Authors: Wade Miller
“James.”
“What?”
“I’ll do my darnedest to keep her father’s connection with this marijuana ring undercover. She doesn’t know anything obviously, and I can probably keep the investigation away from her. And definitely out of the papers.”
“Thanks, Clapp.”
The big man smiled and closed his eyes for a second. “Just take good care of the girl. I like her.”
“I like Kevin, too. More than you would ever believe,” said Walter James soberly. As soon as this Dr. Boone thing is finished, I’m going to marry her and take her back to Atlanta. I promise I’ll take good care of her.”
K
EVIN FOUND
the note late that afternoon.
They had slept most of the day and had arisen about three o’clock. The girl wanted some fresh clothes, so Walter James drove her out to the empty house in East San Diego. There she hastily collected a few things and they hurried silently back to the Serra Apartments.
Walter James keyed the door and swung it open for Kevin to enter. The note had been pushed under the door in their absence and was about a foot inside, touching the edge of the rug. She stepped on it before she noticed it and picked it up.
The envelope was cheap and plain, the two dozen for ten cents variety. Across it was written “Walter James” in bright blue ink; the writing was neatly small, slightly backhanded.
He ripped it open. Together, they were scanning the simple message when Clapp knocked lightly at the open door.
“Hello, folks. Can I come in?”
They jumped and Walter James said, “Come on in and sit down, Clapp.”
The big man shut the door and took off his hat. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just thought I’d drop around and see how you were making out. Things are quiet downtown.”
“We’re glad to see you,” Kevin said. “Please sit down.”
Clapp lowered himself into the davenport. After Walter James was settled in the armchair, the girl coiled at his feet, resting one arm across his knees. He let the note lie loosely in his lap.
“Not a bad place you found here,” said Clapp. “You were lucky.”
“It’s nice enough,” Walter James admitted.
The girl spoke suddenly, evenly. “Did you come to tell us you found my father had been murdered?”
The men turned startled eyes upon her, then glanced at each other.
“Don’t keep anything from me,” she pleaded. “I’m old enough. I can’t shock any more. You won’t hurt me by telling me anything.”
Clapp began, “What makes you think — ”
“It’s sort of obvious. You know this Shasta Lynn had some connection with the men you’re after. You know my father had some connection with Shasta Lynn. And right in the middle of your investigation, he dies. It’s a perfect circle — even I can see that.”
“It isn’t a perfect circle,” murmured Walter James.
“Maybe not. But something isn’t right somewhere. Dad was too cautious to ever fall off a cliff. And he would never have committed suicide.” She puzzled a moment. “He was sort of despondent these last couple of days, but I think that was because I was so obviously crazy about Walter. That’s the way fathers are, I guess. But he would never have committed suicide any more than he would’ve burnt up a thousand-dollar bill. Everything was an investment to him so he could take care of himself and me — he wouldn’t suddenly just throw everything away.”
“Well,” said Clapp. He pushed the inside of his lip with his tongue. “I’m naturally a little suspicious of everything. But, honestly, Miss Gilbert, there isn’t anything off-color yet. It is an odd time for your father to die and we’ll investigate as a matter of course. As yet we don’t know anything at all.”
Kevin gazed at him levelly.
“If we happen to run onto anything, I won’t keep it from you. I promise you that much.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “I’ll appreciate it.”
“No,” said the big man, shifting around on the cushions, “what I really came to see you about was the attack last night.”
“I’ve told you all we know,” said Walter James.
“Oh, I know that,” smiled Clapp. “But amazingly enough, us cops managed to find out a little more. Jim talked to your landlady this morning.”
“She’s a born source.”
“That’s what Jim found out. There was somebody in this building yesterday afternoon who she’d never seen here before. Jim checked all the apartments and none of them had ever heard of — this person.”
“Was it our big, healthy man?”
“Not quite. It was a large old woman, white-haired and apparently in mourning. She wore a black satin dress way out of date like some old women do, and a small black veil over her face. Oh, yes, and she wore old-fashioned flat-heeled shoes and was sort of buxom.”
Kevin said seriously, “Is it anyone you know, Walter?” and Clapp grinned.
Walter James frowned, letting his mouth hang open as if he were about to say something.
The big man went on. “The slug we dug out of your door was from a .25 just like you thought it’d be. Which ties in with the first attack last Saturday night. Also, it being a woman ties in with the face powder on the first gun. Now — who is this old babe? She doesn’t sound like a passion murderess.”
