Shell Scott: Kill The Clown Part 7

"That's for me," I said.

"Purchase or rental?"

"Rent. I won't need it after tomorrow night . . ." I paused, thinking. "But I'll leave a deposit to cover the complete cost."

"Oh, that won't be necessary - "

"It might. It just might."

She went off into what was apparently the stockroom and came back with a cardboard box. While she wrote out my receipt we talked about extra items I might need, and I wound up with a kit of theatrical makeup. And that appeared to do it. All I needed now was a dozen Marines, a tank, and a flame-thrower.

The little gal handed me my receipt and I began writing a check for the required rental plus deposit, then she said, looking past me, "I'll be with you in a minute, sir."

I looked over my shoulder. A big ape about my size was eyeballing us strenuously. Or maybe he was just looking at the gal, which seemed likely, since a lot of the little gal was showing here and there among the filmy bits of her costume. But when I looked around he mumbled, "No hurry, no hurry," and turned aside. I'd seen all of him I wanted to see, anyway; he had a face like a barracuda, a face that seemed to come to a point in front, studded with too many teeth.

"There you are, sir."

I pulled my head around again. The little tomato was holding my package toward me, smiling over it the way gals smile over champagne gla.s.ses just before they say, "Oo, it tickles."

"Don't call me sir, please. Call me Sh.e.l.l."

"Sh.e.l.l?"

"Uh-huh. In case I call up sometime and say 'This is Sh.e.l.l' and then make all sorts of shameless remarks."

"Oh, that sounds like fun."

"Who knows? We might even have our own little costume party."

"And you a man who goes for Marie Antoinette. I can imagine the costumes." She raised her shoulders, tilted her head to one side and stirred up the air with those eyelashes again. Then she said, "'Bye, Sh.e.l.l," and turned her back on me, and walked straight ahead to the stockroom again.

It was about twenty feet to the stockroom's door, and I watched her every inch of the way. Not only the forward inches, but the side-to-side inches. She had a walk that was one of the friendliest things I'd ever seen. Her well-rounded hips swung provocatively back and forth as if they were waving goodbye, and as they went out of sight I murmured under my breath, "Not goodbye, my dears . . . but only au revoir."

Perhaps I was being untrue, in my fashion, to Lolita and Doris Miller - but how many days in the week do you meet a harem girl? That thought reminded me I was supposed to drop by and see Doris this afternoon, and bring her up to date on the progress of the case. Carrying my clown outfit, I headed for the Cad. I didn't see the Barracuda. And so soon after that walk to the stockroom, it was understandable that I didn't even think about him again, not then.

When I walked into the Royal Photo shop, where I'd dropped off my roll of exposed infrared film last night, Timothy, the technician, leered at me.

"I should of called the cops," he said.

"Knock it off. Believe it or not, those shots const.i.tute a lever. It was Archimedes or somebody, maybe even Einstein, who said give me a lever long enough, and a place to put it, and I'll move the world."

"Probably Einstein. No matter what you say, them pictures - "

"They are a lever, Timothy, with which I hope to move a man. I hope to move him so vigorously that it will keep two people alive."

"Two people?"

"Yeah - and one of them is me."

"Well, in that case . . . But, man, them pictures - "

He went off to get them. While waiting for him to come back I glanced out the front window of the shop. A long black car, looking a little bit like a hea.r.s.e, went by. I felt a small, slow tightening of my spine. Not because the buggy looked somewhat like a hea.r.s.e. But because, earlier this afternoon, I'd seen it before. A couple of times before.

Ever since the moment on the Freeway when that machine gun had been swinging toward my head, I had spent almost as much time looking in all compa.s.s directions as driving. And, as a matter of course, I'd managed to be the last car through several stop lights, utilized the standard tricks for shaking a possible tail. Consequently, when I'd noticed the hea.r.s.elike sedan for the second time I'd taken even more care; but here was that same buggy - or one immensely like it - again. While the coincidence didn't snap credulity, it sure stretched it.

Timothy brought back the five-by-seven enlargements in a manila envelope. I'd snapped an entire roll and Timothy had made a pair of enlargements from each of the twenty negatives. Twelve were too blurred to be of any value. Of the remaining eight, I chose two which were perfectly exposed and sharp, and in which the faces of both Jay and Mrs. Frank Quinn were easily recognizable. I kept both copies of those two, then destroyed the rest, negatives and all.

