Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

I carried her duds out with me. I picked up Skinny’s head, wrapped it in the brown paper, and went down to my jalopy. Then I drove to beat hell.

Dave Donaldson was waiting outside headquarters. We went into his office and I showed him the head. He said: ‘For Cripes’ sake! It’s Arkle, all right. Now, who in hell—?’

I said: ‘Wait a minute. Don’t pop off with a lot of screwy questions. Don’t ask me why this damned thing was delivered to my apartment. That’s one goofy thing I don’t pretend to understand. But I’ve got a theory about Skinny Arkle’s death.’

Donaldson said: ‘A theory?’

‘Yes. Now listen. Arkle was married to a girl named Kitty Calvert. Kitty has a sister, Constance Calvert. Well, just as I was starting downtown to meet you, Constance came to my door. She’s a tall, blonde bimbo with plenty of sex-appeal.’

‘The hell with that,’ Donaldson grunted. ‘What did she want?’

‘She claimed she was scared for her sister,’ I said. ‘She said Kitty and Skinny Arkle had a hell of a row three days ago. Skinny threatened Kitty’s life. Then he took it on the lam and hasn’t been seen since.’

‘So what?’ Donaldson rasped.

‘So this. Maybe Constance Calvert’s story was a frame-up. Maybe her sister did have a fight with Skinny; and maybe Kitty shot the poor devil. Then maybe Kitty sent her sister to see me.’

‘What for?’

I said: ‘To cover the murder. To make it look as if they didn’t know where Skinny had gone to.’

Donaldson said: ‘Where is Kitty Calvert’s sister now?’

‘In my apartment. She won’t get away.’

He said: ‘Wait till I turn this head over to the medical examiner. Then we’ll go see Kitty.’

He was gone about two minutes. Then we went out and piled into my jalopy. I drove — and I didn’t spare the speedometer. Pretty soon we parked outside the Arkle home in Westwood.

I noticed another machine standing at the kerb a couple of doors away. It was a big, shiny maroon Cad, and somehow I thought I recognised it. But I couldn’t be sure, and there was no point in checking it up just then. Donaldson and I went up to the porch of the Arkle house and rang the bell.

A cute little Chink maid opened up. I said: ‘We want to see Mrs Arkle, please.’

The Chink maid spoke perfect English. American-born, probably. She said: ‘Miss Kitty Calvert has retired, sir. You’ll have to come in the morning.’

Dave Donaldson shoved me aside and flashed his badge. ‘We’ll see her now!’ he growled.

The maid widened her slanted eyes. ‘But... there’s someone with—’ she started to say. Then she stopped and blushed a little.

I said: ‘Somebody with her, eh? A man?’

‘I... don’t know anything about it, sir,’ the Chink dame said. I could tell she was lying. Her left hand sort of fluttered towards her heart, covering her breast through her uniform.

Donaldson didn’t waste any more time. He pushed the Oriental girl aside and said: ‘Come on, Turner.’ He ran up the stairs. I followed him. And then, just as we reached the second floor, I heard a shot.

I said: ‘What the hell—!’ and made a dive for a closed door. The shot had sounded from within the room beyond that door. I jammed into it with my shoulder, burst it open. I had my .32 automatic in my fist. I leaped into the room, with Donaldson at my heels.

The room was all done in pink, with a pink-shaded lamp glowing in one corner. I sniffed the scent of expensive perfume. But I smelled something else, too. It was the acrid odour of powder-smoke.

In one second I caught the whole scene. There on the bed lay an almost nude woman — a girl. A girl with red hair and the prettiest figure I ever saw; the prettiest legs. An absolute knockout. It was Kitty Calvert — Skinny Arkle’s wife.

She was as dead as a smoked fish.

There was a bullet-hole in her breast, right over the heart. She’d been shot plumb centre. And where she was shot there was a round red hole, with blood seeping out of it.

Directly beyond the bed I saw a man standing. He had his coat and vest off, and he looked white as hell. And he had a roscoe in his mitt.

I recognised him. He was Billy Sanston — a big-shot director for Altamount Studios. In fact, he directed all Kitty Calvert’s productions. And now I knew where I’d seen that maroon Cad before — the one that was parked downstairs. It was Sanston’s own Cad. I’d seen him driving it many a time.

Donaldson said: ‘You murdering rat!’ and took aim at Sanston. ‘Drop that gun, you louse!’

Sanston dropped the gun. It hit the floor. He said: ‘Good God — you don’t think I—?’

Donaldson said: ‘I don’t think anything. If you’ve got anything to say, save it for your lawyer. Stick out your fins for the nippers.’

The movie director staggered a little. ‘But... but you can’t arrest me for something I didn’t do! My God, I’ll be ruined! My wife will divorce me — I’ll lose my job—’

‘You should have thought of that before. You been playing around with Kitty Calvert, haven’t you?’

Sanston flushed. ‘Y-yes, but I didn’t kill her; I swear I didn’t! I was here with her tonight. I admit that. I... I just went into the next room for a minute. Then I heard a shot. I ran in here and saw Kitty on the bed. She was dead; the gun was beside her. I... I picked it up, and then you men broke in. She... she must have shot herself—’

‘Nuts!’ Donaldson growled. ‘Come on — or shall I sock you on the dome with the soft end of my roscoe?’

Sanston swayed towards us, holding out his hands for the bracelets. Then he pulled an unexpected stunt. With his left he smashed Dave Donaldson’s service .38 aside. Then he planted a haymaker on Donaldson’s jaw. Dave went down.

I leaped at Sanston, but he got away from me. He scooped up the gat he had dropped. I drew a bead on him, pulled my trigger. But like a damn’ fool I’d forgotten to unlatch the safety on my automatic. When I squeezed the trigger, nothing happened.

And by that time, Billy Sanston was out of the room and pelting hell-for-leather down the stairs.

I hurled myself after him. Behind me I heard Donaldson getting on his feet. Dave was cursing and staggering along in my trail. I hit the stairs, started down. But Sanston had a good start. Before I was halfway down, I heard the front door slam shut. It slammed so hard that the glass shattered. I knew damned well that Sanston was out of the house.

I yelled: ‘You lousy rat!’ and took the last five steps in one flying jump. I jerked open the front door, raced outside. I saw Sanston in his maroon Cad — at the wheel. Then two shots roared in the night.

I ducked, thinking Sanston was firing at me. But I didn’t hear any slugs whistling past my ears. Then I noticed something queer. Sanston wasn’t trying to step on his starter, get his car under way. He was sort of slumped over his wheel.

Dave Donaldson caught up with me. We both jumped for the maroon Cad, yanked its front door open. I said: ‘What the hell!’

Sanston was bleeding at the mouth — great, crimson gushes of blood spewing out of him. He coughed once. A nasty sound, the bloody cough of a dying man. Then he shuddered, stiffened and went limp.

Donaldson looked at the gun in Sanston’s relaxed hand where it rested on the upholstered seat. The gun which Sanston had carried with him out of Kitty Calvert’s boudoir. A trickle of smoke curled up from the gat’s muzzle. Donaldson said: ‘God! He shot himself!’

I said: ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

‘What do you mean, maybe?’

I said: ‘Well, maybe he didn’t commit suicide. Maybe he was murdered.’

Donaldson looked at me. ‘Are you bug-house?’

‘No. I don’t think so. I’m just trying to figure a couple of things out. Listen — suppose Sanston told us the truth a minute ago. Suppose he was in Kitty’s house, making whoopee with her. And suppose he left her for a minute to get a drink of water or see a dog about a man. And suppose while he was gone, Kitty was shot?’