The Shell Scott Sampler Read Online Free PDF

know who grabbed it. And it’s eight to five you knew the last time I talked to you. Right, pal?”
    He licked his lips again. “The last time? I don’t get it.”
    â€œYou will. I just got through killing one guy —”
    â€œKilling?”
    â€œYeah, shot him twice in the guts. You wouldn’t believe how much he bled. Let’s just say it was horribly messy.”
    Lupo wasn’t all bristly and lumpily masculine to begin with, and his pallor paled considerably. Soft breath sighed from his mouth, and the lids drooped over his long-lashed dark eyes. He liked gay conversation, brittle witticisms, dialogue about Byron and Shelley and Keats and such. He didn’t like talk about blood and guts, or anything in that general area.
    So I said, “I thought he was going to puke everything but his veins all over my pretty gold carpet. But it could have been me throwing my guts up, right?”
    He didn’t look at all well.
    I went on, “I know why he tried to kill me, of course. We both do, don’t we?”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean, Scott. I don’t —”
    â€œSure you do. And you can guess what I’m going to do to you, can’t you?”
    I reached under my coat, pulled out the .38 Colt Special and cocked it.
    â€œLupo, you’re going to think I’m a mean sonofabitch, but it can’t be helped.”
    I pointed the gun at his right eye and pulled the trigger.
    The hammer fell with a sharp click—since I had taken pains to be sure an empty chamber would be under the hammer when it fell—but even though Lupo must, for an instant, have realized he wasn’t dead yet, the effect on him was unusually striking. He fainted.
    I swore softly, stuck the gun back in its clamshell holster and glanced around. One couple at a nearby table was looking my way, but apparently nobody had noticed the gun. At least no customers were racing for exits.
    Lupo had sprawled peacefully across the table, overturning his highball glass. The liquid spread over the dark tabletop, dripped to the floor. I waited.
    If I was wrong about Lupo, I would apologize for leaning on him, and even for saying blood and guts; but it wasn’t likely I was wrong about Lupo. In which case he was getting off easy. I hadn’t really shot him. Not yet.
    He lay so still it worried me. Maybe he was dead. But I felt his pulse and it was still pulsing. I was glad, because actually I rather liked Lupo—at least I had until tonight. I didn’t care for his associates, or his brand of perfume and such, but he was neat and tidy, joyous and witty—usually, that is.
    Right now his left eyebrow was lying in a puddle of what smelled like brandy, and it was eight to five he wouldn’t feel joy and wit stirring in him for quite a while. A little noise rose from his throat.
    I waited for more noises, and ran over the sequence of events in my mind. Yeah, it almost had to be Lupo.
    This night, a balmy Wednesday in September, had started out on a very different plane. I’d been at home—that’s Hollywood’s Spartan Apartment Hotel, on North Rossmore across from the green acres of the Wilshire Country Club—having completed a satisfactory day in and out of my one-man agency, Sheldon Scott, Investigations.
    I was fresh from the shower, wrapped in a towel and preparing to get dressed, ready for whatever this warm new evening might bring. No plans—just hope. I’m a very hopeful fellow.
    The phone rang. Hopefully, I grabbed it. “Hello?”
    â€œShell?”
    â€œWho else?”
    â€œThis is Antonia.”
    Hot dog, I thought.
    â€œAntonia, darling!” I said.
    â€œAre you doing anything?”
    â€œJust putting my pants off—on—up—getting dressed. What are you doing?”
    â€œI’m—oh. Shell. Are you sober?”
    â€œOf course I’m sober. Haven’t had a drink all … why? Do I have to be