Shell Scott: Kill The Clown Part 17

He looked again as if he were going to use that double-barreled gun on me. I guessed that it was most likely loaded with double-ought buckshot, and what that won't do to a man isn't worth doing - if you want to kill him suddenly, that is. Each double-ought shotgun sh.e.l.l is loaded with nine pellets about the size of a .22 caliber slug. I thought of eighteen .22 bullets piling into my stomach, and I put the phone down, and backed up, just as he'd said to do.

Nevada held the shotgun with one hand and kept it aimed at me, then picked up the phone with the other. "Who's this I'm talking to?" he asked.

I held my breath, and tensed my leg muscles for a sudden jump.

"Huh?" he said. He looked at me, then said into the phone, "Doctor Dutton, huh? Well, Doctor, you hold on - "

I was almost grinning. A bright police officer on that complaint board was going to get a case of his favorite beverage from me - if I lived. And it was a big If, because Nevada had stopped talking for the same reason that I stopped almost grinning. There was a whole pile of racket from the house. I heard the sound of car engines racing - and then gunshots.

From my arrival in the Lincoln, skidding to a stop here, until now, probably only two minutes or at most three had gone by. But that had been time enough for somebody to figure out what had happened. Maybe somebody had even recognized that dead clown. Because I heard those shots. .h.i.t the Lincoln. Probably whoever was shooting thought I was still in the car, because about ten slugs. .h.i.t it in the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds. The lights of another car arced through the darkness, headed toward the gatehouse.

Nevada slammed the phone down onto the hook, then swung his head toward all the noise, and the racing car. The shotgun muzzle wavered away from me, and in that moment I jumped for him.

He let out a yell and started to jerk his head back toward me, but my right fist was driving for his face and it bounced off his chin, cutting off the startled shout. He staggered backward, dropping the gun, but the blow didn't knock him down. He was even tougher than he looked. Spitting out a mouthful of swear words he came at me, hands held in front of him the way a professional would hold them.

I didn't have time to box or fool around with Nevada. That car was already halfway to the gatehouse. So I let him hit me as I waded into him. I knew I'd be able to take at least a couple good blows from those balled fists of his, but I was willing if I could get in a couple of my own. His left hand slammed my cheekbone like a hunk of rock; I felt the skin split and pain flamed all over the side of my face. But I was in close to him, and as his other fist loomed before me, I gave him one hand in the gut, the way I'd dug Barracuda earlier, then tried to spread my fist all over his face. He reeled backward. His eyes were wide, but gla.s.sy. He was open, unprotected, his back against the counter behind him, and I hit him so hard in the stomach I thought my knuckles were going to slice clear in and bang the counter.

He let out a funny, high sound, but he didn't know he was making it. Nevada was still sliding down along the counter to the floor when I bent over and picked up the shotgun, jumped to the door of the gatehouse. Outside, that car was starting to swing in and stop. I raised the gun and fired one barrel, snapping the shot off without good aim. But the slugs tore up the radiator and far side of the car's winds.h.i.+eld.

If I hit anybody, it wasn't the driver. He spun the wheel and slid around to the right, away from me. I could have pumped slugs from the second sh.e.l.l into him as he went by - but that was the only load I had left, so I held my fire. The car, a dark Cadillac, bounced off the parked Lincoln's rear b.u.mper but kept on going, then roared back toward the house and stopped about halfway to it.

Another car was coming toward me, and men on foot were heading my way too. From the darkness I saw fire flash as somebody shot at the gatehouse. The slug splatted against the gla.s.s - but didn't come through. The bullet-proof gla.s.s pitted and slivered, but that was all.

I swung around, looking for the lever that controlled the gate. Only one was visible and I pushed it, then pulled it. The gate started sliding open. I looked around for a gun, any kind of gun, or sh.e.l.ls for the shotgun. None were in sight. And there was no way, as far as I could tell, to lock the gatehouse door. Maybe the gla.s.s was bullet proof, but I wasn't, and I had the miserable feeling that pretty soon I was going to prove it.

A couple more slugs splatted against the window. Now I could see several costumed men between the house and me. They were trotting toward me, and getting too close for comfort. There was no help for it. I had to use that last load in the shotgun. But this time I meant to aim.

I did aim. I did it fast, because I was exposed while getting the shot off, but I aimed. First I made sure the gate was open, because after my one shot the gun would be nothing but a club, and I meant to be running as lightly burdened as possible. I ripped the black robe so it wouldn't bind my legs, then I stepped outside the house and sighted along the barrels right at the middle of the loose group of men now only about twenty yards away. As the gun centered on one man I squeezed off the shot and then dropped flat on the ground.

