Bodies in Bedlam (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  "Look, Feldspen, this is important. Important to you as much as me. Think about it." I let him think about it a moment, then I added, "And I'll appreciate it. I did a little job for you once, remember. O.K., any time in the future you want a man on your side, or a private eye for a job, you got me. No fee, no nothing. You just let me know and I'm your boy in a hurry. Deal?"

  He was quiet for a moment, then he said, "Deal. Go on out to the lot. I'll have it set up by the time you get there."

  "Thanks." I hung up and was on my way.

  I'd never been inside one of these little studio projection rooms before and it was a strange experience. I was all alone in the darkened room; the only other guy around was the still-sleepy projectionist back in the booth. There were seats for maybe fifty people in the small room, but they were empty and shadowy, and the whole place was a little creepy. It was the damnedest feeling to watch a movie in complete silence with no people crunching popcorn or whispering to each other. No rustle of feet or people moving up and down aisles or climbing over you.

  And there wasn't anybody to laugh at the funny lines or to get tense at the dramatic moments. There was just the beam of light from behind me and the flicker of the movie upon the screen and the noises on the sound track.

  I was seeing me a free movie at the personal order of the boss, and it wasn't much fun. But I didn't care about the plot or the clever lines; I was watching the scenes where Hallie Wilson emoted.

  The picture was The General Says No, Hallie's latest movie, and she had a pretty good supporting role in it. When she first appeared on the screen I got a hard lump in my throat, but I watched the movie all the way through without once getting on the edge of my seat. Finally it was over and the projectionist efficiently changed films and I settled down to watch the hour and a half of Rainbow Sky, Hallie's previous movie.

  It didn't take an hour and a half. Twenty minutes was more like it, and I got on the edge of my seat this time, staring ahead of me at the screen.

  The film was running through the projector behind me at about ninety feet a minute so the shot I was staring at didn't last very long, but for a second or two there she was. There was Hallie Wilson, lovely as her natural beauty and Hollywood make-up artist and clever cameraman could make her, with her hair in a carefully fashioned upsweep and her beautifully made-up lips lifted in a half-smile. Her eyes were turned just a little to my right and the water still glistened on her skin, bright droplets left over from the shower she'd just stepped out of. A white towel was twisted around her body—and I knew where I'd seen a picture almost like that one before.

  I shouted, "That's all, thanks," and headed out. I stopped long enough to learn from the projectionist that Rainbow Sky had been finished in September almost two years ago, and released the following March.

  I drove in toward town, wind whistling through the bullet hole in the Buick's windshield, and I thought that there'd sure been a lot of lead tossed around tonight. And I hoped to hell that Hallie was O.K., somewhere.

  Anyway, I had my finger on Roger Brane, and I knew what the boy had been up to. There was just one more little thing I needed to find out and I needed somebody from Magna Studios to give me the details. Paul Clark was the best bet I could think of, and I headed for his place on Gower Street in Hollywood, after checking the address in the directory.

  I rang and then banged on the door. This was a heck of a time to be calling on people. Finally Clark's voice mumbled from inside the door, "Whatsa trouble? Who is it?"

  "It's me," I said brilliantly, then amended it to "Shell Scott. I need some info, Clark."

  There was a long silence during which I figured he was cussing the hell out of me, then finally he said, "Well, come on in. Christ, what a time of night!"

  I heard the click of the bolt being shoved back and a light went on inside. I waited for him to let me in, but nothing happened.

  Then Clark yelled from inside, "Well, come on in. You gonna stand out there?"

  I turned the doorknob and went in.

  Clark had a little two-room-and-bath bachelor apartment—half of a small duplex—with the kitchen in back and a combination living room and bedroom in front. There was a wooden dresser against the wall at the right of the door and the door to the bathroom stood ajar on my left. Dim light filled the room from a small lamp on a table at the side of the pull-down bed, between the bed and the door leading into the kitchen.

  Clark lay in the bed with the covers up under his neck. His sunburned face was dark against the white pillow and he glowered up at me, wrinkling his Bob Hope nose.

