The Cockeyed Corpse (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Read online

  I straightened up, glanced at the dwindling figure of the second man, then down at the dead cowboy again.

  Restful, relaxing vacation. Yeah.

  chapter three

  Horses!

  You can have them. Give me dogs or cats, or lions — or tropical fish. That’s my kind of animal: Fish. I am an expert on tropical fish. But what I dont know about horses is a lot more than I know about fish.

  I’d thought it would be a simple matter to put the dead guy on the horses back and tie him there loosely, and then lead him to my Cad — which had stopped a couple of hundred yards away against some kind of spiny flora, which was probably a cactus. Maybe I should have gotten the Cad first, then come back to pick up the dead man and the horse. I hadn’t, simply because it didn’t seem to make much difference, so long as I got all three — Cad, man, and horse — together. Who would think youd have to plan such a thing like an engineering problem? So that was my second mistake of the day.

  The damned horse was now about half a mile away, apparently bound for Wyoming, the dead guy still U-shaped over the saddle, apparently hung on the saddle horn, or pommel, or whatever those things are that saddles have. I finished swearing, climbed into the Cad and headed after him.

  Well, I got close. Never there, but close. You can’t tell me horses dont have intelligence. They have a diabolical intelligence. This one was playing a game with me, and winning. I’d drive to within a few yards of the animal, stop the car, get out, and start sneaking up on him, then he would snicker at me and trot away. The last time that happened I left the Cad behind and stayed on foot, walking in the horses general direction — as if going somewhere else.

  It had occurred to me that I was going to have to outwit this horse. Well, I said aloud, guess I’ll go over there and look at those mountains.

  Maybe it wasn’t exactly a cool, logical approach to the problem, but I was still somewhat shaken by the episode at the gate and since the horse had been winning so far it seemed entirely sensible to adopt a new and tricky approach. So I stood there, alone in the middle of the empty desert, feigning vast disinterest in horses.

  He was watching me out of glittery eyes, arching his neck and tossing his head. Just beyond him there were some mountains, or at least hills, spotted with silvery-gray sagebrush, greasewood, and occasional gray boulders. A lizard or snake scurried from under a bush and vanished behind a low flat rock.

  Above me, a mile or more away at the end of a narrow boulder-cluttered canyon, was some kind of wooden building, and when I saw it I suddenly realized where I was standing now. I’d been here before. The cabin was the one Russ Cordiner had built several years ago, when he and his wife moved to Arizona; I’d spent those few weekends up there with them. So the dude ranch itself would be five miles or so on my right — to the north — and nearby on my left, I remembered was a small lake, a cool and pleasant spot where Russ and I had several times sat and talked. The little stream that fed the lake curved around and flowed back out of Russs property, and at the bend of the stream he’d bulldozed an acre or so to enlarge the small pool already there into a quite satisfactory lake.

  And I would have sworn I heard sounds from the spot where that lake was. I listened, but they werent repeated. Maybe it was just my imagination. I knew nobody lived up in the old cabin now.

  Then the horse let out another nickering snort. Maybe that’s what I’d heard. A nickering snort. I sauntered casually away. Then he broke into a trot and moved another few yards farther to my left.

  And I heard the sounds again. Voices. I couldnt make out the words, but there definitely were people somewhere near. The sounds had come from where I remembered the small lake to be, though I couldnt see it from here. At either side of the dead-end canyon, it’s walls sloped gently upward into small rolling hills. Close by on my left the ground rose precipitately, studded with a jumble of rocks and boulders, and beyond that spot was the lake.

  Quite likely it was Mom and Dad and two kids on a picnic; but once shot at is twice shy where I’m concerned. So I pulled my Colt out, held it in my right hand and moved shyly forward, following the base of a small cliff as it curved slightly around toward the lake. I could hear a voice clearly now. It was a man’s voice.

  O.K., it said. Waitll I move that damned rock and well wrap it up.

  What the He’ll? Wrapping rocks? I moved forward, not quite so carefully, but with the .38 still ready. There was the glint of sunlight on water, view of a few stunted trees, several large boulders — but no people. Directly ahead of me, ten yards away, was a big gray boulder, worn smooth by wind and rain, about eight feet high at it’s peak, six or seven feet wide at it’s base. I could hear movement from beyond the boulder.

