The Screwball King Murder

Kin Platt

• Publisher: Gallery Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781440540493
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Littérature policière et sur le mystère

Big, brash, good-looking Hondo Kenyon is one of the Los Angeles Dodgers' best pitchers, a southpaw screwballer with the necessary skills and fastball to keep the opposition from tearing his head off, and the team is counting on the ex-small town Pennsylvania boy for help in their pennant run. On the other hand, Kenyon rates as a screwball in more ways than one. He has a long track record as a scoring jock with the ladies and his antics on or off the field are flamboyant and daffy, executed with lunatic fervor, sometimes funny of bordering on the ludicrous, always certain of coverage by the media.With a reputation like that, it's no big surprise to a lot of people when Hondo turns up dead in the electrically charged water of a condominium swimming pool. Slip Masters, the team's public relations man, calls on his private investigator friend Max Roper to look into the case and find out for sure whether it was a legit accident or perhaps a crafty and ingenious murder. The Los Angeles cops have crossed off Hondo's death as a weird accident, but Slip isn't so sure. Neither is Max Roper, especially when he gets in closer and starts kicking things around and his investigations turn up some odd circumstances and a string of other murders. As Detective Lieutenant Camino of Homicide says, "On a Roper case they die on the hour, like flies. Death follows Max like a plague."Roper has plenty of leads to follow: disgruntled ballplayers, jealous boyfriends, discarded lovers, the dead man's new-breed agent, a psychiatrist, a pool-maintenance person, a hippie plastic surgeon, condominium neighbors, some gangland types, a rock musician and a pineapple heiress ex-wife, among others. His travels take him from the baseball locker room to the seedy areas of Venice, a factory turned nightclub, exclusive watering holes, a chic tennis club, a new high-rise office complex—in short, a cross section of Los Angeles. Along the way to solving the case, Roper get shot at, arrested, beaten up, held at gunpoint and hit over the head, not necessarily in that order.

Thirty-two

Following the Dodger win, I phoned Patty Bone again at the swank Bel-Air Hotel. Having been married to him at one time, she might know if Hondo Kenyon had any immediate family. Her appearance at his funeral demonstrated a bond between them that had endured despite their long separation. If the heiress herself couldn’t tell me all there was to know, nobody could, I reasoned.

The man-hunting Marjorie at the hotel switchboard was off this time, and a new voice told me Miss Bone was out of town. She didn’t try to parlay that news into a date.

Merv Shaw’s offices were closed, throwing another block. I had hoped he knew of the funeral arrangements, perhaps had made them himself for his former client. I wanted his reaction to the murder of Dr. Godiller. As a former D. A. dealing with homicide, he might have critical paths for me to follow.

I further imagined that Merv Shaw would be as anxious as I to apprehend the person who killed Kenyon, Schwab, Donna Dennis, and Dr. Godiller, unless he did it all himself.

It was early Friday evening. The Mars Vista singles were swinging. They were splashing in the pool, drinking and laughing it up around the pool site. I hoped Ms. Snodgrass was in there, having fun. I listened for a titter from Norma Harley without reward.

This time I had resolved upon a more diligent search. Harley’s apartment upstairs was dark. So was Kenyon’s. I used the key I had appropriated the last time. Now I put the lights on, instead of scuttling around by flashlight like some common intruder.

The large desk was my first target. At the back of the top drawer there were some old letters and picture postcards. They weren’t much, but one of the cards was paper-clipped to a small colored snapshot. Although in flowered swim trunks, the man looked familiar. The curvy blonde clinging to his hairy body was not. The scrawl on the postcard told Hondo they were having a great time, and wished he was there. It was signed Mike and Matilda. The postmark was Bermuda. I turned the picture over. If me and the missus can do it, it read, so can you. See you at spring training. Mike.

I heard the elevator open outside, then footsteps along the landing. Snapping off the lights, I retreated to the bedroom.

The footsteps halted outside the door. A key was inserted and the door opened. The lights were switched on. Desk drawers were opening and slamming shut.

The approaching footsteps had sounded brisk and feminine. The person at the desk was a woman, a very beautiful one. It was a relief to know certain deductive powers of mine were still intact.

