The Shell Scott Sampler (16 page)

So far, so good. But I knew Sam wouldn't be gassing without good reason, so I probed in memory some more. I remembered that Moulder and the other man had been partners. Moulder and … Gordon. Robert Gordon. Gordon was much the wealthier of the two. Moulder, though not exactly out of the chips, was a contractor, a builder and developer—but on a much smaller scale than Gordon, who had hotels and country-club estates all over the landscape.

That jiggled another fact loose. Gordon and Moulder had cooperated in building one of those “country-club” developments here in Southern California. The Hollywood Hills Estates in Hollywood, in fact. Nine-hole golf course, clubhouse, homes on the fairways and such. Plus hotel-type accommodations, and a luxurious restaurant and bar, the Skylight Lounge.

“I've made him,” I said. “Hollywood Hills Estates, Moulder and Robert Gordon. But wasn't there something else? End of the trial…”

Sam nodded. “When the verdict was read he raised a little hell.”

“More than a little, if I recall—took a swing at his attorney, didn't he? Yelled that the s.o.b. had sold him out—ah, Blaik. Hell, his attorney was Vincent Blaik.”

Samson smiled. “The late Vincent Blaik, yes. Moulder took a swing at him, right there in the courtroom…”

“Also swore he'd kill the s.o.b.—Moulder's choice of words. Yelled it about three or four times, with some vehemence, if I correctly recall the reports.”

“You do.”

“OK, so what? Moulder's languishing in Q … Wait a minute. Mrs. Moulder called the Hollywood boys? She was expecting her husband to show up this afternoon?”

“You do get there in time, don't you, Shell?” Samson sighed, rubbed his eyes for a moment. “That's it. Moulder did his bit. He's out.”

“When?”

“Today. Only a few hours ago. Not so few he couldn't have made it to L.A. with some hours to spare, though.”

I thought about it. “Well, I still say, so what? You don't expect me to think you'd pay any attention to a threat made in anger more than a year ago, do you?”

“Ordinarily maybe I wouldn't. But we don't have much else to go on.”

It was true enough. But that old “I'll kill you” line has been tossed at a large percentage of the attorneys, policemen, D.A.'s—and private detectives for that matter—in the country. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred it's no more than hot air.

Still, I thought, there's always that one other time out of the hundred.

“Something else interesting,” I said. “Moulder was one of the owners of the Hollywood Hills Estates, wherein is the Skylight Lounge, wherein it seems our Miss Lynn Duncan works. And the chap she was dining with tonight is the—late—attorney who defended Moulder.”

“Who got sprung today. Yeah, we're working on all of it.”

“How is the Duncan girl?” I asked him.

“In Emergency, last I checked. They're fixing her head—but it's not serious. She'll make it.”

“Moulder hasn't shown up yet, huh?”

“Not the last I heard. I called Mrs. Moulder myself a couple times. First time was over an hour ago. Couldn't reach her then, but talked to her at eight thirty. Still no husband. Told me she was taking a shower when I called before. Now why would she tell
me
she was taking a shower?”

I grinned. “Why, Sam?”

“You, now, that I could understand. Even if she doesn't know you, she must have heard about you. Aren't you always talking to babes in showers?”

“Only when they're roomy enough for both of us. And there's lots of hot water. And —”

I cut it off, because Sam had dug out a big wooden match and was preparing to light his cigar.

He knew I gagged on the effusion from those unbelievably foul smokes of his—which was why he lit them. He fired one up whenever he wanted to get rid of me. It always worked.

“Sam,” I asked him, “what are those things made out of? Poison-ivy?”

He'd got the end glowing. “They are manufactured from pure horse manure,” he said complacently.

“Damn sick horses,” I said, out of my chair and edging away.

He puffed, an expression of contentment spreading over his clean-shaven pink face.

“You could get cancer in your fingers, you know,” I said. “Just from holding those things.” But by then I was at the open door.

Usually Sam simply let me go, relishing his victory. But this time as I started out he said, “No need for you to meddle in the case now. Right, Shell? I won't have to worry about you in my hair?”