About five shots answered mine, but the slugs whistled over my head, one glancing off the small house. And then I was on my feet, spinning around and running, bent over, out through the gate, headed down the road into darkness. I'd started moving too suddenly after firing to keep my eyes on the target, but my aim had been good. Somebody out there behind me screamed like a terrified woman, the sound high and piercing.

That one last sh.e.l.l I'd used, and the man's cry, gave me about five seconds' start. It wasn't much. And I knew it wasn't going to be enough. But it got me through the gate and started out the road toward darkness, head down and legs pumping. I never ran faster. But then the firing started again. They could see me fairly well, because the light from the gate touched me still - and now I could hear a car coming at me from behind. Its lights, too, fell on me and swept past me. They just opened up all at once. One bullet, whistled by my ear. I heard another hiss along the road and whine high into the air. My lungs were burning, starting to ache. Then one of the slugs. .h.i.t me.

It sliced into my leg, as if somebody had kicked me there. All of a sudden it was as if my leg was gone. I went down hard, the breath whoos.h.i.+ng out of my mouth. My head cracked against the road. I was stunned, the hard asphalt burning into the skin of my shoulder and face, but I managed to throw my arms out and stop rolling, barely off the asphalt in the graveled dirt along its edge.

The fall, more than anything else, dazed me. My head had cracked against the street hard enough to send black and white dots swirling in front of my eyes. But I was still conscious. Half conscious, maybe, but not out. I could hear their running feet, I thought - but it seemed, too, as if I heard a siren.

I tried to remember if I'd gotten the call through to the complaint board. I was too dazed to remember. Guns cracked again and a bullet snipped at my clothing. I rolled farther from the road, trying to clear my brain and eyes, trying to see. Everything was blurred, out of focus. I knew the men were running at me, getting close; a car was coming toward me. I swore, raging, wanting my gun, wanting even that empty shotgun to use as a club. I wanted a machine gun, a bow and arrow, anything, just so I could get back at these bloodthirsty b.u.ms getting ready to kill me. But I couldn't even get up off my rear end, couldn't get my feet under me or clear my brain enough to know what was happening.

Lights flashed around me suddenly. I saw a pulsing red light. And then I heard the siren and knew it was a police siren, a radio car. There was another burst of gunfire, but none of the bullets seemed to come my way. My sight cleared, and my head suddenly began pounding as if Fury were in there and trying to get out. Another siren was wailing almost in my ear. One radio car had stopped near me and a second was just cutting around it, heading toward the gate.

A uniformed police sergeant loped toward me, bent over. His gun was in his right hand, glinting in the light, and pointed at me. I suddenly remembered my unrecognizable paintsmeared face and said, "Hold it, I'm Sh.e.l.l Scott,"

"You're Sh.e.l.l Scott?"

"Yeah, I called you - "

He interrupted me. I guess he thought from the look of my face, that I'd been shot freely about the head. But in quick sentences I told him what had happened, what was going on. He left me at the side of the road and raced to his car, said something to the driver. I heard them radioing in, but I didn't pay much attention. Dizziness was sweeping over me.

Then the sergeant was back. A few terse questions from him got the rest of the story out of me. I told him about Quinn, the dead clown, the numerous hoods who were present even now. And about the papers I'd stuffed into my coat pocket. Some of them were still there. Others were scattered over the countryside - but they could be picked up. Sirens dinned in our ears as two more police cars approached.

I said, "About that clown, he was undoubtedly killed by mistake by a hood named Barracuda - I mean, Hacker. After he was dead, I shot him twice and a half a dozen or so hoods shot him, too. So your crime lab can compare the bullets in him with the guns on the premises and - "

"What?"

" - and hold those crooks for mutilating a corpse, if nothing else." I lay down flat on the dirt. I was p.o.o.ped. I was all tuckered out.

"You all right?" the sergeant asked.

"Yeah. They got me in the leg. I don't think it's bad."

"Let me take a look." He bent over me, used his flashlight. I heard cloth tearing. "Nothing," he said. "You'll walk on it in no time. Hey," he grinned down at me.

"Yeah?"

"When we got here it looked like an escaped menagerie. There was some kind of Admiral, a pirate, a gladiator, Tarzan, I don't know what all - even some sort of big s.h.a.ggy animal on its hind legs."

"Yeah, one of those apes came as an ape."

"Well, we caught you in our headlights as we came down. Thought you were crazy. There was a car coming at you - they went off the road over there." He pointed. "And about ten or twelve guys running at you with guns. You know what you were doing?"

"Throwing up?"

He laughed. "No, you were sitting on your f.a.n.n.y and throwing rocks at them. Or I guess it was those little pebbles." He kicked some of the gravel I was lying on.

It struck me funny, and I chuckled. Then I grinned back at him and said, "Well, I knew they were going to shoot me - but by gad I was going to make them pay!"

"Sure, Scott. Take it easy."

"And it wasn't pebbles. You think I'm crazy? It was rocks. I took them out of my head."

