Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  There was a cafe open in Blythe, and a gas station. I drank three cups of coffee and brought the tank back to full again, though I’d only used six gallons to come from Phoenix.

  Indio, flat and unimpressive. Beaumont. At Riverside, I cut over to the new road. The night air was colder, now; I kept one of the vents partly open to refresh my fuzzy mind.

  It was almost six o’clock when I finally pulled up in front of my Westwood wigwam. I left the car in front and went up and right into the hay.

  By noon I had had only six hours’ sleep, but I knew it would be a waste of time to court more. I showered and shaved and picked up the Times from outside my apartment door.

  The murder had arrived at page seven. Nothing, nothing, nothing, though the writer tried to hint at imminent disclosures.

  I drank three glasses of warm milk and drove over to the Beverly Hills Police Station.

  Lieutenant Remington was spending the day in Palm Springs, but Gnup was present and glowering.

  “Where the hell you been?” he wanted to know.

  “Phoenix. Were you looking for me, Sergeant?”

  He nodded. “Why didn’t you tell us about Halvorsen?”

  “Because I don’t know any Halvorsen.”

  Gnup’s stare was ominous. “Don’t lie. He came to you.”

  “Not under that name. Do you mean the man who lived near Jackie Held?”

  “That’s the one. He tried to blackmail Miss Quirk. She came to us, like a citizen should.”

  I smiled. “A Beverly Hills citizen, you mean, Sergeant. I didn’t come to you because I wasn’t sure how good Miss Quirk’s credit was down here.”

  His voice was low. “Watch it, Callahan.”

  I said mildly, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. A man who called himself Jones came to see me just before I left for Phoenix. I didn’t think he was important enough to demand immediate attention. I put his call and license number into my report for that day and my files are always open to the department”

  He lighted a cigarette and shook his head. “You’ve always got an answer, haven’t you? Why did you go to Phoenix?”

  “To try and substantiate a random guess.”

  He looked interested. “What’d you come up with?”

  “Enough.” I paused. “Sergeant, if I told you what I think, you might go bulling in and lose us a murderer. I mean that as no criticism; it’s standard police procedure. I’m not ready for the police yet. I haven’t got all the information I want.”

  His soft mouth twisted into a snarl. “You’ve already with-held information from us, Callahan. Don’t put yourself any deeper into the hole.”

  I said earnestly, “Sergeant, I came here this afternoon because I’m working with you. But I want a little more time; I want to do this right. Did you get that fingerprint report from Washington?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. Have you got somebody in mind we should print?”

  “I might have, some time tonight. Will Lieutenant Remington be back tonight?”

  He nodded. “I can phone him right now if you want him here.”

  I put a hand on Gnup’s shoulder. “He doesn’t need the ink. You can have it, Sergeant, I’ll keep in touch.” I started to walk out.

  “Just a second, wise guy,” he said.

  I turned and waited.

  His eyes were suspicious. “You’re not playing it cute with me?”

  “Me?” I shook my head sadly. “Sergeant, I’m in business in this town. I’m a rock, incorruptible. You know me and my reputation.”

  He snorted. “I’m learning more about both every day. You cross me, Callahan, and you’ll wish you were dead.”

  “Fair enough, Sergeant. I’ll phone you later.”

  I drove from there to the office and typed up the report of my Phoenix trip. I ate a ham sandwich at the drug store and drove over to the Quirk home.

  Mr. Quirk was out for a drive with the chauffeur; the maid didn’t know where Miss Moira was. I drove over to the Curtis place.

  Pat was at home, working on the Ferrari. He told me he thought Deborah was going to be all right; she was in Pasadena for the day.

  I asked him, “Were you the best shot in the Beverly Rifle Club?”

  He hadn’t been but he told me who had been.

  I asked him if he remembered any others of the local gang who had been at the Orleans Room that night. He couldn’t remember that any of the others had been there.

