End of a Call Girl

by William Campbell Gault

  I lay in the dark room, wondering.

  And then, when I heard the first creak of the connecting door opening, I thought it would add the properly light touch to inquire innocently, “Who’s there?”

  FOUR

  IN THE MORNING, I smelled coffee. The door was open between the rooms and I put on a robe to go over and saw Mary opening a carton of eggs.

  “What time is it?” I asked her. “Where’d you get all the groceries?”

  “It’s ten-thirty, lazy man. I got the eggs at a store. That pool is just waiting for some occupants.”

  I shook my head. “A typical Tulare peasant — up at ten-thirty. How are you feeling?”

  She looked at me speculatively. “How should I feel?”

  “After all the liquor, I meant. What else could I mean?”

  “I wasn’t sure, but you can stop being paternal. How do you like your eggs?”

  “I’ll fix ‘em,” I said. “Nobody else can fry them the way I like them.”

  She handed me the pan. “Okay, mama’s boy; you can fix mine, too.”

  This was Saturday morning and Mary had brought back a Los Angeles morning newspaper from the grocery store. I read what there was about the murder in the paper but there was nothing I didn’t know. Except that George Ryerson’s widow had sought a divorce a few months back and had then withdrawn the action.

  Would that indicate she had a lover? No. But if it did, the lover could be a prime suspect for George’s murder.

  “What are you thinking about?” Mary asked.

  “About George Ryerson. His death bothers me. Now why should that be?”

  She looked at her coffee. “Perhaps because you read that he had been agitated after your visit and had broken a luncheon engagement.” She looked at me. “Maybe that made you feel sort of responsible for his death.”

  After a moment, I said, “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “You certainly wouldn’t want to think that’s it. Finish your coffee and let’s get out into the sun.”

  “You run along,” I said. “I have to phone Dora and report. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  I phoned from my room, with the door closed. Dora answered almost immediately.

  I told her, “I’ve located Jean Talsman. She is going to sing at a restaurant here in Palm Springs. The place is owned by a man named Jack Ross. The rumor is that they’re romantically involved, too.”

  “I’ll bet. And why didn’t she tell me any of this before?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Diggert. I asked her to phone you and she wouldn’t promise, but I have a feeling she will.”

  Silence for a few seconds and then Dora said bitterly, “She’s a fool! That man is no good for her.”

  I said nothing.

  “He’s a spoiled, petulant ass, pretentious, affected — ”

  I didn’t argue.

  “Puma, are you still there?”

  “Yes’m,” I said. “I guess that finishes me up on the case. It all happened in one day, but it was a long day.”

  “You’re not through,” she told me. “I want you to get her promise to phone me. Can you do that?”

  “I can try.”

  “Well, try! And tell her she doesn’t have to go out on calls. I have plenty of other work for a girl of her intelligence.”

  “I’ll tell her if I get her alone.” “Why can’t you get her alone?”

  “She and Jack — Mr. Ross, I mean, are together most of the time, the way I understand it.”

  “How touching! You know he’s a hoodlum, don’t you? He’s a gambler.”

  “I know he was a gambler. I didn’t know he was or is a hoodlum.”

  “It’s the same thing and you’re too bright to split hairs over the terminology. You get her to phone me, Puma.” “I’ll try. Good-bye, Mrs. Diggert.”

  The click of her phone was my good-bye. Dora was annoyed.

  Why …? What difference could it make to Dora if Jean was involved with a gambler? Was that any less moral than going out on calls? And if Jean was no longer going out on calls, it couldn’t be Dora’s loss of commission that was troubling her.

  I put on my trunks and went out to the pool. Mary was sitting on the diving board in a simple number of black lastex, trying to get a rubber cap over her long black hair. In the bright sunlight, her hair shone like polished jet.

  “We live in a matriarchy,” I said sourly. “And Dora Diggert is one of its queens.”

  “She’s a slob. Help me with this cap, will you? Damn it, I’m going to cut my hair short!”

