The Wailing Frail (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  “Yeah. But tell me, didn't George ever talk about anything but your big blue eyes and so on?”

  “He talked quite a bit about those and-so-ons, but not much about anything else. Oh, he told me he did work with electrons and tubes and things, and that he worked for one of the most important men in California.”

  “What was the man's name? The one he worked for.”

  “Police asked me that, too. I don't know. I never asked—and like I said, George didn't volunteer much information. That's really all.”

  “And you don't have any idea who might have killed him?”

  “I didn't even know anybody wanted to kill him. Why, I must have been as surprised as George was. Well, nearly. And that's really all.”

  Satin finished puttering around the apartment while I looked it over myself. I didn't know what I was looking for. It was likely the police would have found anything of importance before me, anyway. But I looked around, and found nothing. Except, of course, Satin. Maybe she was a clue.

  A few minutes later she picked up her little suitcase and said to me, “That does it. About George.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He was my boy friend. Not the only one. But the main one. Now he's gone. It's almost like being alone in the world.”

  “Must be miserable.”

  “Nobody to carry my suitcase or anything. A girl could get a complex.”

  I held out my hand. She smiled, walked forward and looped the suitcase handle over my fingers. The whole thing weighed a good two pounds.

  “You're a doll,” Satin said. “It's only a couple of blocks.”

  Satin let herself into her apartment on the third floor of the Gentry, waited till I walked inside, then closed and locked the door. She smiled over her shoulder at me. “I always do that. Gives a girl a feeling of security.”

  We were in the living room of Satin's swank apartment. It looked expensive, with a thick rug, and deep cushions on the divan and chairs, colorful pillows, two massive hassocks on the floor. I liked it. I also liked being here with Satin, but it took a little imagination for me to convince myself that this was strictly business. I told myself I was investigating Stone's murder, and that I had no real lead except Satin, the dead man's girl friend. And what better lead might there be?

  I said, “Satin, why did you bring me here? Seriously.”

  She'd walked halfway across the big room toward the divan. She turned and looked at me. “Why? Well, for one thing, I wanted somebody to carry my suitcase.” She smiled.

  “Yeah. Seems funny. Your boyfriend's just been murdered, and I'm investigating his murder, and here I am with you.”

  Her smile faded a little. “Oh. You mean like I've got inferior motives?”

  “It's possible.”

  Satin shook her head. “Well, you can leave if you want.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, mister. I do things because I want to do them. You must have a pretty low opinion of yourself if you think your competition's, a corpse.” Her voice, usually pleasant, was tighter, pitched a little higher.

  “Well, I wouldn't say—”

  “Listen. The fact is, though it's none of your business, George and I split up a couple months ago. I went there today, like I said, to get my stuff. I didn't have one idea in a million you'd be up there. How could I have? But I figured we could kill an hour or two.”

  “No reason why—”

  “Listen. I saw you sitting with George last night, and I wondered who you were. I liked the looks of you. And how could I miss you? You looked like Rock Hudson got hit by a train and it turned his hair white.” She paused. “Anyway, when you talked to me in my dressing room, I thought you were okay. I just looked at you and thought, boy, how about that? Didn't that ever happen to you?”

  “Sure. Happened last night, as a matter of fact. I—”

  “Don't soft-soap me. Not till I've finished.” Suddenly she laughed, “Soft-soap me—it sounds like taking baths together. Where was I?”

  “Taking ba—”

  “I know—I said to myself last night, ‘This boy's a live one.’ That may sound heartless, with George lying dead there, but you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, ma'am, I—”

  “I liked the way you looked at me, too. You didn't peek, you looked. Admiring, like. Not pretending, you know? Made me feel good. All guys look, or want to. But ninety per cent of them try to cop a stare when nobody's going to notice it. I've seen lots of them in the mirror—they bugeye you with a look on their faces like Sex dying, like the Grim Raper, and then if you turn toward them they pretend they were studying the dust in the air. Or did I lose you?”

  “I think you just found me.”

  “Well, that's my reason. And you're big as all outdoors, and you've got that go-to-hell look, and I thought maybe we'd click. Usually I don't explain anything to people; I'm an independent woman, and they're going to think what they want to anyway. But there it is, and you can drop dead. Or have a Martini.”

  “Let's have that Martini.”

  It just popped out. I wasn't especially anxious for a drink, but somehow this Satin built up from a standing start to a sprint and swept a guy along. She was at a small portable bar in one corner with ice cubes in a mixer and pouring vermouth before I recovered and said, “I'm supposed to be investigating—”

  “George. I know. You feel like you shouldn't stay here with me and have a Martini. You should be out tracking down clues.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sometimes I wondered if maybe this gal wasn't quite a bit brainier than she pretended to be.

  “I can fix that,” she said. “I'll tell you all about George, while we have a Martini. Maybe you'll get lots of clues that way.”

  What the hell, I thought.

  It seemed like practically no time later that we were on the big divan having our second Martini and she was saying, “You liked the act last night then?”

  “Liked it? Satin, it was great. It was sensational. My only regret is that I didn't see all of it.”

  “Oh, it really gets good.”

