Shell Scott: Kill The Clown Part 5

"What was it that gave him the boost? I know he suddenly started swinging more weight around."

"Search me," she said again. "I knew him before then, but he never mentioned anything about it to me, he just got a lot of chips all of a sudden. We only been married three years." She paused. "And it seems like a hundred."

I would have been willing to bet it hadn't seemed like a holiday weekend for hubby, either. I asked her a few more questions, but that was all she could tell me. It was, of course, enough. All she could guarantee was that Quinn would open the safe Tuesday night about nine p.m. Then I could sap him or shoot him or kick him in the seat of his pants, she didn't care.

She was fidgeting to leave, so we said goodbye and I thanked her for the cordial invitation. Not that I actually intended to use it. Going to Frank's party struck me as about as much fun as getting shot in the stomach.

Mrs. Quinn left. But when she left I was reasonably close behind her.

She wasn't difficult to tail, and she apparently had no idea that I was following her. She didn't look toward me once. She walked two blocks down to Fifth and continued straight ahead, so I turned left and ran the half block to my car, started it and pulled up to the stop sign at Fifth again in time to see her still walking ahead. I swung left and drove slowly toward her until she went into a parking lot and came out driving a cream-colored Cadillac. The car was easy to follow.

It was dark when she drove into the Sand Dunes Motel on Beverly Boulevard. I watched her park and go into the third unit in from the street, without knocking. Two minutes later I had parked and walked to the motel's entrance. I walked past it, continued on around to the rear of that third unit. I got there about ten seconds before they turned out the lights. There were a few inches of s.p.a.ce beneath a drawn shade, room enough for me to peer through. I peered.

"They" consisted of Mrs. Frank Quinn, and the guy I knew only as Jay. The guy I'd seen in the red-and-black room Sat.u.r.day with Frank Quinn. He was Frank Quinn's right-hand man, no doubt; but he was more than that to Mrs. Frank Quinn. He was even more than both hands.

The ten seconds before the lights went out were enough. It couldn't have been more than three minutes all told since she had walked in the front door. But the way they were acting, even a fool would have guessed that they were old friends.

Then the lights went out.

I walked back to my Cad, climbed in and lit a cigarette. It would probably be an exaggeration to say I was as happy about what was going on back there as were Jay and Mrs. Quinn. But I felt pretty good. Because this meant that undoubtedly Mrs. Quinn's offer of help to me made sense and was not merely a complicated way to get me knocked off. It explained who had told her some of the things she'd pa.s.sed on to me - the name she'd almost mentioned a time or two. And it meant there was a little undercover friction in the Quinn menage.

I dragged on my cigarette, thinking. Maybe it meant more than that - to me.

Clearly, Frank Quinn did not know what his ever-loving wife was up to. Clearly, he did not realize that his trusted, loyal lieutenant, Jay, had promoted himself to Colonel, at least. And obviously Jay, who was second-in-command to the boss, knew a great deal about the activities of his boss. Surely it was a situation I could turn to my benefit - and Ross Miller's.

There was a way. Yes, there was a way.

But I hesitated. It was not the kind of shenanigan I enjoy. But I was tempted.

I got out of the car and opened the luggage compartment, in which I do not keep any luggage. Instead I carry there equipment I have used, or may have occasion to use, in my work. A number of electronic items, an infrared snooperscope, walkie-talkie, about four thousand dollars worth of odds and ends, some quite odd indeed. I had to move a collapsible bamboo ladder and chest of burglar's tools to get what I wanted, but in two or three minutes I had the items.

Item: Yas.h.i.+ca Lynx 35mm. camera with an f-1.9 lens.

Item: Ca.s.sette of Kodak IR135 35mm. infrared film.

Item: Standard flash attachment for the Lynx.

Item: GE 5R flashbulbs.

In another couple of minutes I had the j.a.panese Lynx loaded with infrared film and the flash attachment fitted to the camera. With this film, and the lens set at f-4 .5, and a shutter speed of about 1/50 of a second, I could take very satisfactory pictures in the complete absence of visible light. Infrared film is sensitive to the near infrared or heat rays, lower in the electromagnetic spectrum than visible light rays. The flash attachment and 5R bulbs, when triggered simultaneously with the camera's shutter, would provide the quick burst of heat rays; the heat-sensitive infrared film would capture the picture. And there were three or four inches of s.p.a.ce beneath that motel-room shade; enough. It was possible, all right.

Still, I hesitated. You have to give me that.

Then a happy thought struck me. Maybe Jay felt like a winner at the moment, but I happened to know he was a two-time loser, "two-time" in this case meaning he'd done two stretches in State clinks. And right now - I grinned to myself - Jay was breaking the law! In fact, he was energetically committing at least a misdemeanor.

Perhaps, even so, I wouldn't have done it if it had been for my benefit alone. Perhaps I wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been for the necessity of helping Ross Miller in a hurry.

But probably I would have.

Anyway - I did it.

Six.

