The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather Page B

be able to imagine the dialogue which ensued, but it soon stopped ensuing. She covered her confusion one way or another, and they stopped talking. I waited a minute, then rolled from under the bed and stood up, moved slowly to the door. Not the outside door; the door between Suites B and C.
    I used a full sixty seconds turning the knob, cracking the door again, careful to move very slowly and to make as little sound as possible. Although a mere two or three seconds would probably have been careful enough.
    I hadn’t been wrong about Spaniel. Or Ardith. It gave me a little hope. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t wrong about the rest of it.
    I eased the door shut again, and left. Left silently, even though I doubted they’d have heard me if I’d thumped out the way Alston had come in. I went to the bar down below. And had, as a kind of ceremony, a green martini.
    And waited for Ardith.

    * * *

    This time the sorrowful-faced butler didn’t let me in. It was G. Raney Madison himself who opened the door.
    I stepped inside, carrying the heavy lamp in one hand. We went into his den, where the brackets still stood out nakedly against the bare wall, and sat in two of the big chairs.
    Madison lit one of his little cigars and said, “Well, Mr. Scott, I did what you asked.”
    â€œIt’s all set?”
    He nodded.
    Soon we would know, I thought. Unless I was nuts—which I was now beginning to think barely possible.
    This was Friday night. Two nights ago I’d sat here and listened to Mr. Madison’s tale. Last night I had waited for Ardith until shortly after eight p.m., when she joined me and had another gin and crème de menthe. I wisely switched to bourbon, and we talked for an hour. I learned nothing except that she still smelled good, and that what’s-his-name wouldn’t be back until the early morning, at least—and that he didn’t have another girl. Ardith was his “one true love.” No, she didn’t know any Mrs. Ingrid Otterman.
    After another drink I drove back to Hollywood, to the Spartan Apartment Hotel, and went to bed. I slept long enough to make up for the snoozing I’d missed, then in the afternoon phoned G. Raney Madison and said I’d see him at seven p.m.
    Now Madison said, “I don’t understand what you plan to do, Mr. Scott.”
    â€œWell, that’s because I left the gimmick out when I phoned you. I just wanted to be sure you’d be able to have everybody here tonight.”
    â€œThey are all in the library.”
    â€œGood. Here’s the pitch. I’m satisfied that a man named Alston Spaniel stole your Da Vinci. I think he’s already delivered it to the buyer, but who that is I don’t know yet. I didn’t think I could tail him to the delivery point without queering the deal—which you insisted must not occur. However, I managed, without his knowledge, to get onto Spaniel’s hands a powder which glows under infrared light. Anything he handled in the last twenty-four hours will have traces of that powder on it—even if he washed his hands, or showered. It’s remarkably persistent stuff.”
    I pointed to the lamp which I’d placed on the carpet at my feet. “That’s an infrared lamp, Mr. Madison. If Spaniel handled the Da Vinci and later somebody else handled it, or if Spaniel shook hands with the buyer, that person will also be marked with traces of the powder, and those traces will be clearly revealed by the light from this lamp. That’s what I want to check out tonight.”
    He was silent for several seconds. Then he said, “I see. I like it. But how did you manage to get this powder on the gentleman’s hands without his knowledge?”
    I smiled, thinking of Ardith and her Caress! But I merely said, “Well, it’s a bit complicated, Mr. Madison. There’s not time to go into it now. I guarantee he doesn’t know I did it, though. Shall we check the