  "Hell of a time to be making social calls," he growled sleepily.

  "Sorry, Clark. It's not exactly a social call. I need some information. Figured you might help me if I could get you awake." I grinned at him. "You awake?"

  "I am now. I'd rather not be. What you want?"

  "I've been knocking myself out on this Brane kill, you know. Tonight I came up with something that sort of ties things together, but I'm a little hazy on the technical details. Needed somebody at Magna, somebody who works there, to straighten me out."

  "Did you have to get me out of bed?"

  I grinned. This guy was about as grumpy as I am when I wake up. "I didn't have to," I said. "But I had to get somebody. The thing's winding up. Maybe tonight, it looks like, if I want to stay healthy."

  He squinted his brown eyes at me. "Good God, what happened to you? I didn't notice at first; guess I wasn't awake yet. But, man, you're a hell of a mess."

  I'd forgotten what a ghoul I looked like; it had slipped my mind. The burns and aches hadn't, though. They were tagging right along with me.

  I said, "I had some trouble. But that's not what I'm worried about. I think Hallie Wilson got shot tonight."

  "Who?"

  "Hallie Wilson. Starlet at Magna."

  His face twisted. "Hallie? Why, I know her. Slightly is all, but she's a sweet kid. How'd it happen?"

  "It's a long story," I said wearily. "That's not what I came out here for. I think I've got the gimmick that made Brane so fancy. I came to see you because you work at Magna, and I need a little brushing up on an angle you can square me away on. Besides, you knew Brane back in Kansas City—"

  I broke off suddenly. And suddenly I felt silly as hell and a few hundred shivers pranced along my spine. Here I was grinning like an idiot and chatting pleasantly with Paul Clark about Brane's blackmail caper, and I thought of something that should have been obvious to me an hour before.

  Clark, obviously, was the guy who'd murdered Roger Brane.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  "WHAT'S the matter?" Clark asked.

  "Huh? Oh, nothing. I was thinking." I tried to stall for time, gather my thoughts around the knowledge that Clark was the murderer. Not only that, he must have been the one who took a shot at me when I was on my way out to Constanza's house.

  My heart gave a sudden kick as the thought struck me that he must have shot Hallie, too.

  I went on as easily as I could, "I was thinking about Hallie Wilson, Clark. Can't seem to keep my mind off her. She was in my car and must have stopped a slug meant for me. The cops found the car, but didn't find her. I keep wondering if she's all right."

  While I talked I watched Clark out of the corners of my eyes, but he didn't give any sign that my words meant a thing to him. He was in bed, completely covered up, and his arms and hands were out of sight underneath the covers. It seemed like a funny way to greet a caller and I started getting worried.

  When I finished speaking Clark said, "Sure a funny deal. How—how are you making out on the case so far?"

  I shrugged. "So-so. I've got some good leads, but I can't tell where they're going yet."

  I fumbled in my coat pocket for cigarettes, careful to make no sudden motions, just in case. I looked at Clark while I drew out the pack and lit up a smoke. I couldn't tell if he knew I knew or not. He lay quietly, with his head against the pillow, a bored, sleepy expression on his square face. I offere
d him a cigarette, but he slowly shook his head.

  He said bluntly, "What was it you wanted to see me about?"

  It looked like I couldn't stall around much longer. Besides, there were still some things I could learn if I was lucky.

  I said slowly, "Well, I know Brane was blackmailing a lot of people. He had that studio on the Strip and he was a candid-camera bug—always snapping pictures of people off guard. He did his own work, which meant he had a well-equipped darkroom out at his studio and he could do developing and printing there.

  "It looked like Brane was murdered because of the blackmail photos he had. He was getting dough from some of Magna's biggest stars, using pictures of them that weren't the kind they'd like made public. But the thing that bothered me most was how the devil did he get shots of all those stars? I still think he was killed on account of those photos, but I couldn't figure out how he managed to get them."

  I stopped and jabbed out my cigarette in a metal ash tray. "You got a drink around?" I asked Clark. "My throat's a little dry."

