Strip for Murder (18 page)

“What's the matter with Sam?”

“Wants a word with you about this Three Eyes.”

I got on the phone, listened a minute, and said, “It adds up, Sam. This Kid was one of the boys at the Afrodite. A gray coupé showed up at Three Eyes' Hotel, then near me on Sunset. I didn't see whoever was in it, but I'll bet it was Kid. Whoever killed Three Eyes had to knock him around first and got scratched up. Kid's got a couple of deep scratches on one cheek. It looks right, and the coroner can prove it.”

“How'd Kid happen to show up and bang your thick head?”

“That's what bothers me, Sam. I talked to you about coming here, remember, but that's the only talking I did about it. Except for one person I called from my office, and I can't believe...”

I stopped and suddenly my skin was clammy. Two things slammed into my thoughts, then others. But over them all was the fear that Laurel would be killed if she went back to Fairview.

Sam was squawking into the phone but I didn't answer. I had to think. Billings said something but I shook my head. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated. Brown. That was the guy's name. Bob Brown, the guy prostrate after this morning's calisthenics at Fairview. And that call I'd made to Laurel...

I said rapidly into the phone, “Sam, get this quick. There's a bug on my office phone. Somebody's tapped it, so work fast if you can do anything at all.”

“A bug? What makes you—”

“Somebody's been listening in on everything I've said over the telephone in my office. That's how Kid knew I was going to the Manor Hotel, and coming here later. He didn't have to tail me.”

“We'll check, but you know how tough a job—”

I knew how tough a job it could be, and I didn't listen for the rest. Billings was beside me and I shoved the phone into his hand and ran out of the office, downstairs. Laurel was nowhere in sight; by this time she'd be well on her way, and angry, probably driving fast.

I raced to my Cad and swung into the traffic stream on Hill. It took me a hell of a time just to get to the end of the block and swing left to Broadway; then it got worse. I looked at my watch. It was one minute after five P.M. People were pouring out of offices, and cars clogged the streets. I was sweating by the time I reached Fourth Street, half a block from the Hamilton Building and my office.

The driver of an old Chevrolet up ahead was trying to push out from the curb and get into line. I kept my front bumper almost on the rear of the car ahead, determined that the Chevy wouldn't slow me down, but then I had an idea. I signaled for a stop and braked, leaving the man room to pull out.

He gave me a smile and a wave as he left the curb—and I swung into the parking space as he vacated it. I jumped from the Cad and headed straight across the street, stepping on one guy's bumper to get across. Despite honks and yells, I made it and ran toward the Hamilton Building.

In my office I grabbed the phone and dialed Fairview. I was sure that my phone had been tapped for the last couple of days, and that somebody would be listening right now. I had a little crossing up in mind.

I was pretty sure now that the guy who called himself Bob Brown had taken that shot at me and tried to kill Laurel before. I didn't think he'd make another attempt at Laurel now, what with all the pressure on him and on the brain behind him, but I wasn't taking any chances.

The receiver went up at the other end of the line. “Hello?” It was a man's voice.

“Who's speaking?”

“Mr. Blore.”

I let out some breath. “This is Shell Scott. There's—”

“Where have you been, Scott? You get—”

“Shut up. There's a man named Bob Brown in camp. Get that—Bob Brown.” I wasn't talking for Blore, but for that third party I hoped was listening to or recording this conversation. “He came into camp last month sometime, I don't remember just when.”

“It was ... let me see...”

“I don't care when it was.” But the phone clattered; the ass must have thought I wanted the date. I yelled into the phone, but Blore was gone. In a couple of minutes he spoke again.

“Yes, on the fifteenth.”

“That's not important. He's a plant, a killer.”

Blore gasped. “What? You're not serious!”

“I'm serious as hell.” He sputtered but I kept talking. “Where is he now?”

“Somewhere in camp, I'm not—”

“Find him. Stick with him. And get this, Blore. Don't tell him what I've just said. I'm coming out there. Just watch him. Understand? Don't say a word to him about this. And don't let him out of your sight.”

“I can hardly—”

“You do it or I'll break your neck. Got that?”

He got it. “Ah, yes. Well, all right. I don't understand this.”