  “It gets good? Gets good? Satin, if you merely walked once around the floor in that outfit—”

  “Oh, you liked the skin suit then—that's what I call it.” She jumped up, her face glowing. “I know what I'll do. I'll get even with you.”

  “Even? Why? How?”

  “For suspecting me of all sorts of things. Having secrets.”

  “Secrets?”

  She smiled widely. “Yes. I'll put on one of the skin suits.”

  “Fine. No secrets in that outfit. There's a dandy idea.” I paused. “But what did you mean, get even?”

  “Because I know how much you like that costume. And I have to leave after a bit. I've got an appointment. I'll teach you to suspect me of things.”

  I still didn't know quite what she was driving at, but I didn't argue. Any man who would argue with Satin when she was about to put on a skin suit would be deader alive than George in the morgue. She tripped off toward another room and said, “Mix us a Martini. I'll be right back.”

  I'm a bourbon-and-water man, and it's probably a good thing. There is something about Martinis. They are made from equal parts of cosmic rays, nitroglycerin, and lighter fluid. The lighter fluid ignites in your stomach and the rest goes off in your blood. I didn't even question the logic of mixing a third Martini. It seemed like the only thing to do.

  But Satin still hadn't returned when the drinks were made, and I couldn't afford to start thinking about what she might be doing, so I wandered around the big living room. There was a small bookcase against one wall. In it were a number of strange-sounding titles about stars and planets and such, and on one shelf were several copies of an astrological monthly. Astrology. And a slim book titled, Where Do the Dead Go?

  I'd started to glance through it when I heard the soft pad of footsteps and looked around. Satin was back—and I put the thin volume on the bookcase, having completely lost interest in its subject. I just wasn't going
to die. Not, at least, while there was still something like this around.

  It was the same Satin as in the act last night; but the intimacy of being alone with her in her apartment made her appearance even more exciting, more skin-flushing and pulse-quickening. She stood in the open doorway across the room, semidarkness behind her, light glistening on the satin smoothness that clung so closely to her body that it was like a heavy coating of metallic powder on her bare flesh.

  “Isn't this better, Shell?” she asked.

  I nodded, looking at her. She walked to a record player at the end of the divan and turned it on, placed the needle on a record. Music throbbed softly, sensually. The music sounded familiar.

  Satin curled up on the divan and lifted her Martini. “Come and join me.”

  I joined her, both on the divan and with the Martini. When I put my glass back on the low table, she did the same, then turned and in one smooth movement leaned back over my lap and put her arms easily around my neck. I put my hands behind her back and pulled her up to me, saw her tongue flick over her lips as her face came nearer, then her mouth was against mine, hot and hungry. My hand flowed over the satin cloth with almost no friction, effortlessly, smoothly. She didn't discourage the caresses, but rather encouraged them, her body squirming as my fingers traced a pattern on her thigh, up over her rounded hip, across her taut stomach to her swelling breast. One of her arms left my neck, she placed her hand behind mine and rubbed my palm and fingers against her breast, mashing it, her nails digging into the back of my hand.

  The she pulled her head from mine and looked into my face. “Relax a minute, Shell.”

  “Relax?”

  “What time is it?”

  I blinked at her, but looked at my watch. “A little after two.”

  She scooted off the divan, but said, “I'll be back, so don't jump out the window.”

  She padded into the next room and came back with a large, ugly alarm clock. At least I thought it was ugly. Probably at that point I would have felt that anything indicating time was ugly. Satin busied herself setting the alarm and pulling out the little doohickey in back, then she put the clock on a table and said, “Now. I don't have to worry.”

  I laughed.

  “Woo,” she said. “Those Martinis. Boy. Woo.”

  I knew what she meant. The lighter fluid had ignited, the nitro was off. I shook my head. For the briefest moment Satin wavered out of focus but then came back.

  “Shell,” she was saying, “you said you wanted to see the rest of the act.”

  “You bet. Yes, indeed. Indeed, I do.”

  “Well, I have an idea.”

  “I've got a couple myself.”

  “Why don't we do the act?”

  “We?”

  “Sure. You can be Satan.”

  “The devil you say!”

  “Won't that be fun?”

  “Well—I'm gamy. Game.” I thought a moment. “But it might end different. I might ruin the act. I—”

  Satin was at the record player, tapping one foot. “Zah, zoo, zah!” she said vibrating a bit. I was vibrating a bit, myself.

  The record just beginning to play again was the one she'd first put on and now I recognized it as the one I'd heard last night at the club. Satin turned toward me and said, “Back up. Raise your hands over your head—you know how. We'll have to pretend there are spotlights, but I suppose that's all right. Ready?”

  “Hell, I been ready for—”

  “Here I come!”

  I'd backed up several steps and raised my arms high, like that guy had done last night. Satin turned and looked at me, thrust her arms forward and started that hesitant movement toward me. I pulled my lips back in a half snarl, beginning to live it.

  Yeah, I thought, this is all right! This hadn't been such a bad idea after all. Satin was gyrating a bit more, I thought, than she had at the Melody Club, and from where I stood it was one of the most delectable sights imaginable. She was almost up to me, her whole body apparently trying to get away from me while it got closer, but then she took another step forward and her body touched mine, rubbed against it as she leaned back and shook her shoulders from side to side.

