The Shell Scott Sampler (7 page)

That checked with what I knew. Spaniel had, so the story went, been living off the last of his ill-gotten gains for several months, and the living was getting lean. Moreover, Spaniel was a man who liked to live high, and usually spent more on busty babes than most men spend on home, job, family, and life insurance.

“That's no news, Lupo,” I said. “And it doesn't mean he'd get reckless, unless he's really broke.”

“Worse than broke, the way it reached me. I hear he's into Joe Pappa for five thousand. Which is now about seven thousand. Is that news, Scott?”

“Yeah. He was that broke, huh?”

“Broke for him. They say Al met one of those fat redheads he goes for. You know Al.”

I did know Al. There was no secret about Al. And Lupo's describing whomever Al had met as a “fat redhead” was merely Lupo expressing
his
opinion. It was almost a certainty that, if I could see her, I would not even think of describing her as a fat redhead. Nor would Al.

“Five G's, huh?” I said. “Not exactly small change.” Joe Pappa was an unofficial bank. He'd lend a guy money at ten percent. Ten percent a week. You didn't have to pay it all back at once. He'd settle for ten percent interest and then the principal, or a hundred percent of your blood. People should never borrow from the Joe Pappas. But they do. And a guy like Spaniel, if he saw a really “fat” redhead, and needed loot for the conquest, would not only borrow from a Joe Pappa but promise to pay off in transfusions.

He was, indisputably, possessed of a gargantuan sexual appetite; satyr, freak, or man with a genital tapeworm, whatever the cause of his elephantine libido, it was said he had the virility of a stone statue and the perseverance in pursuit of an aphrodisiacal Javert. Or, in the language of his cohorts and those in illegal cahoots, Alston Spaniel was remarked as the horniest citizen in at least one and possibly several counties.

“Where would I find this gal?” I said. “I mean, Alston and his new amour.”

“That I don't know, Scott.”

“Think you could find out?”

“I could try.”

“Try.”

“What was the score?”

“Art, from Bel Air.” I grinned at him.

He grinned back. “Yeah. So, OK.”

“OK.”

It took me an hour to run down my second informant, an ex-con named Zeke, and the dialogue was about the same as it had been with Lupo—except that my second man didn't know anything, not even about Alston's recent indebtedness. Didn't know, but would go amongst ‘em and look and listen, and maybe ask a question from time to time. That was good enough for me, because Zeke was, among my informants, a kind of lieutenant, with a number of privates who reported to him.

That done, I headed for North Rossmore and the Spartan Apartment Hotel. The night was far from over; in fact, it was only beginning for me. But I wanted to grab a sandwich at the apartment while I used the phone. There were still a few more lines to put out.

I left the car in front of the Spartan, trotted in and got my key at the desk, then walked slowly up to 212, thinking. I was jabbing the key at the lock when I noticed the little metal flag over the keyhole. It looked like part of the design, only I knew it shouldn't have been in evidence unless somebody, while I was out, had let himself in.

Or, of course, herself.

Actually, the only previous time my little alarm system had tipped me to somebody's presence inside, I had sprung in with my .38 Colt Special ready and cocked and had come within an inch of shooting a gorgeous belle named Lucretia, an acrobatic dancer who, in the moment of my bursting-in, became more acrobatic than even she in her dizziest dreams had dreamed she could become.

The desk clerk had let her in, gasp, she'd said. He must have, gasp, forgotten to tell me. I was still thinking about that when I went in this time, so I was smiling. Oh, I did it right. Key in the lock silently, door open and me bent low and inside in a hurry. But the basically amusing episode was still in my thoughts, so I guess I was still smiling when I shot the guy.

He was standing near the wall on my right, gun in his hand. In his hand, but not pointed at me. He'd been waiting for a sound, probably the key in the lock, knob turning, and hadn't heard it. Not in time.

He was a big man, with the pale face that comes from avoiding sunlight—or from a stretch in stir—and he moved suddenly, whipping the gun toward me like a man starting to throw a ball. I pumped two into him before he could get the gun aimed at me and I saw him bend forward as his eyes closed.

