Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  I thought, because I wasn’t until Quirk phoned Remington. I looked steadily at the Captain and asked, “Are you sure I didn’t, Captain Apoyan?”

  He frowned. “Of course I’m sure. We try to get along with all the departments in this area, Callahan.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said. “May I go now?” Martin smiled. Pascal began to glare. Tommy said, “Take it easy now, Brock. Co-operation, that’s the theme here.” I said nothing.

  Martin nodded his head toward Apoyan and smiled at me. “This refugee from the rug business thinks you were working for me, Brock. That’s what put you outside the pale.”

  Apoyan said hoarsely, “Watch your tongue, Martino.”

  Rick’s attorney dug him with an elbow. “I guess we’re all free to go now, aren’t we, Captain?”

  “Five seconds ago you were,” Apoyan said. “But I won’t take insolence from anyone. Perhaps your client and Mr. Callahan need a little cooling-off period.”

  Rick lighted a cigarette. I stood where I was, doing nothing.

  Apoyan asked me, “Any further comment?”

  I shook my head.

  He looked at Martin.

  Martin shook his head and smiled. He was richer than I was; he could afford the smile.

  “All right,” Apoyan said, “get out of here, all of you.”

  We went out quietly, giving him his moment. In the hall, Tommy said, “When are you going to lose your arrogance? When are you going to grow up?”

  I didn’t answer him. I said to Martin, “You must have had a good alibi for last night.”

  “Five of them,” Martin said evenly. “I played cards until early this morning.”

  “With some pretty solid citizens, the way it looks.”

  He stared at me quizzically. “Solid enough. What’s eating you, Callahan?”

  The smile, I thought. Hoodlums smiling patronizingly at officers of the law. That will always eat me.

  Tommy Self said, “As long as you interrupted my dinner, Brock, I’ll let you buy me one.”

  I nodded.

  Martin said, “You haven’t answered my question, Callahan.”

  “Not now, Enrico,” I told him. “Later, maybe I’ll be able to.”

  I gave him my back and went out into the dusk with Tommy. “We’ll take my car,” I told Tommy. “Leave yours here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy mocked me. “Aren’t you in a mood.”

  “I hate crooks,” I said, “and I hate to be treated like one.”

  “You could be a coach, couldn’t you? You’ve had offers from a couple of high schools, if I remember correctly.”

  “I don’t want to be a coach.”

  “Well, if you insist on being a private eye, you’d better get used to this kind of treatment. You’re nobody’s friend.”

  “I’m not a private eye. I’m a private investigator, licensed by the Attorney General of the State of California.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, grow up!”

  I stopped walking to glare at him. “Just exactly what did that mean?”

  He didn’t look awed. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him awed or frightened. A perfect quarterback’s attitude.

  He said calmly, “I mean, get smart. Adjust. The people who come to you quite often have reasons why they can’t take their troubles to the police. The police don’t like that situation and the people who come to you are unhappy about it. You are going to have to be what they called you at Stanford, a rock. Impervious, immovable, invulnerable. That’s the state of mind you’ll have to develop. If you can’t do that, get into coaching.”

  I put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “You don’t mean ‘adjust,’ Tommy. You mean ‘surrender.’”

  He sighed. “Who could ever get through to you? Even at school you used to check my signals, you, a lousy guard.”

  “I was the captain, Tommy,” I reminded him gently. “I know it still burns the hell out of you, but I was the captain.”

  Silence, a miffed silence, from him. I’m not a private eye, I thought, I’m a private I. I am what I am and it hasn’t cost me too much yet, except for the lump on the head, the sore ribs, the puffed lip. And, of course, the bad knee.

  “Quit mumbling,” Tommy said wearily. “That’s another of your adolescent habits.”

  I opened the door of my car for him. “On your better days, kid, I think you were better than Frankie Albert.”

  “I never had a day when I wasn’t better than Frankie,” he said. “I’d like to eat at the Fox and Hounds.”

