't kidding. Up ahead I could faintly see the spot where the road swerved to the left, and on the right I thought I could barely make out the lighter spot of the dirt area there at the side of the road. I hoped Dutch got out the cigarettes; if his hands were busy it would help, but if they weren't, the hell with it, I'd have to try it anyway.

  He fumbled with the pack and I could hear the cellophane crackle. There was a flare of a match and it would have been the perfect time for me to make a break if I was going to make one. Right then, while the flare of the light was in his eyes.

  But it was too soon; the timing was off. We were still thirty yards away from the only spot that gave me half a chance. A chance to bust my back off a cliff, maybe, but a chance.

  Dutch took the cigarette from between his thick lips and extended it toward me. "Have a coffin nail," he chuckled.

  Oh, he was a scream.

  I reached for the cigarette with my bound hands as he said, "It's a Lucky, Scott. Get it? It's—"

  I'd got the weed in my hands, fumbled with it, my eyes turned sideways watching the road. We were just a few feet away.

  I dropped the glowing cigarette in Dutch's lap and said, "Christ! I'm sorry. I'm—"

  I never finished it. He batted at his lap and for a second he wasn't looking at me. I'd edged my rear end over to the right of the seat and even as I dropped the cigarette and was speaking, I let my tied hands swing over and fall on the handle of the door.

  We were there. Right outside was the spot where I'd parked, where just beyond the small dirt plot the hillside slanted downward, then plunged steeply down to end at a fifty-foot drop.

  A spark flew from under Dutch's hand and I jammed down the handle of the door and lunged against it. I didn't make the mistake this time of not knowing my feet were tied. My feet were bunched close to the door, and as the door opened the car started to make the sharp left turn. That helped, but I put everything I had into a shove with both legs and went sailing, behind over teakettle, out into space.

  It was like that damn rocket ship again, only this time there was going to be a landing.

  I heard a shot behind me as I hit the narrow strip of dirt almost at the edge where it started slanting downward, and I thought for a second I was going out into the blackness again. All the breath went out of me, but right then I didn't feel any pain in my outstretched hands or even in my chin, plowing through the dirt. I rolled, unable to do anything about it if I wanted to, over the edge of the dirt plot and started sliding down the side of the slope.

  I heard the scream of brakes jammed down and tires slipping on the road behind me. I was clawing with my fingers and trying to dig in my heels and I felt my fingernails rip down into the quick as I slowed a little. My hands hit a solid rock as I heard yells behind me on the road and I spread my hands as far as the rope would let them go and squeezed that rock like it was a passport to living, which it was.

  Only three or four seconds had passed and I was about six feet under the rim of the road, the car above just pulled to a stop, judging from the sounds. I twisted around and got my heels against the rock. It was about the size of my skull and probably about the same consistency, but there was darn near the same amount of rock buried under the loose earth.

  I shoved. I shoved and strained my back and damn near ruptured myself, but the rock came loose and started rolling slowly down the slope. I started rolling too. After I kicked the rock, my legs were pointing straight down the hill and I stuck my arms up over my head and started rolling sideways, parallel to the road above me, through grass and weeds and a couple of small bushes.

  I nearly yelled out loud as a sharp twinge of pain lanced through my left shoulder. I must have wrenched it good when I hit the dirt. But I kept rolling. It sounded to me like I was making a hell of a lot of noise, but at the same time I could hear the pound of feet across the asphalt of the street, and the noise of the boulder I'd loosened as it gathered speed and hurtled downward.

  I made several turns, rolling, then held still just as the boulder stopped making noise for a moment, then thudded to the earth at the bottom of the drop below. I craned my neck and looked back to the spot on my right where I'd flopped from the car. I dug in with my toes so I wouldn't slip and held my breath more from excitement than fear that Dutch and Flem would hear me from twenty feet away.

  In the faint glow of the car's lights, pointing in the opposite direction behind them, I could see the outlines of the two men. One of them said harshly, "What the hell?"

  Then he started down the hill and stopped. He said, "Flem, get a light out of the car. And snap it up!"

  Flem raced back, his feet thudding on the street, then returned with the flashlight. Dutch jerked it away from him and I tried to make myself invisible. After all this, it would be one sweet jolt if they walked over and used me for target practice. And if Dutch spotted me, I knew he'd end it right here and now.

  Dutch swept the light swiftly to his left, away from me, then back my way. But he had it pointed just below me on the slope. It seemed like I could see every weed and clod of dirt in the beam of the flash, but it passed a couple of yards below my bound feet.

  I heard Dutch say in an angry voice, "Well, come on. Let's take a look down there. He sure as hell can't have disappeared yet."

  Maybe they knew about that sudden drop below; maybe they didn't. But they would pretty quick, and I couldn't lay on my belly and get my breath back. I was maybe six or seven feet from the edge of the road above me, but it was uphill and I couldn't move the way mountain climbers should.

  And I damn sure didn't want to kick any more rocks or dirt loose to trickle down to my pals below me. I twisted my head around for a fast look, and the light was about twenty feet down the hill and fifteen or twenty feet farther left than I was.

