Free The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather Page A

a wig, or wasn’t a redhead, I told myself. So what the hell was Alston doing? More important, what the hell was I doing? The latter question was more important not only because I had a hunch I knew what he was doing, but because I couldn’t simply tail Spaniel around, peeking to see what he might be up to.
    If he had the Da Vinci stashed somewhere he’d hardly lug it around and make a meet in broad daylight. And even if he should, I wasn’t supposed to shake him up and possibly queer the deal. The deal was supposed to be consummated, the transfer actually made.
    For a moment I swore under my breath. Maybe part of it was directed at Alston Spaniel, but part was for G. Raney Madison and his goofy conditions. It seemed the only way I could handle this in a fashion to please Madison was to be miles away when the switch was accomplished, but still know who it was that Spaniel met. And that was impos … Something flickered in my mind, flickered and vanished.
    I carry a lot of junk in the trunk of my Cad—electronic equipment, bugs, infrared gear, a squawk box, dozens of other items occasionally of value in my work. But running over the stuff in my thoughts didn’t help. There was always a chance, I supposed, that I could stick a squawk box under the frame of Spaniel’s Lincoln, then using a small receiver tail him, following the signal from a distance. But the switch, if made, would probably be accomplished in a hell of a hurry, in which case I could wind up with a tail on Spaniel and no idea of whom he’d met. I didn’t much like it—and I was sure that wasn’t what had flickered in my mind anyway.
    I let it simmer, checked the number of the room into which Spaniel had gone, then in the lobby again stopped at the desk. A Mrs. Ingrid Otterman was in the room, I was told.
    â€œMrs. Otterman? Did she just check in?”
    â€œNo, she’s been with us for several months now.”
    â€œIs her husband with her?”
    â€œNo, she’s alone. She is, I believe, a widow.”
    I’ll bet I know what killed him, I thought, but merely thanked the clerk and left—to see the clerk at the Seawinds. A different man was on, not the one I’d talked to, this morning. This one didn’t know what Ardith Mellow looked like. So I went to Suite C and knocked. No answer.
    I tried the doorknob, and it turned. Well, if the joint was unlocked it was at least even money I’d find no quarter-of-a-million-buck Da Vinci inside. But I looked anyhow. I was right, no Da Vinci.
    I did find a connecting door between Suites B and C, but that failed to surprise me much, either. Fifteen minutes later I’d tossed both Spaniel’s suite and Ardith Mellow’s without learning anything. Except such things as that Alston had with him only two suits and a sports outfit, all of it from a good custom tailor’s on Sunset Boulevard. And Ardith Mellow had lots of frilly things along, including several lacy brassieres, all of them labeled 38-C, which to those who have never read a brassiere from the inside may not mean much, but in truth does mean much.
    Each suite had a separate sitting room and splendid view of the blue sea and white combers breaking fifty yards away, a bedroom, and adjacent to the bedroom, a sparkling tiled bathroom including a tiled tub. Ardith’s—I was by now thinking of her as Ardith—bedroom and bath were much more interesting. On the bedroom dresser were several kinds of makeup, creams and sprays, combs and brushes and such, and a huge box of powder named—excitingly, I thought—Caress! which had a maddeningly fetching scent, and a great big purple powder puff. It was time, I decided, to meet Ardith Mellow, if for no other reason than to smell her.
    At the base of the Seawinds, just above the sand, was the dining room, and before the dining room’s glass wall, facing the beach and sea, was a long bar. At four p.m. only half a dozen