  I bought him a couple of drinks first and he mellowed. We ate twelve dollars’ worth of food and I paid the tab, and he told me. “That’s my fee for today.”

  “It’s pretty high,” I answered, “but I suppose not for a Harvard man.”

  I drove him back to his car and we parted friends. We really admired each other. We’d played in the days of two-platoon football, and Tommy and I were the only players to go both ways. Tommy was a little brighter and I was a lot bigger, so there was no reason for envy.

  I watched him climb into his Cad and swung my Ford back toward Westwood.

  There was another ache in me now, an ache for the tragedy of Jacqueline Held. She’d played a dangerous game, and lost. I wondered if Rick Martin had known about the Einlicher buried in the crisper drawer. I wondered who his card-playing alibis had been.

  Other hoodlums? They’d swear on the Bible that the moon was green cheese and they’d eaten a piece of it But no police officer would accept the word of a hoodlum. I hoped.

  Of course, when a man reaches a certain financial eminence, he is no longer a hoodlum. He is one of the smart boys who made it. A rich man may be hated but he is rarely held in contempt.

  Except by the private I’s.

  I is for Individual, I thought, and where are they all, today?

  In my Westwood rattrap, a long, warm and soapy shower eased a few tensions. I is also for Investigator, and where did I go next? Up against Rick Martin? With what?

  I is for Iconoclast and maybe I was wrong. Jan had often told me I was wrong and so had Tommy Self and both of them were bright and both successful in their respective trades.

  My buzzer buzzed and I put a robe on before going to the door. Under the robe was only the brawny and muscular I.

  Moira Quirk wore a sweater and skirt and a fingertip length, pale green cashmere jacket. Her perfume was delicate but disturbing.

  “You didn’t tell them about me,” she said.

  “Correct. Come in, Miss Quirk.”

  She came in and I closed the door. She looked around my dismal quarters and back at me. “You improve with knowing, Mr. Callahan.”

  “I’m a pretty fine guy,” I admitted. “Won’t you sit down? I don’t drink the hard stuff myself, but I’ve a bottle of vintage bourbon my aunt gave me for Christmas last year.”

  She went over to sit on my studio couch. “I could use a drink.”

  “All I’d have for it is water.”

  “If the whiskey is good enough, water is just right for it.”

  The whiskey was Old Forester, which should be good enough for anybody, any way. I poured a two-ounce shot of it into a glass, added water and ice and brought it to Miss Quirk.

  The jacket was folded on the studio couch next to her, and she had lighted a cigarette. She took the glass I extended and thanked me. She said, “Why is it you don’t drink? You’re not still in training, are you?”

  I shook my head. “I never cared for the flavor. About twice a year, when things pile up, I may go on a binge. But generally I stick to beer.”

  She rolled the glass in her hand. “Athletes — I mean, the good ones — seem so insufferably self-sufficient. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a kind of physical arrogance that becomes mental after a while, I guess. Did you come here to talk about athletes, Miss Quirk?”

  “One athlete,” she said. “You may call me Moira. Would I call you Brock or the Rock? John used bot
h, frequently.”

  “Brock will be fine. You came here to talk about Johnny?”

  She nodded. She sipped her drink.

  Slim she was, and undoubtedly scrubbed. High-bred and intelligent and faintly haughty. The challenge of conquest was heavy in the room and I was ashamed of my vulgar thoughts.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  I smiled at her. “I’d rather not say.”

  An almost imperceptible color in her thin, proud face. “Men will be men. And that’s what I’ve been thinking about John.”

  “He kept busy,” I agreed.

  She nodded slowly. “And it’s very possible that the more you dig into his background, the more — dirt you’ll uncover.” I nodded. “Do you think I should quit digging?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “If your father wants me to I will.” I paused, and added, “Probably.”

  “Dad doesn’t know what I know about John.”

  “Do you want to tell me what you know?”

