Shell Scott PI Mystery Series, Volume Three by Richard S. Prather

Author:Richard S. Prather [Prather, Richard S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781647349332
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2021-05-31T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

At ten-thirty Monday morning, I was driving up Poinsettia in Medina, nearing Webb’s home.

I had found out that mail was delivered in this area at about eleven a.m. In the next delivery, the films Webb had taken in Hawaii should arrive — and I meant to get them. At the beginning, they hadn’t seemed very important but now, it was likely they could bring a lot more order into what was rapidly becoming compounded confusion.

First, of course, I had to get the films.

There was a lot of water in the street near Webb’s place. A police car was parked at the base of the stone steps. About half a block this side of the house a man and woman stood at the edge of the road. I pulled to a stop and leaned out.

“What’s going on up there?”

The man spoke. “Had a fire last night.” He pointed. “Where Mr. Alden lived.”

“What time was that?”

“Three, four this morning. Quite a bit of excitement for a while. Sirens, fire engines. They got it out before it burned the place down.”

That was all he knew. I thanked him and drove ahead, parked behind the police car. It was empty. I walked up the steps, knocked. A plainclothes officer came to the door and I was happy to see it was Dugan.

He shook his head when he saw me. “Shell, you’re sticking your neck out coming here. Farley thinks you set the fire.”

“He probably thinks I burned Rome. What’s the story?”

He glanced around, then gave me the info. “The fire had been incendiary, set by somebody. It had started in the studio and darkroom, consumed almost everything in there and part of the bedroom before firemen arrived and put the blaze out.”

I said, “What was destroyed?”

“About all the photographic equipment, files, some statues and stuff Alden picked up one place and another.”

“Including a lot of prints and negatives.”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “I read the magazine myself. Hate to think of all those pretty pictures going up in smoke.”

“You’re not alone.”

I hated it more than he did, and for a different reason. I was thinking especially of twelve transparencies and prints from which featured gatefolds had been made.

“I’d like to take a look. Okay?”

Dugan was uneasy. Farley’s out back somewhere. He sees you, he’ll have a hemorrhage.

“That wouldn’t drive me wild with grief. But it’ll only take a minute.”

He hesitated.

So, I said, “I think I know why the place was torched.”

He frowned. “Yeah? Give, then. Why?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me out.”

I shrugged. “Four freckles.”

He didn’t believe me.

But he jerked his head, saying, Make it snappy and I went in. I crossed the smoke-darkened and water-stained living room, stopped in the studio. It was a wreck, as was the darkroom. There’d be nothing useful to me here now. I looked at the spot where Webb’s body had lain that night, started to turn away. Then I stopped.

A large chunk of charred wood lay on the blackened floor. It was what the fire had left of that magnificent, carved-wood Pan.

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