  His eyes were shadowed. “Don’t you think this is a gang kill, Mr. Callahan?”

  “What gang?”

  “You know what I mean. Gamblers, hoodlums.”

  “What do you think?” I asked him.

  His tone was faintly belligerent. “What else could it be?”

  “I’m not sure. Johnny must have had other enemies. There must have been plenty of boys who loved your sister. And still do.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’d kill.”

  “Pat, different people do things for different reasons. Some men will kill you simply because they don’t like the way you think. And men have been killed for half a bottle of cheap wine; I’ve seen the corpses and the killers. Life is very unimportant to some people.”

  “Not to me,” he said. “Why are you here, Mr. Callahan?”

  “For information only, boy,” I told him. “Be good.”

  I left him and drove over to where Twentieth Century-Fox cast its huge shadow.

  The home of Einar Halvorsen, née Jones, was almost directly across the street from the triplex. Einar came to the door in person to glare at me.

  “I was in Phoenix,” I explained. “You shouldn’t have been so impatient.”

  “Get out of here,” he said.

  “Don’t get smart, Halvorsen. Miss Quirk was decent enough not to press charges, but it’s still not too late.”

  “Why are you bothering me?”

  “I thought you might have noticed the car of the man who visited Miss Held late Sunday night. The police would be very grateful to a man who had noticed that.”

  He said grudgingly, “I’d like to help. But I went right to bed after church Sunday night and didn’t wake up once.”

  “Well, perhaps you’ve noticed the car before. It’s a green ‘53 Ford Club Coupe with whitewall tires.”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t register with me. That flivver of yours is the only Ford I ever noticed there. That dame had rich friends.”

  “Mr. Halvorsen,” I said grimly, “the police still resent the fact that Miss Quirk wouldn’t let them prosecute you. Now could be a good time to make yourself a hero.”

  He shook his head again. “Believe me, Mr. Callahan, I want to help and would if I could. But I never noticed any Ford over there except yours.”

  So I had nothing solid. There were some fingerprints and a typewritten note, but maybe the fingerprints would prove valueless and the typewriter might never be found. I had accusations to make and a rather logical theory in my mind, but the district attorney would want more than that.

  I went back to the office to sulk.

  A little after five, my phone rang and it was Moira Quirk. The maid had told her I’d called.

  “I had some questions to ask you, Moira,” I told her, “but Pat Curtis answered them for me. I gave you bad advice about that Halvorsen person, didn’t I?”

  “You meant well. Where have you been?”

  “In Phoenix.”

  A fairly long silence, and then, “Oh?”

  “I went to see Miss Arness.”

  “Why, Brock?”

  “The case seemed to lead there. She’s in business in Phoenix now.”

  Another silence, and, “Do you remember what we talked about at your place that night? Do you see what I mean now? Wouldn’t the newspapers love to know you went to Phoenix?”

  “They won’t learn it from me. Moira, we have laws in this country. They were originally designed to see that justice is done. Clever and influential people occasionally circumvent the original pu
rpose of those laws. But you don’t want to be that kind of person, do you?”

  “No. Of course not. If I thought you would find the person that killed John, I wouldn’t care how many family skeletons were exposed. But I’d hate to think they were exposed in vain.”

  “I’ve got a lead, a strong one. Now, all I need is documentation. Is your father back from his drive?”

  “Yes, but he’s resting. He’s — not himself at all. I think it would be better not to disturb him.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know what develops.”

  Her voice was quiet. “Thank you. And be careful, won’t you?”

  I promised her I would. I looked in the mirror over the filing cabinet and decided there had been nothing personal in that remark. She was just a kind girl.

  I phoned Rick Martin and asked him if Jackie had ever mentioned my suspect’s name to him. Jackie hadn’t, or Rick didn’t remember it.

  “Got something hot?” he asked me.

  “Maybe. Have the Heffners bothered you lately?”

  “Not lately. How about you?”