“Well, if it was that hundred-to-one chance, and Moulder did the shooting, I suppose I can relax and forget about it. But what if it wasn't Moulder, old buddy? Besides, no matter who it was, I do not take kindly to fellows tossing pills so close to me as those pills were tossed tonight.”

“I was afraid of that,” he said.

Home is a comfortable three-rooms-and-bath in Hollywood's Spartan Apartment Hotel, on North Rossmore opposite the grounds of the Wilshire Country Club. At ten minutes till ten I was unlocking the door of 212.

The living-room phone was ringing, but by the time I got inside, walked over the yellow-gold carpet, flopped on the low chocolate-brown divan and grabbed the phone, nobody was on the other end of the line.

So I mixed a healthy bourbon and water in the kitchenette, took it into the bathroom and drank it before, during and after a quick shower. I was half dressed when the phone rang again. This time I got to it on the second ring.

“Mr. Scott?” It was a woman's voice.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, good. I've been trying to reach you for over an hour. Could you please come to see me? It's dreadfully important.”

“Well, I suppose so. I'm a little pressed for time, though. What's it about?”

“It's—it concerns my husband. My name is Mrs. Moulder, and I have the most ghastly apprehension —”

“What? I mean, you're who?”

“Mrs. Moulder.”

“Mrs. Leslie Moulder?”

There was a brief silence. Then she said, “Oh. You know about him, then.”

“Know what about him?”

“Well, he … It's very embarrassing. I'd much prefer to tell you in person. Would you come to my home, Mr. Scott?”

“Right away.”

She gave me her address, one of the homes along the first fairway of the golf course at Hollywood Hills Estates. I finished dressing in a hurry, including my reloaded Colt. As I pushed the revolver into its holster a ridiculous thought occurred to me. Wouldn't it be funny if, for a motive as yet incomprehensible to me, Leslie Moulder had in fact been the chap who'd shot at me earlier … and was now enlisting the aid of his freshly showered wife to lure me out onto the fairways, where with a double-barreled shotgun…

I found the front door of the Moulder residence with ease, and with no shock other than the sight of Mrs. Moulder when she opened the door.

Only seconds after I rang she threw the door wide and light spilled over me. It also spilled all around Mrs. Moulder. And though she was clad, she was not clad in enough to keep her warm should the temperature fall below eighty degrees.

“Oh,” she said, as though disappointed. “Are you Mr. Scott?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She was gazing upon me the way people sometimes look at mangy dogs, shivering in the cold. “Oh,” she said again. Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed.

“I am sorry, madam,” I said a bit stiffly, “but if you were expecting somebody who looks like Lord Byron, or even Sherlock Holmes —”

“No, no, it's not that. I thought perhaps it would be Leslie.”

“Ah, I see. Well—no word from your husband yet?”

“No, nothing.” She squinted at me. “How did you know I was expecting him?”

“I just finished talking to the police, Mrs. Moulder. I had a rather interesting experience earlier this evening.”

“You mean getting shot at?”

“Yeah. You know what happened, huh?”

“I heard it on several news programs. In fact, that's why I called you. Because your name was mentioned. But…” She frowned. “You say you know I was expecting Leslie, because you've talked to the police? But that means—the police don't suspect Leslie, do they? They can't suspect Leslie!”

She was stretching her features and wiggling them around, and waving her arms about, her voice screeching into the upper octaves.

I said, “Do you mind if I come inside? I feel a little—I know it's silly, really, but I'd rather not stand here in the doorway.”

“Oh, of course.” She stepped back and as I went in shut the door behind me.

A television set was glowing in the corner, on the screen four boys, or girls, thumping guitars and singing in what was apparently a brand-new key. The song appeared to be about an H-bomb that blew up the world: “…boom it went, a great big boooom!” But Mrs. Moulder walked to the set and turned the volume down just as the entertainers got to the last boom, which made it less scary.

Standing before the set, Mrs. Moulder said, “I presume you know that my husband was sent to prison, and that he was released today?”

“Yes. I've a general idea of the background.”

