Over Her Dear Body (8 page)

Bunny's expression changed, her face sobered. “Your brother—oh, you poor dear. I'm ... sorry.”

It seemed like the moment for me to wrap all this up if I could, and get it over with. Those two mugs would be coming to before much longer, and I couldn't keep tapping their head like gongs. No, there was work for me to do, and it was time I began doing it. There would be no sleep for me, this night—in fact it was morning. The sun's first rays would soon be slanting through my bedroom window.

I said, “Elaine, this is Bernice Wade. Bunny, Elaine Emerson. Another time, maybe we could all sit around the apartment and...” My mind went blank. The prospect of the three of us sitting around the apartment, gabbing, was a foul one. I could hear Bunny saying, “Yes, Elaine, darling. I was swimming around in the water naked—you know, nude—and Shell was a dear, he threw me a ladder and...” My mind went blanker.

“You've got to go,” I blurted. “Leave. I mean, before the police get here. I have to call the law.”

Elaine said to me, “What should I do?”

“Nothing. Stay home—and don't tell anybody what you told me. You understand, if, uh, they found out ... it could be very dangerous for you. They'd start looking for you.'”

“Yes. I hadn't considered that part of it, but I understand. All right. And ... thank you, Shell. When will I hear from you?”

“As soon as I've got anything worth passing on.” From our original phone conversation I already had her home address and phone number, and I added, “I'll want to talk with you later today, anyway.”

I did. There were still things I wanted to ask her—and ask Bunny, too, for that matter. But this was not the time for it. I said to Bunny, “I'll—that is, I'd like to meet you later, too. Among other things, I'm curious to know how your partner acts when you see him.”

“What other things?” But then she smiled slightly. “Sure. Why don't you come to the
Red Rooster
tonight? We'll both be there.”

“I'll see you at the club then, unless something delays me.”

Bunny looked at Elaine. Elaine looked at Bunny. Neither spoke, but they seemed to be eying each other warily. Then Elaine said, “Bernice, I have my car here. Do you have a way to get home?”

Bunny smiled. “No. Shell was going to drive me home.”

I started getting a kind of haunted feeling. Elaine said to me, “You'll take her then?”

“I'll be talking to the police for a while. It—but I can call a cab.”

Bunny said, “I'd appreciate it if you'd drop me off, Elaine.”

“Of course, dear.”

“That won't be necessary,” I said. “I can call a cab—”

Bunny smiled sweetly at me. “No, Shell, I wouldn't think of it. Besides, Elaine and I have so many things to talk about.”

Inside, I was groaning again. This night was a ruin. So was I. There were a few more words, none of which I remember, as the three of us went to the door. As she left, Bunny said to me, “Save that vase for me, will you, Shell? The one you were going to mix that big drink in?”

“Yeah.”

Elaine said, “Do phone, Shell. You have my number, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

And they, it seemed, had
my
number. I waved good-by to them both, then closed the door, went to the phone and called the police.

The two mugs, handcuffed and achingly conscious, were in the back seat of a black and white radio car, not talking. They had said a little, shortly after regaining consciousness and being interrogated by the police. Their story, boiled down, went about like this: “It was just a business call. We wanted to hire this Shell Scott. The door was open, so we went in and waited. Then this ape comes in. We don't know what Scott looks like, so when he jumps us we naturally defended ourselves. Honest, officer, we thought he was a bandit.”

And then they clammed. It was highly probable that they'd keep clammed until the kind of lawyer who is always eager to be hired in advance of the crime, and act immediately afterwards in the event of trouble, got them sprung from jail.

I'd finished being questioned by the cops, and was standing alongside my Cad talking to Lieutenant Rawlins, who worked out of Central Homicide, downtown.

The radio car was from the Hollywood Division, and ordinarily Rawlins wouldn't have come out from Central. But when I'd phoned the police there'd been no great rush, since the two hoods were sleeping, so instead of putting my call through the complaint board I'd called Homicide direct, filled Rawlins in on the situation and asked him if he could come out himself.