  “Pug and I still have a title match coming up. But I guess it can wait. When is Jackie’s funeral?”

  “Friday. In Waukesha, Wisconsin. It’s too much of a trip for me.”

  Or for any of her other new friends. I wrote up the rest of the day in my reports and went down to Cini’s for some onion soup. And from there I went home and napped for an hour.

  The house was older and smaller than those of his friends. It needed a coat of paint and the asphalt driveway was pitted and uneven. From the rear of the house he could see the finer homes of his wealthier friends and look down on the grave of Mrs. Quirk, and from that spot he could shoot the man he hated. The green Ford Club was parked in the driveway, so I could guess he was home.

  He opened the door to my ring and studied me thoughtfully. “Is something wrong, Mr. Callahan?” The light from behind him seemed to halo his fine hair.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “It’s eight o’clock,” he said. “I’ve a date at eight-thirty.”

  “With Deborah?”

  His voice was quietly wary. “That’s right. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t have a date with Deborah Curtis?”

  “I suppose not. You’ve loved her a long time, haven’t you?”

  He stared at me. “What do you mean? Why are you here?” His voice was firm, but I thought I could almost hear an edge of panic.

  From the hall behind him an older voice said, “David, is something the matter?”

  Keene called out, “There’s nothing wrong, Father. I’m just talking to a — an acquaintance.” He turned back to me. “Why are you here, Mr. Callahan?”

  “To check a lie you told me. Do you want to sit in my car and talk? I don’t want to disturb your father any more than I have to.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he said evenly. “You’re not a policeman, you know, Mr. Callahan.”

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll take it to the police then. They’re better equipped for this sort of thing than I am, anyway.”

  I turned and started for my car.

  He said, “All right. I can give you ten minutes. Is there a heater in your car?”

  In the car, I turned on the heater blower and turned the interior lights on. I wanted to see his face.

  He closed the door and asked, “Now, what was the lie I told you?”

  “You told me you had never heard about Johnny and Miss Arness. But I learned that you were the one who squealed on them.”

  “That’s not true,” David Keene said hoarsely. “If Mr. Brockton told you that, he lied.”

  “Mr. Brockton wouldn’t tell me,” I said. “Miss Arness told me.”

  “Elin — Miss Arness? You talked to her?”

  “For quite a while. She told me that you held her in very high esteem. She said it was uncomfortable to be revered as much as you revered her.”

  Keene said softly, “She was a saint to me. She introduced me to the most important thing in my life, good reading, good writing.”

  “And when she betrayed your idolatry you wanted to smear her, didn’t you, and the boy who’d caused her fall?”

  “No. El — Miss Arness is mistaken. She was never really mentally sound after what happened.”

  “That could be. And you? Were you? Is that when you started to hate Johnny Quirk, or was it before then?”

  “I never hated him. I’ll admit he didn’t impress me much, but I never hated him.”

  “Yes, you did. And you knew he went to his mother’s grave every Thursday evening. And you knew he was tied up with Jackie Held and Jackie was a friend of Rick Martin’s. So you phoned Martin, pretending to be Johnny, and arranged the meeting for a place where you knew Johnny would be.”

  David Keene’s voice was a whisper. “You’re mad. Why would I do that?”

  “Because you hated Johnny, and now you learned that Johnny and Deborah were finally going to get engaged. It had been on again, off again for years, but now it seemed definite. That would be the final straw, wouldn’t it? You had put the note in Johnny’s car as a red herring for the police and now you were finally going to eliminate him from your life.”

  Keene was breathing heavily.

  I said quietly, “It would be an easy shot for the champion of the Beverly Rifle Club.”

  “You’ve nothing,” Keene whispered. “Nothing, nothing, nothing. Talk, that’s all you’ve got.”

