Dead Heat (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Read online

  “I’d prefer not to discuss this on the phone, Mr. Scott. If you’ll come immediately to my office — top floor of the Rothstein Building on Fifth Street — I’ll explain in detail.”

  Immediately, he’d said. And there was a kind of no-nonsense urgency about this guy — his voice, anyway — that seemed to snap, “Action! Action!” So I said, “Open the door. Goodbye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  We hung up.

  I went out of the office, waved to Hazel, and trotted down to Broadway, past Pete’s — a bar in which owner-bartender Pete has cured, and caused, many of my hangovers — to the adjacent parking lot, and into my new Cadillac convertible. Sky-blue, with white-leather upholstery and a copy of Omar Khayyám. Ah, Carmen, I fear we’ll not Khayyám in the dunes today.

  My office is on Broadway between Third and Fourth, so it was only four blocks to the Rothstein Building. The lights and traffic were with me and I found a parking slot twenty feet from the building’s double doors and trotted through them just in time to catch the elevator going up.

  It was an elevator with a uniformed attendant, and when I said quietly, “Twelve,” he stiffened to attention and we zipped straight to the top, while four other passengers headed for less lofty levels scowled at me. It made me a bit uncomfortable, but hell, Rothstein owned the building, didn’t he?

  Hiss of air as the doors opened then closed behind me, polished hallway left and right, and straight ahead a wooden door with small black letters: g. rothstein.

  I knocked and the door rattled as a man’s voice from inside — it could only have been Gabriel Rothstein’s — thundered, “Come in.”

  In I went. It was a big room, gray carpet, dark-paneled walls, low ceiling. Along the walls were tables with stacks of papers and magazines on them. Straight ahead of me, before an enormous window which looked down on Fifth Street, was a large black desk behind which sat a man. He stood up, and seemed to keep on standing up for quite awhile.

  “Excellent,” he boomed at me. “Excellent, Mr. Scott. You are not a man who dawdles.”

  “I hurried,” I said. “Just in case you’ve got money.”

  It could have been the wrong note, if it turned out G. Rothstein was one of those stuffy billionaires — which was one of the things I wanted to know about him. But he threw back his head and laughter boomed up from his thick middle and through his even thicker chest past a corded neck, and filled the room with happy thunder.

  “Sometimes I scuttle a yacht,” he said, “just to get a girl in a thin dress wet.”

  This time I laughed, and he asked me what I’d meant about having already fed the fish, and I told him, and for a minute or two we just tossed the conversational ball around.

  Then he said, “Well, you’re hired, Mr. Scott. The only question remaining is whether you care to take the job.” He paused. “If it’s of interest to you, this isn’t a snap decision. I’ve had you investigated since yesterday afternoon.” He paused again. “And when I have a man investigated I learn a great deal about him.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said, with real surprise. I’ve had characters checking up on me before, but so far as I knew this was the first time I’d had not even an inkling that it was being done. My business is investigation, and the asset above all others of any investigator is his sources of information, his informers and tipsters and informants. I think my sources are second to none in Los Angeles, but I’d not heard a rumble, not a peep. Not yet, anyway; probably later today I’d get the word, but none had reached me yet. Consequently my opinion of Gabriel Rothstein — already high enough on first impression — went up a notch.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said again. Then I added, “But I’ll bet you don’t know about Carmen.”

  He grinned, a big white-toothed tigerish grin, and said nothing. The sonofabitch! He did know about Carmen.

  Here in the spacious room his voice was bearable, even pleasant. Actually, it wasn’t that he yelled or shouted, simply that he had a crackling, magnetic voice that, even when throttled down, sounded like a soft train wreck. He was a powerful man, big, burly, with energy leaking out of him. A big man, a bull of a man, but nonetheless a damned good-looking man. Not good-looking in the classic or magazine-cover sense, but the kind of virile rugged male who a century or two ago might have scouted trails west through the forests, biting bears in the neck and scalping Indians.

