The Shell Scott Sampler by Richard S. Prather

gay repartee with fifty, or maybe even a hundred, million dollars.
    Well, you could have heard a gnat’s wing drop off and thud on the floor. The silence lasted a while.
    Gulp, down went my sherry.
    The silence lasted until G. Raney Madison, Jr., said something. Just one word. But it was not a lovely word. No, not at all lovely. Actually, it was a word I never use, even when talking to myself. It’s OK for school kids, for collegiate post-adolescents, say, and boy singers who wear their hair long and do little bumps and grinds. But not for me.
    â€œHa-ha,” I said, laughing mirthlessly. “Young man, you should wash out your mouth with a strong detergent.”
    Mrs. Madison mumbled something nice, then took her son’s pale hand and led him from the room. Not to paddle him, I’ll bet. There was a little more silence.
    Then I sighed, squared my shoulders, turned to Mr. Madison and said, “Well, it looks like we started out miserable, then lost our rapport. Am I fired?”
    His eyes were squeezed shut and for a second I thought it was a symptom of the furious-Dad bit. But he was laughing, trying to keep the sound muffled. In a few moments he said, “By God, he should wash out his mouth with hydrochloric acid, if the truth be told.”
    He sighed. “I’m afraid we’ve been a bit lenient with George, in some ways. But—well, I didn’t want him to turn into a spoiled rich-man’s son, ruined by money before he understood its value, that it represents work and brains and sweat. I’ve kept him on a rigid allowance, tried to teach him the value of a dollar, but I think we’ve both been too lenient with him in—other ways. I don’t know. Young people these days…” He let it drop, then went on, “Ah, Mr. Scott, that was refreshing. You’ve given me my first moment of jollity for a long time.”
    â€œYou mean I’m not fired?”
    â€œCertainly not. On the contrary, would you care to have a talk with George in regard —”
    â€œSir, I realize he’s your son, but I would nonetheless prefer to stay fifty miles —”
    Madison interrupted, “George is like my own son. He is my son. But he’s adopted, you know. When he was a year old—but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
    â€œNo, sir. I did think he seemed, ah, cast from a different mold, so to speak.” He had looked very moldy, I thought.
    â€œWe’ve much in common, to be sure. But in some ways I’ve never been able to understand him.”
    We chatted a while longer, and he chuckled a little more; then Mr. Madison grinned at me and said, “Would you like some more sherry?”
    I grinned back at him. “I guess you know what you can do with your sherry.”
    He laughed again, and I left. At least the case was starting out fun.
    But as I walked through darkness toward my Cad, one phrase still lingered in my mind, from the bit G. Raney Madison had read. It was: “…requite thee with death.”
    That and, mingling with it, the memory of Mr. Madison’s long-suppressed laughter.
    Next to my gun, the most valuable part of my investigator’s equipment is a list of names, some in a little book, and some in my head. Informants, tipsters, men and women both inside and outside the rackets, all of whom have given me—or some day may give me—the “information” which breaks ninety percent of the cases investigated by anybody, whether policeman or private citizen.
    On most burglaries, stickups or crimes of violence, I would have gotten in touch with anywhere from half a dozen to a dozen of those on my list. But for a caper like this one there were only two men I wanted to see. If any word at all was floating around, word about an art heist, a big score last night, they were the two most likely to have heard about it.
    I found Lupo first. He was where I expected to find him, in Dolly’s, a