“A woman,” Walter James muttered.
“Jim checked pretty carefully. Your landlady has good eyes and she swears up and down it was a woman. Of course, this veil obscured her face, but she claims she was built like a woman.”
“The flat shoes,” said Kevin. “Couldn’t it have been a man dressed up in woman’s clothes?”
Clapp pushed his heavy lips together. “We only know what we’re told. Take it or leave it.”
Walter James shook his head. “This old lady doesn’t quite fit my conception of Dr. Boone — except that they’re both apparently large people.” He lit two cigarettes and passed one down to Kevin. “But think of Shasta Lynn. She’s large. Her blonde hair could be fixed up to pass for white. Take a look at this.”
He plucked the note from his lap and tossed it over to Clapp. The big man held it gingerly by the edges and read it.
“Today’s date. ‘I would like to talk to you immediately after the last show tonight.’ Signed Shasta Lynn. Hey!”
Walter James smiled. “That’s the way I feel. An opening maybe. Maybe we’ve got the thin edge of the wedge in at last.”
“Yeah. This Lynn wench is the only off-balance woman in the picture so far — if, as Miss Gilbert says, this pistol-packing grandmother
is
a woman. Or unless your disappearing Ethel Lantz has gone berserk and come cross-country to put the finger on you. But this Shasta Lynn — ” He shook his head. “Something about her has never jibed and I’m not sure just what.”
“We agree.”
Kevin spoke up. “I wonder what she has to say?”
Walter James squeezed her arm. “We’ll find out tonight. Want to meet us in front of the Grand Theater about nine or nine-thirty, Clapp?”
“Pleasure. I love the theater.”
Walter James laughed, exhilarated. “We can all go in together and see enough of the show so you’ll have some new material for your conferences. I’ll go back to Shasta’s dressing room and wait for her to come off after her number. If I need any official pressure, I’ll give you a call.”
The big man grinned back. “Greissinger will throw a fit when he sees me walk in.”
“My relatives would throw a fit, too, if they saw me going to a show soon after Dad’s death,” Kevin said softly. “But I just have to — ”
Walter James took the note and slapped it against Kevin’s arm. “Invitation to a dance! God, I hope it’s an opening at last!”
“It’s something,” said Clapp. “Shasta Lynn can’t be Dr. Boone, but it’s something.”
“I wonder who Dr. Boone is?” mused the girl.
“A killer,” said Walter James.
“And a weed runner,” added Clapp.
“He seems almost superhuman,” Kevin confessed. “Do you think you’ll ever catch him?”
“Miss Gilbert,” said Clapp soberly, “nobody can foresee everything — that’s why it’s so hard to commit a perfect crime. Just when you think you’ve taken care of everything, something or somebody pops up to block the deal.”
“The unknown factor,” Walter James said softly.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Course, I don’t know anything about this,” said Kevin. “All I’ve done is read detective stories. But it seems to me you were very lucky to connect all these murders with each other. I mean — all these people died in so many different ways.”
“The girl’s got a point,” said Clapp. “Run an itemized list. Hal Lantz was gunned out because he was getting too close to Dr. Boone. His wife went into hiding or was kidnapped — or worse — presumably because of the same reason. In Denver Melvin Emig was strangled and burned because he was part of Boone’s organization. Then we get to this town. The Filipino, Fernando Solez, is knifed for the same reason as Emig.” He hesitated. “Plus the possibility that Mr. Gilbert was pushed over a cliff for some reason we don’t see.”
“Add three incidental deaths,” the slight man said quickly. “Esteban Luz was part of Dr. Boone’s outfit. When the police close in, he blows his brains out. Then there’s little Steve and Darmer — ”
“Disposed of by you.” Clapp sighed. “That’s a lot of blood on somebody’s hands. I hope to God we’re not way off the track somehow.”
Kevin chewed at her knuckle sadly. “I never realized before there were so many ways to die. So many ways to kill people. Why are there so many deadly weapons?”
Clapp rubbed his lip and looked down at her. “Listen, Miss Gilbert. I’ve come to figure that man is the only deadly weapon. Take a gun. It’s an absolutely harmless thing — even makes a good honest paperweight — until some man gets his hand around it. You can strip a gun down to its basic parts and it’s lost its power. You can reduce man to his chemical elements but you’ve always got the spirit, or whatever you call it, left. And that spirit will find some damned way to do evil.”
Walter James felt the girl shudder against his knee. “But,” she protested, “there’s lots and lots of good people.”