  He was, I’d guess, about six feet, four inches tall, a couple of inches over my six-two, and if he weighed fifty pounds he weighed at least two-fifty. His hair was cut even shorter than mine, black, and his skin was dark, smooth-shaven, and deeply tanned. Straight black brows hung low and level over dark, almost cold, blue eyes. A big beak of a nose speared down toward a wide mouth, and when he smiled, white teeth flashed against the darkness of his skin.

  We were seated at opposite sides of his large black desk now. Around the room, on the tables I’d noticed earlier, were stacks of The Wall Street Journal, Barron’s, Forbes, bound volumes of The Value Line Investment Survey, and other publications I’d never heard of. On the desk before him were an open copy of the newspaper-size Wall Street Journal and a magazine with “Electronics” in its title.

  “Tools of the trade,” Rothstein said, noting my glance around the room. “My business is investment. Or speculation, if you prefer. I make — and sometimes lose — money in the market. More precisely, by becoming a part owner of companies which my investigation leads me to believe will grow at a faster rate than the economy, the market, and other similar companies within the industry. I own all the blue chips I want or need — IBM, Du Pont, General Motors, and the like — and I now concentrate exclusively on the larger risk with consequent larger potential for gain.”

  “Playing the long shots, in other words.”

  “Yes, in a way.” He ran a finger down the bridge of his nose. “Are you familiar with the stock market, Mr. Scott?”

  I shook my head. “Look, Mr. Rothstein, let it be said immediately that, while I am very familiar with the m.o. of Hymie the Rat, who burgles with a flair and is fruit for cheese, when it comes to the price of U.S. Lead or the shenanigans of corporation presidents — ”

  “You’ll be meeting a corporation president this afternoon, Mr. Scott.”

  “But — ”

  “I know what I’m doing.” He cut me off with the wave of a beefy hand. “It would be quicker if I disposed of your objections before you raise them.”

  I shrugged. Yeah. If he could do it. So, O.K., I’d listen.

  He went on, “More than a year ago I became interested in the possibilities of a company, Universal Electronics, which has been listed on the American Exchange since nineteen sixty-one. Very interested. Excited, even. It was the most promising speculation I had uncovered in two years. Primarily because the director of research and development of UE — Universal Electronics — was a man, a man of genius I shall say, named Ryder Tangier.”

  “Tangier. Didn’t I read — ”

  The wave of his hand again, with a smile. “The stock was then grossly underpriced. I bought forty thousand shares at an average of eight, and instituted a more intensive investigation of the company, its management, products, history, potential. I became convinced that when research then being conducted — in ultrasonics, bionics, lasers, cryogenics, microminiaturization — eventuated in consumer products already in various stages of development, the stock would rise to twenty, thirty — actually there was almost no reasonable limit. A half million invested in UE could become several millions within a year or two, a capital gain, taxable at only twenty-five per cent instead of ninety-one per cent. An exciting prospect, is it not?”

  “I hope to shout.”

  “My investigations, and personal discussions with officials of the company, including Mr. Tangier, convinced me that the company’s — primarily Mr. Tangier’s — greatest inventions, discoveries, new products lay ahead, in the near future. I bought forty-five thousand more shares, at an average of nine. A few day
s later the bottom dropped out. Auditors uncovered a shortage — only seventy-six thousand dollars, a relatively small amount, but a shortage — and evidence clearly pointed to Ryder Tangier as the thief. He has since been tried, and a month ago was sent to prison.” He paused. “I assume, from your initial reaction to the name, that you’re familiar with the case?”

  “The name at least. I remember reading something about the trial. Not much.”

  “There wasn’t much in the general news. Primarily the story was stressed in financial journals. Well, the stock dropped from a high of ten and three-eighths to seven, then to five. It is now three and five-eighths. I had no stop-loss on my UE stock — in fact, when the story broke I was on my yacht, en route to Acapulco and deliberately taking a sabbatical from the financial news — so I was not stopped out. Consequently, I now own eighty-five thousand shares of UE for which I paid, exclusive of fees and commissions, seven hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Worse, the anticipated rise, which might easily have netted me a million capital gain, or more, has evaporated.” He stopped, grinned again, and said, “I assume this is painful to you, Mr. Scott.”

