The Shell Scott Sampler (17 page)

“Uh-huh. Well, leaving that for a moment, you were saying you're a little afraid it might have been Leslie. Who shot at me, you mean?”

“Yes—not at you. At Blaik. Why would he shoot at you?”

“Beats me.”

Georgina Moulder turned and began pacing again. “I don't really think it could have been Leslie,” she said quietly. “But—if I'd only
hear
from him. It's just that, while he was in prison, he couldn't seem to forget that if it hadn't been for Blaik he wouldn't have been there. The last few months he'd even begun saying he thought Blaik must have lost the case deliberately. Leslie kept, oh, brooding about it.”

“Why would his attorney have done that?”

“It was just an idea in Leslie's mind. I couldn't talk him out of it.”

“You know your husband was innocent of the theft, Mrs. Moulder?”

“Of course.”

“Pardon the question, but how do you know? If you've got any evidence which would be —”

“Why, he's my husband! I just know.”

Well, I'm a great one for loyalty, myself. But I couldn't help wishing I also had Mrs. Moulder's womanly intuition. Probably I should hire a gal to work with me in the office. Preferably one with a shape like Mrs. Moulder's.

My thoughts were going a bit astray because Mrs. Moulder had turned around before the television set and was standing there with the light from that big TV eye squarely behind her. It was much the same vista she would earlier have presented on opening the front door if it had been a Dutch door with only the bottom half open; I amused myself with the thought that she somewhat resembled a gal baking her derriere in front of an electronic oven.

“Well, yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I get the picture. As long as there's a chance Mr. Moulder fired those shots at the Hideout, you want me to do what I can to find him.”

“Yes, and help him. If he needs help, of course. He's probably only been delayed —”

“Help him how? There's probably little I can do that the police can't do better.”

“But that's the whole point, Mr. Scott.” She left the TV set and walked over to me, swinging her hips as if they were half cooked already. “The police are probably looking for Leslie right now, but now I don't want them to find him. I want you to find him
before
they do. You see, I called the police station earlier this evening. About six thirty or seven when it was starting to get dark. I was a little frantic. I'd been waiting here, waiting since
noon.
Like this. Champagne ready, charcoal in the broiler, steaks marinating. And in my brand-new neglig —”

She cut it off, eyes widening suddenly. “Oh, good grief!” she cried. “Don't look at me!”

“Hmm?”

“I didn't even realize…”

She looked down at herself, let out a little gasp and cooed, “You must think —” and then scurried into an adjacent room.

After a minute or so she came back, but now wearing a thick, quilted white housecoat over her—apparently brand-new—negligee. Her face was as pink as if she'd slapped it several times, but she didn't mention her former seminudity again. Instead she continued briskly with what she'd been saying.

“I phoned the police, partly because I was worried about Leslie, but also to find out if he had actually been released from prison. For all I knew, he might have had to stay there another day for some reason. They were able to confirm his release, and when I told them he was supposed to be home but hadn't arrived they said something about my coming in and filling out a—Missing Person report?”

I nodded.

She moistened her lips, frowning slightly. “But that was
before
the—the shooting, before I heard about it. Don't you understand?”

I thought I did. At six thirty Leslie was just a hubby who hadn't come home when he was supposed to. But by seven forty-five he was a man who might have murdered Vincent Blaik.

Consequently I could understand her desire—now—to have the police forget about Leslie entirely. I got the impression she hoped I could find her husband and, innocent or guilty, keep him from the clutches of the law, hide him out, possibly spirit him to South America. Which, of course, I was not about to do.

And I told her so.

She started flapping her arms again and crying, “No matter
what
he's done!” and such, so I said, “Mrs. Moulder, if I'm going to work for you it has to be on my terms, which include complete cooperation with the police.”

“But —”

“Wait a minute. If your husband is innocent, which we presume him to be, cooperating with the police is the best way to help prove it. You don't really think he killed Blaik, do you?”

