Dagger of Flesh (9 page)

Hill said, "That what the patch is for?"

I fingered the back of my head. "Yeah. Bled a little. Guy must have used a gun butt on me." Nobody said anything, so I finished, "Anyway, I went to bed. Alarm went off at seven and I got up. Had coffee, then you arrived." I nodded at Hill

"That all?" he asked.

"You want some more?"

"When you hit your apartment last night, didn't you mix a drink or anything? You go straight to bed?"

I tried to grin, but it wouldn't work. I said, "To tell you the truth, I don't remember so good. Guess that blow was rougher than I thought. Little concussion, maybe."

Nobody spoke.

I could feel perspiration beading on my forehead. "Listen," I said. "Damn it to hell, what is this? I've been jawing away here for ten minutes."

Art Grant said, "Take it easy, Shell."

Hill lit a cigarette and gave me one. "You didn't go out anywhere after you went to bed?" he asked.

I was lighting the cigarette and the match shook a little. I said, "Hell, I stayed in bed. What do you think I did? Jump through the roof?"

"You do remember going to bed, then?"

"Well, sure ..." The funny thing was, I didn't remember anything about it. I thought of mentioning the screwy things I'd noticed this morning, but decided against it. I wasn't liking any of this. I went on, "Am I supposed to forget going to bed? Am I supposed to be crazy? I went to bed and slept like a baby. A tired baby. How's that?"

Hill dragged on his cigarette and I watched the tip brighten, then turn gray. He asked, "Not a chance that anybody could have seen you in town after midnight, then?"

"After midnight? I told you I was in bed, Hill. You trying to feed me some junk I was seen after twelve?"

He shook his head. "I was just asking if it were possible."

"Hell, no, it's not possible." I started to burn. Maybe they had a job to do, but I was getting full up to here. "Okay, chums," I said. "What is it? I don't like games and I'm sick of this one." I looked from Grant to Hill and growled, "Tell me what this party's about or I clamp my face shut. I told you all I know, and I've got nothing to hide, as the saying goes. But I'm through as of now."

Nobody said anything for a minute, then Art sighed. "Okay, Shell," he said. "You get it. By the way, did you wear your gun down here?"

That one went all the way in and twisted. I said quietly, "No. Why ask about my gun?" I nodded at Hill. "He knows I didn't bring a gun. I was in my shirt sleeves when he came." I tried to toss it off, but I was remembering I didn't have a gun to wear. My throat got dry all of a sudden. "Spill it," I said.

Art turned and went into the inner office. He came back and slid a gun across the desk to Hill. Then he turned and went into the office again and shut the door behind him.

"Hey," I said, "let me see that thing."

I didn't have to see it again. It was a .357 Magnum with a three-and-a-half-inch barrel. Guns of one make and style are all more or less alike, but when you carry the same gun for years, take good care of it, work on it yourself, you know your own gun.

Hill handed it to me and I turned it over and looked at it carefully. "Where'd you get this?"

"It's yours, isn't it, Shell?"

"Knock it off, you know it's mine. I asked you where you got it?"

"Found it next to Jay Weather's body."

It went right by me. "What do you mean, body?" I asked him. "Jay? I don't get it."

He didn't say anything. I looked at the sergeant. He looked at me. And then I got it.

I stood up slowly and leaned forward across the table, my hands moist against its top. "You bastard," I said. "So that's it. Why, you dumb bastard. I thought you had good sense ..." I started walking toward the small inner office where Grant had gone. I shoved the door open and Grant looked up.

"Art," I said. "Don't give me this. You find my gun by a dead man, so that means I killed him. You think I murdered somebody?"

He sighed. "Sit down, Shell." He jerked his head and the other two men came in. We started in again. They were as pleasant as they could be, all of them. Nobody bothered me. I had cigarettes, and a glass of water when I asked for it. But we went round and round. I got the story.

A policeman had found the front door of Weather's unlocked and lights burning in the store. He had checked inside and discovered Jay dead on the floor. My gun had been almost out of sight behind a counter near him. Jay hadn't been dead long. He'd probably got it about three or four in the morning.

Finally, I said to Art, "All you've got is that ballistics says my gun did it, and I was at Jay's yesterday. And that I was talking to Bruce Wilson about Jay. I've told you about that damn parrot."

