“Shell Scott. I'm a private detective, and I want to know all you can tell me about George Stone and Virginia Waring.”
“Out you go, boy.”
Well, we understood each other. But I found out that Madame Astra was a gal you could talk to, once she was sure she couldn't bamboozle you. I found out by offering twenty bucks and settling for fifty. She didn't know any George Stone; at least she claimed not to. But she'd been giving readings for Miss Waring for nearly a year, once a week. Readings, seances, astrological charts, the works.
“It's a steady twenty-five bucks a week,” Madame Astra said, “which is very good. And she believes everything I say. I could tell her that the sun's going to come up in the west, and tomorrow night she'd think it was morning.”
“She goes for it all, huh?”
“All the way. We toss a seance once a month, and she lives it. She likes to talk to the spooks—I always use the voice of an Indian. As the control, you know. From India, that is.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She thinks the ectoplasm is ghost blood. She calls it ectoplasma.” Madame Astra chuckled.
“That's my girl,” I said. “Well, if she asks to talk to George Stone, let me know.”
“I'll do that, Mr. Scott. Same price, of course.”
“Of course. By the way, last night, right after George Stone was shot, Miss Waring mentioned that you'd told her something ugly was going to happen. Now how would you have known?”
She smiled. “I didn't see it in my crystal ball, if that's what you mean. Or shoot him. No, every once in a while I tell Miss Waring that something ugly—or beautiful, or sad—is going to happen. Invariably there's some occurrence she can interpret as the ugly—or beautiful, or sad—one, at some time during that day or night. Get it?”
“I'm afraid I do. Lady, what a horrible fraud you are.”
“You don't know the half of it.”
Before I left, Madame Astra even showed me through her seance room, and the more important room next to it, where the ultraviolet lamps, fluorescent paints and powders, and cheesecloth ectoplasm, among other things, were kept in readiness.
I assumed Madame Astra was being nice to me because I knew most of the tricks of her racket already, but as I was about to leave she explained a little more of her motivation. “Mr. Scott,” she said, “a local investigator could be a lot of help to me. You know, get dope on clients before they show up.”
“And then you stun them by plucking the info from the air, right?”
She nodded. I declined her offer of employment, and left.
I climbed into the Cad and pulled away from the curb, headed for the Civic Building. It didn't, look as if I had come up with much today, but you never know.
For the next few days I kept busy, but didn't develop any leads to Stone's murderer. Neither did Joe Rule, or the police. I got caught up on my work for the committee. I hadn't seen Satin again, but I was looking forward with eager anticipation to our next dance; there were a couple of steps she had taught me that could completely do away with the waltz and fox trot if the word got around. I did see a lot of Paula, however, who became daily more delightful.
A couple of peculiar things happened. An odd letter arrived for me and wound up in the “crackpot” file, but had me going for a few minutes. In the first place, it was marked “Special Delivery” “Personal” and “Deliver only to Shell Scott.” In the second place, the writer claimed to know who had murdered George Stone. The Stone case had been all over the papers, so there was nothing especially significant in the unsupported statement, and the letter had the definite stamp of the eight-ball upon it, I thought. I'd never heard of the signer, somebody named Gordon Todhunter. It turned out that Sebastian Wise had, though. He was in my temporary office when the letter was delivered. I showed him the thing and he read it through and shook his head.
“You do get some beauties, Shell,” he said in his rich baritone. “This one isn't too bad though, is it?”
“No. But it's got a strange thread running through it.”
“That it does. Well, let me know how it checks out, will you?” He tossed the letter onto my desk and started out. He'd actually gone past the door when he stopped and turned. “Tod—what was the name signed to that letter?”
I looked at it. “Todhunter. Gordon Todhunter.”
He frowned for a moment, looking at me, then his face cleared. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I followed him into one of the small rooms set aside for records and files. He went to a green filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. “Communications that were received here at the Civic Building regarding the hearings,” he said. “All these arrived here a couple weeks or more ago, before you started working for us. Nothing very important, but you might want to go through them before the hearings start.”
He was flipping through manila folders, then he paused and pulled a sheet of white paper from one of them. He looked it over, then handed it to me, smiling broadly. “Thought I recognized that name,” he said. “Todhunter. It's an odd one.” Wise laughed. “And odd is definitely the word.”
It was another letter in blue ink, with the large round letters like a boy's scrawl. The message was short.
“I know all about the lobbying practices that you are investigating. I have ways of learning such things that are forbidden to ordinary men. I know where the guilt lies. But I must keep my silence; my lips are sealed. And I give you fair warning—leave this town. Investigate not. Only evil can come of looking for evil. Be happy.” It was signed Gordon Todhunter.
“Well,” I said to Wise. “That does it.” I read the later letter again, and this time the words seemed even more goofy than before. “I know the identity of the man who murdered George Stone. I cannot put his name here, nor will it be revealed while I live. But Stone's killers will try to murder me. If I am killed, you of the committee can find both Stone's murderer and my own by investigating yourselves. If I am killed, your life will be in danger. Show this letter to all other members of the committee. That is your protection. Gordon Todhunter.”
“This isn't as bad as the first one,” I told Wise.