  I moved forward quickly, reached the boulder and was starting to step to my right so I could peek around it — and stopped. Something queer was going on. Something very queer.

  I was sure I was standing stock still. But the boulder was moving. I guessed the thing must have weighed twenty tons if it weighed an ounce, but it sure as He’ll was moving.

  I heard a guy grunt and say, Goddam, this is sure a heavy rock.

  I closed my eyes, shook my head. Had all those bullets missed me? I just stood there, my mouth hanging open a little way.

  The boulder wobbled, moved, and floated up into the air! Two legs, and a pair of feet, stuck out from beneath it. They walked several feet to the left, the boulder tilted then thudded down onto the ground.

  And I let out a high honking noise.

  Not because the boulder had moved. But because, by moving, it revealed what had been concealed behind it. Between me and the lake were four women, four gorgeous women, and nothing was concealed any more, since those gorgeous women had no clothes on. They just stood there like art studies for progressive citizens, not more than ten feet from me, unmoving, unclad, unretouched, undulating, and apparently totally uninhibited, and my eyes started bugging out like corks preparing to pop from bottles.

  But a wave of sadness swept over me. Of course — none of this was happening. It couldnt be; it was too grand. There hadn’t been any friendly cowboy trying to kill me, or intelligent horse outwitting me, or boulder levitating — and there werent any four gorgeous nude tomatoes. I was home in bed, twitching a little, a wide, contented smile on my chops. This was a fantasy, a dream — or maybe I was dead. He’ll, if I was, it was better than living.

  All this went through my dead brain like lightning, and I was still standing there with my gun stuck out like a metal appendage, and my eyes sticking out more than a little, and making the high honking sound — when things started to happen.

  Those four nude tomatoes let out four bloodcurdling screams, and there was action like you never saw in your life. One gal went this way and another that way, and a third began flailing her arms about — up top, then down below, then ineffectively half and half — and the fourth gal scrunched over, flipping up one leg and hugging her chest with both arms. Chest! That’s a euphemism if I ever heard one, for the most astounding pair of, well, chest, this side of Mississippi. She was a tall, slim blonde gal, but not at all slim where she was hugging, and she yelped, Aaaaaaah!

  It was real. I had stumbled into a Nudist Camp.

  For another few seconds the activity continued and even accelerated, and there was a wild fleshy flurry of arms, hands, knees, breasts, thighs — all those good things. Then there was a roar — a male roar — as a man shouted:

  Where in bloody He’ll did you come from?

  It’s real, I said.

  What? A tall, good-looking bushy-haired young guy was moving forward on my left. He stopped a couple feet from me and said, Who the He’ll are you, Charlie?

  My brain came to life again. I’m not Charlie, I said. I still didn’t know what kind of picnic was going on here, but I was anxious to find out. Ah . . . I’m Shell Scott, I heard voices, and I didn’t know . . . That wasn’t it. I started over. I didn’t have any idea . . .

  Keerist! he interrupted me
. Dont shoot! He’d just noticed the gun in my hand.

  Sorry, I said. I slipped the Colt back into it’s holster and went on, I thought it might be somebody else here. Some ape just took a shot at me, tried to kill me, and I thought maybe his pal was here.

  Huh. He didn’t believe me. A clever story. You had no idea we were filming The Wild West here, did you? Not much, you didn’t.

  The Wild . . . is this it? I looked around, and my eye fell on a station wagon and some equipment over on the far side of the little lake. I spotted a tripod topped by what was obviously a movie camera. Ben didn’t tell me, I mumbled half to myself. The dog — he didn’t want me to know!

  What in He’ll are you talking about? Did you say Ben?

  Yeah, Ben Freedlander. I guess youd be Ed Finch, right?

  That’s right. What the He’ll have you got to do with Ben? Did he tell you to come sneaking up here and peek at the girls, or was it your idea?

  I glanced at him. With all that dark hair and tanned skin and blue eyes, he was quite a good-looking guy, except that his eyes were maybe too close together. But if he did work like this every day, I was surprised they werent actually touching. He was beginning to bug me a little with his big mouth, however.

