Strip for Murder (25 page)

“Sure,” I said. “Only Poupelle didn't know it, and Norman held that fake murder over his head, made him do exactly what he wanted him to do.”

Rawlins handed me back my gun and I slid it into the holster, pulled the uniform coat I was wearing down tighter onto my shoulders.

Samson hung up and said to me, “The boys picked Bender up in a car, you know, on his way out of Vegas. He almost made it.”

I swung toward Bender and said, “I thought you told me you were to stay there until Norman gave you the word. He call you?”

“No.” Bender swallowed. “I heard the noise that cops were on my tail. Before I took off, I called Norman here, told him I was blowing, and why.”

“Let's go,” Sam said.

“Just a second.” I looked at Bender. “What time did you call, friend?”

“Just before they picked me up. Maybe nine-thirty this morning.”

We left Bender with one of the officers and ran out the door. Two police cars were parked at the Main Street entrance. Samson slid behind the wheel of one and I sat up front with him, other officers piling into the second car. Sam jerked the wheel and gunned out from the curb in a U-turn, hit the siren, and swung left into Sunset, headed for Figueroa.

“At first I thought Poupelle blasted Yates to keep him from messing up Andon's play for the Redstone dough,” I said. “Figured Norman learned about it and was bleeding the guy. Like that loan from Offenbrand. Poupelle got a hundred and fifty Gs—but Norman deposited it. Finally there was so much pointing at Norman a blind man could see it.”

Sam braked, let up on the pedal, and skidded into Figueroa. I opened my eyes, relaxed my legs, and said “When I learned about Poupelle's dropping fifty Gs at the castle, I went out to see Norman about it. Yates also learned that item of info from Three Eyes—so Three Eyes told me—and Yates obviously would have done the same thing I did: call on Norman. Norman got to Yates, maybe with money, or the promise of big money, and Yates sold out, started working for Norman. If Norman had managed to kill me he might have got away with his caper. He made his big try at me today, but it missed, too, because ... We won't go into that.”

Sam swung onto Forrest Street, leading toward the castle. He said, “Think he's got any idea we're on our way?”

“Well, Bender phoned him from Vegas, so he'll be jerky as hell. Not for fear Poupelle might see or talk to him—Andon's in so deep now it wouldn't make any difference—but because Norman will know the whole story's about to pop. Especially with me still alive. Right after Bender's call he sent four of his boys out to polish me off, remember.” I stopped.

In a second I went on, “Hell, yes, he knows, Sam. Even if his boys didn't get back to the castle he knows by now that I've talked to Bender, talked again to the police.”

“How you figure ... Oh. Yeah.”

Yeah, indeed. By this time probably half the United States knew that Shell Scott had visited City Hall from heaven.

The car went over the hill and started down. We could see the castle from here. Sam said, “There's a chance he's already flown. But once he runs he's got to keep on running, and he knows it. So he'll take as much of his stuff, including money, with him as he can.”

I said, “There's the little matter of a guy called Offie, too, and—”

We both saw it at the same time, a car racing out over the drawbridge, careening right, heading toward us. Sam had cut the siren once we were out of traffic and now he said, “Must be him.” I looked at his face and saw his shaggy brows pull down, that cast-iron chin jut out farther. He didn't slow down.

“Eight to five,” I said. “But I can't figure why he's coming this way.”

“Highway Patrol's alerted, roadblocks; that way we'd have him in minutes. Must be figuring he might make it into town, drop out of sight there.”

Norman, if it was Norman, would have seen us by now, and the other car behind us. He was damned close. I swallowed. “Sam. Can't we stop, swing sideways? Block the road?”

He kept his foot clear down on the accelerator. “He'll stop.”

“Yeah, all over us.”

“We stop, and he just turns around, hightails it off. Maybe some good cop gets hurt.”

“Sam, you're a good cop.” My voice was wiggling. “And I'm not such a bad guy, even after...”

I couldn't finish it. That long black car looked like a locomotive on our track. We were in the middle of the road, no more than forty or fifty yards separating the two cars, when Sam hit the siren and it burst into sound like a thousand banshees. I saw Norman's car veer, heard his tires screech. He swung clear off the road and went by us on our left. Only inches away I could see his face bent over the steering wheel.