  “Nothing you probably don’t. He seemed to have an — insatiable appetite for women, didn’t he?”

  “Most men have. But they aren’t as lucky as Johnny was.”

  “That’s cynical,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Have you found another kind in your assault on the studios?”

  “Very few. But studio people are hardly typical.”

  “No, they’re luckier.”

  She sipped some more and considered me impersonally. “You expect nothing but the worst from people, don’t you? That’s what makes you invulnerable.”

  “Believe me, Moira, I’m far from invulnerable. But it doesn’t follow that I must accept every Puritan myth. Johnny was as good and as bad as the next man, not much worse or better. In one field of endeavor, he was great. That makes him important and his death important to me.”

  “All right, Rock.” She held up her glass. “Could I have some more of this?”

  I had finished mixing it when my buzzer buzzed again. I took the drink with me to the door and opened it wide.

  My beloved Jan stood there, looking penitent. “Friends?” she asked.

  “Friends,” I said.

  She looked at the glass. “Whiskey? You?”

  I shook my head. “Rarely touch it.”

  Then her glance took in the robe, and her eyes grew less soft. She pulled the robe back enough to see my bare leg. Her eyes were brown agates.

  She looked around me and her face turned to stone. Moira was now in view.

  “Come in, Jan,” I said. “I’ve a client here who — ”

  My lady’s voice was no more than a strangled whisper. “You dirty, slimy bastard. You — ”

  She was three steps away when I called, “Jan, listen to reason, will you? Jan, for heaven’s sake — ”

  From the apartment next door Paul Kimball looked out to see what all the noise was about. He looked at Jan’s retreating back, at my robed nakedness, at the drink in my hand. He sighed, shook his head, said, “These lucky bachelors,” and sadly closed his door.

  fourteen

  WHEN I turned around, Moira was smiling. “Who in the world was that?”

  “Oh, she’s sort of my girl. She misunderstood.” I brought her her drink.

  “Thank you. Did she — Do I know her?”

  “You might. She’s in business in Beverly Hills. Jan Bonnet is her name.”

  Moira nodded. “I’ve seen some of the houses she’s done. Excellent taste, hasn’t she?”

  “I don’t know. I’m more or less tasteless. Tell me, do you know Rick Martin personally?”

  Her face was composed. “What made you think of him?”

  “Jan knows him. I wondered how social he was in Beverly Hills.”

  Moira sipped her drink. “I’ve met him a few times. He knows quite a few studio people. That was a strange question, Brock Callahan.”

  “It’s a strange case,” I answered. “I wonder if it was Johnny who phoned Martin.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “It must have been,” I said, “or why would Johnny be down there at the foot of the lot, waiting?”

  Moira said quietly, “Because it was Thursday. Before my mother died, Thursday was her special day with John. And ever since then, when John was home, he went down there where she’s buried. Whenever he got home, on a Thursday, just as he used to when he came home from school on Thursday.”

  She took a deep breath and a deep swallow. “John had — he was inclined toward mysticism.”

  “Do you mean religion?”

  “If that’s your name for it. But you can see why I didn’t want to tell the police that, don’t you?” I shook my head.

  Her thin face was strained. “Can’t you see the newspapers with quotes from some quack psychiatrist about the Oedipus complex and John’s chasing after floozies? Don’t you see the kind of freak they’d love to make of him? And you know John wasn’t that.”

  I said nothing.

  She finished her drink and stood up. “You made those drinks too strong. I’d better be going.”

  I held her coat for her, and her perfume was stronger. I said, “Even if I didn’t continue to dig into Johnny’s history, the police will.”

  She nodded quietly. “You were hired by my father, anyway. I couldn’t call you off. Good luck, Brock.”

  “Good luck to you, Moira,” I said gently. “Johnny was just like all the rest of us, a human being.”

  She turned around and kissed my cheek. Then she went quickly to the door and out, but not before I’d noticed her eyes were wet.

