The Scrambled Yeggs (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 8

  I put my coke on his desk, sat down and laughed. “You must be about down to your last million.”

  “Terrible,” he sighed. “Terrible. What's the honor, Scotty?”

  “A little snooping. Thought you might have some dope I could use.”

  “Anything I got, Scotty. Anytime.”

  I held up three fingers and folded them down one at a time. “Joey Maddern.” He looked blank and I folded down the second finger. “Eddie Kash.” He nodded and I said, “Joe Brooks.” He nodded some more. “Start with Brooks,” I said.

  He looked at me sorrowfully. “Not much. Worked for Drag downtown, handled bets. Say three months, six months. I didn't know him personal. Two, three days back he gets bumped off.”

  “Bumped off? You mean a job?”

  “Naw. Just bumped off. I think he gets hit by a car. I'm not sure; he don't mean nothing to me. I should worry.”

  “That's the way it stands,” I said. “Hit-and-run. You got anything at all that says it smells?”

  He shook his head. I swigged my coke and said, “There's rumors, Cookie. Rumors that if a guy wants a job done on some other guy and wants a nice clean job done and doesn't want to do it himself, he can get it done for a price. Clean and simple and he stays out of it himself. What about it?”

  He looked sadder than ever, if that was possible. He got up and went to the door, opened it, looked out. Then he closed the door, came back and sat down. “Look, Scotty,” he said. “That's big league. Not good to mess around with. I tell you this much. You want a job done, you can get it done all right, but who, where, how, I wouldn't know. Might be I could find out; might be I couldn't. But I don't want to know. You know the score, kid. It's the same in Chi or New York, any big town. And the same here; you nose it around you want to do business and you can do business, all right. And there's been business done. But outside of that, I am strictly from the country.”

  “Straight goods?”

  “Straight, Scotty. I always give it to you straight, don't I?”

  “Good enough. How about Kash? You got anything on him?”

  He grinned lugubriously, like an undertaker at a train wreck. “He's one of Drag's best customers,” he said. “Wish he was mine. He knows horses like I know Miss Universe. Once in a while he makes a package, but mostly he drops it. It looks like he takes the cure a few months back; he gets in so deep Drag cuts him off. He even comes out here and wants me to take his markers, but the word's out so we tell him Christmas is next year. Then a little while later he waltzes back into Drag's and starts picking wrong ones all over again.” He shook his head. “Give me twenty like him and I retire in a year.”

  “How long ago was this? This temporary cure?”

  He stuck out his thin lower lip and thought about it “Four, five months maybe. Hell Scotty, you know we don't keep no records.

  I grinned at him. “This is me, remember?”

  He frowned. “Well,” he said, “he didn't bet nothing with me, but he wanted me to take his marker for a thousand on Paperboy in the Santa Anita Handicap.” He unlocked his middle desk drawer, pulled a loose-leaf notebook out of it and flipped the pages. “Hundred Grander, that was run on Saturday, February 26th. So he was out here then. Lucky for him he didn't get anybody to take his paper; Third Rail won that one at $42.60. Paperboy runs clear out.” He looked up. “Lucky for me, too. I'd probably been stuck for a while with his marker.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Well, Cookie, I've got a date downtown. Thanks for the dope.”

  “For nothin',” he said.

  I told him, “Drop in and see me if you want anything.” He blinked sorrowfully at me and I went out. The redhead and Squat-and-Ugly were leaning on the coke counter. I said, “So long, muggs,” and let them grin at me.

  Samson took the well-chewed, unlighted cigar out of his mouth when I walked in and stuck out his cast-iron jaw.

  “Okay,” he growled, “what's this dope you talked about on the phone?”

  No cracks about divorce cases even. He had to be pretty worried to pass up a chance to dig me. I briefed him quickly on how I'd learned Joe was Joey Maddern and he said, “This Maddern got in a little jam, all right. Passed a couple bad checks and lammed out. Not much dough involved, but he preferred the California sunshine to an Illinois jail. Naturally.”

  I said, “I've got a couple angles, Sam. How about getting out that list you showed me when I was here last night?”