Timothy was still making mild sounds of shock and protest when I went out.

I was nearly to Doris Miller's, looking forward to a bright spot in the day, when it happened again. It was a little before six p.m. I'd stopped at an intersection and was watching my rearview mirror when the black car appeared in it - not, however, behind me, but a block back, traveling from left to right on the street at right angles to this one. I shook my head. Either there was a mortician's convention in town, all of the fellows driving hea.r.s.es, or . . .

Then, of course, I had it.

I found the item within thirty seconds. It was under the Cad's front b.u.mper, held by one small metal clamp and a strand of wire. With a crescent wrench from the Cad's trunk I loosened the bolt holding the clamp, then yanked the small box free. I got back into the Cad, put the box on the seat beside me.

The item was, familiarly speaking, a "squawk box," more accurately a small self-contained radio transmitter. Ever since being attached to my car, it would have been sending out a constant signal on one of the many available radio frequencies; the lad in that black buggy would have with him a radio receiver tuned to that same frequency. An adjunct to the receiver would be a loop antenna. When the loop was at right angles to the beam issuing from the squawk box on my Cad the incoming signal would be strong; as it deviated from right angles the signal would weaken or fade out completely. Thus, even with only one following car containing one receiver, a man could keep rough track of me, and easily locate my Cad whenever I parked. With one or more additional receivers in other cars, and using simple triangulation procedures, my pals could pinpoint my location at any time.

I swore. That guy could have been on my tail all day. I thought back over where I'd been, the stops I'd made. Calls on Semmelwein and Porter, the Costume Center, Timothy's photo shop, and others. There was nothing I could do about it now, except hope there'd been no real damage - at least I hadn't been shot yet. Something else, a vague uneasiness, teetered on the edge of thought, but I couldn't push it over, couldn't grab it.

At least I wouldn't have any trouble shaking the tail now, and that was the important thing at the moment. I started the car again.

It was six-thirty on the nose, already dark, when I started walking to Doris Miller's apartment. I'd parked three blocks away, merely so my Cadillac wouldn't by chance be seen at her place - I wasn't worried about a tail now. I had stopped at a bus terminal and left there, in a locker to which I now had the key, my clown costume, the engraved invitation to Quinn's party, and the extra pair of enlargements of Jay and Mrs. Quinn. Moreover, while there I had not only gotten rid of that squawk box but had high hopes I'd given back to the hea.r.s.e-driver a portion of the annoyance he'd given me.

Because I had transferred that little transmitter to a Greyhound Bus - just leaving for Dallas, Texas.

Eight.

Doris had on another of her getups, or maybe it was a getout, because she did appear to be trying to get out of it. This was my day of days, but I was already occupied for the night. Life is sometimes cruel.

My client smiled half-heartedly at me, but even without all the nerve and bounce in the world she was one of the most delectable creatures I'd seen. Seen this year at least. I could imagine how bright and shining and beautiful she would be with her brother safe again and out of the clink.

She mixed highb.a.l.l.s for us and we sat on the living room couch while I told her what had been happening, just hitting the high spots. I summed it up, "So, I know very well what the truth is - that Ross is innocent, that Quinn shot Flagg, that Quinn put pressure on at least three witnesses to make them give false testimony at the trial."

"We've - we've really known that all along, haven't we, Sh.e.l.l?" She sighed. "Nothing much has changed, has it?"

"It's changed more than it appears on the surface, Doris. For example, I know that Flagg was Quinn's payoff man, and that Quinn had one of his hoods kill Heigman, drown him. I've got some names - "

She interrupted. Not angrily, or with irritability. Just with a dullness I didn't like to hear in her voice. "But there's nothing you can prove, Sh.e.l.l. You've told me that. Nothing the police will accept, nothing the governor would even listen to, nothing that can possibly help Ross - "

At the end her voice was gradually going up the scale in the direction of hysteria, so this time I interrupted her. "Wait a minute." I held up both hands, smiling "It's not quite that bad. There's more."

"More?" Her face brightened so, and her eyes filled with such sudden sparkle and hope that I almost wished I hadn't spoken. Because there wasn't really a lot more.

I said, "Maybe it's nothing to get excited about - yet. But it could lead to a break. There's a guy who works for Quinn, very close to him, knows plenty about the creep. If I could get that guy to talk freely, cooperate - cooperate eagerly with me, let's say, I might get enough from him to really put the squeeze on Quinn himself. It depends on what this guy can tell me, or do, but I'm pretty sure I can . . . win his cooperation."

