18

On the way to Mrs. Halstead’s home, I phoned Samson and caught him in the Intelligence Division.

“Did Cootie get in to see you?” I asked him.

“Yeah. We’ve checked it out and got the kickback already. But Cootie wouldn’t tell me where he lifted the prints; said he was just a delivery boy.”

“That’s what I told him to say. Well, I’m glad he got the job done.”

“I hate to say it, but I am, too. You sure these are from the man you call Edward Walles?”

“Sure enough.” I’d told Cootie to let himself into the Walles house in Beverly Hills. But I was pretty certain Samson wouldn’t want to know that, so I didn’t tell him.

He was going on, “We’ve got a want on this Vanda ourselves. He’s also wanted in Nevada and Arizona.”

“Who? Vanda?”

“Yeah, Edward Walles isn’t his name, either. Probably has a dozen aliases. Real name’s Kermit Vanda, and he’s one of the slickest confidence men operating in the Western States.”

I smiled. “A con man. Well, that’s the cork in the bottle. It’s perfect Sam. I’ll buy you a box of cigars. Good cigars.”

“I don’t like good cigars,” he growled. “We checked out the address in Beverly Hills, but the place was empty. The house is being kept under surveillance.”

“Call the Beverly Hills boys off, Sam. He won’t be back, not for a while, anyway. Last I saw of him was out at the Hidden Valley Lodge. But he won’t be there now, either. Incidentally, you say the L.A.P.D. has a want on him? You mean Homicide wants him?”

“Not us. Bunco—con game; he’s never gone in for the heavy.”

“Not personally, maybe. He lets other guys handle the heavy for him. Guys like Jimmy Violet’s charmers. What’s the rap here?”

“Vanda and his partner—female—took an old couple for sixty G’s last year. Variation on the wire. They dropped out of sight. We identified him, but never made the woman.”

“Her monicker’s Dilly Pickle, Sam. She may or may not be Vanda’s wife.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“You might say from them, indirectly. Any sex angle in the confidence games they’ve worked so far?”

“None we know about. No more than the usual. They work damned clever and up-to-date variations on the standard con games though.”

“Yeah, they would. Well, you can add the sex bit now—and conspiracy to commit homicide, among other things. Like extortion. This Dilly Pickle—”

“I thought that was what you said.”

“—set me up for the murder try that wound up with Porter getting it. I doubt that she and Vanda had much contact with the real heavies before their latest escapade. Anyhow the boys picked to do the job on me knew her by that monicker or nickname, and that she made the call to Hazel that was supposed to put me at the Hamilton around two p.m.”

He was silent for a few seconds. “Can you prove all this?”

“I will when I come in, Sam. I’ll be down pretty quick to fill you in, and also to show you a movie that’ll knock your eyes out. You’re going to be proud of me, old buddy.”

“Not likely. What do you mean, movie?”

“Just that. Film’s being developed now.” I gave him a hint of what was on the film and added, “I’ll bring it in as soon as I can—”

“You get in here right now, Shell. There’s a local out on you.”

“On me? Oh, you mean—”

“Yeah. You can’t leave dead guys lying around in the city. Not even in crumby bars.”

“That was Skiko—the boy who phoned you today, Papa.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The hoods who knocked down Porter were Billy DeKay and Gippo Crane.”

“That’s good news. But we’ll need a little more than just your say-so before we can pick them up.”

“Skiko told me himself,” I said. “Moments before he died. So it was straight from the hearse’s mouth. Give me half an hour, O.K., Sam?”

“What for?”

“I’ve one stop to make, then I’ll come straight in. I won’t even wait to pick up the film; I’ll have it delivered to the squad room.”

“Tell me more about this film.”

“Patience,” I said mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

He told me to get to Homicide by eight p.m. or he’d jug me himself. I had a hunch he would too.

“I’ll be in,” I said. “One more favor, if you will. Have somebody check the monicker file for ‘Dilly Pickle,’ and call me back, O.K.?”

He grumbled a bit, but said he’d do it.

He did. The call reached me just before I parked at Mrs. Halstead’s home in the Hollywood Hills. And the info from the monicker file added one more small piece to the picture, one more bit I could give my client.

Mrs. Halstead and I had been talking five minutes when I said “O.K., that ties it in a ribbon.”