He didn't go down, but his gun arm kept moving, toward me and past, sinking toward the floor. But the heat was still in his hand and I fired one more slug into his chest. Then he dropped the gun.

He staggered back, hit the wall. His eyes opened. Slowly he slid down until his seat hit the floor. His arms hung limp at his sides, backs of his hands on my yellow-gold carpet, palms up and fingers curling. Blood gushed up into his throat and slid over his lower lip.

I jumped to him, kicked his gun away, and said, “Was this your own idea, or did somebody send you?”

He blinked at me, licked his wet lips. “Where'd you come from?” he said. The words were quite clear.

He didn't know how bad he was hit. Sometimes it's like that, the shock dulls pain, dulls comprehension. He didn't know; but I thought I did. I gave him a minute, or seconds. These were the last sweet moments of his life.

“Hurry up, you bastard,” I said.

I raised the gun toward his face, thumbed back the hammer again.

He coughed. “Wasn't my idea,” he said. “It was a job. A G now, and…” His head went back suddenly, then rolled a little to the side. In a couple of seconds he was looking at me again, but there was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

“Spill,” I said. “Or do you want one in the teeth? Who sent you here? Who hired you?”

“Spaniel. He told me his name was Al Spaniel. Give me the G and said —” He stopped.

Now we both knew.

Nothing more was said. Even if he could have spoken, I imagine he was too busy thinking to speak. Too much to think about, and too little time. Well, they should think about that before they start dying.

His eyes didn't close. He just slumped back a little more and slid sideways down the wall, head turning on a rubbery neck. His dark hair left a faint smear of oil behind him.

I looked him over, checked his pulse, his pupils. He wasn't out; he was dead.

I was on the phone and dialing before it hit me.

I hung up as racket sounded in the hallway. Thumping feet, shouts. It took me a minute to calm the startled tenants, shoo most of them away and shut the door on the few remaining. Then I went back and stood by the phone again. But I didn't dial.

Al Spaniel, huh? Well, it made sense, if he'd pulled off a quarter-million score and knew I was looking for him—but how could he have known? Who could have tipped him? Madison? Hardly. Surely not Zeke. I'd done business with him a long time; his tips had usually been good ones and I'd paid him plenty.

I would call the police, yes. But I'd have to take a chance that could wait for a while. There was something else that couldn't wait.

I started looking for Lupo.

Lupo's face rested on the table in our booth at the Happy Time; his breath rippled the spilled liquid shining on the tabletop and sopping into his left eyebrow. In a moment his eyelids fluttered. He sighed.

When he finally got his head up and looked at me I thought he was going to faint again. But he didn't. Not quite.

“I'll tell you how it was, Lupo,” I said sweetly. “Then you fill me in on the details. That all right with you, friend?”

He swallowed. His lips looked chapped.

I said, “You've never yet given me a tip that paid off. I figured it would take time, that's all. What I didn't figure was that when I asked you about a guy, instead of trying to help me you might be tipping the guy I
asked
about. Like tonight, huh, Lupo?”

He finally said something. “That's nuts.”

I grinned. “A hood just tried to shoot me, and died trying. But he lived long enough to spill that Al Spaniel sent him to hit me. Guess what else that tells me, Lupo?”

“I … couldn't guess.”

“One of the men I talked to tonight, about the heist and my suspicions of Spaniel among others, must have got that word to Spaniel. Who could have told him, Lupo?”

He shook his head.

“Maybe I only talked to you, friend. Maybe you're the only one who could have told him. You think of that?”

He hadn't. But he was thinking about it now. Suddenly he said, “All right, Scott. I'll tell you about it. Just take it easy.”

“What did you do, Lupo? Call all three of them? Spaniel and Bonicef and Luigi, to be sure you tipped the right one?”

He opened his mouth, shut it. Then he said, “I was pretty sure it must have been Spaniel. I would have called the other two, sure, but there wasn't any need to. I phoned Spaniel first thing, talked to him. The way he reacted, it had to be him.”

“I'd kind of figured that out, Lupo. The hard way.”

“Scott, I swear it never entered my mind he might try to have you killed. I thought he'd probably blow town. Who'd think he'd send anybody to…” He let it trail off.