  I put my hands down to grip her small waist and she let her weight fall gently against my hands, looking up into my eyes with her lips moist and parted but her teeth pressed tightly together in a hot, tense expression that went into my blood like those Martinis. Then she raised her white-clad legs, wrapped them around me as she had with the red Satan last night, and let her upper body fall away from me.

  Not for a moment was she still, her body twisting, jerking, writhing, and shuddering against me.

  My hands slipped, down from her waist, lower on her quivering body, but it wasn't really done on purpose, or as Satin might have said with inferior motives, but merely because I was getting weaker.

  This couldn't, I realized, go on all afternoon. It was silly, really, to even consider such a thing. As a matter of fact, it was about time we tried something else. “Satin,” I said. “Sat-in. Hadn't we better—Satin!"

  And just as I said that, there was a clanging, clamorous ringing from the alarm clock.

  Chapter Four

  Satin stopped moving as suddenly as she had begun, and it was like the first second after an earthquake.

  “Well, hell,” I said. “You can't stop now. I know there's more to the act.”

  The bell continued to clang, ran down, pinged, pinged again and stopped.

  “Oh, dear,” Satin said. “I've got to go.”

  “Go?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean leave? Leave the apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “No, I'm not.”

  “But Satin! I—you—we...”

  She was lying clear back so that her shoulders touched the floor and her neck was bent, the back of her head also on the carpet. It made her words slightly distorted when she spoke, but I understood everything she said.

  She said, “You'll have to go, Shell.”

  “But—”

  “Really, I have to get undressed and leave. I mean changed.”

  “But—”

  “I guess I lost track of the time. I'm sorry.”

  “But—”

  She let her legs fall gently to the floor, propped herself up on her elbows and tossed her head, long white hair swirling.

  “We'll finish the act some other time,” she said. “It gets better.”

  I snorted. “I think not.”

  She got up, took my hand and led me to the front door. “'Bye, Shell. We'll have to get together soon.”

  Then I was out in the hallway, in a dazed condition. I took the elevator down to the lobby and walked outside. Even though it had been only two blocks from the Brandwell Arms to the Gentry, I'd driven my car up. The Cad was parked out front at the curb, and I climbed in and drove about half a block up the street. But then I stopped where I could watch the entrance to the Gentry. I watched it with a grim, unwinking gaze. It had dawned on me that Satin had told me nothing about George!

  In a few minutes Satin came out of the Gentry and caught a taxicab. I followed the cab. Just before 3:00 p.m. Satin got out of the cab and went inside another apartment house on Wilshire. I parked in a hurry, but barely managed to get inside in time to catch sight of Satin getting into an elevator. The doors closed and it started up.

  There was nothing for me to do but watch the arrow move over the numbers and stop at 5. When the elevator came down again, I took it up to the fifth floor, but there was no Satin in sight. I waited. I was pretty sober when, half an hour later, she came out of 520. I ducked out of sight before she saw me, and went half a flight up the stairs. She took the elevator down and I walked to room 520.

  A small card in a neat brass bracket was centered in the middle of the door: “Madame Astra—Psychic Consultant.”

  I rang the bell.

  While I waited for somebody to answer my ring, I thought about t
hose books I'd seen in Satin's apartment. Now maybe I knew what she'd meant by a remark that had puzzled me last night. She'd said something about her “psychic” telling her something ugly was going to happen.

  The door opened and a middle-aged woman looked out at me. She was dressed in black, with a black cape over her shoulders. “Yes?” she said. Her voice was deeper than most men's.

  “Madame Astra?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see you?”

  She stepped aside and I walked into a strange, small room. One entire wall was covered with those odd charts you've seen of the zodiac, complete with pictures of bulls, rams, and so on. The other three walls all had decorations, too, but I was lost. One appeared to be planets and suns and stars, but the other two looked like bad dreams.

  Madame Astra said, “You are fortunate. I have no other sitting until four. Who recommended you?”

  “Miss Waring.”

  She looked a bit surprised, I thought, but said nothing. We seated ourselves at opposite sides of a small table and she asked me, “What did you wish?”

  I took a flyer. “I'd like to communicate with the spiritual essence of George Stone. I'll spare no expense to accomplish this.”

  “Spiritual essence is not a term with which I am wholly familiar. Is the gentleman still with us or has he passed beyond the veil? Of course,” she added quickly, “in either case, I feel sure communication can be established.”

  That was one of the things I'd wanted to know about Madame Astra. There are in L.A., and other cities for that matter, more fake psychics and ghost chasers and even astrologists than you might care to imagine; but every once in a while you run across a sincere one, if you look hard enough. The sincere ones may never have achieved any kind of positive results, either, but at least they never promise them, even when the customer will “spare no expense.” I had Madame Astra tagged as a gal who was fond of a buck. Furthermore she'd showed no reaction at all to the name George Stone.

  “He has passed beyond the veil,” I said. “He was shot in the head last night.”

  This time I got a reaction. “Shot?” She caught herself and frowned at me. “What's your name? And just what do you want?”