Art nodded. "We got that from Bruce, Shell. It ties in with what you've given us on Jay."

I said, "Art, that's all you've got. Do you think I killed him?"

He shifted uneasily. "Shell—" He glanced at Hill and the sergeant then looked at me. "Maybe I don't. But—"

That was enough. Too much, really. I felt better. "Sorry, Art. Look. Believe me, I didn't kill Jay. If I had, I wouldn't drop my gun right next to him. The only thing you've really got is the gun. I don't—" I'd started to say I didn't know how the hell the gun got there in the first place, but it sounded wrong even if it was true, and I bit it off. I was calm now, and I started thinking a little.

I didn't know what the score was on the gun, but saying so was a weak way to get out in the fresh air. I hadn't said much about the two goons, just that they were bothering Jay and I'd got sapped helping him. And then something clicked. I hadn't mentioned the deal Jay had made with me, transferring me his business, and I had an idea. I hated to lie to Art, but I hated heading for jail even more. I had to find Jay's killer and I couldn't do it in jail.

I said, trying to make it sound convincing, "I think I've got it. All this mumbo jumbo business screwed me up—then you got me mad." I managed a grin. "About the gun: I didn't use it, so somebody else must have. Who, I don't know. But it wouldn't be tough for somebody to swipe my gun."

Art frowned.

I tried to remember if anybody had seen the gun on me last night. I'd been wearing it, but possibly nobody could have told for sure—except Lucian and his chum.

So I tried it out. "I haven't worn the gun for a day or two. I haven't been working. The last time I saw the Magnum was when I locked it in the middle drawer of my office desk."

Art continued to frown.

I went on, "It's the only thing I can think of, Art. It's the only thing that makes any sense. Hill has my gun now, and the last time I saw it was at my office. Somebody must have lifted it." I wiggled my head and tried to look puzzled. "How, I don't know. Or why. Why would anybody steal my gun?"

I left it there. Art Grant looked past me and nodded. I heard one of the men get up, but I didn't look around. I'd shot my bolt.

It took about twenty minutes. In the meantime I tried to frame it a little better by going over part of my last night's activities again, then I carefully went into some detail about the session Jay and I had had with the two tough boys.

"One guy was named Lucian," I finished. "Don't know the other one, but the tough boy was Lucian. I had him dancing, Art. You know, the old two-finger come-along?" I demonstrated with my own fingers, and Art smiled slightly. "Christ," I said, "he must have been boiling. But about then the other one took a swing at me and I lost interest. I'm lucky Lucian didn't crack out my teeth while I was sleeping."

I lit a cigarette and took a drag as the phone rang. Art said into the mouthpiece, "Yeah? Prints? Uh-huh. Let me know. Right." He hung up.

I tried to look unconcerned.

Art rolled ash off his cigarette. I didn't say anything. If this worked, I might get out for a while, but I felt lousy about it; I wouldn't feel right till I knew what had really happened and could tell Grant I'd lied to him, tell him I knew I'd had my gun when I went home last night and that I'd had to lie to keep from being stuck in a cell. He might find out I was lying, anyway, and if he did it was jail for me. Friend or no friend, Art wouldn't go for anything he knew was a lie.

"Well," I said. "What now? Is somebody going to book me? Do I have to call a lawyer and get a writ issued?" I grinned, hoping I looked more cheerful than I felt.

Art nibbled at his mustache. "Don't get excited."

Hill went out and came back with hot coffee in paper cups. We all had coffee. Quite a while later, when I was going over the points of my story again, the phone rang.

Art grabbed it. He listened for about half a minute, then said, "Yeah. Okay, come on up." He looked at me. "Shell, did you know your office was busted into?"

I didn't jump or look stunned. I said casually, feeling like a complete heel, "No kidding? It makes sense, like I said."

He nodded and ground out his cigarette. "The front door was forced and so were three desk drawers, including the middle drawer where you said your gun was. The crime lab boys found a print, Shell. One good print, palm and four fingers, on the top of your desk. Not your prints, and not Weather's."

"You identify it?" I was thinking that from now on I'd polish that beautiful desk every day.

He nodded. "We already have."

"Who?" I asked him. Then, before he could answer, I said, "Wait a minute. Don't tell me a thing. I've got an idea. Have you a picture of this guy?"