  He said, “Got a copy here in my desk,” dug it out and handed it to me.

  I looked at it. “Like a dope, I skipped over this last night. This Elias Johnson. Would he be the late Johnson of the Johnson-Kash enterprises?”

  Samson fixed his brown eyes on me. “He would. What're you getting at?”

  “There's a couple angles. This Kash is an unpleasant character that doesn't seem to like private detectives. This one, anyway.”

  Sam pulled the cigar out of his mouth, put it back in and lit it. “All right. What's your angle on Kash?”

  “Take a good look at that list of yours,” I told him. “There's Elias Johnson, Kash's partner. He's a hit-and-run job. Then there's Joe Brooks. Or Joey Maddern. Another one. Both of them hit-and-run capers, both dead and one of them is Eddie's partner, the other the guy he placed bets with at Dragoon's horse parlor. Also, I know Eddie and Joe were a little chummy.”

  “So what, Shell? Funny, yes. Suspicious even. But when Johnson got his, we made a check. Everything looked aboveboard. I admit, if it had happened in the last week or two, now that things are stirred up so much, we might have gone over it closer. But don't forget, either, we're still on it. And before you take a guy into court and try to convict him, you'd better have proof positive, or else you just take him in and let him go again, clean. Besides, when this Maddern gets knocked off, we checked Eddie among others and he was as clean as a whistle.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Joe got lumped Wednesday night sometime before eleven. From six o'clock at night till one o'clock Thursday morning, Kash was in a table-stakes poker game with a lot of money on the table. He was down three, four grand early in the game, but by one A.M. he was almost even so he pulled out. But he was in every hand all night. Right up to about one, Thursday A.M. That's when the game finally busted up.”

  “Who were the other guys in the game?”

  He rummaged around on his desk, found a slip of paper and rattled off names. He got to a familiar one. I said, “Was that last one Louie Morris?”

  “That's right. He didn't win anything either. As a matter of fact, there's seven guys play and nobody wins. They all lose or break even.”

  I laughed. “This Morris; I know the guy. He's a smalltime boy, but sharp. Makes a little book, owns a string of jukeboxes and a few one-armed bandits out of town. I've done him a couple of favors.” I looked at my watch. It was two o'clock. I said, “You haven't heard from Kelly, huh?”

  “No, I haven't heard from Kelly. Should I hear from Kelly? That's the second time you've asked me. What's up?”

  I gave him the outline of Kelly's drunken chatter of the night before. Samson scratched his gray head vigorously and looked at me. “What you think?” he said.

  “I think he was drunk. As a matter of fact, I know he was drunk. But I also think he must have had something on his mind or he wouldn't have waited outside for me. It's screwy. I hope the kid doesn't go off half-cocked.” I thought about it a minute. “He must have more sense than that.”

  “Sure, Shell,” Samson said reassuringly, “sure he has.”

  I wasn't reassured. What if the screwball should take off on some dopey scheme like the one he'd laid out last night? I stopped thinking about it and asked, “Where's the Johnson-Kash place of business?”

  “Down from Seventh and Figueroa. Middle of the block.”

  “How about Kash's folding money; what bank does he keep it in?”

  “How would I know where he banks?”

  Kash's place was at Seventh and Figueroa. Well, t
he Angelus Bank was just two blocks down Seventh; I'd start there.

  I got up. “Okay, Sam,” I said. “Thanks. Keep an ear out for Kelly.”

  He just stuck out his big jaw and shook his head at me.

  In a drugstore phone booth, I looked up the number of the Angelus Bank and called it. A female clerk answered and I said, “Good afternoon. I wonder if you could tell me if this is the bank where the Johnson-Kash Company has its account?”

  She said, “Just a moment, please,” and laid the phone down with a mild clatter. I crossed my fingers and waited.

  Banks are very cagey when it comes to giving out information about depositors. It seems Mr. Jones occasionally mentions lightly his eleven thousand dollar balance with the First National Bank when, as a matter of fact, he's seven dollars and thirteen cents overdrawn. On the other hand there are flocks of guys like Cookie Martini, with acres of green stuff stashed safely away who complain constantly that they can't afford new shoelaces. There are maybe a hundred other reasons, but it boils down to the fact that bank officials, and right they undoubtedly are, view askance any attempt to pry into the financial lives of their depositors. To get all the information I wanted, I'd probably have to show up with a court order or a gun, but it was worth a try.

