The Case of the Vanishing Beauty (24 page)

"Why, Shell, I don't exactly remember."

I grinned at him. "Samson, you dog! Just how did you get Press to spill? A psychological approach? Hit him on the head with a telephone book? Or did you beat him with your belt? Or did you maybe tie him up with it and leave him?"

Captain Phil Samson of Homicide grinned right back at me. He chuckled. "Shell," he asked me, "you got to be the only genius?"

I started to bust out laughing, but Maggie butted in with supercharged hate in both eyes. "Yaaaah!" she screamed hoarsely. "You crooked bastards! Go—"

The rest of Maggie's remarks will not be recorded here.

Chapter Twenty-three

AFTER SAM AND I untied Press from where Sam had left him—verifying my suspicion that Press hadn't told Sam a damn thing—and both he and Mrs. Remorse were on their way to Headquarters, we put Tracy in a cab and then went to Sam's office.

Sam leaned back in his chair and said, "Some crazy deal." He held up thick fingers and counted on them. "A murder, 'way back—by Press. Another murder when things started getting shaky—as they had to sooner or later with that setup; that was the Martin girl. Dope peddling and smuggling, some more killings, then the suicide of—"

I butted in "No suicide, Sam."

"I mean that Loren. Pess's sweetie."

"No suicide, Sam. She was murdered."

Sam rolled the cigar around between his lips, then clamped it between his teeth and shoved the words around it. "O.K. So she was murdered. So now we start all over again, huh? Or have you got it all sewed up?"

"Uh-huh. At least I know who killed her."

"Who?"

It was a brand-new cigar, but Sam took it out of his mouth,
rolled it around inside the ashtray, then mashed it out.

He leaned back in his chair and said, "O.K. I know you're gonna tell it. How? And why?"

I felt as if I was carrying a ton around on my back. I was tired, and I felt as if I could sleep for twenty-four hours straight. I lit a cigarette, dragged smoke deep into my lungs, and said wearily,
"It's funny, isn't it? Georgia Martin. It starts with her and now it ends with her. One hell of a vicious circle. Well, the 'how' is the toughest, Sam. We know she was mixed up with the IW bunch. She was one of the disciples, and she must have been in and out of the temple. I think she got messed up with them through one of the Seipel boys—you can check with Tracy Martin on that. Anyway, she was always a little wild, ready for anything, Tracy said.

"It wouldn't have been too tough for her to slip into Loren's room and mix a fat slug of cyanide with Loren's dream powder. You know what the stuff looks like, Sam; it'd work all right. Then when Loren took her usual speed ball, if she's on it steady—or maybe just a pop if she only took one for a lift now and then—bang, she's dead and it's murder. Georgia, being on the stuff herself, could recognize the symptoms in another one. Or maybe Loren talked to her." I took another drag on my cigarette. "She could have done it without too much trouble, if she had a reason. And that brings us to the 'why'."

"Yeah. Get around that."

"Take a look at Georgia, Sam—the way she was before she got messed up with Narda's outfit. A fairly sweet kid, a little wild, maybe, but good enough. Then she gets tangled up with Inner World and she listens to Narda's guff, which was pretty damn good. Too bad you can't hear him in action. Maybe Georgia even started falling for it. Maybe she started getting an unconscious itch for Narda—the way people sometimes do for their doctors and for their psychoanalysts. Ask any psychiatrist.

"So all of sudden she wakes up. Say it's morphine she's been getting. She's a morphiophague—what they call them when they get a mouth habit on morphine. She's been stabbed in the back; now she's got to have the stuff. And who's the guy responsible? Narda. He's a bastard, a sham, it's all been a laugh. Narda's the guy who's been spouting the pretty words and passing the refreshments.

"Take another look at her now. She's sick, and she's all loused up, and she's got to get back at Narda. O.K., kill him. But that's too fast; he doesn't suffer. And Georgia wants him to suffer. How? Then she gets the big idea. She must have noticed, just as that writer kid and I did, that Narda and Loren made goo-goo eyes at each other—and maybe that burns her still more. Remember, too, she's either hopped up all the time now or needing it bad, and she doesn't think right every minute. Beside, she's a woman, and who knows what the hell a woman's thinking? O.K., take away Narda's sweetie-pie, and Narda goes through his own private little hell. As soon as she thinks of it, it's as good as done. She fixes it up, but she gets killed before she can enjoy it." I ground out my cigarette. "But I'll bet you
one thing, Sam: Wherever she is, she's laughing."

Sam nodded his head. "Maybe…maybe."

"Something else, Sam. Remember, 'way back when this all started? When Georgia died, she managed to gasp, 'I killed…Narda,' and the last word trailed off in a sibilant whisper. No wonder it was sibilant. I didn't know then what the hell or who the hell Narda was. But later I thought about it a lot. Here it is: It boiled down to three possible things Georgia could have been trying to say. One, she meant she'd killed Narda. Two, she meant she'd killed somebody she thought was Narda. Three, she hadn't meant Narda at all. That exhausts all the possibilities. Well, we know she and Narda knew each other—Narda, or Press, told you that himself when you or your boys first went out to see him. And it's obvious he was, and is, alive. The only answer is she didn't mean Narda at all. She wasn't saying 'Narda,' but 'Narda's.' Possessive. That's why the sibilant business at the end. And she started to say Narda's sweetie, or sweetheart, or babe, or anything. We'll never know just
the right word. She didn't get to finish. But she wanted to get it off her chest, Sam. And she did, just barely."

Sam didn't say anything for a minute and I added, "Of course, just between you and me, it's only a wild theory. I couldn't prove it. And nobody would benefit from knowing that Georgia murdered Loren. Least of all her father. Or Tracy."