  I said, I already told you, Finch, I came — sneaking up here as you put it — because a fake cowboy took a shot at me, and I thought maybe his co-shooter was here.

  I was looking away from him as I said that, for the same reason I’d only glanced at him in the first place. The four lovelies, who had been scattered over a sizable portion of the landscape, had overcome their shock very quickly and walked toward us. Now they were standing in a group only a few feet away.

  It was almost impossible to avoid looking at the gals from time to time, and I was exhilarated to note they didn’t seem to mind my not avoiding it. In the group was a tall blonde — the one whod been hugging her chest, but was not now hugging it — a little black-haired gal about five feet, two inches tall, and two medium-sized ones, a stunning gal with chestnut-colored hair and a flaming redhead who looked as if shed graduated from Vic Tannys at least twice.

  The redhead was looking straight at me, and said in a peculiar high voice reminiscent of several crickets rubbing their legs together, I’ll bet I know what you are. Youre a Peeping Tom.

  Good grief, no. You have entirely the wrong —

  Youre a masher! Fortunately, she was smiling.

  No, no. Well, not exactly —

  The other medium-sized lovely, the stunning gal with long chestnut-colored hair — medium referring only to her vertical inches — said, I heard what you were just saying. Did someone really shoot at you, Mr. Scott?

  This wasn’t a voice like crickets. This was low and soft, like honeymoon whispers, aural hormones that tied granny knots in my dendrites. No, not granny knots, or even granpa knots, but something more like sheet knots. She looked vaguely familiar to me, intriguingly familiar.

  We thought we heard something, she went on, maybe gunshots.

  At last somebody here was making sense. I said, Yes, maam, someone really did shoot at me. As a result of which I was forced to shoot him. And I truly thought there might be other such anti-social fellows here, which is why I skulked up with a gun. If I’d had any idea . . . I let it trail off. How did you know my name was Scott?

  I recognized you — I live in Los Angeles. You are the detective, arent you? Shell Scott?

  Yes, maam.

  She smiled. Dont call me maam. I’m April. There’s no point now in being . . . stuffy, is there?

  I’ll say not. Well, ah . . . how do you do, April? I looked at the other three. And I suppose these are May, June, and July?

  They all laughed; they thought I’d said a funny. I guess part of me, the head part, was still dreaming, and I’d assumed they had sprung at me from the private files of Playboy magazine.

  This April, for example, was a shockingly beautiful woman, especially dressed as she wasn’t . The chestnut-brown hair tangled the sun, and her eyes were the blue you sometimes see in the flames of acetylene torches. Plus smooth, generous lips that were smiling now, lips that hadn’t ever frowned much. And that voice — youd almost swear it was nude. And about 37-22-36 at that.

  All four of these gals were fashioned like you-wouldnt-believe it, but never mind the specific measurements; who cares about mathematics at a time like this? Besides, probably the only man who could describe it would be the guy who wrote Fun With Figures. Suffice to say, the sight of all four of them at once was enough to turn cats into tigers or make mice tree lions or — to get back home again — make weak men strong as Samsons. And I’d started out pretty peppy, in the first place.

  April said, May and June. . . . Oh, goodness no. This is Choo Choo.

  She indicated the Vic Tanny graduate, the redhead, who said in the crickety voice, Hi, Shell.

  Hi, yourself. I grinned at her.

  And Delise, April went on, pointing to the tall, slender blonde. And Zia. Zia was the small black-haired doll.

  They all smiled.

  Look, Charlie, why dont you beat it? Weve got work to do. That was the bushy-haired lad on my left.

  I looked at him. This egg sure knew how to raise my hackles, but I merely said, I already told you I didn’t intend to interrupt the proceedings. But as long as I have, you might as well know now why I’m here. You already know I’m a private detective, and I guess you all know Ben Freedlander.

  They nodded; the girls hadn’t met him, but they knew he was the big wheel and money man of Edben Productions. I went on, He’s hired me to check on the death of Jeanne Blair, just to make sure it was really an accident.

  Really an accident? Ed interrupted. He’ll, she fell off a horse.

  That’s what I hear, I said. Do you think that’s what happened? Any chance she might have been helped a little? I looked around at the five faces.