“I still don’t understand, Mr. Scott.”

“That’s because I’ve been asking questions instead of telling you the score. But I’ll give you all I can now, Mrs. Halstead. Some of it I know is accurate, and some is deduction subject to later corroboration. But I’ll bet my bottom dollar what I’m going to tell you now is very close to the way it was. And before the night’s over I’ve a hunch I’ll have proof of the parts I can’t guarantee as accurate just yet.”

“Do you know who killed my husband?”

“Yeah, a man named Stub Corey who works for a hood named Jimmy Violet—the guy I asked you about earlier.”

“This man … who killed George. Will he be arrested?”

“No. I killed him this afternoon.”

She moistened her lips and the green eyes widened.

“It was self-defense.” I touched the bandage—still on my head but getting a little loose. “He gave me this at the time. Anyway, he’s dead, and consequently his guilt may not ever be proved positively. Maybe it will—but at least Stub isn’t going to be walking the streets.”

She pressed her lips together, looking down at her hands. Then she glanced up at me and asked “Why? Why did he kill George?”

“Well, let’s go back a little. You’ve just told me the idea of the album—from which I mentioned the photo of Sybil Spork and Hugh Pryer came—was Ed Whist’s idea. The guy you know as Ed Whist, that is.”

She nodded. “It seems … unwise now. A little. But at the time it appeared to be an exceptionally logical and desirable procedure. Obviously we all had to be very careful; it was only common sense to make sure that nobody …” She let it trail off.

“I can understand that,” I said. “I can also understand, better than most, how convincing Edward can be. Ed and his partner.”

I stopped. This wasn’t going to be pleasant for Mrs. Halstead. It’s never pleasant to realize that someone has led you down the garden path, that you’ve been a prize sap. I should know.

“Well, I’ll simply lay it out for you,” I said, “without pulling any punches. It begins with the couple of high-class con artists whom you knew as Ed and Marcelle Whist. Who are in fact Kermit Vanda and his wife—perhaps—Dale, born Dale Jill Piquelle, and called in kidhood Dilly Piquelle by the kids, and in adulthood Dilly Pickle by the hoods. And even by me for a while.”

“Con artists? Hoods?”

“They’re a confidence team. You know what a confidence man is? Or a con game?”

“Well … a little.”

“You know quite a bit now, believe me. From first-hand observation. A con man always chooses his marks—the suckers, or victims of the con—with care. And—we’ll call them Ed and Marcelle, since that’s how you think of them—those two artists picked the Halsteads. Don’t kid yourself; that was no chance meeting in a bar—they planned it. And everything else.”

“Oh, dear.” She looked distressed. As well she might.

But I said, “Don’t kick yourself too much, Mrs. Halstead. Any con man worth his salt is not only of the criminal elite, but a consummate actor, a practicing psychologist, a student of human emotions—and weaknesses. They’re usually brilliant, but warped, and almost invariably totally without a trace of conscience. They’re freaks, true; but this team, take it from one who’s known plenty of them, is the cream of the elite. To put it simply, they combined a new twist on the old con game with an old extortion play, and from the beginning had blackmail in mind. Hence the blackmail album. You can be sure Ed knew there are other clubs, other groups with similar albums. He just decided to choose his marks—marks with money—and make up his own album. With the willing, maybe even eager cooperation of the marks he meant to bleed later, which seems a nice touch.”

“Oh, dear,” she said again.

“It could be they had a good-sized group in mind from the beginning, or maybe they started with you and your husband and let the thing build, grow naturally. All the couples but one came from among your friends or acquaintances, you’ll remember. Well, when Ed and Marcelle were ready for the payoff they ‘burned’ the album which was in their possession. At least that was their story, and they even faked a fire in the Norvue so there’d be corroboration if you checked.”

She frowned. “Why would they do that? And go to all that trouble if—”

I smiled. “Not trouble. Simply part of the routine, the s.o.p. In the con man’s phrase, they always try to ‘cool out the mark,’ that is, they not only attempt to keep the mark from ever knowing he has been the victim of a con, but also cover themselves so they won’t draw any heat if there’s a rumble. Some con men never spend a day in jail in their lives, simply because they go to all that trouble, as you put it.”