Two small creases formed between her blue eyes as she looked at me. "You can? How, Sh.e.l.l?"

"Well, I . . ." I paused, wondering how to phrase it. "Put it like this. I've worked out a way to put plenty of - of pressure on this character. If he becomes giddily cooperative, fine. But if not, it's a pretty sure thing he'll get suddenly murdered." I added hastily, "Not by me. But nonetheless speedily dead. So I've a hunch he'll tell me whatever he can."

Doris nibbled her smoothly curving lower lip. "But what if he can't tell you anything that will help? What if he doesn't know anything?"

Scowling slightly I said, "Then I'll think of something else, for Pete's sake."

"Oh, I didn't mean - "

She was all contrite, breathing deeply, bending forward, breathing, and pressing one contrite hand against her breast, and breathing. This gal spoke volumes, not only with her eyes and mouth and lungs but with a great deal more of her, and they were the kind of volumes that come in plain wrappers. Well, I could have bitten out my mean old tongue. This poor kid had been suffering agonies of suspense and fear and worry, while I had merely been hit over the head, and shot at, and such.

So I said, my voice throbbing warmly, "Doris, dear, I didn't mean. What I mean is, probably this character can tell or do plenty that will help us. But even if he can't, well there's another possibility."

I didn't like thinking about it, much less talking about it, but I went on. "You see, Frank Quinn is throwing a very private party tomorrow night. At his ranch. If all else fails there's just a chance I can get in as one of the guests, and not get caught, and find info in his private safe that will wrap him up. And clear your brother." My voice was sort of limping. "In fact, if I can somehow do it, it should clear your brother and eighteen other people." I paused. "Of course, this is only as a last resort." I paused again. "Well, it's not exactly an ace in the hole, but it's . . . at least a deuce."

"I see," she said, sounding as if she didn't.

"Anyway, there really are some avenues left," I went on. "I'll know more about how it looks later tonight. And I'll either come by here, or at least call you, tomorrow." I grinned, trying to brighten the atmosphere a bit. "And I'll give you eight to five everything is much, much better tomorrow."

"Oh, I hope so!" Her lovely face had some of that sparkle and hope in it again, at least for the moment, and she was leaning toward me. "I want to believe you, Sh.e.l.l, I do. I want to . . ." She lifted one hand and let it fall gently against the lapel of my coat, and with the movement, unconsciously leaned even closer to me.

At least I guess it was an unconscious movement, but mine was plain old conscious, and when I stopped moving, her mouth was pressed against mine. Her lips were parted and moist, and so charged with heat and life that kissing her was almost like puckering in a light socket.

It seemed as if approximately two hundred and twenty volts zigzagged from my lips down to my heels and back, wreaking havoc in both directions, and when Doris pulled her lips from mine it would not have surprised me greatly if the house had been on fire.

"Oh . . . you'd better go, Sh.e.l.l."

"What?"

She said it again. This was the big difference between us. One kiss and I was ready, and she was ready for me to go. I put up a pretty good argument, but she was adamant, which is Harvard for "No."

It was just as well, actually. I was looking forward to my imminent and important meeting with Jay. So I sighed and got to my feet. It was time I got back to work. Work, that's the stuff, I thought. None of this fiddling around when there's a job to be done. Man of steel, that's me. I was proud of myself. I stood a little taller.

"Sh.e.l.l." Doris was on the couch, looking up at me, eyes half lidded, mouth moist and slack.

I sat down again.

"No," she said. "Don't . . . don't get close to me."

"But you said . . . 'Sh.e.l.l,' you said. I mean, I know that's not so much, but - it was the way you said it. Or maybe it was the way I heard it - "

"I just didn't want you to leave thinking . . . I mean, I'd like for you to stay. I really would - if things were different. But I'm, well, all in a jumble." She paused. "And there's so little time."

She was right. I stood up again. Work, that's the stuff.

At the door, she kissed me again. You may not believe it, but it was even better than the first two times - yeah, I was keeping track. This was the third time that was the charm, an osculatory torch to cremate resolutions and inhibitions, a kiss that could melt cheap fillings and make a eunuch's voice change overnight - and what it did to me, as the door gently closed in my face, was make me realize that if one of Doris Miller's kisses could do all this, anything more than energetic puckering could be dangerous. Gad, it could be fatal, I thought. And then I thought: So what?

