Strip for Murder (2 page)

“I'll level with you, Scott. I must ask you to blow. You destroy the funeral tone of the establishment.”

“Funereal.”

“Uh-uh. Funeral.” He grinned and breathed at me. “Let's go.” He latched onto my left arm.

Talk about funerals, this evening was beginning to pall on me. The empty highball glass was still in my right hand, so I lifted it up on a level with my chest and said, “Please let go of me fast, Garlic.”

He had a lot of strength in his fingers, and he squeezed my biceps until it hurt. I took a fast look left and right. Nobody was eying us. Then, as Garlic increased the pressure to ease me toward the door, I dropped the highball glass, pointed all four fingers straight out, and jabbed them into his neck. My fingers hit his Adam's apple just as the glass bounced on the carpet. A funny squeak came out of his throat, and I knew not much else would be coming out for a little while. His face got red and he balled both hands into fists as I bent over and picked up the glass, keeping my eyes on him.

I cupped the glass in my hand and aimed it at Garlic's face like a small bazooka. He was just about to swing at me, so hot he'd undoubtedly forgotten where he was, when I wiggled the glass and said softly, “I'll carve up your chops like a Salisbury steak, Garlic. Maybe I can catch an eyeball with one swipe. I asked you please, Garlic, remember? But we can waltz around right here in the ballroom if you want to.”

His face kept getting redder, but he didn't take a swing at me. He shook his head, squeezed some air out of his throat. “You sonofabitch,” he said hoarsely. “I'll kill you, you son—”

Then he broke it off and walked a few yards away. He stopped and stood there, big paws opening and closing spasmodically. He reached up and rubbed his throat.

There hadn't been any noise louder than that of the glass thumping on the carpet, and very little movement, so I figured nobody had noticed. Vera was closest to where I stood, and she was still ignoring me. I looked around, though, to check, and discovered that the little byplay here had been observed after all.

In an arched doorway across the room on my left, maybe ten yards away, a woman stood looking straight at me. She was smiling. Still smiling, she nodded her head slightly, then waved a hand at me. It seemed likely that Mrs. Redstone had made an appearance. She was quite a surprise.

Chapter Two

So far in this place, the only woman I'd seen who looked female was Vera, but this gal was a tall, white-haired, and damned fine-looking old party. I knew she was getting on toward sixty, but she must have got off somewhere along the way, because from this distance, except for the white hair, she didn't look forty.

She turned in the archway as I walked toward her, and when I got through it, she pulled drapes to close off the room. She said, “I'm sorry it took me so long to find you, Mr. Scott. Cook's drunk—appropriated a magnum of champagne—and I had to help straighten things out.” She smiled. “Including the cook. I'm afraid everything's going to taste like champagne tonight. I'm Mrs. Redstone.”

I said how-do-you-do, and she asked me, “Did you hurt the gentleman?”

“Yes, ma'am, only he's no gentleman. The bum—uh—” That, I realized, was a hell of a way to talk about one of Mrs. Redstone's guests.

But she said, frowning slightly, “I don't know who he is. Odd. There's usually a stranger or two at these dreadful affairs, but he's such a
strange
stranger.” She smiled. “What was the difficulty?”

I told her all I knew, that Garlic had invited me outside for a chat and that I preferred not to go anywhere at all with Garlic. While I explained, I took a better look at her. Her face was somewhat lined, but she was sure a well-preserved gal, with high, prominent cheekbones and bright-blue, young-looking eyes.

She led the way to two leather chairs across the room, and when we were seated she said, “Let me explain why I phoned you, Mr. Scott. I don't know whether you've met my daughter, Vera, or her husband.”

“Andon Poupelle?” She nodded and I said, “I met them both, I'm afraid.” I explained briefly what had gone on out there and made it clear that I'd done a horrible job of ingratiating myself with her daughter and son-in-law.

Mrs. Redstone laughed. “We'll get along, I believe. I think Andon's an unutterable boor, myself.” She paused. “Do you suppose any of the guests know you're a detective?”

“Garlic must. Maybe some others.”

“Actually, it's not important to me if they do know; I hoped your identity could be kept secret, but that was for your own benefit. You see, you're the second detective I've hired—if you accept my offer of a job, that is. The first one was murdered.”

