Gat Heat (8 page)

There was an empty overstuffed chair a few feet from the couch on which Jimmy Violet lounged, so I walked toward it.

“Mind if I sit down?” I said.

“I asked you a question.”

“I heard you. Mind if I sit down?”

“Ah, go ahead and sit. Sit on your head if you feel like it.”

The guy who'd brought me in here had walked over to stand near the two men already in the room. I turned the chair a little so it not only faced Jimmy Violet but afforded me a view of the three other men, and sat.

“Where the hell's the boys?” Jimmy asked.

I grinned. “What's the matter, you think I shot them?”

“You bastard, don't give me no lip—”

I interrupted him. “Don't call me names, Jimmy. I get upset when creeps call me names. And I'm more than a little upset already.”

“I don't give a gahdamn what you are,” he said. “I asked you—”

“Stow it. You wanted me to come out here. O.K., I'm here. Tell me what you've got in mind, and maybe I'll tell you what you want to know.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “O.K. It won't take long. I figure you got enough sense to know a word to the wise when you hear it. So here's the word. Lay off the Halstead thing. Just drop it. I'll see you don't lose no money about it; that's on the one hand. On the other, well, guys get killed every day making dumb mistakes.”

It really jarred me. Not the threat—that was par for the Jimmy Violet course—but his blunt reference to Halstead. True, I had toyed with the idea that there might be some kind of connection—because I couldn't think of any ot er reason why Violet would want to see me—but I hadn't really believed it.

“Halstead?” I said. “The guy who bought it last night?”

“Who else? There some other Halstead?”

“What's your interest?”

“My interest is, you lay off, you get it? It's simple. Just forget it. You won't lose nothing by it—”

“Save your breath.”

“Look, don't be a jerk. I'm giving you a good out—”

“I said, save your breath.”

The dull dark eyes seemed to get even duller. He took the hand from behind his head, slapped his thigh with it. “I shouldn't of tried it this way,” he said finally. “That's what I get for trying to be a nice guy.”

I laughed.

“All right, what's with the boys?” he said.

“Bingo and Stub and Little Phil are enjoying one of the sights of Hollywood which they seldom see, namely the Hollywood can. The clink, the slammer, the jail. In fact, if you haven't got a call already; the phone should soon be merrily ring—”

He didn't let me finish. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, started getting to his feet. “You're lyin'!” he yelled. “You dumb crud, they ain't in jail. Where they at?”

I closed my eyes, shoved my teeth together, then opened my eyes. “I'm not going to tell you again about the bigmouth, Jimmy. Your boys picked me up and tried to do your bidding, but I managed to tip the fuzz, and the boys are indeed in the can. Temporarily, at least. I hope, of course, that they get electrocuted or something infinitely worse, but they're being booked, mugged, and printed, at least.”

He stalked over the carpet, stopped before me and leaned down, his face a couple of feet from mine. “You dumb sonofabitch,” he yelled. “Who the hell you think you are? You stinking son—”

That was all he said for a while.

I got him on his nice nose. Well, reasonably nice. Before I got him on it, that is. It was practically the same situation as when I'd popped Bingo in my Cad: I wasn't able to get set, get any real leverage or power into the blow. But I did my very best, and threw my left arm up, turning my body and pressing with my left foot against the floor in front of my chair; and all in all it was a fairly satisfactory operation.

My knuckles covered his nose and upper lip and made a surprisingly loud and meaty sound when they landed. He did not quite do a back flip. But his head snapped back and he traveled about nine feet, arms flailing, before he fell with a thump to the floor at the end of the couch where he'd been sitting.

All three of the guys on my right were reaching, two of them for their hips and one for the gun under his coat, but while I may not be the most brilliant fellow under the heavens only an idiot could have failed to anticipate that development. So I was a little ahead of them.

As soon as I'd clobbered Jimmy with my left hand, I'd grabbed the Colt Special in my right and flipped it out to cover the three men.

One of them—the tall broad-shouldered guy who'd met me at the door—almost didn't stop, almost yanked out his heater anyway. But he decided against it at the last moment. Just as my finger was tightening on the .38's trigger.

