Kill Him Twice (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Read online

  Very good indeed. His eyes were still a bit dull from shock, but they were level and steady, fixed directly on my own.

  Rawlins said, "What the hell's this about Natasha Antoinette?"

  "Beats me," I told him.

  He scowled slightly, but let it ride.

  It did beat me; I didn't know what the hell it was about Natasha. But, besides that, I had just decided to go along with Mr. Waverly. Primarily because of his answer to my last question. Because he hadn't lied to me. He was holding out on me, obviously. But — at least in this one instance — he hadn't lied. And he could have, very easily.

  He could have said, "Who?" or "I haven't the least notion what you're talking about, you idiot," or any number of things. But he'd simply said — and in front of Lieutenant Rawlins, at that — "I have nothing whatever to say about Natasha Antoinette."

  Good for him. I cling to the old-fashioned notion, not only that Honesty Is the Best Policy but that it's the only one — the only one that works, anyhow. So I said, "O.K., Mr. Waverly. I'll accept your retainer. And I'll do what I can." I paused. "But Heaven help you if you killed him."

  He smiled slowly. "I should think, rather, that it would be the other way around."

  I grinned and suddenly realized that, ever since seeing him here in the room, with a body on the floor and blood on his head, I'd been trying not to like the guy. Without a great deal of success. I stopped trying and shook his hand again. "You're right," I said. "But I suppose I might as well nose about and dig up whatever I can."

  "You might as well." He smiled again. "To the ultimate of your ability and, hopefully, clairvoyance."

  "That's about what I had in mind."

  Oh, we were getting along famously. We liked each other lots. We were about to kiss each other. Then Rawlins kind of spoiled our romance.

  "You're actually going to bat for this joker?" he asked, as though entranced. Then he cleared his throat. "Um, pardon me. I mean, for Mr. Waverly. But — you're actually — "

  "I actually am," I said, interrupting him. "I am now hired, obligated, retained, and thus shall exercise my brawn and wits — is it against the rules, Bill?"

  "No . . ." He looked uncomfortable.

  As I said, we were long-time friends. And a long-time friend does not like to see an old buddy stick his neck way out, like that idol's tongue, and lay it down on a block. Which, I gathered, he felt I was doing.

  "There's a thing or two I didn't get around to mentioning," he went on after a pause. "For one, the joker — um, the individual — who killed Pike beat the daylights out of him first. There is ample evidence of that on the person of Mr. Pike, not to mention the appearance of the scene." He snorted gently through his nostrils. "Though you probably failed to notice the unmistakable evidence."

  "I said, "A police captain once hinted I should not go around stepping on evidence and mashing it all up. So I haven't yet stepped on the late Mr. Pike. But I will, if it's accepted investigatory procedure. As for the physical evidence of a romp, I did dimly perceive it. Through a haze of red and purple gorgeousness. So?"

  I just happened to catch Waverly's expression then. He looked amused.

  This guy was either a very hard case or else a man of supreme poise and aplomb. He was, unquestionably, in a squeeze so tight it should have been pinching even his bladder, but he was nonetheless able to enjoy the spectacle of two imbeciles insulting each other. Either way, he did have that kind of stiff-upper-lip quality apparently born in certain Britishers, that "One more gin-and-tonic, lads, before we die for England" air. Of course, some of them, like mad dogs, went-out-in-the-noonday-sun, too; but Waverly seemed almost depressingly sane and level-headed.

  I said again to Rawlins, "So?"

  He shrugged. "Mr. Waverly?"

  My client — by whom I had been hired, obligated, and retained, and for whom I would at least exercise my brawn — his expression not amused now but one of mild distaste, lifted his hands, palms down.

  They were pretty well banged up, bruised, one knuckle split and with blood caked in the crack.

  Almost as if he'd beaten the daylights out of somebody.

  "Well," I said weakly. "How did that happen?"

  SIX

  It was a rhetorical question, but Waverly answered it. "As I have already informed the lieutenant, I do not know how it happened. I do not know, but the explanation is transparent. I did not hit Mr. Pike. My hands were not like this when I was struck from behind. They were in this condition when I regained consciousness."

  He left it there.

  I said, "Look, Mr. Waverly, if you're trying to tell us this somebody-else killed Pike and then stomped on your hands, say, the lab in SID down at Central — if that's what happened — can almost come up with the size and price of the shoe he used for stomping. Those boys can split a gnat's eyelash so many ways it looks like a bug's wig — "

  "Mr. Scott I am not trying to tell you anything except the facts as I know or understand them. I am quite aware of the seriousness of my position — "

  "It's serious, all right."

  "But I have seen no virtue in stressing the obvious. It is also obvious that I cannot prove I did not kill Mr. Pike, and therefore the preservation of my liberty and perhaps life requires demonstration that someone else did kill him. The truth is both sword and shield, and I can do no more than tell you the truth. Which is what I have done."

  "O.K.," I said. An officer came over and showed Rawlins something on a paper in his hand. Waverly sat down again. I nosed around a bit, talked to a couple of officers I knew, checked the rest of the house, went to the bathroom. Purple can in there. That would just about constipate a man all by itself, I thought. Then I took a peek at Finley Pike, moments before they rolled him away.

  He had been a man about five feet, six inches tall, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, with a pale narrow face and a small brown mole alongside his nose. His eyes, now staring past limp, half-lowered lids, were blue. His face had obviously been pounded on, as if by someone tenderizing a steak, and his skull, of course, was very ugh. Aside from that he looked as if he'd been a nice, harmless, quiet guy. But you never know. On the fourth finger of his right hand he wore either a very vulgar rhinestone or a diamond ring of at least eight carats — it isn't so vulgar if it's a diamond. His suit was dark blue, apparently tailored, and the pale blue shirt was a custom job with small initials, FDP, monogrammed in darker blue over his left breast where a pocket would have been but wasn't. Neat, but not gaudy — except maybe for the diamond or rhinestone. I supposed he pulled down a pretty good chunk from his work for Inside. Whatever it was. I asked Rawlins about that.

  Pike had been one of four vice presidents. Not too many, I guess, at least compared to some Hollywood firms which give a guy a push-broom and a title, Vice President in Charge of Push-Brooms. Part of his job had been to oversee production of several of the most widely read and discussed departments and columns of the weekly, among them "Hits & Misses," a half-page showing the earnings and relative status of major films in release and television shows at or near the top or bottom of the public's favor, a kind of bestseller list of movies and TV productions. Also "Lifelines for the Lifelorn," bylined Amanda Dubonnet, one of those write-me-and-I'll-solve-your-problem-even-if-it's-unsolvable columns, which, despite the fact that I thought it seasoned with a bit too much gush and ick, was one of Inside's most popular and most quoted features — possibly because it was, naturally, concerned primarily with the problems of people in show business. Pike had personally written "Goulash," a bright and witty potpourri of trade news, quotes, inside jokes, and showbiz miscellany.

  I got next to Waverly for perhaps five seconds when nobody else was nearby and said, "Anything else you feel you should tell me?"

  He shook his head.

  "Not even about Natasha?"

  "I've nothing to add. Not . . ." He hesitated. "Not now. I'd like to talk to you tomorrow. After I've . . . slept on this."

  Rawlins walked up as I said, "I co
uld come down to the jail if you — "

  "No. There's no need."

  I looked at Bill Rawlins, then back at Waverly. "If you want me to do a real job for you, it would be stupid to hold back any information that might help me."

  He smiled slightly. "I am not stupid, Mr. Scott."

  "That's what I figured. Well, I'm off." I turned to Rawlins. "See you outside for a minute, Bill?"

  We went out front, and I said, "Check and see if you can turn up any kind of relationship between Waverly — or Pike — and Al Gant."

  "Gant?" His eyebrows went up. "Why him?"

  I told Bill about the near accident. "If it hadn't been Mooneyes at the wheel we might both have wound up scattered on somebody's lawn."

  "Be damned," he said. "Ken mentioned you nearly got hit by a black sedan. But he couldn't see who was in it."

  "Mooneyes, J. B. Kester, and two other mugs in back; I didn't make them. But, considering the company — "

  "Yeah. It probably wasn't the mayor and the chief of police."

  "Not quite."

  "Think they were coming here?"

  "Who knows? Wherever they were going, they were in a tizzy about getting there." I thought a moment. "Waverly's well known. But what do you know about Pike?"

  "Nothing. I never even heard of him before tonight. We'll check his prints. Might help if he's got a record."

  "Not likely — not if he was working for Waverly. But you never can tell. I'll drop in tomorrow, Bill, but if you come up with anything sticky on Waverly, give me a call, will you?"

  He grinned. "You mean more than we've already got?"

  I grinned back at him. "Hell, he couldn't have done it. He's my client."

  "Very funny. Suppose he did."

  "Then I'll break it off in him. I told him as much."

  "Yeah. Thanks for the bit about Gant's boys."

  I told him to take good care of Waverly, and left.

  It seemed unlikely Mooneyes and Company would have been burning up the road to someplace just coincidentally near the spot where a murder had very recently occurred — they were usually there when it happened; but it seemed less likely their boss, Al Gant, could have had any connection with Waverly, or even Pike. True, he had a lot of "investments," in both legitimate and bastard enterprises — always through fronts, guys once or twice removed from him. He was careful; he'd done only one stretch in stir. But that one stretch had built in him a magnificent, a towering antipathy for the guy who, you might say, stirred him. You guessed it: me.

  Al Gant. Born, Aldo Gianetti. Square, solid, built along the unsightly lines of a dump truck, with sloping shoulders and thick arms, and a belly like a beer barrel. Big square teeth with the beauty of little tombstones, all gray — except for one in front that was a kind of off-white. Man, he was a real brute; I figured he wore pants primarily to hide his tail.

  Al and I went back quite a ways. The day we met — I'd been camping close to one of his hoods, a punk who'd muscled a friend of mine — Al was unwise enough to swing on me, and I knocked out one of his front tombstones. Now he had an off-white pivot tooth in front, and he didn't like pivot teeth at all, especially not in his own chops. Besides, it ruined the color scheme.

  We met a few times after that, none of them real fun, and the last time — well, Al had killed a man named Vince, an operator on the fringe of the rackets, not quite in the Syndicate soup. Vince's widow hired me to tag his killer, and I did. I tagged Al Gant, pinned the job on him, and stuck him with it — lightly; he got unstuck. It was cold-blooded, premeditated homicide, Murder One; but he spent sixty G's for and through attorneys, copped a plea, drew one-to-ten in the state slammer, and did ten months. He'd been out for two and a half months now. Maybe he was getting old; maybe the prison chill was still in his bones, or maybe he was just biding his time. But he hadn't tried to kill me yet.

  He would, though. You'd know that if you knew Al. And I knew Al.

  One of the enterprises Al owned — though the owner on record was a guy named Pierce, who'd been financed by a man named Stone . . . and so on — was a restaurant and bar on Hollywood Boulevard called the Apache. Why it was called the Apache, since the hors d'oeuvres were garlic buds and the staple diet was starch, I've no idea. Maybe it had been called the Apache when Gant stole it, and he kept the name for sentimental reasons. Anyhow, he dawdled there much of the time, toying with a tasty dish of fettuccini and sauerkraut — or whatever they serve in those places. I'm not exactly up on Italian food.

  At any rate, it had occurred to me that, if Al was somehow involved in Pike's murder, and if shortly after spotting his slobs in the vicinity of the murder scene I paid a call upon Al Gant himself, then even though I had nothing whatsoever to link Gant to Pike or Waverly, Gant would probably think I did have something.

  Clever? Sure. A clever way to get a couple little pills in my head, the kind that cure headaches but do not dissolve gently in stomachs.

  On the other hand, if Gant was just "biding his time," I preferred that the choice of time be mine, not his. So I drove down Hollywood Boulevard to the Apache.

  SEVEN

  Al Gant was at his usual table in the club's rear, close to the intersection of two walls, flanked by Mooneyes and another man I didn't recognize. He was eating something from a big plate, shoveling the gummy stuff into his mouth and talking to his two pals — with his mouth full, of course.

  I stood at the end of the bar and watched him for a minute or two. An extension phone was on his table, and while I watched he took two calls, glowering. He looked as if something had spoiled his day for sure, and he hadn't even seen me yet. After he hung up for the second time I walked toward his table.