“I've visited him every week or two during this past year. We planned to meet here this afternoon—he did
not
want me to meet him at the prison, but rather in … less ugly surroundings. You understand?”

I nodded.

She was a big, good-looking woman, about thirty or possibly a couple of years older. She had a pretty face. Not beautiful, but pretty, with very large wide-set eyes, long-lashed and dark, as her most striking feature. Most striking feature of her face, at least. Good nose, warm-looking mouth. She was made up, with rouge and lipstick and eye shadow artfully applied, as though ready to go out on the town. Not dressed to go out on the town, however.

“We agreed he would fly from San Francisco to International Airport and take a taxicab from there. I arranged for him to have sufficient money. I was to be here, waiting for him, with…” She paused. “With everything ready for him.”

She waved a hand toward a long, low, black divan. Before it, on the antique-gold-mirrored top of a wide table, sat a silver bucket in which was a bottle of champagne. Three vases of cut flowers added brightness and color to the room. The top of an intricately carved stereo set was raised and I could see a stack of records resting on the spindle.

After a year in stir a man would greatly enjoy a drink, some champagne, music, even fresh flowers. Then there was, of course, Mrs. Moulder.

She asked me to sit down, so I plunked onto the black divan. The ice in the champagne bucket had melted, I noticed.

As Mrs. Moulder continued talking she began pacing the floor, which was rather an interesting occupation, since she was wearing a pale-blue negligee and thin robe or peignoir which did not entirely conceal the outlines, and even some of the inlines, of her undeniably lush and lovely figure.

She had heavy breasts, high and pouter-pigeon plump, and now exceedingly active, as though endowed with a vigorous life of their own; a strong but not thick waist; full hips and long slim legs. As she paced back and forth she said, “It's simply ghastly. I don't know what to do. There's been no word at all from him.”

She clutched the front of her peignoir, squeezed it, released it. “He hasn't even
phoned
me.”

I didn't say anything. It often takes even calm and collected women quite a while to get to the point.

She went on for another minute, audibly expressing her concern: possibly Leslie had been hurt; killed in an accident; everything but eaten by sharks.

Then she stopped pacing suddenly, close in front of me, and said out of the blue, “Did you see the man who shot at you?”

I blinked. “No, I didn't. Are you implying that maybe it was your husband who —”

“I'm not implying anything,” she interrupted me. “I just wanted to know if you
saw
him, the man who
shot
—”

“Mrs. Moulder, just take it easy, huh?”

“I am quite calm!” she cried. “Naturally I'm
concerned
—”

“Of course!” I said.

She was getting to me. I figured it would be easier to stay calm and relaxed if she'd go put on a brassiere and some pants. But I could hardly tell Mrs. Moulder that.

She was beginning to wave her arms a bit, so I said, “Mrs. Moulder, precisely what is it you want me to do? Want me to look for your husband? Try to find him?”

“Well … yes.”

“Is it anything more than that?”

“Well … in a way it is. In a way, yes.”

“Look, we both know of the threat your husband made against Vincent Blaik quite a while back. We know your husband got out of prison today. We know Vincent Blaik was killed this evening. But I assume you do not believe Mr. Moulder fired those shots—or do you?”

“Of course not.”

“OK. You don't think so, and I don't really think so either. So what am I doing here? If there's nothing else you want to talk about, I'll leave. That will be, oh, call it twenty bucks for my time.”

She moistened her lips. A calculating look grew in her large eyes. Her nostrils pinched in slightly. Then she said, “The truth is, I'm a little afraid it might have been Leslie. Just a
little
afraid.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You see, he was really innocent of the crime he was charged with. He was sent to prison an innocent man.”

“I see,” I said.

“It was that Blaik—that attorney, that rotten, stinking lawyer…” She let it trail off, as if realizing she was talking about a man very recently dead. Then she went on, “Leslie told me
so
many times, every time I visited him in prison, that when he finally realized Mr. Blaik was absolutely incompetent it was too late. By the time he knew he wanted another attorney, he was convicted. There was nothing he could do.”