  “I am bleeding profusely, Mr. Rothstein. And my brilliant logic tells me that, somehow, you hope still to make that million or so. But how I enter into this delicious coup, I fail — ”

  “I come to that now. Mr. Tangier went to prison protesting his innocence — ”

  “Which is s.o.p. For those who plead not guilty, anyhow.”

  “Which he did. More, he contended that his fellow board member-old friend and cofounder of Universal Electronics — one Matthew Wyndham, must in fact be guilty of the embezzlement, since he had induced him to sign papers, write checks, open dummy accounts and had so arranged the evidence that it would point to Ryder Tangier. Mr. Matthew Wyndham is president of Universal Electronics. He is the corporation president whom, as I indicated a few minutes ago, you will meet today.”

  “If I take the case.”

  “I think you will, Mr. Scott. What I want you to do is determine to your own satisfaction whether Ryder Tangier is in truth guilty of the embezzlement. Should you decide he is not guilty, then obviously someone else is. In that case I want you to discover the identity of that person, whether it is the president, Matthew Wyndham, or any other member of the board or person intimately associated with the company. I want you to assume an overwhelming interest in learning the truth, as if you yourself were an owner of the company, and take any action or risk required — with caution, of course. Without a sense of undue urgency.” He paused. “And I believe I know enough about you now, Mr. Scott, to know that when I have completed my explanation you will be dying to take the case.”

  “I’m not crazy about the way you said that.”

  “Eager to take the case, then.”

  “I’ll go along with eager.” I did go along with eager; the guy had me interested now — not hooked, but interested.

  Then he hooked me. Twice.

  “We come now,” he said, “to Axel Scalzo.”

  I sat up straighter. “Scalzo? That sonofabitch? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Possibly nothing, perhaps a good deal. He owns a large block of Universal Electronics stock. More, he was buying that stock even before I made my initial investment in the company — and has continued to purchase shares, several thousand in the last few weeks, since the scandal, since the shares dropped to their all-time low. It may be that he knows something that even I do not know. If so, it would be greatly to my advantage to know what it is.”

  “Yeah. Especially when the man is Scalzo.”

  “You do know who he is, then?”

  I nodded. I knew the s.o.b. We had never gotten intimate, like shooting each other, but one of my first cases in this town, a few months after I’d opened the office, had been a simple extortion case. A businessman, a friend of mine, was being shaken down by two unhealthy-looking characters, whom I braced and told off, and who later got in the first lick at me with a sap, then proceeded to bash me about the head and kick in two of my ribs. Still later, I caught them one at a time and put them both in the hospital, and one of them now walked with a permanent limp.

  The point of the story is that after the whole thing simmered down, the extortion attempt kaput, I learned the two men had been working for Axel Scalzo. No proof; just the word from one of my informants, an ex-con named Sick Eddy Sly. I had good reason to believe that since then more than one of the mugs I’d beefed with, or even sent away to the graveyard, had been associated, one way or another, with Scalzo. But it had never come to a head; it just floated in the bad blood between us like a boil about to settle down and hatch.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know Scalzo.”

  “Would you say he is a gangster? A racketeer?”

  “A hoodlum — and I’d say so. If you asked me to prove it, I couldn’t, not in court. Not at the moment, anyway. But take my word for it, he is.”

  “It disturbs me that so unsavory an individual seems to be taking such an interest in Universal Electronics.”

  “It would disturb me too, if I owned eighty-five thousand shares of the stock. Though I suppose he’s got as much right to buy shares in the company as anybody else. Not much harm in that, is there?”

  “There might well be great harm — and take my word for that, Mr. Scott. Each share of common stock is not only evidence of ownership and equity in the company which issued it, but also a vote. Owners of common stock elect the directors of the company, and those directors elect the officers who run the company. In other words, the common-stockholders determine the management — to me the most important factor in any company — by the election of directors who determine the policy. I’ll not burden you with details of all the ramifications of potential disaster — to thousands, even millions, of stockholders — when men of less than complete integrity become able to influence or even control the policy and expenditures of a corporation.”

