Kill Me Tomorrow (15 page)

D:
I think we could both drink a gallon of wine with him right now and he wouldn't do anything except open another gallon. He is an old fool, and very lucky to be alive, but he is no threat to us at the moment—thanks, in large measure, to your very clever and intelligent suggestion.

C:
Well, I must say … I appreciate …

D:
Consequently it is unlikely that we will need to consider any pressures against Brizante. And killing him, unless the situation changes very drastically, is out of the question. There has already been enough killing. Too much, under the circumstances. We
must
hit Scott, but if it is at all possible that's got to be the end of it. You can kill a man like Scott and get away with it. But if you kill a movie star—or the father of a movie star—or a politician, you might as well kill a Fed. We all know you can hit a competitor, a businessman, even a—

G:
Hey, what the crud. Hey—lookit. Jesus Christ, lookit, it's a
bug
, who'd of—
it's a bug
—

D:
What the hell is the matter with you—

G: It's a bug!
I dropped my smokes and just happened to look under the—oh, godalmighty, some bastard is on the earie
while we're talkin'
—

E: Shut up!
Jesus, it is. Little bit of a short-range—can't carry more than a block or …
The bastard can't be far from here right now
—

A: Sonofabitch
—

B: Fleepo, get the heap
—

And right there the voices, the sounds, everything suddenly ended.

The last inch of tape, stretched and raggedly torn, passed between the record's playback heads and the machine stopped automatically. For a moment I imagined Jenkins listening to those final shouted words. But then I put that chilling thought out of my mind and studied the notes I'd made on a sheet of Mountain Shadows stationery.

Some of the names mentioned weren't important. “Uncle Angelo” is merely a Mafia term for the law, law-enforcement officers, cops. And the Samson spoken of as a friend of mine is indeed a very good friend, the captain of Central Homicide of the L.A.P.D. I had to assume, however, that the “Henry” mentioned was Henry Yarrow. Also from the dialogue it was apparent that the second man to speak—the guy with the hard, flat, loud voice—was Ace, and the man I'd listed as F was Fleepo. Identification of the other five men would have to wait a while longer.

There were, of course, several other obvious conclusions to be drawn from the conversation, and some guesses that could be made with reasonable hope of accuracy. But of special fascination to me, naturally, were the plans discussed for my as-soon-as-possible demise. Including the fact that it would help a lot—help them a lot—if it was unnecessary to leave me on the street “like a pile of garbage.” Further, that all which had been under discussion was “predicated on the assumption the present situation does not deteriorate.”

Well, the situation—even before the boys completed formulating their plans for me—had sure as hell deteriorated. Not only had the bug been spotted, but subsequent to that there'd been the action on Willow Lane when Bludgett and Frankenstein spotted me and—it could be deduced with reasonable certainty—recognized me. Either that, or they'd felt like shooting the head off a stranger. Whether Bludgett and Frankenstein had been present at the meeting or not, they were tied to it by the arrival on Willow of Ace and Fleepo who
had
been present.

I wound up dwelling on the words of the guy I'd listed as “A.” He was the one who'd seemed most bloodthirsty—most thirsty for my blood, at least—the guy who'd claimed there'd be only a little heat from L.A. if I was killed, but should I unfortunately fail to be hit suddenly in the head there might be “the big heat.”

Well, that's what I was going to see that he—and all the rest of those bastards—got, if I could manage it: the big heat. And I didn't much care how I managed it, either. They'd all sat there in Henry Yarrow's house and with the casual air of businessmen discussing whether or not to buy extra shares of Standard Oil agreed it was a splendid idea to murder Shell Scott. Neatly and cleanly if possible, but if the situation “deteriorated,” then what the hell, kill the sonofabitch untidily.

OK, they'd asked for it. Call me pal, pal I'll be. Call me jolly, I'll be jolly. But most of those seven cats had called me “sonofabitch.” So they'd named it.

I am not a lad who believes in turning the other cheek.

