The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather Page B

Spaniel didn’t heist the Da Vinci, so who did? Spaniel didn’t send that hood gunning for me, so who did?”
    â€œMaybe … maybe he did send the hood, Scott,” Lupo said hesitantly. “Just because he didn’t know by sight the person who hired —”
    â€œQuit trying. There’s plenty more. For one thing, Spaniel didn’t get that phone call when he was with Ardith Mellow until a little after ten thirty.”
    â€œArdith Mellow? You’re kidding. Nobody can be named —”
    â€œThat’s her name. You must have seen Alston with her, in order to be able to describe her—and very well, by the way, a superbly fat redhead with green eyes, to change your description a little. But you didn’t get in touch with Spaniel the first time I talked to you. You just gave me a song and dance and got in touch with that hood instead. After I charged in on you the second time—still alive, and full of fun— then you called Al. The important point is, Spaniel didn’t get that call from you until after the hood had tried for me at the Spartan and missed. That hood was dead and all through bleeding by ten p.m.”
    He rolled it around in his head, nodded slightly, looking depressed.
    â€œLupo, I told you I suspected three men of the heist, one of whom was Alston Spaniel. You yourself told me the only one of the three you contacted was Spaniel. So the guy who sent that hood to stop me—to stop me from getting to the guy who really stole that quarter-of-a-million-buck Da Vinci—was one of four men who knew I was on the prowl for it. And he was the one with the most to lose. Either Spaniel himself, you, a guy named Zeke to whom I told the same story I gave you, or my client. I arbitrarily eliminate Zeke for many good reasons. Good enough for me, anyway. It wouldn’t have been my client, says the simplest logic. From talking to Spaniel’s two tomatoes—and Spaniel himself, for that matter—I know it wasn’t Spaniel. That leaves you, Lupo.”
    â€œI wish you were dead,” he said, almost brightly.
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    â€œYou want to buy me another drink, Scott?”
    â€œSure. I’ll buy you champagne if you want it. This is a night for celebration.”
    He smiled sadly.
    I ordered one more drink, for him. Mine was three fourths full. But that’s usually the way it is, you can almost look at the glasses and tell who’s been doing all the talking. Lupo’s turn was coming, though.
    â€œHell,” I said, “I should have realized Spaniel wouldn’t have been cavorting with two babes, not if he was preparing to get rid of a hot Da Vinci. Not even Alston Spaniel. And if he wasn’t selling the Da Vinci, who was? But there’s one more little item—then it’s your turn, Lupo.”
    â€œWhat’s the item?”
    â€œThe first time I saw you Wednesday night, here in Dolly’s, you were at the bar, talking to a flabby, heavy-set man. He disappeared, almost immediately. The second time I saw you, in the Happy Time, a guy—who, I noted even then, looked much like the character I’d earlier seen with you in Dolly’s—was jawing with you. And he took off like a scared rabbit. Just like the first time. I’ll give you eight to five he was your customer, the guy you were dickering with about the price of the Da Vinci. How much did you get, by the way?”
    Lupo was looking at his drink. Finally he raised his eyes and stared at me silently for maybe ten long seconds. Then he said, “A hundred thousand. He had it with him the second time you spotted us together. My cut was forty G’s.”
    â€œWho took it off your hands for the hundred big ones?”
    â€œFinster.”
    At first the name didn’t register. Then I remembered where I’d heard it. Sure; it made sense. “OK, Lupo,” I said. “The rest of it.”
    This time, while he