"You better just rest there, Scott," he said, and walked back to the car.

And that's what I did.

Twenty.

That, of course, was just about all of it. Except the mopping up. I got an ambulance ride to the Loma Drive Receiving Hospital. It was possible that, in all the excitement, I didn't explain to the police as well as I might have just what was going on at Frank Quinn's party. But as it turned out, only one officer was shot, and even he wasn't badly hurt. Two more of the hoodlum guests were wounded seriously enough to require hospitalization, but the rest were herded together and taken down to the police building without undue trouble.

A very large percentage of the guests were booked, on suspicion of half the crimes in the book, and there was little that even their smart lawyers could do about it, since there were already two corpses on the premises when the police arrived: Jim Lester, and the clown - who turned out to be just a poor safe-man who'd happened to wear a clown outfit. I later learned from Barracuda that the clown had been in the room adjoining Quinn's office with a little brunette when Barracuda walked in on them; from the outfit, and the brunette, and the way they were carrying on, Barracuda had just automatically a.s.sumed that the guy was Sh.e.l.l Scott.

From Barracuda I also got the explanation for something else that had puzzled me. I knew he had seen me buying my clown outfit at the Twenty-Centuries Costume Center; I knew he had shot the clown, thinking it was me. What I hadn't been able to figure out was why, if he'd told Frank Quinn that Sh.e.l.l Scott might show up at the party dressed as a clown, Quinn and ten other thugs hadn't grabbed me as soon as I walked inside.

The explanation was simple. Barracuda hadn't told Quinn or anybody else. And, really, it was Quinn's own d.a.m.ned fault. He had spread the word that he would pay ten thousand clams to the guy who killed me, and the word - fortunately for me - reached Barracuda before he pa.s.sed on to Quinn his exciting news. So Barracuda, sensibly enough kept the exciting news all to himself, because he wanted to keep those ten exciting G's all to himself. Naturally, then, a good part of his shock upon seeing me after he'd shot the clown was not only the impossibility of my being alive, but also the vision of ten thousand winged clams flying away, which would shock anybody.

How come the word reached Barracuda so late? Because by the time he got back from the California border - where he had finally caught up with that Greyhound bus - the word was all over town.

Also bleeding on the premises that night when the police arrived, were Hal the Cad, whom I'd plugged in the leg, the man I'd drilled with Barracuda's .32, and the guy I'd peppered with double-ought buckshot. In the room with the still unconscious Frank Quinn and Barracuda was, of course, Quinn's open safe, the contents of which the police could thus quite legitimately examine. That led to a large number of indictments, among which the indictment of Quinn himself was almost incidental.

As for Jay - to whom I personally gave those last two pictures - I'm not sure whether he got off easy or not. He didn't go to jail; but he fell heir to what remained of the mob - and what remained of Maude Quinn. I suppose, in a way, it was Justice.

My first night in the hospital, before conking out for a good sleep, I made sure that the police got the straight story on Ross Miller. The info I'd stuffed into my pockets, and the other material found in Quinn's safe, was enough to indicate that Miller had been framed by Quinn. It was certain that in the next few days the proof one way or another would be forthcoming. You can always postpone an execution, but you can't undo one. Under the circ.u.mstances the governor had no choice. He granted the stay.

While I was still in the hospital, some of Quinn's a.s.sociates broke down and spilled all they knew about him, including details of Quinn's payoffs through K. C. Flagg - and his ordering the murders of little Weiss, Heigman, and the lovely Lolita. The Raleigh Prentice suicide note helped to ruin not only Quinn but more than a dozen other men, including all those who'd met with Quinn that Tuesday at noon. More careful study of the note than I'd had time to give revealed that Prentice had made the appointment with Frank Quinn on that night four years ago because he wanted a hard-boiled gunman to do a job for him - the job being the murder of his a.s.sociate and friend, George Schuyler. Schuyler, after much deliberation, including talks with Prentice, had decided to break with his partners in thievery and take the consequences, confessing everything - which, naturally, would implicate his fellow thieves. Including Raleigh Prentice. Prentice was a thief, yes, but he'd never been partner to murder. While waiting for Quinn to show up that night the enormity of what he was about to do had sickened him, and he'd known he couldn't go through with it. But if he didn't, he knew he would be exposed, shamed, sent to prison. So he had written his note, put a gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.

Quinn never admitted it, but it was evident that after finding the note while in Prentice's home that night, and reading in it that George Schuyler was going to blow the whistle, he had - to keep that whistle from being blown - on the next night shot Schuyler five times, including once in the back.