  “Not while I’m your favorite, you’re not. Here, I’ll fix it for you.” I went up onto the board and it began to sag dangerously.

  Mary looked at my pillar legs and sighed. “What a hunk of meat you are.”

  “You’re pretty, too.” I tucked the side strands in under the cap. “Why do you hate Dora Diggert so much?”

  “Because of what she did to Jean, of course. Why else?”

  I took a breath. “Jean was of age, wasn’t she? And sound in mind and body. It’s absurd to blame Dora for that.”

  The big eyes began to harden as she stared at me. I put a hand on her shoulder and pushed.

  She went into the water with a monumental splash and came up sputtering. I dove her way and stayed under, looking for her legs.

  The water was clear: she could see me coming. One of her long legs kicked out when I came within range and I got up holding my nose.

  It was numb but not bleeding.

  She said sharply, “Don’t manhandle me! Don’t ever manhandle me!”

  “Right,” I said quietly. I dove under the surface and swam leisurely away.

  At the shallow end, I waded out and went up to the deck. I lighted a cigarette and stared off toward the highway. I could hear her splashing in the pool but I didn’t look at her. With a touch of corny drama, I put a careful finger to my nose and then studied the finger, searching for blood. I hoped she was watching.

  The splashing stopped and I heard her wet feet padding along the hot concrete. A towel dropped next to me and in a second she did, too. I thoughtfully studied the sparse traffic on the highway.

  “You’re sulking,” she said.

  I shook my head.

  A silence and then, “It goes way back to something that happened in Tulare. I’m sorry. It’s a — phobia?” I shrugged indifferently.

  “All right,” she said. “All right! Three hundred pounds of brooding sensitivity. You should see how silly you look — ”

  “Not quite three hundred pounds, thank you,” I said. “And my sensitivity goes back to something that happened in Fresno — my birth.”

  Silence … and I turned to look at her. She was staring at the water and she seemed sad and lost.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was teasing. Kiss me, please?”

  “People are watching. What will they think?”

  “They’ll think the truth, I suppose. Would you like a cigarette?”

  She leaned over quickly and kissed me on the cheek. “Joe, why I hate Dora, it seemed to me that her — I mean, it seemed like a deliberate campaign, the way she got Jean into that — business. It seemed so monstrously premeditated, if you follow me?”

  “Couldn’t you argue Jean out of taking the big step?”

  She sighed and wiped the water from her face with the back of a hand. “I didn’t even know she’d taken it until three months later. I should have suspected, I suppose, the kind of dates she had, and hours she came in, drunk more often than not.”

  I lighted a cigarette and handed it to her. “You make it sound like Dora was charting a planned degradation for the girl. Now, why in hell would anyone do that?”

  “I’ve no idea. Have you? You’re the detective.”

  “You’re bound to be biased,” I said, “by your sentiment for Jean. You could be just as wrong about her as you might be about Dora. When will we be seeing Jean today?”

  “This afternoon. Why?”

&nbs
p; “I’ve got a message for her.”

  “Joe, you’re not going to ask her to phone Dora? Please?”

  “Don’t interfere in my business, Mary. I won’t manhandle you and you don’t interfere in my business.”

  “It has nothing to do with business. It’s a simple question of decency, of morality.”

  “That question, kid, was answered by Jean herself, months ago.”

  Another one of our frequent silences. Mary looked at me sadly and I smiled at her.

  “Bull-headed wop,” she said finally.

  “Both of us,” I added. “I don’t want to fight, but I don’t want to be interfered with, either, not in my trade.”

  “So all right already,” she said. “Would you get me a Coke from the machine?”

  Lovers’ squabbles under the desert sun. And in Los Angeles, George Ryerson’s body would be ready for burial now. Nobody I had met seemed to be mourning him. But I hadn’t met his widow or his children.

  At noon, Jean phoned and invited us to the Blue Lantern for dinner. Mary told her we had eaten breakfast at 10:30, so Jean suggested a four o’clock dinner, and why didn’t we come over earlier for some gab and drinks? I agreed that would be fine.

