I was familiar with the Bluff view shopping center and its parking lot. It was different from most of the others out here, where the rear windows of all the business buildings usually look out over the parking lot. The Bluffview lot was effectively screened by rows of eucalyptus along its borders and if a man wanted a public place to commit murder, a better spot would be difficult to find.
But why would a murderer choose any kind of public spot? Unless it had been an unpremeditated act?
Not that any of it was my concern; my sole mission was to find Jean Talsman. Ryerson’s death might or might not be connected with Jean’s disappearance. Though the fact that he had cancelled a luncheon appointment after my visit could indicate he had gone out to Bluff view to meet someone because of my call. One of his hoodlum clients? They wouldn’t be likely to use a.25 calibre weapon. That seemed more like the work of some errant teen-ager.
I told myself Ryerson’s death was none of my business but it continued to bother me.
I finished eating and phoned Mary Cefalu. I told her, “I’ve been eating pizza and thinking about you.”
“Monster!” she said. “While I’ve been eating beans.”
“I was thinking about Jean, too,” I went on. “I was thinking it would be a wild goose chase to run out to Palm Springs without more of a lead than I have now. I wondered if there couldn’t be some information you overlooked, some name she has mentioned that might make the trip worthwhile.”
“I’ve been thinking, too,” she said. “You know, Jean has a fair voice and an urge to be an entertainer. If somebody was going to con her into a Palm Springs trip, that could be the angle. When her brother was here, he mentioned a man named Jack Ross. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Vaguely. Doesn’t he run a night spot in Palm Springs?”
“Yes. A gambler, I think, isn’t he?”
“I guess.” I hesitated and then said, “Why don’t we run out there for the weekend?”
A pause. “I’m — not one of Dora’s girls, Mr. Puma.”
“I know, I know. We’d get separate rooms and I’d charge them both to Dora. I thought you might have more luck questioning Jean than I would, that’s all.”
Another pause and she asked doubtfully, “Are you sure that’s all you had in mind?”
“It’s not all I had in mind,” I admitted, “but it’s all I’ll expect. Any further advances would have to come from you.”
“Well,” she said musingly, “I’ve really nothing to lose, have I?”
I told her I’d pick her up in half an hour and then I phoned a motel I was familiar with in Palm Springs and reserved a pair of rooms. It was a fairly new motel with a man-sized pool and a pleasant bar, a fine place to combine business with pleasure.
I picked up some clothes, including my swimming trunks, before driving over to Mary’s apartment.
When I arrived she was ready, wearing a faille suit that demonstrated why she modeled suits, a big smile and an air of impending adventure.
“You look about eighteen years old,” I said. “Is the prospect of seeing Jean again that exciting?”
She made a face at me. “Let’s get on the road, paisan. And remember, no passes.”
I picked up her bag. “Consider me a eunuch.”
“Never,” she promised. “What really makes me happy is knowing Dora will be paying for it all.”
I didn’t want to spoil her fun; I let her believe that.
We didn’t see much of the desert; it was dark by the time we got to it. In the little Plymouth, the music came softly from the radio and the faint odor of Mary’s perfume lightened the night air.
“Could we get a place with a pool?” she asked.
“I’ve already reserved the rooms. The pool’s one of the biggest in the town. I wonder if this Jack Ross is our man?”
“He could easily be. I know Dora hates him and that might be the reason he used the name of Jean’s brother when he phoned me. He didn’t want Dora interrupting the — the rendezvous?”
“That’s as good a word as any,” I said. “This whole thing is so screwy, I get the feeling I’m due to wake up any minute.”
Mary said thoughtfully, “Well, what other way could he get in touch with Jean if he didn’t know her address? And he didn’t. He had this Ryerson person phone Dora because he must have learned that Ryerson had Dora as an account. And then, to get Ryerson off the hook and still not reveal anything to Dora, he used Tom Talsman’s name. Or that might even have been Jean’s idea.”
