The Wailing Frail (The Shell Scott Mysteries)

by Richard S. Prather

  His voice had been steadily getting fainter. I knew he must be aware of it. But he didn't show, by word or sign, that he'd noticed. He went on, “It seemed to me that you were the man most likely to investigate that scribbled note, and perhaps be able to help me. You had the power of the senate committee behind you. You had already read that one letter from me, and I figured your interest would already be high because of that; remember, I had no knowledge then of the letters Wise had forged my name to. You've a reputation for coming out on top. And, too, I didn't know for sure whom I could trust. Even the guards—Jan kept on the ones that are here now, but of my organization, Wise had made his move against me. Stone was going to, and had been killed. Sam Beenis had been bought by Wise.” He coughed. “All in all, you were the best choice. Besides, if my plan worked at all, Jan would take the envelope to you. That was definitely in my favor. You have a reputation for—for girls, too.”

  “You sure had the right messenger handy.”

  He was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Did you...

  Were you sure when you came here?”

  “Not positive.”

  “But you shot as soon as you came inside.”

  “You were going to shoot me, weren't you?”

  It was the barest trace of his grin this time. But he said, “If you'd waited half a second longer, I'd have killed you. And you wouldn't have been the first man I've killed. I've had to ... take care of men a time or two over the years, to get where I am. And I'm an excellent shot. I would have got you right between the eyes.”

  He paused for a long time. “Shell, you must realize now that I planned in Ravenswood to kill you if you should somehow manage to help me ... get me out of there. I meant to use you, and then kill you my first chance—but it had to be that way. Soon, a few days at most, you'd have known I'd been lying. You'd have found out why, and I don't think I could have bought you off. You'd have exposed me.”

  “Yeah. I was already wondering about something I remembered in that letter you wrote me at the committee. Something about your death pointing a finger at somebody on the committee. It wasn't important while I thought you were crazy; but once I knew you were sane I had to ask you what you'd meant, and who. I figured it was Wise, but I wondered why you hadn't mentioned it earlier, there in the Preston Hotel.”

  “Yes, there'd have been other questions. I had to kill you, but I just didn't get a chance.” He still had strength enough to chuckle softly. “Didn't have a gun was the main thing. And you're clever ... and tough. I might have been able to hit you hard enough to knock you out. But ... I couldn't tip my hand or you'd have guessed everything. Almost tried there in the hotel.”

  “Where?”

  “Preston. Hotel room. You were leaving. Back was to me—she did that. I thought if I hit you hard once, when you weren't looking, I could take you. I got close enough to you, but you looked around ... and then left right away. So we got out of there, came to the house.”

  His hand was slipping down the bloody front of his pajamas. “How did you get in here? How—”

  “It's a long story, Gordon.”

  He knew what I meant. He just didn't have time for a long story. But then he looked at me and seemed to make a special effort to speak. “I'd like to think you were really sure—positive—when you shot me.”

  “I was, Gordon. Then, I was. If Wise had brought you here, you wouldn't have had a gun in your hand. With all the rest, that settled it for sure. You're in pajamas. And when you turned from the window, you had that gun aimed right at me. I barely beat you.”

  “Yes. Little later it would have been you. And I would have been sorry, just a little ... just as you'll be sorry ... a little...”

  It didn't seem that anything changed in him. He didn't move. He just stopped talking, as if he'd come to the end of a sentence. But I knew he was dead. I got to my feet and looked down at him. There was still a trace of his magnificent bearing, even though he was crumpled up against the wall, and with blood all over the front of him. It seemed tragic. It was tragic.

  I was still looking at him when Toddy came in. She walked over by me, looked down at him. “Is he dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “God. I didn't think he'd ever die. I didn't think anything could kill him.”

  “That's another thing you were wrong about.”

  She turned and looked up at me. And she still had it. For me, she still had it. Hair the color of toasted marshmallows. Deep brown eyes that still hit me like a velvet hammer. The red robe was pulled close to the curves of her body. She was completely covered, but that didn't help much. And she had a quality about her that I couldn't describe, that wasn't something you saw, but a thing you felt, that crackled silently around her, an excitement, a pleasurable tension.

  “Shell,” she said softly, “you won't let anything happen to me, will you? I called the police, but—I haven't really done anything, anyway.”

  “Toddy.” I put one hand on each of her shoulders. “Or Jan. Remember in that room at the Preston Hotel?” I spoke as softly as she. Butter wouldn't have melted in my mouth.

  “Yes?” Her eyes narrowed ever so little.

  “Just before I left, when you took my hands and turned me so my back was to Gordon. When you smiled at me with those brown eyes, and blew me a kiss.”

  “What—”

  “Well, my dear, when you left Gordon, and came to me, he was clear over on the far side of the room with you. But when I looked around, seconds later, he was right beside me.” Ah, my voice was soft, pleasant.

  “But that doesn't mean—”

  “It means you were going to kill me, the two of you, if you could. It means that Gordon wanted my back to him because he was afraid I'd break him in two if I guessed what he was up to. And it means that's why you turned me around, and smiled with your eyes and blew kisses. So he could bash me over the head.”

  “That's crazy!”

  “And you could have left me there on the floor and nobody would ever have guessed how I got there.”

  Her shoulders sagged under my hands. “He told you, didn't he?”

  “Some of it, sweet. The rest I remembered.”

