The Shell Scott Sampler (9 page)

It was a quarter to six p.m. Not much time. In fifteen minutes, or less, Alston was supposed to show up, apparently. But I thought there was time—at least, if Ardith was still soaking, and soaking, in her tub.

She was. I couldn't see her, but the door was cracked and I could hear her in there, humming and splashing. I'd run all the way to my Cad, spent a minute digging through the junk in my trunk, found what I was after, and had then run back to the Seawind.

Ardith's door had been locked this time, and I'd spent another two minutes picking a lock—not hers, but Alston's next door, to avoid alarming her. Then through the adjoining door and into Ardith's bedroom. Right next to the tiled bathroom, in which she still hummed and splashed.

She'd have to shake a leg if she intended to be all dried and powdered, much less dressed in something zippy, before Spaniel got here. So would I—it was five minutes till six.

But it didn't take me long.

I'd brought up an empty paper sack, and another sack filled with the powder I'd rummaged for in the trunk of my Cadillac. The big box of Caress! was still where I'd seen it before, and I opened the box, poured about half the Caress! into my empty sack, and replaced it with an equal amount of the powder I'd grabbed from my Cad. The consistency was OK, but the replacement powder was a bit lighter than Ardith's. Probably she wouldn't notice. It still smelled like those wild flowers.

I put the top back on the box, and it was done. For a moment I hesitated, wondering. Wondering if I was wrong about why Spaniel was coming here, wrong about Ardith, wrong about everything.

But right then Ardith stopped humming and splashing. There was the swirl of water, the sexy little drip-drip as water dripped from Ardith.

And on the wooden walk outside, fronting all four suites, the thump of big feet.

Thump-thump.

Ardith, there—like that. And me here—like this. And Spaniel about to spring through the door.

Thump.

The sound of footsteps was on my left as I faced the sea, coming closer. The draperies in here were drawn now, and I couldn't see out. Suite A was clear down at the left, then B, Alston's own through which I'd come a minute or two ago, then this one and finally D, the last of the four.

Thump-thump-thump.

The footsteps clumped up to Alston's suite—and kept coming. I jumped for the interconnecting door, went through it and swung it almost closed behind me. Barely in time.

Barely in time—even though the heavy footsteps went right on by and I heard the door of Suite D open and close—because only seconds after I got safely into Spaniel's suite, Ardith Mellow came out of the bathroom.

Ardith and a towel.

She wasn't exactly wearing it, but more sort of nuzzling and patting herself with it, rubbing and blotting the last traces of moisture from her body. From, to be accurate, her sensational body.

I left the door cracked, even opened it another inch. Yes, I peeked. But, truly, it was not merely for the purpose of peeking. I had to know—yes, she was doing it.

She opened the box of Caress!, picked up the great big fluffy purple puff, dabbed it at the powder and then dabbed and stroked and patted and Caressed! her smooth throat, and high heavy breasts, and columnar thighs, then filled the puff with powder once more, and stroked and dabbed, and filled the powder puff again….

Thump-thump-thump!

Right up to Spaniel's door. This door, the one ten feet from me. I couldn't go back into Ardith's room—that would blow the whole bit, if it wasn't ruined already. I had eased the connecting door closed at the first
thump,
and now I dived for Spaniel's bed and slid under it—as the door opened and he came inside.

I could still hear thumping, but it was my heartbeat. Spaniel walked across the floor, turned, walked back and turned again. I didn't get it. He was simply pacing—as though waiting for something. Maybe he was waiting for Ardith to finish powdering, or to get dressed in something zippy, or perhaps to come in and join him.

But that wasn't it. The phone rang.

Two swift steps and Spaniel was there. “Yeah?” he said.

Silence for a few seconds. Then, “Good. Tonight, huh? OK. I'll see you tomorrow…. Yeah, you know it, you damn well bet I'll see you tomorrow.” A brief pause, then he said, “Two G's. Right … right.” He hung up.

Two G's. It reminded me of the man in the Spartan, dying, right after telling me Spaniel had paid him “a G,” a thousand bucks, as the down payment on his job—the job he'd been unable to finish. Al seemed to be throwing plenty of money around.

