Noir(ish) (9781101610053) (15 page)

“And, at long last, Miss Mitchum,” Scott said politely. “That
is
thee name you've been using, isn't it? And a lovely name it is.” Gloria nodded slowly. Scott tut-tutted. “Thee red suits you. You should wear it more often. But I guess two days in a row may be a little too much.” He chuckled. “I'm
so
sorry I didn't recognize your voice on thee telephone. But you recognized mine. Didn't you?” Gloria hesitated, then nodded.

“Well.” He chuckled again. “Thee bad
and
thee beautiful. Now: Lizabethee, put your purse on thee floor
and
both of you put your coats there. And then move—slowly—against thee wall.”

“But we'll get terribly chilly!” Lizabeth complained.

The smile disappeared. “Not as chilly as you're gonna be where you're goin'. Do it
now
!” he commanded.

They did. Scott kept one eye on them and one finger poised on the trigger. With the other hand, he took out a lavender handkerchief and picked up the three guns, one at a time. He put Lizabeth's into his pocket and tossed both of mine to me.

I caught them. Not that it made any difference: They were both empty, and besides, though Scott's gun seemed to scare Lizabeth and Gloria, mine hadn't. That meant his was probably a more dangerous weapon. I had no intention of testing the hypothesis. “Well,” I said, “if it isn't all of you in one place, together again for the first time. One little, two little, three little Venusian hoodlums.”

Scott's smile returned. “Oh, no: Two little Venusian hoodlums and one Martian cop. Captain Archer, Mr. Grahame: agent with thee Martian Interstellar Law Enforcement Section. MILES, for short.” He extended his right hand. “They usually just call me thee Captain, but you can call me Dan. Nice to meet you.”

I looked at Scott's hand. I figured those long, slim fingers could crush me, but I took it anyway. Tentatively. He shook mine, carefully. I appreciated that. I had enough sore body parts. “Martian,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” said Scott. “Men make up thee whole population of Mars, Mr. Grahame. Venus's entire indigenous population is female.”

“I don't understand.”

“No? I thought you'd have figured that out.”

“I guess I'm not that smart.”

“No,” he agreed, “I guess you're not. But good work, anyway.”

“Yeah?” I picked up the drink Gloria had poured for me. “I'm not sure you think so.”

Scott clapped me on the back. I almost spilled the drink. “Oh, I
do
. I've been trying to catch these two cuties forever. I really appreciate your help. I've come close a couple times—we even had a good old-fashioned shootout, didn't we, Lizabethee?”

Lizabeth, her back against the wall and hands raised, turned her head and spat.

“Not towar'
me
,” Gloria hissed.

“
Sor
ry,” Lizabeth muttered.

He chuckled. “She show you her hand?”

“. . . Yeah.” I remembered the burnt skin. It wasn't something I was going to forget for a while.

Scott waved his gun. “This did that. It can do a lot of things.”

“Seems a shame,” I said. “Spoiling the package that way.” Even if the package itself was spoiled to its core.

“Yeah, well,
they've
spoiled a few things in their time.” He leaned against the door and crossed his ankles. “See, their deal was they'd supply Mr. Siegel with Venusian weapons—like this.” He twirled the gun like Joe Ryan did in the
Purple Riders
serials when I was a kid. I wondered if Gloria had seen them. She'd like them; plenty of lead got “eaten.”

Scott kept talking. “Its ammunition has one particular property Mr. Siegel would have found very useful. In return,
he'd
provide men—lots of men—for labor on Venus. Oh, and in case you're wondering: Earth men
can
live on Venus. They've been taking them there for years, one or two at a time. But Mr. Siegel tried to pull a double-cross: They didn't like that. Did you, Miss Duryea?” Lizabeth scowled at him. “So they went looking for someone else to deal with. But you haven't found anyone yet, have you?” Both of them stood, unresponsive. “That's why they're still here. Right, ladies?”

This time Gloria spat. At Scott. I jumped out of the way as a massive green gob flew past me and landed, an inch from Scott's face, on the wall.

He grinned. “That, and those bullets,” he said.

It was beginning to make sense. “And they needed a fall guy,” I said. “Like I figured. Only I thought it was all Lizabeth's doing.”