I thought he was going to make it, but the car skidded, kicked up dirt at the right of the road. Then the brakes of our car were squealing and I was thrown against the door as Sam did something incredible, at least something that I'd never have tried.

Then we were skidding sideways, our collective rear end swinging around so that for a full second we were pointing back the way we'd come but the car went on sliding. Sam didn't even kill the engine, only jerked gears and jazzed the motor, and then we were heading after Norman, gaining speed in a hurry.

I didn't try to say anything; there was no talking to Samson when he was driving like this. But now I saw Norman's car far off the road, right wheels in a ditch. The car door stood open. I spotted him, running up the weed-covered hillside toward a clump of trees and thick brush, a gun in his hand. Sam slammed on the brakes and I was out the door and running before the car stopped.

Norman got into the trees long before I did, but I pounded ahead at full speed. I meant to kill that boy if I got half a chance. At this moment I blamed him for all my troubles, which at least was enough to keep me running. Then I was in the shadows of the trees. I stopped.

There wasn't any sound. I cocked the police revolver, wishing I had my own .38. Then slowly I walked forward, trying to look everywhere at once. The next time I stopped I heard something rustle on my left and spun in that direction, crouching, the gun held before me, my elbow pressed against my side.

There wasn't anything there. Just a fist-sized rock still rolling over the ground. For a split second it didn't register; I didn't realize I'd been caught by one of the oldest tricks in the world, a tossed pebble to make a man look the wrong way. But it was for only a split second. I was still turning when I saw the pebble, and I stopped, but the next instant I dived forward flat on the ground, the dirt slapping my face and scraping my skin. It sounded as if the gun blasted almost in my ear; dirt geysered inches to the right of my head.

I rolled that way, hoping he'd have jerked the gun toward me and that he'd have expected me to move in the opposite direction. Because he had me cold if I didn't cross him up that little bit. As I rolled I squirmed onto my back, and before I even caught sight of him I squeezed the trigger on the police revolver twice, not aiming at anything but praying that just the sudden violent sound might jar him.

Maybe that was what did it. His gun cracked again and he missed me, though I felt the hot wind hiss past my cheek. Then I saw him, and I was firing again even before my gun was pointed at him. But it was pointed at Norman's body before the gun clicked empty. I hit him twice.

He jackknifed forward but didn't go down. The gun dropped from his fingers and he slapped both hands against his middle and staggered backward one step. Then he tried to straighten up, blood oozing thickly through his fingers. He couldn't make it.

He stood facing me, bent over, his head raised so he could see me. His mouth moved and a stream of obscenity poured out. Then his knees buckled and he crumpled, still holding his hands over his belly. My throat was dry and rougher than sandpaper as I walked to him and squatted before him. Samson had plowed up just as Norman fell; right behind him were four other officers.

I doubt that Norman even knew they were there. He was half on his side, one elbow partly supporting him. I said, “You've had it, Norman. Go out clammed, or tell it. It's too late for anything else now.”

He told me what to do. Then he coughed. Coughed blood, and he knew there was a hole in his lung. “It doesn't hurt,” he said slowly, a note of surprise in his voice. “I'll make it. I'll—”

“You're dead, Norman. You're in shock, that's all. I give you a minute, maybe two.”

His face was pale, a film of perspiration making it shiny. He tried to shake his head. “You're lying. I'll...” Then a soft sigh came from his throat and his eyes widened a little. He got a blank, staring look and I saw his Adam's apple move convulsively.

I'd seen that look a dozen times. There's nothing else like it—the expression on a man's face when he knows he's on the way out. Norman knew; somewhere in his brain something cold had burst and spread. He knew he was dying.

Then he started talking. I'd seen that before, too, the words coming all in a rush, piling up on each other, some of them just sounds, not words at all. Maybe when there's so little time, they suddenly have to say more than anyone really says in a lifetime. They never make it; Norman didn't.