Then he relaxed.

“You don't know how close you came to it,” I said.

He licked his lips but didn't say anything, pulling his eyes from my gun to look at Jimmy Violet.

Jimmy was still on the floor, but he wasn't unconscious.

Well, maybe I hadn't knocked him clear out, but I'd done his nose no good, and the event had given me a lot of satisfaction. Even if I did seem to be losing my punch. I'd had enough of his bigmouth to begin with. And I guess you know, ever since Bingo slid into my Cad I'd been itching to hit somebody. Most important, however, I do not cotton to guys who send me invitations at gunpoint.

I glanced at the door on my right and partly behind me. It was still closed, and nobody else had come into the room. If anybody had, I presume I would by that time have been shot in the skull. But all was—for the moment—under control, so I turned most of my attention to Jimmy Violet.

His legs were moving, and he was clawing with his fingers at the carpet. In a few more seconds he managed to sit up. Blood from his already swollen nose smeared his mouth and chin. It was pretty messy, but at least it gave his face a little color.

He was so mad he wasn't thinking straight. Or else he wasn't seeing straight, and couldn't see the gun in my hand. He sat there on his duff and reached under his coat and grabbed a small revolver. He had it out of the shoulder holster when I let one go right past his ear.

The blast of the shot was loud in the room, and his ears, if not his eyes, must have told him he was embarking on the wrong course. I didn't even have to tell him to drop the gun; he let go of it while his hand was still moving and the small chrome-plated pretty—a lady's gun, I would have called it—bounced across the floor toward me.

It was quiet.

I glanced at the three men.

Jimmy pushed a hand over his mouth, then leaned forward and spat on the carpet. Slowly he got to his feet.

And the phone rang.

It was on the bar top, behind the three men. I walked over there and answered it.

A high-pitched voice said, “Gimme Jimmy, quick.”

“O.K. Who's this?”

“Bingo. Get Jimmy … who's talkin'?”

“He'll tell you,” I said. “At least, I imagine he will.”

“Is—is it Scott? It can't be. Crud, it can't be.”

I looked at Jimmy Violet and pointed to the phone, then put it down and moved back to my easy chair.

“Yeah,” he growled into the mouthpiece. “Yeah, this is Jimmy.” He listened a moment. “Yeah, it was, all right. Yeah, so he's nuts. Sure he's nuts, who's arguing? Yeah … yeah … huh. Right … I'll see you here, then. You sure did a fine job, sweetheart. I can really count on you, can't I? Well, hurry it up.”

Jimmy put the phone back on the hook, wiped his nose gently with a handkerchief, then glared at me. “Blow,” he said. “We got no more to talk about.”

“I hope you don't have any idea it might be fun to let one of your boys shoot me on the way out. You just talked to Bingo. So you must know—or can guess—that six thousand cops are aware that I'm now calling on Jimmy Violet. They'd love to get something on you. Especially a murder rap.”

He glared at me some more. “It'd almost be worth it.”

“But you know better, don't you, Jimmy?”

He stared at me for a few moments longer, then looked at his three men. Slowly he nodded. He was telling them they couldn't kill me, even if they got the chance. Not right now anyway.

It changed the situation enough that I stopped covering the men with my gun. But I didn't put it away, just let it rest on my thigh.

“Tell me, Jimmy,” I said. “What's your interest in George Halstead? One of your boys poop him?”

“Don't be a jerk. I got no more to say to you.”

Well, maybe he'd said enough. But I hadn't. There was one more thing I wanted to tell Jimmy Violet.

“All right,” I said. “But listen to this, you spook, and listen with both your big ears. If you ever send any more of your paid muzzlers after me, I'll come here again. Only I won't just bust you in the hook, James, I'll wipe you out.”

The gaze he laid upon me combined the best of Dracula bending over a fair neck and Wolf Man with the scent of boiling blood in his nostrils, but he spoke gently. “I don't believe,” he said, “I shall invite you again.” He was quite grand at that moment, I had to admit.