A lot of light and gladness went out of this conversation. “Was what?”

“Somebody shot him. I phoned the police earlier tonight about it. A Mr. Samson, Captain Samson, talked to me; that's how it happened I phoned you.”

She filled me in. She had two children, twenty-two-year-old Sydney and twenty-six-year-old Vera, whom I'd met. Vera had known Andon Poupelle for less than two months; they'd become engaged three weeks before and got married a week later. Mrs. Redstone was afraid that Poupelle wanted Vera only in order to get next to whatever part of fifteen and a half million dollars might trickle down to her. So Mrs. Redstone had hired an investigator named Paul Yates and told him to conduct a thorough investigation of Poupelle's background, habits, life, the works. Yates had made a report shortly before the marriage, and—according to Yates, anyway—Andon Poupelle was Little Lord Fauntleroy after adolescence.

Mrs. Redstone said, “It almost satisfied me, but not completely. I never did try to talk Vera out of marrying the man—it's her life, after all. But I'm more than twice as old as she is, and maybe just a little wiser.” She paused. “It's all my money, Mr. Scott. I inherited it. And my husband married me for it.”

Her face didn't change expression and she didn't pause at all as she talked, but for a couple of sentences her voice went flat, with practically no inflection. “He spent what he could, finally drank himself to death. That was fifteen years ago. I didn't want anything like that to happen to Vera. I still don't want it to happen. I've been ... disgustingly wealthy all my life, so accustomed to a great deal of money that I sometimes forget what men will do for it. For a million dollars. Or fifteen million. Sydney and Vera have all the money they need now, but they'll inherit the entire estate when I'm gone. Naturally I'm anxious to know that no—no fortune hunter— Well, you understand.” She was silent for a moment; then she said, “Earlier today I came across this in the newspaper.”

She picked a clipping from the arm of her chair and handed it to me. It was only about a dozen lines saying that a local detective, Paul Yates, had been found early that morning face-down on Traverse Road, north of Los Angeles. He'd been shot in the chest and been dead about six hours when found.

Mrs. Redstone said, “This probably has nothing whatever to do with me, with my hiring Mr. Yates. But I couldn't get it off my mind all day. It was the same man I'd recently employed, and there was the coincidence of the location, too. When I phoned, the captain told me, essentially, that the police had nothing to go on yet. And he seemed not to have a very good opinion of Mr. Yates. So I began thinking that perhaps Mr. Yates hadn't been quite honest with me in his report.”

“It's possible,” I said. “I didn't know Yates personally, but I know a little about him. Pretty thorough man, I've heard, but not above making a fast buck. He might have sold you a bill of goods. Maybe, maybe not.”

We talked a few more minutes. What Mrs. Redstone wanted me to do was, first, investigate any possibility that Yates might have been killed because of his work for her; and, secondly, do the job she'd hired Yates for in the first place: go over Poupelle like a vacuum cleaner. She was willing to pay, under the circumstances, much more than the job was worth; my retainer alone was a thousand bucks. I took the case—and the thousand.

“Incidentally,” she said, “you may as well have Mr. Yates's report. I just can't make myself believe that Andon is quite the jewel described here. There's something about that man.”

“There is, indeed. By the way, he said to me, and I quote, that I smelled like cop. Did he know you meant to hire a detective, or that you had hired Yates?”

She shook her head. “No, and I would prefer that no one know you're involved in this. Nobody learned about the other detective from me. The only source, I suppose, would have been Mr. Yates himself. But that doesn't seem likely, does it?”

“Depends. Clients have been sold out before.” I glanced through the papers and put them into my coat pocket. We got up and headed for the other room.

Just before I went out she said, “Actually, there is no great hurry about this. After all, they're married now. But please report to me if you learn anything important.”

“Will do.”

We grinned at each other and I left her there in the doorway.

In the big room, I looked around to see if I could spot Garlic, but he wasn't in sight. The big man who'd been talking to Garlic earlier was still in the same place. Poupelle stood near him and the movie juvenile; all three of them were watching the ex-Miss America, who was tap-dancing. Vera sat alone on the gold divan. None of them looked my way.