“Then the pictures never were burned? I believed Ed when he said—”

“Sure, you did. Doubting Thomas would have believed him. What I think—what I’m almost certain—they did then was turn that album over to Jimmy Violet. Either for a flat, and undoubtedly fancy, chunk of cash, or perhaps in expectation of a cut from the later profits.”

“Profits. You make it sound like a business.”

“That’s what it is. They simply farmed out the physical labor of extortion to a guy with the men and muscle appropriate to the act. One of whom visited your husband here last night.”

“The one you—killed?”

“The same. Stub Corey. We know a copy of one of those snaps from the album, burned a little to fit the tale, was used to hit the Sporks today. But I think that must have been the second blackmail try. The first being when Stub came here last night.”

“You know he was here?”

“Yeah. More important, I know they went up to your husband’s den. There’s where Stub most likely gave him the pitch, complete with photo of George and a lady—or you and somebody’s husband—maybe even both for all I know. Anyway, Stub named his price. When your husband phoned me he was upset, speaking softly; asked me to come over as soon as possible. Obviously he wouldn’t have phoned from the den if Stub was still around. I’d guess he left Stub there—maybe on the pretext that he was going to get the money, or part of it, and used the outside phone near the pool for the call.”

Mrs. Halstead stared at the wall, then nodded slowly. “Then you think this man followed him out, and saw or heard my husband phoning … and killed him.”

“I do. He very likely heard part of the conversation. Stub’s IQ wouldn’t have put him in the genius class, but if one of the marks wasn’t acting like a mark, and was calling in the law—or even a private investigator—Stub would have known the man couldn’t be allowed to blow the whole operation apart by spilling the beans. Maybe Stub acted on his own, without instruction from higher up so to speak, but he grabbed a rock and that was it, right or wrong.”

She bent forward a little, pressing the fingers of one hand against her forehead.

“It happened very soon after Mr. Halstead phoned me,” I said. “Had to Immediately after that—if he could have—he would certainly have called off the party. Before my arrival, I mean. But he didn’t.”

“Yes. I see. Have you proof of all this?”

“Not all, but some. I hope, with the help of a lot of police officers, to get more proof before the night’s over. For example, there’s no question in my mind that the entire album still exists—except of course, for any shots of Ed or Marcelle. Those will have been burned by now. But the others, I’d bet my life, are in Jimmy Violet’s possession.”

There wasn’t much more that Mrs. Halstead needed to hear, so after another minute I got up to go.

At the door she said, shaking her head, “I know you must be right, Mr. Scott. But it’s hard to believe. They seemed so nice. And Ed was … so completely charming.”

“I’ll bet he was,” I said. “And so, I have no doubt, was Marcelle.”

When I walked into the Homicide squad room just before eight p.m., Sam was filling a paper cup with coffee from the ever-present pot, and there were half a dozen men with him from other departments—a couple from ID, two from Burglary, one each from Forgery and Narcotics.

“We having a party?” I said, to nobody in particular.

Sam turned from the coffee pot and smiled. “Remains to be seen,” he said. “Some of the men heard about a few of your less exciting exploits today and this movie masterpiece, or whatever it is, so they dropped by for a lesson in proper police procedure.”

I smiled, myself. I knew why they were here.

There is a rather rough camaraderie among the men of the L.A.P.D., many of whom—including all those present—are friends of mine. They are not, as a general rule, however, the kind of friends who act particularly friendly. Nothing would give them more real, sadistic pleasure than to catch me with egg on my face. Well, no egg tonight, I thought. They would have to wait for another day.

So, smiling, I said, “Splendid. The Shell Scott Academy of investigation, ratiocination, cinemation, and several other ations, will be open to eager seekers after the truth in a very few minutes. I shall be overjoyed to give you all a few minutes of my time, and the benefit of my vast experience—”

There were some hoots and catcalls, and a six-foot-four-inch, two-hundred-and-sixty-pound sergeant named MacCraig made a vulgar noise with his lips.

“—in the hope of making better human beings of you. Thanks for your applause. Just be patient, men.”

I turned to Sam. “But first, a brief conference?”

As we started into Sam’s private office, Lieutenant Rawlins came into the squad room, and Sam waved him in with us.