“Of course not. But the police might. After that threat Leslie made against Blaik, and then me like a damned fool phoning them and asking if he'd actually been released from prison —”

“Don't worry about that. The police are a little smarter than most people think. After all, they're the ones who put the crooks in jail, instead of vice versa. As of today, at least. Just in case your husband is guilty, neither the police nor I would help him get away with it. But assuming he's innocent, we'll also do our damndest to prove it.”

She was reluctant still, but finally agreed I could do it my way. I was hired; we settled my fee. I agreed to keep her informed of anything I learned which might be of importance to her or Leslie whether I managed to find out where he was or not, and then asked her for more details about the original theft, for which Moulder had been sent to the clink.

There wasn't a great deal more. The sum had been an even twenty-eight thousand dollars, not much when compared to the multimillion value of the Hollywood Hills Estates, but a sizable chunk nonetheless. The money had been taken from the main safe in the hotel office after the day's receipts, including those from the Skylight Lounge, had been placed in it. Mrs. Moulder admitted that only her husband and Mr. Gordon knew the safe's combination. She didn't even know what it was herself.

“It was brought out in court, I recall, that your husband did need money. Despite the fact that he had plenty invested here in the development.”

She pulled her brows down and her dark eyes got a little colder. “It's true we didn't have a lot of readily available cash, Mr. Scott. We put everything we had or could scrape up into Hollywood Hills. But it's ridiculous to think Leslie would have taken money out of his own safe.”

“His, and his partner's.”

She let that go by. “Besides,” she continued, “he would have known somebody would surely find out.”

“What about your and your husband's investment in the Hollywood Hills? Did Mr. Moulder hope to come back and resume his work here, or what?”

“He was coming back. Everything would be like it was before.”

“How come, if Mr. Gordon was convinced your husband stole the money?”

“Oh, that was all settled before Leslie went to prison. And I've talked to Bob a lot about it since then. He feels that even if Leslie did make a—a mistake, it must have been more like borrowing for a little while, not really stealing. Leslie's not a thief. He's an honest, wonderful man! And Bob said when he came back we'd all just try to pretend it never happened.”

“Quite a fellow, this Bob Gordon.”

She shrugged. “He really hadn't lost anything, especially since Leslie made restitution, as they called it.”

“He gave the money back?”

Her eyes cooled a few degrees again. “He didn't give it
back
—he never stole it in the first place. But we managed to sell some things, scrape up the money.” She wound her fingers together. “He not only went to prison for something he didn't do, but he had to pay twenty-eight thousand dollars for the privilege.”

I thanked Mrs. Moulder and told her I'd get busy, but asked if I could use her phone first. It had been more than an hour since I'd talked to Samson, and there could have been some developments in the case since then.

There had been. Indeed there had.

Mrs. Moulder sat on the couch, idly twirling the champagne bottle in the warm water in the bucket, while I phoned Homicide and got Samson.

I told him I was officially on the case, working for Mrs. Moulder, and he said, “I suppose she wants you to pursue and capture her husband—assuming six thousand policemen find themselves incapable of coping with the problem.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, maybe I can help you. Shell. To make up a little for all the favors you've done the Department.”

“Oh? How?”

“We've got Leslie Moulder down here now, in an ‘I' room. He was brought in about ten minutes ago.”

“You've already found him?” I said.

Mrs. Moulder stopped twirling the champagne bottle and looked toward me, raising one hand to the hollow of her throat.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Parked half up on a curb in his car, passed out. Still drunk—he'd puked all over the front seat. Bullet hole in the left rear door of the sedan, by the way.”

“I'll be damned,” I said. “That tags the car, then. So I guess there's no doubt he —” I cut it off, realizing Mrs. Moulder was naturally hanging onto every word. I finished by saying, “Well, I guess that about wraps it up.”

“You haven't heard the half of it. Shell. You're at Mrs. Moulder's now?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, here's what we've got. We'll send a team out to talk to her, but you can tell her we've got Moulder if you want to.”