I had told my story a couple of times, and by asking what else was doing in the wicked city, managed to start Rawlins talking about L.A.'s latest murder. We had been friends for a long time, and he spoke freely with me.

“Guy named Belden,” he said. “Craig Belden. Three slugs in him, looks like a pro job. Robbery maybe. Safe was empty.”

“Anything on Belden?”

He shook his head. “Nothing yet, be seems clean.”

“Any leads?”

“Couple.” He squinted at me a moment, as if curious about my interest, but went on. “Some of the neighbors heard the shots and peeked out windows. Saw two men run from the house immediately after the shooting. Into a car and away.”

He lit a cigarette, dragged deeply, then said, “One guy saw something else. Interesting. Probably our best lead.”

An uneasy feeling rippled through me. “What was that?”

“One guy claims he saw a woman run from the scene right after the two men. Get that.
After
they left.” I fumbled for a cigarette, lit it. “Interesting,” I said. “I imagine it would be wise to keep that from the news hounds, huh? Otherwise—”

He interrupted. “The press already got it somewhere. Anyway, we want to turn this gal up—she might be an eye-witness.”

My throat was suddenly dry. By the time that news hit the papers and broadcasts—probably had by now, I guessed—the killers would know they hadn't been alone when they'd knocked off Belden. They'd start spending sixty minutes an hour, twenty-four hours a day, hunting for that witness, that woman. For Elaine. She'd live—until they found her.

I almost told Rawlins the whole story, who she was and the rest of it. But I held back. So far, only she and I knew exactly what had happened. Her identity was still secret, and it might stay that way. But, if I told Rawlins, he'd have to report the info; a lot of people would learn her identity—and that kind of news has an almost magical way of reaching reporters. There's no magic about it—somebody always spills. It makes a good story. So good that there might even be another murder to write about. I kept my mouth shut.

“Any description?” I said instead.

“Not much. Guy said it looked like a woman in a white dress. Couldn't see much. She rushed to a car and took off.” He paused. “Why're you so interested, Shell?”

I grinned at him. “I'm always interested in your fascinating occupation, Rawlins. Besides, the timing's so close, I was wondering if by any chance those two hoods—” I pointed toward the men in the radio car—“might have done the Belden job and then called on me. Why, I wouldn't know. But maybe it's a possibility.”

“I don't think so. The call on the Belden thing came in at three-ten a.m. According to your story, these boys must've been here at that time. Probably before then if they meant to catch you when you walked in.”

Rawlins said they'd book the two suspects downtown and asked me to follow them in. When they drove off and around the corner, I ran back into the Spartan and upstairs, grabbed my phone. I called Elaine's number, an apartment on Santa Monica Boulevard. There wasn't any answer. Well, she and Bunny were probably still talking. Or maybe even pulling each other's hair. At least, that's what I told myself.

Central Homicide and Detective Headquarters are on the third floor of the Police Building in downtown L.A. I got there shortly after Rawlins, dictated my story and signed the crime report, then went with Rawlins down the back stairway to Felony Booking. After processing, my two mugs were put into one of the felony tanks on the second floor, with half a dozen other suspects, and while a felony tank is not the most joyous spot in the world, both of them acted as if they were going to a party, complete with cake. Obviously, neither of them was worried a bit.

I told Rawlins I wanted to check the dead man, Craig Belden, in the morgue. He lifted an eyebrow, but I took off before the questions got around to Elaine Emerson. After leaving the Police Building I phoned Elaine again, but there was still no reply. I didn't know Bunny's phone number or even if she had one, and there was no listing in the book or directory for Bernice Wade. Maybe she had an unlisted phone; or it could be that Wade was a stage name. I didn't know, but I did know I was getting increasingly worried about Elaine.

I drove to the Hall of Justice and went downstairs, walked along the corridor, past the Viewing Room. Emil, the attendant on duty, let me into the morgue itself. In a few seconds I was looking at Craig Belden.

They were already working on him, and he was on one of the high four-wheeled tables with its top set on a slant. They were draining the blood from him, which is about as pretty as it sounds. Two slugs had caught him in the chest, one in the face, but his features were still recognizable. He had thin sandy-colored hair, pale blue eyes, and a wide, pointed chin.