Bill Rawlins, a damned fine detective, and also a very good-looking so-and-so. If I had any desire at all to be a handsome chap, which I don’t any more, I might choose to look like Rawlins. Tall and slim with good shoulders, he had wavy black hair and long-lashed movie-lover eyes, and his expression usually reflected the jollity and good humor inside him.

Rawlins sat against the wall and I straddled a chair as Sam got behind his desk. For several minutes we went over everything from the Halstead killing to my plugging of Corey and Skiko, and I repeated to Sam all I’d told Mrs. Halstead, and more.

Then I said, “How about letting me borrow about a hundred of L.A.’s finest for the purpose of dropping in on Jimmy Violet tonight?”

“And how do we justify invading a citizen’s private property?”

“How? Hell, I’ve just been telling you, Sam. It’s eight to five the album’s out there. Not to mention Gippo and Tooth and—”

“Eight to five isn’t good enough.”

“So make it a hundred to one.”

“Not on what you’ve told me.”

“I’ll tell you some more, then. Also …” I smiled, thinking about it. “When that film is delivered here you’ll see three men whom we all know work for Violet, plus another guy who undoubtedly does. You’ll see them trying—unsuccessfully, of course—to kill me. That should help excuse our calling on Jimmy, shouldn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

Rawlins chimed in, “I heard a rumble about that, Shell. You really have got some kind of film of Jimmy’s hoods?”

“Not some kind, Bill, but assuredly a masterpiece of its kind—of which it happens there is only one of a kind. These hoods will not be able to say, ‘Gun? What gun?’ Or, ‘Officer, I ain’t done nothin’; I was in Chicago.’ This is evidence which will convince judge or jury, a silent witness which cannot be coerced or intimidated—”

“You were going to tell me some more?” Sam asked sweetly.

“Take Stub Corey—he’s dead, sure, but you know he worked for Jimmy. Mrs. Bersudian places him at the Halsteads shortly before the time when Halstead phoned me. A car—the same Dodge Polara Corey and Skiko used the next day—followed me from the Halsteads to the Norvue Hotel. I just happened to check that address first, true, but since it was where Vanda, registered as Whist, had been living, it must really have shaken the boys up that I went directly there from the scene of Halstead’s murder. Because Violet and his boys knew the truth about Whist-Vanda, they almost certainly must have assumed I knew at least a little myself, certainly more than I actually did. After all, there were several other couples in the group I might have visited, but where did I go right away? Why, straight to Vanda’s. And since we conclude that Vanda turned over the album to Jimmy Violet—”

“You conclude.”

“If he didn’t, how in hell did Jimmy’s boy Corey get the picture he must have shown to Halstead last night? And if you won’t buy that, how did Jimmy’s boy Bingo get the photo we know he hit the Sporks with this afternoon. The timing is cute, too, but I’ll get to that in a minute.”

“Suppose we assume, for now, that Vanda turned the extortion material over to Violet.”

“O.K., Violet was already twitchy about me getting close to Kermit Vanda—and so were Kermit and his Dilly, because they were all keeping in touch. They got twitchier the next day when I not only checked the Beverly Hills Hotel but later located Vanda himself in Beverly Hills. Even before I actually got to Vanda, though, Jimmy was wetting his pants—his boys, including Stub Corey, picked me up, you’ll recall.”

“Circumstantial. Highly.”

“But it gets damned convincing, Sam. Let’s get to when I did find Vanda, right after leaving Jimmy with his sore beak. Vanda explained beautifully why he’d used the name Whist with the Halsteads and that bunch. He told me just enough of the truth to make it believable, while still keeping himself covered. He didn’t expect me to live past two p.m., anyway.”

“Come again?”

“Well, he couldn’t have known the hour then, but he soon did. Because it’s clear as can be to me that his lovely Dilly was in the house with him then, was right then making her call to Hazel and setting me up. I’d say she made the call and immediately phoned Jimmy Violet to tell him I’d not only located Kermit, but would probably be entering the Hamilton at around two p.m.”

“Why right then?”

“Because when I left and phoned Hazel she told me the sexy-voice call had come in twenty minutes before. And that placed it at the time when I’d just started talking to Kermit Vanda in his home. Ergo, Dilly wasn’t downtown getting her hair done.”

Samson shrugged. “Or Jimmy had some babe make the call for him, and it happened to reach your office while you were talking to Vanda. You’d left Jimmy’s place not long before, Shell.”