Sam worked his thick lips in and out. "No proof," he said slowly. "Sounds like a pipe dream to me. You're off your trolley this time, Shell. Suicide. Open and shut."

We both sat and thought about it for a few minutes, neither
o
f us saying anything. Then I got up, told Sam it was bedtime for me, and gravely shook his big hard hand.

Like always, I was pleased to shake hands with a good cop, and a good man.

Chapter Twenty-four

THE BOURBON FILTERED down my throat, cool and pleasant and heady. I swallowed from a highball glass, let liquor roll around on my tongue,
and slide down, down, down into my stomach. I was as relaxed as a doped amoeba. My eyelids slid down easily over my eyes, but it was an effort to get them back up again. I sank deeper into the cushions of the divan in the front room of my apartment, and looked down at Lina through half-lidded eyes. Even out of half an eye she looked terrific.

She was curled up on the carpet at my feet, arms resting on my knees, cheek pressed against her arm, looking up at me. The thick black hair was loose and hung down over her shoulders and halfway to the floor. She was still wearing my shirt and rolled-up trousers.

She looked up at me and long black lashes fell sleepily down over her eyes, then swept up slowly. "Querido," she said softly, "how terrible, that story. That Maggie. That Miguel." She shuddered.

"Terrible's the word, Lina. They were worse than their hired killers, actually. Their kind of people kill, too, but they murder slowly, over years, draining the suckers of their money and their respect, and finally their reason and life. Lord! When I think of how I almost got you killed messing around with Maggie…"

"But I am all right, Shell."

"Honey," I said, "it's too late tonight, but tomorrow—I mean later today—you've got to get out of here. There's no more danger for you. The gang's in jail. Case closed. So out you go."

The long lashes dropped down over her eyes again. The smooth, golden forehead furrowed in concentration. She opened her eyes and a faint smile curved her red lips.

"Ah, but Shell," she said, "you have just told me—how was it—that the case, it is not yet closed. That it will not be closed until the people who grow this drug and the bad ones who bring it over the border are caught and finished with. That one must catch the ones who grow, and the ones who smuggle, and the ones who sell it before it is over." The smile got wider.

I grinned at her. "Uh-huh. Right on all counts. But that's Sam's department now. He'll turn it over to the narcotics division. The government men will come in. It's just a matter of time. Besides, the stuff's grown in Mexico. There's nobody going to bother you now, Lina."

A full-grown smile was on her face. She ran the pointed tip of her tongue over her moist lower lip. "I do not know, Shell." She pressed her cheek against my knee and slanted a narrow-eyed look up at me. "I am afraid. I am afraid someone will hurt me. It is safer here for me. No?"

I grinned and mussed her thick hair with my hand.

She lifted her head and looked at me. Then she got up. "One moment," she whispered.

She went into the bedroom. I let more bourbon roll around on my tongue and down, down, down. I'd have to go out and see Mr. Martin tomorrow. Say hello to Tracy. Check in with Sam. See that writer guy, too, that Jordan Brent. Maybe there'd be something cooking at the office. The hell with it. I felt like sleeping all tomorrow. I stifled a yawn with my hand.

"Querido." Soft, whispery, deep in her throat.

I looked around, patting the yawn with my fist. I almost bit my thumb off.

It was Lina, still. But it was the Lina I'd seen for the first time at El Cuchillo. Remember? Snug black shorts that looked as if they'd been melted on; a scarlet bolero that didn't quite conceal the high, full breasts she was careless about but nobody else ever would be; dark hose over the long, golden, curving legs, and high-heeled black shoes. She'd even brushed her hair high up on top of her head the way it had been then.

She walked up beside me. "Querido, may I sit with you?"

I cleared my throat. "Uh-huh. Sure."

"And tomorrow then, I must go, I must
leave?"

"Uh-huh."

"Pig."

"Uh-huh."

She sat down beside me and leaned her head against my shoulder. "Let us talk, Shell. Just talk for a while."

"Sure, Lina. Fine."

She whispered into my ear, her breath brushing gently against my cheek, and she stroked my temple with soft fingers. She said a lot of things to me, some in English, some in liquid Spanish, but all of it sounded good. Once in a while I answered her with a word, or in monosyllables, relaxed, drowsy, feeling contented and good. Even with the lovely, lovely Lina beside me, I was being almost lulled into sleep.

Tomorrow…hell with tomorrow. Need rest. See Sam next day, skip the office. See Cornell Martin and Tracy any time. She'd had a sort of tough time, too, that Tracy…

"You do like me, Shell? I am nice?"

"Sure. Sure, Tracy."

Silence. Awful, deadly silence.

"Tracy! Tracy! Marrano cochino!"

My ear was busted. It was all in shreds. I sat up straight, wide awake. "Huh? Hey, wait a minute, pepper pot. I—"

"You pig! Pig, pig, pig!"
She was on her feet now, hands down at her sides, palms out, the fingers curling and uncurling. Her lips writhed in a kind of savage, beauty as she spat the words out at me.

"Degenarado!
Mentiroso! Engañador! I will kill you! I will scratch out your eyes like big grapes! Perro mentiroso! Te rasguñaré la cara!
La rasgarè! Perro engañoso! TRACYTRACYTRACY!"

"Wait a minute. Lina. Honey. All a mistake. Sleepy. Nothing. Didn't mean a thing. Didn't—"

"Tu eres el diablo mismo!
Lo mato como—"

What the hell. There was only one thing to do. I did it.

Hell, no, I didn't slug her. How would you have stopped her, friend?

THE END

of an Original Gold Medal Novel by

RICHARD S. PRATHER