The sun had been up for an hour, but it was not one of Arizona's most bright and beautiful mornings. The sky was overcast, dull, and it looked as if it might rain. The brooding dawn had not, however, depressed me. I'd been busy.

The cassette on which I'd duplicated the “Jenkins tape” was in place in the small battery-operated AIWA machine I'd used for recording it, ready to be played. In my coat pocket was the original tape and a typed transcript of its last six minutes, made for me by a male stenographer to whom I explained the risk he was taking in even listening to the recording, but who felt the bundle I paid him not only justified the risk but compensated him for being awakened at the crack of dawn. On the transcript itself I had identified the speakers with my letters from A to G. And I had used the stenographer's typewriter to peck out a note—not on Mountain Shadows stationery—to Tony Brizante.

I didn't put Tony's name on it, nor did I sign it. But at the end I typed a P.S.: “Lucrezia, don't shake hands with any strangers.” She would know who'd sent the note. I hoped.

I had phoned Walt Maypole, got what info he could give me about the Sunrise Villas Security Guards, especially Sergeant Striker, of whom he spoke highly. Walt also was able to give me the name of a professor—Elliott Irwin—retired after fourteen years at the California Institute of Technology, who might help me with some ideas I'd had about the Jenkins tape. I had talked for ten minutes on the phone with Sergeant Striker, learning several items of interest and also being assured of his cooperation later in the day, when events surely would begin to quicken. And, finally, I had phoned Professor Elliott Irwin—whom, like everybody else except Walt Maypole, I woke up—and explained my problem. He said he could probably help me; he didn't say he would; he said I had phoned him at a ridiculous hour. I agreed. And he agreed to see me at eight
A
.
M
.

With that accomplished, I made my last call. A young, brash, seventeen-year-old kid named Artie Katz had parked my car a few times and we'd chewed the fat a little. He lived near the hotel. He was a hustler. If I'd let him, he would have parked the Cad, washed it, changed the oil, and painted my initials on it—for a price. Four minutes after I hung up my phone I heard the slap-slap of somebody running fast and opened the door in time to save Artie the trouble of knocking. The bill I handed him made everything I said from then on OK with Artie Katz.

“Go to Seidner's Posie Post,” I told him, “florist on East Main in Scottsdale—”

“I know where it is. They're not open yet, Mr. Scott.”

“Get them to open up early for you if they will; if not, you be the first customer when they do open. Buy two dozen long-stemmed roses and deliver them to this address.”

I'd typed “Lucrezia Brizante” and the Mimosa Lane address on a plain envelope. “There's a note inside here,” I said. “When you get the flowers, take the note out and put it in one of those little envelopes they keep handy in flower shops. Write the same name and address on the envelope and slip it inside the box with the roses. Deliver the box personally.”

“Gotcha. Nothing to—Lucrezia
Brizante
? Her? Will I get to
see
her?”

“Maybe, if you're lucky. I want—”

“Lucrezia Brizante—hey! This early maybe she'll be wearing one of them negligeese.”

He couldn't even pronounce it yet, but he was sure anxious to see it. Well, that was normal; he was a growing lad. I hoped if Lucrezia was indeed wearing a negligoose, the sight didn't arrest his growth.

“Listen,” I said. “No foul-ups, Artie. Use your own heap to make delivery. If I recall, it
is
a heap.”

“What do you mean? It's a stripped-down fifty-nine Chewy coupe with a Merc V-8—”

“Never mind, Artie. I don't think you'll have any trouble, but just in case, you know from nothing. A short bald-headed guy asked you to deliver the flowers.”

“Gotcha.”

“Final thing. If possible, I'd like the flowers delivered by eight
A
.
M
., even eight-thirty. But
no
later than nine
A
.
M
.”

“I wish I was deliverin' them right now,” he said, and in his eyes I could see the geese flying north. I knew I could trust Artie not to dawdle along the way.

“OK,” I said, “on your horse, pal.”

He gave me a toothy grin, whirled and went off running. About ten years from now, I thought, that kid was going to be way ahead of a lot of guys who walked.

The hell of it was, they'd hate him for it.