  A new voice, a man's this time, said in my ear, “This is Mr. Bland. What was it you wished?”

  “I was inquiring if the Johnson-Kash Company has its account here.”

  “Well.” he hesitated, “it's not a particularly unusual request, but could you divulge your reason for desiring that information?”

  I told you. Cagey. “Of course,” I said cagily. “Certainly. You see. I'd like to make a rather substantial deposit to Eddie's account—that is, Mr. Kash's account. For reasons of my own, I'd like to bank the money to his credit—call it conscience if you like.” I laughed softly into the mouthpiece. “At any rate, Mr. Bland, I wasn't sure if it would be all right for me to make such a deposit. That's really what I called to find out. Then, too, I wasn't sure this was the right bank.”

  His voice changed subtly to the tone reserved for prospective depositors. “I understand, sir. Yes, Mr. Kash's firm has an account with us. A checking account. It is perfectly all right for anyone who so desires to make a deposit in any account whatsoever. It's done quite often. Now, if you would like to come in this afternoon, Mr...?”

  I said quickly. “No, it's already after two o'clock. I couldn't make it in from Hollywood in time. I'll drop in tomorrow. Thank you very much, Mr. Bland.” I hung up.

  Well, at least I knew where Kash kept his money. I got out there fast.

  The air-conditioned interior of the bank was refreshing as a longshot in the last race after the blazing sun outside. I looked around, avoided everyone who looked like a vice-president ought to look and picked out a thin-faced guy standing back a little way behind the first cashier's cage with his hands clasped behind his back. He had close-set eyes, about half as much chin as he needed and thin, bloodless lips. He looked as if he might be thirty-five, thirty-six years old. He also looked as if he wouldn't be above making out loan slips to non-existent customers. I decided that was my boy. I picked up a couple of blank deposit slips from one of the tables lining the center of the floor, slipped one of the C-notes out of my wallet and folded it into my hand, and stepped up to the cashier's cage.

  I said, “Say, chum. Wonder if you'd do me a little favor?”

  He raised his head and let his close-set eyes rest on my face. “What kind of a favor?”

  “I need some information about one of your depositors here. Deposits and withdrawals a few months back. Only take a minute.”

  He looked at me quizzically and said, “I'm sorry; that's definitely against the rules. No information about depositors may be given to unauthorized persons.”

  I took a different tack, fished out my little leather case, snapped it open, flashed my buzzer at him and stuck the case back in my pocket. Quick. “I'm investigating a murder. This may be important.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A private investigator, I see.”

  He had good close-set eyes anyway. Twenty-twenty, no doubt.

  I nodded.

  He shook his head. “I'm sorry. We're perfectly willing to cooperate with the legal authorities, but we can't give out information indiscriminately. If you could arrange to come back with a court order, or if you can furnish more positive information, we can undoubtedly be of service. What account did you wish to investigate?”

  I ignored that for the moment and wiggled my right hand, resting under the wicket. I let the 100 on the corner of the bill peep out. “Possibly I could deposit this to your account. Or maybe I could let you deposit it yourself?”

  He looked down at the corner of the bill, and his eyes widened as if he'd seen a gun in my fist. Ah, I said to myself, his language at last.

  That wasn't what he said. His eyes stayed wide as he looked back at my face and his insignificant chin drooped a little. “Bribery!” he sputtered. “The idea.”

  He still looked like a crook. Okay, so I can be wrong.

  A portly guy about forty walked up and said to the crook, “Thanks for taking over, Mr. Bland. Anything wrong?”

  I walked off. The crook said, “Just a minute, you,” but I was going out the door. I climbed into the Cad, gunned it and swung right into Hope Street.

  I'd accomplished a lot. Four strikes I'd had at the guy, once on the phone, three times inside and I still hadn't made it to first base. Maybe I'd played it all wrong, but it would have been so simple if it had worked.