  There was a murmur of comment from the girls. It was awful what had happened to Jeanne, but theyd never had the slightest idea it might have been anything but an accident. Why would anyone kill little Jeanne? For just a moment I’d thought April, alone of the four girls, might have been going to say something else.

  Look, I said, I dont say anyone killed her. I just want to be sure, before I leave here, that it really was an accident, I paused, thinking about Karl Hooper, and what Russ told me on the phone last night. By the way, I said, do any of you know a man named Calvin, supposed to be staying here?

  Delise said, Harold Calvin? Hal?

  That’s him.

  She nodded. We all know him — oh, only to talk to. Or rather he talked to us a couple of times, by the pool. She took a deep breath, and I almost forgot to pay attention to what she was saying. Golly, he’s a handsome one, though.

  That’s him. I thought a minute. Tell me if any of these names ring a bell. Karl Hooper? No reaction. Dodo, Farmer —

  There’s a big fellow I’ve heard Mr. Calvin call Farmer, Zia said. He looks like he might be a farmer.

  He wasn’t .

  Listen, Finch said, this is a lot of fun, but I’ve got to wrap up this damned picture today, understand? Or at the latest by tomorrow — so just blow, will you, Charlie?

  Zia, the little black-haired girl said, Ed, dont get him mad. He looks like he might eat you alive.

  Well, that was an exaggeration, surely. It’s true that I loomed a bit large next to this Eds approximate five-nine and one-sixty, and I’m an ex-Marine with an ex-Marine face on which a little of the war was fought, and with that mess topped off by the white hair and eyebrows I look no more delicate than a sabretoothed tiger — but I wouldnt eat him alive.

  Ed sucked air through his teeth but didn’t say anything more. Zia did, though. Looking up at me she said, speaking slowly and deliberately, and with a slight accent, We do have to finish a couple of scenes this afternoon, Mr. Scott —

  Shell.

  Shell. But we ought to be through by five or so. We usually stop in the bar before dinner —

>   I’ll be there!

  She smiled. So maybe youd like to buy us all a drink about . . . six?

  You bet. I’d even be willing to bring some booze out here —

  Well get all dressed up for you. Wouldnt you like to see us in something pretty?

  I considered that one for several seconds, with what must have been a very blank look on my face, before I realized that Zia was playing a little game with me. First a horse, then Zia, this was my day.

  Finally I said, I can’t think of anything more exciting.

  She chuckled, and casually shifted her weight from one shapely leg to another, hips rolling as if on liquid ball bearings. Man, there simply wasn’t much choice among these gals. Take this Zia, for instance. The smallest of the bunch, she was only about five-two and a hundred pounds or so, but she had a thick hawser of black, black hair that was now hanging down past her neck and over one shoulder, veiling one provocatively protruberant breast, black brows and lashes like slashes of India ink against the dark tan of her skin. Her lips looked as if they might start frying each other, and dark lids hung heavily over eyes as black as the devils. She was young, perhaps twenty-one, but the eyes were wise, burning into mine now.

  Come on, Charlie, move, Ed said. Youve seen what you came here to see, havent you? So go back where you came from.

  I will take a lot of lip under some circumstances, but those circumstances did not at the moment apply. I could feel my jaw muscles bulging, and the cords in my forearms tightening, but I turned my head slowly toward him and kept my voice level. Ed, if you call me Charlie again, I am going to pop you. And I am going to tell you once again, for the last time in my life, the only reason I came here at all . . .

  I heard something.

  Ed pulled his brows down, lowered his head slightly, started to speak — and stopped. He turned his head, listening. He’d heard it, too.

  Then I saw what was making the noise. It was my horse.

  Maybe he only wanted to play some more. But he walked slowly closer, saddle leather creaking in the stillness, and stopped three or four yards away. The dead cowboy was still draped over the saddle. Draped very loosely to be sure, the rope nearly off his back and his cartridge belt caught on the saddle horn, but still there. His legs stuck out almost at a right angle from the saddle and his head hung down loosely, arms dangling so that his fingers were only a foot or so above the ground. Blood had seeped from the man’s chest and drained down over one side of his face, thick and red on his cheek. As the horse moved slightly, the dead man’s head swayed rhythmically to and fro like a pendulum.