  The bitch in her flared up then. The soft lips curled a little. “Well, you sure made a fool of yourself that afternoon in the Biltmore.”

  I grinned at her. “You're right. I've been kicking myself ever since. Anyway, baby, it was nice knowing you.”

  Then we heard sirens. It didn't seem quite the right note on which to end our conversation, end it for good, but that's the way it was. Looking at her, I knew she'd make out all right, though. No Jury with even one male on it would convict her of anything. When the police came in she was kneeling by Todhunter's body, looking at him. Her face was still, composed. But it's hard to tell what a woman is thinking sometimes. I know she didn't even look up until a policeman touched her arm. And I didn't notice until she glanced at me, just before the officer took her out of the room, that she was crying.

  It was three days later before I could slow down enough to start unwinding, and think about relaxing. Sebastian Wise was in jail, and there'd been headlines about him, and Todhunter, and me, and a lot of things for three days. A number of other people were in jail; the Doctor Parka who'd been in on the commitment of Todhunter, and half a dozen mangy hoodlums. Director Beecham and his young assistant were missing and still at large, having disappeared the night of the hullaballoo at Ravenswood.

  I was out on bail.

  It seemed that about half my life was spent out on bail. What was going to happen to me because of my hell-raising hadn't been determined. I had a hunch it was going to be “Nine thousand dollars or forty-five hundred days!” but I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

  I'd told nay whole story to the police about twenty times, including Todhunter's saying his blackmail papers and tapes and pictures were in a basement vault. They'd found it. What they'd found in it I didn't know for sure, except that it was plenty, and potent. I'd washed m
y hands of the affair. The police would handle that part of it.

  And now it was time to close up the shop for another day. Life was back to a fairly normal routine by now, and I'd spent the day in my office downtown. It was a little after 5 p.m. and I was restless. I wanted to be out amongst ’em. And you know who “'em” is.

  For three days I had been talking to practically nobody except policemen, and unless you've tried it for three days, you have no idea how depressing that can be. I lit a cigarette, grabbed the phone, and with a big grin and that unflagging confidence burning in me I dialed the Gentry.

  She came on like all the Sirens lamping Odysseus. “Hello-o-ooo!”

  “Satin, my sweet. Ah, you lovely, wait until you hear the plans I have for us—”

  “Who's it?”

  “Shell Scott.”

  There was a great crashing and clanging in my ear; it really hurt my ear, but it hurt my feelings more. I've got feelings like everybody else. But then I brightened, because Satin was still, on the line. She said, “Shell, you still there?”

  “Yeah, what—”

  “I started to hang up, but I figured I'd better tell you. Don't bother me. I hate phones ringing, remember?”

  “But, Satin, all that was days ago. You're always welcome at my place, you know, so why not just let bygones be—”

  “Maybe you don't know it, but you're inspired—with a hole in your head. Remember?”

  This time that clang was final.

  Yeah, I thought sadly. A hole in my head.

  With Paula, immediately after I told her that the latch string was out, and all was forgiven, she yelped, “Ha. All is not forgiven. Bathtub, indeed. I was never so humiliated.” And so on until the clang.

  And, of course, there was no Toddy to phone. Not ever.

  I thought a while. And then I remembered something. About Grandma, and hiding in bushes, and a beautiful babe. Those lights and wheels were flashing and spinning in my head, running down the proper channels. I almost had it, was getting closer, and I remembered Grandma's name, Zeldy Beware, and then I got it: Zelma.

  I wrestled with the problem until I remembered Grandma's last name had been Morris, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number, then dialed.

  I was fortunate for a while. Zelma herself answered the phone, and she remembered me, she said; and I remembered her, I said, but she was afraid she couldn't go out to dinner and whatnot tonight. Grandma was off somewhere, and Zelma had looked through all the bushes without finding her.

  “I'm afraid it's serious this time. She's been gone a couple of hours.”

  “That long, huh?”

  “Yes. If she doesn't show up, I might have to call on you for help.”

  “You are talking to Available Shell Scott.”

  “Oh, good. I'll let you know about Grandma. You'll have to call me again—or just come out some time.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Just ring the bell,” she said, and laughed. But then she went on, “And I'm so glad you called. We'll work something out.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I'll bet we will.”

  Then she said good-by with a little chuckle that might have meant she was happy, or pleased, or nuts, and I sat and stared at the phone for a while. After a minute or two of that I got out of my chair.

  What the hell. Something would turn up. It always had. I lit a cigarette, dropped a pinch of salmon meal into the guppy tank, and went out.

  By seven I'd had a light dinner, taken a shower, and was sprawled on my couch gazing idly at Amelia. One of these days she was probably going to start moving. Perhaps even come down and sit on my lap. I felt grim. Sour. Not good. I polished off the last of my bourbon and water, and thought I heard soft sounds at the front door.

  Cling-clong.

  I sprang to my feet. What could it be ... Satin, perhaps? Could she have reconsidered? Should I rush in and start filling the tub? Or maybe it was a stranger—even a little man with a pointy head and a gun already cocked and aimed. Paula? Zelma? Trudy? Gloria? Laverna? Yvonne? Mabel? Jeanette? Mrs. O'Mahoney?

  Ah, something always turns up, I thought. Always has. I was feeling very good again as I walked to the door and threw it open.

  THE END

  of a novel by

  Richard S. Prather

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1956 by Richard S. Prather

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4804-9823-5

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen