Dead Heat (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Read online

  “And how.”

  “Well, there ain’t been nothin’ on the wire about it, Scott. But I’ll get on the earie and see if I can pick up something.”

  “Another thing, Eddy. You know anything about the stock market?”

  “All I know is, that’s where they sell cows.”

  “Funny. But if you hear any noise about guys buying stock — securities, common stock — for Axel Scalzo, that would interest me greatly.”

  “Stock. Like in machine-gun factories, or bomb dumps, or — ”

  “Like a company called Universal Electronics, specifically.”

  “Crazy.”

  “Yeah. He’s got a big hunk, and maybe some of his pals could be buying the stock, holding it in their names for him.”

  “What for?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Yeah. Maybe he wants to be a tygoon, huh? Scalzo. What’s with Scalzo?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Just keep your ears flapping. You ever hear of any of these citizens? Ryder Tangier?”

  “Never heard of him. He sounds like a foreign country.”

  “Julie Tangier? Matthew Wyndham?”

  He shook his head.

  “That’s about it I’m kind of in a hurry on this — mainly Kay. Where’ll I meet you?”

  “Four o’clock now, huh? Give me three hours for the first go at it. I shall get slicked up in a new undershirt, and go forth in the city, then later — as is my usual Friday-eve custom — lap up some sauce at Scalzo’s. So why not meet me there at seven?”

  “O.K.”

  Among his other interests, Axel Scalzo owned a cheesy nightclub on Third Street, called the South Seas, and it was the Scalzo’s to which Eddy referred. The South Seas attempted to capture the whole flavor of Polynesia with four papier-mâché palm trees, which failed utterly, and featured booze, steak and lobster, strippers five nights a week, and a new and spreading L.A, epidemic, “Amateur Strip Night,” on Friday nights.

  What had started as an intriguing experiment in one club had caught on and spread to half a dozen others, including the South Seas. It was just what the name implied: a night when gals, not professionals, but merely tomatoes with an urge to bump and grind a bit while exposing pink epidermis, could put on a show for the howling clientele. Gals, caught in the fever, had been known to leap from the audience, yanking things off in a fine frenzy. Or so I’d been told.

  “That’s right,” I said, “this is Friday night, hey, Eddy? Amateur night?”

  “Well, what do you know?” he said innocently. “Who’d of thunk it?”

  Eddy, however, knew what he was doing. Because it was Friday, Scalzo’s joint would be crammed with the light-fingered and heavy-handed gentry, many of them awash in booze to their armpits, and probably with tongues flapping loosely.

  So, with the business at hand settled, I prepared to leave.

  “Thanks for sendin’ me to that last doctor, Scott,” Eddy said. “Thanks for nothin’.”

  “He didn’t help either, huh?”

  Eddy referred to Dr. Paul Anson, a good friend of mine who lives just down the hall from me in the Spartan Apartment Hotel. Since you could usually tell what TV shows Eddy was watching by comparing their commercials with Eddy’s symptoms, and since about half of Paul’s expensive practice consists of giving pink, green, and blue placebos to well-heeled Hollywood hypochondriacs, when Sick Eddy developed twinging alarums in all eight of his sinus cavities, I suggested he start watching the U.S. Steel Hour and pay a visit, at my expense, to Dr. Paul Anson. That had been a couple months ago and I hadn’t yet heard the result from Eddy. But he was damned sure I was going to hear about it now.

  “Help?” he said in high dudgeon. “He’s the kind of doctor takes your pulse and won’t give it back. He like to of killed me. He give me a shot to cure me of something, then he give me a shot to cure me of the first shot. You want to know what I think? I think he give me a transfusing of embalm fluid. I been gettin’ stiffer ever since I was there — ”

  “Eddy, there are times when medical science is helpless in the face of disasters like epidemics and earthquakes and Eddy Sly, but I’m sure Paul did his best — ”

  “Well, it wasn’t good enough, Scott. In fact, it was worse than useless, like toilet paper with holes in it or deodorants made out of sweat. I come out sicker’n I went in. I know my days was numbered before, but he subtracted some — ”

  “Eddy,” I said solemnly, “you’re right.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve convinced me. I imagine by now you’re in such bad shape that if you got well the shock would kill you.”

  “Huh?” he said again, and I made it to the door.

  I got it open and stepped outside before he recovered. As I started down the hall he was saying, “But, man, I don’t dare walk through a cemetery; somethin’ would reach out . . . ” And then I was beyond earshot. Feeling great. It didn’t drag me down when I saw Eddy; on the contrary, whenever I left Sick Eddy Sly, I left feeling healthy as hell.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Still feeling very healthy, I drove up Santa Monica Boulevard to the Universal Electronics Building — which housed the executive offices and a large warehousing area — and parked in the lot. The building was low and new-looking, four or five feet of red brick at its base, beige stucco above that. Double doors at the building’s left, lettered universal electronics, inc., opened on a wide hallway and I stepped inside, my heels clicking softly on the floor’s polished-cork surface.

  Doors on both sides of the hallway were closed, but the nearest one on my left bore the name mr. matthew wyndham, president. I pushed it open and went in.

  Went in and stopped. Made a noise much like the noise Eddy had made on awakening: “Waowoo,” or word to that effect.

  She — it was a woman, of course — sat behind a beige desk at the far side of the room, left of center, near a door leading to another office. On the right wall were filing cabinets, and on the left some charts, but this I noted only with the edges of my eyes, since the eye innards were straining at the tomato. A rust-blonde tomato, hair thick and growingly healthy, lips and eyes and what I could see of her above the desk all parts of a human heat wave. She glanced up at me, smiling, and bells rang. I thought, This is ridiculous, then realized the bell was merely a phone ringing somewhere, the sound issuing from the intercom on the lovely’s desk.

  I steamed forward over the carpet toward the smiling gat as her eyes widened and a voice said, “Hello . . . yes. This is Matt — ” and then was cut off as the gal, in pretty confusion, flipped the intercom switch, grabbed a manila folder, and stood up.

  “Darn, I forgot it again,” she said, and walked toward the filing cabinets on my right, moving with the ripple and sway and woweewow seldom seen outside nudist camps. At the cabinet she said, “I’d forget my girdle . . . ” and even before she completed the sentence, turning to glance at me again, I had thought, Who’re you kidding? anticipating her conclusion, which naturally was: “. . . if I wore one.”

  She slipped the folder in the file and turned to face me. I grinned at her just on general principles — and the door in the back wall banged open. A guy came through it in a large hurry, stalking toward the hallway. I was between him and the exit, and he’d come out so fast he nearly ran into me. He stopped, gunned his eyes at me while his jaw sagged an inch, a short, wide, stubby guy with an expression almost like dismay on his pimpled chops. Then he zipped around me and out, slamming the door behind him.

  The gal walked back to her desk, and I followed every inch every inch of the way, until she sat down and said, “May I help you with some assistance?”

  Had I been calm, cool, sharp as a tack, and collected, something about those words might well have struck me as mildly warped. But at that moment I was not calm, cool, sharp as a tack, and collected.

  I said, “The probability is astronomical. I’m Shell Scott—Are you Miss Brandt . . .”

  I was looking at the name plate on her d
esk, naturally expecting to see the name of Wyndham’s secretary, Alice Brandt, the gal I’d been told was built like a brick brick-factory, but the name plate said miss duden, so I let it finish sort of limply: “ . . . Miss Duden?”

  She laughed. “Are you Miss Brandt, Miss Duden? Now what kind of a question is that? How could Miss Brandt be me, or me — or is it I? — be, ah — ”

  “Yeah, let’s forget it,” I said. “My name is Shell Scott. I’d like to see Mr. Wyndham. O.K.?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  She flipped the intercom switch and said, “Mr. Wyndham, there’s a Mr. Shell Scott here to see you.”

  After a three- or four-second pause a man’s voice, the same one I’d heard before over the intercom, replied, “Well, all right, send him in. In one minute, Doody.”

  She flipped the intercom switch and smiled up at me. “That’s me. Doody.”

  “I figured it was. What happened to Miss Brandt? Not that I mind — ”

  “Oh, she went away somewhere, three weeks ago, and I got her job. My first name’s really Nell, but I can’t stand the name Nell, can you?”

  “Well — ”

  “I hate it. That’s why everybody calls me Doody.”

  I thought that was smart. She sure didn’t look like a Nell.

  Doody went on, “That’s why Mr. Wyndham called me Doody.”

  It was starting to be borne in upon me that considering this gal’s stunning face and figure, perhaps the law of compensation had overcompensated when it came to the mental department of Doody.

  Something she’d said, a phrase scattered among her remarks, stuck in my thoughts, and I was just going to ask what she’d meant by saying Miss Brandt had gone away somewhere, when Doody said, “I guess it’s been a minute. You may go in now.”

  Well, questions would keep. I thanked her, went to the office door and inside.

  Matthew Wyndham sat behind a brown desk, a desk with the total barrenness of paper or gewgaws which is supposed, I gather, to indicate fiendish application and activity, and nodded, smiling pleasantly as I came in.

  “Mr. Scott?” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?”

  The voice was rich and deep, and he had wavy gray hair over a handsome pink-cheeked face on which was the frank, open, friendly expression of a man who could sell Cadillacs to Volkswagen salesmen, or vice versa. He stood up and leaned over the desk as I approached, shaking my hand in a firm grip. He appeared to be in his middle fifties, about five feet, ten inches tall and thirty pounds overweight.

  I smiled back at his neat white teeth and said, “No sir. I represent one of your stockholders, a man interested in investing a sizable amount in Universal Electronics.”

  “Oh? What is the man’s name?”

  “I’d prefer not to say, Mr. Wyndham. He’s concerned primarily with the company’s prospects, of course, the new products and the plans for expansion and distribution mentioned in your last annual report. Especially when you intend to introduce the new ultrasonic blender and miniaturized RDF we’ve been hearing about.” I went on for another minute, asking questions and making comments which Gabriel Rothstein had said should make me sound like a man who knew what he was talking about. Then I finished it up, casually, “Naturally, too, he’s concerned about any continuing effect the thievery by Ryder Tangier might have on the stock.”

  Wyndham listened patiently, attentively, and nodded when I stopped speaking. “Yes,” he said quietly, “Ryder’s — Mr. Tangier’s — defalcation was a blow to all of us. Especially to me. For a month prior to the audit I had noticed Mr. Tangier’s increasing nervousness and irritability, but assumed it was merely the press of work, creative tension. . . . However that’s a closed chapter. I can assure you there’s no possibility such a thing could happen again.”

  “You’ve never had any doubt of his guilt, then?”

  “Doubt?” He looked mildly surprised. “Well, perhaps at first, but then . . . Of course, I did what I could for Ryder at the trial. Even spoke to the judge in hopes of leniency. I said I was sure the board, myself included, would welcome Mr. Tangier back as head of R and D if he could be given probation, and that I personally would guarantee the firm — that is, the stockholders — would suffer no similar loss in the future. It wasn’t enough. . . . But I assume you’re familiar with the result.”

  “Yes. Incidentally, I understand your secretary was a character witness for Mr. Tangier at the trial.” I smiled and added pleasantly, “She didn’t get fired because of that, did she?”

  Wyndham laughed softly. “Goodness, no. I wanted her to stay. She quit suddenly, and I was quite at my wit’s end until Doo — Miss Duden applied for the position.” His eyes, unless I was imagining things, took on a rather hot and distant expression as he momentarily thought of “Doo — Miss Duden.”

  Then he blinked, his eyes came back, cooling, and he launched into a glowing description of Universal Electronics’ rosy future, peppering his talk with facts and figures about price-earnings ratio, reduction of long-term debt, and a great deal of other gibberish.

  He finished it up with, “While it is certainly true that Mr. Tangier was of great value to the company, I would say we still have, without him, an R-and-D section second to none in the entire industry. And, of course, many of the projects initiated by Mr. Tangier will be completed by others. No, Mr. Scott, rest assured that Universal Electronics is on the threshold of its greatest successes.”

  He was a man of enthusiasm, no doubt about it. I got the impression that if there’d been a UE pennant handy, he’d have grabbed it and marched around the room, waving it wildly. He leaned over and stabbed the switch on his intercom and said, “Doo — Miss Duden, bring me file sixteen, please.”