“Just do it.”

I hung up and flew out of the office. Traffic was still bad, but in fifteen minutes I was going out Figueroa. From there it took almost no time to reach Traverse Road, but as I swung left onto it I could see the clouds of dust already hanging in the air over it, starting about half a mile ahead. Starting at just about the place where the gate to Fairview was. Eight to five, Bob Brown had made that dust.

The wooden gate was wide open. I parked just inside it and trotted up the path into the clearing, ran across it to the main building. All around me activity was going on as usual. Man, these characters had a lot of energy—swimming, croquet, tag—but at least it all looked normal.

Mr. and Mrs. Blore were standing just outside the entrance to the Council Building. They both looked bewildered. I slid to a stop in front of them and said to Mr. Blore, “What happened after I called you?”

“I hung up and sat at the desk for a few moments, trying to understand what had occurred. Then I went outside to look for Mr. Brown.” He smiled slightly. “I had no desire to have you break my neck.”

“Sorry about that. There wasn't time to be nice. Please go on.”

“Well, I'd barely got outside when the phone rang again. The only reason I answered was because I thought it might be you again. But it was another man. He asked for Bob Brown. Said it was important and to hurry.”

“That fast, huh?” I said. He looked puzzled, and I added, “You know who phoned?”

“No. I have no idea. Well, I found Mr. Brown and his wife in their cabin.”

“Where is it?”

He pointed. It was next to Laurel's on the right. “He went to the phone, talked a moment—I was right there beside him as you'd asked me to be—and then the odd thing happened. He dropped the phone, didn't even hang it up, and ran back to his cabin. Both he and his wife left immediately. Still running.”

“She probably wasn't his wife. If he hadn't run, I might have killed the bum. And he knew it.”

Mrs. Blore looked at me unhappily. “Mr. Scott, we've got to have some kind of explanation. What's going on? Earlier this morning there was a whole pack of reporters here. It was terrible. They asked the most awful questions. My husband wouldn't let them in, but he talked to them. And there's this newspaper story about Laurel—”

“Is she here yet?” I interrupted.

“She arrived just before the Browns left. I think she's in her cabin.”

I broke away unceremoniously and tore for Laurel's little house. She was there, alive, very much alive, and she already had on the Fairview uniform. She was sitting in leaf-filtered sunlight, leaning back in a canvas chair in front of the cabin, and she didn't look angry, just confused.

“Shell,” she said.” What are you doing here? I thought— And do you know what just happened?”

“Yeah, I made it happen. You mean Brown?”

“Yes. He and Mary ran to their car and drove away. They weren't even dressed. They were carrying their clothes. What got into them?”

I sat on the ground at her feet and told her what had happened, including this last phone call to Fairview. I wound it up: “Whoever had the bug on my line could have been anywhere, in the Hamilton Building, in its basement, maybe blocks away. Or even miles away. He could have been the guy that called here right after me, or he might have relayed the info to whoever he was working for. Simple enough; say he relayed it, he could have picked up a phone and called anybody in L.A.—or South America—even while I was talking, and relayed the dope. Then the guy he phoned in turn put in a fast call to Brown here at Fairview and said, ‘Fade out, the play is rumbled, blow because Scott's on his way to put the chill on you.' So Brown and his wife flew away like birds.”

After a minute's silence, Laurel said, “How did you know it was Bob?”

“I wasn't sure—and, incidentally, Bob Brown isn't his name. Wish to hell I knew his real name. But this will kill you,” I went on. “There were only three people really beat after my drawn-out calisthenics this morning. One of them was the health director, me. The other two were Bob and Mary Brown. We were apparently the only people here who couldn't take it.” I grinned at her. “Maybe you've got something in this nauseating health kick of yours, after all. Hate to admit it.”

I got the first small smile I'd had since she'd left the Parker Building. “There was another thing, too,” I said. “You told me the babe's name was Mary.”

“Yes. Bob and his wife, Mary. Or whoever she was.”

“Yeah. Only the first thing he called her, when I walked over to them this early A.M., was Fran. He must have been pretty unstrung to call her by her right name—and that probably
is
her real name—but I was so unraveled at that point I didn't even notice.”

