The Case of the Vanishing Beauty (12 page)

We were in what looked like the huge front room of one of those old houses built about 1880. I found the front door and stepped out onto a porch. We were in a residential district with trees along the streets and a few lights brightening the gathering darkness. In a driveway at the right of the house was a long black car. It looked like the same one that, together with the one Miguel had been in, had blocked the road for me the night before. I hoped to God the keys were in it.
 

They were.

I helped Tracy in on the driver's side, then slid in myself and got the hell out of there. I tossed Tracy her dress and she wriggled into it. I damn near ran into a mailbox.

"Tracy," I said, "I'm sorry about that up there. The clothes business, the mess. And the slap on
your face. But we were in a spot and I didn't know; there might have been some more boys around outside. You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean, Shell. Thanks."

"But, baby," I said, "you damn near busted my skull."

She laughed. And then she started to cry like a baby.

Women.

At the Martin place on Van Ness I got out and opened the car door for her. I went with her up the steps and inside the front door of the house, then turned her around.

"Now listen," I told her. "Stay here. Stay inside. You've got guns in the house?"

She nodded. "Dad's got a whole arsenal."

"O.K. Give some to the servants. Keep one yourself. And don't budge out of this place. I'll send somebody out here and I'll get in touch later. Now beat it."

She looked at me for a minute, then put her arms around my neck, lifted herself up, and kissed me on the lips. Not like a little girl. She turned and ran up the carpeted steps toward the second floor.

I blinked after her. I hadn't thought about it at the time back there at the old house, but she'd sure looked cute running down those stairs.

Chapter Ten
 

CORNELL MARTIN STEPPED out of the doorway to his study on my right. He hurried toward me, holding out his right hand.

"Let me shake your hand, Mr. Scott. I saw Tracy running upstairs. What's the matter? Is she all right?"

"Yeah. She's O.K."

He pumped my hand up and down and asked, "Where was she? What happened?"

"In a minute, Mr. Martin. I'd like to use your phone."

"Certainly. Certainly. This way."

He led me to a stand beneath the stairs up which Tracy had run. I grabbed it, dialed, and got Samson.

"Sam? Shell. You know a pair of ugly twins? Peter and Paul Seipel?"

"By reputation. No wants on 'em. Why?"

"I just had a run-in with the mugs. I left them upstairs in a big two-story house out on Aloha Street. Second house off St. George. Don't know the number. One of them's dead; the other one's knocked out. He may not be there now. It's been about twenty minutes."

"What the hell? What happened? Hey, you O.K.?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I couldn't call you sooner. Those guys were holding the sister of the Martin girl out there. I brought her home."

"Damn you, Shell. O.K., we'll get out there."

"And Sam. This Tracy. Tracy Martin—the sister. Somebody might try for her again. She's home now, but it would help a lot if somebody could keep an eye around there."

"Yeah, yeah. What else, Commissioner?"

"That's all, Sam. I'll recommend you for promotion."

"You go to hell!"

"Yes, sir. I'll be down to see you later."

"Don't make it too much later. I got to sleep, too, pal. A bachelor like you wouldn't understand, but my wife misses me when I stay here twenty-four hours a day."

I told him to quit pulling my leg, and hung up.

I turned to Cornell Martin. His face was puzzled. "Holding her?" he asked. "But why?" His blue eyes stared at me and he rubbed one thin finger alongside his sharp nose.

"Frankly, Mr. Martin, I'm not sure. I was lucky to find her, and luckier to get her here. Tracy can tell you about it."

"Do you know who…who killed Georgia?"

"No. I've got some ideas, but I'll keep working on it. Mr. Martin, Tracy said you had guns in the house. That right?"

"Yes. I have a fine collection."

"Just so they shoot. If I can make a suggestion—same one I just made to your daughter keep some of them loaded and handy just to be on the safe side."

"I shall. I see what you mean."

"I think there'll be someone out from the police department, but it wouldn't hurt, anyway."

He was looking at me curiously, at my face and my clothes. "Good Lord," he breathed. "I was so pleased to see Tracy, I hardly noticed the condition you were in. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Look, I've got to take off. I don't have anything definite to give you now, but when I have I'll check back."

He smiled. "Tracy is definite enough for me, Mr. Scott," he said warmly. "Do whatever you think best; I'm sincerely grateful. Oh, and I've mailed you a check."

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off characteristically. "Say no more about it. Can I offer you a drink.

"No, thanks. Next time, maybe. You might not hear from me for a day or two—I'm a one-man agency, no secretaries or anything—but when I have something solid I'll phone or come back out."

He shook my hand. "That will be fine, Mr. Scott. Thank you. Oh, and Mr. Scott—there are some peculiar red smudges on your mouth."

He grinned gleefully at me as I wiped off Tracy's lipstick.

I parked across from the Spartan Apartment
Hotel, went up to my room, and let myself in.

Lina put down the quart bottle of bourbon she'd been preparing to bat me with, stepped back from the door, and shrieked, "Dios mío! What happened to you?"

"Hi," I said.

"But what happened?"

"I had an argument."

"This argument. Did you lose?"

I chuckled. "Nope. I won. Just barely."

"Pobrecito," she sighed.

"Be right back," I said. "You won't know me. Mix us a drink, Lina."

I went through the bedroom into the bathroom and took a look. Friend, I was one God-awful mess. The blood I'd smeared on my face was dried and ugly-looking, and my jaw swelled out like a misplaced goiter. On each shoulder, the tan gabardine was laid open and white tufts of cotton and cloth stuck up like comic epaulets. Where there wasn't blood on my face there was dirt from the floor I'd slept on, faintly streaked with perspiration. I looked as if I'd been resurrected after a week in a moldy grave.