“Then why didn’t Jean phone you and save you the worry?”
“I don’t know. But using her brother’s name like that would make me feel everything was all right. I mean, they could have figured that.”
“Maybe. It’s too confusing.”
“Let’s not think about anything but those big steaks Dora is going to pay for. And the fine desert sun and the big pool. Let’s forget George Ryerson, shall we?”
We rode in silence for a while. I don’t know what Mary was thinking about, but I couldn’t get my mind off the subject of George Ryerson, husband and father. The logical niche for him was simply as an agent who had performed a minor service for a client, getting him a readily available girl. And not even for the girl’s usual service. So far as I knew now.
Why, then, should Ryerson die? What swift and awful emotion had possessed the killer?
I asked, “How long was Jean in this business?”
Mary sighed. “About six months. She used to sing a little in some of the cheaper places on the Strip and in the beach towns. And then she had a dry spell and during that time she met Dora. Dora is like a — heavens, I was going to say like a mother to her. Most mothers wouldn’t sell their daughters, would they?”
“Not in Fresno or Tulare,” I said. “Was — is Jean a hundred dollar girl?”
“She never told me about her rates. But I heard she got as high as a thousand from one of those romantic Texans.”
Silence again. Across the flat wasteland, headlights appeared miles up the road and took minutes to reach us and rush past. The night was clear; the stars were out and an edge of the moon was peeking over the rim of the black mountains.
“That desert air,” Mary said. “Isn’t it clean?” “Most uninhabited places are clean,” I said. “Let us not be cynical,” she said mockingly. She lighted a cigarette and asked, “One for you?” “Please.”
Silence again. I thought of Eileen Rafferty and about her call to Dora. I thought of the pugnacious Tom Talsman and wondered if he was now in Palm Springs. None of this thinking seemed to be getting me anywhere so I thought of the evening ahead.
• • •
The manager of the motel was behind the desk when I entered the office about nine o’clock. Mary had stayed in the car, and the manager smirked as he said, “Flanking rooms, Joe. With a connecting door. One of the units has a kitchenette.”
“It’s nothing like that,” I protested.
“You can keep the door locked then,” he said dryly. “Business bring you to town?”
“I’m looking for a man named Jack Ross,” I explained. “And a woman named Jean Talsman.”
“Ross, I know,” he said, “if it’s the man who runs the Blue Lantern.”
“I imagine it is. The girl’s name doesn’t ring a bell though?”
He shook his head.
I asked, “And what kind of a man is Ross?”
“Very solid for a man with his background. He used to be a gambler, you know. Might still be, for all I know.”
“I see. Do you remember another former gambler, a man named George Ryerson?”
He frowned and shook his head slowly. His frown deepened and he reached over to pick a Mirror-News from the rack next to the desk. He tapped the paper. “This George Ryerson?”
I nodded.
“Never met him,” he said musingly, “but Ross could have. Ross used to live in Las Vegas. This Ryerson was a kind of boy wonder math wizard a few years back, wasn’t he? Had
a system at Vegas?”
“That’s the man,” I admitted.
He stared at me. “You don’t think Ross might have — ” He didn’t finish. I shrugged.
Then, from the doorway, Mary said, “What’s keeping you, Joe? Do I have to register for myself?”
“I’ll be right there,” I promised. “Rooms eighteen and twenty. you take the one with the kitchenette.”
She went away. The manager smiled. “I’ll bet you’ll keep the door locked. Man, you do pick the winners, don’t you?”
I said stiffly, “I brought her along to identify the girl I’m looking for. Now, that’s enough of that.”
He was reading the Mirror-News as I went out with the keys. He was still smiling.
I explained to Mary, “The connecting door wasn’t anything I asked for. I suppose he always keeps it to the last in case a family of more than three comes along.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “It has a lock.”
“As soon as I’ve shaved,” I told her, “we’ll run over to the Blue Lantern. That’s the name of Ross’s place.”