  He said, "There's a bottle and glasses on the dresser. Help yourself. Pitcher of water there, too."

  I didn't like turning my back on a murderer—and one who'd already tried twice to kill me—but I walked to the dresser behind me and picked up the bottle. I could see Clark in the mirror. He didn't move.

  I mixed a drink and asked him, "You want one?"

  He shook his head. He didn't look sleepy at all any more.

  "Go on, Scott," he said.

  O.K., I thought, if you're in a hurry. I said, "Just what goes on in the cutting room, Clark?"

  He grinned. I didn't like the looks of it; he knew goddamned well I knew, now. I swallowed a little of the bourbon and water to ease the dryness in my throat. We were getting about finished with the polite chatter now.

  He said softly, "You know about what we do, Scott. We cut the films, splice them, speed up the tempo sometimes. Put the features together so they're nice and smooth before they get out to the public."

  I said, "And if the star sits up too straight in her bubble-bath, or—" I hesitated and swallowed—"or accidentally drops a towel? The cameras keep on grinding. What happens to that film?"

  He kept grinning. "Oh, we cut it out in the cutting room. Then it's burned. Wouldn't do to have that stuff lying around loose."

  "Yeah. I can see that." I swallowed some more of my drink and said suddenly, "Just what was it Brane had on you, Clark?"

  He said easily, "He have to have something on me?"

  He said it too easily. He was too unconcerned and I didn't like it. He acted as if he had the situation completely under control.

  I said, "Uh-huh. Probably from back in Kansas City—or you wouldn't have given him the film."

  "Oh, did I give him some film?" he asked me pleasantly.

  "Yeah. Of Hallie Wilson, Constanza Carmocha, Barbara Faun. Maybe a lot of others. You probably got them around the time Rainbow Sky was shooting—and I know there were at least those three."

  "There were about a dozen," he admitted agreeably. "But those three were the best."

  Well, there it was. Practically the whole thing. I figured there'd been about enough talk. If I'd had good sense, I'd have come in the door with a gun in my hand. But as long as I hadn't got smart till I was inside, maybe I'd better do something now—get that artillery in my hand quick.

  I barely made a motion toward my armpit when Clark spoke again.

  "No," he said. Just the one word, but the way he said it slowed me up.

  I stood still for a moment, the drink half finished in my left hand, my right hand at the bottom button of my coat. "What you mean, no?" I asked him.

  "Just don't reach for a gun, Scott. We can quit playing around now. I've had a gun under the bed covers ever since you came in. Right now it's pointed straight at your belly."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE PLEASANTRIES were all over. It was out in the open now and there wasn't the slightest doubt any more that Clark was the boy I had to get even with—and had to get, period, if I wanted to keep breathing.

  I couldn't see the gun. His hands were still underneath the covers, but there was a little bulge that could have been made by a thumbnail or the snout of a gun. Clark could be trying to pull a long-shot bluff, but somehow I didn't think so. He was too relaxed, too composed, and too sure of himself.

  Now that I knew Clark was the killer it seemed ridiculously simple—like picking the winning team after the game's over. And there was still a chance he'd get away with it if he did away with me.

  He said with the inevitable curiosity, "Scott, how'd you figure me?"

  "You afraid if I figured it somebody else might too?"

  "Just curious. But you better tell me."

  "Sure. First, though, what did Brane have on you that made you give him the stuff?"

  He laughed. "You trying to trade me? That's a kick; you're in no position to trade anybody anything, Scott." He frowned and went on, "I'll tell you so you understand something. My name isn't Clark. What it really is isn't important. Back in Kansas City, two other guys and me got mixed up in a robbery. The cops got the two other boys and they spilled their insides out, but I got away. Never mind the details, but I got clean away and came out here. Changed my name and got a job in the Magna post office running around with mail. Worked into the cutting room. Then Brane showed up about three years ago. They still wanted me back in Missouri and Brane knew about it. He let it ride for a few months, then one day he threatened to mess up my life out here and turn me in if I didn't get him the pix. He'd have done it, too.