  “Isn’t that the story of it, David? This hate grew through the years, this hate for the arrogant athlete who was so much richer than you and so much more popular. This kid who’d despoiled your idol, this tomcat of a kid who was going to marry your girl …”

  Some semblance of control in his voice now. “All right, I never liked John Quirk. Plenty at school didn’t. Why don’t you investigate them, go digging into their past and concoct another smear story?”

  “Was Jackie trying to blackmail you?” I asked him. “Maybe Johnny told her you hated him. Johnny would have been sensitive to your feelings about him. He wasn’t dumb. And maybe he told Jackie and she realized you were comparatively safe from the police unless someone pointed a finger at you. Where did you get the conine, David?”

  “You may go now,” he said quietly. “You’ve said your piece. You’re not a policeman. Take your story to them, if you want to.”

  “All right. Do you sell used typewriters? I didn’t notice when I visited your store.”

  “Good night, Mr. Callahan,” he said. “I’m late now.”

  “Late for what? You intend to leave town, don’t you? You want me to go, and you’ll be a long way from here by the time I bring the police back, won’t you?”

  “Get them,” he said. “Go and bring them. And prepare for a false arrest suit.” He opened the door, and stepped out.

  He was halfway to the house when the department car came up the drive.

  • • •

  Sergeant Gnup rubbed his eyes wearily and then reached one hand back to massage his neck. It was quiet and dim in the small room off the squad room. He said, “The boys will break him down. He’s a stubborn kid. But we’ve got the print and it matches his.”

  “Not from Washington you didn’t get it. Keene was never in the army.”

  “Who said we did get it from Washington? What point you trying to make, Callahan?”

  “Only that without my pointing finger you wouldn’t have had a suspect to match to the print. What brought you up the driveway at the opportune time, Sergeant?”

  “Martin called and told us the name you’d asked him about. I guess Martin was afraid you could be bought.”

  “That’s a nice thought.”

  “Typical from a Martin. What steered you onto the kid in the first place?”

  “Because he pretended not to know something that all of Johnny’s friends knew. I guess he was trying to steer me away from Miss Elinore Arness. Or else he had a psychic b
lock about the whole horrible incident.”

  An officer came in, a man I didn’t know. He told Gnup, “The kid had a rifle with a silencer. And there was an antique typewriter in that garage studio of his that looks like the one. Though I’m no expert.”

  “Experts work the day shift,” Gnup said. “We’ll get one. Go in and relieve Jantzen for a while.”

  Gnup looked at me. “There are two reporters waiting in Remington’s office. What do I tell them?”

  I held his glance. “You can tell them that Private Investigator Brock Callahan of this town, working in close co-operation with Sergeant Gnup of the Beverly Hills Police Department, have solved the Quirk and Held killings.”

  Gnup frowned. “Shouldn’t that be ‘has’ instead of ‘have’? How about opening with: ‘Working in tandem’? I always liked that for an opening sentence.”

  “All right,” I said. “But be sure my name is spelled right.”

  “All right, I’ll tell them that.” He rose and went out.

  I went out to the hall and saw David Keene’s father sitting on a chair near the doorway to the squad room. I avoided his eyes as I made my way to the wall phone.

  Jan didn’t sound sleepy. “Well, hello. I tried to phone you half an hour ago. No answer.”

  “I’ve been working. Why did you phone?”

  “To apologize. Moira Quirk came into the shop to explain. Wasn’t that thoughtful of her? You told her about me, didn’t you?”

  “I drop your name a lot,” I admitted. “What are you doing now?”

  “Sitting here with six bottles of Einlicher in the refrigerator, waiting for a big, dumb guard to phone.”

  “I’m on the way,” I said. “I have a story to tell you.”

  As I turned from the phone Gnup came over. “He’s breaking down. Stay and hear it if you want.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even want to read about it, Sergeant. Life’s too short.”

  “For some,” he admitted. “Well, luck, Callahan.”

  I went out into the cold night air and headed the flivver west, toward Beverly Glen. I hoped that damned Doberman wouldn’t be out to welcome me.