Clapp nodded. “Okay. I know my viewpoint’s warped. Remember that the customers I deal with have gotten their hands dirty.”
“You make Dr. Boone sound like a malignant ghost,” smiled Walter James.
Clapp stood up and took his hat. “I’m open to suggestions,” he said. “So far we have one woman missing and seven men killed. If I hear a chain clank tonight, so help me God, I’ll start firing.”
“I can’t blame you,” said Walter James, “but I got a feeling that our bad luck is going to change.”
Kevin looked up at him excitedly. Clapp cocked an inquiring eyebrow. The slender man’s eyes were gleaming oddly.
“Yes?”
Walter James laughed and threw out his hands in an expansive gesture. “It’s just a hunch and I’m probably whistling in the dark. But I think we’re about due to meet our elusive friend, Dr. Boone.”
“W
HY DID WE COME SO
early?” Kevin asked him. They stood by the full-length picture of Shasta Lynn. The gaping bullet hole in her midriff had not been touched.
“I wanted to take a look at the audience this time,” Walter James explained. “I don’t want to miss the good doctor again tonight.” His eyes roved restlessly over the few late comers queued at the box office. Kevin brushed a small length of thread from the skirt of her chocolate-brown suit.
“Do you think he’ll be here tonight?” Her voice held an undercurrent of excitement. Walter James looked at her bent coppery head with its ridiculously small cloche of brown felt.
“I hope so.” He stroked his head gently. “The stitches come out in another five days.” The puckered scars showed vividly under the ruthless bulbs of the marquee.
Kevin raised her head. “What did you say, Walter?”
“Never mind,” he said. “Here comes Clapp.”
The big man came striding up Market Street. He shook hands with Walter James. Clapp’s eyes sparkled with excitement. The weariness of the night before seemed to have been shrugged off like a coat.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“You by yourself?”
Clapp showed his teeth in a grin. “Don’t you believe it. This whole block’s covered. We’re locking the barn door ahead of time tonight.”
Walter James said, “Make sure somebody doesn’t steal the barn.”
Kevin frowned at them both. “Isn’t everybody jumping to conclusions? I mean, all that we got was a note from Shasta Lynn. It might not have anything to do with Dr. Boone.”
“Miss Gilbert,” Clapp said seriously, “when you don’t have anything else to go on, then you start jumping at conclusions.”
“And don’t forget,” pointed out Walter James, “Shasta Lynn has been more or less of a question mark since the beginning.”
Kevin took both their arms. “Well, I hope you’re not too disappointed if nothing happens. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
“Do that,” Walter James advised her solemnly.
Greissinger was standing in back of the burly ticket taker as the three went into the theater. His eyes widened at the sight of the big detective.
“Evening, Greissinger,” Clapp said as he surrendered his ticket.
“Uh — good evening, Lieutenant,” Greissinger said. He brushed the ticket taker aside and put a pudgy hand on Clapp’s arm. “Lieutenant, there isn’t nothing wrong, is there?”
Clapp’s face was bland. “Wrong?”
Greissinger looked around hurriedly and lowered his voice. “I mean, you’re not going to raid us or anything, are you? We’ve been co-operating, Lieutenant, just like you asked — ”
“Don’t worry,” Clapp cut him short. “I’m not going to run you in. I just love the theater, Greissinger. You should feel complimented.” He retrieved his arm and followed Walter James and Kevin into the house, leaving the fat manager staring after him.
They brushed past John Brownlee as they entered the aisle. The thin man was carrying a wooden tray, a quarter filled with boxes of crackerjack and bags of popcorn. Brownlee gave the trio a startled glance and hurried past them into the lobby.
Clapp grinned. “Everybody is so glad to see us,” he murmured to Walter James.
As they sat down, Kevin whispered, “I’m glad they didn’t have another Filipino taking tickets out there. I almost expected to see — him.”
A voice behind her said in a soft whisper, “Laura — “. She turned slowly in the hard seat. The puzzled frown between her eyes vanished when she saw Bob Newcomb watching her from dark, pained eyes.
Kevin said fiercely, “Bob, why don’t you — ”
“Don’t bawl me out again, Laura.” Walter James snapped his head around with a quick movement; the younger man met his gaze with no embarrassment. “I just want to see that you’re all right.”
A cutting phrase trembled on the girl’s lips, then she put her mouth into a firm line and turned her face toward the stage. Walter James squeezed her hand reassuringly.