  He scowled, looking past me. “But I would refer you to Frank Coster, born Phillip Musica, who stole uncounted millions from McKesson & Robbins in the late twenties and the thirties and who, when exposed, blew out his brains — which was little consolation to McKesson & Robbins stockholders. To brilliant Lowell McAfee Birrell, who fled to Brazil and is now facing numerous indictments, only one of them being the matter of manipulation of Swan-Finch and Doeskin stock, through which manipulation stockholders were fraudulently relieved of approximately fourteen million dollars. To the complex machinations of Alexander Guterma, who in the mid-fifties acquired control of three companies listed on the New York Stock Exchange, engaged in massive swindling — and again, though he was convicted of fraud and sentenced to prison, this was little consolation to those defrauded. And finally to the increasing efforts of gangsters and racketeers to control legitimate businesses through the stock market, by investing their criminal profits in securities of those businesses. As in the case of Stanley Younger, who was associated with convicted felons Lombardozzi, Tortorello, and DeFilippo in boiler-room promotion and manipulation of watered stock — Atlas Gypsum, Shoreland Mines, National Photocopy, Monarch Asbestos . . . .” Rothstein was silent for a few seconds, then smiled. “Of course, Mr. Scalzo may merely be investing some of his capital, putting his money to work for him in a promising corporation. On the other hand . . .”

  “I get a glimmer of light.”

  “My final major illumination, then. One which, before you accept or decline my offer of employment, you should know. A week ago — to do the job which I am now asking you to do — I employed another detective. He learned little, but enough to reinforce my conviction that Ryder Tangier is indeed innocent of the crime for which he is now serving a prison sentence.” He paused. “You can appreciate that if Mr. Tangier is innocent, and can be cleared, and return to Universal Electronics — which I know to be his desire — the future again will be golden. On the other hand, without Ryder Tangier, UE is merely another electronics corporation.”

 
“Sure. If he’s innocent, the bowl is still full of gravy. The bit I don’t understand is why, if you’ve got one investigator working on this for you, you want to hire another.”

  “You will be the only investigator working on it, Mr. Scott. The first one, unfortunately, is dead. He was killed yesterday, at Hollywood Park, during one of the races.”

  He stopped. And I could feel it starting. The queer tickle in my stomach, the gentle tightening of my spine. “I don’t suppose,” I said, “that he was kicked by a horse.”

  “No. He was shot in the back.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I stubbed out another cigarette.

  Gabriel Rothstein’s comment about Hollywood Park told me the murdered detective was a man named John Kay. I’d learned of his death yesterday. I’d known Kay, not well, but we’d met a time or two, had a few drinks together. He had been an old-timer, with a lot of experience, intelligent and capable. But not intelligent and capable enough — or lucky enough — to stay alive this time.

  Rothstein had no idea why John Kay had been murdered. Possibly it was because of the case on which he had been — and, I guessed, I now was — working. But his death could very well have been due to circumstances completely unconnected with his job for Rothstein. It might have been due to his checking on Tangier and Universal Electronics, or Matthew Wyndham, or Axel Scalzo, or the stock market — or missing Aunt Suzie, heir to dad’s wig factory. He’d just been shot, period; that was all anybody, including the police, knew.

  I said, “You figure Tangier was stuck with a frame, right? Is that what Kay came up with?”

  “In part. Shortly after Mr. Tangier was arrested, I met and talked with him myself, and was greatly impressed by the man, his brilliance and apparent integrity. As for Mr. Kay, on Wednesday night, the night before he was killed, he reported to me by phone and stated that he shared my opinion as to Mr. Tangier’s innocence, though he as yet had no concrete evidence to support that belief. However, he said he had talked earlier that night to Mr. Tangier’s daughter and believed that, acting on information she had given him, he might have more concrete evidence in a day or two.”