A lot of what he did get out was disjointed, but it was more than enough. He said that Poupelle had come out to the castle near the end of May with Vera Redstone and he'd recognized her. One of his boys told him about Poupelle and Poupelle's “love” racket, and Norman had started getting the germ of his idea. While he talked, one of the officers scribbled in a notebook. It seemed unreal to watch him writing while that twisted voice spoke, faltered, went on again.

“All of it was my idea,” Norman said. “Whole thing. Hooks in Poupelle, had him where he'd do anything ... even get married. He was smooth enough to work it. I needed money bad, knew I could get it from Poupelle once he had it. All I had to do was make sure he got it.” He was talking fast, leaving out big parts of it, but they were easy to fill in. “Hooked him first with a rigged roulette wheel. Then Bender helped. Yates ... had to be killed. He'd told me the girl was at Fairview.”

He stopped for long seconds, then went on: “I hadn't known about the girl, just meant to kill the old lady, but that changed it. Made it ... better, would look more like the old gal really banged herself. Be rid of both of them. Yates ... he'd have known, afterward. Couldn't afford what he'd do. He'd double-crossed her already.”

I said, “Who killed Yates?”

“Mike Hawkins. At the camp. Day after Yates's report about the daughter, I sent Mike there. Him and his wife. Saturday night I phoned Yates, had him take his own rifle out to Mike. Mike used it on him right there, that night. Oh, Jesus.”

His face twitched. His eyes closed, then opened slowly. He said, his voice faint, “Scott?”

“Yeah.”

“Scott, I sent Garlic out to your car, to blast you after you left the Redstone place. Mike was in camp right then, supposed to kill the girl that night, the gas ... I hadn't heard from him. Knew the old gal must have hired you. Couldn't have you around messing things up, it was too close. I was jumpy. Mike had already missed getting the girl once. If I heard from him she was dead, I meant to kill the old lady that night.”

He paused, blinking slowly, his mouth open, then went on. “Mike messed up both tries on the girl and I gave up on her—you were in it by then. Next night when you came out to the club I'd already given the story about the girl, and the pictures, to the
Clarion
reporter. After that I couldn't wait, had to do it later that night when the papers hit the street. I kept Poupelle and his wife, some other people, in the club. Andon stayed in my office while I went out the back way. He waited till I got back, then he told everybody we'd been together in the office. I went into town, got one of the newspapers and took it along, killed the old lady.”

His voice was fainter now, but I could still hear him. “Andon had told me where her gun was. She knew I was going to kill her. Didn't try anything, just sat there. She just sat there. Didn't say a word. I ... almost didn't do it.”

He was silent then for what seemed a long time. When he looked at me his eyes were blank, dead-looking. His voice was a whisper. “Sorry I killed the old lady.”

“That helps a lot, Norman.”

Those were the last words he heard before he went out. He settled down on his elbow, then went the rest of the way to the ground. His hands fell slowly away from his stomach.

Laurel and I lay on the warm sand, hot sun burning our bodies an even deeper brown.

It was long after Norman had died. When his body had been hauled away I'd gone with Samson and the police to Fairview. Two of the hoods had been there, not quite knowing where to go without clothing. At least I'd burned up their clothes, even if I hadn't meant to do it. Foo, Babe, and one of the other brown-hooded couples had taken off for the hills, but they hadn't been hard to find. Not clad as they were in leaves and twigs.

Mr. and Mrs. Bob Brown—actually Mr. and Mrs. Mike Hawkins—had finally been picked up and were in the can. A large number of other criminal types were out of circulation. And Sergeant Billings had told me I didn't have to shoot anybody to make us even—I'd introduced him to Peggy. The last time I saw him, he was almost as tanned as she was. He could still blush, though. Carlos, I presumed, was still dancing with Juanita.

Andon Poupelle, not the strongest character I'd ever met, cracked during his first night in the poky and admitted he'd known about Norman's plans to murder Mrs. Redstone. Consequently he was an accessory before the fact, after the fact, and smack in the middle of the fact—smack in the middle of San Quentin, too, now.

Vera was in Las Vegas getting a divorce—since, among other things, the knowledge that Poupelle's proposal had been Norman's idea had annoyed her quite a bit—and simultaneously appearing in the show at the Sahara for $10,000 a week, which she didn't need. Everybody even remotely connected with the case was famous.