He nodded again.

"How about bringing up a dozen mug shots. Any number including this print boy. I'll pick out the one or ones who might hate my guts enough to frame me, because it's sure as hell a frame, Art. If somebody's on my back, it's gotta be somebody I've crossed; this mess doesn't shape up like an accident. Maybe I don't get it, but it looks like it was planned around me."

He thought about it, then took Hill into the next room, leaving the door open. He said something to him that I couldn't hear. Ten minutes later Grant, Hill, the sergeant again, and I were back in the large outside room. I sat at the long table with a stack of pictures in my hand and my heart pounding. "Well, here goes," I said.

I riffled quickly through the stack looking for Lucian's heavy face and long hooked nose—or for his friend—for either of the two boys who, I figured, must have been the ones who busted into my office for that bill of sale. And then I saw Lucian's picture. But I flipped by him quickly to the end of the stack, trying to let nothing show on my face. I didn't find Lucian's friend, but so far so good. Maybe I was in.

And right then I thought of something that almost made me dizzy. It scared the hell out of me. Here I was talking about a murder that Homicide thought I might have committed, but I wasn't in too much trouble, and my prospects were getting better, because all that pointed to me was that my gun was the murder weapon. Except for that, I was in pretty good shape. Jay was my friend; I had nothing to gain by killing him; my gun could easily have been stolen the way I'd set it up; nobody could show I had intent or motive.

That was the big thing. Motive. And Shell Scott, private investigator, had no motive. No motive at all.

Just the little matter of my sleeping with the dead man's wife until the day before he was murdered.

Just that—and a quarter of a million dollars.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

I WAS HOLDING my breath. I let it out and tried to appear calm and normal as I looked at the first photo and tossed it aside. Nobody I'd ever seen before. My mind was racing.

Even if Homicide never learned about Gladys and me, if that bill of sale showed up giving proof that Jay had sold me his business just before he was murdered, I'd be it and no argument about it. Even the amount paid was there—one buck. Who'd believe me if I tried to explain the reason for that screwy sale? It would look as if I'd forced Jay to sign over his business to me, then killed him. I tried to swallow, but there was nothing to swallow. My lips felt like leather.

I'd been staring at the second picture for ten or fifteen seconds while my mind raced, but I hadn't really seen it. Now I blinked and focused my eyes on it. I didn't know the guy. I shook my head and tossed the picture aside, then looked across the table at Hill and said, "No soap so far. I better find something, huh?" My voice sounded strained.

The third shot was of a guy named Howie Blore. He'd do for one. I said, "This boy. I dunno, but he might have a grudge. I sent him up for a bit." I looked at Art and Hill. "You both remember that."

Neither said anything.

I put Howie's picture to one side, saying, "Could be. Hard to say what an ex-con like him might pull." I felt a little sick. I mentioned a couple other faces I recognized, saying I knew them but we'd never tangled, then I got to Lucian's picture.

"Hey," I said. "Here's the jerk I got wound up with yesterday. You know, the Lucian I mentioned. He's the boy that learned about come-alongs." Then I shook my head and hoped I wasn't overplaying it. I said, "That's no reason to frame a guy, though. His friend got even on the back of my skull."

I put Lucian's picture with the rest of the pack. When I had gone through all the mug shots, I had a neat stack on my right and Howie Blore all by himself on my left.

I said, "I guess it's no good, huh?"

"He's doing time," Hill said, pointing to Blore's picture.

Art dug into the stack on my right and pulled out Lucian's mug shot. "Is this the guy who was giving Weather trouble?"

"Uh-huh. One of them."

"What was the trouble?"

"Screwy deal. Jay claimed they were trying to make him sell out to them for chicken feed. I told him I'd try to change their minds. I gave you the copy on what happened."

"This is the print boy," Art said. "Those were his prints on your desk."

"Yeah?" My voice cracked like thin lake ice.

It took half an hour more. I could have called a lawyer, but I didn't really need one. I could leave. I couldn't hop a steamer for Pago Pago, but I could leave. In that half-hour I went to the "I" room and dug out the picture of Lucian's friend, one Hal Potter, and learned that Lucian's full name was George Lucian. Both of them had records, but they'd pulled nothing except small time stuff—so far.