“Either way, that makes it Jimmy Violet. And if he had some babe do it, it was Dilly. Hell, check the next bit, the timing of the extortion play at the Sporks. I was supposed to get hit at the Hamilton at two p.m., only I was a few minutes late and Porter got it. All the important characters thought I’d been killed, however, for a while. So the go-ahead was given to put the bite on the Sporks—no need to worry about Shell Scott getting close to Vanda, now that Scott’s dead—and Bingo was sent on his way. In the meantime the much-involved ‘Marcelle Walles’ of the friendly club—Dilly Pickle to us—took off in a flap about two-ten after eyeballing me, not down there on the sidewalk in pools of blood, but right next to her and not even anemic. The Sporks were contacted at two-twenty p.m.—before Dilly could get word to them, or more likely to Violet, that I wasn’t the guy who got killed. Anyway, Bingo hadn’t got the word.”

Sam scowled. “Even if I bought everything you’ve said so far—and I’m not saying I do—we still couldn’t go piling in on Violet and tearing the place up. Except for what you’ve told us, there’s nothing solid and concrete that ties him in.”

“Hell, you’ve got records on Vanda and Dilly. I’ve told you how they started and built up the group, developed the album idea, pulled the fake fire. Then Violet’s men turn up with the photos, his boys grab me, Jimmy himself leans on me, they kill Porter instead of me and try for me again a couple more times—the last time, by the way, without question at the request of Vanda himself.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I didn’t go into detail, Sam. That was out at the Hidden Valley Lodge.” I hit the high spots as quickly as possible, adding, “A little while ago I phoned the chief of security at the Lodge, asked him to check around for me, and he found one old geezer who’d been at the pool keeping most of his attention on Dilly—which you’d understand if you saw her. This guy heard what Vanda said when he ran past Dilly and what she answered.”

“Slow down. Ran past her?”

I’d skipped over much of that sequence, since I didn’t feel I had come out of it too dashingly, but I explained to Sam about Vanda running out of the lobby, waving and apparently yelling to somebody at the far end of the pool. “He wasn’t yelling, though,” I went on, “just making it look like he was. Maybe that’s one reason the old geezer remembered exactly what they both said, because Vanda must have looked more than a bit peculiar.”

“What was it he said?”

“Vanda, wiggling his mouth and waving, softly said as he passed Dilly, ‘Zex! It’s Scott in the lobby ridin’ the Earie!’ And she said, ‘Hell and damnation. O.K., Sweet, you tip the boy and I’ll boost his heat.’ The geezer thought it was some kind of poem, not Vanda telling her to look out, and that I was the guy paging—”

I stopped, because Rawlins was laughing, getting a big kick out of the story. “I wish she had,” he said.

I ignored him. He knew “boost” is a pickpocket’s term for stealing, or pocket-picking. “Anyhow,” I continued to Sam, “it’s clear that while I was with her, he was rounding up the goons who chased me for, it seems, approximately fifty miles.”

“It’s not good enough.”

“What the hell do you want? A picture—” I smiled.

Sam wasn’t smiling, though. “Look,” he said, “you know what we’re up against. I don’t doubt you’re right, Shell, but it isn’t enough just to bring these punks in, or book them. We’ve got to have enough for indictment, arraignment, trial—and conviction. Otherwise it’s a waste of time. For us and the D.A.’s office. Worse than that, if they go to trial and beat it, they’re cleaner than before. We can’t try ’em again. That happens a couple times and the punks start thinking we can’t touch them, and they get worse. Cockier, bolder, big-headed, more reckless, more dangerous. Why not? They beat the last rap, didn’t they? And the one before?”

He cut it off, grinding his teeth together, big jaw wiggling. “Shell, what I mean is, you can jump to conclusions. We can’t. You can do things we can’t do. You can have a hunch—I know you and your fool hunches—but we’ve got to have facts. Concrete evidence. The whole package.” He paused. “If I knew that album you talk so much about was at Violet’s, or any other solid, certain evidence of crime, we’d get a warrant and go look. But it can’t just be a hunch, or reasonably logical deduction. I’ve got to be damn near certain there’s conclusive evidence of felony—or we blow the whole case.”