  “Right away, Mr. Wyndham.”

  In a few seconds the door opened and the gorgeous rust-blonde gal scurried in from the outer office, the free play of numerous forces, not one of which seemed to include gravity, testifying en masse to her total absence of girdles and other such crutches, and while I am a guy who almost never fails to devote his entire attention to glorious vistas such as that, I had sense enough or will power enough to give part of my attention to Matthew Wyndham.

  Yeah, his eyes did that thing again. He watched every ripple and flurry and supercharged undulation with the intentness of a dedicated scientist finding a brand-new bug under his microscope. I’ll tell you, roughly, what it was like. In another, earlier, time, it would have been a look accompanied by grunting noises, the flaring of nostrils, and the swinging of a stone ax on the top of her conk.

  Doody deposited a manila folder on Wyndham’s desk, then headed for the door. There she turned jazzily and said, “Will there be anything else tonight, Mr. Wyndham?”

  “Anything else? Ah, no, no, that’s all.” He glanced at his watch. “You may go, Doo — ” He just left it hanging there.

  As the door closed behind her, I commented on a framed photo I’d noticed on his desk. It was of a middle-aged woman, with the sort of face you see on English butlers, and two teen-agers, a boy and a girl. “Your family, Mr. Wyndham?” I said, indicating the photo.

  “What? Oh . . . yes.” He shook himself like a dog coming out of a lake. “Yes, indeed. My wife, Maude, and our two youngsters. Are you married, Mr. Scott?”

  “No.” I smiled. “Still a bachelor.”

  “A bachelor, eh? Um . . . ” He rolled that “um” around for a bit, as if extracting all possible flavor from it.

  So while he was occupied with rolling it around, I said pleasantly, “One other thing. Do you have any idea why Mr. Scalzo is attracted to UE stock?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Scalzo. Axel Scalzo.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe I know anybody of that name. Scalzo?”

  “Yeah. Well, he owns a pretty good chunk of the company’s stock.”

  “Indeed.”

  He blinked, a
nd fell silent. And I decided that was about enough of the interview for today. I assumed that John Kay must have come here to talk with Matthew Wyndham too, but I didn’t want to bring it up myself. It appeared that Mr. Wyndham wasn’t going to mention it either. But he fooled me.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “your comments remind me of something. Oddly enough, you’re the second detective to mention the name Scalzo to me. The other was here, oh, a week or so ago.” His forehead furrowed slightly as he reached into memory. “Mr. Kay I think it was.” He paused. “Who is this gentleman Scalzo?”

  “He isn’t a gentleman. Never mind. I just thought I’d ask.”

  Mr. Wyndham’s remarks about Kay had surprised and puzzled me a bit. Not because he’d mentioned Kay’s name. It was just that I had not told Mr. Wyndham that I was a detective.

  He looked at his wife’s photo again, then at his watch. “I hope I’ve been of service, Mr. Scott. But I must leave the office now.” Perhaps it sounded a bit abrupt, because he relaxed somewhat and smiled pleasantly again. “Dinner-dance at the club, you know. Promised my wife a little outing. And if I’m late again . . . ” He did not finish telling me what would happen, but my impression was that Mrs. Wyndham would, in that case, do something extremely nauseating to Mr. Wyndham.

  I stood up and we shook hands. I said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Wyndham. You’ve been quite helpful.”

  I went out, closing the door behind me. Doody was across the room near a small closet, slipping a cream-colored coat on over her pale-green knit suit. She headed for the hallway door as I reached it, so I held it open and said, “All through?”

  “All through. Thank you.” She swept past me, a scent of delicate perfume titillating my nostrils. I followed my nostrils, letting them flare all they wanted to.

  Understand, I do not let my penchant for gorgeous females interfere with my total dedication to the job at hand. At least, not often. Certainly not all the time. And it is undeniably true that in many cases, when it is necessary to investigate a clam-mouthed company executive or too-secretive businessman, much more of value can be mulcted from the said businessman’s secretary than from the man himself. The personal secretary usually knows all sorts of interesting things about the boss and, properly approached, sometimes will tell all sorts of interesting things about the boss.