“Could we eat, too?” she asked. “Those beans weren’t very filling.”
“You can eat. I had the pizza, remember?”
As I shaved, I noticed that the cut in my lip had turned dark and there was a stiffness along that side of my mouth. I soaked it in warm, soapy water and dried it tenderly. Looking at myself in the mirror, I was forced to face myself. And facing myself, I was forced to admit it had been a very flimsy lead that had brought me to Palm Springs. But I was sorely in need of a day in the sun; I would have come for even less reason than I had.
From the next room, Mary called, “Let’s move, man. I’m anxious to talk with Jean.”
I put on my jacket and came out of the bathroom. The connecting door was open and Mary stood there, smiling at me. I said carefully, “We can’t be positive she’s in Palm Springs.”
“We’ll never learn, standing here,” she said. “Let’s go.”
We went out into a night so clear it was almost a theatrical setting, each star unblinking in the blue-black sky, the big white moon apparently tied to the Royal Palm that towered over the motel office.
“If we were rich,” Mary said with a sigh, “we could spend the whole winter here.”
“Together, do you mean? Living in sin?”
“Don’t be vulgar. I meant it generally, not specifically. Is the Blue Lantern far? Could we walk over?”
I went into the office and asked the manager and he told me it was only a three block walk. So we didn’t take the car. We walked along the quiet street and I was happy to be here, even if we never found Jean Talsman.
The Blue Lantern was one of the older buildings, Spanish, with wrought-iron spears supporting the awning over the entrance, a heavy tile roof, and a flagstone court around the fountain in the patio section. We went past a dim bar to the equally dim dining room, and were met there by a stocky man with a heavy head of shiny black hair and George Raft tailoring.
“You’re Jack Ross,” I guessed.
He shook his head and smiled pleasantly. “Would you like to speak with Mr. Ross?” “Please,” I said.
But Mary said, “There’s Jean now, Joe.” And to the head waiter, “Never mind about Mr. Ross. We’ve found the person we came to see.”
In a corner booth, a girl who matched the picture I had was sitting with a tall, sandy-haired man near middle age. The man rose as we approached the booth.
Jean was smiling and Mary was bubbling and the sandy-haired man said genially, “Welcome to the Blue Lantern. My name is Jack Ross.”
In the next half hour I learned that Ross had caught Jean’s act on the Strip a few times and had met her at a few parties. They had become casual friends but when he had thought of hiring her to work at his place, Dora had refused to give him Jean’s address or phone number. Then, one day, he’d brought his books in to George Ryerson for outside auditing and he had seen Dora in the outer office. George had admitted that Dora was a client.
So George had phoned for him, arranging the date.
“And you met her at the motel?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I couldn’t get away. So I sent my maitre d’ in to convince her this was a much sounder future.”
“And he phoned to tell Mary that Jean was with her brother?”
“To pacify Dora,” Ross explained. “She is no Jack Ross fan.” “Oh — ?”
He smiled. “Was that a question?” “Not unless you want to answer it.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I … almost married Dora. That was a few years back. I … learned some … I mean, it didn’t come off.”
“You wouldn’t care to tell me why?”
He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t.”
I studied him. He had freckles under his desert tan. He had honest, light blue eyes and an engaging grin and a comfortable, pleasant personality. He could have been twenty or fifty; he wasn’t the kind who aged.
“And what about Ryerson?” I asked. “Why did he die?”
He said solemnly, “I haven’t the faintest idea. He handled the accounts of some … gentlemen I wouldn’t want to do business with. It might have been that he crossed one of them. I’m sure that Jean’s disappearance at the same time was an unfortunate coincidence.”
In the subdued light, I looked at Jean Talsman. The picture had made her look younger but she was a beautiful girl and the defiance that had intrigued me in the picture was visible tonight.
Ross said, “Everything is on the house.”
“A New York cut, rare,” Mary said quickly.
