Gat Heat (15 page)

I said, “Well, that's great. That's just splendid.”

Angelica blinked up at me. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing much. I have merely fatally plugged the guy who undoubtedly killed George Halstead.”

I didn't know the driver of the car, but the first officer to walk over was a man named Chuck. Chuck looked at the dead man, then at Angelica Bersudian. He looked at her a lot longer. He'd seen lots of dead guys, but few live ones like Angelica.

Finally he turned to me. As his partner walked up alongside him he said, “What happened? Corey try to drop you?”

“He and another guy gave it a good try. Corey yelled at the other one, called him Skiko. Mean anything to you?”

He shook his head. The other officer didn't recognize the name, either. Angelica was getting to her feet. Conversation stopped while the policemen watched every movement, every sway and jiggle and ripple. Don't let contemporary propaganda lead you astray. Cops are human.

Chuck eyed the blood on my head and the side of my pants' leg. “How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as it looks.”

“It couldn't be. You look worse than Stub.”

I told them what had happened. After that we examined the dark sedan. The registration was in the name of Wilbur Corey. So Stub's real handle had been Wilbur. There was a radiophone, similar to the one in my Cad, under the dash.

Angelica had said when George Halstead received his call last night the car had been nearing the house. I'd assumed the call must have been made either by a man in the car, or by somebody else who knew in advance exactly when it would be arriving. It looked now as if Stub, or perhaps somebody in the car with him, had made the call from the Polara itself. I checked the headlights. The left one wasn't centered, sent its beam too high.

The body was hauled away; Angelica went back in her house after telling what little she knew, and I followed the officers downtown.

There I got patched up and bandaged, took a pill, made my report, and prepared to leave. But before I left, the doctor took another look at me, checked the tape holding a white bandage against the side of my head, and said, “That'll do for now.” He was a soft-faced man about sixty, with kindly eyes. “Go straight home, call your own doctor, and get into bed.”

“Bed? Hell, I feel all right, doc I've had headaches before.”

“You do as I tell you, young man. You've received a severe blow on the skull.”

“Yeah, but I feel pretty good now—”

“The full effects may not be evidenced immediately.”

“Effects like what?”

“It's difficult to say precisely—which is why you should be in bed. Dizziness, confusion, a lack of clarity in mental processes. You might suddenly lapse into unconsciousness. It's impossible to be more specific; but there is definite trauma, and you—”

“I'll be all right, doctor. But thanks for patching me up. And for the advice.”

“You'd better take that advice, young man. At least lie down and keep very quiet.”

I didn't tell him why I couldn't; that there were things I had to do unless I wanted the next slug, instead of merely being a long-distance sap, to drill two or three inches deeper. Because there would be other slugs. I had not the slightest doubt about that.

So I merely thanked him once more and took off.

Back in my apartment at the Spartan, after cleaning up and changing clothes—and reloading my revolver—I turned the thermostats higher on the community tank and the bowl wherein was my sick
Microglanis
. I fed the frisky creatures, then got on the phone and called the L.A.P.D.

I got put through to Samson—he'd already had a report on the shooting in Westwood—and filled him in.

Then I said, “I don't know anything about this Skiko—if that's what Corey actually yelled. It wasn't the most important thing in my mind right then. But it does seem like I've heard that name somewhere. Mean anything to you, Sam?”

“Means you're going to get your tail shot off if you don't—”

“Sam, I've called upon you as a guardian of goodness, truth, and beauty for aid in a time of trial. And what do I get? I get an old lady, who—”

He growled something unintelligible. But loud. I guessed he had one of those abominable black cigars stuck between his teeth. Then he growled intelligibly. “O.K. I don't make the name. But I'll check it out for you. How do you feel?”

“Fine, except for the agony of my wounds.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Far as I know, there was never anybody named Skiko associated with Jimmy Violet. But Stub Corey sure was. Stub is the guy who almost surely caved in Halstead's head, but I fixed it so we can't ask him about it.”

“You fixed it good.”

“However, there was a car behind me after I left the Halsteads' place last night—looks now like it tailed me from there—and I'm sold that it was the same car Stub and this Skiko were driving today.”

“So?”

“So why don't you pick up Jimmy and his gang and bring them downtown and beat hell out of them? If three or four of them confess, maybe you can get a conviction.”

“You got any more bright ideas?”

“Not at the moment, Sam. But as soon as I do, you'll be the first to know.”

“Thank Heaven for that,” he said, and hung up.

I gave Hazel a call.

After a bit of banter I asked her, “Anything cooking?”

“Yes, you got another call from a girl with a sexy voice.”

“Oh? Same one who phoned before?”

“I don't think so. At least this one sounded different—and she gave me a name. Do you know a Sybil?”

“I know two … three Sybils. Which one was it?”

“She didn't tell me her last name. But she said you met very recently. And you said to her—I'm not sure I got this right—something like, ‘Whoa'?”

“Whoa? To a girl? That doesn't sound like me.”

“I didn't think so, either.”

“It must've been—Ah! It was
‘Whoo!'
Spork! Ah—Sybil. Sybil Spork! Hot dog.”

“That was entirely unintelligible, except for hot dog.”

“I merely said it was Sybil Spork who called.”

“I thought you were having a fit. Spork? I'll bet you're making these people up.”

“No, she's real. I hope to tell you—”

“How do you meet all these people, Shell? Especially so many girls with sexy voices.”

“Well, it's—they eat lots of fruits and vegetables. What did Sybil want with me?”

“She wants you to come to her house immediately, as soon as possible, at least. She phoned half an hour ago.”

“Come out for what?”

“All she told me was that she wants you to come out to see her—”

“I'm on my way.”

“—and that she's got something to show you.”

“Goodbye.”