On the stage, the twelve-girl chorus was alternately hulaing and jitter bugging to pseudo-Congo music. They wore bright strips of cloth as skirts and danced with their legs apart, knees slightly bent. All of them showed complete lack of interest in the routine; two girls were giggling at a third who was stomping determinedly with drunken concentration.
“Pretty bad,” sighed Clapp. He hunched down in his seat. Kevin looked around at Walter James. The slender detective was sitting very erect, his head turning slowly from side to side. He was watching the audience instead of the performers. After a moment, he felt her eyes on him and turned to her.
“What is it, Walter?” she whispered.
His eyes were gleaming and the corners of his mouth were quirked in a half-smile. “Just checking on our little flock,” he whispered back.
“Did you see — ” she began, but he put a finger to his lips and turned his attention to the stage. After a moment of puzzled frowning, Kevin did the same.
Silently, they sat through an hour and a half of grimy blackouts, featuring Danny Host in a half-dozen characterizations, stepping sisters, an obese stripper who failed to tease, and an enthusiastic xylophonist. Kevin jumped when the tin voice began the familiar cajole: “And now — what every man in San Diego has been dreaming of — the Grand Theater’s own — lovely Shasta Lynn!”
The house lights dimmed out. “Walter!” Kevin whispered and put out her hand to him. He was gone.
Walter James bumped into the man just outside the stage door. His hand snapped to the .38 weighting down his right coat pocket.
The shadow spoke with the voice of Danny Host, “Why don’tcha watch where you’re going?”
Walter James let his hand move away from the gun. “That’s a bad habit you’ve got, Host — smoking out here in back.”
Host leaned forward and peered at him closely in the glow of his cigarette. He let out his breath noisily. “Oh, it’s you, huh? What are you doing snooping around here?”
Walter James went around him and jerked open the iron door. The white light fell across the lanky comedian’s face. He was staring at the shorter man with narrowed eyes. “Collecting autographs,” Walter James told him pleasantly. “I’ll get yours on the way out.”
A couple of girls glanced at him speculatively when he came up the cement steps to the stage. Several of them were trying to persuade the drunken member of the jungle routine to for God’s sake get up off the floor. Dixie Lake, attired in a whisper of a silver dancing costume, threw him a look of recognition and opened her mouth as if to speak. Walter James ignored her.
Madeline Harms, her back toward him, was standing in the wings looking out onto the stage. Over her shoulder he could see Shasta Lynn, cool and blue-gowned, facing the curtain, waiting for it to go up.
Her dressing room door was ajar. Walter James slipped in and shut it behind him. Nothing had been changed since his previous visit except that a folding chair had been added. He looked at the unfinished plywood walls speculatively. Then he began to work purposefully, deftly. From his trousers pocket he produced a squat derringer with a short, ornately carved butt. The carving contrasted with the simple modernity of the twin inset .22 barrels. The gun had two triggers inside the guard, one slightly forward of the other.
Walter James cocked his ear to the music, carefully analyzing the heavy rhythm of the drumbeats. In a moment, Shasta Lynn would begin to sing. He turned the gun mouth toward himself, pointed it slightly upwards and peered at his aim in the mirror. Loud applause and whistles broke in from out front; that meant that the curtain had gone up. On the crest of a drumbeat, he pressed the forward trigger.
Drowned by music and uproar, the explosion of the .22 was little more than a loud pop. The slug buried itself high in the plywood wall of the dressing room. The thin cut in Walter James’s left coat sleeve began to seep crimson.
Hastily, he sat before the dressing table and wiped the refit derringer clean with a make-up rag. He opened the table drawer and, holding the gun in the rag smeared its metal in the loose powder that was scattered there. The slight man regarded the dirtied weapon painfully. His arm was beginning to throb now. He closed the drawer and laid the derringer on the dressing table top, tossing the rag over it. He spread his fingers and looked at his slender hands. Steady as a rock.
He heard footsteps coming toward the door and a smile worked its way quickly across his face. He brought the .38 out of his coat pocket and held it loosely in his hand. Outside, he could hear Shasta Lynn’s cool voice singing, “I cried for you — now it’s your turn to cry over me …”
The knock sounded loud on the thin door. Walter James got up, holding the pistol in his right hand. With his left arm, throbbing from the bullet wound, he threw the plywood door open.
“Won’t you come in, Dr. Boone?” he asked.
The startled face of Major Rockwell looked at him.