  "I knew he was an artist and I thought maybe he just wanted them to paint from, or for kicks. What difference does it make now? Anyway, I got the damn things for him. Lifted a flock of the juiciest frames before they were burned and turned them over to him to keep him off my back. By the time I learned what he was doing with them there wasn't anything I could do about it."

  He chuckled a little, not pleasantly. Then he said, "O.K., Scott. How'd you figure me?"

  I guess he thought if I told him what I had, he could cover up his tracks better, then kill me and he'd be in the clear. I didn't mind talking some more—at least till I knew if that gun was pointing at my belly.

  I said, "I didn't figure you at first. You were just somebody else at the party. I had an idea the killer would be nervous the next day and I got tangled up a little with that angle. Thinking about it now, though, it seems like the killer would have made a supreme effort to stay on the job and act normal—like you did. But at least I found out that all the people I knew Brane was blackmailing were women, and they all worked at Magna. That's what finally started me on the cutting-room angle."

  I drained the last of my drink and set the glass on a chair, moving slowly. I straightened up and said, "And nobody got nervous at the other studios, just at Magna. I've got to congratulate you, Clark. You did a good job of picking the frames you gave Brane. They didn't look like movie shots one at a time. Hazy backgrounds and so on. But I got three of them together after the idea struck me, and it stood out like a light once I knew what to look for. But not till then."

  He said dryly, "Thanks."

  "Anyway," I continued, "after I'd looked at the enlargements Brane made from the frames you got him, I looked at some movies. One of them had Hallie Wilson in a pose almost identical with one of the blackmail pix, only she had more covering her up."

  He butted in with a twisted grin, "That was the best of the lot. She should have worn some clothes or a bathing suit under that towel."

  I ignored that and said, "That settled the gimmick, the how-it-was-done part, but I still hadn't settled on you. I knew the shots were supposed to have been destroyed by cutting-room personnel and Brane couldn't have got them himself, so somebody must have lifted them for him. And they wouldn't have done it for friendship, and not even for money if they wanted to keep on working in Hollywood. It was too risky. It could have been almost anyone in feature cutting, b
ut you'd known Brane before. Also you were plenty griped at him, but afraid to do anything about it—even when he shoved you around."

  He butted in again. "He griped me, all right, Scott. And I'd have liked it fine if I could have turned him in. The minute I squawked I'm his accomplice—not to mention what Magna would do to me, and that Missouri rap." He sighed, eyes on me every second. "Anything else set you off?"

  "I had a couple of other people in mind," I said, thinking of Mace and Wandra, "but I found out they weren't worried about pictures lifted from the cutting room. The gal I was thinking about wasn't even working when you lifted the frames. Almost all of the rest of the people I had in mind were simply scared there'd be some pictures of them get into circulation.

  "Besides the rest—your figuring pretty well to begin with—you were at the costume ball. Could be there were others out of the cutting room there that night, but you said yourself that you were maybe the only one of the feature-cutting crew there. You not only had motive and a good one if you were the guy that got Brane the frames, but you had the opportunity Tuesday night at Feldspen's. And I knew you hated the guy's guts. If Brane hadn't been such a well-hated guy, you might have stood out like a light, but you were right up front anyway.

  "Besides," I added, "you took a shot at me right after I talked to you at Magna earlier today. You'd most likely heard I was checking to see who flipped at the studio and you knew all about the blackmail even if I didn't then. You saw the list of suspects I had and maybe even the names of the blackmailed stars I had on another list. You knew I was on the right track, but the worst thing was I asked you about knowing Brane in Kansas City. You were smooth; I didn't get suspicious even then. Not even when you hightailed it out after me and took a shot at me before I could tumble." I added slowly, "But, Clark, there's too much of it. It isn't anything you can cover up."

  He said with utter weariness, "That bastard Brane had me where Mamie wore the beads. And he kept pushing me; he was greedy, and I was sick of the whole mess I'd got into. Then he kept throwing up that Missouri rap and it was driving me nuts." He sighed heavily. "There was one way that fixed everything. Got the guy off my back, let me breathe easy, take a better job, and maybe keep going up."