I'd seen him before. Only that time he'd been in the company of Joe Navarro, the heavy hairy egg, and the shiny white-haired man in that stateroom on the
Srinagar
.

An hour later I had visited Elaine's still empty apartment and driven to Bunny's place on Clinton. It was a small duplex. I rang, and in half a minute a sleepy voice on the other side of the door said, “Who's it?” “Shell, Bunny. Can I see you for a minute?” She opened the door and I stepped inside. She was wearing pajama tops, which came down barely far enough, but I was by now so worried about Elaine that I couldn't pay much attention to the pretty sight.

“What's the matter?” she asked. “Did she stand you up?”

“Knock it off, Bunny. I'll just be a minute. Do you have any idea where Elaine is?”

She looked at me coolly. “No.”

“This is important. Look, her brother was murdered last night; there's just a chance—never mind why—that the same guys who did the job on him might be after her, too. So have you
any
idea where she'd be? She isn't at her apartment, by the way. I checked.”

That woke her up. “No, Shell. I haven't. She drove straight here, dropped me off, and left. Maybe she stopped to eat or something.”

“Maybe. Don't mention this to anybody. Especially Joe Navarro.”

She moistened her lips, eyes serious. “I won't.” She paused and went on, “Why did you mention Joe?”

“He's mixed up in this. Bunny. Some way, I don't know how, or how much, but he's in it. You be careful of that boy. Don't tell him you went home with me, or even mention me—in fact, you probably should stay clear away from him, and from work.”

“No, I'm going to work tonight. But I'll be careful.”

I told her I'd see her later at the club if I could and started down the steps. She said, “Shell.”

I turned. “Yeah?”

“I hope you find her.”

By noon, I'd still found no trace of Elaine. She hadn't been to her apartment. I'd checked on the men I'd seen aboard the
Srinagar
but succeeded in identifying only one of the two others who'd been present with Belden and Navarro. The big egg with the loose-fleshed face and hairy hands was, it turned out, Robert Goss himself, owner of the
Srinagar
. Mine host last night. The fact of his presence aboard the yacht, plus the description I was able to provide, enabled me to identify him. But nobody could tell me much about him other than that he was rich—rich enough, at least, to own a 160-foot yacht and declare a gross of from half a million to a million dollars a year from “investments” and profits on various “enterprises.” What those “investments and enterprises” were, nobody I talked to was able to tell me. In fact, not much seemed to be known officially about Robert Goss.

And nobody I talked to, including the police, could tell me who the tall thin white-haired man might have been. It's difficult to identify anybody from the general kind of description I was able to give, without knowing anything about him, what he did for a living, where he lived, or any of his habits. And there seemed to be, at least so far, no evidence that any man answering his description had even been seen aboard the
Srinagar.
Seen by anybody but me, that is.

Friends in the police department agreed to check further—carefully, of course, because of the “eminence” of Goss—and see if they could turn up anybody else who'd seen the guy. Up to now, my efforts in that direction had drawn a blank, and I had a hunch identifying that egg might be extremely important—to me.

There was one place where I might find out. I didn't like the idea much; in fact, I didn't like it at all. But if I went back aboard that yacht again, in broad daylight this time, I might get some of the info I wanted.

I thought about it over a meal of rare prime ribs, then had coffee and a cigarette and made up my mind. Two men had tried to kill me last night. If there had been good reason to kill me then, the reason was just as good—or maybe better—now. The only chance I had of staying alive for long was to find out who wanted me dead. And why.

I called the Police Building again and talked to Rawlins. When I asked him if the two mugs had done any talking, he told me that not only had they stayed clammed, but by nine o'clock their attorney had got them sprung on a writ of habeas corpus.

That had been fast work. They'd been booked about six a.m. Three hours later they were out on a writ. Loving me.

That did it. I thanked Rawlins, hung up, went back to the Cad and started driving toward the coast.

Toward Newport Harbor, and the
Srinagar.