He was moving across the room again. Straight to the connecting door. He didn't even knock, just went on in. He must have come in here merely to wait for the call.

The door clicked shut behind him.

“Bill, darling!” Ardith cried.

“Who the hell is Bill?” he said.

“Oo—I mean, H … Al!”

Well, you may be able to imagine the dialogue which ensued, but it soon stopped ensuing. She covered her confusion one way or another, and they stopped talking. I waited a minute, then rolled from under the bed and stood up, moved slowly to the door. Not the outside door; the door between Suites B and C.

I used a full sixty seconds turning the knob, cracking the door again, careful to move very slowly and to make as little sound as possible. Although a mere two or three seconds would probably have been careful enough.

I hadn't been wrong about Spaniel. Or Ardith. It gave me a little hope. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't wrong about the rest of it.

I eased the door shut again, and left. Left silently, even though I doubted they'd have heard me if I'd thumped out the way Alston had come in. I went to the bar down below. And had, as a kind of ceremony, a green martini.

And waited for Ardith.

* * *

This time the sorrowful-faced butler didn't let me in. It was G. Raney Madison himself who opened the door.

I stepped inside, carrying the heavy lamp in one hand. We went into his den, where the brackets still stood out nakedly against the bare wall, and sat in two of the big chairs.

Madison lit one of his little cigars and said, “Well, Mr. Scott, I did what you asked.”

“It's all set?”

He nodded.

Soon we would know, I thought. Unless I was nuts—which I was now beginning to think barely possible.

This was Friday night. Two nights ago I'd sat here and listened to Mr. Madison's tale. Last night I had waited for Ardith until shortly after eight p.m., when she joined me and had another gin and crème de menthe. I wisely switched to bourbon, and we talked for an hour. I learned nothing except that she still smelled good, and that what's-his-name wouldn't be back until the early morning, at least—and that he didn't have another girl. Ardith was his “one true love.” No, she didn't know any Mrs. Ingrid Otterman.

After another drink I drove back to Hollywood, to the Spartan Apartment Hotel, and went to bed. I slept long enough to make up for the snoozing I'd missed, then in the afternoon phoned G. Raney Madison and said I'd see him at seven p.m.

Now Madison said, “I don't understand what you plan to do, Mr. Scott.”

“Well, that's because I left the gimmick out when I phoned you. I just wanted to be sure you'd be able to have everybody here tonight.”

“They are all in the library.”

“Good. Here's the pitch. I'm satisfied that a man named Alston Spaniel stole your Da Vinci. I think he's already delivered it to the buyer, but who that is I don't know yet. I didn't think I could tail him to the delivery point without queering the deal—which you insisted must not occur. However, I managed, without his knowledge, to get onto Spaniel's hands a powder which glows under infrared light. Anything he handled in the last twenty-four hours will have traces of that powder on it—even if he washed his hands, or showered. It's remarkably persistent stuff.”

I pointed to the lamp which I'd placed on the carpet at my feet. “That's an infrared lamp, Mr. Madison. If Spaniel handled the Da Vinci and later somebody else handled it, or if Spaniel shook hands with the buyer, that person will also be marked with traces of the powder, and those traces will be clearly revealed by the light from this lamp. That's what I want to check out tonight.”

He was silent for several seconds. Then he said, “I see. I like it. But how did you manage to get this powder on the gentleman's hands without his knowledge?”

I smiled, thinking of Ardith and her Caress! But I merely said, “Well, it's a bit complicated, Mr. Madison. There's not time to go into it now. I guarantee he doesn't know I did it, though. Shall we check the people in the library?”

“By all means.” He paused. “What should we expect to see? I understand the principle involved, you'll merely direct the beam of your lamp on the hands of those you wish to check, right?”

“That's right.”

“What will the effect be? The powder will glow under the lamp?”

“Yeah—believe me, if we find somebody with traces of the powder on his hands, you won't be able to miss it. The effect is quite striking.”

He nodded, and stood up.