After dropping off the fully exposed - possibly overexposed - roll of film with a photographer who'd done work for me in the past, I used a pay phone to call Lolita Lopez at the Whitestone.

She answered and I said, "Lolita? This is Sh.e.l.l Scott again," and waited to see what her reaction would be.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, Sh.e.l.l." She sounded quite friendly.

I said, "Have you done any thinking about our last conversation?"

"What's to think about?"

"I guess that means you've nothing new to tell me."

"Just the old things. And you already know them."

"I'd still like to talk to you. All right if I drop by? I can be there in about fifteen minutes."

"Sure. Fifteen minutes would be fine. I have to take a shower. But I'll leave the door open so you can come right in."

One of those hot flashes. .h.i.t me again. "Into . . . the shower?" I said, unbelieving.

"Goodness, no," she laughed. "You'd get all wet. I meant the front door, of course."

"Of course. I don't know what I was thinking of. Yes I do - "

"In case you get here sooner."

"I probably will."

"Then if I'm not ready, you can mix a drink or something."

"I'll think of something."

"'Bye."

We hung up. Eight minutes later I tried Lolita's door. It was unlocked, all right. I went inside and looked around and heard the sound of shower water drumming on something - let's face it, drumming on Lolita. Then it stopped.

"Yoo-hoo," I called. "I'm here. Here I am."

"That you, Sh.e.l.l?"

"Who else?"

"Mix me a gin and tonic, will you? I'll be right out."

I hunted around and found the booze, mixed her drink and a bourbon and water for me. By that time Lolita had joined me in the front room, wearing a white robe.

I gave her the drink and she smiled and thanked me, then sat on the divan. I didn't sit down. I stayed on my feet and paced the floor. This interview wasn't going to go the way last night's interview had gone, I told myself. No sir, this time I was going to be controlled, efficient, incisive. Aloof even. Practically nuts.

I said, "Lolita, there are a few things you should know. And, like it or not, when I get through you're going to know them."

"My, you sound serious."

"I am serious. You, Weiss, and Heigman were witnesses at Ross Miller's trial. Weiss and Heigman helped Quinn by lying on the stand and sticking a frame on Miller. You helped alibi Quinn by lying about where he was at the time of Flagg's murder. I know d.a.m.n well that Quinn shot Flagg himself. I even know why."

I glanced at her then, but her face was calm, impa.s.sive. She stared at me from the big black eyes.

I went on, "Once Miller was stuck, and Heigman's value to Quinn was ended, Quinn had him killed. Murdered. Right now Heigman is somewhere in the Pacific Ocean - whatever the fishes haven't eaten, that is. And Weiss is dead, one way or another. That's how people get paid off for helping Quinn - one of the slimiest hoods alive. So why don't you quit trying to protect him?"

"I'm not trying to protect him. He's everything you say he is and more. But . . . Well, I have to tell the truth, don't I? You wouldn't want me to lie, would you?"

"I'm pretty d.a.m.n sure you are lying."

"That's not a very nice thing to say."

"I'm not trying to be nice. I'm trying to get you to tell me the truth so we can send that monster away to the monster farm. Look, honey, as far as I know the only people who could help Miller are the three who stuck him in the first place: you, Weiss, and Heigman. The other two are dead. You're the only one left. And the only time you'll be safe is after you spill all you know and Quinn's behind bars."

She had closed her eyes and was sitting very still. I said, "You could go like Heigman, Lolita. A hood named Papa Ryan dumped him in the drink. Alive, almost surely. Alive, sinking fast down through the sea, holding his breath a long, long time. Sometime, just for fun, hold your breath as long as you can, till your lungs almost burst, and imagine you're Heigman going down."

Lolita opened her eyes, leaned slightly toward me, lips parting. She hesitated, then said softly, "I really didn't lie, Sh.e.l.l. But - maybe he could have done it." She moistened her lips. "Did he really kill Heigman?"

"Had him killed. One of his punk musclemen dropped the little old man in the ocean. I was telling you the truth. Now tell me the truth, Lolita."

"I didn't really lie," she said again. "I'll just - just tell you how it actually happened." She took a deep breath. "That night, when Mr. Flagg was killed, I was here. Mr. Quinn knocked on the door and I let him in. We talked for a minute or two and he said he'd arranged it for me to start working at the Gardenia Room. He was very jolly and friendly - and of course I was happy about the job. We were still talking when we heard sirens. It sounded as if they stopped right in front of the hotel. Mr. Quinn left to see what was wrong, and came back in a few minutes. He said a man had been shot in the hotel - it had just happened, must have happened while we were talking, and the police had already caught the fellow who did it, caught him right in the room with the dead man." She paused. "Well, then he told me if the police found out he was even in the hotel at the time they'd make things difficult for him - just because he'd been in trouble years before, had a police record. They'd roust him was the way he put it." She sighed. "Anyway, he asked me to say that he'd been with me from a little before eight o'clock until then, if anybody questioned me about him."

"What time was it then?"

"About twenty-five minutes after eight. That was in my testimony."

"I know. But he wasn't with you until quite a bit after eight o'clock, right?"