“Liz Conway?” I said.

Apparently, she knew her name and wasn’t too surprised that another shared her secret. She didn’t jump — merely turned to face me with a graceful unhurried movement.

“Oh, Mr. Roper, isn’t it? Merv pointed you out to me at Hondo’s funeral.”

“Miss Conway, not to be stuffy about it, I am a detective, and I hope you can explain what you’re doing here. Otherwise, I’ll have to assume you killed Hondo Kenyon, and came here to remove incriminating evidence against you.”

She looked at me coolly, looking very lovely, sexy, and desirable. Her voice went right along with the package, making it very difficult for an investigator who had only recently vowed diligence. “You’re not with the police, are you?”

“No, private investigator.”

She smiled. “The ones I’ve met before are shabby men who won’t look you in the eye.”

“A noble profession tarnished by misfits,” I said. “Now, tell me that you didn’t kill Hondo so that I don’t have to shoot you and drag you down to headquarters.”

Her eyes were an intense dark blue, cobalt ringed by dark thick lashes. “I didn’t know anybody killed him. The news said he was electrocuted in the pool.”

“It’s being revised and updated,” I said. “How does it happen you have a key to this apartment?”

“Hondo gave it to me.”

“Terrific,” I said. “Does Mr. Shaw know? Maybe I’m asking the wrong Shaw who killed him.”

She leaned back against the desk. “Well, I don’t think Merv knows. But if you’re anything like the kind of private dicks I’ve known in the past, he’ll be finding out about it mighty soon.”

I shook the old head earnestly. “Not from me. It’s none of my business. I’ve been turning up so many women who admit they were involved with Kenyon, one more comes as no surprise. And it doesn’t mean a thing to me unless you decided to do the bum in. Now what are you doing here?”

“It’s like this, Mr. Roper. I’m not using this as a cop-out but I had to get involved with Hondo. He insisted on it, and let’s say he had some kind of leverage going for him.”

“Scorchy Smith?” I said.

This time, she reacted, her eyes smoking, angry. “What do you know about Scorchy Smith?” she parried.

“I understand she made a film she now regrets doing. Did ol’ Hondo hear about it or did he have a print?”

“He had a print. The last remaining one.”

“Too Hot to Handle — that the one?”

She blinked, surprised. “You do get around,” she said softly. Then, “Yes. There were ten prints. I had them all destroyed but the one Hondo got somehow.”

“Are you sure he had it? Maybe he was bluffing.”

“No, he had it” — her arms embraced the room — ”in here, someplace.”

“What makes you so certain?”

She smiled ruefully. “The first time I came up here, to see for myself if he was bluffing. He ran a reel off on his projection machine.”

She watched me snap my fingers. “Schwab,” I said.

“What?”

“The apartment manager. He could have got it from Schwab.”

She frowned. “I don’t get it. The manager?”

“Before he became an apartment-house manager, he was a theater manager. He ran the Pussycat in Hollywood.”

She shrugged, pursing her lips. “I dunno. We can ask him.”

“He’s dead,” I said. “Shot two days ago. Maybe you killed him, too.”

“I don’t remember doing that, either, Mr. Roper. Why would I kill the apartment manager?”

“He might have been able to identify you as the woman seen here at times in Kenyon’s apartment. As the woman seen at the pool area the night he was drowned. Caught you fiddling with the wiring, and so on. Also knew you as the star Scorchy Smith. You buy up the prints, you kill the witnesses.”

“My God!” she said. “And I was beginning to like you. Thousands of people saw that film. It was a big hit. Could I kill them all? And how would I know who ties Scorchy up with Liz Conway, or not?”

“True. But — ”

“I did it ten years ago. I can’t hide from it. But also I don’t kill to keep my secret. Actually, what Scorchy did wasn’t all that terrible. Maybe not something you’d take your mother to see, but nothing like the porno stuff around today.”

“But it was still a sexy dirty movie. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re right. It was a dirty movie.”

“What about your husband? Does Merv Shaw know?”

“I don’t know. I never dared discuss it with him.”

“It might be a better idea if you assumed he knew.”

“Why?”

“I was at his offices the day ...