I went to the front door and through it and headed down the drive to my car. The Cad was parked almost out in the street behind a long row of other Cadillacs, Buicks, Jaguars, and money sports cars. I reached my buggy, opened the door, and climbed inside. I was putting the key in the ignition when I smelled him. I froze for a moment, then shoved the key in and started the car. I knew Garlic was crouched in the back of my coupé, and if he had a gun he had me cold.

A black Packard was parked about four feet ahead of me. I put the Cad in gear, stepped on the gas, and suddenly let out the clutch, using my foot on the accelerator as leverage to shove myself to the right as the car jumped forward. My Cad slammed into the Packard with a hell of a crash, but my right foot against the floor boards held me braced against the impact and I was twisting around in the seat as Garlic's right hand, full of .45 automatic, plunged forward, followed by Garlic's surprised face.

The engine died. Garlic jerked his head toward me just as I got set. I swung my body around, drove my own right forward, and bounced my fist off his chin. His head snapped to the side and his gun fell to the seat beside me. I grabbed it, swung it up and around like a discus, and caught Garlic with it squarely on the forehead. He slumped clear out of sight.

I gulped a few huge mouthfuls of air, then got out of the car and hauled Garlic onto the drive. I huffed and puffed and blew him onto the lawn, where I dumped him. I meant to slap him awake and find out if this were his idea or somebody else's—but just then light flashed from the front door of Mrs. Redstone's house.

I looked up as three or four men and women stepped outside and peered my way. That had been a hellish crash.

I hesitated a moment as a couple of middle-aged guys started to walk hesitantly toward me. Then I swore, leaped into the Cad, and started it again. I backed up and twisted the wheel. One of the guys yelled, “You! I say there!” I slid the Cad around on gravel and took off.

In the morning I yawned out of bed and staggered around in my usual early-A.M. daze until I'd gulped coffee and toyed with toast. Then I sprawled on the front-room couch and planted the phone on my chest. I called L.A. Homicide and spent a few minutes talking to Samson.

After the amenities, I told him that Mrs. Redstone, overwhelmed by his recommendations, had hired me, and asked if there were anything new on the Yates kill. He was rushed this morning, so he filled me in fast, saying a detective named Carlos Renata, whom I knew pretty well, was on the case and might give me more.

“We got a big nothing,” Sam growled, undoubtedly around a black cigar. “Motive's a blank. Probably some hoodlum he slapped around. Shot once in the chest; thirty-thirty slug put a leak in his ticker. Died fast, about two A.M., as near as the coroner could fix it. Looks like he got it there, wasn't shot somewhere else and dumped.”

“Rifle, huh?” Sam mumbled something that sounded like “Yeah,” and I asked, “What does that mean?”

“Christ knows. It means he wasn't shot with a revolver. We got the slug, a silvertip, good enough to match up with the rifle. If we had the rifle.”

“Sam, one other thing and I'll let you get back to your crossword puzzle. I need all I can get—and fast—on one Andon Poupelle and a stinker called Garlic.”

“Poupelle doesn't ring any bell,” he said. “This Garlic's a low type, does odd jobs like putting the arm on delinquent accounts. Mean boy, goes around tearing down spider webs. Drew bits at Folsom and Q. What's with him?”

I sketched in the business with Garlic and said, “He might have wanted to patch his wounded pride. Could be, though, that he was just earning somebody's fee. I've got his gun, anyway. When I get in to see you later, I'll drop it off. Maybe it'll fit some unsolved jobbies you've got down there. Trade you that for anything I can use. Especially who Garlic's been working for lately.”

I told him Poupelle was the former Vera Redstone's new husband, and then he put Carlos on the line. Carlos didn't have much of anything yet, but he did supply me with one interesting item of information.

“This Yates hung around the Afrodite off and on, Afro-Cuban place,” Carlos said. “Real wild. Or cool, I guess they'd say out there. Man, the music—they got gourds and things that go clank. And the babe! Man, this gal's named Juanita, see? Sings a little and shakes the maracas. Wait'll you see them maracas.”

“Carlos, I thought you were on a murder case.”

“She's murder. But, hell, I been working like a dog. I was there on business. This Yates, he hung around there a lot. Was there Saturday night, the night he got hit. Last place we've got him pinned down to; next spot was the dirt road—Traverse. But this Juanita didn't know anything else that did me any good. Man, nothing she did did me any good. Wait'll you—”