The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather Page A

for Lupo.
    On the first occasion he’d merely been scared; and of course, now, I knew precisely why. At our second meeting he’d been horrified, afraid I was actually going to shoot him in the eye. But this time the jig was up, and he knew it.
    He was already in a booth. Two men sat opposite him. His back was to me, but one of the other guys saw me striding their way and apparently told Lupo that a large, white-haired, fierce-looking individual was descending determinedly upon them.
    Lupo craned his head around the side of the booth and spotted me. He just looked. He didn’t spring to his feet, or try to run, or do anything violent. Just looked. The Colt Special wasn’t in its holster; it was in my right-hand coat pocket and my hand was around it, but as it turned out I didn’t need it.
    When I stopped by the booth Lupo looked up at me and said, very quietly, “Well?”
    â€œI’ve got all of it, Lupo,” I said. “The Da Vinci bit, the m.o., who and why, even the phony lead to Spaniel. Hell, I even know who gave you the idea about Alston. I gave you the idea. Right?”
    He raised one hand weakly and waved it at the two men, as though waving good-bye. Well, he was waving good-bye. They left.
    I slid into the seat they’d vacated and said, “I’ll tell you about it, Lupo. I’ll even buy you a drink.”
    â€œThanks a bunch,” he said.
    After the highballs arrived I said, “I’ll skip the details. Just let it be said that Alston Spaniel, true to form, had two women with him at Laguna, stashed in separate pads. And both of them told me everything they could think of about Al, which was plenty. I can account for virtually every minute of his time for the last forty-eight hours and more. For example, last night he was with one of them till about eight p.m., then went directly to the other one—what a life that man leads.”
    â€œYeah,” said Lupo gloomily.
    â€œFor a better example, I know that on Wednesday night—when I first asked you to listen around for rumbles about an art heist in Bel Air—Alston was with one of his lovelies from about five p.m. on. At the Hollywood Roosevelt by the way, not the Westmoreland, as you told me. Around ten thirty p.m. Al got a phone call from somebody, whereupon he and the lovely packed a couple bags and headed for Laguna Beach. He was with her constantly, and did not make any phone calls or go out into the city. In other words, Lupo, he did not and could not have contacted a killer or set up a hit. He didn’t send that gunman to blast me.”
    Lupo moistened his lips but didn’t speak.
    â€œInterestingly enough, the killer didn’t even say Al Spaniel sent him to plug me. What he said when I asked him who sent him was, ‘Spaniel. He told me his name was Al Spaniel.’ Get that, Lupo. He told me, the bum said. Which means he didn’t know Al by sight, but merely accepted the word of the guy who hired him.”
    I grinned. “Obviously he didn’t know you by sight, either, Lupo.”
    He lifted his glass and I saw his Adam’s apple bounce as he took three or four successive swallows. When he put the glass down there was less than an inch of liquid left in it.
    I went on, “I heard Alston talking to somebody on the phone last night about a two-thousand-buck payment, but I thought he was making the payment. Hell, he was getting the two G’s, wasn’t he, Lupo? Two G’s—from you, of course—for taking a quick expense-paid trip to Laguna. For leading me on a wild-goose chase. To get me out of L.A. while you disposed of the Da Vinci. Was that the whole payment, or were you going to give him enough to settle with Joe Pappa when you got your cut?”
    He finished his drink, that was all.
    I leaned forward. “You’re going to tell me, you know.”
    He swallowed. “Yeah, I know. Go on. Or is that it?”
    â€œNot by a long shot.