At the tick of eight
A
.
M
. I rang the bell at Professor Elliott Irwin's home. He opened the door immediately.

“Mr. Scott?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come in.”

He was about sixty, small, lean, sharp-eyed. His hair was thinning, and gray, and he had a little pointed gray goatee. He looked—the word seems absurd for a grown man, but it fit—cute.

“Come along, come along,” he said, leading me through the front room and into a hallway. I half expected him to hop like an elf or leprechaun. We wound up in a spacious, bright kitchen, square table with checkered yellow-and-white cloth on it, yellow curtains draped at the window.

A plate of ham and eggs and a cup of steaming coffee were on the table. “Ridiculous hour for a man to phone,” he said cheerfully. “Ridiculous. Have you eaten breakfast?”

“No—but I'm not hungry.” As soon as I said it I knew it was a lie. It didn't matter; I'd grab some chow later.

“I shall eat,” he said, as if announcing he was going to build the Sphinx. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.”

He poured a cup for me, sat down, attacked ham and eggs with relish, almost with ferocity. Chewing, he said, “Now, what's this about spectrograms, Mr. Scott? How did you know I am an expert? What is your purpose in desiring the prints? Are you also a scientist? No, you do not sound like a scientist—you do not look like a scientist, either. Say something. You see, in conjunction with my work on spectrograms, I am endeavoring to determine the physical, mental, moral, and spiritual qualities of an individual from the language, tone, rhythm, inflection, timbre—”

“Professor—”

“—strength, emphasis, accent, and idiosyncracies of his voice alone. So far, it's merely a hobby, but … who knows?”

“Professor Irwin, this is all very—”

“That's enough. I would say … hmm. You are—or were—a military man. Army.”

“Marines.”

“Not Army?”

“No.”

“Navy?”

“Please skip the submarine service, and National Guard. I was one of the best goddamn fighting men in the world, Professor, a United States Marine—”

“Goodness, don't get angry.”

“A Marine.”

“Of course.”

He ate eggs, and thought. “Hmm. At the present time, however, you are—a pugilist?”

“No. Oh, I've hit a few guys, but—”

“I have it. You put out fires in oil wells.”

“I'm losing my confidence in you, Professor—”

“A policeman, then.”

“Hey, pretty close! I'm a private investigator.”

“I was going to say that next.” He thrust a huge hunk of ham into his mouth.

“Professor, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

“I'd be delighted. I may not answer them, but I would be delighted—”

“I know, essentially, what a Voiceprint—or spectrogram—is. But can you, personally, from a tape recording, make Voice-prints of each person who speaks on that recording and be assured each separate Voiceprint reflects one individual's voice pattern and
only
his?”

“Of course. Why, except for Lawrence G. Kersta himself, I undoubtedly know more about voice spectrography than any other man alive.”

“Who's Lawrence G. Kersta?”

“Who's Lawrence G. Kersta? You don't know?”

“I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest—”

“He is the originator, the developer, the innovator of the Voiceprint Identification System. He is president of Voiceprint Laboratories in Somerville, New Jersey—why, it was from him I got my own Sound Spectrograph. You ask me about Voice-prints, but you don't know who's Lawrence G. Kersta?”

“I said I was sorry, Professor. Look, all I want to know is if you—personally—can make identification of a man from his voice alone.”

“Of course. Each of us, Mr. Scott, is an individual, singular, unique, different from all others in all ways. You are a policeman—”

“Detective.”

“—and therefore know a man's fingerprints may be used to positively identify him. In the same fashion, each man can be identified by the individual structure, quality and vibration of his voice, which is peculiar to him alone.”

“Well, you make it sound simple enough.”

“Of course. You see, intelligible speech is effected essentially by controlled dynamic manipulation of the articulators—including tongue, lips, teeth, jaw muscles, and soft palate—
plus
both the fixed dimensions of the individual's vocal cavities—throat, nasal, and two oral cavities, even sinus cavities—and the transitory influence upon those cavities of the tongue's position in the mouth. That's simple enough, isn't it?”