I asked Jean, “Have you heard from your brother?”
She shook her head, staring at me. “Why do you ask that?”
I told her about his visit to Mary and his tangle with me. “He mentioned Ross’s name to Mary so I assumed he knew you were here.”
Jean looked worriedly at Ross and he sighed. Nobody said a word for seconds.
Then Mary said, “To hell with Tom Talsman. Order champagne, Joe.”
“When it’s free,” I said, “I’ll take Jack Daniel’s Tennessee whisky. But I’ll still worry about Tom Talsman.” I looked at Jean. “And with reason, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jean didn’t answer. There was another silence.
Then Jack Ross said, “You’re not suggesting Jean’s brother might have killed Ryerson, are you?”
“No. Though it isn’t impossible, now that you mention it. He implied he’d have a gun with him next time he ran into me.” I looked again at Jean. “Does his reputation make that a reasonable threat?”
She nodded slowly.
Our drinks came and the man at the Hammond organ weaved some intricate improvisations around “Deep Purple.”
I asked Jack Ross, “Do you still gamble?”
He smiled. “When I can find a game that seems worth the effort. Not for a living, I don’t. I lost two-thirds of the money my dad left me, learning to gamble.”
“Is that when you met George Ryerson, when you were gambling?”
He nodded, and said, “I even tried out his system for four nights. And lost thirty thousand dollars.”
Mary’s steak came and more Jack Daniels came and the dialogue shifted to other things, to the Texas floods and Liberace’s suit against the scandal magazine. Some other people came whom Mary knew and we took a bigger table out in the court, where the fountain glistened under the colored spotlights.
I don’t remember their names, but it was all a lot of fun and I didn’t think of George Ryerson once. I thought of Dora, but decided I would phone her in the morning.
As we walked back to the motel in the cold desert night, Mary said, “That Jack Ross is serious about Jean, isn’t he?”
“He seems to be. Tolerant, too, eh?”
Silence for about five steps. Then, “What did that mean?”
“Mary, I’m not rapping the girl. She’s very attractive. And bright, too. But I mean, this Ross seems
to come from a good family and Jean was — is — well — ”
“A call girl,” she finished for me. “And you’re a call boy. But that’s different, I suppose?”
“You’re being obscure,” I said. “How am I a call boy?”
“All men are,” she explained. “Any attractive girl can get any man for an evening if he knows she’s — well, available. You wouldn’t even expect to be paid. You’d come for nothing.”
“Nonsense,” I said.
“I’m being truthful, and it hurts. Men are so damned narrow and superior about morality. It’s a one-way street with them.”
I took her hand. “Let’s not fight. We had such a fine evening. Let’s be friends.”
She sighed. “Wasn’t it wonderful? And won’t it be wonderful for Jean, married to that nice man?”
“That nice, rich man,” I qualified it.
“All right. Yes. It helps that he’s rich. You’re not against that, too, are you?”
I didn’t answer. I thought of the too frequent characterization of rich people being bored. How could a man be bored with a tableful of congenial friends and a cupboard full of Jack Daniels? If he would be bored with that, he would be desolate, poor.
At the doorway to her room, Mary asked, “Am I in any danger? Should I keep that connecting door locked?”
I bent over and kissed her forehead. “Suit yourself, lady. It has been a lovely evening; I want for nothing.”
She put her slim fingers to my lips and went into her room.
While I was taking my shower, I could hear hers running. Not that I was expecting any windfalls, but I added a dash of manly cologne to my own ministrations.
She was a lovely girl. She was friendly and unaffected and very fashionable and long-limbed and high breasted and her companionship alone would be enough to make any reasonable man happy.
I lay in the dark room thinking back on the day. It had sure as hell been a wing-dinger. This was the first interesting case in months, after a dreary succession of hotel skips and errant husbands. This was the kind of case the TV investigators ran into constantly.
End of a Call Girl Page 4