He was just a bit heated, and I knew frustration gnawed at him from time to time, so I smiled and gave it the light touch. “Hell, I was being pessimistic when I asked for a hundred cops, Sam. I’ll go out there by myself, and once I’ve found the clues and evidence and fun pictures and dead bodies and guns and grenades and such, I’ll write you a formal letter requesting—”

Sam didn’t let me finish. But he did lift his upper lip in a small smile. Lifted it about a sixteenth of an inch. “We get a little information ourselves here and there. Like we know right now Violet and eight, maybe nine of his men are at that house of his on his little lake. Don’t know yet if it’s normal procedure, or the start of a new Apalachin.”

“He’s always got three or four of the lobs there with him.”

“More than that this time. It’s barely possibly that, while blundering around in your usual comatose fashion, and shooting people here and there, and there, and there, you may have stirred up the animals.”

I let the comment pass because something else had come into my mind when Sam spoke of shooting people. “Say, can you fix me up with a gun?”

“What’s wrong with that .38 you’re in love with?”

“Well, uh, when this Dilly was … saying hello to me, just before she said goodbye—I kind of mentioned the way she took off there in the woods, didn’t I? Yeah, I remember mentioning it. Well, she kind of took my gun with her. That’s the real reason I didn’t shoot all those hoods to death—”

Rawlins howled. “Took your gun? That petted and pampered Colts?—Shell, you mean she did boost your heat? She lifted it right off you? How in hell—”

“Bill, cool it, hey? You haven’t met this lady genius. Take it from me, pal, I’m extremely fortunate that she didn’t steal my shorts—”

“Stole his gun!” He smacked a fist into his palm looking at Samson. “That’s the best news I’ve heard since they got Dillinger outside the—”

“Bill, if you value our friendship, our long, rewarding—”

Samson cut it off. He stood up and said, “Come on. When’s this precious movie of yours supposed to be here?”

“Any time now. I left word to bring it straight to the squad room, soon as possible.”

“O.K. Come on up to SID with me. I’ll show you a gun. Not for you to use, however—we’re testing it.”

“When we stepped out of Sam’s office the squad room was even more crowded than before. I spotted another man from Burglary, one from Administration, a couple from Auto-Theft. Must be a slow night, I thought. Rawlins stayed behind while Samson and I went up to the fourth floor. I didn’t think anything about it. Probably that should be: Like a fool, I didn’t think anything about it.

In the Crime Lab Sam spoke to a technician who walked to a case against the wall, unlocked a door, and took out a fairly large box and brought it over to us. Sam opened it, exposing several boxes of cartridges—new boxes to me—and the damnedest looking pistol I’d ever seen.

It had a row of holes in each side of the barrel, an oddly-shaped grip. It appeared to have everything a pistol should have, including sights and trigger, but I couldn’t see any hammer.

“What is it?” I asked. “A water pistol?”

Sam grinned. “Well, it can be fired under water, but it packs more wallop than the little .38 you have—used to have, I mean. More than a Magnum, for that matter. Great semiautomatic action, too.”

“Where’s the hammer?”

“Up here.” He pointed. “In front of the magazine. Hammer hits the front of the cartridge—little rocket’s what it is—and bangs it back against the firing pin. That sets her off, and she whooshes down the barrel, cocking the hammer again on the way.”

“Rocket? Yeah—a rocket pistol. I remember reading about these things. Something in True magazine a while back, wasn’t there? Called a—a Gyrojet?”

“This is a special model we’re trying out. Who knows? They might become official equipment.” He was handling the thing like a kid with a new toy. He spent a couple more minutes explaining how the gun—or little rocket launcher—worked, and showed me some of the cartridges, all of which had four little holes in the base. The escaping gas shot out those little holes, Sam said, and pushed the whole shebang along.

There were three or four different kinds of rounds for the gun. Some were copperplated and a little bigger than a .45 caliber slug, and another box had metal-piercing slugs in it. The prettiest, with a colored tip, were about halfway between a tracer and a midget napalm bomb, the way I got it. At least they were incendiary and hotter than hell wherever they hit, so Sam said.

I asked him to let me fire the thing, but he shook his head and handed the box back to the lab man, commenting that he felt I had done enough shooting for one day.

Then we went back down to the third floor and into the Homicide squad room.

And my hour of trial, of nausea, of sheer, unadulterated misery, began.