It pained me to do it, but I climbed out of the suit, cleaned out the pockets, and stuffed two hundred bucks' worth of cloth into the wastebasket. I saved the suspenders.

A hot and cold shower made me feel better and look more like myself. In the bedroom I dropped shirt, shorts, and socks into the laundry bag, climbed into clean shorts, and picked out the teal-blue, tropic-weight, double-breasted suit from the four left in the closet. A white shirt with a wide, spread collar, a blue and yellow tie, knit wool argyles, and a pair of barely broken-in cordovan shoes, and I was ready to start all over again.

When I got back into the living room the combination of Lina and the bourbon and water she handed me made me feel like spending a quiet evening at home, but I knew that was out. The mess was coming to a boil and I wanted to be around when it spilled over.

Lina had discarded the costume she wore in her act and had on one of my white dress shirts and a pair of dark-brown gabardine trousers rolled up so they didn't drag on the floor. The black hair she'd worn piled high on top of her head was loose and fluffy around her shoulders, and an old pair of my slippers flopped around on her small feet when she walked. She was dressed like a man, but she didn't look like one; she didn't even look like a boy. I told her so.

She laughed. "You are the man. Come, sit down with me."

I shook my head and stayed on my feet. I knew better.

"Sorry, honey. I've got to leave right away. Couple things I've got to do."

"But you have been gone so long, Shell. I was worried. All day you were gone. I wish you to stay with me a little. I am lonesome."

"I know it, Lina. So's Georgia." I downed my drink and put the glass on the coffee table. "So long, pepper pot. I'll see you later."

She pouted. "I will call the doctor. With his soft hands he will bandage me."

"Uh-huh," I growled. "With my soft hands I'll wring your neck, too. You're strictly out of touch with everybody for a while. See?"

"I see."

At the door I turned and said, "You stick tight. See you later."

"Marrano cochino
!"

"Sure, kid. Same to you."

She stuck out her tongue at me and shut the door in my face.

I'd been sitting in my Cadillac, off the road and under some trees at the side of Silver Lake Boulevard, for over an hour and nothing had happened. The black buggy I'd swiped to take Tracy home in was down at Headquarters, and I'd since picked up my Cad where I'd left it before visiting Narda's sunrise services what seemed like days before. Apparently nobody had paid any attention to it where it had been parked; at least it didn't blow up when I started it.

I looked at my watch. Almost eleven o'clock Sunday night. It had been quite a day. I was starting to wonder if maybe staking out at the IW temple hadn't been a waste of time, but I decided to give it another half hour.

I didn't have to wait that long. In less than ten minutes, a banged-up little coupe raffled down Silver Lake Boulevard from the direction of town and turned in the graveled drive alongside the temple. About all I could see was that there was one guy alone inside it. I patted the little .32 automatic in my pocket, wondering if Sam's boys had got out to Aloha Street in time to pick up the twin I'd left sprawled out there with his dead brother. If they hadn't, there wasn't much doubt that one Seipel was gunning for one Shell Scott. It wasn't a particularly happy thought.

The coupé stopped halfway down the drive and a guy got out. I was too far away to get a good look, but it seemed as if he was carrying something in his hand. He walked to a door in the side of the house and was let inside immediately.

I slipped out of the car and trotted across the street and down the drive. Opposite the house, on the far side of the driveway, was the clump of thick bushes and tall eucalyptus trees I'd noticed on my first visit there. I left the drive, went into the bushes, and squatted down where I'd be hidden, but had a good view of the door the guy had gone in. The car was only about ten feet from me.

I'd no more than got settled when the door opened again and the guy came out. In the brief splash of light as the door opened, I saw the turbaned, black-robed Narda framed in the doorway for a second before he shut the door. The guy climbed into his coupé,
went in reverse out into the street, and started back the way he'd come.

I'd sure learned a lot. I was really sleuthing. I knew from nothing.

I sprinted back to my car, slipped it into gear, and followed the bouncing taillight up ahead. Twenty minutes later he turned off Hollywood Boulevard into a parking lot beside the Cinema Hotel. I ducked into an empty parking spot about fifty feet before I reached the lot, got out, and started walking down the sidewalk. He came out of the lot just before I reached it and I got a good look at him. I'd never seen him before. He was a kid in his twenties, nice-looking, about five-eleven or maybe six feet. He was wearing dark slacks, a vivid sport coat, and a multicolored sport shirt buttoned at the throat. He turned and walked up the steps of the Cinema Hotel. Me too. A sign out front said, "No Vacancies."

He paused inside the door and lit a cigarette. I walked up to the desk.

"Good evening," I said. "Any vacancies?"

The clerk took a mangled pencil out of his mouth and said, "Nup." Then he looked past me. "Hi, Jord." He reached into one of the pigeonholes behind him, pulled out the key to 316, and tossed it to the kid I'd been tailing. He went on up the stairs.

I said to the clerk, "Thanks. You've been a great help."

"Nothin'," he mumbled, the pencil back in his mouth.

"Mind if I take the load off my feet for a minute?"

"Nup."

I sat down on a couch and waited for ten minutes to go by. I wanted the kid to be relaxed, maybe even in bed, when I went up.

At eleven-forty I glanced over at the clerk. His back was to me and he was reading the late edition of the Examiner. He didn't even budge when I got up and quietly walked across the floor and upstairs.

I knocked softly on the door of 316.

Springs squeaked inside, then a voice on the other side of the door said, "What is it?"

I didn't say anything. I knocked again.

The door opened about halfway and the kid stood looking out at me. He had on a brown robe and his hair was rumpled. A partly filled highball glass was in his right hand. I walked right inside, past him, and sat down on the edge of the bed.