“Nah, she's just thee brawn and thee beauty. Gloria's thee brains and thee beast. She picked you out
way
in advance.”

“Glad to hear I have a reputation.” I wasn't sure I should be flattered.

“Oh, a universal one. You're thee best. Even better than what's-his-name.”

“Philip Marlowe,” Lizabeth volunteered with a nasty growl.

“Mm,” I said, and remembered I was thirsty. “Hey, I'll be right back.” I strolled into the kitchen and refilled my glass, added more ice, and swallowed half of it. Then I had a thought and stuck my head into the hallway. “You want some water?”

“Yeah,” said Scott, sounding very pleased. “Thanks. No ice.”

“Okay.” I filled a glass from the tap and returned.

He took it and drank deeply. “
Never
get enough!”

“So, how did
you
know? About my ‘reputation.'”

“Oh, word gets around.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this when you phoned? Or at The Pickup?”

“You wouldn't have believed
me
, Mr. Grahame.”

Gloria snickered. I ignored her. “Maybe. But why all the tough guy talk?”

“Now, wouldn't you have been just a little suspicious if I'd been all sweet and wide-eyed? Like her?” He pointed at Lizabeth.

“Yeah, I suppose I would've.”

Scott finished the water. “Little Lizabethee here has a . . . way with Earth men. They always seem to buy what she's selling.”

“Like Siegel did.” I glanced at the two of them. They both stood there, not moving except for an occasional shiver. I hoped their arms were getting good and sore.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “Besides, private eyes never trust cops. Not even Martian ones. It's in all your movies.”

I lifted the Smith and Wesson. I'd lied to Gloria: I had plenty of bullets in the apartment for both guns. I wondered whether I should feed them to her or reload. She did look pale. But maybe that was just the loss of blood. “What about the bullets?”

Scott chuckled. “Lizabethee used Venusian ones on Mr. Siegel. They're what's so special. Earth cops couldn't trace them. And it wouldn't matter if they did: They shrink until they just disappear, but that takes about a week, maybe two. That”—he strolled toward them and tut-tutted—“that's thee dark passage, isn't it, ladies.”

Lizabeth dashed for the door. Or tried to: The hem of her dress stopped her even before Scott did. He pushed her back roughly. “Unh-unh-unh, ‘Miss Duryea,'” he said. She fell against the wall and stood there. “With your hands up, sweetheart.” She raised them. “Besides, it's cold out there. Remember?”

Gloria put her hands on her hips and muttered, “Honestly!”

“
You too!
” he ordered. She raised her hands.

“That's much better. Just make yourselves comfortable. It shouldn't be too much longer. But if it happens again”—he looked Lizabeth straight in the eye—“you won't have to wait. Am I clear?”

Lizabeth nodded.

“Good! Now”—he turned back to me—“where were we?”

“The bullets,” I said. “If they were going to disappear anyway, what'd you need them for?”

Scott smiled. “They're evidence; we have ways to stop them from shrinking. And I didn't want them disappearing under thee wrong people's noses.”

“LAPD's.”

“Right.” He leaned against the door again. I was glad it was good and solid. “They'll have enough questions as it is.”

“Well, that's who has 'em. I guess they'll have a few more after all.”

“Ah, well,” said Scott. “I guess you can't have everything.”

“Please, Robert,” Lizabeth said quietly and urgently. She ignored Scott but kept her arms up. “Help me. He's lying. Nothing he says is true.
Please
. Believe me. We, you an' I, we can have the sort of life most Earth men can only dream of having. A life with me.” Her smile gleamed in her eyes, her voice, her small, sharp teeth. I wondered if they grew that way or got that way from chewing her meals.

Scott looked at her and, still smiling, shook his head.

“Yeah,” I said. “But it would probably be a very short life. And I'd have to leave my cat.”

Her voice purred; her mouth quivered. Greenstreet had
nothing
on her except whiskers. “
I
can give you everything you coul' possibly want. Plenty of petting. And a
very
soft place to sleep.”

I glanced at Scott. He was grinning. He reminded me of a cat, too. The Cheshire variety.