At any rate, not only was the L.A. jail pretty well filled and hoodlums fleeing in all directions over the landscape, but it was also obvious that Frank Quinn was totally washed up. Not only did it look as if he would be tagged with complicity in the murders of Weiss, Heigman, and Lolita, but he was made for the killing of K. C. Flagg. And that finished the clearing of Ross Miller. The machinery for his release started grinding, and the day I got out of the hospital, he was scheduled to be freed. It seemed like nice timing.

I left the hospital, hale and hearty, on a Friday afternoon. It was a bright day, with a sharp nip in the air. Invigorating. Bracing. I felt good. And I felt like seeing Doris Miller. I drove to her apartment.

n.o.body was there. And then I realized it was almost the hour when Ross Miller was to be released. Naturally his sister would be on hand to welcome him. Fortunately, so could I be, if I hurried. The prisoner had already been transferred from San Quentin to the jail in L.A.'s Police Building, from which he was about to be released. I jumped into the Cad and made time back downtown. I hurried at just the right rate of speed so that I got there as Ross Miller was enfolding his sister in his arms, while flashbulbs popped and reporters hovered. I hovered with them. Let Ross and Doris, I thought, have their moment.

But it was more than a moment, and gradually it occurred to me that this egg did not seem to be kissing Doris the way a brother kisses a sister. They came up for air, as the saying goes, and then went back down in the carbon dioxide. More flashbulbs popped.

It took a couple minutes, I guess, to work my way over close to them and attract Doris' attention. When she saw me, her lips parted and her blue eyes got very wide. Those eyes which I'd thought a little strange when we met.

She gasped.

Ross Miller, his arms around her waist, looked at her. "What's the matter, Jane, honey?" he asked Doris.

She didn't answer him. Looking at my chin she said, "Sh.e.l.l . . . ah, I . . . there's something I didn't tell you."

I got it then, finally, but all of a sudden, as if I were belatedly telepathic And, oddly enough, right at the same moment I figured out what was wrong with those bright blue eyes of Doris Miller's - or whatever her name was; Jane French, it would be of course, the fiancee, not the sister.

She never looked at me. Never looked at my eyes, that is. She always looked at my chin, as she was doing now, or my ear, or shoulder, or off into s.p.a.ce. Never straight and clean and true, into my eyes. Because she'd been lying to me from the beginning. There had been a weird sameness, a pattern, to our meetings - not as if I'd planned them, but because she had planned it that way. Those eyes should have told me, those eyes that broke the promise of her lips.

"I'm sorry, Sh.e.l.l," she said, looking at my collarbone. "It . . . well, I had to have help. And Weiss had talked to me just the day before. I didn't think if I told you who I really was that you would . . ."

She was having a hard time getting the words out. "Skip it," I said. And then I added to myself, "Brother, I am sure the world's greatest detective. I'm Sherlock Holmes and Javert all wrapped up in Li'l Abner. What a thinker! I should never have thrown away all those rocks . . ."

I went down to the street, and got into my Cad, started it and headed out the Hollywood Freeway toward home. Life, I thought, is cruel. Life is shallow. Life is lifeless. I thought all sorts of things like that until I reached the Spartan Apartment Hotel. As I pa.s.sed the desk, the clerk called my name and handed me a stack of mail.

I glanced at it on the way up to the second floor. Bills mostly. Bills - there was a letter from the Twenty-Centuries Costume Center.

It was a nice, pleasant, not-very-businesslike letter saying that the firm had enjoyed doing business with me and hoped that everything was satisfactory. The last sentence was, "Please remember that we have the largest private stock of costumes in Hollywood - including many special costumes for special occasions." And it was signed, Marie.

At the bottom of the letter was a short P.S., "As in Antoinette."

In less than fifteen minutes I was walking into the Twenty-Centuries Costume Center. The little honey-blonde was behind the counter reading a magazine. I didn't look at the t.i.tle; enough of my illusions had already been shattered this day, and it would have been too much to bear if she had been reading about Donald Duck.

She looked up. "Well, h.e.l.lo," she said musically. She was in the harem costume again. Or still. Maybe she always wore it in the shop. She did if the boss was smart.

"Hi," I said. "I ruined the clown outfit I rented. I had a hunch that might happen, remember?"

She nodded, looking at me from those soft brown eyes. Looking at my eyes. Obviously she had nothing to hide. And she wasn't making much effort to hide it.

I went on, "Are you Marie?"

She laughed. "Oh, you got my note. Well . . . I just signed it Marie for fun. You know, for a joke?"

"I see. That's dandy. Yes, that's good."

"My name isn't really Marie. It's actually - "

"Woops. What do you say, for a while anyway, we just leave it Marie?"

"As in Antoinette," she said, and smiled.

Yes, I was thinking, I'd had it all wrong a little while ago. Life is not cruel and shallow and lifeless. It is indeed the very opposite, chock full of goodness. It's all in your point of view. Life is exciting, exhilarating, wonderful - especially at costume parties. From now on, that is.

And, this time, I was right.

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