  We swam some more, played a dozen torrid games of table tennis, then went in to get ready for our free meal. This was developing into the most pleasant case of my ignoble career.

  • • •

  It was cool in the court of the Blue Lantern; refrigerated blowers ringed the walls all around. The fountain glistened and gurgled and the waiter served wine coolers. This kind of living would be a long step up for Jean. A girl today can go almost anywhere if she’s pretty and properly endowed and not too dumb.

  Jean Talsman said, “What are you thinking about, Joe Puma?”

  “Women,” I said. “It’s a woman’s world.”

  Ross winked. “I second that.”

  Jean said “Huh!” and Mary sniffed.

  I said, “I promised Dora I’d ask you to phone her. I’m asking you now, officially.”

  She smiled. “I might. I’ve a few things I’m aching to tell her.”

  “Nothing you’d want to tell me?”

  “Nothing. I’m beyond pettiness. I’ve found a handsome man with money and I’m going to turn tolerant and kind.”

  The fountain tinkled, the blowers hummed, the wine coolers warmed us while cooling. Footsteps sounded in the deserted restaurant and grew louder as they approached the flagstone of the court.

  A man came into view beyond the fountain. He was a fairly big man with a broken nose in an acceptable face and it seemed obvious to me he was drunk. And belligerent.

  Jean said softly, “It’s Tom and he’s drunk. I wonder what he wants from us?”

  Ross said calmly, “We’ll soon find out.” Talsman saw us then and headed our way, walking carefully and with a disciplined minimum of waver. He came to within a few feet of the table and stared at his sister.

  He said thickly, “Let’s get out of here, Jean. This is no place for you.”

  Jean said bitterly, “Isn’t it a little late for you to be showing concern for your baby sister?”

  He swayed. “You may not know it, but you’re sitting with a killer, Sis. Come on, we’re going.”

  Jean’s eyes widened but she looked at no one but her brother.

  I asked casually, “Who’s the killer, Talsman?”

  He glanced at me and then at Ross. Still looking at Ross, he said to me, “Ask him.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ross said, “and I’m sure you haven’t either. You’re drunk, boy.”

  “A little,” Talsman admitted. “Who else had enough on Ryerson to make him pull what he did, use his name to get to my sister?”

  Ross said, “I was in this town the entire afternoon of the day Ryerson was killed. I can call a number of substantial citizens who will testify to that.”

  “With your kind of money,” Tom Talsman said, “any kind of witness can be bought. Jean, I’m thinking about you.”

  “It would be the first time in your life,” his sister said. “Please go, Tom. You’re being ridiculous.”

  He nodded and smiled owlishly. He reached into a jacket pocket and brought out a revolver. It looked like a.32. It moved casually around at the four of us.

  “Come along, Jean,” he said hoarsely.

  The court was deserted: no waiter was in sight. All of us stared at the moving revolver.

  Jean said shakily, “Please, Tom? Believe me, I know Jack had nothing to do with Ryerson’s death.”

  Ross said earnestly, “You’re making a serious mistake about me. I’m sure, if you give me the chance, I can prove that.”

  “Jack and I are going to be married, Tom,” Jean put in.

  He shook his head. “You’ll never marry a murderer, not while I’m alive.”

  I thought it was about time to stop being polite. So I said, “Talsman, put that gun away. You’re in more trouble already than you can handle. Don’t compound it.”

  The gun swung my way and Tom Talsman looked at me calmly. “Make a move, big boy. The bore is small, but the bullets are hollow-point.”

  Behind him, now, I could see a waiter in the entry to the dining room. The waiter was watching us and now he beckoned to another waiter.

  I talked slowly, keeping Talsman’s attention on me. “If I made a move, you would undoubtedly pull the trigger. You would then be a murderer. And how would that help?”

  The waiter was moving up from behind as quietly as all good waiters move.

  Talsman said, “Big mouth private eye. You were gutty enough yesterday, weren’t you? What happened to your guts? Make the move.”

  I smiled at him. “Not against hollow-points. They make too big a hole.”