"Sh.e.l.l, I'm really not sure now. Honestly. I don't know what time it was when he came in. There wasn't any reason for me to notice the time. Even then, though . . . I didn't think Mr. Quinn had been with me nearly that long. But, well, it just didn't enter my mind that he could have had anything to do with it."

"Didn't you have any doubts during the trial?"

"A little, when Ross Miller testified. But then there was the testimony about his buying the gun, and what Mr. Weiss said. Well, I thought it had to be Ross Miller."

"That's what you - and the jury - were supposed to think." I sat down near Lolita on the divan. "Quinn shot Flagg, phoned Ross, then came to you for his alibi. All he had to do was make sure you believed he'd been with you longer than he really had been. Or, at least, would say he'd been with you longer. That, added to the testimony of Weiss and Heigman would keep him clean. Which it did. It's not much help, but you'd better tell your story to the police anyway."

"I don't know, Sh.e.l.l, I don't know. I'm so confused." She shook her head, thick black hair swinging. "What good would it do now? That was all nearly a year ago, Sh.e.l.l, I can't be sure about a few minutes. And it wouldn't change anything."

She was probably right. Even added to what Doris Miller could say about Weiss' visit to her - which, from Doris, would be hearsay testimony - it wouldn't carry much weight. Not with both Weiss and Heigman dead. Certainly not enough to get Miller a stay of execution. All by itself it wasn't worth a d.a.m.n, and Lolita was reluctant to tell the police the story she'd just told me, thus leaving herself open to possible prosecution for perjury, unless some good could come of it.

I said, "Honey, sometimes a half-truth is worse than a whole lie. You'll probably have to tell your story, even if we can't know it'll help." I paused. "Unless by then I've come up with something much better than I've got now, on Tuesday I'm going to the police and tell them everything I know. All the stuff I can't prove, including the rumors, hearsay, guesses - and what you've told me. Then, if they want to talk to you, or get a statement from you, you give it to them. It might help and it might not, but do it. O.K.?"

She thought about it for nearly a minute, then nodded. "All right, Sh.e.l.l. If it has to be that way."

"It has to be that way. And, for now, at least get out of the Whitestone. And don't let anybody know where you're going, especially not Frank Quinn."

She actually looked puzzled. "You don't really think I'm in any danger, do you?"

"Of course not," I said. "No more than Weiss was, or Heigman, or Mrs. Bluebeard, or - "

Her eyes flashed. "You don't have to be mean - "

"Mean, she says - " I cut it off, looked at her still-flas.h.i.+ng eyes and knitted brows, and changed the subject slightly. "You mentioned something about a job in the Gardenia Room. What kind of job?"

"I'm a singer - ballads, a few naughty lyrics, some Mexican songs." Her eyes were still flas.h.i.+ng.

"How come Quinn happened to talk to you about a job in the first place? And how did he know you lived here in the Whitestone?"

"I was with some friends in the club one night, over a year ago, and they talked the M.C. into letting me do a couple of numbers. Mr. Quinn was there and liked my act. He said he might be able to fix it for me to work the club if I wanted to."

"This was before Flagg's murder?"

"Yes, a month or so before then. Well, I'd been out of a job for a while, and it sounded wonderful to me. I told him where I lived, but I didn't really expect to hear from him again. I thought he was the owner or something."

"Maybe he is. He's got pieces of several clubs in town. Where is this Gardenia Room?"

"In the Barker Hotel. It's on Third Street - "

"I know where it is."

I also had a hunch I knew what it was. Rumors had reached me that the Barker, despite the fact that it was a big, expensive hotel in a very respectable section of the city, was being visited more and more frequently by the local hoodlum population. That was understandable, since the manager of the Barker was, I knew, one of Quinn's hired hands, a big, hard-boiled ex-con named Fargo - who looked upon me as a vegetarian looks upon pork chops. I had never done anything to Fargo. I had merely, on a case for a client, helped three teams of officers working out of Burglary catch a well-organized ring of fur thieves - and sent Fargo's father, brother, and sister to Folsom's maximum security slammer. So, naturally, he loved me.

"Baby," I said, "that joint should be called the Barker-Karpis. If you've got any sense, you'll stay the h.e.l.l away from there - "

She interrupted. "Away? But my job - "

"No job is that important. Quinn's boys run that hotel, probably others live in the joint. It would be a simple matter for you to fall down some stairs and break your neck, or get hit by a car leaving the club, or fall out a window - "

"You're really serious, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm serious. Look, Wednesday morning Miller goes to the gas chamber. Until then, Quinn is going to be crawling out of his pants. No matter what else you do, stay away from the Gardenia Room and the Barker Hotel. In fact, check into another hotel and stay the h.e.l.l away - "

"I won't, either. And stop swearing at me."

I groaned. I held my head in my hands. I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and asked for strength. Women, I thought. Why can't they be more like men? But probably that wouldn't work. I tried to convince Lolita, but she remained unconvinced. Maybe I was painting too black a picture, but I didn't think so.