“But nobody must know you're there. You'll have to park a block away, around the corner, and sneak in.”

“Oh?”

“She and her husband will be inside the house—”

“She and her husband?”

“And they'll explain everything to you. They've both got something to show you.”

“I don't know about this—”

“She didn't explain what it was, Shell, but simply said something terrible had happened. And it's connected with the case you're on, the Halstead case.”

It rang a funny little bell. There was a kind of faint clanging in my head already, along with a kind of dull thrombling, but I could hear the funny little bell.

The last caller with a sexy voice had said the same thing. And soon after that Porter got it in the back.

“Nobody's supposed to know I'm out there, huh?” I said suspiciously. “I'm supposed to sneak in, huh? Did this lovely girl give any specific directions, like making sure to sneak in by way of some ambushes—”

“She did say you should walk in from the street behind their house—wherever it is.”

“I know where it is. I was there this morning. There's bushes back there. Can you think of anything better than bushes for ambushes?”

“You're to go in the back way. And you aren't to let
anybody
know you're going out there.”

“Splendid. Anything else?”

“Just a minute. Let me check my notebook. No … that's all, Shell. But she stressed it was important; it just couldn't wait.”

“Yeah. They might be trying to trick me. Outwit me. Ha. That'll be the day. I'll fix them. Uhh.”

“What? Is something the matter?”

“No. Just a little ache in my headache. O.K., thanks again, Hazel.”

“You're sure you're all right, Shell?”

“Me? Ha-ha, of
course
I'm all right.”

13

I didn't park one block away. I parked two blocks away.

Then I opened the Cad's trunk and pawed through the junk I carry in it. There's a lot of electronics equipment, microphones, bugs, infra-red gear and such, but that's not what I was after at the moment. I lifted a scratched, stained crossbow and found the extension brace and bit I was after. Then I put the crossbow back and looked at it for a moment.

The crossbow, a medieval weapon, one type of which had once been used for shooting quarrels—square-headed bolts or arrows—at the enemy. But a friend of mine had given this one to me. He was a Marine recently back from overseas. Most high-level talk was about the unthinkable atomic and H-bombs, but at a lower level, in the heat and muck of jungles, ancient weaponry was being used for waging war. My friend had used this very crossbow for silent kills. Some of the arrows he'd given me were still stained with blood.

I rummaged a bit, picked up a light but strong collapsible bamboo ladder—the kind that can be slid out or back like a fishing rod—and a roll of tape; then slammed the trunk's lid and headed for the Sporks'.

There was always a chance they were on the level, of course. But it didn't seem likely. There were too many people around who impressed me as being definitely atilt. Besides, even if they were un-atilt there was nothing wrong with taking a few extra precautions. Nobody was going to shoot me in the backside if I could help it.

Fool me once, I was thinking sagely as I neared the Spork house, your fault; fool me twice, my fault. I couldn't sagely remember what came after that, for fool me three times, four times, and so on.

I didn't go in the Sporks' back way, but through the back yard of the house next to theirs. Just in case people, expecting me at the back of the Sporks, were skulking there. To outwit me. To massacre me. There was lots of shrubbery—lots of bushes—and I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see anything suspicious. Probably
I
looked suspicious, darting from bush to bush, but that couldn't be helped. Even though all this darting was beginning to tire my head.

Having safely reached the side of the Sporks' two-story house, I ran up my extension ladder, placed it carefully, then climbed up it to a small veranda or deck outside one of the rear rooms on the second floor. There I tried the window, but it was locked. A few yards away, however, was a door. It also was locked; but using the brace and bit it was the work of only a minute to bore a four-inch hole in the wood below the doorknob, reach through and unlock the door and step inside.

I was in a wide, carpeted hallway. I walked quietly past closed doors to the end of the hall, reached the top of a wide stairway curving down to a small room, into which the front door opened. At the top of the stairs I stood quietly, listening, senses keen and alert.

There wasn't a sound from anywhere up here on the second floor, but a soft flutter of voices rose from somewhere below. On my right at the foot of the stairs was an arched doorway, closed by blue velvet draperies or curtains. I started slowly and cautiously down the stairs, holding my brace and bit ready.

Then I stopped, cocked my head to one side.

I deliberated a moment, eyeing the brace and bit.

Then I nodded knowingly, put down the brace and bit and took my Colt Special from its holster. I started down again, gripping the .38 in my right hand.

I had been instructed to come in the back way. If there'd been evil aforethought, that meant people would be in the back of the house preparing to slaughter me. But those sounds seemed to be coming from the front of the house. What did it mean?

Halfway down the stairs I slipped off my shoes, continued in my stocking feet. Not only was my progress thus even more silent, but it appeared to soothe my head. Well, it almost
had
to, I thought. After all, my feet were
connected
to my head. It gave me a queer feeling to realize that not once before in my whole life had I thought of that—though it was now a perfectly obvious truism. Then I had another truism: Probably a lot of headaches were caused by feet.

Right then I realized something wonderful was happening to me. My reasoning powers were being elevated to the
n
th degree. My mind was clearer than it had ever been before. It was getting just like glass. I was standing there thinking that maybe thinking caused athlete's foot, when those sounds below captured my attention again.

I cased the area carefully. The scene appeared a little different, now that I was seeing more clearly.

At the foot of the stairs on my right was a doored archway. In the arch hung thick blue velvet draperies. And it was from behind those draped velvetries that the sounds came, a buzzing, as of conversation. A buzzing, as of something, anyhow. I listened carefully.
Buzz-buzz
. It was a bit difficult to filter it out from the faint clanging and dull thrombling, but I filtered it. Somebody—something—was in there.

I cocked my .38 Colt Special.

My course was clear. It was either go in there—or leave.

But I couldn't leave. Not after coming this far. And spending such a
hell
of a time getting here.