  He was just about to fork a big gob of tastiness into his chops when he saw me. He stopped moving, mouth open and ready, eyes angled sideways at me. The gob on his fork balanced there briefly, then plopped onto his plate. His mouth moved, though. Either he thought he'd got the gob and was chewing, or else he was swearing. I kind of think he was swearing.

  Actually, when I got close enough to hear him I discovered it was a little of both. He was swearing and chewing me out.

  "Al," I said, "you should never eat when you're emotionally disturbed. According to nutritional science — "

  "To hell with them bums. You got a nerve, comin' in here."

  "Well, when I saw your two heavies out at Finley's I figured maybe it was time we had another chat." I looked at Mooneyes. "You and J. B. find any girls out there?"

  He didn't answer me, but Gant said, "Finley's?"

  "Finley Pike's."

  "Who's he?"

  "A guy who got killed tonight. Didn't you know?"

  "How would I know?"

  "That's what I was wondering."

  "I don't even know who the jerk is."

  "Well, maybe I can be wrong."

  "The day you're right — that'll be the day."

  "That's a peculiar thing for you to say, Al."

  He scowled, remembering a day when I'd been right. The phone on his table rang, and, still scowling, he grabbed it. "Yeah, this is Gant," he said. While listening, his scowl went away, to be replaced by an expression that was perhaps as close to unbridled joy as that face could get. He even showed his big, square, gray teeth in a kind of smiling snarl. "Good," he said, "good, that's great. You'll be took care of — "

  He broke it off. He didn't look at me, but he stopped talking suddenly and got up from the table, carrying the phone, a few feet of cord trailing behind him. Just out of earshot he talked for another minute or two, then came back to the table.

  He was clearly happier when he sat down again. His day didn't appear to be ruined any longer, even with me here. Despite his improved disposition, Gant had nothing at all to tell me.

  He didn't know Finley Pike; he didn't know Gordon Waverly; he didn't have any idea where J. B. Kester was; he didn't know the time of day, and even if he did he wouldn't give it to me within three hours. All of which was about what I expected.
r />   So I prepared to leave and told Al I'd see him around, and he replied, "You can count on it, Scott."

  The way he said it, I believed him.

  Natasha Antoinette had an unlisted phone number, but I knew what it was. When I called, though, there was no answer.

  Gordon Waverly's peculiar reticence about speaking of her had intrigued me, and I'd hoped a word or two from Natasha might provide a clue to his reticence. Or at least give me an idea what that original phone call had been about. If, of course, the sniffling woman on the phone had really been Natasha Antoinette.

  Well, I'd try her again, later. In the meantime there was routine work to do. Partly by telephone, but mostly through visits to small smelly bars, apartment houses, and slightly down-at-the-heel hotels, I got in touch with certain men and women on my "list." They were the hangers-on, the small fry and occasionally fairly big fish, people both inside and outside of the rackets with a finger on the criminal pulse or at least ears sensitive to rumbles in the so-called underworld of the city — my sources of information, providers of leads and tips and rumors, the informants without which any investigator is a dead duck.

  I was fishing for any connection between Al Gant and Gordon Waverly or Finley Pike, or for the knowledge, even a hint, of friction, trouble, bad blood between Waverly and Pike. Most of the people to whom I talked had never heard of Waverly or Pike. They knew who Al Gant was, though. And they didn't want any trouble with Al Gant.

  But the word, if there was any to be had, would trickle to me. Some of the people on my list thought they owed me a favor, some wanted me to be a little in their debt, some would take money for information. A couple of them were, in a sense, on my payroll; I gave them money from time to time, and in return they slipped me information they thought I needed, or might need. One of those two, for example, a long-time burglar named Jim Gray, had — nearly a year before — passed on a bit of drunken conversation he'd overheard. An ex-con whose name I didn't even recognize, so the info went, was planning to blast me into two large halves with a shotgun. Thus forewarned I had been forearmed — with my .38 Colt Special and even greater than usual caution about venturing into spooky places — and, when Jim's information proved correct, I got off the first shot and the third, the second being the blast of a shotgun triggered convulsively, and wide of the mark, by the ex-con whose name I didn't even recognize, dying. Thus, thanks to Jim Gray, I was nearly a year older than I might otherwise have been. And — since as a result he was on my payroll for life — he had an interest in my living long.