I looked at Lizabeth. She was something, and not just to look at. I was
still
curious about those very soft places. I glanced at Scott again. “Y' know,” I said, “sometimes you wanna believe somebody even when you know you probably shouldn't.”

She melted toward me. “Oh, Robert, I—”

“But I think I've passed that point where you're concerned,” I went on. “Do like he says.” Lizabeth stopped, put her hands to her face, and began to cry.

“Back against the wall, Onipul,” Scott ordered.

She took a step backward, her face still buried.

“Sorry, Lizabeth,” I said. “But you'll get over it. Everyone does.” Almost everyone, anyway. I finished my drink.

There was a humming noise from somewhere outside. I couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from—I was pretty sure it wasn't the street—or what it was. Scott went to the window by the fire escape, opened it, poked his head out, and looked up. “Yes!” he said, and turned back in, his pink eyes gone red and his smile intact. He motioned toward the open window. “Are you ladies ready?”

Gloria sniffed. “I'm still hungry.”

“So am
I
,” Lizabeth muttered at her. Gloria sniffed again.

“Well,” Scott said expansively, “Mars is only about fifty-three million miles away this time of year; we have plenty of lead on board.” He looked outside again. “
Blod dumin yeent
,” he called. A voice, very much like his, called back something that sounded like “
Foost thute ap
.” Whatever it was, I didn't understand it. I figured it was Martian.

Scott brought his head back in. “It's waiting. Time to go. Who's first?” Gloria snarled and stepped forward. Scott stretched his right arm toward the window. “This way please. Your ‘saucer' awaits, right up thee fire escape. And be careful, Miss Mitchum: I wouldn't want to have to make something—happen before we get back to Mars.”

Gloria took another reluctant step forward.

“Miss Duryea?” Scott nodded toward her; she followed Gloria.

I peered out and up. I didn't see anything through the fog, and said so.

“It's on thee roof,” said Scott. His eyes were salmon-pink again. “We try to come and go at night, usually from Mount Rainier—less traffic, less likely to be seen—but this was an emergency. I had to get here as soon as I could. And
she
”—he pointed to Lizabeth—“landed in mid-afternoon; somebody saw one of their doughnuts
and
my saucer, I hear.” He watched as Gloria climbed awkwardly through the window and onto the fire escape, blood dripping. “Good luck, Mr. Grahame,” he said. “You're
not
going to tell anyone, are you?”

“Probably not.”

He chuckled and clapped me—softly—on the shoulder. “Good. Thee cops won't believe you, anyway. They never believe private eyes, eitheer; that's in all your movies, too.” He started to offer a helping hand to Lizabeth, then dropped it. “Oh, by thee way: Thee money I gave you?” I nodded. “It's real. So is what's in her purse.” He pointed at it. “Help yourself. She won't be needing it.”

“She” gave him a look that could have killed anyone half his size.

I nodded. “Thanks—Captain,” I said. I'd “help myself” later—if there was anything to help myself to.

Scott smiled his usual smile. “You're welcome. You earned it,” he said, and saluted casually. “And you can ignore thee blood. Give it a few days; it will just evaporate as it dries. You won't even need detergent. Now: Onipul?” He helped Lizabeth struggle through the window, then strained to get his own massive frame out.

I watched them. I heard her mutter, “
Noclaf esetlam stemmah!
”

“I
know
it's cold,” Scott said from behind her. “Just keep climbing. Thee ship is nice and warm.”

* * *

I waited until I heard what sounded like a very large bumblebee buzzing on the roof. When I looked out, it was still too foggy to see anything. The sound faded. I closed the window, shook my head, and fixed myself another drink. My stomach was going to complain mightily. I didn't care.

I picked up the pillow and brushed away the feathers that sputtered from it. It was still fluffy, and somehow there was only a little blood spotting it. I covered it with a pillowslip and opened the bedroom door. Greenstreet lifted his head from the bed and mewed once, loudly, amid the strewn feathers from his clawed-up pillow. I took it—he swiped a paw at me, claws extended. It was something I'd gotten used to in the past few days, from bigger and more ferocious cats than him. I put the new one down. He sniffed it. Then he curled up and started to purr.