I got up and walked to the door, not watching the door, however. The boys didn't twitch. I went out into the hall and waited ten seconds, then peeked back into the room. The four of them stood in a huddle, jabbering. But they weren't coming after me.

So I said, “That's the stuff,” and left.

I drove to the gate with my left hand on the steering wheel and my right hand holding the Colt just out of sight below the door. But there was no trouble.

Gargantua swung the gate open, and even smiled at me as I drove through.

I put my gun away and headed for Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills.

8

So far in this case none of the houses I'd been in could have cost less than fifty thousand bucks, and a couple of them were surely over the hundred-thousand mark. Add to that the Norvue and Beverly Hills Hotel, and I was certainly traveling among the moneyed.

So it didn't surprise me that the Walleses' home was a big, low, ranch-style house behind an extravagant amount of well-watered and tended green lawn, a chunk of real estate worth at least a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand clams.

I pulled into the gray cement drive and parked in an open carport near the front door, walked to the door and gave the bell a push.

Chimes played a pretty tune inside the house.

In half a minute the door opened and Edward Whist—or Walles—looked out at me, a pleasant expression on his tanned, good-looking face.

I was satisfied that this was the man I'd been looking for, even though I hadn't turned up a photograph of him, because he clearly fit the descriptions I'd got from several of the people I'd interviewed.

It was difficult to guess his age. Between thirty and forty somewhere. He was about six feet tall, maybe an inch less, well put together, with good, muscular shoulders and lean hips. He was wearing sandals, blue Bermuda shorts, and a white T-shirt. His hair was light brown, almost blonde, wavy and thick. Good chin, a happy-go-lucky mouth, and vivid blue eyes—a very good-looking man.

I went ahead as I'd planned it on the way here.

“Mr. Edward Whist?” I said.

“Whist?” His brown eyebrows puckered, then he smiled slightly. “Well … yes,” he said.

“I'm Shell Scott.” I showed him my identification.

He nodded. “Sure, I've heard of you. What do you want with me, Mr. Scott?”

“I'm working for Mrs. Halstead. I suppose you know about George Halstead's death.”

He nodded again. “Yes, I do. Read about it this morning, then called Ann right away. Hell of a thing.” He paused. “But I still don't understand what you want with me.”

“Well, I'm a little puzzled. Is your name Whist—or Walles?”

He smiled that oddly amused smile again. “It's Walles, actually. I—well, I used the name Whist for a while.”

The guy puzzled me. I'd been prepared for belligerence, possibly even a violent reaction. But he didn't even seem embarrassed by my knowledge of his dual identity. Or whatever it was. He appeared to be more amused than anything else. Which certainly didn't strike me as the attitude of a man guilty of any fiendish crimes.

“Maybe you'd better come inside, Mr. Scott,” he said.

“Thanks.”

The house was cool, faint hum of air-conditioning—or smog-filtering—equipment audible. We went into a living room as big as some houses, thickly carpeted in a pale blue. There were a couple of divans facing each other with a low heavy table between them, the table top of gold-marbled mirrors. There were two or three chairs, a small table, and another table with a huge pink lamp on it against the wall near the divans. Against the far wall was a low custom-made stereo set. It was a pleasant room, not too much furniture, and all of it rich-looking.

We sat opposite each other on the two divans and I said. “Were you at the Halsteads' last night, Mr. Walles?”

“No, haven't seen them for some time, three or four weeks, at least.”

“Incidentally, I'd like to talk to your wife, too, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind, only she's not here. Having her hair done downtown.” He got to his feet. “If it's important, I can call her.”

“It's not that important. Not at the moment, anyhow. You can probably tell me all I need to know.”

“Well, as long as I'm up, I think I'll fix a drink. Join me?”

“Yes, I will, thanks.”

“Scotch, bourbon, brandy, gin, vodka, you name it. Cointreau, Drambuie, rum, beer—”

“Bourbon and water sounds just right.”

He walked to the stereo set, raised a segment of its top and pulled out some bottles, glasses, and even ice cubes. Well, I thought, that's one way to make music. In a minute he was back carrying two glasses.