  I thought of Jan, but that was painful, and I thought of Jackie Held. She must have known something she hadn’t told us; I couldn’t think of any other reason for her death. She was one of the minor temblors that follow an earthquake, a girl who’d edged too close to violence.

  I wondered if she’d known who wrote the note that had been placed in Johnny’s car. I wondered if she’d been in league with the killer. That last I couldn’t accept.

  I is for Impervious, Immovable and Invulnerable, which Tommy Self had told me I must be. I couldn’t cut the mustard; I was none of these things, except on a good afternoon against a weak team. I was a rock in quicksand, sinking.

  For some reason or other, people had always confided in me. But people in trouble are inclined to give you their side of the story. Johnny’s side and Jackie’s side were no longer available.

  Go out into left field like Einstein, idiot guard. Pick up your theory from the stars and substantiate it with your mortal mind. Light flickered briefly in my dull and mortal mind — and went out.

  I was physically, mentally, spiritually fatigued. I drank three glasses of water and went to bed.

  By morning the wind had shifted, warming itself as it came down the slope of mountains into town. It was dry and hot and clear.

  I ate at the drug store and went to the office. There I wrote a letter:

  Dear Miss Bonnet:

  Last evening I was taking a shower when my doorbell rang. I quickly put on a robe and went to the door. It was the daughter of my current client. She was emotionally disturbed and badly in need of a drink, which I furnished. If there had been anything wrong, would I have answered the door to your ring? I respectfully await your apology.

  Hopefully,

  B. Callahan

  I addressed it to Jan at her shop address and dropped it in a collection box on the way to the police station.

  Gnup wasn’t there, but I got in to see Lieutenant Remington. I asked him if they’d had any luck with the note Johnny had found in his car.

  Remington shook his head. “Our only hope would be a new typewriter that went directly from factory to retailer to original buyer — and stayed there. Tracing a typewriter these days is almost impossible.”

  I said, “The Los Angeles boys will be in it now, since Miss Held was killed. That isn’t going to hurt us.”

  Remington looked cynical. “I suppose they have more equipmen
t, lab facilities.”

  “How about the bullet?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Too badly battered. It must have been a high-powered rifle, though. It went into that tree after going through Quirk’s skull.”

  “You’re sure the bullet you found in the tree was the same one that killed Johnny?”

  Silence, and then Remington asked, “Have you some other theory, Callahan?”

  “Not exactly. But we haven’t gone very far with logic; maybe we could start over from scratch and get the theory first.”

  Remington said wearily, “Callahan, this is a police department, not a school for psychic research. We can’t work by séance, you know, only by the methods that have proven to be most efficient through experience. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re not doing so well, either, are we?”

  “We’re doing what we can,” he said stiffly. “If you can think of a better policy, you are free to follow it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you, sir.” I left him there, glowering.

  From my office, I phoned the West Los Angeles station and asked for Captain Apoyan. He wasn’t there, so I asked for Sergeant Pascal, and got him.

  “Any identifiable prints in Jackie Held’s apartment?”

  “Quite a few. Yours and Martino’s among others.”

  “That figures,” I said.

  “I’m sure it will, eventually. Anything else?”

  “Any prints you can’t match up?”

  “A few. We’ve sent them to Washington.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” I said. “I’ll keep in touch. Give my regards to Caroline.”

  The line went dead with a sharp click.

  I was typing my reports when the door opened. A thin, tanned man in a cheap suit stood looking at me appraisingly. His white shirt wasn’t quite and his bow tie was obviously on an elastic neckband.

  “Howdy,” he said. “Brock Callahan, right?”

  “Right as rain, sir. Won’t you come in?”

  “Can’t see why not.” He tried to be casual, but was missing it. He came in and sat in my customer’s chair, still studying me.

  “You recognized me,” I said, “but I’m afraid I can’t return the favor. Have we met?”