  Come on, Scott. Over the top.

  It was like climbing the Matterhorn with my teeth to make those few feet up, but I dug in with knees and toes and broken fingernails, and somehow I got there. A little dirt trickled down the hill, but Dutch and Flem must have been making too much noise to notice. I rolled away from the edge, into the middle of the road, and managed to get up on my feet and start hopping.

  I could see the car a dozen yards from me, but I couldn't make more than two hops without sprawling flat on my face or side. I couldn't even control the way I'd fall, and each bang on the cement took a little more out of me.

  Finally I got smart, stayed flat on the street, and started rolling. I got to the car and I was about done in. I pulled myself to my feet by the door handle and right then I saw the flash of light from over the hill behind me.

  They were coming back up!

  I pulled myself into the car with what seemed like the last of my strength and wondered what the hell I did now. The car was an old model Buick and I cussed it. I'd have given plenty for a car with fluid drive, but I'd have to settle for what I had. I got the key turned on, pulled the throttle all the way out, shoved the clutch down with both feet, then reached awkwardly under the steering wheel and pulled the gearshift bar into low. Then I looked along the dashboard for the starter button.

  There wasn't any goddam starter button.

  Then I remembered I was in a
damn Buick and the damn starter was under the damn accelerator pedal. I felt like just relaxing and going to sleep, but I knew I'd never wake up if I didn't move, and fast. I managed to keep my feet on the clutch pedal, bent down, and twisted far enough to jam my hands on the accelerator—just as the beam of the flash fell full on the car.

  Luckily the motor was still warm and it caught right away. The engine, with the throttle full out, started winding up to a roar and I was letting out on the clutch before I even got up where I could see or get my hands on the steering wheel. I banged my head on the wheel and heard a gun crack just as I straightened up. The bullet crashed through the rear window and thudded into the seat on my right as the sudden acceleration of the car threw me backward against the seat.

  I didn't give a damn if I got shoved clear through the seat, just so I got out of there. That's what I thought then, but I changed my mind in a hurry. It wasn't going to be much use leaving these goons in my dust if I batted my brains out on the side of a mountain.

  The engine was still winding up and it was too late to wish now that I'd only pulled the throttle out part way. The car was still accelerating and there was a sharp right turn ahead and I knew I'd never make it if I didn't slow down. It was really going to be suicide.

  I was trying to steer with my hands tied together and the car was veering from one side of the narrow road to the other and gaining speed every second with the roar of the laboring engine almost deafening now. I was going faster than I'd ever gone in low before and that damn curve was right on me.

  I yelled out loud at nobody, grabbed tight to the rim of the wheel, and lifted my legs up off the floor boards. I jammed my feet against throttle, then shoved both feet down toward the brake pedal and twisted the wheel to the right. I hit the brake hard and felt the tires grab and heard them squealing, but I couldn't see where I was going. The sharp turn threw me against the door and twisted me a little, but I kept my feet on the brake.

  I stopped it, all right. I stopped the car and the engine at the same time. The left fender crumpled against the side of the hill and I was at the side of the road with a dead motor. The sudden silence was almost eerie, but not for long. I heard the crack of a gun and the windshield splintered almost in front of my face. My friends back there hadn't given up yet.

  I glanced at the rear-view mirror but couldn't see anything of the twisting road behind me. But I snapped a quick look over my right shoulder and saw the light bobbing down the road a hundred feet away. As I looked flame jumped from a point near the light and I heard the crack of the gun again, but he missed the car completely. He was getting closer; maybe he'd do better next time.

  I went through the whole damn routine again, feeling all the time it wasn't any use. The left fender of the car was jammed up against the dirt at the side of the road where the hill rose sharply, and I'd have to do some jockeying to get out. I didn't have time to jockey around, even if I'd been free to move around.

  But I got the Buick started after going through all the same motions—only I put the gears in reverse.

  I hung onto the steering wheel and twisted around as best I could while the roar of the motor built up till it hammered in my ears. I fed out the clutch, just a little, letting it nibble, and waited.

  The guy with the flash—that would be Dutch—was in front, close now, but in the bobbing spray of light from his flash I could see the heavy figure of Flem running close behind him.

  When Dutch was fifteen feet from the car I let the clutch out all the way.

  I cramped the steering wheel, still twisted around and watching, and the car leaped backward. Dutch couldn't stop. He was running as fast as he could, with probably only one idea in his head: Get Scott. I saw him fling his hands up in front of him while his mouth widened, then he slammed into the back of the car with an impact that was sickening even to me. But I kept going. I kept going till Flem screamed horribly, his voice high like a woman's. Then there was a second thud and the scream stopped abruptly.

  I managed to get the car stopped without going off the road or killing the engine, then shifted gears and drove ahead slowly. The two bodies lay at the edge of the road on the right side of the asphalt, crumpled, about ten feet from each other. They didn't move.