He smiled. “Maybe he's improving.”
“Yeah. Let's hope so.”
The third letter from Gordon Todhunter arrived a couple of days later and ended hope that he was improving. This one was also marked “Special Delivery” “Personal” and “Deliver to Lester Beasley only.”
It arrived when Beasley, Wise, Garter and I were all in the conference room after lunch. Paula was talking to somebody on the phone. I didn't realize that another of those dandy letters had arrived until I noticed Beasley and Wise talking, and then Wise took the letter and slid it across the table to me.
“This should make you happy, Shell. Maybe I'll get the next one.”
I didn't know what he was talking about, but it didn't take long to catch up. Just a couple of words, because this one started right out with a bang. “Murderers! I warned you that evil would come of looking for evil. It has been always thus. Now I will tell you who murdered George Stone—you! You killed him. But the real guilt lies with—man! You can find evil by investigating yourselves. Look within for the source of evil. Know thyself. Show this letter to everyone who seeks the truth! Gordon Todhunter.”
Wise was grinning at me when I looked up and shook my head.
“So he had a relapse,” he said.
Beasley frowned. It occurred to -me that maybe I had him all wrong. Maybe his shoes were a couple sizes too small and he had corns. Maybe his teeth pinched. Maybe his dandruff was daily getting bigger. Maybe something like that was why he seemed so miserable all the time.
He frowned and said, “Couldn't a man like that be dangerous?”
“Not as long as he just writes letters,” I said.
“What is the difficulty?” Senator Carter asked quietly. I wished he would talk more, because listening to that voice was better than listening to flutes and bassoons, even if you're
crazy about flutes and bassoons.
Beasley mentioned the letter he'd just received and Carter asked to see it. I took it down to him. He read it, and handed it back to me without a word.
I asked Senator Beasley if it was all right for me to keep the letter.
“Why, of course. It's committee business, I suppose.”
“Just thought I'd ask, since it was addressed to you.”
“Well, I don't know the man.”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. I got one of the things myself, and I don't know him, either. Don't want to know him. He'd want to change me. But I suppose I should keep all the Todhunter letters together.”
He nodded. I grabbed a cup of coffee and took it to my office.
An hour later Joe Rule arrived back at the building. When he came into my office, I gave him the three letters. He read them through, then blinked at me. “I suppose you want me to follow up on this one.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, you'll regret it if he destroys me in a clap of thunder.”
“It's possible.”
“That you'll regret it?” Joe asked.
“That he'll destroy you in a clap of thunder.”
“Wait'11 I tell you what I had for breakfast.”
“Joe—”
“Actually, I didn't eat. So I'm going to have brunch now. Okay?”
“Let me know what you find out about this guy.” I jerked a thumb toward the letters. “Now he's got me curious.”
“I can tell you about him now. He's eighty years old, and he's a woman. He eats only spiders’ eyes, and—”
“Oh, get the hell out of here.” He grinned and left....
The following morning I was tooling the Cadillac along the Freeway, on the way from my Hollywood apartment to the office. My turnoff was a mile or so ahead, but I started watching for a chance to swing over into the right-hand lane. Sometimes it's murder to get from one lane to another. But I found a spot and got into the right-hand lane without any trouble—and then it happened.
A big truck-and-trailer combination, one of those with the high cabs, roared up alongside on my left and passed me, going maybe twenty or thirty miles an hour faster than I was. The trailer was loaded with pipes a foot or so in diameter. I noticed that a couple of them stuck way out in back of the trailer, farther than they should have. One of them had a little red flag tied to it.
The driver pulled sharply in front of me, so sharply that I started to brake, figuring he must have underestimated the length of his trailer. One of those round pipes was so close that I could see the groove on the inside of its lip. And then, all of a sudden, it looked as if that truck, the whole truck and trailer ahead of me stopped on a dime.
It must have still been going ahead at a good speed, but the driver had braked sharply and for a second it appeared to me that the load of pipes was hurtling back at me. My foot was already on the brake pedal and I slammed it nearly to the floor. The power brakes did all the work, but I still jammed the thing down as hard as I could—and pressed back against the seat as the one protruding pipe loomed up right in front of my face.
The Cad's tires screamed on the pavement as the brakes caught and I'd yanked the steering wheel hard right at almost the same moment I had hit the brake pedal—but there just wasn't going to be enough time. I knew, a second before the impact, that I wasn't going to make it. We were going to hit.
Chapter Five
That pipe must have stuck ten or more feet out behind the edge of the big trailer. It was as if my car were leaping toward it. The pipe passed over the Cad's hood and came toward the windshield like the barrel of a cannon. I threw myself away from it, to my right, let my body fall toward the floorboards. And then we hit.
I was already on the floorboards, but right after the jar and crash of the windshield splintering itself on that projecting pipe, the Cad's front end ground into the trailer's rear. The impact jammed me forward even more, smashing my face against the floor mat. There was a hell of a grinding, pounding crash, and I bounced up into the air a foot, then was banged down again. The noise continued for a moment, then it was suddenly quiet. There was a roaring in my ears and I felt stunned, halfway between consciousness and blackness.