“OK, where is he?”

“I wouldn't know —”

“Knock it off. You knew where to find him when you wanted to tip him. So you know where to find him now.”

He was silent for a few seconds, then shrugged. “That does make sense, doesn't it? He was at the Westmoreland Hotel.”

“That's where you phoned him?”

“Phoned, then went there to see him. He was with one of those obscenely fat women he's always got hanging around.”

I grinned. At my request he described the woman in more detail, and by sort of listening between the lines she shaped up as a wow. Five-five or six, a lot of red hair, green eyes, and “obscenely” shapely.

“They're at the Westmoreland now?” I asked him.

Lupo hesitated and I said, “If you hold anything out, pal, anything at all —”

“Well, it's just … that's where they were. But when I talked to Alston I got the impression he was going to leave for Laguna Beach.”

“How'd you get the impression?”

“Actually, that's what he said. He told me.”

“Thinking, of course, I wouldn't find out. Not in this life. Or maybe if something went wrong and his hired gun missed me, I wouldn't be able to find him. Right?”

“Scott, I swear, I didn't have any idea —”

“Yeah, skip it. Where in Laguna Beach? And how come he spilled his whole itinerary to you?”

“The Seawinds. And, well, I didn't want to lose track of him. He's supposed to —” Lupo stopped, swallowed, but continued gamely. “Supposed to pay me for the information.”

“With what? I thought he was flat.”

“That's the point. I didn't think he'd have much cash handy. But he said by tomorrow or the next day he'd have plenty, and he'd take care of me. So I wanted to know how I could keep in touch with him, and he said he'd be at the Seawinds for a day or two.”

“Why Laguna? Any special reason?”

Lupo shook his head. “None he told me. I figured he just wanted to be out of the city.”

“How was he going to get all this loot—and from whom?”

“I don't know anything about that. It's not what we talked about.”

“He didn't tell you what the score was?”

“No.”

“You still don't have any idea what Spaniel heisted, huh?”

Lupo shook his head. “Just what you said yourself. I mean a big heist in Bel Air. An art job. I mentioned that to him, and said you were looking for him. But he didn't spill anything to me.”

“Uh-huh. You just spilled your guts to him. Lupo, I really should plug you right between the eyes.”

He shuddered delicately, pressed a few drops of highball from his left eyebrow with the tip of a well-manicured index finger. I asked him if Spaniel had pulled the job alone or with somebody else's help, but he said he'd told me everything he knew. I hoped he had.

So I said, “You think you can manage not to shoot your mouth off for a while? Or will I have to shoot it off for you?”

“I won't make the same mistake twice.”

“Let's both hope it's the truth, Lupo. Because if Spaniel finds out you've filled me in, I'm not even going to worry about him. At least not until I find you again, friend.”

“You don't have to worry. I swear —”

I left him in the booth, still swearing fidelity to me. Undying fidelity.

Laguna Beach is a small, lovely town on the coast, about an hour's drive from Los Angeles if you hurry. I'd hurried, but there hadn't been much point in it because I didn't get started until well after the sun was up.

When I'd got back to the Spartan after talking to Lupo, two police officers were waiting for me in my apartment. The dead guy was gone, but traces of him remained. And traces of dudgeon remained in the two officers. For another tenant at the Spartan had phoned the law, and policemen feel that when any citizen, even one so well known to them as I, shoots a guy he should stick around to explain why he found it convenient to shoot him.

Consequently I had to spend more time than would ordinarily have been the case telling my story, and sitting on a hard chair in an interrogation room downtown. The whole thing was made somewhat more difficult because I couldn't mention the fact that I was working for G. Raney Madison, or explain why I felt the hood had been waiting for me.

But it was finally over—about seven in the morning—and by the time I'd cleaned up and driven to the coast the day was well along.

It was a lovely day. Sun sparks flashed from the blue sea, and only a faint haze of distant smog blurred the horizon. At three p.m., parked on South Coast Boulevard, across the street and about half a block from the Seawinds, I got my first look—recent look, that is—at Alston Spaniel.