“What is it?” That was Mrs. Moulder, rising slowly to her feet.

I shook my head at her, listening to Samson.

“Looks like the damn fool must have started drinking right after he got sprung. Nearly empty bottle of bourbon on the car seat. He was out cold, down on the floorboards in his own mess. Officers who found him had a hell of a time bringing him around—didn't think they were going to make it for a while. We're pouring black coffee into him now and trying to make sense of what he says. So far he won't admit he did it.”

“Well, confessions aren't much use these days anyhow, so maybe it's just as well —”

“What is it?”
That was Mrs. Moulder again. She walked over to stand
a few feet from me, staring at my face.

“We've got enough without a confession,” Sam went on. “No gun in the car, but one cartridge case was on the floorboards in back. From a .45 automatic, same as the ones scattered in the lot at the Hideout. SID's doing the comparison now, but there's no question they're identical.”

“The booze—that could explain the way the slugs were sprayed around.”

Sam grunted. “Amount of sauce he must've put away, I'm surprised he didn't hit somebody in the restroom. One other bit, we already had a report on the car.”

“Hot?”

“Right, stolen shortly after two p.m.—from the parking lot at L.A. International. We've got Moulder placed on the plane that came in from San Francisco just before then. He didn't stop at the gate to pay any parking fee, naturally enough. Just roared out past the gateman. Man got the license and reported it to the local police. Well, that's it. You coming down?”

“Maybe later. Doesn't seem much reason to now.”

“Yeah. OK, tell Mrs. Moulder two detectives will be out in twenty minutes.”

“Right. Thanks, Sam.” I hung up.

“What is it?” Mrs. Moulder said again, but not with such vehemence this time.

“It's not good,” I told her. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“I'm all right.” Her voice was low, but not very steady. “That was about Leslie, wasn't it?”

“Yes. The police found him in his—that is, a stolen car. He'd obviously been drinking, and…”

It isn't easy to tell a woman her husband has been arrested for murder. Not even if she already knows—as I was sure Mrs. Moulder now knew—the truth. I fumbled for a cigarette and started to light it, trying to line up the right words.

“Don't try to spare my feelings, Mr. Scott. At least I know where he is. Anything's better than not knowing. And I can … see him again, talk to him.” She paused. “Go on. I can stand it.”

Well, if that was the way she wanted it, OK. Sometimes that's the best way, quick and over with. So I gave it to her.

“All right. It's pretty much open-and-shut. There's been no confession, but the police are convinced he did kill Blaik. There was a cartridge case, from the gun he used, in the car. Mr. Moulder came in on the plane, all right, but apparently he started drinking, stole a car, and—well, he's it, that's all. The police have him in an interrogation room trying to get his story, but he's still so drunk they haven't got much out of him. But they will. So face it, the simple fact is, your husband murdered —”

There was no longer any point in going on.

I was looking right at her from a foot away, and even before I began my last sentence, or part of a sentence, her eyes changed, lost their brightness; the lids drooped visibly and began instantly to tremble. And then it was as though a huge invisible squeegee started moving downward from her head, pressing the blood from her face and brain.

Between one second and the next her complexion changed from a healthy pink to a gray nearly the color of death. Even her throat got a kind of dirty white. Her eyes rolled up. She swayed ever so slightly.

Then she let out one soft sigh and fell, silently, like a bird dead in the air.

She crumpled soundlessly on the carpet at my feet. I wasn't even fast enough to catch her. She could stand it, she'd said. Well, she couldn't—and probably I should have known better.

When she came out of the faint after a minute or two, I helped her to the divan. We sat there quietly for another minute, then haltingly she asked a few questions. I told her a couple plainclothes officers would soon be here from Homicide. Just routine, and to tell her what she already knew. But she might have a little difficulty getting to see Leslie tonight, assuming she wanted to go down to the Police Building.