I could feel the warm, sticky blood coursing from my nose down over my lips. My arms were, under me and I pushed, got away from the floorboards and half onto the seat as my head cleared.
I got out a handkerchief and pressed it against my mouth and nose. Nothing seemed broken, or too badly banged up. I was shaken, and my head ached, but it appeared that I'd come out of the tangle very well.
But when I got up into a sitting position I could see that heavy pipe right alongside me. It had come through the windshield and was touching the upholstery of the seat. On the way it had turned the steering wheel into a metal pretzel. If I'd thrown myself toward the floor half a second later, the insides of my face and head would have been resting against the upholstery.
There was the sound of sirens. Cars went by on the Freeway, people turning to look open-mouthed at the truck and my car. I got out of the Cad on its right side and walked around behind it as a husky young kid trotted back toward me. A police car, siren growling, stopped behind the Cad at the same time.
The kid's face was white. “My God,” he said in a too loud voice. “What happened?” He looked in past my broken and splintered windshield, then at me. I mopped some more blood off my mouth. He said, “Was that you? I mean, were you in the car? My God.” He seemed in worse shape than I was.
I was still a little dazed, but that was all right with me. In the next few minutes, the officers got the essential information from us. The truck driver produced identification showing he was Robert Gates. His address was 1429 Garden Street in Los Angeles. I identified myself to the officers, who didn't know me by sight, but did by name. Gates was insured and we exchanged all the necessary information.
The kid was apologetic as the devil, explaining that somebody ahead of him—no telling now who it was—had slowed down suddenly and he'd had to jam on his brakes. He hadn't even thought about anybody behind him; there wasn't time. I gave the officers my story, and that was about it.
Just before I arranged to have my Cadillac hauled to a garage, Gates apologized again and shook my hand. I noticed that a couple fingers were missing from his left hand.
“I'd give anything if this hadn't happened,” he said fervently. “Thank God you weren't badly hurt.”
“Don't worry about it,” I said, and added not very originally, “Accidents will happen.”
Because of the wreck, it was nearly eleven a.m. before I got settled in my office. There's a dark blue wall-to-wall carpet on the floor, two big leather chairs, a couple of filing cabinets. On the top of the bookcase, which contains the Encyclopaedia Brittanica, Who's Who, and some Henry Miller among other things, is a ten-gallon tank containing guppies, which are fish colored like eighteen cans of spilled paints.
The window behind my mahogany desk looks down on Broadway, which wasn't very crowded today. The sky was overcast and it looked like rain; there was a damp chill in the air.
I was going through accumulated mail, throwing away advertising, when I noticed that somebody was outside my office. I knew it was a woman, too, because of the shadow she cast on the window. I've seen lots of shadows on that frosted-glass window, but this was the first one that threatened to defrost it. That shadow alone made my jaw sag. And that was probably a good thing. I was prepared that way; my mouth was already partly ajar.
The doorknob turned, the door opened and she came in.
My mouth dropped the rest of the way, then slowly closed, and I stared. Friend, I have seen plenty of them. I have seen them in all shades and colors, shapes and sizes, in and out of everything from bikinis to mink. I have practically made a career of babes. But this one hit me. She really shook me up. I drank her in like a man dying of thirst would go for Coca Cola. I hugged her with my eyes and with the first glance started trying to memorize her.
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She closed the door easily behind her, took one step toward me and stopped.
A man could describe all the colors and curves about her, and still not tell what she was like. Because she was something more. She was “Ah-h” in all languages, the slow, unconscious release of breath between parted lips. Her hair was the warm, burnt color of toasted marshmallows, and her brown eyes hit me like a velvet hammer. She looked young, sweet, almost shy, but at the same time shapely, sexy, and hotter than sunspots.
Satin was beautiful and brazen, Paula was dark and smouldering, but this one was like a blend of the best of each, the light and the dark. Her skin was bronzed, healthily darkened by the sun, but it still had the softness and glow and smoothness of nudes airbrushed on black velvet—and that's the kind of body she had, too, like a dream become three-dimensional, with full firm curves, but a softness all about her. The brown eyes were large and bright, and her lips were fully curved, merry, provocative. She was about five-six, and she might have been twenty-one or twenty-two.
That's about what she was, but she was more, too. Something more than just the flesh and the blood and the bone. It was something she brought in with her that you couldn't see, but that you knew was there. It was a kind of electricity or tension, an excitement and warmth that seemed to crackle noiselessly around her. It was something you felt, that reached out from her and touched you.
She said, “Mr. Scott?” Her voice was the voice you'd expect with the rest of her; soft but firm, with the warmth of summer in it, and that same electrical excitement charging the words.
“Yes,” I said. “I'm Shell Scott.”
She smiled. “I'm so glad you're still alive.”
That is exactly what she said. And I was so wound up in looking at her and listening to her voice that the implication didn't penetrate right then.
I got up and walked around the desk and grabbed the nearer leather chair that's for clients. I kept it a few feet back from the desk, facing me, in case fat men come in smoking foul cigars. But now it was time for action; maybe I had been stunned by this luscious lass, but I would now for sure look alive.
The Wailing Frail (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 5