“Then he must have shot at you yesterday?”

“Right. And tried to kill you before that. And whoever called him just a little while ago was responsible for both those items, and also either killed or knows who killed your mother. Ditto Paul Yates.”

Her face clouded and she bit her lip. I kissed her lightly. “Sit right here, honey. I've got to make another call.”

I ran all the way back to the Council Room. When I got there I was pretty well tuckered out. If ever this case ended, maybe I'd spend a few weeks at Fairview and get healthy. I called Homicide, got Samson.

“Sam, Shell.” While I talked, Mr. and Mrs. Blore came inside and stood looking at me with their mouths hanging open. Right behind them came the dark, lovely little Peggy.

I told Sam, in fast sentences, about what I'd done and about Brown's taking off like a scalded ape. “So here's the crux: If you can find the guy on the tap—or Brown—you blow this thing wide open. Right now we can't know for sure who's behind the whole mess, but find out where that tap eventually wound up and it's cold. Because from there the call came in to Brown.”

“I've got ten men looking all over hell-and-gone,” Sam growled. “It's probably scrambled now, though.”

“I know it. But there's a chance. And you might put out some teletypes on Brown.” I described the guy, but from skin out Sam was on his own.

He said, “OK. Where you gonna be if I get word?”

“I'll call you. I'm going to be on my way in a minute.”

After a little more talk we hung up and Mr. and Mrs. Blore descended on me at the same time. The gist of it was that they'd gladly flay me alive, but I explained a little and Mrs. Blore ran down. Her husband said, “Then you're really a detective?”

“That's right. I'm not Don Scott, but Shell Scott. And I'm a private investigator.”

“So Laurel deceived us when she said—”

“No. I made her do it,” I lied glibly. “It wasn't her fault. Don't forget you had a would-be murderer here in camp. Maybe a murderer in fact. Would you have preferred me and what I've done, or a bloody corpse or two here in Fairview?”

Mrs. Blore was looking at me. “What about tomorrow?” She practically wailed it.

“What do you mean, what about tomorrow?”

“The convention! For a year we've—”

Mr. and Mrs. Blore looked at each other and I was afraid they'd break down and blubber any minute. But Mr. Blore said, “Don't worry about it, dear. We'll work it out,” and they left.

Peggy said thoughtfully, “So that's why you were so funny when you first came.”

“Was I funny?”

“Odd, I mean. You acted strange. Not at all like what I expected.”

“Well, you weren't what I expected.”

She sighed. “You won't be here tomorrow, then?”

“Well, now,” I said, “don't you go jumping to conclusions. Never can tell. One never knows, does one? I might be able to sneak in for a moment or so.”

“If you're not here, everything will be all mixed up.” She was smiling sadly.

“It'll be mixed up for sure if I'm here. But, ah, I'll do my best. Well, I've got to be on my way.”

She turned sideways, leaving me enough room to get by. She really was cuter than the dickens. I thought of Laurel and looked at Peggy. Sometimes I hate myself. I went out, but as I went by Peggy I gave her a little pat on her behind. Don't get me wrong. I didn't grab it and yank it around or anything, just gave it a friendly cuff. Nothing crude, you know.

Then I swished out of the building and ran back to Laurel, wings on my feet. She was still sitting in the same place. And in the same way. She smiled at me this time.

“I've been thinking,” she said. “You let him escape just because you were worried about me. You did it for me.”

“Uh-huh. There wasn't any other way I could be sure that you'd be OK, honey. Doll. Sweet. I—”

“And to think I was angry with you.”

“Not angry anymore?”

“Of course not.”

She stretched slowly, hands curled again into little fists tucked under her ears, elbows pointing at the sky. Squatted precariously on my heels, I naturally lost my balance and toppled over. Toppled over forward. But then I shook my head vigorously and said, “I am leaving.”

“Where you going?”

“Out. Away.”

“Why?”

“I must. I've got a million things to do. A million. And if I stay here, that will leave nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine— Oh, never mind.” There was another reason for leaving. I hadn't been thinking too clearly outside of Fairview, but every moment here was bringing me closer to gibberish. I said, “Look, we've got to figure where you can go. Someplace safe.”