Part 3 (1/2)
Four.
This gal was not the gal of my deductions. This was a white-toothed Latin with luminous eyes, with long black hair hanging heavy on her neck and curling thickly forward over one shoulder, with skin smooth as cream from contented cows, b.r.e.a.s.t.s that were high wide and handsome, narrow waist, flaring hips, everything there, yes indeed.
”Wow,” I said again. ”You can't be Lolita Lopez - so who are you?”
”But I am Lolita Lopez.”
”No!”
”Sure I am, Daddy, honey. You want to come in or something?”
She was a criminal, all right. Her eyes were at least a misdemeanor, and those wicked lips were felonious. I looked at the ceiling. She was sensational, yes; but I was, after all, practically engaged to Doris Miller. At least we were going steady. Well, I liked her. h.e.l.l, I was working for her, wasn't I? That was it - everything I was doing I was doing for Doris Miller; everything was my duty.
I looked at her again.
She wore skin-tight blue Capris, nothing on her feet except red nail polish, a billowy white blouse beneath which there was nothing billowing but Lolita, and all in all she was clearly the best argument against girdles since volleyball in nudist camps. And a pretty good argument simply for girls. Just standing there she looked hot enough to bake potatoes, and if she started running around the room it was eight to five she'd burn the joint down.
She was looking me over with approximately the same attention I was giving her. I get a lot of sun, and against the deep tan of my face, my white hair and obtrusive brows sometimes seem about to flee my chops and fly at people. Then there's the slightly broken nose and snipped ear, plus the fact that I have been hit in the middle of all that with everything from bra.s.s knuckles to the right-front fender of a stolen Buick. Consequently, when a babe eyeb.a.l.l.s me for the first time I never know what she may do.
This one smiled. ”Well,” she said in a warm, husky voice, ”are you just going to stand there?”
”I'm not just standing here. I mean, I'm . . . doing a lot of thinking. I've been thinking . . . Wow, you're Lolita Lopez, huh?”
”I'm Lolita. So who are you, Daddy, honey?”
”Why, I'm Sh.e.l.l Scott.”
She inclined her head to one side and peered up at me through black lashes several inches long. Pretty long anyway. ”So? Are you selling subscriptions or something?”
”Subscriptions?” I shook my head. ”Forgive me, I'm not usually so disjointed . . . You see, I meant to catch you with your, uh, guard down, but you turned the tables on me, I hope to shout you did. I mean - well, you're not what I expected; this is very unusual, like bald toupees or finding out elephants have amnesia, or . . . Well, I just didn't expect such a girlish girl.” I stopped, took a deep breath and started over.
”Miss Lopez, I am a private investigator, and I have come here to investigate you . . . oh, fooey. It's no use. I'll leave and come back in five minutes, O.K.?”
”Don't you dare leave,” she said. ”Come on in, Mr. Scott.”
”Sh.e.l.l. We may as well start right off like that.”
”Sh.e.l.l, then.” She smiled. ”I don't know what we're talking about. Haven't the littlest idea. But it's fun, you know? Isn't it fun?”
”It's pretty close.”
”Aren't you coming in?”
Believe it or not, I was still standing out there in the hall. ”Fine, yes,” I said. ”I believe I will come in and just let nature take its curse.”
”Crazy.” She smiled, white teeth gleaming. ”We could make beautiful music, you know? We could, Sh.e.l.l. I'll bet.”
”I'll bet. I can hear the bongos.”
”We could even make cla.s.sical music.” Her black eyes sparkled.
”You like cla.s.sical music, huh?”
”Sure, I really go for that jazz. Maybe you'd like a drink.”
”Would I! Do you have any bourbon?”
”Sure, I've got practically everything.”
”Lady, there is nothing practically about it. Wow, tell me, are you really Lolita Lopez?”
She laughed and went off somewhere, presumably to fix drinks. And I had time to think a little. And I couldn't think even a little. But finally one thought stirred: This was the G.o.dd.a.m.ndest interrogation I had ever conducted. If I was really conducting it. Well, something electrical was going on, and I was a pretty good conductor, my circuits all tw.a.n.ging like bowstrings in an archery tournament.
You've got to stop this nonsense, I told myself. And then I asked myself: Nonsense? But this girl, this Lolita, was - the enemy. I had to fight her, beat her down, overpower her, win the battle, make her talk, make her confess, hug her and squeeze her - no, I was getting it all mixed up again. Remember: She is the enemy! You've got to fight her, beat her down, overpower . . .
Thank goodness, Lolita came back in right then.
She was carrying two highball gla.s.ses and gave me one. I drained half of it in one mighty slurp and then cried, ”Gah! What was that? That couldn't have been bourbon and water.”
”You didn't say water,” Lolita told me. ”You asked if I had bourbon. So that's bourbon.”
”So that's bourbon,” I said. ”Well, I don't know why in h.e.l.l I've been drinking it all these years. I mean, I always take it with water. Boy, it's hot, isn't it?”
”Take off your coat.”
”I mean the bourbon's hot. Going down. And I mustn't take off my coat. I know better. Probably I should take pills or something, but - ”
”Sit down here, Sh.e.l.l. By me.” She was on a long, soft-looking divan, patting the cus.h.i.+on beside her.
”No you don't. You don't trick me with that stuff,” I said. Then added, ”I don't think.” It was pretty tricky stuff.
I sat down on the divan - a yard or so from Lolita - then asked her if she'd pour a little water into my bourbon, about a quart or so. She walked away again, with my gla.s.s, and I carefully did not watch her slinking barefootedly over the carpet. When she came back with my gla.s.s brimful, I was just about back to abnormal.
Lolita sipped her drink. ”You're an investigator? Is that what you said?”
”Right, a private detective.”
”Is that why you came here? Because you're a detective?”
”Right again.” I threw it all at her in a bunch, to see how she'd catch it. ”It's about Frank Quinn. Casey Flagg's murder. Ross Miller. And you, and Chester Weiss.”
”Oh,” she said. She caught it neatly enough. The only change was a little crease that appeared between her eyebrows.
”I suppose you know Chester's dead.”
That one she fumbled. Right in the middle of a sentence. ”He is? That's too bad, he seemed a very - ”
Bang, she stopped. Head tilted slightly, mouth open, one dark brow raised. She just froze like that. Only for a second or two. Not long. Long enough. Then she went on as if nothing had happened, completing the sentence, ” - nice little man.” She paused. ”What . . . how did he die?”