But the door was closed. And I am not a guy who breaks doors down. At least I'd never done it before. Anyway, I didn't do it. Instead I walked back to my Cad muttering, "Work, bah, fooey, work, that's a lot of baloney . . ."

Next on the agenda was the problem of getting Jay alone somewhere, showing him my pictures - or rather his pictures - and discussing with him the various aspects of this photographic calamity. I'd learned he seldom left Quinn's fenced-in estate until well after seven p.m., so there was still time to pick him up on his way out.

I was driving fast toward the ranch when the shock hit me.

The shock was physical. It rammed through my nerves, stiffening my muscles, clamping my hands on the steering wheel. The car skidded, and I realized I had, in unconscious reflex, hit the brake pedal.

Earlier, when I'd found the squawk box on my Cad, I had reviewed the places I'd gone today, but there had been something else teetering on the edge of my mind. Suddenly I knew what it had been. I realized that the little transmitter might have been on my car all day, but I hadn't throught back far enough. It could have been on my Cad last night. Last night, when I had so carefully avoided being tailed, driving to the Washington Hotel - with Lolita.

The car slid to a stop and for long seconds I didn't move, sweat suddenly forming on my forehead, cool on my body. Then I slapped the gear shift into reverse, backed up and swung around in the street, kicked the gas pedal down to the floorboards. I didn't let myself think, tried to keep my mind blank while I drove as fast as I could through the streets.

I parked in a loading zone before the hotel, jumped out and raced through the lobby, up the stairs to Lolita's room and hammered on the door. There was no answer, no sound. I stepped back, kicked at the door, slammed it open and stepped inside the room.

"Lolita," I called. "Lolita!"

Nothing. No answer. And right then I knew there wasn't going to be an answer, knew there was no need now for hurry.

I found her in the bathroom.

She lay crumpled in the tub, her face beneath the water, long black hair loose and wet and still. For what seemed a long time, strange out-of-focus seconds, I didn't move. I noticed my hands were balled into fists, nails cutting into my palms. My throat was tight. Then I stepped toward her, touched the skin of her white shoulder. She was cold. Her flesh had the unreal chill of death. She'd been dead a long time, for many hours.

I stepped toward the door, then turned, looked for the last time at Lolita. Crumpled, still, that thick black hair hanging in the long-cold water, like lines of ink. Then I went out and closed the door behind me, sat in a chair and smoked a cigarette. Words and movements were there with me. Smiles and shadowed eyes. I sat, and smoked, and thought about Lolita.

Than I got up and walked to the phone, feeling very tired. I called Homicide.

Nine.

For twenty minutes I had been parked across the street from the Sand Dunes Motel.

The police had taken Lolita's body to the morgue. There had been no tangible evidence of what is euphemistically called "foul play." She could have slipped and fallen in the tub. I knew she hadn't. The police probably didn't believe it was an accident either, but there was no evidence upon which they could act.

Enough for me, however; enough for me.

I was over the worst shock and I slowly, deliberately forced my thoughts away from Lolita's death. It was simply part of the case now; that was the way it had to be. The knowledge would stay with me, under the surface - but that's where I meant to keep it, had to keep it. I couldn't let thoughts of her murder interfere with the other things I had to do - at least until I could find the man who'd killed her.

With Lolita's death it became even more important that I get help from Jay. By the time the police had let me go it had been too late to pick up Jay leaving Quinn's ranch. So, figuring that if history was repeating itself tonight I had a good chance of finding him anyway, I had driven here to the Sand Dunes Motel. And, as I had hoped, the course of true love, or whatever it was, had led Jay and Mrs. Quinn straight to the motel again.

At least I'd spotted Mrs. Quinn's big Caddy nearby, though I didn't know what kind of car Jay might be driving. However, I figured that after Mrs. Quinn left I could easily spot Jay - or go over and brace him in the motel room. I could, I suppose, have gone over there right then and knocked on the door. But there are some things I won't do. Besides which, as far as I knew, Mrs. Quinn hadn't personally shot or knifed or poisoned any citizens, and there was no real need to embroil her in the upcoming indelicacy. All I wanted was to get my chance at Jay, alone, with no other eyes or ears around us. And, too, once Mrs. Quinn left, I might not only catch Jay in a weakened condition, but right at the scene of the crime.