Free Gat Heat by Richard S. Prather Page B

nodded. He was telling them they couldn’t kill me, even if they got the chance. Not right now anyway.
    It changed the situation enough that I stopped covering the men with my gun. But I didn’t put it away, just let it rest on my thigh.
    â€œTell me, Jimmy,” I said. “What’s your interest in George Halstead? One of your boys poop him?”
    â€œDon’t be a jerk. I got no more to say to you.”
    Well, maybe he’d said enough. But I hadn’t. There was one more thing I wanted to tell Jimmy Violet.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “But listen to this, you spook, and listen with both your big ears. If you ever send any more of your paid muzzlers after me, I’ll come here again. Only I won’t just bust you in the hook, James, I’ll wipe you out.”
    The gaze he laid upon me combined the best of Dracula bending over a fair neck and Wolf Man with the scent of boiling blood in his nostrils, but he spoke gently. “I don’t believe,” he said, “I shall invite you again.” He was quite grand at that moment, I had to admit.
    I got up and walked to the door, not watching the door, however. The boys didn’t twitch. I went out into the hall and waited ten seconds, then peeked back into the room. The four of them stood in a huddle, jabbering. But they weren’t coming after me.
    So I said, “That’s the stuff,” and left.
    I drove to the gate with my left hand on the steering wheel and my right hand holding the Colt just out of sight below the door. But there was no trouble.
    Gargantua swung the gate open, and even smiled at me as I drove through.
    I put my gun away and headed for Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills.

8
    So far in this case none of the houses I’d been in could have cost less than fifty thousand bucks, and a couple of them were surely over the hundred-thousand mark. Add to that the Norvue and Beverly Hills Hotel, and I was certainly traveling among the moneyed.
    So it didn’t surprise me that the Walleses’ home was a big, low, ranch-style house behind an extravagant amount of well-watered and tended green lawn, a chunk of real estate worth at least a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand clams.
    I pulled into the gray cement drive and parked in an open carport near the front door, walked to the door and gave the bell a push.
    Chimes played a pretty tune inside the house.
    In half a minute the door opened and Edward Whist—or Walles—looked out at me, a pleasant expression on his tanned, good-looking face.
    I was satisfied that this was the man I’d been looking for, even though I hadn’t turned up a photograph of him, because he clearly fit the descriptions I’d got from several of the people I’d interviewed.
    It was difficult to guess his age. Between thirty and forty somewhere. He was about six feet tall, maybe an inch less, well put together, with good, muscular shoulders and lean hips. He was wearing sandals, blue Bermuda shorts, and a white T-shirt. His hair was light brown, almost blonde, wavy and thick. Good chin, a happy-go-lucky mouth, and vivid blue eyes—a very good-looking man.
    I went ahead as I’d planned it on the way here.
    â€œMr. Edward Whist?” I said.
    â€œWhist?” His brown eyebrows puckered, then he smiled slightly. “Well … yes,” he said.
    â€œI’m Shell Scott.” I showed him my identification.
    He nodded. “Sure, I’ve heard of you. What do you want with me, Mr. Scott?”
    â€œI’m working for Mrs. Halstead. I suppose you know about George Halstead’s death.”
    He nodded again. “Yes, I do. Read about it this morning, then called Ann right away. Hell of a thing.” He paused. “But I still don’t understand what you want with me.”
    â€œWell, I’m a little puzzled. Is your name Whist—or Walles?”
    He smiled that oddly amused smile again. “It’s Walles,