  He nodded. “Didn’t I warn you last time we met that — ”

  It was as far as he got. The waiter was directly behind him and he had reached out swiftly to grab Talsman’s right arm. As he reached, I came up out of my chair, bringing the swinging right hand up in the same forward motion.

  For the second time in the historic Talsman-Puma matches, I was on target. My right fist found the button as Talsman twisted away from the waiter. The gun clattered along the flagstones as he went back and down.

  Mary gasped, Jean shrieked and the waiter said quietly, “I’ll phone the police.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jack Ross said quickly. “The boy was drunk and nobody has been hurt.”

  On the flagstones, Talsman put a hand behind him to lift himself to a sitting position. I had the gun now.

  I said to Ross, “He’s no boy and he came here armed. I think you’re making a mistake.”

  Tom Talsman stood up and rubbed the back of his head. “Ross doesn’t want any law around here. That’s the last thing he wants.”

  “Do you?” I asked Talsman. “You’re free to swear out a complaint.”

  Talsman said nothing, staring at me contemptuously.

  The headwaiter was coming over now, the stocky man with the glossy hair. He said firmly, “Mr. Ross, I think it would be more sensible for all of us, if we phoned the police.”

  Ross looked at Jean and back at the headwaiter. I could guess that he was thinking about his fiancée and the news that would break in the papers about the girl Ryerson was supposed to have met coming to Palm Springs and getting involved in gun play. That was probably the reason he said, “If nobody objects more seriously than that, I’m not going to phone.” He looked around. “Unless someone insists.”

  Silence, as he gazed at each of us in turn. And then he turned to Talsman. “You had better go quietly now. Unless you are willing to listen to reason?”

  Talsman said, “Not your reasons.” He turned his back on us and walked toward the gate leading to the street.

  Jean started to cry and Ross looked hopelessly at me. Mary moved over to sit next to Jean. Tom Talsman was now out of sight. The ineffectual hoodlum, I thought. This makes his second unsucc
essful intimidation attempt in two days. He had better get into another line of work.

  I said, “Poor Tom. He’s always winding up on his back.”

  Jean stopped crying long enough to tell me, “Don’t underestimate him, Mr. Puma.”

  “Let’s forget him,” I suggested. “He was drunk and unreasonable and possibly dangerous. But he’s gone, now.”

  Ross handed Jean a handkerchief and she blew her nose. Mary glared at me. Ross said nothing.

  I said, “We’ve all been in a lot of situations and places we’d rather forget. This is one of those. Let’s get back to the festive spirit.”

  Ross nodded. Jean wiped her eyes and tried a smile, a very small one, but a valiant try. Mary’s glare dimmed.

  I lifted my glass. “To the future and happiness for all.”

  Mary shook her head. “Ye gods, Tiny Tim!” But she raised her glass. Ross and Jean did, too, and they were both smiling.

  The shadow of Talsman’s visit hung over the court, though, and possibly the memory of George Ryerson. Some of the afternoon’s sparkle was gone. We ate and talked and drank, but nobody laughed.

  At five-thirty, Jean excused herself and Mary walked with her over to the apartment behind the restaurant.

  Jack Ross looked at me thoughtfully. “What do you suppose gave Talsman the idea I had anything to do with the death of George Ryerson?”

  “I don’t know. Remember, he was drunk and irrational.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and looked toward the apartment. “It has certainly affected Jean.”

  “She’s disturbed but I don’t believe she’s suspicious.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Are you finished with this job you were doing for Dora Diggert now?”

  “So far as I know. I did what she hired me to do.”

  “How would you like to work a week or so on George Ryerson’s murder?”

  I shook my head. “The Department wouldn’t stand still for a private man sticking his nose into a homicide. They’d pin my ears back good.”

  He smiled cynically. “Don’t sit there and tell me you only work on cases the Los Angeles Police Department approves. I’m not that naive, Joe.”

  “I wouldn’t try to tell you that, but murder is a long step outside the boundary of our tolerated investigations. And that’s all the private man ever is, just barely tolerated.”