When we entered the library, five people were there waiting for us. Mrs. Madison, George Raney Madison, Jr., the butler, Madison's old friend Jim Chance and, just to be on the safe side, Mr. Ladd, the guy who had installed the alarm system.

This was the first time I'd seen James Chance. He was a tall, heavy-boned man, husky and solid. He had a slightly sour face, but wasn't a bad-looking man. He had bushy brows over blue eyes and crew-cut dark hair with streaks of gray in it, though I doubted he was much over forty.

He glanced at me curiously. So did the others.

Madison had already told them I was conducting an “experiment” and they were to cooperate with me, so I stationed the butler by the light switch and lined the four others up on the long burnt-orange divan.

Standing near the door with the butler, I said, “Just for a check, douse the lights, Sterling.”

He doused them. I flicked the lamp's switch and aimed its beam at Sterling, let the radiation pour onto his hands. Nothing. Just the shadowy substance of hands and fingers. No glowing in the darkness. In a way, I was disappointed. It would have been a great line. But the butler was clean.

So I said, “OK, lights on again.” He flipped the switch. I continued, “I'll give you a nod when I'm at the divan. Turn off the lights, then switch them on when I call to you. Got it?”

“Of course, sir.”

I walked across the room toward the four people, who were eyeing me in some puzzlement. What I felt wasn't puzzlement but a growing excitement. It
was
exciting. This was the moment of truth, the culmination of all my labors. It's always exciting, at the moment just before the climax, when the clever investigator, in one master stroke, unmasks the culprit. Then, of course, he says something like, “Elementary!” or “It was nothing, really,” so people won't think he's got a fat head. Yes, I was excited all right.

Mrs. Madison was on my left, George next to her, and on my right Mr. Ladd and Jim Chance. In seconds now it would all be over. I turned and nodded to Sterling. He doused the lights.

I flipped the switch on my infrared lamp and poured it on Mrs. Madison. Then on George. Then Mr. Ladd. Then Mr. Chance. Then I did it again, throwing the beam all over the place. Just dark light in darkness. Nothing.

I wondered if maybe the lamp wasn't working, stepped back and directed the beam onto my own left hand. Yeah, the infrared beam was on all right; my hand glowed like crazy. When I'd transferred the powder to Ardith's box I'd naturally got a lot of it on my own hands, and as I'd told Mr. Madison the powder was remarkably sticky stuff.

I was staring at my fingers, eerily glowing, when there was a great shout: “Lights! Turn on the lights!” Then somebody grabbed me. A body thumped into me and hands clutched at my wrists. Startled, I dropped the lamp—as the room lights went on.

The guy trying to wrestle me around was G. Raney Madison.

He had his hands on my wrists and was looking straight at me, yelling excitedly. “I've got him, Scott!” he yelled. “I've got…”

He stopped.

“You!”
he gasped.

“Of course it's me,” I said irritably.

“But … you?”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.”

What happened to my master stroke, I was thinking. Even with the lights on, the infrared beam would show traces of the powder if held close enough, so without making any attempt to hide what I was doing I again examined the hands of the four people on the divan. Nothing. No doubt about it.

“Ah…” I said. “Well, I'll—I'll talk to you later.”

Madison went with me into the hallway outside the library.

“What happened?” he said.

“I goofed.”

“Does that mean —”

“Let me check your hands, Mr. Madison. Just to cover all the possibilities.”

He frowned, but then said, “Of course,” and held his hands out. Nothing.

I was uncovering a lot of nothing.

“Then the experiment is a failure, Mr. Scott?”

“Well, I suppose…” I thought about it. I thought a little more about it, and smiled.

“No, Mr. Madison. Not exactly.”

* * *

I made exceptionally good time, and by eight fifteen p.m. was knocking at the door of Suite C at the Seawinds in Laguna Beach. I had my portable lamp in one hand, and portable Colt .38 Special in the other—just in case Alston Spaniel answered the door.

I didn't think he would. He didn't.

It was Ardith Mellow. Sweet-smelling Ardith, who—unless I really had goofed—glowed in the dark.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully.

“Oh, hello. It's Mr….” She got that puzzled look.