  Over a tall, cool beer in the Sirocco on Alvarado at Eleventh, I played with adding two and two. I got everything but four.

  Diagonally across the street, second building from the corner, was a big frame house which looked like the only boarding house within blocks. Samson had said little Harry Zerkle lived out here on Alvarado, so if he was both alive and at home that's where I ought to find him. The question was, what did I do when and if I found the guy? He probably wasn't the least bit receptive to visitors nosing into his private life, particularly now. There was a possibility he'd tell me all about the larcenous little caper that got him on his present unfriendly terms with Fleming Dragoon, but that possibility was about as remote as the nearest Bogodo Lama. Dragoon had got him to spill by the simple expedient of beating the be-jeezus out of him and what had worked once should work twice, but I couldn't see myself following in Dragoon's footsteps. If I just walked up and asked for Zerkle, I'd probably get a quick brush-off. Even if I did get in to see him and then asked for the score politely, like a good boy, Zerkle would likely laugh in my face.

  I mulled it over for a minute, downed my beer, walked over to the big frame house, walked noisily up the wooden steps and rang the bell. I pulled the stub of a pencil from my coat pocket and stuck it over my ear.

  A flat-faced old hag of about fifty, whose curves had all run together years before, opened the door and looked out at me.

  “No rooms,” she said. “I'm full up.”

  “No, no, madam,” I said smiling, “I merely wish to see one of your tenants.”

  Madam. She liked that. For one reason or another. “Oh, sure,” she said. “Who you want?”

  “A Mr. Zerkle, madam. Harry Zerkle.”

  “Oh, Harry, huh?” Her eyes narrowed and crawled over my face like spiders. “He moved. He was here but he moved. Don't know where he went.”

  She started to shut the door in my face and I let my face get puzzled. I took the pencil from behind my ear and scratched my upper lip with it. “That's very strange,” I said. “Most unusual.”

  The old hag's curiosity held her. “What's so funny about it?”

  “Why, this is the address he gave us just this morning.” I looked over my head at the faded numbers over the door. “Yes, 1031 1/2 Alvarado. Most annoying. Well, if he should get in touch with you, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell him Mr. Roberts of the D. E. Lawton Agency came by. I suppose if he wants the money, he'll pho
ne and give us his new address.”

  I turned and started down the wooden steps holding my breath and trying to act as if I had another dozen calls to make.

  She came in like she'd been rehearsed. “Hey, mister. Wait a second. What you want to see him about?”

  I paused and looked back. “Well, Mr. Zerkle has a policy with us. Just a small one. I understood him to say he'd been in an accident; but of course if he's gadding about moving, it couldn't have been very serious, could it?”

  She waddled out on the porch sagging in all directions. “Oh, he really got messed up bad,” she said, shaking her head. “Face is all messed up. He's way too sick to go anyplace.”

  “But, madam, I thought you stated that he'd left.”

  Deep creases appeared in her flat face as she smiled, winningly, she probably thought. She said, “You know how it is, mister. Harry said he didn't want to see nobody so I thought, well, you know how it is.”

  I assured her I knew how it was and followed her ample bulk inside. She led me upstairs to a room halfway down the hall and tapped on the door. She said softly, “Harry.”

  Bed springs creaked inside and a masculine voice said sleepily, “Yeah?”

  I said quickly, “Thank you very much, madam. I appreciate your assistance, but this is rather, well, private, you know. I'll check with you on my way out.”

  She smiled winningly some more and waddled down the hall. The stairs groaned as she thumped down them. I eased the .38 out of its shoulder clip and stuck it against the door. With my left hand I knocked again.

  The masculine voice inside said, “Hattie? That you, Hattie?” and the door swung open an inch.

  I jammed the nose of the .38 through the crack, an inch away from Zerkle's bugging eyes. “Easy does it, friend,” I said. “Keep it quiet.”

  I pushed inside and shut the door behind me. Zerkle backed up against the rumpled bed and I walked over and blew my beery breath in his face. “Come on, friend,” I said. “Get dressed.