  I left them there.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I TOOK IT SLOW till I got up to Mulholland Drive and I had some distance between me and the guys that brought me up here to murder me. Then I got the car stopped and fumbled with the glove compartment till I got it open. My gun was there, but that wasn't what I was looking for. I wanted a knife or something to get the ropes off my hands and feet.

  There wasn't a knife, but there was a screwdriver with a sharp enough point to worry through the ropes. When I finally got them off and circulation picked up, my hands and feet started to throb with pain.

  I was a mass of aches and burns and bruises. My left shoulder was getting stiff and my whole left side burned where I'd skinned myself in the leap from the car. My hands were skinned, too, my chin was sore, my head hurt, and a good gabardine suit was shot. But I was happy; I was alive.

  I took the ropes and a couple of rags and worked on the back of the car for a minute, then I sat in the car and enjoyed a smoke. When I'd finished the cigarette I slipped my .38 back in the holster I was still wearing, put the buggy in gear, and headed for Hollywood—glamorous, fun-loving Hollywood.

  I was in pretty bad shape, and I knew if I kept riding this merry-go-round I'd have to get some food in me. So I drove to Carpenter's drive-in and parked on the fringe of the crowd where I wouldn't be too conspicuous.

  A smartly uniformed girl came up to take my order and I swung my head around to face her. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes got wide and I suddenly remembered what my face and clothes must look like by now.

  I tried to work up an acceptable grin. "Flying saucer," I said. "Nothing to worry about. How's for a hamburger, a steak sandwich, and a bottle of beer?"

  "Yes, sir. Uh, onions?"

  It struck me funny. I should worry about my breath. "Yeah. Lots of onions." She started to turn and I stopped her. "One other thing. Can you dig me up a paper? And make that stuff to go, huh? I'm in a big hurry." I dug a five out of my wallet, flipped it to her, and told her the change was for speed.

  She smiled at me and said, "I'll run all the way. What paper?"

  "The one with the picture on the front."

  She knew the one I meant as soon as I said it. She kept smiling, but her lips got a new twist at the covers. Then her eye fell on the bullet hole in the windshield and she stopped smiling altogether and went through the routine with her mouth and eyes again.

  "And pay no attention to that," I said, nodding toward the hole in the windshield. My neck creaked a little. "F.B.I."

  "Oh. Yes, sir." She took off in a hurry.

  She was back in a minute with the newspaper, and I looked at it, trying to think, until the food came. Then I got out of there before the gal decided to call the F.B.I. and report a special agent in lousy condition.

  I really didn't know where I was going in such a hurry, so I parked under a street lamp and wolfed the food. Then I sipped the beer and thought about the past two days. I looked at my watch. The crystal was smashed, but surprisingly enough it was still running, and it said eleven p.m. Just about this time two nights ago I'd heard the scream from upstairs in Feldspen's mansion where the costume ball was going on. Quite a bit had happened in the forty-eight hours since then, but I still didn't know who the killer was.

  Every time I moved it seemed like I found a new pain or ache, and the more I thought about the shoving around I'd been getting, the more I burned. And the more I thought about Brane and his dirty black racket, the madder I got. But even though I was griped as hell, my head was clearer, and it suddenly seemed not a very nice thing to leave Dutch and Flem lying at the side of a dark road like a pair of dead guppies.

  I drove to another drive-in that had a phone booth outside in a corner where I wouldn't h
ave to wander around among people like something left over from Forest Lawn Funeral Home, and stopped the car next to the booth. I found a dime and dialed Granite 1-4057, the number Mace had written in the match book that morning beside his swimming pool.

  Mace, himself, answered.

  "Hello, Mace," I said. "This is Shell Scott."

  "What?" he roared. "Where the hell are you?"

  "I'm not dead in a ditch like you wanted, if that's what you mean."

  There was quiet for a couple of seconds, then he said, "What're you talking about, Scott? What you mean by that stupid crack?"

  "Stupid?"

  "Yeah, stupid, stupid."

  "I suppose you'll tell me how you didn't send your boys out to pump holes in me." I was too tired to even make my voice sarcastic.

  "What the hell's the matter with you? Christ, no. I didn't want holes in you. I wanted to see you is all. About that goddam newspaper. What the hell—"

  I cut him off. "Listen, friend, I got a word for you. Next time you want something done with me, don't send any boys. Come yourself."

  He growled, "Look, chump, I want you down here at my place. You got some explaining to do. Personal."

  I yakked softly into the mouthpiece. "I haven't got the time or the desire right now, Mace. About the newspaper—I had nothing to do with that, and if you'd use your head you'd know it. Answer me this—"

  "Answer hell!" he roared. "You get down here and start explaining."

  I sighed. "You want me to hang up, Mace?"

  He growled and sputtered but didn't reply.

  I went on, "Answer me this. You're pretty chummy with Wandra. And I got a peek at her in a negligee this afternoon just before—" I paused and groaned inwardly—"just before the lights went out."

  I heard him laughing loudly on the other end of the line and I snapped, "Calm down and listen. You know damn well that isn't Wandra's body in the painting they've got plastered all over L.A. She just isn't built that good."